Cursed to Kill

Author: Ashgrove Claire

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Cursed to Kill by Claire Ashgrove

The Wild Rose Press www.thewildrosepress.com

Copyright © First published in 2011 NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email, floppy disk, network, print out, or any other means is a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This notice overrides the Adobe Reader permissions which are erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to others. This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.

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Cursed to Kill by Claire Ashgrove

CONTENTS Praise for Claire Ashgrove Dedication Acknowledgements Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen A word about the author... Read More from Claire Ashgrove Thank you for purchasing ****

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It was either kiss her or rip out her throat. The words his mother had written so infuriated his demonic nature, Cian couldn't combat Miranda's innocent interrogation. Each benign question she asked stoked fury he couldn't control, and as he looked at her, he had been possessed by the stark need to kill. Instead, he fed the beast inside the only other satisfaction it would have—a dose of unchecked lust. Miranda froze beneath the assault of his mouth, her shoulders rigid, her spine stiff as an iron rod. He was being too harsh, too inconsiderate. If he wanted her participation— and goddess above, he needed it to temper the hunger of his dark spirit—he must find a measure of control. Easing far enough away he could look into her eyes, he let go of the fierce hold he had on her neck and dropped his hand to her shoulder. Confusion filled her big brown eyes, but behind the unspoken questions radiating there, an ember of desire glowed. That solitary coal gave him encouragement. If he played this right, he could walk out of here and she would still be alive. For tonight, at least. He could return after his birthday, when he had fulfilled the words written in his mother's hand-drawn runes. "What are you doing?" she whispered. 4

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Drawn to the delicate length of her neck, Cian stroked his thumb over the strong pulse alongside her neck. Savage thoughts flickered again, filling his head with visions of wrapping his fingers around her throat. Telling him it would satisfy his soul, even more than making love to her would, if he slowly choked the life from her fragile, mortal body.

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Praise for Claire Ashgrove "Ms. Ashgrove knows how to write a story that grabs you immediately and holds you until the very last word. She makes you fall in love with her characters as if they're real people and when you walk away you feel completely satisfied through and through." ~Diana Coyle, Night Owl Romance Reviews ~*~ "A BROKEN CHRISTMAS is a wonderful holiday read. Claire Ashgrove weaves a tale that will break your heart and lift it up at the same time." ~Dyann Love Barr, author of A Perfect Bride for Christmas (available from The Wild Rose Press) ~*~ "Claire Ashgrove knows how to turn up the heat in her newest creation MISUNDERSTANDING MASON. Kirstin has all the right moves when it comes to designing ads; however, when it comes to understanding her ex, Mason Montgomery, all bets are off. Designing love never is as easy as it looks. Ashgrove's writing draws you into the story with such veracity that you are compelled to finish. Her writing leaves you as hot and bothered as those warm Atlanta nights. A definite must read for any romance fan." ~Nancy O'Berry, Cascade Literary Author [Back to Table of Contents] 6

Cursed to Kill by Claire Ashgrove

Cursed to Kill Inherited Damnation, Book I by Claire Ashgrove [Back to Table of Contents]

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. Cursed to Kill: Inherited Damnation, Book One COPYRIGHT (C) 2011 by Valerie M. Hatfield All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Contact Information: [email protected] Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design The Wild Rose Press PO Box 706 Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706 Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History First Black Rose Edition, 2011 **** Published in the United States of America [Back to Table of Contents]

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Dedication To my amazing group of critique partners, who are a constant source of inspiration and motivation. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Acknowledgements Big thanks go to Judy Ridgely and Dyann Love Barr for helping me nail out the finer details and add a little flair and who've stuck with me through it all. Without the support of my family there would be no books, no novellas, no nothing—thank you from the bottom of my heart for your patience and encouragement. Thanks also go to Dr. Jeff Gall for making history fun and Dennis Ramsey for introducing me to Celt lore in a roundabout fashion. You had no idea what you started did you? As always, Jason, thank you for your endless patience and willingness to listen to me ramble on about things out of nowhere. Navigating extemporaneous remarks thrown into the middle of an entirely different conversation is a true talent, one you've mastered well. Last but not least, thank you Jewelann Cone and Callie Lynn Wolfe for your belief in my paranormal projects and your constant enthusisasm. **** [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter One Maine ~ July 30th, Present Day Augusta was a nightmarish fiend, determined to destroy Cian McLaine. He slammed his black pickup into park and stared at the rare bookstore in the brick-front house. Building energy in the atmosphere pricked at his skin. The increasing presence of spirits summoned by those who had begun early rituals for Lughnasadh surrounded him. One thought ran through his mind—another birthday. Not because he was getting older. No, he'd stopped counting birthdays somewhere around four hundred. Without pausing to calculate, all he knew was he'd been born in the year 200—before the Christians began documenting time with "Christ." Age no longer mattered. His birthday was yet another grim reminder of what he was. This one too would come, and when the sun rose after the Lughnasadh fires burned out, his veins would still run with the blood of demons. Another year had passed, and he was no closer to mortality than he had been ten, fifteen, a hundred years ago. This year, however, brought more complications than the usual stirring of his incubus father's demonic gift. Problems that came with Augusta, Maine, and one Miranda Phillips. If she was inside this bookstore, she'd better run. He didn't know how much longer he could fight the fierce urge to kill her. 11

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Taking a deep calming breath, Cian reminded himself Saturdays were her day off. Susan would be working the floor, and he could browse through the collection of rare books without worry. Miranda wouldn't be here. Like she hadn't been here every Saturday since he'd fallen in love with her and subsequently walked out of her life. Maybe not every Saturday, but those he'd stopped in on. She hadn't changed her pattern in the seven months they spent together, nor the last six. Why should she now? He shoved open the truck door and set a foot into the late afternoon sunlight. His muscles unwound as he unfolded his long body, and he turned his face to the heat, soaking it in. Gathering strength from the positive energy of light. Go in, see what new stock she has, and leave. Simple. Easy. Just like he did every time he needed a rare, old book. Today, though, his skin felt more itchy than normal. The agitation just below the surface begged for freedom—the kind of freedom that would come with taking someone's life. Something he'd only done on two occasions, both very early in his existence, and he didn't wish to experience that horror ever again. The front door to the bookstore Miranda kept on the first level of her home opened easily, filling his nose with the scent of must and aged papers. A high-pitched beep alerted Susan that he had entered, and Cian quickly made his way to the far corner of the west side where Miranda shelved Celt and Roman histories. Maybe today he'd find something that related to his ancestry. Maybe he could locate the cryptic 12

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words his mother had left behind that would guide her eight children to their salvation. Unlikely, but he couldn't stave off the brief hope. "Good afternoon, Cian," Susan called brightly as he passed the Medieval Studies section. Cian waved, forced a smile to his face, and didn't stop to talk. He was too afraid she'd notice the barely controlled dark power behind his false smile. He shouldn't have come today. But with his siblings, Rhiannon and Daire, arriving this afternoon—so he didn't have to spend his birthday completely alone—he wanted to make sure Miranda didn't have something new that might help them bring their mother's spirit to rest. Besides, he'd taken this semester off, and if nothing else, he could use some fresh lecture material on the early Roman Empire. Not that he didn't have all that locked away in his head. Hell, he'd lived through it. The University of Maine frowned on professors using undocumented material for lectures. In the dark corner at last, Cian hunkered down and ran his index finger over the brittle, decaying spines. He let out a heavy sigh, finding nothing beyond the ancient philosophies that had been here last month. Two titles on Celt histories that had been published in the middle ages caught his attention. A quick flip through the Latin pages made him roll his eyes. Two authors couldn't be more wrong. They hadn't been sacrifice-loving people determined to fornicate with their ancestors. No, his mother's people, his people, weren't that much different from today's. Lacking a little education, 13

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perhaps, but overall, they were part and parcel, the same human composition as those who inhabited earth today. At least those who had been human. Unlike himself and his seven siblings. Dismayed, Cian stood up and brushed the dust from his jeans. Roman history it was, then. He pulled off a faded, leather-bound tome penned by Nero's advisor and started for the cash register. The book would cost him thousands, yet hearing a first-hand description of Rome's great fire would make for great bedtime reading and even better lectures. Particularly, when he asked his students to compare and contrast modern historical take versus periodical documentation. A swathe of deep purple in his peripheral vision halted him in his path. As every nerve rose to stand on end, he turned his head. His gaze fell on rich chestnut hair shot-through with chunks of blonde, a purple tank top, and low-waisted jeans that exposed china-fair skin. Like someone had punched him, his gut clamped down tight. Miranda. Damn. Damn, damn. His heart jumped, kick-started by a jolt of excitement. Just as quickly, the darkness rose, threatening to overpower him. A vision of her lying on a bed, her soulful brown eyes staring up vacantly, her blood forming a crimson pool beneath her throat jammed into his mind. Cian clenched his hands around the ancient book and ground his teeth together. No! He would not take her life. True, he'd made the fatal mistake of falling in love with her, 14

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but he would resist the curse that marked her as dead. His feelings weren't her responsibility—even though he knew she shared the same soul-deep emotion. He was leaving. Now. Before she noticed he was staring. As he set one foot in front of the other to do exactly that, Miranda bent over to pick up an old book at her feet. Her tank top pulled up, exposing the skin at her lower back, and Cian's heart ground to a stop. There, spanning her narrow waist and dipping into the low-cut denim, was a Celtic scrollwork tattoo. Not just any black ink carved into her skin. The same damned patterns that his Selgovae tribe had developed centuries ago. Marks that identified clansman to clansman. Like the intricate band that ran down the middle of his abdomen, and the same design that his sister, Rhiannon, wore on her face. Where had Miranda stumbled onto a pattern like that? Drawn to the design, Cian moved toward her. Impossible. He had to be seeing things. It was just a similarity, something that a tattoo artist lucked into designing. Two foot away from him, and oblivious to his approach, she bent over again. This time, the shirt rode higher. Cian's throat inched closed. No luck about it—those swirls and right angles were identical replicas to the tattoos his family had been anointed with at birth. "Where did you get the tattoo?" The question popped out before he could stop it. Miranda swiveled, brown eyes wide with surprise. She pressed a palm to the base of her neck, her features relaxing 15

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as her gaze settled on him. "Cian. Wow. Where'd you come from?" In the next heartbeat, all the reasons he'd walked away from her pummeled into him. He stared, spellbound, at the confused light in her eyes, the tiny crease on her forehead that marked a budding frown. There wasn't a single part of him that didn't ache to touch her, to take her in his arms, feel her soft body press into his as he lost himself to the honey of her kiss. Goddess above, he missed her. "Miranda." He swallowed hard, trying to loosen the lump of longing that choked off further words. It moved, allowing him to speak, but lingered at the base of his throat, balled emotion that he had tried so desperately to eradicate. He gestured at her back. "That's new. Where'd you get it done?" He wanted to know about her tattoo. Not hello. Not how have you been. Not even, it's good to see you. Just the tattoo. It figured. He'd walked out of her life without an explanation. Why should he reenter it with one? Miranda's frown deepened. "It's nice to see you too." A touch of chagrin passed over Cian's handsome face. He pushed a lock of golden brown hair that had escaped his neat ponytail away from his eyes and gave her a hesitant smile. "It's good to see you, Miranda." "Uh-huh sure." She turned back to the shelves and the new books she was stocking before he could notice the trembling in her hands. Cian, here. Six months without a word from him, six months of him dropping in on the days he 16

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knew she didn't work, and now he was standing behind her, talking to her. If she had a bit of sense, she'd turn around and deck him. Instead, she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and hug the life out of Cian McLaine. "No, really. It is. How are you?" Miserable. Lonely. Pathetically still in love with you. "Fine." She bent over and picked up another book. A shock of warmth hit her skin like an iron brand. She stood stock still, unable to straighten, fighting for the ability to breathe, as Cian ran a fingertip over the tattoo from one side of her waist to the other. Tingles broke out beneath his touch, chills raced violently up her spine. "Where did you get this?" She forced herself to ignore the delightful sensations and stood up to shove the book into its appropriate slot. He'd left her. She wasn't going to simper at his feet. "Serendipity Designs. Why?" His thumb bridged across her spine, dipping lower to the ink that vanished into her jeans. "The artwork is...unique." "Thank you." He's not touching me. He's not. And yet, he was. He caressed the artwork and her lower back with all the familiarity of her body he'd once possessed. The same tenderness that lighted her up like fireworks radiated out through the sweep of his thumb, the light press of his fingertips. Her blood warmed against her will, and the deep yearning she hadn't figured out how to destroy begged her to turn into his embrace and snuggle against his rangy 17

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frame. Breathe in the scent of old-world spice she couldn't erase from memory. Tip her head up, lift to her toes... She was going to die right here, right now, if he didn't stop touching her. At the very least, she'd make a supreme fool out of herself. "Did the artist design it?" "N-no...I did." As his hand swept over her tattoo again, Miranda twisted around, eliminating the pleasant friction. "It's a tattoo, Cian. You've got one too. Why the third degree?" A shadow fell across his face as his gaze dipped to the base of her throat, lower to her breasts, and slowly canvassed her from head to toe. As that damnable warmth infiltrated her veins, and heat spread slowly through her body, Cian's frown deepened. The light in his grass-green eyes glinted like shards of glass. He shook his head, and the same quiet calm she associated with him settled into his features. "It's a pattern known exclusively to the Selgovae tribe, whose works aren't heavily documented. I possess the vast majority of written accounts about the people. Where did you learn it?" Busted. Miranda groaned inwardly. Since she'd met Cian McLaine over a year ago, he'd been coming in here for early Celt information. She should have known better than to hold back the raggedy pages she'd found stuffed behind a collection of early Roman maps that she bought at auction last month. Now, she couldn't hope to deny she'd deliberately kept that priceless, antique, record from him out of spite.

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"Um." She paused, searching for the explanation least likely to set him off. "I, ah, stumbled onto it. It was in something I read." His stare intensified. "About the Selgovae?" "Yes." "Let me see your hands." Miranda blinked, unaccustomed to the brittle, demanding tone of his voice. "What?" "Your hands. Let me see them." "Why?" What in the world was going on? He'd been known to have his moments, but this defied Cian's usual oddness. To her complete surprise, Cian reached one hand between them and grabbed her by the wrist. First one, then the other, he turned her palms up and stared. The tightness along his mouth hollowed out his cheeks. She could almost feel the anger radiating off him. "Cian?" she asked hesitantly, tugging on her hands. "What's going on?" [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Two Miranda's skin was warm beneath Cian's fingertips, the beat of her pulse strong. But though the life running in her veins aroused his darker nature, a deeper, more thrilling awareness thrummed through his soul. Her fingertips glowed with the mark of his mother's magic. An iridescent blend of purple, gold, and blue that only those who shared the blood of the Celt high priestess could see. The mark that would set Cian free and destroy his father. Miranda had touched his mother's spell book. Within those pages lay salvation. The urge to drag Miranda close and kiss her senseless combated with the desperate desire to tear out her throat, both halves of his soul warring for control. It was that dark half, however, that reigned when he lifted his gaze to hers and tightened his hold on her delicate wrists. A low growl tore through his throat. "Where is the book?" Fear flickered over her face, widening her eyes for a millisecond before she jerked out of his grasp. His gaze followed her hands as she rubbed the goose bumps from her arms. "It's upstairs in my room." Damn, he hated scaring her. But the closer he got to Miranda, the more frequently that happened. It was why he'd had to leave...Even if he could fight the curse, his demon would still rise. Still hunger for her life. He'd fallen in love with her—there could be no other outcome. Cian willed his voice to soften. "I want to see it. Get it?" 20

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For a brief moment, he expected her to nod and head for the stairs that led to the second storey and her private residence. Then she set her jaw. Bright fire settled into her eyes. Steely determination. She shook her head. "I can't right now. I've got to finish stocking these new books, and Susan is leaving early." It took all of his self-control not to grab Miranda by the neck and shove her back against the bookcase. Squeeze her throat until her need for air forced her to agree. He closed a fist around the sick desire and clenched his teeth. "Miranda. Please." He needed to see the book, needed to convince her into selling it to him. Whatever the cost, he'd pay it. If needbe, his siblings would pitch in. For too many centuries, they'd hungered for simple mortality, freedom from the dark blood their father passed to them. Escape from the constant, oppressive urge to kill and the curse of falling in love. He saw the indecision in her expression, the struggle between doing him—the man who'd cut her heart to pieces—a favor, and fighting her inner need for self-preservation. The heaviness to her breathing, the heat that radiated off her body though they stood a good three feet apart, clued him in to something else. Miranda wasn't immune to him either. After all this time, she still suffered the desire that had once lit flames between them. Her gaze flicked over his body, heightening his awareness of her, of the woman he knew more intimately than any who had ever shared his bed. Those big, soulful brown eyes lingered on his groin, and to Cian's shame, he felt his cock 21

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begin to stiffen. Just as quickly, she jerked her focus back to his face, but the effect was the same. Cian felt as if she'd stripped him bare and it had been her hands, not her eyes, that caressed him. Damn. His heart twisted painfully. What he would give to fix things. To take back the six months of separation and return to the last night they'd spent together. The night Miranda had whispered her love, and he had felt the same instinctive call surface in his soul. Seconds later, he'd found himself hovering over her sleeping body, pillow clenched in his hands, his dark blood urging him to press it over her face. He'd left then. In the middle of the night. Crying silent tears as he drove the thirty miles out of Augusta to his home in Georgetown. "Miranda," he murmured. He didn't know what else to say. Nothing could heal them. Nothing except the book. She let out a soft sigh. "Come by when we close, Cian. I'll show you then." "Promise?" He winced inwardly at the sharp bite in his voice. Miranda raised an eyebrow in reproach. "I don't think my words have ever been empty." Ouch. He deserved that. She didn't understand. Hell, she didn't even know he was immortal, let alone the torment that resided in his soul. To her, he was just a professor at the University who'd used her body for obscene pleasures and then disappeared in the middle of the night.

