The Witching Hour (The Grim Reaper Saga (Urban Fantasy Romance)) (11 page)

Dreams were real for her. Not a prophecy of what would happen, but a way for the subconscious to show her something she wouldn’t normally see.

She sighed. Maybe a nice cup of chamomile would help settle her nerves. She opened her eyes, ready to head to the kitchen when a darting shadow on the sidewalk caught her attention.

Narrowing her eyes, she held still, waiting to see the figure move again, her nerves hyper taut. But after a minute of standing still her legs began to shake. She shook her head, her hands trembling as she walked away.

Frenzy stepped through the gnarled oak separating realms and into the perfect darkness of Alcatraz Island at night. The sky, obscured by low-lying fog, glowed a silver-grayish color. Dreamlike. Striking.

He narrowed his eyes, studying the land. Rotted out abandoned buildings. Mortal crafted stone rusted by decades of salt water crashing against it with weeds shoving their sturdy stems through long cracks in the building’s foundation.

Anger twisted a hole in his gut. Humans poisoned the land. Turned all that was beautiful into a wasteland of disease and decay. Savage lot. Concerned only with war and what they could own. The fae liked to believe themselves superior. But strip them of magick and beauty and they were all the same. He despised every one of them.

With a snarl he swiped his hand, opening the portal and stepped through. It took nothing to find Cian. All he had to do was attune himself to his brethren. That shared bond between death. A shimmering trail of ebony fire tugged at his chest like an invisible bond.

 The dazzling colors of the portal rolled into one with dizzying speed. Surrounded by lava-like brilliance, lights sped past his eyes faster and faster. His heart rate picked up in cadence. Threatening to rip a hole through his chest.

And then...he was there.

He punched his hand through the opening and jumped out, reappearing a few feet from where he knew Cian sat crouched in shadow watching the witch he’d become obsessed with.

Frenzy touched the amulet The Morrigan had given him. A part of him hoped it would work, keep him undetectable to Cian. But another part, the more reckless side, prayed to be found. To be drawn into a fight. Right now all he wanted was something solid to take his frustrations out on.

Rotten stench of alcohol induced vomit and piss permeated the breeze. Frenzy grimaced, curling his upper lip and exposing his canines. Mortal land. A nemesis he’d hoped never to meet again. Tonight with the demon had been more than enough, and yet here he was again.

It had been seven centuries since The Morrigan had granted him absolution from death reaper duties and allowed him to serve as personal retinue in her court. Not that that was any fun. Being slave to the Queen’s whims was a sucking, leeching feeling of misery.

But it kept him away from the insanity of death’s duties. He could still remember the utter, soul-sucking blackness of being death.

He’d take his royal crone over this any day. Rolling his shoulders back he walked down the crooked sidewalk. The heavy footfalls of his booted feet echoed down alleyways, alerting mortals to his presence.

Most just curled up into their newspaper burrows, too drunk on Listerine to care. But a few glanced up from their positions around barrel lit fires. Dirt laden faces full of sorrow and years’ worth of hard living etched into their brows.

He kept walking until he spotted a liquid drop of golden light. The buzz of flickering street lamps a discordant cadence to the rhythms of the night.

Two stories up, in an old Victorian style home, stood a silhouette of a woman. Curvy, shapely. The witch.

Fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge. Frenzy whipped around, scenting death only seconds before he caught a flash of Cian’s multi-hued hair. Cian might not be able to sense him, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes, and Frenzy hadn’t thought to use essence to change himself. Using essence now might alert Cian. So he jumped behind a row of stacked moving boxes.

Cian stood within a pale circle of light, his upturned face and steadfast gaze proof of what he looked at.

The silhouette behind the window stiffened and Cian slithered back into shadow. His face twisted into a mask of hunger, pain, and need.

Hours passed. A slow, steady drizzle filled the predawn hours. Frenzy shifted on the balls of his feet. Obviously the Queen’s charm worked, Cian was in no hurry to leave. Muscles of his legs cramped and screamed out in protest for him to move, to walk. But he was patient. Cian wouldn’t stick around too much longer. He wouldn’t want to be caught by her.

Already warm rays of sunshine began to crest the horizon, draping the world in a Salvador Dali painting of orange and pink.

A heavy sigh and shuffling steps, and Cian was gone.

“Freaking death,” he growled, and squeezed out from behind his hiding spot, rolling his neck from side to side with loud satisfying pops. Blood rushed to his numb limbs.

“Now what?” he drawled, studying the home in detail.

A three story Victorian, hardly fortified. Easy access. Top two windows open. Gingham curtains fluttering. Windows probably led into the kitchen or living room.

Although, he narrowed his eyes and walked across the street, stopping on the first step of the stoop. He’d seen her profile last night on the second floor. At the time he’d assumed she’d been in her bedroom. The layout of the home was strange. Maybe it was more of a loft or apartment style home, the three floors completely separate from one another. Which meant there had to be neighbors.

He walked up the last steps and placed his hand against the red door. Dew on the golden brass knocker seeped into his palm. Taking a deep breath he reached out with his senses. First one gentle flutter of a beating pulse pressed against his skull, then another. The second heavier, labored. Unnatural. Sick but not close to death, only the beginnings of heart disease laying waste.

He was ready to pull back when another came to him with crashing force, filling his mouth with the taste of adrenaline. Beats were getting slower and slower still, becoming little more than a pathetic attempt at pushing blood through clogged veins and arteries.

