“I’ll try to keep the pain to a minimum. I beg you to forgive me.”
She swallowed hard. Strains of sympathetic lemon balm and loving yarrow filled her nostrils as Gwyn pulled out a dagger.
As he drew it toward her throat, its blade glinting in the firelight, she recognized the weapon. It was the same one Gwythyr had held against her neck hours before, the one Creiddylad’s cursed magic had crafted.
Which was fitting in the strangest of ways.
Chapter Fifteen
Life
She gasped, grasping her throat as she bolted upright. What felt like glacial, frenzied knives wreaked havoc upon her body.
She wanted to scream, to keen, but no voice came.
“Get the healers!” a deep, familiar voice barked. “Quickly!”
A door groaned open then slammed shut. Her eyes flew open. The world was blurry, impossible to define. Stars, she felt like she was under an ocean of sand.
She hurt. Oh, how she hurt.
No words formed. Instead, she coughed then gagged.
Something cold touched the edge of her chin. “It’s a bowl,” the voice told her.
Instinct guided her to coughing something up and out. Her shoulders shook, and her teeth chattered. A soft weight wrapped around her, followed by a small wave of warmth. She continued to shake, afraid to take her hands from her neck. Why her neck?
She clawed for air, for her voice.
“Stoke the fire!” the voice called out. And then, closer, “Fight, love.”
An earthquake rippled from her head to the tips of her toes. Something substantial encircled her shoulders, anchoring her to reality. “Breathe, Aoibheall. Don’t listen to the dark. This is where you belong.”
Aoibheall.
Yes. That was her name, or it had been once.
A flash of steel across her throat, quicker than breathing. There was no pain. And then, Death was there, gentle and velvety soft, its arms open and welcoming. She gratefully stepped into them, into oblivion, only for an achingly familiar form to punch through the void and snatch her away, back towards the light, towards pain.
Something hot and damp wiped across her eyes, her neck. She was told, “Stay here with me, my love. Please.”
The muscles in her chest juddered. She knew that voice, didn’t she?
“Stay. With. Me,” the voice demanded.
Twin sweet scents arose, carving paths through the pain. Lavender? Yes. And yarrow. Which meant . . .
Devotion and love.
Through the fog, a well-known face emerged.
Gwyn.
Stay, he begged. So Aoibheall did something she wasn’t good at when it came to him, something she promised herself to work on.
She stayed.
Chapter Sixteen
Stay
Aoibheall stepped out of the warm bath and into a gorgeous, gilded bathroom inlaid with a kaleidoscopic multitude of hues. Gwyn, rather than a maid, was offering an oversized towel.
“Better?”
Blood—her blood—marred his gray sweater and jeans. Before her bath, she’d learned that, once they’d arrived at Annwn, he’d been so focused on bringing her back that he hadn’t bothered to tend to his own needs.
Somehow, that made him all the more endearing.
She took the towel and wrapped it around herself. “Yes, thank you.”
He bit his lips, rocking back on his heels. “You’re sure there’s no more pain?”
“None,” she answered truthfully. And then, she laughed. “You should have taken a bath with me. You’re a right mess.”
His cheeks pinked as he glanced down at the dried gore. “I—I didn’t even think. I should have—” He moved toward the door. “I’ll just—”
She reached out and caught his sleeve, tugging him closer. “Stay.”
The air in her chest calmed when his hazel eyes met hers. “As long as you wish.”
Her fingers twisted patterns into the wool of his sweater as her pulse unevenly sputtered. “What if I answered with always?”
His eyes drifted shut as she closed the distance between them. “Then,” he whispered hoarsely, “I would do as asked, as it is also my wish, and never leave your side.”
She pressed her damp forehead against his chest and then her ear so she could find the music of his wild heartbeat. “Stay,” she repeated. “For always.”
His chest heaved erratically. His arms enfolded her just as securely as they had when he fought to bring her back.
Creiddylad’s curse, though ultimately thwarted when the lady did not achieve Annwn’s throne in time, had still required death as payment. Gwyn had discovered that the only way to circumvent Aoibheall’s outcome was to kill and claim her himself, thereby compelling the curse to turn to Creiddylad and Gwythyr for payment. Had Gwyn not done what he did, there wouldn’t be any way to bring Aoibheall back; she would have fully belonged to the curse and oblivion. As a psychopomp and the Lord of the Dead, Gwyn had his brand of magic and total dominion over those collected for Annwn.
He brought Aoibheall to his home, and the curse could do nothing in return as long as she was part of Annwn. As grieved as a brother was to lose a sister, he then stood back and allowed the dark magic to consume the female he’d watched grow from a toddler to adulthood.
Creiddylad had willingly chosen her fate, though. Once she passed, Gwyn was then able to use his power to force Aoibheall’s soul back into her body. The only caveat was that she could never leave Annwn, let alone return to Éire. If she were to cross the Otherworld’s border into the realm of the living, the curse would take her.
Gwyn’s sister had perished, a casualty of the hunger of power. Gwythyr did the same, less than a minute later.
Aoibheall hoped to never witness such foul, dark magic again.