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"I'm sorry," she added with a slight shake of her head. Her words came stronger, the bitterness leaving her voice. "Come by later. I'll be here." Stung by her rightful animosity, Cian set the book he'd been holding down on a nearby shelf and gave her a stiff nod. "I'll be back at six." As Miranda's world threatened to pitch into violent upheaval, Cian strode out the front door. She closed her eyes against the heartache that rose to swallow her whole. Cian McLaine was back. And she was every bit as foolish about him as she'd been the first time around. Enough, at least, to invite him to her house to see a stack of old Celt histories. She should have run upstairs and dragged the dustcovered papers down here where it was safe, where Cian couldn't tempt her into wicked thoughts of kissing his full lips or stripping off those jeans that hugged the nicest ass she'd ever laid eyes on. Where she couldn't hope to possibly do something foolish like invite him back into her bed, though God knew, she was more than willing to have him occupy that extra, too-empty pillow. But no, sense had never played a part when it came to Cian, and just like the last time, she was hoping, just maybe, she might somehow make enough of a difference to him that he'd settle down. With her. Not that a couple dozen other women hadn't tried the same thing before. Shoot, when Cian first arrived in Augusta, he'd been the talk of campus. Between the female faculty members, the hormonal students, and the regular singles 23

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nightlife, he became a legend. Who could tie him down? Who had what it took to turn Cian into a family man? Miranda had never dreamed she would spend seven months with him. Seven, perfect, heavenly months virtually living together. Now, here she was again, her insides quaking at the prospect of spending time alone with him, knowing there could be no worse idea, yet craving it all at the same time. She was surrounded by accounts from the past, documentation of real, life-changing mistakes. She possessed more than enough information to understand the consequences of repeating history. But as sure as she knew her own name, she knew she was going to repeat Cian. He was the one lesson her heart didn't know how to learn. Although her heart might get a little help when Cian discovered she hadn't quite been honest. She did have old Celt documents, but she'd deliberately let him believe they were bound in a book. When he discovered they were loose papers, so old that fragments were missing from the papyrus, and obviously part of a greater collection that had been lost to time, he wouldn't be so enthusiastic about her material. That flash of temper would rise, and he'd give her a good what-for before he stormed out. At least the anger would help her move forward. "Was that Cian?" Susan appeared at Miranda's side. "I thought I saw him come in. Did he leave already?" Not soon enough. "Yeah, he's been and gone." 24

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"He gets better looking every time I see him. You two looked cozy. Are things...on again?" Miranda pursed her lips. "Definitely not." Yet. Not yet. Ask me tomorrow, I might have a different answer. "Too bad. I'd have sworn you were going to win his heart." "Yeah, well, apparently not." Miranda picked up a stack of books. "I've got to get these on the shelf. Did you finish the box I gave you?" "All done." "Oh, well, in that case. We really don't need both of us here for the next two hours. Why don't you take an early off?" Miranda hadn't anticipated the sudden narrowing of Susan's gaze and the suspicion that crept into her ruddy features. "You're seeing him tonight aren't you? You're only ever in a hurry to have me leave when you've got plans with Cian." Miranda scoffed. "I don't have plans with him. He's coming by to look at an old manuscript I have that I haven't put on the floor yet." She pretended not to notice the grin that encompassed Susan's face or the knowledge behind her amused stare. Turning for the far side of the store, she called over her shoulder, "See you in the morning, Suze." She went right on pretending she couldn't hear when Susan's laugh rang out behind her back. That her friends could see right through her made Miranda furious. If they knew, then surely Cian knew how weak he made her. What was it about him that simply eradicated her good sense? The fact that he offered challenge? Or was she merely 25

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fascinated by his devilish good looks, bright green eyes, and perfectly sculpted, bronzed body? Or did her inability to cut him totally loose come from the fact that sometimes she would swear he could see right into her soul, understanding her in a way no one ever had before. She moved behind a tall rack of books and laid her cheek against the musty spines. Tears rose unbidden, and Miranda blinked them back. She wouldn't cry. She'd spent one too many nights sobbing for all the things she couldn't have. Things she had dreamed with Cian, even as she knew they would never happen. Not with him. He wouldn't let himself be chained. Straightening, she wiped the stray tears off her cheeks. She didn't want to cry. No matter how things had ended, she didn't regret a single moment that she'd spent with Cian. She had loved—loved still—and deeply. The kind of feeling her parents had shared. Few people found that soul-deep satisfaction, and even if her nights were spent alone, her bed as empty as her arms, she treasured the memories they had created. It was those reasons, all the fantastic remembrances, that allowed her to accept the knowledge of what would, inevitably, happen tonight. He might not want to keep her, but he wouldn't turn away from the pleasure. And when it all boiled down to black and white fact, excepting everything else, they'd been explosive in the bedroom. And hell, after six months of yearning... If opportunity presented tonight, she'd take the leap. Create another priceless memory. 26

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Her heartbeat picked up, anxious streams of energy pulsing through her veins. A slow smile morphed across her face as she set her books onto the shelves. She wouldn't think about the pain that came with morning and waking up to find herself alone. No, she'd think about the pleasure, how good it felt to be in Cian's arms...even if it came to an end. Before Miranda realized how much time had passed, her alarm rang at the register, alerting her it was five o'clock. She rushed through her books and receipts, doing a half-assed job her accountant would later complain about. When the ledgers were finished, she raced up her stairs, each step closer to her private door sending her pulse into overtime. What to wear, what to wear, what to wear? A distant memory of how Cian had liked her in blue leapt forth, and she made her decision in a snap. Grabbing a baby blue sweater and a pair of off-white slacks, she charged for the bathroom, and a very necessary, relaxing shower. As the steamy droplets rained down on her long hair, she closed her eyes and gave in to the fantasy of Cian. Of Cian standing in this very room, behind her, his hands slippery as they lathered her body. An all-too-familiar ache stirred, but it was worth it. Nothing about Cian wasn't. It never would be. Now, as soon as she figured out how to mitigate his anger over the fact she only possessed a few clippings of this manuscript...the night held magical promise. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Three As if he didn't have enough to worry about with a promised evening of torture with Miranda looming over his head, Cian's siblings insisted he do whatever became necessary to obtain their mother's magical writings. He knew he shouldn't have mentioned a word of it to Rhiannon and Daire until he'd read the pages for himself, but he'd been too out of sorts to keep the discovery quiet. Besides, Rhiannon had an intuitive way about her. If he hadn't told them about Miranda and the magical signature on her fingertips, Rhiannon would have sensed he was hiding something and found a way to pry it out of him. He eased onto the brakes as the car in front of him hit its turn signal. Making matters worse, he was going into this evening with Miranda after having been a complete ass earlier. She didn't deserve that heavy-handed treatment or his harsh demands. He'd be lucky if she let him purchase the writings at all—or if she didn't set the price so high that buying them would demand the involvement of all seven of Cian's siblings. Still, he couldn't entirely fault himself for the way he'd treated Miranda. He wasn't in control of himself. Not when it came to her. Sighing, he jammed his foot on the gas and gunned past the car that had decided it took half a mile of preparation to make a right hand turn. He didn't want to be late, on top of everything else. 28

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As he drove, he let his mind wander. It circled around Miranda, his feelings for her, and the root of all the pain he was certain to bring her if he allowed himself to believe he could control the urgings of his dark nature. His youngest brother, Taran, had made that mistake once. Two weeks into living with the woman he gave his heart to, he lost the battle and strangled her to death. No, Cian wouldn't be so foolish to believe he could outsmart a curse. The magic his parents had known, that he knew as well, was powerful. It was founded in blood, the very life force of Cian's sacrificed brothers and sisters. A voice from the long-forgotten past, the woman who had hidden the eight surviving children of Nyamah and Drandar, echoed in his mind. You will always feel the hunger to kill. Day to day, you can deny it. Should you fall in love, however, it will possess you until the hunger is satisfied. Do not make the mistake of believing you can resist. Your father has assured you cannot. And so, for countless centuries they had done what Cian had—avoided all chance of ever stumbling into that fateful emotion. He'd done a damn good job of leading a solitary existence too...Until Miranda aroused a wholly different hunger and he couldn't stay away. Sighing, Cian fought off the rising melancholy and focused on the road. If he could gain Miranda's cooperation, there might yet be hope. But how to tell her he was immortal? That he was sired by a demon? He'd been down those questions a dozen times or more, and no matter how he considered them, 29

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the answers didn't exist. She would either disbelieve him completely, or run out of fright. Instead, he'd removed the decision from her hands. Guilt punched him in the gut as the events in the bookstore jumped once more to the forefront of his mind. He spied Three Chefs, their favorite burger place, and cut the wheel sharp to make the immediate turn. He needed Miranda's help, and he couldn't turn up on her doorstep without a peace offering. A mushroom and Swiss with her favorite double-fudge milkshake would do the trick. When he'd been through the drive-through and had her order, plus a bacon blue-cheese burger for himself, along with two double orders of homemade curly fries, he felt moderately better about showing up on Miranda's doorstep after six months of trying to pretend she didn't exist. No matter how illogical, he didn't want this to be a cold, impersonal business meeting. He wanted her to know he gave a damn, despite the impression he had tried to create. As he pulled into the parking lot beside her two-storey Victorian home, that darkness stirred once more, alerting him she was inside and it would be so very easy to use her trust to his advantage and spill her blood. As quickly as the sickening thought occurred, excitement buzzed in his veins, overriding the deep darkness. He was here. With her. The very place he had wanted to be for the last six months. For the first time in uncountable years, he knew hope. Hope that burned brighter as he walked to the 30

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shop door and found Miranda waiting just inside, wearing a shy smile. Bells jangled as she swung the double-paned glass open. "Hi there." Goddess above, how he was ever going to make it through this impromptu dinner without kissing her, he didn't know. Her lips were swollen, as if she'd been worrying them as she was prone to do when her thoughts ran amuck in her head. This couldn't be easy for her, despite the confidence that radiated off her petite form as she strode for the stairs, beckoning him to follow. "I brought dinner." Cian held up the bag and drink tray. "I chilled wine." The smoldering look in her eyes as she glanced over her shoulders nearly dropped him to his knees. He struggled to keep his balance, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as he trekked up the stairs behind her. His gaze riveted on the braided leather belt that rested on narrow hips. Beneath the band of supple leather, the white material of her pants was thin, nearly sheer, and his gut tumbled into a knot at the brief glimpse of her thong panty-line beneath. This had been a mistake. He could feel the battle raging within him, darkness wanting satisfaction in death; light craving the completeness that came with loving her. Fuck. He should leave. Forget the idea of dinner and bail before he couldn't. Before things went so far he found himself once again battling down the urge to kill. Miranda opened the door to her private residence, and as Cian stepped through, she surrounded him. He'd missed this cozy comfort that was a glimpse of what happened when 31

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Victoriana met modern design. Old wood blended with stark lines and angles, and somehow, it all managed to come together with charm. "Here, let me take those." She plucked the takeout from his hands and disappeared into the kitchen. Plates rattled, silverware clinked. "Wine now or later?" "I'll wait a bit." He glanced around, his gaze touching every flat surface of her living room in hopes he'd see the book she had mentioned. But nothing stood out. She kept the place too clean for him to find it sitting, forgotten, atop a stack of clutter. With nothing else to do but wait for her lead, he meandered into the open entryway that divided the kitchen from the living room. "So." Her gaze flicked to him, one delicate dark eyebrow lifted in question. Small talk wouldn't cut it, he realized. Not with six awkward months between them and a well of powerful memories. He pulled in a deep breath, held it, expelled it in measured beats. Very well. Honest conversation he could do for a little while. "How are you?" She gestured at his plate and milkshake. "I'm all right. Business is good. Probably the best it's been in five years. And I've been finding some really neat writings lately." Cian couldn't help himself. He moved to her side, settled his hand at her hip, and gazed down into her big brown eyes. "I didn't ask about business. How are you?" Ever-so-slightly, her chin lifted. Subtle. Defiant all the same. "Do you really want to have this conversation?" 32

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"Why wouldn't I?" "Because if you're looking for an, Everything's great, Cian, I don't have one to give, and I've never made it habit to lie to you." No, she hadn't. Even when she didn't speak, the truth lay in those soulful eyes. What he read there now twisted his heart like someone had stuck a knife between his ribs. Pain. Hurt he had caused. She had every right to hate him. And yet, blending with that ache she couldn't hide was the same wealth of emotion he had always witnessed in her gaze. Unaware he was doing so, Cian lifted a hand to smooth the lines of tension at the corner of her mouth. "I'm sorry I hurt you." Miranda moved away before he could witness her reaction. Her back to him, she bent over her milkshake and sucked on her straw. "Let's eat." She edged around his reach to wander to the couch, where she set her plate on the coffee table. Kicking himself mentally, Cian joined her. He should just let it go, let her go. But damn it, with the spell book found, they could actually have a chance. He could reenter her life, make amends for the horrible way he'd left it the first time, and all the darkness wouldn't matter. Overly aware of the way the cushions dipped and pressed her thigh against his, Cian forced down a bite of burger. They ate in silence, Miranda staring at the blank television screen, Cian obsessed with the floral pattern on his plate. Tension spanned thick and heavy. Each breath he took filled his head with the sweet scent of her almond lotion. Each moment that passed made him jittery. 33

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He was so aware of Miranda's presence his skin felt tight enough to crack. If he didn't touch her soon... Cian shook off the thought as hate crept in, reminding him that touching her gave him opportunity to steal her life. Silence became damning, the demonic side of his nature raging for escape. He was edging closer to complete loss of control, and the longer he sat here beside Miranda, the quiet gave his dark nature time to contemplate the many ways she could die. Unable to take another moment without distraction, he pushed his unfinished burger aside and clasped his hands loosely in his lap. "Want to tell me about the book?" "Yeah." She jumped to her feet as if she'd been waiting for the opportunity to move, nearly knocking over her milkshake. Her hand trembled as she steadied the plastic cup. That tremor unraveled Cian on a soul-deep level. He had seen her nervous only once before—the very first night she offered herself to him. Though her bedroom had been dark, the silver of moonlight that seeped through the window revealed the shaking of her hands as she turned down the covers. He reached for her wrist, capturing it the same way he had done that night. She stilled in an instant, her gaze slowly lifting to lock with his. Cian ran his thumb over the sensitive underside of her wrist, his body attuning to hers so precisely his pulse fell into identical syncopation. For a moment, he forgot why he was sitting in her living room, that he had ever walked away from the paradise being with her created. 34

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"I was going to get the pages." Miranda's voice was a distracted murmur. Pages, not book. Dimly, Cian made the connection, and sense slammed into him. He dropped her wrist. "I thought you said you found a book?" "Well, I did say that." Color faded into her cheeks before she side-stepped around the corner of the coffee table and hid her flush from view. "I, ah...well...it was easier than explaining everything." Pages. Cian's brain couldn't let go of that little disclosure. She had found part of something important. If the whole wasn't nearby, he would be damned. Hell, so would she. No way could he keep the darkness at bay for another entire year. Even if he moved across the world from Miranda, the curse would draw him back. Taunt him until he couldn't deny the calling of his father's blood. "Tell me where you found these." The order came out harsh and unyielding. He would have answers, know the location, before it was too late. Maybe the rest of whatever she'd stumbled onto would still be there. Miranda shook her head as she rifled through the bottom drawer on her desk and produced a manila folder. "I didn't exactly find them. I found an old collection of hand-drawn Roman maps. These were rolled into one of the papyrus scrolls." She dropped the folder on the table beneath Cian's nose. He didn't have to look to know what she'd discovered was legitimate. Despite the iridescent sigil that radiated off the manila binder itself, the sheer power of the ancient 35

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documents nearly bowled him over. It had been a long time since he'd felt such significant magic. Even his brother, Daire, the strongest spell caster of their family, couldn't weave magic like this. He reached out to open the folder and closed his eyes to the thrum of energy that met his fingertips. A storm of emotion tore through him. Excitement, elation, sorrow, and hate—all the things his mother had suffered at the time she penned the incantations. She knew she would die. That her husband would kill her for secreting away his children. Yet, she knew also she had found a way to defeat Drandar. While she would never have the opportunity to use her magic against him, she would pass the sacred knowledge on to those who could. When Cian's fingers touched the outer covering, the darkness inside him recoiled. He fought the need to shred the pages and hurl the bits out the window, where they would vanish on the brisk autumn breeze. Grimacing, he clenched his hand into a fist and pulled it into his lap. From the corner of his eye, he caught Miranda's puzzled frown. "Don't you want to see them?" Yes, he did. More than anything, he wanted to investigate his mother's handwriting. But touching those writings would bring him indescribable pain. As it was, the mere thought of doing so had his teeth clenched so tight he couldn't bring himself to speak. Miranda set a gentle hand on his knee. "Are you all right, Cian? You've been acting rather strange all day." He nodded, still unable to speak. 36

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Her brows puckered more deeply. "Did I find something special?" Again, he answered with a dip of his head. "I think you need a glass of wine." With that, the warmth of Miranda's palm disappeared, and she headed for the kitchen. Wine was the last thing Cian needed. At this point, it would go straight to his head. He was already drunk off the power that saturated his skin. But before he could find the ability to protest, the cork popped in the kitchen. The sound drilled into his skull like gunfire. And he was certain, the effects would be every bit as devastating. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Four When Miranda returned from the kitchen with two glasses of Merlot, Cian still wore the hunted look on his face. He hadn't moved, stared at the folder he had yet to open. Concern laced through her, and she sat down gently, offering his glass as she sank into the couch. If she hadn't seen a similar reaction the last time she'd presented him with something close to the age of these papers, she would have been afraid. He took his wine with an unsteady hand. The drink he swallowed drained half the glass. "Cian, you're worrying me. What's going on with you?" His gaze snapped to hers, bright green eyes unusually dark. For an instant, she'd have sworn the curving of his mouth mimicked a sneer, but when she blinked, his smile was intact. Perhaps strained more than usual, but present all the same. "I'm just a bit...awed," he murmured as he looked back to the unopened folder again. "It's better if you look inside." She threw him a teasing grin. "Here, I found the idea for my tattoo at the top of this page." Setting her wine glass on the edge of the table, she flipped open the folder and carefully turned each page face down until she reached the fifth. One short nail tapped the Celtic scrollwork drawn in the top margin. Beside her, Cian sucked in a sharp breath. "Go back. The first page." 38

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As confusion puckered her brow, Miranda set the pages she'd overturned on top of those remaining. Elaborate runes filled the page, line after line. Handwritten, they were neat and tidy, but the sheer design of them made it impossible to distinguish several from half-a-dozen similar designs. It didn't surprise Miranda, however, to find Cian bent over the page, scanning it intently, obviously translating every sigil into thought and word. The intensity that blazed behind his eyes sent a shiver rolling down her spine. In all the times Cian had discovered an old Celt document or translation, he'd never looked so absolutely fascinated. "What is it?" she asked, a hint of his catching enthusiasm creeping into her question. "A spell." "A...spell? As in...magic?" He answered with a distracted nod. Magic. Her frown deepened. From the amount of time she'd spent collecting historical documents, she'd become familiar with the various early cultures of the world. Many believed in magic, supernatural happenings, and god-created myth. But witnessing those beliefs put to papyrus with charcoal, and that someone had taken the time to coat the writing with a preservative of some sort, drove spirituality to a new level. As if she had somehow touched something truly divine, a strange energy descended on her. The baby-fine hairs on her arms lifted, and goose bumps coursed over her skin. "What kind of spell?" 39

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Cian beckoned her to flip the page with an impatient gesture of his hand. "To banish demons." His response held equal impatience, his voice gruff and biting. As if she were interrupting. Or worse, interfering. Fine. If he was going to sit in her house and treat her like she had intruded on his studying, he could leave. "Cian, if you'd rather take this with you and look at it at home—" "Turn the page." He glanced up, his eyes touching hers for the briefest of seconds. "Please." As Miranda prepared to tell him he was fully capable of turning his own damn pages, she caught the shaking of his hands. Nervous. He wouldn't want to touch the crumbling papyrus and risk damaging it further. She used that logic to fulfill his request, or so she told herself. Not because the air felt heavier, denser, like something was pressing on her shoulders and instructing her to obey. With a heavy sigh, she eased the top page over, revealing the second. It was no more legible than the first. "Ten pages is an awful lot for a spell." Cian shook his head. "Banishing demons is a great deal of work. There can be no room for error." Miranda blinked. She knew he held strong beliefs in the basic principles of the ancient pagan religions—the affinity for nature, the balance between positive and negative aspects, the dual deities of male and female. But he didn't actually subscribe to the belief of magic, did he? Or for that matter, demons? She squinted at the back of his bent head. "Do you believe in this stuff?" "Stuff?" 40

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When he looked up, she realized her mistake. Green eyes glittered like shards of jade. His determined expression warned her she'd get nowhere by arguing scientific fact against core beliefs. Why had she never known this about Cian? They'd talked about a lot of things in their inseparable time together. Surely, they'd discussed religion and spirituality. More quietly, she pressed for confirmation. "You believe in demons and magic?" "You don't?" The fierce intensity behind his stare sent another bout of chills skittering down her spine. She tore her gaze from his, filled with the oppressive, unexplainable need to somehow distance herself from him. "I...I don't see how I could." Taking a deep drink of her wine, Miranda ignored the way his unblinking stare seared into her. If she looked now, she would see anger. Fury she had done nothing to provoke, and yet, the heat in those green eyes singed her skin. "You don't...see how you could." Though he spoke slowly, methodically, and kept his voice to a near whisper, his tone mocked her. Fed up with Cian's rudeness and odd behavior, she finished off her wine and set the glass aside. Aided by a touch of liquid courage, she shifted her position, turning to confront his accusatory glare. "No. I don't. And I don't know what your problem is tonight, but—" Before she could spit out another word, Cian's hand slipped behind her neck, and his mouth slammed into hers. It was either kiss her or rip out her throat. 41

