Once inside, I make my way over to the shower and with a quick twist of my wrist, turn on the hot water before stepping back. As steam fills the room, I twist around and walk over to the concrete counter.
Leaning over the sink, I stare at myself in the mirror, hating what I see. It’s been a while since a dream has shaken me to my core. Since Camilla’s death, I’ve had no peace, but seeing her as vividly as I did tonight, actually touching and smelling her—it was all a harsh reminder that there will never again be any peace for me. Only an empty existence filled with sadness and cruelty.
“The Paris clan fell because of you. I will not see that happen again. You are expelled from your protector oaths. All gargoyle rights and claims are hereby revoked. And your sentence, banishment.”
Lord Falk’s voice echoes in my head, along with the memory of the council. Guilt and grief flicker across my face in the mirror. All I do is exist, a dark shadow in the realm of the living. With Camilla’s death, my world has been shattered beyond repair.
I lower my head and take in a long, deep breath.
Stretching my neck from side to side, I push off the counter and stand to my full height before I remove my pajama bottoms. As I do, I look down at my calf, taking in the Celtic cross tattoo that now sits on my leg with a frown. It’s a symbol that I’ve aligned with the Spiritual Assembly of Protectors, to help an old friend, Asher St. Michael, protect his human mate, Eve Collins.
Then, like a fucking moron, I helped him destroy the council before I reclaimed my title as the leader of the Paris clan of gargoyles and offered my allegiance to the London clan—the future rulers of the gargoyle race.
Damn Eve and the way she wormed her way into my life. Before her human drama, I was a being without an identity. Without a conscience. All I wanted was retribution for Camilla’s murder. And the St. Michaels—well, while we were once close, the trust between all of us had turned fragile at best. Now, I’m entangled with them.
I lift my chin in the air and shake my head.
“I don’t even recognize you anymore, Gallagher,” I chastise my reflection.
With a final heave, I step into the shower and let the hot water try to wash away my sins. My mistakes. My failures. My shortcomings. While the Royal Gargoyle Council of Protectors and its leader, Lord Falk, no longer exist, my readmittance into the protector world has not come without its price.
With Camilla, I failed as a mate and as a protector. I knew someday I would have to atone for my past sins. Helping Asher protect Eve was supposed to be my redemption. In both the eyes of the St. Michaels and the entire gargoyle world. An undeserved second chance that, to be honest, I never wanted or asked for.
Closing my eyes, I try to drown out the sound of Camilla’s voice still lingering in my head. As I do, I feel two small hands slide up and over the lion tattooed on my back in black ink from my shoulders to just above my ass—the Paris clan’s mark.
With a growl, I place my palms flat against the shower’s stone tiles and keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to see the worry and concern that I know will be written all over Nassa’s face if I open them and look back at her. As it is, I can feel the intensity of her gaze as her eyes trace the outline of the lion. The air is heavy, almost stifling, laced with her unease and concern. Nassa remains quiet, knowing that I won’t talk to her about it.
The sorceress has been corrupted by my darkness.
She sleeps with me knowing that is all we’ll ever have between us. Sex. Her touch soothes the endless hurt.
Right now, there’s nothing I want more than to drop to my knees and devour her, losing myself in the small moments of peace that fucking her brings me. But I can’t. Not with Camilla’s voice and face haunting me—lingering. It wouldn’t be fair to either one of them.
Needing to regain control, I open my eyes, turn, and grab her upper arms, throwing her against the wall as I press into her. In response, she narrows her deep emerald gaze at me in consenting challenge.
At the same time, her dark purple lips press together with displeasure at my rough handling of her, not that she couldn’t kick my ass if she wanted.
“Go away,” I whisper hoarsely in her face.
“No.” The word is final.
“I mean it. I don’t want you here,” I lie.
“Then make me go,” she defies in her deep, sexy voice.
Part of me wants her gone.
The other part wants her to just fucking save me.
Nassa’s presence in my life is a harsh reminder of everything I have lost and a future that I’ll never have.