Fire shot down his arm and into his hand. He smiled, pulled back and snatched the glove off. Skeletal fingers appeared bold against the weak rays stretching across the city.

He curled his fist. The Morrigan had told him truth, a way inside would indeed be found this morning. Inside at this very moment someone lay dying.

The streets were empty, beds still full of sleeping bodies. None would see him and there were no other grim reaper’s about. Time for him to do what reapers did best. Frenzy swiped his hand, following the weak hammer of a pulse and landed in a dimly lit bedroom. A crack through the blinds showed dancing dust motes floating through the air.

In the bed lay a man. Aged and elder. Hair a crisp snow white, skin as dark as ebony. Full lips parted on a silent gasp. Next to him lay several cats. Some with their paws on his chest, others meowing, and some waving long tails through the air.

Frenzy walked forward. Large chocolate eyes rolled toward him, anguished desperation glittering in their depths. He sat on the edge of the bed, grabbing one of the man’s hands into his own. “Be well, stranger. Your time is nigh, I come to see you on.”

Two fat tears rolled down the corners of both eyes simultaneously. The old body jerked. Oxygen deprived lungs deflated, burning with the brittle need of a moment’s relief. Painful, empty gasps. Like a fish out of water, struggling for breath, for reprieve. But there would be none. With one last gulp the old man closed his eyes and went limp.

It took a moment for the soul to realize it had nothing to hold onto, no body to contain it. Slowly, a blue curl of winding smoke filtered through pores and openings, pulsating and waiting. For him.

Frenzy reached into the chest, his insubstantial hand phasing through, and grasped onto the viscous soul. A glowing portal of white opened up before them. But before he’d release it to the spirit world he had one last task. If he was to be this man, he must know this man. Intimately.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the memories to wash through him. Not to fight them, but to let them become a part of him. A life full of music, joy, highs and lows. And then there it was. What he really sought.

The witch was Eve Philips. She’d been married to Michael Philips and they’d been his neighbors for the past ten years.

“Thank you, Curtis Lovelace.” He then stood and walked the soul toward the portal and its final destination.

The white of eternity swallowed the soul and faded to darkness, leaving him with a body and several curious cats.  

He sat on the edge of the bed. One cat, a fat orange tabby, jumped onto his lap and began rubbing its head against his cheek.

Soft purrs of delight rolled from out the muzzle. “Samhain,” the name rolled off his tongue in a thick burr.

The cat yowled as if in recognition and curled into a ball.

Gentle patter of footsteps broke him from his petting trance. Above him Eve stirred, beside him a dead body lay cooling in the morning breeze.

Nobody could know Curtis had died. Not yet. With a flick of his wrist he engulfed the husk in flames. Hot enough to burn bone, teeth, anything and everything. Cool enough that the blanket wouldn’t singe, that no smoke would be detected. The inferno pitch of that heat so hot, that in seconds the body was reduced to a smoldering pile of ashes.

He lifted the window and called to the wind to take it. A rushing breeze funneled through the room, picked up the black soot and dragged it out in an undulating wave.

Cream sheets tangled and twisted--pushed back to the footboard--showed not a speck of dirt, blood, or fire. There was nothing save him, the cats, and an apartment full of dead memories.

There was still much work to be done. 

Eve shoved on a pair of latex gloves then bent over the apothecary table and ground the wolfsbane in the mortar at a furious pace. She hated grinding the stuff. If it wasn’t for the fact that it was a great herb for keeping out Weres she wouldn’t touch it. If it even rubbed your skin the slightest bit, it would cause uncontrolled itching.

Which was why she should be concentrating on the task with single-minded diligence. She should be. But she wasn’t.

For reasons that were beginning to blur, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Cian. After that dream, and the scare of a moving shadow at the window, sleep had eluded her. Her thoughts kept pinging back and forth between why Cian had chased her the way he had, to those sinful lips that had touched hers. If only in her dream.

A golden puff of powdered wolfsbane flew from the end of her pestle, coming dangerously close to her nose.

She growled and squirmed on her seat.

Focus, Eve. Focus.

Frost eyes. Firm lips. Long hair. Chiseled body.
Oh yeah, baby
.

Not working.

She stood and dropped the pestle with a dull thunk onto the table and walked to the mini-fridge, pulling off her gloves. She opened the refrigerator and squatted, staring at a row of water bottles. She could really go for a screwdriver. Little vodka, little OJ. The breakfast of champs.

She reached for the water with a groan.

Gonna have to talk to Celeste about keeping this fridge well stocked.

Taking a deep swig, she settled against the glass wall separating the front of Witch’s Brew from the back. She hated the thing. But the normals liked to come into the shop and watch the magick being made. She made sure to assume the more clichéd version of a witch while at work. Lights, fog, hocus-pocus. And if she was in a really accommodating mood, she’d plop on a black pointy velvet hat.

It all smacked of the ridiculous to her, like she was some freak on display. But the tourists ate it up, so the display room stayed.

Eve closed her eyes, clutching the bottle to her chest. Praying the chill from the bottle would seep into her flesh and bank the fire the Vamp had started. Those sinful blue eyes, the color of a wind tossed sea, was all she could see anymore. When she closed her eyes, when she opened them. Dreaming. Awake. They were there. That hot gaze that saw more than just the outer shell.