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The words his mother had written so infuriated his demonic nature, Cian couldn't combat Miranda's innocent interrogation. Each benign question she asked stoked fury he couldn't control, and as he looked at her, he had been possessed by the stark need to kill. Instead, he fed the beast inside the only other satisfaction it would have—a dose of unchecked lust. Miranda froze beneath the assault of his mouth, her shoulders rigid, her spine stiff as an iron rod. He was being too harsh, too inconsiderate. If he wanted her participation— and goddess above, he needed it to temper the hunger of his dark spirit—he must find a measure of control. Easing far enough away he could look into her eyes, he let go of the fierce hold he had on her neck and dropped his hand to her shoulder. Confusion filled her big brown eyes, but behind the unspoken questions radiating there, an ember of desire glowed. That solitary coal gave him encouragement. If he played this right, he could walk out of here and she would still be alive. For tonight, at least. He could return after his birthday, when he had fulfilled the words written in his mother's hand-drawn runes. "What are you doing?" she whispered. Drawn to the delicate length of her neck, Cian stroked his thumb over the strong pulse alongside her neck. Savage thoughts flickered again, filling his head with visions of wrapping his fingers around her throat. Telling him it would satisfy his soul, even more than making love to her would, if he slowly choked the life from her fragile, mortal body. 42

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He swallowed hard, focused on the simple goodness that met his palm and soaked into his conflicted body. Genuine heart—Miranda was full of it. "I've missed you." His confession rasped in the thick silence that blanketed them. It was true. He had missed her more than he had believed was possible. Though he hadn't really realized just how deep that longing ran until he felt her soft lips beneath his. The disbelief that flashed across her expression gutted him. He shouldn't have expected anything less after the way he had abandoned her, but still it cut deep to know he had damaged the trust she once gave so freely. He would make it up to her. When this was over, he would spend the rest of his mortal days doing everything possible to regain that faith. For now, though, he needed the desire more than he needed her trust. He was too far out of control to leave her house and leave her unscathed. One way or the other, he was taking something from her tonight. Goddess help him, it wouldn't be her life. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips across hers. Her sigh caressed his cheek like the gentle stroke of fingertips. Surrender came with the softening of her mouth, the nip of her teeth against his lips. He nipped back, slipped his hand into the silky hair at the back of her neck, and held her still for his kiss. The languorous heat that flowed between them as their tongues slowly tangled soothed Cian's darkness. He began to feel Miranda, not the vile power that ran in his veins. He allowed her to overpower him, to soak so deeply into his 43

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being that he couldn't possibly sift between where she began and he started. The less separation, the better. But with that all-consuming absorption, deeper emotion pulled his gut into a hollow pit. In a desperate quest to quench the need to somehow possess her, he tightened his hold on her cropped hair, and his kiss took on more demand. Miranda's hands settled against his chest, her fingers curling into his long-sleeved jersey. Holding onto him. Drawing him closer until her arms slipped around his neck, her fingertips slid into his loose ponytail, and her breasts pressed against his body. He groaned at the splendid contact of her body. Cian twined an arm around her waist to pull her closer, hold her more securely. Miss her. Need her. Love her. Goddess above, he had never known a sweeter homecoming. "Cian," Miranda whispered as she turned her head and pulled in an audible breath. "Hm?" With her throat exposed, he took full liberty and trailed the tip of his tongue along the thick vein there, grazing her skin with his teeth as he worked his way to her prominent collarbone. Her head tipped back, and he glanced at her closed eyelids, the long lashes that dusted her cheekbones. The hunger that struck inside him as he looked upon her enraptured expression hit with dizzying force. Not the thirst for death, but the deep need to hold on to her forever. To wake each morning with her at his side, to close each day the same. He had never given much thought to family or children, Now he saw Miranda at his side, soft and round with the child 44

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his father had forbidden him to ever hold. And that longing, that desire for what he couldn't have, brought such deep anguish Cian shuddered. "I need you, Miranda," he murmured against the shallow V-neck of her sweater. Her hands dropped to his shoulders, and she leaned back against the protective circle of his arms. Long eyelashes lifted to reveal emotion he didn't deserve. "Stay with me tonight." Though it wasn't a question, Cian nodded anyway. There was no turning back now. He was harder than a rock, and hurting in so many different ways he couldn't begin to fight the calling of his dark soul. Shifting to the edge of the couch, he gathered her into his arms and carried her to her bedroom, where he laid her on the down-filled mattress. As he tugged his shirt over his head, Miranda shimmied out of her clothes. His breath caught at the sight of dark lace against her skin. She'd always known what he liked best—a hint of skin, yet still enough covering he could enjoy peeling away her undergarments. He set a knee between her legs and lowered his body over hers. With a soft smile, she wrapped her arms around his waist, slid her palms up his back, and pressed him close to taunt him with a hungry kiss. If she had any idea how the needy stroke of her tongue aroused him, she'd run. Then again, he suspected she did know. That she knew exactly how the teasing prick of her teeth unraveled him until he couldn't think straight. Until all he knew was the pleasure of her body, of the softness of her curves shifting against his skin. 45

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She broke the kiss to meet his gaze with a stare that mirrored all the feral wildness flowing through his veins. "I've waited too long for you. For this. Don't make me wait tonight." A raw groan slipped from his throat. It was all he could do to lift himself off her body and shuck his pants. When he knelt between her parted knees again, she was naked, and he no longer cared about the simple pleasure of sliding her out of her bra and panties. Warm fingertips slid over his hips. The slightest scrape of too-short nails grazed his buttocks. He yielded to the pressure of her hands, rolling his hips forward and sliding his cock through her willing flesh. Ecstasy called to him. Begged him to join their bodies and ease the ache that filled them both. Cian held his breath and nudged the tip of himself inside her slick sheath. At the clench of warm, feminine heat, his heart seized, and breathing became impossible. He willed himself to wait, ordered his body to cooperate. But Miranda stripped him of control by thrusting her hips and taking him deep inside. Her low, throaty moan filled his ears. He wouldn't last long. And had she been any other woman, not the one he had loved so many times and ways that they had surpassed all sense of shame, he would have been mortified at his lack of restraint. But she was Miranda, and she understood him sometimes better than he understood himself. That alone, filled holes his soul couldn't define. They moved together in a frantic dance that spiraled them both into the exotic paradise they had created so many months ago. Miranda encouraging him with hard demanding 46

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strokes. Cian meeting her body's requests with equally demanding thrusts. Pleasure built, mounted to intoxicating levels. Sweet Goddess. Ecstasy consumed Cian, bursting inside him like a maelstrom. He wound his arms around her petite body, gathering her close as his hips spasmed. Her name tore from his throat, the sound blending with her high-pitched keening, and he spilled himself inside her. Around his softening flesh, he felt the pulse of her orgasm. The clench of her inner walls milked him until he had nothing left to give, and he collapsed into her tender embrace. With his head on her shoulder, he pressed a tender kiss to the side of her neck and closed his eyes. Her fingertips trailed down the length of his spine, and her contented sigh swelled his heart to painful limits. "I've missed you too, Cian," she murmured. Cian lifted a heavy arm to tuck the stray wisps of hair out of her face. "My sweet Miranda," he whispered through his tender smile. Love her, yes. Soon he would be able to give her the words his body spoke but his curse forbade. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Five Something was wrong. Cian knew it in the depths of his being, though he couldn't place the immediate reason for the heavy weightiness in his limbs or the fog clouding his thoughts. He struggled to rise above the oppression, sensing he must somehow surface. Rise through the nightmare before it claimed him. His eyes opened to blood. Two long slash marks formed Xs down the length of the muscle in both his forearms. Crimson rivulets ran from the shallow cuts, across the backs of his hands, and dripped off his fingers onto Miranda's living room floor. The marks of sacrifice. Human sacrifice. In his right hand, he held the fillet knife that had carved the ritualistic wounds. He stood less than five feet from her bedroom doorway. Miranda! Panic seized him, twisting his lungs into a tight knot and stopping his vile heart. If he had... The knife fell from his fingers, clattered against wooden floorboards. Afraid of what he would find, he bolted down the short hall and into her bedroom. On the opposite wall, light emitted from a tiny nightlight, casting a warm glow over her sprawled form. Her chest rose with steady, even breaths. Wisps of hair against her cheek stirred as she exhaled.

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Incapacitated by relief, Cian sagged against the doorframe. A fine sheen of moisture gathered in his eyes and blurred his vision. He had not harmed her. Not yet. But he had begun the ritual, and he hadn't even been aware of his actions. Hadn't felt the pricks of pain when he sliced through his own flesh. Damnation! He had been a fool to stay with her through the night while his dark spirit was so agitated. If he hadn't awakened... Cian couldn't complete the thought. Already his stomach churned, threatening to upturn the meager bits of burger he'd eaten much earlier. He was a danger to Miranda. More so than he had ever truly realized. No matter how the idea of not holding her in his arms until the sun peeked through her Venetian blinds made him ache, he couldn't stay. He didn't trust himself to overpower the darkness a second time, and it would surface again. The longer he stayed with Miranda, the more it craved death. He grabbed his clothes from the floor and backed out of the room, careful to keep his steps light, his motions slow. Waking her would make leaving impossible, and he must leave. He made his way to the bathroom and yanked his pants on. His shirt, however, he gathered in both hands and ripped the lightweight cotton in half. Wrapping both lacerations along his forearms, he staunched the flow of blood. Then, using a washcloth from her towel rack, Cian retraced his steps through the house, wiping up the evidence he'd left behind. The trail stopped in the kitchen at the sink. There, he shoved the cloth in his pants pocket and expelled a heavy 49

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breath. As he glanced over the bar into her living room, his gaze fell on the stack of papyrus. Salvation lay in that portion of his mother's spell book. He hadn't read that far, but he had absorbed enough to realize Miranda stumbled onto a full chapter in its entirety. It couldn't remain here. Beyond the freedom the ritual offered, the power in those pages would draw his father. If it hadn't already. Drandar would feel no such remorse or hesitation about snuffing out Miranda's life. Gritting his teeth against the certain shock of contact, Cian pulled the cloth out of his pocket and hurried to Miranda's coffee table. The dry terry served to limit the surge of power beneath his fingertips, but it did little to temper the effect. Energy smacked into Cian like a sledgehammer, nearly knocking him backward. He grimaced, biting back a vicious oath, and forced himself to hold on to the folder. Something sinister and unnamable inside him snarled in rage. The sound however, passed his lips as little more than a hiss. Determined to emerge victorious in the battle against his father's blood, Cian gripped the precious document more tightly and stalked to the door. His hands tingled all the way down the stairs, through the shadowy aisles of Miranda's bookstore. Outside, in the brisk early-autumn air, he allowed himself a moment to regroup. Leaning against the brick wall, he sucked in deep breaths and concentrated on steadying his pulse. Now, not only had he walked out on Miranda once again, but he had also stolen something worth thousands. When she woke, there'd be hell to pay. He took comfort in the knowledge there was no alternative. The faint hope that in two days he would be 50

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mortal and could devote himself to repairing the damage, eased the guilt of betrayal. Miranda deserved better than this. Better than him. Goddess above, he'd die trying to give that to her. Resolved to his purpose, he jogged to his truck and slipped inside. He tossed the folder onto the passenger's seat, then keyed the engine and backed out of the lot. Thirty miles had never seemed so long. Each one like molasses, they crept past unendingly, until at last he sighted the glow from the twin lanterns on his front porch. Bright light beyond the bottom floor windows told him at least one of his siblings was still awake. Hopefully Rhiannon. She could heal these cuts and dig into their mother's writings. He needed a hot shower and sleep. If sleep would come. Doubtful, given everything rattling around in his head. When he parked in the driveway, he reached for the file. This time, the power ebbed beneath his skin as opposed to slamming into him. No doubt, a result of his distance from Miranda. Still though, his fingers felt raw, as if he'd picked up a hot pan without protection. Protection... Shit! Cian dropped his head to the back of his seat and groaned. He had made love to Miranda without even asking if she was still on the pill. Surely she would be. She'd always been careful. It wasn't the thought of a child that upset him. No, getting Miranda pregnant held a strange appeal. Rather, it was the thought of what kind of child he would sire. His seed was 51

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poisoned with hate. He couldn't bring another incubus into this world. Spirits above, how could he be so foolish? Grumbling, Cian kicked open his door. He stalked to his front door in a fit of temper, aching for a physical outlet he could use to release the pent-up agitation. Right about now, he'd give everything he owned for his youngest brother, Taran, to show up so he could pound his fists into someone. It wouldn't take much digging to find a reason Taran deserved a beating. The front door thumped into the wall, just as Rhiannon was starting up the staircase. She jumped, let out a squeak, and whipped around, her eyes wide, her mouth forming a dainty O. Cerulean blue eyes quickly scanned his bare chest before dropping to the rags wrapped around his forearms. "By the ancestors—you've killed!" she cried quietly. Cian couldn't stop the scowl from settling into his forehead. "Not yet." "Not yet?" With hesitant steps, she descended the four stairs. "Then what happened?" Sighing, Cian raked a hand through his hair. "It's a long story. Care to help me heal them? I'll explain everything." "She has to be there." Cian jerked around to face his brother, Daire, whose auburn head was bent over their mother's writings. "What?" "Hold still, damn it." Rhiannon tugged on Cian's arm, pulling it back into her lap. She dabbed the wound with another glob of chopped-up herb that made him wince. 52

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"I said, she has to be there for the ritual. Aren't you lucky?" Daire grinned like a loon, leaned back in the couch, and tossed long legs on Cian's coffee table. "Scotland in autumn, the Standing Stones at midnight, pretty girl at your side...Ahh. Love is in the air." Cian's glower did nothing to curb his brother's amusement at his expense. That shit-eating grin, however, tied Cian into frustrated knots. More and more it looked like he might have his physical outlet after all. Not with the troublemaker of the family, but with the one who didn't know how to take anything seriously. "I'm glad you're amused. I nearly killed Miranda tonight. This shit isn't fun and games, Daire." "Easy," Rhiannon murmured. "You're breaking my concentration." "Yeah, wouldn't want to do that. You might end up with frogs growing out your forearms, man." Daire shook out his auburn hair and stretched like a cat, unmindful of the look of warning Rhiannon shot him as she dabbed another clump of mushed plant onto Cian's arm. Cian heaved a sigh. This sucked, plain and simple. He hadn't freed Miranda from the threat of danger by taking the papers as he'd hoped. No, according to Daire, there was no escape for her. He had to have read the passage wrong. Please, let him be wrong. "What did it say, exactly?" Daire folded his long legs back to the floor and leaned forward to pick up the papers. He thumped the top page with his knuckles. "The eight born from my womb, and that of 53

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another, one pure and untouched by evil, who has lifted these words from darkness and anointed them with power." He dropped the papyrus on the table then reclined again, arms folded behind his head. "Don't think it gets much clearer than that." Son of a hellhound's bitch. Cian ground his teeth together so hard he thought they might crack. How was he supposed to take Miranda to Scotland when he became more and more obsessed with the need to snuff out her life? Even if he could find a means of coping with that sick desire, after tonight, he doubted even groveling would convince her into taking an impromptu vacation. Certainly not once she discovered he had stolen her antique writings. In a highly unusual twist, Rhiannon sided against the sibling who was most like her twin and took pity on Cian. She glanced up from Cian's wounds to frown at Daire. "It's late. Let's discuss this over breakfast. Belen's in New York. Why don't you go phone him and ask him to meet us here at dawn? We have a lot to prepare for in a short amount of time." More surprising, Daire conceded without argument. His amused smirk, however, lingered as he weaved around the couch. He clapped a strong hand on Cian's shoulder. "Glad it's you, not me." Cian's frown settled firmly back into place. "What's that supposed to mean?" His answer came with a noncommittal shrug. Chuckling, Daire disappeared down the hall. 54

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Cian slunk down into his chair. "He's getting to be as bad as Taran." "No one can be as bad as Taran." Rhiannon flashed a pretty grin. "Hold still. This is the last one." Silent, he watched as his sister ran her fingertips down the length of his arm. Old word words tumbled off her lips in a whisper, the power of the arcane gathering close with each low syllable. Cian's skin prickled like someone had just charged him full of static electricity. He shut his eyes, allowing the energy to consume him, wishing not for the first time he could be as gifted with magic as Rhiannon. If he were, maybe he could influence Miranda's thoughts enough that she'd go along without a hassle. Sadly though, that was Daire's talent. Rhiannon healed; Daire manipulated thoughts. And Cian...Well, Cian had just enough ability with all the aspects to be dangerous, but no true power. "All done." Rolling her head on her shoulders to stretch her neck, Rhiannon sat up in her chair. "Now, you wanna tell me just exactly how you found yourself mid-sacrifice ritual?" "Not really." She eyed him for a minute, her thoughtful expression reflecting truths that Cian had no intention of admitting. He'd told them about everything, except his feelings for Miranda. That disaster was his burden, not his siblings. Besides, Rhiannon wouldn't rest if she thought there were wounds that needed healing. Before he could blink, she'd be nose-deep in his affairs and trying to fix everything. Sometimes, her compassion could be her greatest fault. 55

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"You know this isn't going to be easy. Taran and Brigid will fight us every step of the way." The dark children of their family. Though they hated each other, Taran and Brigid hated the idea of mortality more. Cian raked a weary hand through his tangled hair. "From what I can see, this doesn't influence them. Mother broke up the final incantation into eight parts. One for each of us. They might have to participate, but no one is forcing them into anything else." "Still if each ritual deals damage to Drandar, you can guarantee he's going to come and exact revenge. Anyone who goes through with the cleansing will be in danger until he's dead." Another heavy ball of lead rolled around in Cian's gut, colliding into all the others that had piled into an uncomfortable heap. Mortality would come with the price of their father's wrath. He'd considered the fact, mulled it around, and cast it aside as necessary fallout. Hearing the logic made his predicament that much more damning. And his two siblings who enjoyed immortality, even with its dark calling, would fight those who wanted freedom every step of the way. They would condemn those who became mortal to an early grave, if they refused for long. Cian shook his head. "We'll have to convince them." Rhiannon's blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "I think Daire can handle that. He's been itching for a way to get even with Taran for killing that French girl." "Seriously? That was fifty years ago." 56

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The intricate tattoo across her cheeks crinkled as her grin broadened. "Yes, but, from what I hear, the niece is just as pretty." Groaning, Cian dropped his head into his hands. "They both know her?" "Daire's been looking out for her ever since." "Shit. That's just what we need." Daire on a humanitarian mission while Taran stalked his next victim. Daire would drag in Isolde, and they'd have a family feud on their hands. "Talk some sense into him, will you?" She laughed, a pretty little sound, not unlike the music of the fae. "Believe me, I'm trying. But if Taran gives us too much difficulty, Daire would be more than happy to help. And I don't think I need to tell you what Isolde would do." No. He didn't need to hear another account of the damage Isolde would inflict upon Taran. He'd witnessed it time enough. Rhiannon stood up, moved behind Cian's chair, and gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Get some sleep. Belen will require energy from all of us. And you don't have much to spare." True. Cian had never felt so drained in all of his existence. Belen would support the endeavor, getting to the why would be the tricky part. Not to mention the last time Belen had been around Miranda, it had required all of Cian's concentration to ward off Belen's advances. And his advances were nothing Miranda would care to consider once the pleasure concluded. Belen didn't kill. Everything else though, was fair game. [Back to Table of Contents] 57

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Chapter Six Miranda knew she was alone before she ever opened her eyes. Empty and cold, her house's atmosphere trumpeted Cian's abandonment even as she rolled over to witness his empty pillow. Feel the cold mattress where he had lain. A sigh escaped from the depths of her being, and she flopped onto her back to stare at the ceiling. During the night, a chill had settled into the old house, and that frostiness seeped beneath her skin. She huddled under the blankets, trying to escape, but even the heavy down comforter couldn't thaw the bone-deep ice of loneliness. She had been a fool to believe I've missed you meant something. At least something beyond a means of obtaining momentary gratification. If Cian had really missed her he would have come around sooner. Picked up the phone. Done something other than avoid her. He hadn't, and though she had realized that on some level, an even deeper level convinced her she didn't need him to care. She needed only the momentary closeness. The pleasure that a night with Cian offered. She'd gotten that, no question about it. But morning made it impossible to deny the price it cost. A tear whispered down her cheek, and Miranda dashed it away with the back of her hand. No tears. She'd made the call to let him into her bed, knew the possible ramifications, and she wouldn't cry because she'd been naive enough to 58

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think maybe this time would be different. Naivety was for children, and at twenty-eight, she'd surpassed child long ago. She kicked the covers off and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Wallowing and hoping for a different outcome if she kept her eyes closed long enough wouldn't solve anything either. She knew from experience that the best way to forget Cian's effect on her heart was to keep busy. Damn, though, why did it have to hurt so much? Rejected not once, but twice—wasn't there a point when numbness settled in? With concentrated effort, she shoved out of the bed, away from the memories of Cian's powerful body dominating hers, pushing her into mind-blowing ecstasy, and into the confines of her bathroom. She told herself closing the door would block him out. That the click of the lock would keep him from intruding, and that the sound of the running shower would bar his whispers from her ears. It worked, to a degree. Beneath the hot spray, she focused only on the tiny droplets pounding into her skin, working away the tension that shouldn't be present after an evening of fantastic sex. When the water ran tepid, however, and she spun off the faucets to confront the quiet of the house, Cian returned with a vengeance. Memories of the lazy fall day they'd both played hookie because nothing sounded better than staying cuddled up in bed assaulted her. They had showered here. In between making love, he had carried her to the bathroom and washed her body as if she were a treasure. He had toweled her off 59

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with the same, unending, tenderness, taking his time from her feet to the tips of her short hair. Miranda sucked in a sharp gulp of air to stop the barrage of sentiment. Unseeing, she stared at her reflection, counting her breaths until her lungs unclenched and the overwhelming urge to sit on the floor and bawl her eyes out passed. She would not cry. Like dragons pursued her, she finger-combed her wet hair, yanked whatever clothes met her fingertips from the closet, and made a beeline for the kitchen, in desperate need of a cup of coffee. Instant, so she didn't have to stand around and wait for it to finish brewing, all the while replaying last night in her mind. The narrow, wooden-handled fillet knife in the bottom of her sink gave her pause. Try as she might, she couldn't recall having a need for it anytime yesterday. Since last month, for that matter, when she'd skinned swordfish steaks for her and Susan. What in the world was it doing laying out? With a grunt, she recalled Cian's obsession for saving leftovers. Miranda rolled her eyes and put the sharp blade in the drawer. He'd probably cut off the eaten portions of their burgers, either to take with him, or to put in her fridge. Quirky. The man could defy the meaning of odd sometimes. But damned if it wasn't charming on him. Ugh. Nothing about him should be charming this morning. Least of all the very same oddness that had him spouting endearments then running off in the middle of the night.