Wet dark hair cascades down the sides of her face and her creamy skin shines bright against the soft amber lights of the bathroom. Sultry green eyes slide over me.
It’s both comforting and unnerving, the way she looks at me with understanding.
“I’m not leaving, Gallagher,” she rasps, sucking in her lower lip.
My eyes roam over her body, taking in every last inch of her before I bring my gaze back to her fiery, defiant one. My breath hitches as I take her in. Nassa is fucking gorgeous, but she isn’t who I want, or need in this moment.
I lean down and whisper in her ear, “I don’t want you here, buttercup.”
She flinches at the nickname I gave her long ago, annoyance bleeding into her expression. Pissed, Nassa snarls at me and her lips turn pouty.
The sorceress and I met in New York City at a nightclub her demon uncle, Asmodeus owns, The Midnight Temple. I’d walked into the club one night looking for a corrupt gargoyle named Deacon—he had a reputation for hanging out with darker-souled creatures and sinners.
Deacon had answers I needed regarding Camilla’s death. All I had to do was infiltrate the Declan clan—which I did—and learn everything that Deacon and his clan knew about my love’s brutal murder.
That knowledge came at a price, though. A sexy, beautiful, unexpected one. One that is currently throwing daggers at me with her eyes.
Deacon introduced me to Asmodeus—they were working together. The moment I walked into the demon lord’s office, my gaze tangled with a set of deep, emerald eyes and I couldn’t look away. It was the first time since Camilla’s death that I’d felt . . . something.
Something other than immense pain and a deep sense of sad emptiness. At my reaction, Nassa smiled at me sexily. I hated that smile because I fucking loved it. I hated her because she made me feel again.
Immediately, I knew she was someone who would ruin me. Her chest rose and descended as she hung on each word that left my mouth that night, turned on.
Drunk, and in desperate need of an escape, we slept together. It was only supposed to be a moment. Just one.
A moment when I could get lost in someone else and forget my pain. Like the asshole I’ve proven myself to be, after fucking her, I slipped out without another word.
Nassa let me.
She never asked, needed, or expected more from me.
She never assumed we were anything other than a sexual encounter. I didn’t ask for her name, because I didn’t care. Instead, I called her buttercup, inspired by a tiny tattoo she has on the back of her neck.
Later, I came to learn the golden-yellow wildflower is the mark of her coven, the Black Circle. The sorceresses believe the flower symbol protects their coven against greed and vanity, and promotes prosperity. Every coven member wears it.
Nassa exhales roughly, pulling me out of the memory, forcing me to focus back on her. As I look down into her eyes, my lips curl in amusement that I’ve pissed her off.
I like her mad. Mad is an emotion I can handle.
Pity, sorrow, and concern, I don’t want or like.
“I’m not leaving, Gallagher.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not scared or put off by you when you’re like this. I know how you truly feel, in here.” She places her hand over my heart. “So, just stop . . . stop trying to push me away.”
“Nassa.” I place my hand over hers and pull it away from me.<
br />
“There are no sins for you to atone for—”
“Enough,” I blow out, cutting her off, wanting her to stop seeing inside of me.
“Fine,” Nassa sighs and backs off. “You win.”
“It’s about time,” I spit out, and step away from her.
“Tonight, you win,” she whispers. “Tomorrow—tomorrow is a new day.”
I fall silent, frustrated knowing that she’ll never stop trying to gift me deliverance. Regardless of how many mistakes I make, Nassa thinks I am savable. She’s wrong, though. I’m not a being that can be delivered.
Not with my history, not given what I’ve done.
Annoyed, she slips out of the shower. Through the glass door, I watch her wrap her body in one of my oversized towels—it swallows her up. When she reaches the door to leave, she pauses for a second, looking back over her shoulder at me in the shower.
“I live with her ghost too, Gage. Camilla’s death haunts both you and me,” she states matter-of-factly. “But that’s all she is now. A memory you keep inviting into our bed.”
“My bed,” I correct.
With a sad smile she nods. “At some point, it won’t be so hard.”
