She’d seen him before somewhere. In a dream or a dark premonition. Beneath the reception hall’s Baroque quadratura-painted ceiling—invoking the blessing of the gods of Olympus—he reminded her of a painting by Waterhouse, Narcissus winking just for a moment at the viewer before returning to his reflection.
But beautiful or not, this wasn’t some breathless lust at first sight. She really couldn’t breathe.
Theia clutched at her throat and tried to make a sound, but nothing came out. Her lungs were locked in a spasm, convulsively trying to take in air against some obstruction.
Her dark-haired Narcissus crossed the reception hall in two swift strides and embraced her from behind, arms wrapped around her waist and hands clasped tight beneath her breasts, a gesture of intimacy. Vertigo swam over her, making her feel as though she were floating within herself, a lighter-than-air balloon encased in a human frame, bobbing against its edges.
He hugged her forcefully, jolting her against him, almost off the ground—once, twice, thrice.
Another spasm of her diaphragm forced what remained of the air in her lungs through her windpipe and dislodged the champagne grape she’d swallowed wrong. Such a small thing to cause so much trouble.
Air rushed in so quickly that she choked on it, gasping and coughing until tears ran down her cheeks.
“All right now?” The soft voice at her ear brought her fully back to herself. His hold around her hadn’t loosened and was decidedly more intimate than it had been when he’d been performing the Heimlich on her.
Theia realized she’d relaxed into his embrace, her arms sliding around his, and she let go with a jolt and bolted from his grasp. Though the moment had seemed epic and prolonged, none of the other guests were paying any attention.
His smile was one-sided—a slight leftward lift that combined amusement, smugness and a hint of offense. “You’re welcome.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to... I mean, thanks. I appreciate the—”
“Don’t strain yourself, darling. It’s okay. I’m used to this reaction.”
Theia’s embarrassment dissipated, and she narrowed her eyes, wrapping her arms around herself. “What reaction?”
“Women going weak in the knees and tongue-tied around me. I expect it’s being this close to money.” His voice had the lazy, sardonic drawl of James Spader’s bad boy Steff in Pretty in Pink. “Does that to some women, I understand.”
“Wow. I take it back. You’re a complete ass.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that, either.” He held out his hand. “Lucien Smok, heir to the Smok Biotech fortune and your hero today.”
Theia kept her hands tucked under her arms. “Gosh, how fortunate for me. And I’ve heard of you.”
“Of course you have. Hence the reaction.” His hand dropped casually to his side. “Are you going to reciprocate?”
Theia blinked at him. “What?”
“Your name. Not going to give it to me? Then let me guess.” Before she could react, Lucien had drawn her left arm from where she’d tucked it, his fingers stroking the crescent moon and descending cross tattooed on her inner forearm. The slow, sensual touch sent a shiver down her spine. “The mark of Lilith. You must be a Carlisle. I’m going to guess Theia.” He let her go, and Theia wobbled a bit from having planted her feet so firmly to steel herself against him.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “How do you know that?”
“I cheated. I asked the groom.”
“No, I mean Lilith. How do you know about Lilith?”
A fleeting look she couldn’t interpret crossed his features. “I’ve studied astrology. I’m familiar with the symbol.”
She was sure he’d meant something more than just the astrological symbol—a representation of the Black Moon Lilith, the elliptical focal point opposite the earth at lunar apogee. He’d associated it with the Carlisles. But Lucien didn’t elaborate.
“Well, you’re wrong,” said Theia. “I’m not a Carlisle.”
His brow furrowed, as though he didn’t care much for being wrong. “Oh?”
“My name is Dawn. Theia Dawn. My sisters are Carlisles.” She’d taken her middle name as her last after learning about the second family her father had kept hidden until his death. She didn’t want the name that belonged to a cheater and a liar. But Theia didn’t bother to explain any of this to Lucien Smok. Let him wonder. She turned on her heel and left him staring after her.
Gliding up beside her, her twin put her arm in Theia’s. “Who was that?” Luckily, she’d taken Theia’s right arm. Theia wasn’t about to let Rhea anywhere near that Lilith tattoo, especially now that Lucien had touched it. Where Theia occasionally had prophetic dreams and visions, Rhea could cut right through the annoying interpretation of symbolism with her “pictomancy” readings to see the future in tattoo ink. And Theia absolutely did not want to know any specifics about her future.
“Lucien Smok. His family owns the biotech firm that recently partnered with Northern Arizona University. I think he’s a friend of Rafe’s.”
Rhea wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t say friend. Phoebe was telling me about the Smoks. Rafe’s family knows them, but she doesn’t remember sending them an invitation. Some uncle of Rafe’s must have brought Lucien along.”
Before Theia could speculate on what Lucien was doing there, a commotion broke out at the front of Covent Temple’s reception hall. A tall, Nordic hunk of beefcake was literally thumping his chest at the best man, who stood coolly observing the former and looking perfectly at home in his Armani tux, graying temples adding to his sophistication against the rich hue of his skin.
“Looks like your man is fighting with Dev.” Theia nudged her sister. “Go get him, sweetie. We don’t want Kur getting out and eating the guests.” Dev Gideon, their sister Ione’s boyfriend, had an unfortunate tendency to transform into an ancient Sumerian dragon demon when provoked.
Rhea sighed. “Leo must have been celebrating a little too enthusiastically.” Like the thousand-year-old Viking he was, Leo Ström was fond of a good, hearty drink.