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Annoyed, she ripped open the packet of instant coffee like she was tearing off his head and dumped it into a cup. If she saw him again, she'd give him a good piece of her mind. Scratch that. When she saw him again. Sure as shooting he'd be back in her store. This time, Miranda intended to make sure Cian couldn't anticipate her schedule. No more Saturdays off, for starters. She'd put herself in his path. When he walked in, she intended to get some answers. If nothing else, she'd find a little satisfaction in the surprise that would invade his bright green eyes and the way he would trip over his tongue. The thought improved her spirits enough she found a wry smile. When the microwave dinged, signaling her coffee was finished, she drank deeply, no longer feeling the need to bolt from her house. She'd work on a plan. Then, when she knew exactly what she'd say to Cian, she'd venture downstairs. Mug in hand, she wandered to her living room, and her favorite meditation spot by the window in the tower sunroom. Maybe she'd just stay in today after all. Do a little yoga, read the paper, check on her investments, watch a little mindless afternoon television. Brainless activities that would allow her to muddle through possibilities in her mind. She came to an abrupt halt at her coffee table, where their plates from last night still sat, the food on them cold, the milkshakes soggy goo. If Cian hadn't packaged up the leftovers, then just why was her knife sitting out? Miranda shook off the oddity. It didn't matter. He'd been fiddling with a knife, for God's sake. A regular, Wal-Mart version, fillet knife, not some priceless... 61

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Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt as her gaze landed on a bare spot on the table. The same place she had left the Celt manuscript when Cian distracted her with that intoxicating kiss. Damn him! Miranda slammed the mug on the table. Hot coffee sloshed onto her hand. She spewed an oath through clenched teeth and made an about-face. Two furious strides took her to her purse and car keys. Deliberate seduction was one thing. Stealing, however, was an unforgivable offense. Cian's head ached from the unrelenting hammer behind his skull. The same thud-thud had kept him awake long after he dragged his sorry ass to bed. This morning, though, he could squarely fault his siblings for the interminable racket. Between Daire's goading, Rhiannon's prodding, and Belen's masterful cross talk, he was ready to tell all three of them to get the hell out of his house and he'd meet them in Scotland. All he knew was he had to find some way to get Miranda across the ocean before tomorrow night. Some way that wouldn't leave her vulnerable to his dark urges. Once he got her there, he didn't know what would happen. Belen had phoned the others after Daire contacted him, and as expected, Brigid and Taran were refusing to come. And Belen, he too had Cian on edge. He was entirely too willing to go through with this. As if he knew something about the curse the rest of them didn't. He wanted something, Cian was sure of it. He hoped that by keeping Miranda's name out of their discussion, it wasn't her. He squinted at his siblings from across the kitchen table. 62

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"What's the matter, big brother?" Daire flashed the same cocksure grin that had greeted Cian the moment he walked into the room, bleary-eyed and in dire need of caffeine. "Feeling the thirst for death so soon?" "Fuck you," Cian muttered, at the end of his rope. He propped an elbow on the table and cradled his forehead in his hand, shading his eyes from the bright light of morning. Belen tsked. "Now, now, Cian, no need to be grumpy. We're just trying to understand the situation." Cian had no doubt Belen was well aware of the situation going on inside Cian's soul. His torment gave his brother a twisted sense of pleasure. He would feed off the negative energy ebbing from Cian for the next few days. "Well, if you aren't going to tell us what your plans are, I guess Daire and Belen should head on over to the family home." Rhiannon twirled her coffee mug in a slow circle. Her gaze lifted to Cian's, full of silent knowledge. "I'll fly over with you." "You're leaving me to deal with Taran? How cruel!" Daire protested, but his blue eyes twinkled with mischief. Rhiannon leveled her index finger at Daire's nose. "One wrong step and you know I'll feel it." Daire waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'll behave." Belen laughed, voicing the same amusement that stirred in Cian's chest. Born on the Spring and Fall Equinox, Rhiannon and Daire were as close to twins as could be. They looked alike, thought alike, and their ability to sense each other's emotions often infuriated the both of them, but gave the rest 63

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of the family endless entertainment. Particularly in situations like now, where Daire skirted the line between light and dark, and Rhiannon tried to pull him in one concrete direction. When the reverse happened, they all took cover. Rhiannon didn't care to have her desires overruled. Yet she always sided with her twin. Yielded to the bond that ran deeper than the blood they all shared. "So you want me to talk to Taran?" Belen suggested. "I can convince him there's merit in attending the ritual. But Brigid—someone else has to deal with her." Cian groaned. "Don't tell me you two are at odds?" "Quite the contrary." Belen flashed a Cheshire smile. "We're getting along famously." He lifted his coffee cup in mock toast. "Something I don't wish to alter by creating an argument on the merits of destroying our father." Cian's grunt spoke for them all. Brigid was an obstacle they needed to approach carefully. No one wanted to be on her bad side. "I'll do it," Daire offered quietly. "No," Cian countered. He glanced at Rhiannon, studying her expression as he suggested, "Have Isolde meet with her." "Isolde?" Belen barked out a laugh. "Isolde can't stand up to a mouse, and you want her to convince Brigid?" Rhiannon's eyes sparked with understanding. She dipped her head thoughtfully, then with more conviction. "He's right. Send Isolde, Daire. She'll go. And Brigid will come." Belen cocked his head, confusion etched into his expression. His unruly dark hair flopped into his face. He brushed it aside as he asked, "How do you figure?" 64

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"Win more with sugar," Daire answered, catching on. A sudden pounding on Cian's door brought Daire's attention to Cian. One auburn eyebrow quirked, and that damnable grin teased the corner of his mouth. "Expecting someone?" Everything inside Cian ground to a halt. He knew who was on his front porch. There could be only one reason for someone to drop by at eight in the morning. Never mind the fierce arc of darkness inside his soul as it recognized the one thing it craved more than total freedom. Cian clenched his mug between both hands and stared at the black coffee inside, doing everything in his power to temper the deathly thirst. No way could he answer the door like this. Miranda would take one look at him and realize she'd stepped into a world of terror. As if Rhiannon could read Cian's dark thoughts, her face clouded with concern. She pushed her chair back and rose from the table. "I'll get it." "Don't," Cian snapped. She stopped at his shoulder and bent near his ear. "If you're not together in five minutes, break a dish." An out. He had an out. A way to avoid Miranda's rightful wrath. For the first time he could recall, he found himself hoping the black part of his soul would emerge the victor. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Seven The last thing Miranda expected when she pounded on Cian's door was for a woman to answer. A stunning woman. Worse, this long-legged beauty wore nothing more than a floor-length black satin nightgown, and she claimed the space beyond the open doorway like she owned the place. Her thigh-length fiery red hair shone with tints of gold and accented a pair of sparkling blue eyes that peered at Miranda curiously. As if she too hadn't expected a woman to be standing on the front porch. Was this why Cian had left in the middle of the night? Had he, in the six months since he'd abandoned her, moved on? Moved someone else in? She squinted at the intricate Celtic band tattooed across the redhead's nose and cheekbones. So Cian liked his women a little bad, huh? Was that why she'd never had the privilege of opening his front door like it belonged to her? Why he'd been so fascinated with her new tattoo? Bitter fury brought Miranda's shoulders up as she tried to gain some height against the Amazon taking up Cain's doorway. "Where's Cian?" Blue eyes widened with a touch of surprise, but she took a step back, beckoning Miranda to enter. "He's indisposed at the moment. I'll see if—" Cian entered the front hall, looking disheveled and weary. Both women's attention swung to him, Miranda's heart catching shamefully. She ached for his smile, for a hearty 66

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greeting that told her this was anything other than the obvious truth that she'd intruded on Cian's new life. But it was the redhead Cian gave an affectionate smile to. Whose shoulder he touched tenderly and bent his head to whisper something in her ear. And it was the redhead, not Miranda, who brushed a kiss over Cian's cheek, secure in her position as Cian's lover. Confident she should worry about nothing. Trusting... Everything inside Miranda rolled over as the truth smacked her in the face, and she realized just how foolish she'd been. Arrogantly, she'd assumed he spent the last six months alone. She didn't know why—the man had never made it habit to be alone before her, why would he after? Still, witnessing reality knifed pain through her already bleeding heart. "Miranda." Cian took her by the elbow, guiding her into the hall. He closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest. "Good morning." "I've had better." She pushed a lock of her hair out of her eyes, embarrassed by the shaking of her hand. "I want my manuscript, Cian." His handsome features pulled into a grim expression, the lines around his mouth hardened. He shook his head. "I can't give it back to you yet." He inclined his head toward the kitchen. "Why don't you come in and talk for a bit." It wasn't a question, and the harsh, decisive tone wedged beneath Miranda's skin like someone had shoved iron filings under her nails. All the tumultuous emotion she'd experienced since waking bottlenecked, then exploded in an angry rush of 67

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words. "Talk? You think I give a damn about what you have to say? The hell you can't give it to me. It's mine, and I'm not leaving without it!" "Miranda, calm down. Let me explain." "Explain?" Her voice shot through the hall, shrill and outraged. "Explain what? How much you missed me? How you need me? Not interested." Spying the manila folder she'd put the papers in atop his coffee table, Miranda stalked past Cian, into the living room. She snatched the folder up furiously, then whirled around to point the ancient writings at his chest. "Stay out of my shop. Stay out of my life." His gaze flickered, and for the briefest moment, Miranda thought she witnessed regret behind his unblinking stare. But in the next heartbeat, anger lit, and those bright green eyes glittered dangerously. What the hell did he have to be angry about? She was the one he'd seduced. Lied to. Manipulated. Abandoned. Twice. "I can't let you take that, Miranda." He approached her slowly, much like a cat stalking its prey. His eyes remained glued to her face, but she sensed he meant to take the papers out of her hand. His deliberate steps, the tightness of his body warned he would pounce and tackle if she tried to run for the door. She backed up a step. "I'll give it back to you, but I need it for the next few days." Inches away from her now, he held out his hand for 68

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the folder. "Let me borrow it. I'll return it unharmed. Trust me." Miranda couldn't stop a derisive snort from breaking free. "Trust you—right. We see where that's gotten me. Fucked, that's where." "Miranda, if you'd give me five minutes—" "I need more than five minutes, Cian." Twisting her shoulders, she made to duck around his powerful frame. This was over. The conversation was rapidly degenerating into a useless argument that would accomplish nothing. She needed to get out of here while she still could. Before she lost her courage and took a good look at the pained creases around the corners of his eyes. Cian grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her to a stop. Firmly, he turned her around. With one step forward, he pinned her between the wall and his hard chest. "Yeah, you do," he answered hoarsely. "You need a hell of a lot more than five minutes." Danger! She couldn't think this close to him. Could barely focus enough to breathe. And somewhere in that argument, they'd changed course. His hungry expression had nothing to do with explanations. Damn if it wasn't affecting her too. The heat from his body radiated into her, shaking her foundation, mixing up her convictions until she felt like she'd been stuffed inside a blender and someone pushed HIGH. "Cian, stop," she whispered as she flattened a palm against his chest and pushed. "I'm not doing this. Your girlfriend's in the kitchen, and I'm leaving. My writings stay with me." 69

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He ignored her completely. One hand dropped to her wrist, securing it between their bodies. The other worked the folder free from her fingers and dropped it at their feet. Then he gathered both wrists, and before she could do anything more than gasp in shock, he stretched her arms above her head and held her wrists to the wall. His head dipped. Morning stubble rasped against her skin near the base of her ear. "She's my sister," he murmured before his tongue flicked out to tease her earlobe. A shudder rolled through Miranda from neck to toes. With it came a low moan of pleasure. She didn't know which sensation to focus on—the confession the redhead was family, or the exquisite feel of his warm, moist breath dancing down her throat. The conflicted voices in her head screamed in equal measure, one demanding she stop this nonsense, the other urging her to shut up and take what Cian so obviously had to give. At the base of her throat, his teeth pricked the tender flesh. The pinch of pleasure-pain shot all the way to her womb, turning her insides into melted honey. Miranda's knees threatened to give out. Would have, if Cian hadn't pressed his lower body into hers, stabilizing her against the wall, and exposing her to the undeniable evidence of his arousal. Hard and thick, his cock pressed into her soft feminine flesh. "I left," he whispered as he scattered kisses across her breastbone to the opposite side of her neck, "to protect you. From me." With his nose, he nudged the loose collar of her sweater aside and grazed his teeth across her bra strap, tugging it playfully. "From the things I want from you." 70

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She didn't want to ask. Couldn't be certain his answer wouldn't break her completely. But the question rose against her will and tumbled free. "What do you want from me?" Cian's head snapped up, his green eyes blazing like bright gemstones. One slow roll of his body caressed her from thighs to breasts, igniting her own insatiable hunger. "Everything, Miranda." His voice was harsh, edged with a touch of warning. God help her she shouldn't be excited over what sounded like a threat. But nothing could have stopped the frantic kick of her heart or the desire that cut a live current through her bloodstream. Everything was precisely what she wanted to give. She exhaled tremulously. The sound hung between them, a suspended echo that confessed her surrender. Cian's mouth hovered over hers, his lips a breath away, close enough she could feel their heat. It enticed her beyond reason. His kiss...she needed his mouth on her. She tipped her head back, her lips parting, a plea on the tip of her tongue. "If those papers stay with you, then I'll have to convince you to stay." Cian couldn't explain why he had Miranda trapped against the wall any more than he could explain how he had come to the conclusion he had to tell her why he needed the manuscript. Both ideas were equally ludicrous. Presently, however, he didn't give a damn. Miranda had stepped into his house, his domain, and the darkness had surged beyond his control. The only way he knew to contain it was to use its 71

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power against the demonic callings. Kill her, no. Screw her senseless—yes. No. Not screw, his rational side argued. That was for women he didn't intend to keep around. Miranda deserved more. Further, he wanted more from her than just those damn papers. He'd meant it when he said everything. That confession hadn't been a product of his sire's vile blood. And the hungry way her tongue tangled with his told him she was more than willing to yield anything he wanted. Power for which his demonic nature thirsted. Trust his heart couldn't tolerate breaking. He kissed her until his lungs ached. Until his body felt afire, and the need to possess Miranda's body and soul eradicated all thought of anything but the heavenly press of her soft curves. Tearing his mouth from hers, he closed his eyes, searching for a modicum of control. Control he needed before Belen, Rhiannon, and Daire left the kitchen and witnessed him taking Miranda against the wall. Miranda made it that much more difficult when she curled her fingers into his shirt and pulled him closer, her mouth seeking his once more. "You're a sickness, Cian. My sickness." She planted her lips on his, taking greedily. Cian groaned low and deep. Hers. Since he had met her, belonging to Miranda was all he craved. He chose not to acknowledge the fact she equivocated him to a disease, and wound his arms around her waist, lifting her body into his, molding her as close as humanly possible. He broke the kiss, touched his lips to hers once more, before reluctantly lowering her to her feet and moving a half step away. "If you 72

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don't stop long enough to let me think, I'm going to have you naked against this wall." Her laugh reached in deep to wind around his heart and give it a fierce pull. The smile she gave him as she linked her hand in his, tempered the beast within. The arousal that brightened her soulful brown eyes, however, made it rage. "I have a few hours," she whispered. Cian couldn't resist a smirk. "I need more than a few." As she chuckled again, he tugged on her hand, leading her toward the privacy of his bedroom. Deep down, he knew there would be a price to pay for the confessions he had given. Miranda would want an explanation about why he felt the need to protect her. But as he pushed his bedroom door shut behind them and dragged her close to sample the sweet flavor of her mouth again, he found he didn't care. Nothing mattered except Miranda. Not his nearby family. Just making love to her. Balming the ache that ran so deep it terrified him. Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, silken palms slid over his abdomen. His belly quivered beneath her inquisitive caress, and his cock pulsed in anticipation. Manicured nails pinched into the muscles of his chest, provoking another needy groan. He shook his head and eased her away, determined to ignore the hard, heavy beat of his heart. Last night he had given little consideration to Miranda. Shown her so very little about the depth of feeling that she alone caused. This morning, he wouldn't make the same mistake. Keeping his eyes on hers, he popped the button at waistband of her jeans and eased the zipper down. His fingertips roamed over the smooth plane of her abdomen, 73

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dipped beneath the narrow elastic band of her panties. Sliding lower, he parted her feminine curls to stroke the sensitive nub between her legs, and moisture met his touch. She moved against his hand, gyrating her hips in a slow counter to the lazy swirl of his fingertip. The shudder that racked her body compounded the fierce way her hands bit into his muscles as she struggled to remain upright. Cian fought for the ability to breathe. The need to sink inside her and lose himself in Miranda was blinding. He gritted his teeth against the demands of his body. Slow. Nice and easy. Cian repeated the mantra in his head, gaining restraint with the low chant. With one hand on her waist to hold her steady, he eased a thick finger inside her. Her eyes glazed over with rapture. Long lashes fluttered to her cheeks. "Look at me," he whispered. The struggle was evident as she forced those thick lashes to lift. Her gaze locked with his, unfocused at first, then sharpening to pinpoints of warm light. There was something unexplainably erotic about watching pleasure pass over her face. The way her eyes flickered between spellbound by rapture and deliberate concentration as she teetered on the edge of release. Around his thrusting finger, her inner walls clenched. Tight. Blisteringly warm. She was close. Closer than he wanted her to be. To bring her down from that high precipice, Cian withdrew his hand. He knelt before her, eased her clothing down her legs. As he lifted each foot, she balanced against him with a hand on his shoulders. Trust. Surrender... 74