“What won’t?”
“Us. We.” She pauses. “Our.”
After she leaves, I stand in the shower, alone, for I don’t know how long, contemplating everything she said.
Taking in a few deep breaths, I try not to let my temper rise at the fact that she spoke Camilla’s name.
No one does.
Not in my presence.
Once I’m finished, I dry off and stroll into my bedroom to find Nassa gone. Another good thing about the sorceress—she knows when I need her to disappear.
The sun’s first rays peek through the window, signaling dawn’s approach, as I look around. Even though I wanted it this way, I’m oddly disappointed that I’m alone again in my loft, in Paris.
The silence feels lonely—Christ, does it feel lonely—like the first week after I lost Camilla. When all I could do was force myself to take in a breath every so often, to remind myself that I still existed.
I shake off the empty feeling and get dressed, throwing on my signature all-black outfit: tailored dress pants, nice shoes, and a button-down shirt. I roll the sleeves to my elbows and leave open the top two buttons before I readjust the cross necklace Camilla made for me out of my healing stone, hematite. Grabbing my cigarettes, wallet, and cell phone off the dresser, I prepare to teleport to my business meeting in Ireland.
Right before I leave, I catch my reflection one last time in the mirror. As I do, I wonder if there will come a day when the darkness won’t shadow me. When I will truly be someone worthy of deliverance.
2
Fields of Lavender
NASSA
With my arms crossed, I watch the purple and black butterflies as they flutter around the magic dimension—home to the sorceresses of the Black Circle, my coven.
Fields of lavender sway in the warm breeze and violet-hued wildflowers follow with their own dance.
Deep indigo sky and lush green lands meet in the distance, each kissed by the sunshine, providing a perfect backdrop for the sweet tiny cottage nestled among large oak trees. It sits unassumingly in the middle of the realm’s natural, charming beauty.
Inhaling, I savor the mystical energy flowing through the realm’s air. It’s been a while since I’ve been home and yet, somehow, it feels as though no time has passed.
With slow, measured steps, I make my way toward the enchanted cottage. As I do, unease begins to coil within me. I know the moment I step foot inside the house, my aunt is going to lecture me with regard to my unhealthy fascination with the mortal realm.
Not to mention my ongoing obsession with a dark and mysterious gargoyle named Gage Gallagher.
Slowing my steps, I frown and recall Gage’s actions earlier. I know how deep his love runs for Camilla, even in mortality. And while I respect what they once had, what he still feels for her, I can’t help but hate her for haunting him in death the way she does.
My fingers clench around my upper arms and I give myself a few seconds to breathe away the choking sensation thinking about Gage causes within me. At times, it feels as if he is everywhere, and I can’t escape him. Even worse, the more I feel him lately, the more driven I am to be near him. Gage has become an addiction. One that I just can’t seem to break free from. And today, of all days, I’m not in the mood to listen to my aunt share all the reasons I’m acting like a foolish schoolgirl who has fallen under the cute boy’s spell, instead of a powerful sorceress. The rejection from this morning is still too raw.
No matter how many times I try to walk away, as ridiculous and cliché as it sounds, there is always something that pulls me back to him. There must be a medical term for a strong, intelligent, powerful woman who keeps punishing herself by continuing to want someone who is emotionally unavailable. There has to be a reason, right? I mean, other than sheer stupidity.
I knew better than to think I could crack his hardened heart. I knew Gage’s heart was locked up tight when I met him. I knew Camilla was a ghost who would always haunt him. And yet, I still allowed myself to become attached. Suffice it to say, I don’t really have high hopes for getting out of this visit with my aunt unscathed.
There are only three reasons Sorceress Lunette calls someone to her cottage: to spell them, to have sexual relations with them, or to lecture them about their life choices. Stopping at her front door, I stare at it, knowing I’m here for the reprimand.