Theia watched Rhea weave through the guests to get to Leo, the shin-length red chiffon of her bridesmaid’s dress swinging and swishing gracefully. It was odd to see Rhea in anything but pants. Not that Theia was much for dresses, either.
She glanced down at her own, smoothing the fabric beneath the crisscross bodice. Only Phoebe could have gotten her and Rhea cleaned up this good. Well, Ione had, really. But Phoebe had chosen the fabric as part of her red rose-themed Beltane wedding—red, blush and white ribbon draped the room, woven around the support at the center of the hall like a Maypole and fanning out to form a latticed canopy.
Theia had to admit the dress looked fantastic with both her natural dark bob and Rhea’s short, bleached-blond cut sculpted into points—the dead giveaway for those who had trouble telling them apart. Rhea had curled her points at the tips for the occasion, adding a dab of cherry-red dye. She’d added some of it to the points of Theia’s bob, too. It was more difficult to see against the dark color, but Theia preferred subtlety.
With Ione officiating as high priestess in her longer, dusty-rose version of the dress, the twins’ red had made Phoebe stand out. She’d been absolutely gorgeous in a fairy-tale bone-white off-the-shoulder sweetheart gown with beaded lace and a vintage mantilla from Rafe’s own grandmother.
Theia glanced around, realizing she hadn’t seen Phoebe in a while. Or Rafe. God, you’d think they could wait a few hours for the honeymoon.
Her glance fell once more on Lucien Smok, flirting with one of the younger members of Ione’s coven. An unfamiliar irritation prickled along Theia’s skin as his hand rested on Margot’s shoulder while he leaned close, Margot laughing at something he’d said. Theia shook off the sensation. No. Absolutely not. This couldn’t be jealousy, because she had absolutely zero interest in Lucien Smok. Or the heart-stoppin
g contrast of his pale eyes with his nearly jet-black, effortlessly messy hair.
He caught her watching him and winked.
Theia looked away deliberately, her eyes on Rhea leading Leo away from the open bar. It was always amusing to see Rhea, her form slight beside him, managing the Chieftain of the Wild Hunt. Having spent the last thousand years under the control of a Valkyrie, he seemed perfectly content to let a woman take charge despite his outward bluster.
On the opposite end of the room, where the reception hall connected to the temple nave by a breezeway, the Sedona winds had apparently kicked up, and the doors blew open with a bang. Ione moved to shut them, her long, ironed-straight hair whipping about her head in a halo of setting-sun ombré, but paused and stood deathly still, staring at something on the other side of the doorway. Theia moved around the support column that blocked her view.
With the wind had come an uninvited guest—the necromancer who’d made more than one attempt on the lives of both bride and groom in recent months. Theia’s jaw dropped open, and she sensed Rhea’s shock echoing hers from across the room. Carter Hamilton was supposed to be rotting in prison.
His overly whitened smile flashed in his overly bronzed face as he stood bracing his hands between the double doors like Maleficent making an appearance at Sleeping Beauty’s first birthday. “Am I too late to toast the happy couple?”
“How the hell are you here?” Ione’s voice seemed icy calm as she faced her psychotic ex, but Theia knew she was barely keeping it together.
Carter’s gaze acknowledged Dev as he appeared at Ione’s side. “And there he is, like a good little cur, looking for a pat on the head.”
A low rumble came out of Dev’s throat—too low to be human.
Ione took Dev’s hand. “Don’t trouble, love. He isn’t worth it.”
Their newly minted brother-in-law emerged from the stairwell to the bell tower that was doubling as a dressing room, moving toward Carter in a way that ought to unnerve the other man. Even without the Quetzalcoatl tattoo visible at his shoulders beneath the white linen wedding shirt, Rafe Diamante was imposing. And the knowledge that Rafe possessed the necromantic power Carter had killed to try to get should have had the slighter man quaking in his boots. But Carter’s smile persisted.
“You have no right to set foot on Covent property,” Rafe warned.
Carter’s gaze flicked over him. “Nor have you, my friend. I understand you’ve been formally expelled from the Covent for oath breaking.”
“I’m not your friend. No one here is your friend.”
Phoebe, descending the staircase behind Rafe, paused on the bottom step with one slipper-clad foot wavering over the floor, her face a white mask of shock. She’d been the one to put Carter in prison while she was still practicing law.
Ione’s hand tightened around Dev’s. “What do you want, Carter?”
“Just to see your faces when I tell you my good news. The conviction for the crimes you framed me for has been overturned. I’m a free man.”
Cake and champagne churned in Theia’s stomach.
Phoebe voiced her shock. “How is that possible?”
Carter’s eyes settled on her, bitter amusement dancing in them. “So you don’t deny you framed me.”
“No one framed you,” Rafe growled. “You murdered four people.”
“Well, the state doesn’t seem to agree. Nor does the Covent.”
Preceded by a flourish of his hand in the air, a champagne flute materialized in Carter’s fingers. “To the bride.” Carter raised the glass toward Phoebe. “Who looks almost as lovely in white as she does in nothing at all. And I have the pictures to prove it.”
A collective gasp rustled through the hall.
As Carter drank, Rafe charged him, the snake tattoo twisting and roiling beneath his shirt, but Carter’s physical matter seemed to dissolve into smoke at Rafe’s contact with him, leaving Rafe’s fingers to close around a nonexistent collar. The bright grin was the last thing to go, like an evil Cheshire Cat.
Copyright © 2018 by Jane Kindred
ISBN-13: 9781488094132
Legendary Shifter
Copyright © 2018 by Barbara J. Hancock
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