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Goddess above, he was coming apart at the seams. Feeling surged through him, a conflict between life and death, the claiming and the taking. His hands shook. His entire body trembled. As he rose, her sweet musk tempted him, and he paused to place a lingering kiss on the sensitive skin above her downy curls. Miranda gasped. Her fingers bit into his shoulders like talons. "Cian," she exhaled. He knew what she craved. He longed for it as well. Too much time had passed between them, and the memory of her taste no longer satisfied. Standing fully, he nudged her backward, pulling her sweater over her head as she moved. When the back of her knees touched the mattress, Miranda sank into the bed. Her eyes fastened on him, appreciation glowing as he peeled off his clothing. Each sliver of skin he bared, her gaze caressed, making him so painfully aware of his arousal it became a physical ache. His cock throbbed. His heart battered into his ribs. Still, he refused to yield to desire. He needed her to feel the same wild abandon he knew would consume him the moment he sank inside her silken heat. Bracing one knee between her thighs, he nudged her legs apart and knelt between them. Rosy nipples pebbled, begging for attention. More than happy to satisfy those tight little peaks, Cian bent over Miranda's body and sucked one into his mouth. Her fingers delved into his hair, her hold on the verge of painful. As he suckled, she undulated beneath him. The press of her hips enticed, the way they fell away teased. He held 75

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on...barely. Then, as he clamped his teeth around her nipple and gave it a tiny twist, Miranda bucked, and Cian's faltering control threatened to snap in half. He released her breast, drew in a sharp breath, and dusted kisses along her ribs. Almost there. She was almost where he wanted her. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eight Cian's masterful tongue speared through Miranda's intimate center, and her back arched with so much force she nearly dislodged them both from the bed. He wrapped one corded arm around her waist, secured her in place, and lapped with slow devastation. She fisted her hands in the sheets, her teeth clamped into her lower lip to silence a sharp cry. The sound came out in a muffled moan. Her lover let out a satisfied grunt that vibrated into her core. She writhed beneath him, on the verge of something she couldn't fully understand. She was coming apart, coming together... "Oh, God, Cian." Miranda clawed at the mattress. "Don't st—" Stop. And yet...he already had. She whimpered, the pleasure too intense, the precipice too high to reach. He had taken her there, then left her to dangle in the wind. Wanting. Yearning. His long blond hair dusted over her shoulders as he bent over her, his chest compressing hers, the heat of his body soaking into her skin. Capturing her mouth in a wild kiss, he nudged her legs further apart. Before she could comprehend his shift in tactics, Cian eased his thick erection between her damp folds. One agonizingly slow thrust buried him deep inside her throbbing flesh. Miranda keened, long and low as her body arced to accommodate him. He felt good. Damn good. His hardness a 77

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perfect counterpart to all her softness. She glided her hands over his back, savoring the wide plane of maintained muscle, the narrow width of his waist. When he angled his hips, retreating from her feminine depths, her body chased his. He refused to allow her to rush headlong into ecstasy, however, and kept his strokes slow, his thrusts deep but restrained. Slowly, certainly, she began to comprehend the meaning of everything. In all the times they had made love, she couldn't remember when he had been so thorough. So agonizingly focused on pushing her into utter abandon. He was pulling things from her that she hadn't realized she could give. Emotion she didn't know could run deeper. Each thrust consumed her in pleasure. Each retreat was an exquisite torture. Body and soul, he possessed her. She clenched her hands into his tight buttocks, fighting the burn of sensation that threatened to render her senseless. Oblivious to her subtle demands for harder, faster, Cain maintained a relentlessly languorous tempo. Aching for air, she twisted her head away from the splendor of his mouth and gasped in short, uneven breaths. His breathing matched hers, the same hard shallow fall punctuated by clipped catches. Miranda slid her gaze to his glittering eyes and lost herself in the tenderness that radiated there. Her heart swelled painfully. Emotion tore at her soul. I love you. She had never said the words to Cian and wouldn't utter them now. But she prayed he could hear the shout in her head. As ridiculous, unhealthy, as it was, she loved him beyond all measure. 78

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As if he sensed the inner turmoil raging within her, Cian brought one hand to her face and stroked her cheek with his thumb. His body moved within her, sinking deeper, touching her more completely than ever before. "Sweet, Miranda," he murmured thickly. A tidal wave surged through her, searingly hot and full of destruction. Tears touched the corners of her eyes. He had broken her completely. Every bit of resistance she had ever considered shattered into irreparable bits. He could throw her away, and still she would crawl back into his arms, his bed, at the slightest invitation. Yet, somehow, she knew Cian wouldn't toss her aside again. Whatever he was doing to her, he was experiencing the same pull of emotion. The same throat-squeezing flood of feeling that poured out of her with each penetration. He belonged to her completely. As she belonged to him, no matter how screwed up their relationship might be. Cian shifted his hands to her hips, lifting her into him as he guided her into a more demanding pace. She met his punishing thrusts with equal vigor. Commanded him to jump headlong off the high cliff they stood on and freefall to whatever end the fates chose. She felt some measure of his control break. Witnessed the rupture in his expression. His green eyes darkened, piercing through her with startling intensity, and his hands tightened on her hips. He plunged in hard, sending her world careening at right angles. Pleasure ripped through Miranda's veins like fire, all-consuming and scorching clear through to her soul. 79

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She clung to Cian, his name tearing from her throat as release claimed her. Distantly she heard his low groan, felt the relaxation of his hands, the slowing of his body. When he tumbled against her, his breath harsh and heavy against her shoulder, a strange sense of utter completion stole over her. She had given herself to Cian unlike ever before. He had taken without hesitation. Claimed what she offered greedily. But he had given of himself as well, and she had stared into his eyes while he poured every particle of himself into their lovemaking. With a faint exhausted smile, she ran a hand through the damp waves that clung to the back of his neck. "Where did that come from?" He lifted his head to plant a kiss on her forehead. "Us." Miranda sensed he didn't want to discuss the forcefulness of their joining, or what deeper meanings it might hold. She decided answers could wait. Right now, she simply wanted to savor the intimacy of his embrace, the quiet moments of being held by Cian as he eased himself out of her, rolled to his side, and tucked her in the crook of his arm. She laid her head on his chest, listening to the heavy drum of his heart. "Sleep, sweetheart." His fingers stroked her bare shoulder, lulling her into the languor of his quiet murmur. She resisted the pull, knowing the work at the shop wouldn't diminish no matter how she willed the books to stock themselves, the accounts to reconcile on their own. But the possessive way he fitted his hand into the base of her spine and pressed her even closer, 80

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made considering work impossible. Despite herself, she gave in to an expansive yawn. "Sleep with me?" she whispered. "For a little bit." What the hell. A little bit was better than nothing at all. Closing her eyes, Miranda snuggled into Cian's protective embrace. The creak of floorboards dragged Miranda from the clutches of exhausted slumber. She opened her eyes, Cian's alarm clock in direct line of sight. Quarter-after ten. Susan would give her hell when she wandered through the front door of her shop, not the upstairs entrance. Her gaze flicked to the empty pillow next to her, then to where Cian sat at a table near the window. The shades were still drawn, and rain clouds had moved in, turning the room a dingy shade of grey. A librarian's lamp glowed steadily, illuminating the Celt manuscript spread out before him. He wasn't studying the writings as she had initially thought. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting, she observed he stared straight ahead, focused on the green paint on his wall. His mouth was drawn, his expression grim. The longer she watched, she became aware of the clenched fists he rested on the table, the tension that clung to his shoulders. Cian expelled a sigh, then raked both hands through his hair in frustration. He shook his head, thumped the dark polished wood with an open palm. He looked beyond exhausted. As if he hadn't slept in days. "Cian?" she called softly. 81

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Her voice cut into his thoughts, and he startled. His gaze swung to her. The half-attempt he made to smile never made it past his mouth. Something was eating at him. Miranda propped herself up on one elbow, setting her head in her hand. "You okay?" "Yeah." She knew he was lying. For a man who found sleep as delicious as chocolate cheesecake, clearly he wasn't okay. Her gaze narrowed. "What's going on, Cian? You're a thousand miles away." He shook his head again. "Just some family issues." His blond hair clung to his bare shoulders, wet and wavy. He had showered, and something about that discovery churned her gut. She didn't like the idea that he could so easily extract himself from the bed they shared. That he hadn't invited her to join him. "No." She sat up straight and crossed her legs beneath the blankets. "That's not all it is. When your brother got in trouble last fall, and your entire family was at odds, you didn't bottle it up and hide it from me. What's bothering you?" Dropping his head, he held it in both hands. "Just let it be, Miranda. It's complicated." Let it be—like hell. She couldn't do the push-pull game any longer. He was tearing her to bits each time he dragged her close then thrust her aside. "Complicated." She chewed on the word, rolled it over her tongue. "Like we're complicated, right? Too complicated to explain to me how you can make love to me like you're starved, and then pretend I don't exist a little while later?" 82

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She hadn't meant for bitterness to creep into her voice, or for her questions to come out like accusations. But once she started, she couldn't cork her frustration. Couldn't pretend the pain of not knowing what he wanted from her didn't exist. His head snapped up, his eyes flashing with anguish. The brief glimmer, however, faded beneath the tight line of his lips. An edge of irritation crept into his voice. "Pretend you don't exist? Hell, Miranda, you consume me. I can't fucking keep my mind off you." Too stunned for immediate words, Miranda blinked. She consumed him? That didn't sound at all like the determined bachelor she'd come to understand. It almost sounded like a man in love. But if that were the case, why the distance? Surely, he knew how she felt about him. Nothing she did told a different story. Warily, she asked, "And that's...a problem?" "Yeah," he answered, his voice almost inaudible. Because he didn't want to be tied down? Her frown deepened. "I'm sorry, Cian, but I'm not following. Tell me exactly how that's a problem." He looked at her again, and this time there was no mistaking the pain in his silent gaze. For several seconds he said nothing at all, merely studied her, as if he tried to look beneath her skin into her soul. Then, he looked away, his stare drawn to the wall once more. She opened her mouth to push for answers. "I'm in love with you." 83

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His strained whisper slapped her into silence. Her jaw fell slack, shock knocking her sideways. That was the last thing she had expected to ever hear from Cian McLaine. A few hours ago she realized he cared deeply for her, but until now, she'd become convinced he was incapable of the same allconsuming emotion that filled her heart. "You're the only woman I've ever really pictured spending my life with. The only one who's ever really fit." "Oh, Cian," she murmured as tears misted. He held up a hand, begging her off. "Don't. I don't want you saying anything you'll regret in a few minutes." Unease pricked through her budding elation, sending ragged claws down her back. She froze, afraid to breath, terrified of what she inherently sensed was about to break her heart. "I need you to go, Miranda. Walk out of this room and away from me. Don't look back. Forget everything I've said." Her chest constricted painfully, the twisting behind her ribs fierce and unrelenting. She swallowed hard, determined the rising sob wouldn't escape her lips. Cian's throat worked visibly. When he spoke again, his voice roughened. "I have to go away for a little while. Work out some things. I don't know if I will come back...If I can." "Why? Tell me what's going on, Cian." To her horror, her anguish oozed out with a choked cry. "Don't do this to me. Don't give me the one thing I've wanted, and then yank it out of my reach." His shoulders heaved as he expelled a heavy sigh, and still he didn't look at her. He continued as if she'd said nothing at 84

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all. "If I do come back, I'll explain everything. It's a lot to ask, and I don't want you to wait for me. Don't expect you to. But please, Miranda, go. Before I can't let you." "Cian—" "I mean it," he said more emphatically. "It's not okay for you to be here right now." Standing, he picked up her clothes that he had folded while she slept. Firm resolve etched into his handsome face, harsh lines that warned arguing would get her nowhere. He'd made up his mind. Nothing she could say would make him change it. She dressed in silence, fighting down the fierce urge to beg him not to do this. But she wouldn't plead, wouldn't throw herself at his feet in desperation. Pride reared with a lioness's fury. If he didn't want her, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his rejection cut. When she was once again clothed, she glanced at the door, then back at him. He hadn't moved from his place near the window. Back to her, fists clenched at his sides, he was the picture of stubborn resolve. Her gaze dropped to the ancient writings on his desk, and the petty need for retribution struck. She crossed to the desk and picked up the folder. "Until you can explain, these aren't for sale." Ignoring the wince that etched into his profile, she stalked out of the room, out of his house, and out of his life. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Nine It was three-thirty before Cian managed to gain enough control over his dark nature to venture out of his room and consider what he would do about the loss of his mother's written ritual. A storm had passed, adding to his foul spirit, making the raging fury in his veins that much more impossible to overcome. All he knew was he couldn't possibly take Miranda to Scotland, no matter what Daire translated in the runes. No way could he make it through a plane ride with her that close. Lying beside her, the haze of fantastic sex worn off, it was all he could do to keep his hands still, the aching need to claim the very breath that filled her lungs possessed him so. He'd sought refuge in the shower, but even that did little to calm his vile calling. The curse was claiming him. Fast. Worse, when he had managed to push her far enough out of his mind by focusing on the hand-drawn runes, Cian had discovered the reason Belen cackled with glee when Rhiannon explained why he had been summoned from New York overnight. Two years younger than Cian, Belen had often argued with Cian over who would lead the family. The natural right fell to Cian. Their mother, with her phenomenal connection to the Aether realm and her incredible powers, had discovered the means of terminating their father, to be certain. What she did not know, what she warned heavily against, was the 86

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additional death that it would bring. In order to cleanse themselves of the dark curse, they must forfeit their own lives. Belen had known the ritual revealed a way to grant him the leadership he craved. He knew also that the balance of nature held the ability to bring them back. Whether their souls returned to their bodies as mortal entities depended on external factors their mother didn't explain, other than to relay they would each be weighed against their immortal existence. That each one of them, if they chose to go through with the act, would face their past, their present, and their potential future. If the balance was strong, elemental forces might choose to bring them back. Knowing the depth of Miranda's feelings for him, even if Cian could manage to temper the killing urge long enough to make it across an ocean, he would not force her to sit and watch him die. He could not subject her to that level of pain. There must be another way. Another translation to the writings his mother so painstakingly crafted. So far, the only alternate solution he could think of was distancing himself as far as possible from Miranda and refusing to go through with the ritual. Doing so, however, sentenced him to eternal damnation. His siblings too would suffer. Those who craved freedom from the curse, at least. Cian had never been more brutally conflicted. Hunger took him to the thankfully empty kitchen. In his earlier brief foray downstairs, Rhiannon conveyed Belen left while Cian had been bone-deep inside Miranda. Sometime 87

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between Miranda's departure and now, Cian heard Daire's Jeep rumble away. Rhiannon remained, but she hadn't left her position near the hearth and the fire blazing within. Leaving Cian alone with his misery and his hunger. He slapped a wad of salami between two slices of bread, kicked a chair away from the table, and dropped into the seat. The flavor was flat, the bread stuck to the roof of his mouth. Alleviating that stickiness, however, meant getting up, and damn it, he was too exhausted to move. He needed sleep. Yet he didn't trust that when he let go of consciousness enough to rest, that the demon wouldn't rise, and once again he would find himself at Miranda's...this time too late. Fuck. He opened his fingers and dropped the sandwich on the tabletop. He'd hurt Miranda. After he'd poured his soul into her, along with his tainted seed, he had shredded her to bits. He didn't need words to tell him this. Her expression said everything. Pain. Betrayal. Sorrow—all of it shone in her eyes, gutting him until he bled alongside her. It might have been easier if he had just carved out her heart. If he ever had the chance to make this right again, he would fall to his knees at her feet and beg. She would never believe he was over two-thousand years old, that his blood was half demonic, and all the other fantastic reasons he had forced her away. But maybe, just maybe, he could find something right to say. Something that mended all the bisected bits of her heart. Angry with his fate, frustrated with his impossible choices, he kicked the chair opposing him. It skittered across the 88

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kitchen floor, clanged into the counter, and topped sideways. The clatter satisfied a portion of his agitation. "You're in love with her," Rhiannon observed quietly as she stepped into the doorway. Cian swore beneath his breath, in no mood for his sister's well-intended badgering. "That's what this is about isn't it? The brooding. The indecision. The inability to do anything but rage." She moved across the room and eased into the chair at his right. Her warm hand fell on his arm, her touch soothing to his agitated skin. "Why didn't you tell me, Ci?" Tell her what? That their curse was ripping him in half? That for the first time in his immortal creation he loathed what he was? What they all were? He clenched his teeth and looked away from her probing blue eyes. "Now I understand why Belen was so mad about you disappearing into your room with her." A soft chuckle accompanied the wry shake of her head. "You have something he wants." "Sibling rivalry at its damnedest," Cian muttered. She cocked her head, watching him with keen intelligence. Perhaps a touch of higher wisdom. Cian didn't know exactly what she latched onto, but he resented her intuition. Her ability to read him so well. "Miranda," she murmured thoughtfully. He glanced sideways at his sister. Not once had he revealed Miranda's name. Unless they'd been eavesdropping on his encounter in the hall, no one should know. "Belen knew her name. He's met her, hasn't he?" 89

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Visions of the one evening the three of them had spent together flashed before his eyes. Belen sugarcoating his voice, wrapping seduction around Miranda in attempts to draw her away from Cian. Coercion meant to entice, pleasure he would grant, all the while plotting how he intended to inflict pain. Surprising even to himself, a low growl rumbled in the back of Cian's throat. "Cian, tell her." He slammed his palms down on the tabletop and rocketed to his feet. "Tell her, what exactly, Rhiannon? That I've envisioned methods of killing her that make acts of torture look like child's play?" Stalking away from the table, he yanked open the refrigerator door. A frosty bottle of beer screamed his name, and he snatched it off the shelf. With a violent hiss, the cap twisted off in his hand. He downed half of it in two gulps. "Fucking grand idea." "Well you've got to do something to get her across the ocean tomorrow." He sipped more slowly, savoring the malty flavor as it trickled down his throat. "She's not going with me." "What?" Her disbelieving cry sliced through the air. Looking at his sister over the top of his beer, Cian repeated, "She's not going with me." She recoiled against the back of her chair. Shock turned her pretty eyes into round windows of surprise. "You can't be serious. This is what you want. What you need." As fury rose inside his chest, he pounded back the rest of the beer and slammed the empty bottle on the countertop. 90

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"And how am I supposed to survive—make that how is she supposed to survive—an extended, private, flight across the ocean? Lock me up with her, Rhiannon, and you'll be hauling a body off that plane." The very thought made him cringe and sent another bout of fire swirling through his gut. On the heels of the discomfort, an aching hunger rose, craving the predicted outcome. He groaned, the combined effect of both contradictory desires threatening to drop him to his knees. "I'll go with you." Rising, she moved to his side and squeezed his shoulder. "I can stop you, if it comes down to that." Cian doubted that very much. They had all banded together to stop Taran when he lost his heart. They had all failed. Even if Rhiannon could, it did nothing to prevent Miranda from further pain if nature decided to recycle his soul and restore his energy to the greater existence of life. His sister, no matter her talents in healing, could only mend physical wounds. He shook off Rhiannon's supportive hand and stalked toward the hall, in dire need of an escape from the relentless pounding in his head. "Forget it, Rhiannon. I don't even have the manuscript anymore." Fast on his heels, her footsteps followed. Her voice rose, her inability to believe his remark clear. "You what?" "Miranda took it with her." "Wait." In a startling display of her true strength, she grabbed his elbow and pulled hard enough to turn him sideways. "You let her leave with the ritual? Are you insane? 91

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Do you have any idea what our father would do to get his hands on that? If Taran or Brigid talked to him, if they mentioned one word about Mother's secrets, he'll do more damage to Miranda than you could ever dream of." The fire in her eyes, the adamant conviction in her voice froze Cian in place. His heart knocked hard. His stomach hollowed out. Goddess above, he'd been so out of sorts he hadn't even considered their father's wrath. He'd let Miranda walk away with the manuscript without a single thought about what might happen if Drandar came after the written ritual. "Go get it, Cian. If you won't, I will." Her nails bit painfully into his forearm. "You can't subject her to that. She has magic on her hands. He'll use her like he used our mother." He wouldn't. Cian couldn't allow himself to believe that Drandar would choose a non-magically inclined woman to fulfill his insatiable lust for both flesh and blood. It was easier to believe their father would carve Miranda into pieces, than put the slightest bit of stock into that possibility. Yet as he opened his mouth to voice his objections, a thick, oppressive hate made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He searched for the cause, momentarily caught off guard by the tumult of conflict that roiled beneath his surface. The way his sister rubbed her arms to ward off a chill, however, told him the evil he sensed wasn't a product of his own dark soul. She glanced around the room warily, searching for the telltale shimmerings of magic, at the same time he did. 92

