Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (42 page)

“Can we trust you to see to this?” Jillian asked.

Bowe gave a sharp nod. “Aye, I can see to it.”

“Don't try to put anything in front of her eyes,” Warren said. “She'll burn away whatever blocks her gaze. And whatever you do, do
not
break the mirror.”

Without looking away from Mari, Bowe asked, “Why no'?” This seemed an ideal solution to him.

Jillian murmured, “The shock could . . . it could kill her.”

No' ideal
.

“I want to be alone with her,” Bowe said.

She nodded. “We're going to the binding ceremony. Good luck, Bowen.”

After they closed the door, Bowe could still hear Mari's father say, “Jill, why are you so confident in MacRieve?”

“Because he won't ever rest until he has her back with him,” she replied before they descended the stairs.

Alone with Mari, Bowe said, “Lass, we're about to take a break from the mirror for a bit. How am I to marry you in front of all those witches in an eerie, embarrassing ceremony if you will no' look away?”

No reaction.

He put his arms around her waist and leaned down to kiss her neck, closing his eyes with pleasure just to be close to her once more.

“Doona wish to turn from your glass? Verra well. Then ask it some questions while you're here. Ask it how much your Lykae's missed you.”

Had she blinked?

At her other ear, he murmured, “Ask it who Bowe loves.”

Her lips parted. Her body seemed to begin thrumming, as if she was struggling with everything she had in her to be free.

“Aye, that's right. Ask it who's the only one Bowe's ever been in love with.” He brushed the back of his fingers down her cheek, willing her to meet his gaze in the mirror. “And the last question we're goin' tae have before you come away with me . . . ask it how damned good our lives are goin' tae be together, just as soon as you turn tae kiss me.”

Her brows drew together, and her stiff posture tightened, then relaxed. Her eyelids slid closed.

“There now, that's it, beautiful girl,” he rasped, easing her face toward him. Behind her, he pressed the mirror until it flipped over, revealing the back of the frame. “Now, kiss me, witch.”

*  *  *

When Mari opened her eyes once more, Bowen's warm, firm lips covered her own. Then he was lifting her and carrying her to the bed.

Once he settled her in his lap, she laid her hand against his unshaven cheek. How she'd missed him! She felt a
sharp pang at how exhausted he looked. “I can't believe you made it here.”

“I'm your familiar.” He jutted his chin up in that proud way. “I'm tae guard you. Besides, you canna lose me this easily.” His gaze held hers as he said, “I'll follow you anywhere, Mari.”

“I'm so— Whoa,” she abruptly whispered, her hand flying to her forehead. The ponderous weight of Häxa's power was lessening. “Are my eyes clearing?”

“Aye.” He exhaled with relief. “The binding's working.”

“I can feel it.” She bit her lip. “Bowen, about earlier—I'm sorry that my dad was rude to you. And I'm so sorry for everything that happened to you. The enchantment—”

“I'm no' sorry about that.” When she gave him an incredulous look, he amended, “At first, I was furious. Then I realized that if we can be together, then everything's brought me to you. Think of it—I've even got to thank that damned vampire for beating me in the Hie. If not for that . . .” He trailed off with a shudder. “Besides, I doona mind the struggle, when the prize is so worthy.”

“But it must eat at you that you went so long, and it was so agonizing—”

“If you doubt what I'm saying, then you have no' grasped what I'm feeling for you. I would do
anything
to be here with you like this. If you'll have me.” His brows drew together. “You know how I feel about you, but I'm no' certain you love me ba—”

“I love you,” she said quickly.

“Doona wish to ponder this? Be certain of your feelings? Play coy?”

“No way.” She shook her head emphatically. “I've been a goner for you since the island, and was whipped since the
first night we were together, together. But can you handle all this . . . witchery?”

“I wanted to tell you the day of the plane crash that I'd made up my mind to do whatever I had to in order to keep you—and that included accepting everything about you. I doona give a damn about all the variables as long as the constant is
us
—together.” He squeezed her in his arms, tucking her into his chest.

He was holding her tightly—as if he'd never let her go.

And this struck her as tremendously good. Then she frowned. “Bowen?”

“Aye, love?”

“Why's your shirt inside out?”

Scotland Winter Solstice, six months later . . .

S
o that's how we're tae play this, wife?” Bowen said, when her snowball beaned him squarely in the face. He shook the snow from him in that wolfy way she loved. “You challenge a master at your own peril and have been duly warned.”

She wiggled her gloved fingers at him. “Bring it on, Father Time.”

But her eyes widened as he began piling up the biggest snowball she'd ever seen. She took off, darting back toward the lodge.

Playing in the snow—what an incredible way to end an already wonderful day. They'd arrived in Scotland just this morning. The jet ride was forgettable—literally, with proper sedation. And last night, just before Mari and Bowen had flown out, her parents had told her
they were having a baby,
which delighted her, though she promised them she'd “act out” due to the new sibling—

Bowen's mammoth snowball smacked her on the ass,
nearly knocking her down. She gasped, looking over her shoulder.

“
That's
how you throw a snowball.” Grinning, he took a bow, then loped after her.

Bowen grinned a lot now. And damn, it was a good look for him.

Playing with him like this, she recognized that her own chance of making it to forty without having kids with her Lykae was nil.