Gwyn’s hair tickled the tips of her ears as he bent his head towards hers. “It will always be your choice,” he rasped. “Your happiness is paramount to me.”
“You truly believed I left you for someone else?”
His chest shuddered, matching her nervousness. “I saw him. Saw you both. You looked so happy. How could I deny you that even if my heart broke? I wish I’d known it was due to the cruelest kind of magic. I should have trusted you.”
“I could say the very same,” she said quietly. “We’ve needlessly spent centuries apart, and all because of a crown.” She laughed softly, more amazed than anything. “Had Creiddylad or Gwythyr bothered to ask, I would have gladly told them that crowns aren’t worth the trouble.”
“They’re gone now, victims of their ambition.” He pressed a lingering kiss upon the pinnacle of her head, and she nearly cried; it was so wonderful and real. “They can’t hurt us anymore.”
She released a long, cleansing sigh. She was with Gwyn. He still cared, proving miracles were real. “I love you, you know. I always have.”
His chest heaved anew. “You can’t imagine how long I’ve wanted to hear that. Stars, Aoibheall. I was made to love you—only you. I would have waited until the end of time and beyond just for one last moment in your presence.”
He’d gone to battle against Death for her. Against his sister. He’d found a loophole in a curse. She could barely process that wonderment.
They had so much to talk about, so many centuries to clear away. Harps and wails, she wasn’t even a banshee anymore. She had to learn a new purpose, forge a new fate. He had to deal with his sister’s betrayal.
There were more pressing matters to tend to first, though.
Aoibheall found his mouth with hers, the kiss overdue. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she joyfully deepened the kiss. He was honey-sweet, better than she remembered.
Slowly and quickly, and then all at once, they found themselves in the giant bed she’d woken up in a few hours ago. It took no time at all to divest Gwyn of his clothes, and he, her towel. There was time later to discover whether or not her memory of his body was accurate. Here, now, she wanted to feel the silk of his skin aga
inst hers and the beat of his heart alongside the one in her chest.
They murmured their love for one another over and over again, the only valid, real sentiments either could clearly articulate. The love of yarrow and roses and the pleasure of marjoram perfumed the room, and when bliss came, it was within the safety of one another’s embrace.
Much, much later, as he was kissing sweet patterns along her neck, he whispered, “I forgot to mention . . .”
She moaned, running her fingers through his damp hair. He lost his train of thought as she slung one of her legs over his. It took several indulgent minutes before she prompted, “You forgot?”
“Yes,” he answered assuredly. “I am forever incoherent when your naked body is next to mine.”
She giggled. It took a good hour before she tried again. “Gwyn?”
His pupils expanded to the edge of his irises, leaving him delightfully wild in appearance. “Hmm?”
“You forgot to tell me . . .?”
He lifted his head, his mouth leaving her breast, and she immediately regretted the folly of her question. “Oh.” And then, “Oh! Clíodhna is here and wishes to see you. As you mentioned wanting to call her, I had someone send word that you’re no longer in Éire. I thought it best that the rest came in person from the two of us.”
He made to pull away, but she lured him back. “Later,” she whispered, her mouth teasing his. “Let’s make up for lost time first.”
He chuckled, and it was beautiful and warm, and so very real. “Centuries worth.”
She hummed contentedly, understanding that here, with Gwyn, she was home and ecstatic to be so. “Then we’d better get started.”
The End
Turn the page for more Monster Ball…
The Black Rose
By
Karpov Kinrade
Chapter One
As the moonlight catches on your delicate, pale wrist, the parchment appears, glowing silver against the darkness. This is what I needed to know. Would you get an elusive invite to The Monster Ball?
And now I know where you will be for an entire evening without the ability to disappear like the dark tendril of smoke you are. It might be the only chance I have. Assuming I can acquire a ticket for myself.
I wait, watching you as you read your invitation. The way the end of your nose twitches ever so slightly, and the way your lips curve up into the shape of a heart when you find yourself amused.
I get no such invite, of course. Not after that... debacle. I will be persona non grata for some time.
Which is why I need to do this. I need to restore my coven's reputation in this community. By reclaiming what you took from our former leader.
A hint of your scent carries on the wind. Strawberries and lilac. An intoxicating blend that I close my eyes to savor. I twist the onyx ring on my right hand. I could claim to be under your spell, but it would be a lie.
I’m protected from your magic. But apparently, not from your inherent charm.
I turn away, my footsteps fading into the late-night hustle of a city that never sleeps. A place where you can pass by hundreds of people a day and never really see any one at all. The perfect backdrop for one like me.
I pull out my phone and place a call. “Garsh, I need your help. Find out the nastiest monster in the area who got an invite to the Ball. Send me their coordinates.”
Garsh sucks in his breath then exhales deeply. He’s smoking weed again, probably mixed with pixie dust for an extra kick. I don’t give a shit.
The man—or rather troll—gets the job done.
“Sure thing, boss.”
Two minutes later, my phone bings. I shake my head and smile. I don’t know how he does it. But he never disappoints.
I study the file he sent over and whistle under my breath. This one is a piece of work, a real nasty one at that. Let’s just say the human and supernatural communities have been terrorized by this devil in one form or another for a very long time.