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Drandar was here. Eavesdropping on their conversation, watching the children he had cursed. Everything inside Cian clenched in fury. More than anything, he longed for the power that would destroy the son of a hellhound's bitch that had turned his existence into a living nightmare. Power Miranda held hostage. Power that would destroy her. When the room remained still, Rhiannon's gaze cut to him, her eyes glittering like bright gemstones. "Go!" she urged in a frantic whisper. Giving him a none-too-gentle shove toward the door, she tipped her face to the ceiling. "How nice of you to drop in on us, Drandar." In the far corner of the room, the shadows stirred. An image took shape, the faint outline of a tall, imposing man. Cian didn't wait to witness his father's charming face. He bolted for the door, all thoughts zeroed down to one purpose—however impossible, he must protect Miranda from that vile bastard. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Ten Cian drove the thirty miles from Georgetown to Augusta like a madman, taking all the side roads he could find to keep beneath the local police's radar. He didn't have the first fucking clue how he would make it through the night, let alone to the Lughnasadh ritual, with Miranda tucked at his side. But for the first time in months, the dark needs of his soul didn't terrify him. Sheer panic over what Drandar would do to Miranda if he found her first overrode Cian's fear of himself. If Drandar had already been to her, hurt her in any way, Cian would rouse the fiends of hell to put an end to his sire. His grip tightened on the wheel, his knuckles straining white as he rounded the last turn onto Miranda's quaint street. Historical homes rose on spacious lawns, shaded by thick, gnarled trees that had seen as many years as the hand-hewn boards and fire-kiln bricks. Part residential, part commercial, the tiny square held charm, despite the looming shadows of the more modern side of town in the background. Birds twittered jauntily. The sun played hide-and-seek through a thick canopy of turning leaves. Another time, the knots in his body would have unraveled with a trek down this lane. Today, however, Cian observed it all in abstract, his thoughts swirling in a haze of confused trepidation. He'd forced her away this morning. How in the name of all things sacred was he supposed to take it all back? 94

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I'm sorry, Miranda, wouldn't cut it. Any man with half an ounce of sense would realize telling a woman he loved her and then cutting her off went too far. He could use the excuse that he was new to this game of love. But even that was weak. Insignificant when it came to the heap of hurt he'd piled on her. Ignorance didn't justify contemptuous behavior. Then there was still the very real problem with staying close to her. Not only did he have to concern himself with protecting Miranda from his father, but he also had to protect her from himself. Cian swooped into a parking space on the side of her house and slammed the gearshift into park. In a vain effort to collect himself, he took a few minutes to stare at the aged wall, the painted colonial blue sign that read, A Steppe in Time. When his pulse refused to settle, and the racket in his head didn't quiet, he thrust open the door and climbed out. His soul arced with savage fury, sensing the object of its desire behind the thick walls. Yet another grim reminder of the battle yet to come tonight. Steeling himself against the forceful tug of war in his spirit, he stalked up the pavestone walk to the shop's front door and let himself inside. The usual jangle of bells was like fingernails on slate. His already grated nerves flayed at the high-pitched sound. A quick scan of the immediate shelves of books yielded only Susan's dishwater blonde hair piled high atop her head. No sign of Miranda. Not at the cash register, not hunched over a small stack of unopened USPS boxes. 95

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He ground his teeth together and wound around a table of 1800s photo albums, approaching Susan. Headphones over her ears, she bobbed her head in time to a tune Cian couldn't hear. When he set his hand on her shoulder, she jumped so hard her hair came loose and fell into her face. As she whipped around, she pushed the unspectacular locks behind her ears. "Cian. Good gracious. You scared me." Her smile faltered as she plucked the headphones off, letting them dangle around her neck. "Where's Miranda?" he demanded. "A bit pissed off at you." Susan chuckled. "I'm not sure this is the best time." Cian shook his head, his annoyance mounting. He didn't have time for cat and mouse. His father could be here any minute. Might have already been. Miranda might now need help. If he wasn't too late period. "Now's fine. Where is she?" His brittle stare and edgy voice pushed Susan one step backward. The smile that had danced teasingly only seconds before trembled at one corner of her mouth. "I'll just—I, ah— I'll get her." As she turned, Cian caught her upper arm, drawing her back around to face him. "I'll get her. Is she upstairs?" "I'm right here, Cian. What do you want? A deaf man could hear you a mile away." From behind him, Miranda's voice rang out. Venom lurked in her words, and warning buzzed in his mind. This wouldn't go well. He should take her upstairs, where Susan and 96

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whatever clients might be browsing the taller racks, couldn't overhear their volcanic argument. He didn't smile as he swiveled around to meet her chilly stare. "We need to talk. Upstairs." "No." Miranda folded her arms beneath her breasts and shook her head. Determination glinted in her big brown eyes, along with her own flavor of anger. "Whatever you have to say, you can say here. Make it quick, I've got work to do." If it had been just the simple matter of telling her how wrong he'd been this morning, he would have dropped to one knee and spit out words until the tightness of her mouth smoothed and the same tears of joy he'd witnessed briefly returned to her eyes. It wasn't that easy, however. He couldn't just dump demons and incubuses and curses in Miranda's lap with Susan in earshot. Instead, he grabbed Miranda by the hand, ignored the way she dug at his fingers, and tugged her into a narrow reading alcove. There, he turned her around and set both hands on her shoulders. His gaze bore heavily into hers. "Has a man with long, white-blonde hair been here today about the Celt manuscript?" A frown puckered her brow before she let out a derisive snort and jerked from beneath his weighty hold. "I don't believe your nerve! If someone else is interested in the writings, it's none of your business. It isn't yours. I can sell it to whomever I want." Damn it. Cian clamped his teeth over an impatient oath and willed frustration aside. Another argument would only delay them further. He needed to get answers, get her out of 97

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here, before his evil desires clawed their way free. "This is important, Miranda. He would have scars on his wrists. Big ugly scars that go all the way around and span the backs of his hands." "Take a piece of your own advice—go home." She threw her hands in the air and started for the archway that led back into her bookstore. "Stop." Harsher than he intended, the order came out strong, slicing through the air with the authority afforded to a five-star general. While he inwardly cringed, however, Miranda abruptly halted. She turned around, murder glinting in her narrowed gaze. "You have no right to tell me what to do. Now get out, before I call the cops." Cian heaved a sigh and shoved a hand through his hair. "You're right." He could tell she hadn't been prepared for him to agree. Her eyes widened. For a millisecond, her mouth formed a surprised "O." Then she shook her head, the longer lengths of her hair dancing against her cheeks. She tucked one thick chunk of blond behind her ear. "Where do you get off? You kick me out like yesterday's trash and waltz in here demanding to know if your competition has inquired about a book. You're crazy." "Yes." He supposed he was a little nuts. Okay, a whole lot of nuts. He couldn't think straight long enough to sound intelligent in his own mind, let alone to someone else. "But I need to know." 98

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"Fine, if it will make you leave, yes, there was a man in here about forty-five minutes ago, asking for any first-hand accounts we had about the Celts. He talked to Susan, not me." Alarm turned his pulse frantic. He reached for Miranda again, this time catching her by the fingers. Holding firmly, he took a step closer, minimizing the distance between them. "And she told him...?" "Nothing." Miranda pulled on her hand. Cian refused to let go. His fingers locked her in place, denying her the ability to run. "Are you sure she didn't tell him anything?" "She can't. She doesn't know I have them. Now will you please let me go?" Guilt sucker-punched him, the knowledge of what he was about to do more burden than he knew how to embrace. He had spent his life trying to maintain the balance of light and dark, or positive and negative. The few occasions doing so that infringed on someone else's freedoms had never been easy to accept...or forget. Knowing he was about to strip Miranda of her choices, that he couldn't explain the danger that awaited her, would haunt him to the end of his days. He gave her a sad, distracted, shake of his head and tightened his grip until his fingers pressed against bone. "You're coming with me." As he strode to the entryway, Miranda shrieked, "What? Where?"

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"To Scotland. Call it a vacation. Call it celebrating my birthday. Call it whatever you want, but we're leaving tonight. Susan has a key, right?" Miranda's nails dug into the flesh on the back of his hand. "Let me go, Cian. I swear to God I'll scream." Pain pricked his skin. The biting stings aroused the dangerous part of his being. For one terrifying moment, all he knew was the swift, and potent, need to kill. He whirled on Miranda, striding into her space so purposefully she scrambled backward until her back hit the wall. Eyes wide, she stared. He knew then she saw what he wanted so desperately to keep from her. That she witnessed the dark hunger eating away at his soul. And to Cian's surprise, Miranda didn't shrink away in fear. Surprise etched into wide round pupils, but she didn't yelp. Didn't catch her breath. She stared, that startled light slowly assuming overtones of compassion. Beneath the pity he didn't want, nor did he deserve, understanding sifted into her delicate features. Her voice lowered to a faint whisper. "You meant it didn't you? The bit about protecting me—you're in trouble, aren't you?" The question smacked into him, zapping through his hateful thoughts and pulling him back to the reality of their circumstances. With a wary glance around the shop, he gave her a clipped nod. "That's why you wanted me to leave. Why you couldn't promise you'd come back." He couldn't lie to her, and her assumptions were so close to the truth it shamed him. Again, he nodded, tugging on her 100

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hand once more. They needed to leave this place. Drandar had been here once. If he'd heard much more than the tail end of Cian's conversation with Rhiannon, Miranda was in real danger. Not just the possibility. Actual moments between life and death. He sighed. "So are you, Miranda. Now get the manuscript and come with me." "Let me tell Susan—" "Get the damned manuscript," he growled. She shot him a defiant glare, but stopped fighting against his tight hold on her wrist. "It's under the cash register." He released her hand and slid his palm to the small of her back, guiding her across the open floor to the center island and the antique brass register. Her hips swayed beneath his fingertips, the slide of her skin an enticement to his libido. He loved touching her. Loved the power and strength in her muscles that her petite body disguised. Treasured the absolute trust she gave so willingly when he least deserved it. He also felt the anger that lurked just beneath her composed exterior. For whatever reason, she had conceded, but he didn't fool himself into believing her acceptance went beneath the surface. Miranda wouldn't be satisfied with empty explanations once they crossed the threshold to the bright sunlight outside. Cian prepared for the inevitable confrontation. It would come. It was only a matter of how soon. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Eleven "I'm still waiting." Miranda glanced out her peripheral vision at Cian's tight profile. The muscles in his jaw worked, he tightened his hands on the steering wheel, and begrudgingly dipped his head in a slow nod. Twenty miles, and he'd done nothing to explain why he'd dragged her out of the shop, or just what kind of danger he was in. Let alone what she faced. She'd chewed on the inside of her cheek so long she tasted the faint tang of blood. "I know." "Then maybe you better get to talking," she ground out tightly. "If I'm in danger, I have a right to understand the threat." Again, he nodded long and slow. His heavy sigh filled the quiet car. "We have eight minutes till we get to my house. We'll talk about it there." Eight more minutes of torture. She dug her fingers into the passenger door's handgrip. Worry tempered her initial fury, but it also compounded the headache that had set in once she'd managed to curb her morning tears. Things like this only ever happened in movies. Someone found an old book, a hidden gospel, notes on buried treasure, and suddenly the world turned into chaos. Her life, until Cian had entered it and turned it topsy-turvy, was calm and quiet. She ran an antique bookstore, for God's sake. It wasn't as if she had rowdy clientele or guarded State secrets. 102

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As if he understood her agitation, Cian reached across the center console and placed his hand over hers. Strong fingers gave her smaller ones an affectionate squeeze. "I need you to trust me." His voice was a low murmur, more a plaintive request than any firm declaration. Completely unlike the Cian she understood. Uncertain how to respond, she turned her hand over and laced her fingers through his. He glanced her way for the briefest of seconds, a soft smile upturning the corners of his sensual mouth. He hadn't shaved. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw, changing her clean-cut professor into a man who carried an air of dangerous strength. Maybe it was the hardness that had settled into his eyes, the complete lack of his jovial nature—she couldn't say. Whatever it was, she became aware of Cian on a whole new level as he maneuvered the pickup around a busy corner. Brief glimpses of a rough childhood, combative teenage years, and skirmishes with the law crept into her mind. That hard edge came from somewhere, and though he hid it well day to day, he wore it almost too easily. A misplaced thrill of delight trickled down to her toes. He'd always made her feel safe, always gave off a protective air. Right now, he looked like a man capable of killing. She shouldn't find that attractive at all. Strangely, the touch of darkness seduced the all-too-feminine part of her soul that yearned for a man's protection. He nosed into his driveway and shut the engine off. For several drawn out seconds he sat unmoving, his hand firmly gripping hers, his gaze riveted on the unopened garage door. Then, with another weighty sigh, he turned to look at her. 103

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"I've been an ass, Miranda, but I need you to believe I never meant to hurt you." Her brow puckered with a confused frown. Yes, true, he had been. She was more concerned with explanations about the danger part than why he'd walked out twice and forced her to leave after making love to her until she couldn't see straight. Before she could comment, he gave her hand a tug, released her fingers, and opened his door. "C'mon. Let's go inside." Miranda slid out of the truck, feeling very much like she didn't want to walk through Cian's front door. Instinct warned her whatever she was about to hear, she wouldn't like. Dread weighed down her legs. Her heart tolled an ominous, heavy beat. He waited at the landing, front door braced open, one foot inside. When she stepped through the doorway, he fitted his hand into the small of her back and guided her all the way in. The beautiful redhead sat on the couch, and as Cian shut the door, she turned to give Miranda a warm smile. "Miranda, my sister, Rhiannon." She returned Rhiannon's welcoming smile with one of her own, albeit Miranda's was more hesitant. Shaky, as the fierce jealousy she'd experienced brought uncomfortable heat to her cheeks. She'd wanted to strangle that woman. Had envied her beyond all rationality. "Please to meet you, Miranda." "Nice to meet you too." 104

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Good thing she was Cian's sister, because her voice held just as much beauty as the rest of her. A man would have to be dead to not appreciate every stunning nuance. No way could any woman compete. At the intimate brush of Cian's thumb against the base of her spine, Miranda's smile took on genuine strength. She glanced up at him to find his eyes on her, his look possessively appreciative. Tingles skittered through her, soothing her apprehensions by several degrees. "We're going to go talk for a little bit," he explained as the pressure in his hand steered Miranda toward his bedroom. Rhiannon's knowing gaze settled on Miranda. "I locked Drandar out. The plane is on standby. If we're going, we have to be on it by nine tomorrow morning." Cian stopped at his doorway, his expression thoughtful. He glanced over his shoulder, his response slow, as if he chewed it over while it tumbled free. "Thank you." With that, he ushered Miranda into his room and shut the door behind them. For a moment, he stood in front of the thick barrier, looking lost. A frown settled into his handsome features, shadowing his gaze. "I don't really know where to begin." Miranda eased onto the edge of the bed and offered him the Celt writings. "Start with these. They're what's causing the problem, aren't they?" Yes, and no. Cian took the folder and tossed it lightly on the table by the window. "They are part of the problem, but not all." 105

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He kicked the chair toward the bed with his toe. Dropping into it, he bent forward, forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped between his knees. He studied her face, the creases on her forehead that begged for explanations. What to say? Blurting out the truth would make him sound insane, and Miranda didn't need any more reasons to question why she'd ever gotten involved with him. "There are...people...who would kill for those writings." People—yes, leave the demons out. No need to send her running for the door with his first sentence. She blinked, then stared with wide eyes. "Who?" He shook his head. "People who believe in the power of the runes. The ritual it describes." "Zealots?" "That's one way to put it. Another is those who believe in magic. Dark magic. People like—" "Drandar, who she locked out?" Thank the sacred trees Miranda possessed a quick mind. Rhiannon had given him an out he hadn't even expected. He didn't have to explain Drandar was his father. That Miranda knew the name, associated it with the situation, was enough. "Yes." Leaning back, he ran a hand down the whiskers he'd neglected to shave. "Why's he after you then? I mean, you just found out I had that. How could he know?" Damn. She wasn't going to make this easy, and for the life of him, he had no idea how to put it all into words. He shifted his weight in the chair. "Drandar is my father, Miranda. One 106

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of my siblings told him when I raved about what you'd discovered." There. Enough of the truth without sounding like a nut job. He gave himself a mental pat on the back and let out a relieved breath. "Your father?" she cried in disbelief. "Your father would hurt you over ten pages of ancient runes?" He let out a snort. "Suffice to say we don't have a very amicable relationship." "No, shit." The frown that hovered on her brow pulled tighter. "That's crazy." Nowhere near. He stood, restless energy infusing his veins with the uncomfortable mixed desires Miranda's presence stoked. Pacing, he kept his thumbs tucked into his belt loops to curb the fierce urge to touch her, to hold onto her neck until her lips turned blue and her breath ceased its gentle fall. "Can't you call the police or something?" "And tell them what? That my father believes this document holds ancient power and he would murder for it? That I don't know where my father is? That I have no proof he's done anything to threaten me directly?" She concurred with a soft grunt. He pivoted when he reached the door and started back across the room. "It's no lie though. Fanatical as it sounds, Drandar would do anything to get his hands on this document. And you aren't safe as long as it's not locked up." Rather, as long as the magic it contained lay dormant. Once expelled, the manuscript would mean nothing to Drandar. The mortals the writing freed, however—Cian wished he could 107

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guarantee Miranda would never face harm. Truth was, as long as Drandar existed, the threat remained he could retaliate against any one of them for enacting the magic. The only thing that performing the ritual would change, was the danger she faced from Cian. He turned to her, his gaze connecting with her big brown eyes. "You aren't safe with me. You aren't safe away from me. The only way I can protect you, Miranda, is if you come with me to Scotland and put this manuscript in the library it belongs in." She drew back, her expression one of surprised disbelief. "Why do I have to go?" With an inward curse, Cian moved to the table near the window, braced his hands on the scarred surface, and stared out at the fountain in his back yard. He couldn't look her in the eye and lie. "If you're with me, I can keep you safe." "I don't understand, Cian." Exasperation turned her voice harsh. "Six months ago you left me in the middle of the night. You did the same thing last night. You want me to believe you walked out last night because I'm in danger, yet what about the last time?" A fist wound around his gut as the walls around him closed in. He bowed his head, exhausted by everything. Nothing made sense anymore, and yet it did. His head felt like Swiss cheese, and lack of sleep made the rest of his body feel like he was walking through quicksand. Gentle fingertips slid down his back as Miranda stepped up behind him. Quietly, she asked, "Are you okay, Cian? Really...okay?" 108

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Great. She already thought he'd lost it. Shaking his head, he confessed quietly, "I can't do this anymore. I'm tired." Of evading her questions, dodging her rightful answers, and fighting both halves of his being. Right now, he would trade his eternal soul for a few hours of complete peace. Just to be a simple, mortal man. Her arms wound around his waist, and she pressed her cheek into his back. "You want me to go to Scotland with you." "Yeah," he murmured. The whys didn't matter—he couldn't find the right words. She glided one hand soothingly up and down the length of his back. "I have one question right now. The rest can wait a little while. This morning...Did you mean what you said about loving me?" His heart cracked at the hopefulness in her voice. He turned in her arms, cupped her delicate face in both hands, and lifted her gaze to his, willing her to believe. "Every bit of it, Miranda." "Then why?" She didn't need to elaborate. He knew the scope of the question. Why had he left? If he loved her, why had he walked away? Cian answered with the only words he could find. "Because I'm afraid I'll hurt you." Her gaze softened with emotion, the light in her eyes becoming richer, more intoxicating. She touched gentle fingertips to his cheek. "Life's too short to live like that, Cian. I put myself out there. I gave you my heart. I fell in love with 109

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you too, but I'm more afraid of not knowing where this might go, than I am of giving it a chance." Where it would go, if he didn't do something about his despicable half, was unspeakable. He reached deep inside himself, pulling on the lightness that had become quagmired by his demonic blood. Fighting to hold on to every ounce of goodness he possessed, he dropped his mouth to hers and drew her into a lingering kiss. Desire flared the instant her tongue touched his. He groaned, the kiss he had planned as tender, taking on more demand. She gave willingly, and before Cian could realize what was happening, his lungs ached for air, and his blood ran uncomfortably warm. He tore his mouth from hers, gulping in deep breaths. Miranda's hand slipped into his. Moving backward, she escorted him to the bed. "You look exhausted. You're not making a lot of sense, either." "I am. I know." "Why don't you lie down with me? Clear your head. Get some sleep. You look like you need a week's worth." She sat on the mattress, patted the wide space beside her. "We can talk about everything else on the flight over." "You're going?" He couldn't believe it. No fight, no protest. She was going, simple as that. Damn. "If this is what I have to do to prove you and I are worth working for, I'll go. And if we're in danger, we'll get through it together. I'm not afraid of you, Cian, or of your father. You can't hurt my heart any more than you have, and I know you won't let him near me." A lighthearted smile restored the 110