With a squeal, she let him catch her, and he dragged her down into the snow with him. “Dinna hurt you, did I?” he asked as he eased her beneath him.

Even though she'd turned immortal over three months ago, he still asked her that. She thought he always would and loved him for it. “Not at all.”

“So you like it here?”

“
Adore
it.”

“You're no' just saying that? Because I can—”

“I want to live half the year here.” They'd stay the other six months in their place next to Andoain. “If I'm needed by the coven or for a freelance job, I can commute to the coven via mirror.” She'd been working hard these last few months, organizing the Andoain coven with her parents' help and selling spells on her own. Did she hit it out of the park with each magick job? No, but at least she continued to get referrals.

“In addition to the apple orchard I had planted here over the summer,” he began, “I also bought a six-foot-high, full-length mirror. So
we
can commute. You'll take me through with you. Since I'm your familiar.”

He took the position of “protector of his witch” very seriously, going with her to all her jobs, and grumbled when
she suggested he was more of an
accountabilibuddy
for her magick. “Sounds good to me.”

“So what do you think about
real
snow?” He'd razzed her without cease because apparently, her dimension's imagined snow had been like the stuff they used on movie sets.

“It's
beautiful
.”

“Aye, beautiful,” he said with his gaze locked on her face. “I knew snow would become you. I canna quite believe I'm finally enjoying my favorite season, and I'm doing it with you—my favorite sight.”

He cupped her face and leaned down to give her a languid kiss. But when she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, he slanted his mouth over hers, deepening the contact until she was trembling beneath him.

Against his lips, she murmured, “
Bowen
 . . .”

He drew back. “I know my female's tone. I'll be takin' you tae bed now.”

When she nodded eagerly, he gave her a sly grin. “Your werewolf's still got it, eh, lass?”

Breathless, she smiled up at him. “If by
it
you mean
me
, then you'll never lose it.”

A vampire warrior consumed by madness, trapped in the lair of an otherworldly temptress only he can see.

The beauty wants him gone—the warrior can't leave.

Let the games begin . . .

Available Now

Present day Outside of Orleans Parish

S
tay sane, act normal
, he chants to himself as he strides down the rickety pier. On either side of him, water black like tar. Ahead of him, muted light from the bayou tavern. A Lore bar. A lone neon sign flickers over flat skiffs below. Music and laughter carry.
Stay sane
 . . .
need to dull the rage. Until the endtime
.

Inside. “Whiskey.” His voice is low, rough from disuse.

The bartender's face falls. Like last night. Others grow skittish.
Can they sense that I
ache
to kill?
The whispers around him are like metal on slate to his ragged nerves.

—“. . . madder than any I've seen in all my centuries.”

—“A killer for hire. If he shows up in your town, then folks from the Lore there'll go missing.”

Missing? Unless I want them found
.

—“Heard he drains 'em so savagely . . . nothing's left of their throats.”

So I'm not fastidious
.

—“I heard he eats them.”

Distorted rumors.
Or is that one true?

Tales of his insanity spreading once more.
I've never missed a target
—
how insane can I be?
He answers himself:
Very fucking much so
.

Memories clot his mind. His victims' memories taken from their blood toll inside him, their number always growing.
Don't know what's real; can't determine what's illusion
. Most of the time, he can scarcely understand his own thoughts. A grenade with the pin pulled, they say. Only a matter of time.

They're right.

Stay sane
 . . .
act normal
. Glass in hand, he chuckles softly on his way to a shadowy table in the back.
Normal?
He's a goddamned vampire in a bar filled with shifters, demons, and the sharp-eared fey. Christmas lights are strung up in the back—through the eye sockets of human skulls that frame a mirror. In the corner, a demoness lazily strokes her lover's horns, visibly arousing the male. At the bar, a massive werewolf bares his fangs as he tosses a small redhead behind him.

Can't decide if you should attack, Lykae? That's right. I don't smell of blood. A trick I learned
.

The couple leaves, the redhead all but carried out by the Lykae. As they exit, she peers over her shoulder, her eyes like mirrors. Then gone. Out into the night where they belong.

Sit. Back against the wall. He adjusts the sunglasses that shade his red eyes, dirty red eyes. As he scans the room, he resists the urge to rub his palm over the back of his neck.
Watched by someone unseen?

But then I
always
feel like that
.

He swoops up his drink, narrowing his eyes at his steady hand.
My mind's decayed; my sword hand's still steady
. A ruinous combination. He takes a deep swallow.
The drink
. The whiskey dulls the need to lash out. Not that it has disappeared.

Small things enrage him. An off look. Nearing too quickly. Failing to give him a wide enough berth. His fangs sharpen at the slightest provocation.
As though a living thing hungers inside me
. Ravenous for blood and a throat to tear. Each time he acts on the rage, others' memories blight more of his own.

He still has enough sanity to stalk his targets—his brothers. He will mete retribution to Nikolai and Murdoch Wroth for doing the unspeakable to him. Sebastian, the third brother, was a victim like him, but must be slain—simply because of what he is.

And my time grows nigh
. Like an animal, he recognizes this. He's found the three in this mysterious place of swamps and haze and music and has seen them with their wives. He might have felt envy that his brothers laugh with them. That they touch them possessively, with wonder in their clear eyes. But hatred drowns out any confusing jealousy. Murdoch and Nikolai have no right to a future.