In my peripheral vision, a brown-and-black-spotted tail slowly lifts and twitches at me, as if waving. My eyes slide over to Lunette’s jaguar familiar, Malefica. The large cat is sprawled out in the middle of my aunt’s herb garden on her back, sunbathing without a care in the world. She lifts her head in an uninterested manner and studies me, inquisitiveness and judgment behind her dark cat eyes. Fuck my life—even the damn cat believes I’m making poor life choices.
“Aunt Lunette is going to kill you for getting fur on her vervain.”
Malefica snorts at me as if I’m cute and lays back down, bored. I swear she laughed at me under her breath too. An angry cawing sound pulls my attention to the black crow narrowing its dark eyes at me from its perch on a nearby bush. I motion to my familiar, Noir. Gage hates Noir. He hates birds. Actually, I have a distinct feeling he hates anything alive. Whenever I visit the mortal world, I leave Noir with my aunt for safekeeping.
“Come here, big baby,” I encourage.
After a moment more of sulking, Noir flies over to my shoulder, tilting his head and blinking several times at me, giving me his pretty eyes as he speaks to me telepathically. “I’ve missed you too,” I whisper.
Around us, the sunlight becomes warmer and brighter in the dimension. The vivid rays float through the butterflies’ wings, creating an amethyst haze around the realm. For the sorceresses, the color signifies spiritual awakening, protection, and power. It’s a stunning sight to see. I soak in the energies surrounding me and try to not think about Gage or how much he dislikes the butterflies.
In fact, I’m starting to sense an aversion pattern with him and nature. Noir caws, agreeing with me as he reads my thoughts. With a quick wink, I let him fly back to the comfort of the bush he was perched on so he can enjoy the fresh air, and I make my way into the cottage.
As I close the door behind me, the familiar smell of herbs brewing wafts over me. I pass the cluttered sitting room, which is overrun with spell books, candles, gemstones, and vases filled with fresh lavender. I ignore all the Kama Sutra sculptures of couples in various sexual positions, as well as my aunt’s tantric sex books and artwork. She has a fascination with the male and female anatomy and sexual behaviors. It’s a hobby of hers. One that she’s carefully and proudly crafted over the many years of her existence.
“Llughnassad, is that you, dear?” Lunette’s high-pitched, cheerful voice asks.
Entering her small kitchen, I wince a
t the use of my full coven name. “You know I prefer to be called Nassa,” I mumble, correcting her.
Lunette waves me off. “That is not your given name.”
“Mortals can’t pronounce my given name,” I argue with little effort behind it.
“Coven names are to be revered,” she tries to scold with a sly wink.
Aunt Lunette is my mother’s twin sister, a minute younger, and a coven leader. As such, she had a hand in choosing my name. Therefore, her aversion to my human-like nickname might be slightly biased.
She takes great pride in us having coven names.
“You should teach them. Like . . . witch club for mortals,” she sings.
“I thought the first rule of witch club is that we don’t talk about witch club?”
She shakes her head and amusement fills her laughter. I step over to her side, kissing her on the cheek before leaning my hip against the counter and watching her stir her soup happily.
Like Mom, Aunt Lunette never changes, no matter what her age. It’s unnerving. My mother and Lunette look almost identical; it’s hard to tell them apart at times.
Neither looks like me. I get my dark black hair and green eyes from my father.
My aunt is pretty in an earthy, goddess-like way. Her long hair is blonde to the point of almost being white. Her steel-gray eyes lift from the pot she’s stirring and meet mine with warmth as her lips draw into a smile.
Clapping her hands, she leans toward me with a huge smile, causing the wrinkles around her eyes to appear as she pulls me into a warm embrace. I let her squeeze me to death while her perfumed scent fills the air, choking me.
“You’re squishing me,” I manage with what little oxygen I have left in my lungs.
Lunette steps back, looking me up and down. “You’re too thin. And your hair . . .” She trails off, taking in the deep purple strands—which match the color of my lips and nails, almost appearing black in some lights—nestled between the long raven pieces.
“I like the darker purple,” I rasp in my deep voice.
“You seem to be drawn to darkness these days,” she accuses, arching a brow.
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