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warmth to her soulful eyes. "But I do expect forty kinds of elaboration once we get on that plane." Nodding, he yielded to the pull of her hands and collapsed into the mattress beside her. One inhale of her perfume, and that beast rose with vicious hunger. His body tensed. He ground his teeth together. She ought to be afraid. Very afraid. Miranda snuggled into the crook of his shoulder and flattened her hand over his chest. "Just hold me for a while. Let me bask in the good things before I have to confront all the rest." Nodding, he stroked her short hair, traced his fingers down the length of her elegant neck. He didn't know how long he lay there, battling the polarized needs of his soul, but Miranda's breathing leveled out, and beyond his window, late afternoon sunlight gave way to shades of lavender. A noise at his door brought his head off the pillows. He squinted into the deepening shadows to find Rhiannon in the doorway. With a sad smile of understanding, she lifted a hand in a non-threatening gesture and revealed a pistol. Assuming the chair near the window, she laid the weapon in her lap and gestured for him to lie back down. More relieved than he could ever imagine he might be, Cian dropped his head into the pillows and closed his eyes. For a while, he could revel in the warmth of Miranda's body tucked against his. Lose himself in the sweetness of her perfume. While a bullet wouldn't kill him, if his subconscious stirred against his will and he attempted to harm Miranda, a 111

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gunshot would knock sense back into him before it was too late. Turning on his side, his back to his sister, he curled one arm protectively around Miranda's waist. Together... No one word had ever held as much meaning. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Twelve From her seat across the wide custom aisle, Miranda stared at Cian's harsh profile, watching the agitated way he thumped the back of his hand against his knee. Behind him, the heavens twinkled with bright moonlight and wispy clouds streamed past the private jet's window. Her reward for patient understanding had been more of his damnable silence. On the drive to the airport, she'd managed to pull a few more bits and pieces from him. Enough to understand this spur of the moment trip to Scotland put them in the heart of danger. Enough to comprehend that she'd agreed to a hell of a lot more than she'd believed. Cian's family believed in magic. She didn't know how she felt about that, whether to write it off as silliness or whether to respectfully disagree. She supposed it really didn't matter what she thought of their faith. Other people shared the same beliefs, people like his father who zealously sought the tools that would give them supernatural power. Regardless of sensibility or logic, the fact remained, she was in danger and heading straight for the lion's den. Worse, she'd overheard Cian and Rhiannon talking, and the brother Miranda had met the year before, Belen, was evidently going to be present. She shuddered, recalling his sultry good looks and too-silver tongue. He'd come on to her like a leech, doing his best to suck her attentions off Cian. Even went so far as 113

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to palm her breast when he cornered her coming out of the ladies' room at the piano bar they'd visited. She'd rather slice her wrists than spend time alone with the all-too-likeable, yet craftily dangerous, Belen. The man was sin served on a golden platter. For that possibility alone, Miranda wanted to kick Cian in the shins. All the rest of the half-explanations and evasion tactics made her want to throw bricks at his head. Two things, however, kept her from doing just that. The first, she'd spent seven normal months with this man. Not in any casual, see-you-on-the-weekend way, but complete inseparability. From the moment they'd met, they'd barely taken time to breathe away from one another. She'd learned deep secrets, harbored dreams. He had bent over backward to see to her desires. Not just the physical ones either, though he'd attended to those meticulously. Cian treated her like a princess. Took care of her in ways she hadn't realized she wanted. His natural masculine dominance so suited her buried femininity that he completed her. The second reason she didn't launch her shoe at his forehead came with something he confessed that she was certain he hadn't intended to let slip. Buried between the bits and pieces he did offer, she found particles of his past. A childhood where he'd been taken away from his father to literally save his life. Most of his existence had been spent running from that man's terror. She couldn't imagine living a life like that. How it must feel to have been truly hated from birth. 114

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The years of pain and abuse etched into Cian's face, shadowing the brilliance of his eyes. Now, he was running again, only this time he faulted himself for the danger he inadvertently thrust on her, and instead of running away, he barreled straight toward confrontation. Her heart went out to him, and that empathy overrode the instinctual urge to deal him physical damage for stringing her along like this. Hell, he had hardly touched her since they'd woken in each other's arms and she managed to steal one sweet kiss before he leapt from the bed, insisting they leave. "How are you doing?" Rhiannon appeared from the private room in the back of the plane and sat down at Miranda's side. In her hand, she held a cold can of Coke, which she offered to Miranda. Miranda accepted the drink, popped the top, but kept it in her lap. "To tell you the truth, I've been better." Cian's gaze snapped her way, Other than the tightening of his mouth, he made no indication he'd heard her gruff response. Just as quickly, he focused on a scratch on the back of his hand. Rhiannon leaned in beside Miranda's shoulder and lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper. "Come to the bathroom in five minutes." She gave Miranda's knee a pat and abruptly departed, returning to the same room at the tail end of the plane as she'd come from. Truth to tell, if it hadn't been for Cian's sister, Miranda would have told them both to go to hell hours ago. Within a few minutes of departing, Rhiannon proved she was every bit as lovely on the inside as the flawless skin she wore. She'd 115

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gone out of her way to engage Miranda in mundane conversation, bent over backward to relax the oppressive tension that hung over them. Had they met under different circumstances, Miranda would have instantly liked her. As it was, the situation—particularly Cian's ever-increasing distance—made it difficult to cozy up to Cian's sister. She waited what she thought was the appropriate passing of time, then eased herself from her plush leather seat. All the way down the aisle, the weight of Cian's stare bored into her. Her skin prickled with awareness, her nerves stuttered in anticipation. Would he come after them? Would Rhiannon face down his surly temper? Two doors stood opposing one another at the end of the aisle. One Rhiannon had used liberally throughout the long flight; the other Miranda presumed was the bathroom. She turned the handle, eased the door open to a spacious toilet, sink, and small shower, and found Rhiannon sitting on the overturned trashcan. She gestured for Miranda to take the commode. "I didn't want to say this in front of Cian, and I don't have much time here." Intrigued, Miranda sat on the edge of the porcelain seat. "I'm listening." "I don't know how much he's told you—he won't say. And I'm aware he's being a bit of an ass." "A bit?" The words popped out before Miranda could stop them. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her hand as heat crawled into her cheeks. "I'm sorry." 116

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The intricate tattoo adorning Rhiannon's face crinkled as she grinned. "Don't be. He's my brother, but I've got eyes. I don't know how you've kept so calm." Her amusement smoothed into a calm expression, her gaze earnest. "Listen...today..." A tiny frown marred her forehead, and she pushed her thick thigh-length braid over one shoulder. "I'm not going to lie to you, Miranda. Today isn't going to be easy. And I suspect Cian's behavior is only going to get worse." "What is going on, exactly?" Rhiannon shook her head. "We don't have time for all that right now. I'll talk to you at the house later. Hang in there, please. My brother needs you." Perplexed, Miranda frowned. "I don't want to scare you, Miranda. Has Cian mentioned Taran at all? Or Brigid? Or, for that matter, Belen?" She couldn't control the shudder that inched down her spine. "I've met Belen. I understand he's your family, but I've no desire to see him again." "Good." Miranda blinked. Good? This was Belen's sibling. Where did that come from? "Belen—the three of them for that matter—have some...issues. They are close to our father, and I suspect Taran is the one who told Drandar about your manuscript. Stay away from them. If Cian is behaving worse than he is right now, just stick with me." Goose bumps crawled down Miranda's arms, the note of warning in Rhiannon's voice ringing clear. She opened her 117

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mouth to question Rhiannon's meaning, then fell silent as the other woman raised her hand to beg Miranda off. "It's a lot to take in, and with our arrival so close, I can't get into it all. I don't know how much time we'll have together when we get to the house, but I wanted to make my siblings' natures clear if Cian hadn't already." "No, he's said nothing." Rhiannon sighed. She glanced at the closed door, her expression laden with sympathy. Quietly, she added, "There's something else." Miranda tensed. After all she'd heard, she wasn't sure she could deal with anything else. Slowly, Rhiannon swung her gaze back to Miranda's. This time, sadness reflected in her clear blue eyes, sorrow that set off a buzz of alarm in Miranda's brain. "In case my brother hasn't told you, he cares for you deeply, Miranda. There's a chance..." She fell silent, her hands twining restlessly in her lap. "He's in a lot of danger. The writing you found...If Drandar shows up..." As she swallowed, steely determination crept into her delicate mouth. When she spoke again, her voice was firm. Nothing like the warm and friendly tones she'd used earlier, or the concerned warning that had lingered seconds ago. "Miranda, he might not be with us in the morning. I don't want to leave you unprepared." The room swayed drastically beneath Miranda's feet. She gripped at the sink to stop the dizzying sideways twist and forced herself to count her breaths. Cian had mentioned the 118

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danger, had even hinted he might not come back to Maine. But she'd never suspected he was talking about dying. Jesus, why didn't these people call the authorities? Someone had to be able to do something. Stop this crazy fuck, Drandar. She ground her teeth together, suddenly angry with all of them. Stubbornness she could understand. At times, she'd been known to give a mule a good run for its money. But this defied stubborn by leaps and bounds. "Can't you stop this?" she cried in frustration. "We are." Rhiannon reached across the scant distance between them and gave Miranda's knee a squeeze. "That's why you're here, why the manuscript is so important. You'll understand more, I promise." "When?" She moved her leg, shrugging off the woman's attempt at comfort. "When do I get concrete answers? No one's life is worth all this." The pilot's voice cut through the overhead speaker. "Mr. and Ms. McLaine, we are approaching our destination. Please prepare yourselves for our descent." "Damn," Rhiannon muttered beneath her breath. "Go on. I can't explain right now. I'll catch up with you at the house." Standing, she opened the door and ushered Miranda outside. With no other option, Miranda went, trudging down the aisle to her comfortable chair. She sank into the soft leather with a sigh. Cian looked up. His gaze narrowed in suspicion. Miranda merely smiled. It was her turn to hold the secrets, and damned if it didn't feel nice. The press of Miranda's thigh against Cian's was torture. As the family car wound around the footholds of the Scottish hills 119

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ten miles southwest of Thornhill, she leaned in closer to his side, taunting him with the soft press of her breast against his bicep. He gritted his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut tight. He couldn't touch her. Sleeping beside her had been a bigger mistake than he could have foreseen. For nearly twelve hours, he'd indulged in the feel of her curves melding against his, the press of her soft body as she snuggled close. Yet, he'd awakened with a black hunger, and the last several hours pushed him beyond all rational means. If he touched Miranda now, the remaining bits of his self-control would crumble. Regardless of Rhiannon, of the driver that had spent ten years with their family, Cian would murder Miranda right here. They could try to stop him, but his bloodlust raged too fierce. He needed escape. Freedom from the heady aroma of her warm skin. From the steady thump-thump of her pulse that crept beneath his conscious and rooted in, calling to his darker nature with each strong beat. He could taste the energy radiating off her. And that tempting flavor drew him one-step away from complete abandon. From the corner of his peripheral vision, he caught the uplift of her wondrous expression. Gone was the harsh light of annoyance, replaced by the brightness of curiosity as she surveyed the surrounding landscape. In the recesses of his mind, he recalled she'd never traveled out of the United States. It killed him that he couldn't share her fascination with his homeland or point out the landmarks as Rhiannon was doing intermittently. 120

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I'll make it up to you, sweetheart. When this is over, we'll spend however long you want, and I'll show you everything. If he came out of the ritual alive. Rounding another bend, the car straightened and began a sharp upward ascent. Cian cracked the window, desperate for the crisp, Scottish air. As he breathed in the earthen scents, the rising power in the land itself edged beneath his agitated nerves. Natives who followed the ancient Celtic ways prepared for the ritualistic bonfires that would dot the hillsides as they had since the dawn of time. They called upon the ancient ones, incorporeal beings that shared the same ties to the Aether realm as Cian's soul. He heard their rites; his spirit swayed with each incantation. A perfect state of being for the act he must accomplish tonight. But until then, he fought the very ability to draw in a normal breath. He glanced at his sister, searching her expression for the signs that she too struggled with the stream of rising power. Her normally bright blue eyes burned deep indigo. Her dainty mouth strained to hold a faint smile. She felt it. No doubt about it, the energy called to her wavering spirit as well. Which only reminded him that bringing Miranda here was a terrible idea. With his entire family under the influence of their immortal blood, her risk increased. He couldn't look after her as distracted as he was, let alone all the other reasons he didn't dare stay within twenty feet of her. He'd led her straight into a nightmare and hadn't even given her the ammunition of understanding. 121

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The car crested the hill, beginning a steep descent into the valley where the McLaine estate sat. He watched the stonework take shape, focused on the row of third-storey windows that glinted in the late morning light. Miranda's gasp, however, jerked his attention back to the car and the woman pressed into his side. Her hand touched his, soft fingers squeezed. "Is that your home?" Disbelief mixed with awe. His heart seized, the pressure behind his ribs sheer agony. He longed to escort her around the grounds, take her out in the golf cart and show her the crystal clear loch. She loved nature, and Sgail na Faileas, his family's estate, lay in the heart of it. Situated in the lush valley between two hills, mineral springs ran through the back acreage, wildlife flocked from the surrounding woods, and at night, the stars gleamed like diamonds. "Cian?" Miranda asked quietly, drawing his attention off the landscape and back to her big brown eyes. "This is yours?" "Yes." The hours of continued silence roughened his voice. "It's beautiful," she exhaled. Nodding, he cleared his throat. "Sgail na Faileas—Veil of Shadows. It's been in my family for centuries." Rhiannon tapped Miranda's arm and pointed out the passenger's side window at a tall pile of stone rubble that hugged the west side of the main house. "The original castle crumbled in 1762. The main portion of the house you see now was finished in 1768. In the middle 1800s, and again in the early 20th century, two additions were built." 122

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Miranda exhaled audibly. She tipped her gaze to Cian, once again quizzing him with silent questions. He'd never told her of his family's wealth, believing it was insignificant. He had never envisioned Miranda might someday have the choice of becoming part of his family, of sharing all this with her. Did she understand now? Did the plane, the private car, the monstrosity of a house make her realize he could offer her the world? Would it matter after tonight? Even if he did survive, would she want him? He swallowed down a lump of heartache and once again cursed the fates that had placed him on this earth. The car rolled to a stop, and it was all Cian could do to step out casually. He kept his hand tucked into Miranda's, despite the pain her touch lanced up his arm. With Rhiannon darting ahead of them to throw her arms around Daire, Cian escorted Miranda to the house. He kept going, past the siblings that lounged in the parlor off the main entry, up two winding flights of stairs, and down a darkened hallway. "Where are we going, Cian?" "Here." He stopped abruptly before the last door and pushed it open. As Cian had instructed before they left Maine, Daire left the hearth burning, giving warmth to this room in the unoccupied wing. The bed had been made, the room dusted, and atop the sitting table, a fresh-brewed pot of coffee waited. Cian released Miranda's hand and backed toward the door. "It's not safe for you out there, Miranda. I'll be back shortly." 123

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Even as he pulled the door closed and turned the lock, he knew he wouldn't return. Not until he could stand before her as a mortal man. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Thirteen Miranda stepped back from the lock that refused to give and rammed her boot into the door. It shook, the hinges rattled, but it remained firmly closed. "Damn you, Cian!" Four—four—hours he had left her in this room without even so much as a passkey to the bathroom. Not that she knew where the bathroom was, nor that she needed to use it. The point remained. The inconsiderate ass had pushed too far. As far as she was concerned, when he decided to show up again, she'd demand use of his car and take herself to the airport for an international flight home. Cian McLaine could rot in hell. Seething, she folded her arms beneath her breasts and paced the stone floor in front of the aged hearth. Un-fuckingbelievable. Who took a woman across an ocean, didn't speak the entire way, then locked her in a room hour after endless hour? Particularly with the parting remark, It's not safe for you. What made this room any more safe? She hadn't locked anyone out. No, she'd been locked in. Whatever sympathy she'd felt over his situation with his father vanished beneath a curtain of red fury. Cian was a dead man. Dead, dead, dead. And right now, she no longer cared whether that became a literal outcome or not. If his father didn't kill him, she'd make him wish he was dead. Her list of all the vile things she intended to spit in his face grew exponentially by the second. 125

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She stopped in front of the tall window with its ornate iron bars mounted into the exterior stone. Tipping her head, she looked around one steel column and stared at the surrounding landscape. On the higher hills, yellow-orange dots flickered in the gentle evening breeze. It dawned on her today was August first, and the day that pagans celebrated Lughnasadh. The fires marked the start of their ritual celebrations of the final fall harvest. A chill stole over her as the wind rattled the aged glass pane. Something clicked into place. Understanding she didn't want to possess. With the knowledge that Cian and his family must be preparing for their own ritual, came the first dose of true fear she'd experienced since he declared they were in danger. All along Cian had believed something would happen here. Now she understood why. He and his siblings intended to perform their own Lughnasadh rite. Not something Miranda cared to acknowledge. She could deal with Cian having different beliefs than herself. But, the way he'd been acting spun vivid images of Voodoo sacrifices and black magic. If there was any truth in metaphysical powers, she didn't want to be anywhere near that vile stuff. Nor did she want to admit that she'd fallen in love with a man who followed the practices. Her courage cracked, and to her shame, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, forbidding them to fall, but they spilled against her will. Sliding slowly down her cheeks, one hot trail to mark her shame after another. She never should have let him into her life again. Should have 126

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been content with the memories, the longings even, that wouldn't fade. Now, she was trapped in a foreign place, having not even told Susan where she was going. Cian's predictions that something would happen tonight only cemented her suspicion she had a role to play in that event. A role she wanted nothing to do with. Maybe even one that would bring about her death. Surely, Cian wouldn't... She bowed her head against the cool windowpane and hugged herself tight. No. She wouldn't let fear convince her that Cian would subject her to deliberate harm. He'd been a complete ass these last few days, but the man she understood would never hurt her. He was worried, and he'd done the only thing he thought could protect her. Maybe if she told herself that enough times she might even believe it. A soft knock at her door spun her around. She swiped at her tears with the back of her hands and sniffed. Sarcasm rose to bury her tormented emotions. "I'm still here, Cian." "Miranda, it's me, Rhiannon. Open the door." Open the...Miranda frowned. "I can't. Your brother locked me in." "Damn it." The oath drifted through the door on a hiss. "Step back, just in case." One eyebrow quirked warily, Miranda didn't budge. Though she was already far away from the thick slab of wood, she was done with taking orders. 127

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Despite the complete lack of a key scraping in the lock, the handle turned, and the door swung gently open. It bumped into the wall behind it, swung partially shut, then stood motionless. Rhiannon entered, her long hair falling free around her shoulders, her intricate tattoos embellished with a fine tracing of indigo paint. "Come." She beckoned Miranda with a furious sweep of her hand. "Bring my mother's writings. There's not much time." "No." Miranda leaned against the wall. No way would she follow blindly when no one had given her the courtesy of explaining just what in the hell was going on. Clearly, Rhiannon hadn't expected a refusal. She blinked, then gave Miranda a double-take. "No? What do you mean, no? Cian's counting on you. I know he stuffed you in this room, I know I didn't make it up here earlier. But you know what this means to him. Don't do this, please." Pushing off the wall, Miranda shook her head again. "That's the problem. No one's told me anything that makes sense. All I know is that manuscript is potentially dangerous and we're in Scotland." Not quite the truth, but close enough. "Goddess above," Rhiannon muttered beneath her breath. Then more strongly, "Damn him." A thought Miranda wholeheartedly agreed with. "Miranda, I'm so sorry." She rushed across the room and grasped both Miranda's hands in hers. Long elegant fingers squeezed. "I had no idea. I would have explained if I'd known. And now there isn't time to tell you much more than you're desperately needed outside. The manuscript is a ritual, 128