You won’t mind what I’m about to do, I don’t think. I’ve seen how you operate. You’re not one to cast stones.
Nor am I. This isn’t personal. I actually respect your temerity. We are both predators after all. But I can’t let you get away with what you've done. No matter how dazzling your sapphire eyes are. Like sinking into the depths of the ocean. Nothing but water and sun and salt and the distant waves.
I resist the temptation to steal one last glance at you, still standing in the moonlight. Instead, I disappear into the darkness. One with the night. Just like you. We are both born of shadows.
And soon, you'll know what it feels like to go from being the hunter to the prey.
I tap the fob on my keyring, slide into my black Jaguar, then pull into traffic and navigate my way to Drukard Drunland, the self-dubbed Dirty Demon. He likes his alliteration. And he likes making a mess when he kills someone.
When I arrive at his lair, I quickly realize the mess extends to his personal life as well. The brownstone could have been lovely, with some fresh flowers and fresh paint. Instead, the porch is littered with garbage and swarming with larva and buzzing flies. The neighbors must love him. I'm honestly doing them, and humanity, a favor.
I pull into a parking space and let the car idle for a moment, considering my plan. He's older than me as far as that goes, but I'm stronger and faster. And more disciplined.
It should be an easy enough kill.
Of course, none of this would be necessary if you hadn't taken what was mine.
What a tangled and strange dance you and I are enjoying, don't you think? To imagine all that has been set in motion because of one choice. But which choice, I wonder? Was it when you took what didn't belong to you? Or does the story stretch further back than that? I'm fascinated by stories. By yours. Mine. Even the Dirty Demon, though I won't linger long enough to ask him his. I can't stand the stench.
I don't bother with formalities when I reach Drukard's front door. It's locked, naturally, so I kick it in. The door breaks from the frame and flies into a living room so cluttered with shit it would make a hoarder look like a neat freak.
The smell is overwhelming, particularly for one with such refined senses as myself. I pause my breathing to avoid the olfactory overload and enter the garbage-infested disarray.
I find the demon in the kitchen, his large red body spread over two seats like a blob as he gorges on his latest kill. Blood, bone, and entrails cover his kitchen table and bits of someone's intestines hang from his mouth, dripping down all of his chins.
He turns to me, slow to move in his slothfulness, his tiny black eyes widening when he sees me.
"Get the hell out of here!" he bellows, shaking the walls with his rage and power.
"I'm going to need your ticket to the Ball first," I calmly say.
He drops a bone he was gnawing on and stands—or rather perches—on his tail-like body, slithering over to me as his mouth widens.
"You're going to regret coming here, vampire."
I laugh. "I might regret the indigestion, but nothing else."
He lunges at me, his giant maw pulling me towards him with ferocious force. I was, of course, prepared for this. Like you, I never enter a situation blind, if I can help it. I've admired your preparedness in all you do.
Using my own inhuman strength, I shove a fist through his wall and hold on to the support beam, forcing him to come closer if he wants me within his range.
I'm waiting for the right timing. Just another moment.
The air is putrid. The rotting of his insides flooding us as he regurgitates his last meal. It hisses and bubbles around my feet, and I step back, crinkling my nose at the ruins of my leather shoes.
I weary of this hunt, though only minutes have passed. He would not be my normal target, for so many reasons. Not the least of which is the mess this is making of my attire.
When he's positioned where I want him, I make my move.
He doesn't see me coming as I dash forward, my speed blinding, my str
ength enough to do serious damage to one much stronger than this loser.
My teeth extend and find the vein in his throat, and I twist his head as I bite in, sucking his blood even as I break his neck.
I hate to eat him. He's not my preferred meal choice under any circumstance. But I need his most recent memories, and this is the easiest way that doesn't involve trading a favor with the local necromancer, whose shit list I am currently trying to get off of. So, she's a no go tonight.
This is the only way.
I cringe as his blood drips down my throat. He tastes the way he smells, and I force myself not to gag. I just need a little more and then…
Wham!
I see through his eyes, holding the ticket, getting blood on the silver parchment as he licks his fingers clean from another kill. He slips it into a fold in his skin.
Terrific.
As his body crumbles to the floor, splatting into the gore he produced, I prepare to search him for the coveted ticket. The one I will need for admittance to the Ball.
His skin is as thick as leather and slimy as a slug, and I am forced to shove my hand deep into the abyss of his folds to pull out the poor slip of paper that is surprisingly still intact.
Finally, I have it. Blood smeared and smelling of gore, but it is mine.
And now I will finally be able to pin down the elusive Black Rose. That would be you, of course. I wonder why you chose a black rose as your calling card? Maybe I'll find out the night of the Ball. There's much I'd like to learn about you as I retrieve what you took.
As predicted, my biggest regret is the indigestion this asshole has caused. And the smell that has seeped into my nicest suit. There's no amount of dry cleaning that will get this out. I'll need the help of a witch.
Before getting back into my car, I strip down to my boxers and change into a spare outfit I keep in my trunk.
The Monster Ball Year 2 Page 25