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one capable of...damn it." Her hands gripped more tightly. "If I throw all this at you, you'll think we're all crazy." Miranda arched an eyebrow as if to say, I don't already? Tendrils of Rhiannon's long hair fluttered as she expelled a harsh breath. She grabbed Miranda firmly by one hand and tugged her toward the door. "You're just going to have to do this by fire. Trust me please. You can ask as many questions as you want after. Although I think you'll have all the answers you need." Digging her heels in, Miranda resisted the fierce pull on her arm. "Stop. I'm not doing this. I'm not going down to participate in some weird rite I know nothing about and don't believe in." She yanked hard, managing to free her wrist. Rhiannon cocked her head to the side, a quizzical light in her eyes. "You're not participating. You simply must be present." "I'm not?" "No. Who told you otherwise?" Eyes narrowed warily, Miranda searched Rhiannon's face for some sign she might be telling lies. But those blue eyes shone with genuine confusion. To insure there were no misunderstandings, Miranda repeated, "I don't have to say anything, do anything, or participate in any fashion? I just have to sit and watch?" Rhiannon bobbed her head quickly. "You'd be smart to stay out of Cian's sight too. He's got it in his head the writings are wrong, and that you don't need to be near any of it. Maybe he's right, but I'm not willing to take any chances. Will you come, please, Miranda?" 129

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The pleading light in the redhead's bright eyes wreaked havoc on Miranda's common sense. Instinct told her to sit down and dismiss this foolishness. But displaced guilt rose, arguing that she was being selfish. If she didn't have to do anything, then she wasn't part of the ritual. Observing harmed nothing. Under those circumstances, refusing a polite request was just a mix of stubbornness and affronted pride. She let out a heavy sigh, annoyed with herself for caving. "Fine. I'll come watch." "Oh, thank you!" Rhiannon's words came out in a relieved rush. She beckoned once more for Miranda to leave the spacious room. After grabbing the manuscript from atop the table, Miranda stepped into the hall. She looked around, observing the only light came from old sconces on the wall that held oil lanterns. Though overhead lights hung from the tall ceiling, strangely they were unlit. Farther down, the stairwell landing glowed an eerie yellow-orange, as if the rooms below were also lit in the same fashion. Rhiannon stalked past, her quick steps preventing Miranda from asking. In silence, she followed the long red hair that swished at Rhiannon's hips down the two flights of stairs, into the front foyer, and through a set of double doors to a long hall that Miranda suspected had once been a ballroom. As she'd guessed, the electric fixtures were dark, the only light she could find, that from similar kerosene lanterns. Odd. Though perhaps not, if one believed in the metaphysical and magic. 130

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"This way," Rhiannon called from a pair of frosted balcony doors. The crisp nighttime breeze rolled through, stirring heavy silk draperies. On the gust of fresh air, rode the faint scent of a nearby campfire. Miranda's nose twitched with the smoky fragrance as she stepped onto a tiled balcony that overlooked the house's rear property. Through the nearby trees that framed a manicured lawn, she glimpsed the flickering light of a bonfire. "Do you need a jacket? We'll be outside for a while." "No. I'm fine." Miranda rubbed her arms, the chill that prickled her skin having nothing to do with the Southern Highlands cooler weather. Her long sleeved sweater would keep her warm, so long as her anxiety didn't get any worse. "Okay. Hurry." Rhiannon took the wrought iron stairs two at a time, descending to the clipped lawn. Miranda followed on her heels, piqued by unexplainable curiosity. Truth was, as annoyed as she'd become, she wanted to know what had everyone in a ruckus. Wanted to understand why those hand-written pages of runes were so damned important and why they had Cian tied in knots. Rhiannon's pace quickened, forcing Miranda to jog to keep up with the redhead's long stride. They passed a fragrant bed of flowers, ducked beneath an old tree's gnarled branches. Though nature had invaded the path they took through the sparse woods, Rhiannon's pace never faltered. She maneuvered through the overgrown brush like stepping stones lay beneath her feet. Finally, when they'd gone so far that the house became merely a dim shadow, she stopped and pressed a finger to her lips, indicating Miranda should 131

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remain silent. When Miranda nodded in understanding, Rhiannon pointed at a four-foot wide tree stump. Miranda took a seat on the weather-smoothed surface. "You must stay here. The stump is protected. If something...goes...wrong...you'll be safe." Her whisper rustled with the stirring leaves. "Don't come out, Miranda. No matter what you see." With that, she plucked the ancient writings from Miranda's fingers and ducked around a dense row of thorn bushes. For a moment, Miranda panicked. From where she sat, no moonlight touched the ground. All around her shadows loomed, and the faint signs of active wildlife set her nerves on end. But then, as she glanced over the hedges, the breeze stirred once more, parting the overhead canopy. A sliver of silver filtered through the decaying leaves, illuminating Rhiannon's fire-red hair. Miranda focused on the gentle bob, watching her ascend a small rise to a slight plateau. Just ahead of her lithe outline, four tall megaliths rose around a low-burning fire. Surprised, Miranda squinted. Not merely four. Several more stood twice as tall as Rhiannon. Bare from the waist up, Cian rested a shoulder against one thick stone. The firelight bronzed his skin and shadowed the definition of his muscles. Despite her anger with him, Miranda's throat turned dry at the sight. Even if he currently defined the meaning of jerk, he was still magnificent. He accepted the manuscript from Rhiannon, bowed his head over the aged papers. She couldn't make out his words, but the sound of his voice echoed through the wilderness. 132

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Then, as if he had ordered them to do so, the overhanging branches parted, allowing the moonlight to spill into the grotto. She could see him clearly now, and as he turned, her eyes widened at the stunning artwork on his back. Painted in the same tinge of blue as the marks on Rhiannon's face, an elaborate Celtic knot spanned from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, nape of neck to waist. The exact same symbol drawn on the very last papyrus page. Miranda swallowed, sensing something. Something she couldn't define, but whatever it was, made the downy hairs on her arms stand on end. Cian bowed his head, and his voice reached her ears as clearly as if he stood at her side. [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Fourteen Cian glanced up from his mother's handwriting to study his siblings. The stones were prepared, the ground sanctified, and all around him, power hovered in the wings, humming between the tips of the monoliths, waiting to be summoned. They had gathered earlier to discuss the situation. Now, before he could take another step toward mortality, he must gain their unanimous agreement. "You've heard our mother's wishes as she wrote them. What have you decided?" He directed the question at Taran, the one most likely to object. As expected, his youngest brother snorted derisively. "I won't have any part of this. I've no desire to become a weak mortal. Our mother might have been the Selgovae's high priestess, but she chose her mate. You want me to turn against my father, the one who gave us this precious gift." Cian's temper threatened to defy his straining will. "Did you not hear what she wrote? She didn't choose Drandar. He chose her. Manipulated her with his demonic tongue and forced her into slavery. It was a ploy to give him control of our people!" "Our people didn't protest him, Cian," Brigid, Taran's closest ally, argued. "They accepted him as high priest. I hardly think they would've objected to his assuming leadership. Maybe if Mother had allowed it to happen, there would be more than just us remaining." 134

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Cian slapped the ancient papers against his thigh and swore beneath his breath. They would doom him. He'd known it would happen, but the bitter truth of his fate stung. He didn't want this life, and he shouldn't have to bear the burden so his siblings could frolic in the dark power. His gaze narrowed on Brigid. "If Mother had allowed it to happen, we wouldn't be here! We'd be beneath this ground, ashes, like the rest of our siblings." "Enough of this." Quiet, yet clear as ringing crystal, Isolde's command sliced through the night. All seven heads turned to stare at the woman who rarely interfered in sibling arguments. "And what does the pristine, flawless, Isolde have to say?" Taran's thick sarcasm revealed the deep hatred he felt for his sister. "I suppose you will give us another speech on the wrongness of killing? On how we should turn against our very natures and cherish life?" Cian had to give Isolde credit—she narrowed her gaze, but she refrained from spitting the cutting remark her sharp silver eyes conveyed. Instead, she lifted her pale blonde head and looked to Brigid. "Our mother divided the final ritual into eight parts. This is but one. If Cian wishes to be mortal, we've no right to deny him. It's my understanding nothing will happen to those of us who choose to keep immortality." Brigid nodded, but it was Daire, keeper of the balance, who spoke. "She's right. If we choose mortality, Drandar is avenged by our weakness. Our ability to die. If we choose to 135

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keep the demonic blood granted from our sire, he cannot be killed. It is an individual decision." "Who's to say we'll locate another chapter in the spell book anyway?" Rhiannon piped up from Daire's left, sharing an agreeing nod with her twin-like brother. "I concur," Belen murmured. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and gave Taran a knowing look. "If he wants to risk his life, let him. I, for one, have no objections." Bastard. Cian ground his teeth together. He threw Fintan a pleading look, begging his brother to intercede. Though Fintan stood at opposite poles from the three who worshiped their dark blood, for some reason, they respected him. Maybe because he rarely tried to force his beliefs on anyone. As if they all sensed Cian had deferred the final resolution to Fintan, the grotto filled with silence. "This is Cian's choice." Fintan met Cian's pleading gaze, understanding shining in his steely grey eyes. "It is his life. Further, the woman who he loves is in jeopardy as long as he bears the curse. As keepers of the ancient Celtic ways, we cannot influence those who have not made a choice. It is not our way." Taran made a sound very similar to a snarl. He smacked an open palm against his thigh and bolted to his feet. But he did not leave. He paced the small patch of barren ground before the Northern-most stone. In his furious march, Cian read his acceptance. Taran despised the truth, but he wouldn't hinder the rite. 136

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The way the fire suddenly snapped signaled the same resignation from Brigid. Tremendous power radiated from her fierce glower. Her silence, however, confirmed her acceptance. "Begin, brother," Isolde coached with a soft smile. "It is your rite to conduct." Belen smirked. "How can we when the woman isn't present?" "She is," Rhiannon and Daire said in unison. Cian's stare snapped to the trees. Miranda was here? Goddess above, he didn't want her to witness this. He'd specifically instructed Rhiannon to leave Miranda locked in her room. "Relax, Cian." Daire's smirk drifted to Belen. "She can't be harmed. She sits on the Sacred Tree." The old Oak that had withstood even the Roman's assault—Cian's interlaced lungs loosened a fraction. For years, the power in those branches had kept the Selgovae safe. Forced the invaders away. It stood straight and tall, protector to the people, until it splintered the night Drandar murdered their mother. Cian had hewn the cracked and toppled logs, crafting them into the very foundation of Sgail na Faileas. He didn't want Miranda seeing this, but as long as she remained there, she would be safe. From his brothers, from him, from their father. Miranda recoiled, torn between the desire to run far away from these people and the fascination of what would come next. On one hand, the discussion she was hearing bordered on sheer insanity. Immortality, demons, magic—who the hell 137

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believed in that stuff? On the other hand, eight people had just discussed the impossible with the same casualness as if they debated what to have for a family dinner. The subject was completely comfortable to them. Disturbingly natural. Before her eyes, the fire rose higher as Cian recited from the pages. "With birth comes the greatest power, for it is the very definition of life. Equal and counterpart comes death, and let those who came into this world this night direct the forces of nature. For it is channeled through the vessel that will experience both." A strange shimmy rasped through the leaves. With the rustling came the feeling she was being watched. Goose bumps prickled. Sudden chills made Miranda shudder. Today was Cian's birthday. If she'd understood that correctly, the runic writing described him. As if his mother had known. Impossible. Wasn't it? Her hair stirred like fingertips pulled through the short lengths. She jumped, a shriek rising to her throat. Before it burst free, a feminine voice caressed her ears. "Be strong." Holy shit. Miranda huddled into her arms as she nervously glanced around the woods. Now she was hearing things. The damned scene in front of her had her imagination working overtime. Muttering, she looked back at Cian, annoyed she'd missed several bits of what he'd said. "...of the Stones that stand around me accept this offering. Take that which would feast upon the blood of newborns and 138

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contain it in the earth. It is, it—" Cian's voice broke on a pained gasp. He pressed a hand to his chest. His shoulders heaved visibly as he drew in a breath. "It shall be...chained..." As Miranda looked on, Cian's pain became unmistakable. Though she could see only his back, when he lowered his hand to drop a page from the manuscript, his palm bore a stain of crimson. Her heartbeat jumped into double time. What the hell? No one had touched him. Why was he bleeding? His words became lost in the cacophony of her thoughts and her rising worry. Each syllable he recited made the next more difficult. Rhiannon, who stood before the stone directly opposite Cian, winced in rhythm with Cian's utterances. At his left, the blonde, Isolde, shed quiet tears. The world around Miranda shifted. Though nothing had physically moved, nothing had substantially altered, she recognized the difference. Life brimmed, little pulses of energy that resembled pricks of static electricity. Between those staccato spikes, a stifling nothingness lingered. As if something waited to choke out the budding zings. Cian recited another phrase that the buzzing in Miranda's ears drowned out. But his sharp cry of agony cut through the noise, bringing her to the edge of the thick trunk. He dropped to his knees, and Isolde buried her face in her hands. Miranda struggled to rise. Whatever was happening, she couldn't bear to sit here and watch Cian suffer. Yet despite her multiple attempts, she couldn't lift herself more than an 139

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inch off the trunk. An invisible force pressed on her shoulder—a hand. Yes, a hand squeezed. Hard. She gasped at the instantaneous sharp pain in her shoulder. She'd have called herself crazy, but no matter how illogical it sounded, she'd swear fingers dug into her skin. Touched bone. Twisting to escape the painful vise, she swatted at the air surrounding her left side. "Let me go, damn it! He needs me." She couldn't begin to explain how she understood what Cian needed. Never before had she been more convinced of something. He needed her. "Let. Me. Go!" As she screeched the order, the papers tumbled from Cian's hands, and he collapsed on the ground. He didn't move. Didn't so much as grimace. In that exact moment, the imprisoning hold on her shoulder disappeared. A cold wind blew through the trees, engulfing her sweater and chilling her all the way to the bone. It blew so hard she stumbled. "Go," the strange, feminine voice whispered with the leaves. Miranda didn't stop to consider the oddities taking place around her. Fear for Cian drove her forward. She bolted through the dense foliage, unmindful of the twigs that snapped across her face and arms. "Stay back!" Rhiannon cried as Miranda darted into the center of the standing stones. "Drandar's here. Go back to the tree trunk, Miranda!" 140

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Ignoring Rhiannon's warnings, Miranda dropped to her knees beside Cian's motionless body. She cradled his head in her lap, bent over to press a kiss against his parted mouth. "Cian," she whispered. "I'm here." His lips were cold. His skin as well. Across his chest, shallow cuts marked an X. Blood trickled over his ribs onto the grass beneath him. As Miranda's thumb grazed over the side of his neck, she realized his pulse had come to a standstill. "Cian!" This wasn't happening. He couldn't be... Miranda couldn't finish the thought. The idea that Cian might be dead shredded her heart and froze her lungs. Tears rose to her eyes, blurring his handsome face. "So sweet, isn't it?" An eerie, masculine voice echoed from beyond the ring of firelight. "Taran, would you like to claim her, or shall I?" "Father." A smile curved on Taran's mouth as he looked to the trees behind Miranda. No sooner had the word left Taran's lips did Isolde rise to her feet. She brought her hands before her belly, thumbs and forefingers touching, palms facing outward, and raised her arms above her head before separating them and letting them fall to her side. "Be gone, vile creature of darkness! You cannot harm those within these stones." "Daughter, you embarrass me," Drandar spit out with disgust. Brigid and Taran laughed openly, while Belen hid a smile. Miranda ignored the siblings surrounding her, unable to process anything beyond the man who lay unmoving in her 141

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arms. "Cian, don't do this to me," she begged. "Oh, God, don't do this to me." She cradled him close, resting her cheek against his. Tears fell freely, sliding from the corners of her eyes to wet his skin. He'd warned her he might not return. Rhiannon had mentioned he might die. Not once had she taken either of them seriously. Now, she wished she had. Wished she'd prodded someone into telling her things sooner. Wished she'd had time enough to tell Cian exactly how much of her heart he possessed. "Bring her to me, Brigid. Show the poor excuse of a daughter, Isolde, how to honor her father." Before Brigid could do more than push her hair out of her way, the moonlight shone brighter. No, not moonlight, Miranda realized as she lifted her eyes to the stars. An ethereal light, as pure and brilliant as new-fallen snow. Awestruck, she watched as it gathered from a disbursed cloud of tiny particles into a thick mass, then coalesced into the form of a woman. Long blonde hair floated around delicate shoulders, accenting the regal lines of her face. She wore a Mona Lisa smile that registered more in her blue eyes than on her mouth. In a heartbeat, Miranda made the connection. Except for the color of her eyes, the woman looked exactly like Isolde. Cian's mother. She reached an elegant hand toward her fallen son, her fingertips grazing his chest. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, shielding Cian's face from Miranda's searching 142

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gaze. Blue eyes locked on Miranda. "I am Nyamah, high priestess to the Selgovae. The fates have weighed my son's life against the future he might have as a mortal." Her voice carried to Miranda's ears, melodic, yet muffled, as if she spoke through a funnel that took the sounds and morphed them outward, separating them like the faint particles Nyamah had initially presented herself as. Miranda nodded, recognizing the same voice from the tree stump. "If it is your desire, I give him to you." Fresh tears burst free as Miranda furiously nodded. "Yes. Yes, please." This time, the smile touched Nyamah's mouth, lifting the corners and animating the numerous tattoos on her face. "It is a great responsibility to lead the Selgovae. This will fall to you, as his equal, as a member of my family." Unable to speak through the emotion that clogged her throat, Miranda nodded again. Nyamah stroked Miranda's cheek, a caress that lacked substance and felt more like a whisper. Then she drew back, gliding away from Miranda and Cian to touch each one of her children's heads before she drifted closer to the stars. She looked to the atmosphere, the treetops that kissed the sky. "You cannot harm them, Drandar. I will not ward them all, but this pair belongs to me." As an angry hiss slithered through the thick branches, Nyamah disappeared. Cian gasped. His lashes fluttered, then lifted, and his gaze locked with Miranda's. Wonder and disbelief filled bright green eyes. 143

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He lifted an unsteady hand to touch the side of her face. "You're here." "Yes," Miranda choked through her tears. "I'm here. Always." [Back to Table of Contents]

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Chapter Fifteen One hundred feet away from the circle of nine stones of power, Cian sat atop a toppled monolith with Miranda cradled against his chest. The breeze blew through her short hair, tickling his chin and filling his nose with the scent of her citrus shampoo. He inhaled deeply and reveled at this, the first moment he had experienced in months, where being close to her didn't fill him with horrific desires. She was soft and warm, and he ached to make love to her. He nuzzled the side of her face with his cheek. "I don't deserve you." Miranda chuckled as she lifted their interlaced hands and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "I wouldn't go that far. But for the next few months I expect some major ass kissing." Emotion surged through him, constricting his chest. After everything he'd put her through, it was a miracle she didn't hate him. That she was still sitting here with him blew his mind. Were there roles reversed, he wasn't sure he'd have made the same decisions. She stirred, twisting her body so she fit more snugly between his outstretched legs. Her palm grazed down the center of his chest, and her soulful brown eyes lifted to his. "I love you." No. Were the situation the other way around, he'd have done exactly the same thing. He knew it then, as certainly as he knew what he'd been through tonight had freed him. He dusted his lips over the crown of her head. "I love you too." 145

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"Let me get this straight." A soft laugh drifted off her lips. "The ritual wasn't designed for you, but just for the holiday. And since you're all born on holidays, any one of you could have performed it?" He nodded. "Right. Drandar impregnated our mother so that she would birth a child on each holiday. She tricked him eight times before he realized she was accumulating the power to destroy him." Cian cringed at the shudder that rolled through Miranda's shoulders. "And the circle," she gestured to the standing stones, "That's where he killed the infants who didn't survive?" Again, he nodded, albeit more slowly. Centuries had worn the deaths into numbness, but hearing Miranda voice the bloody history of his tribe roused all the buried feelings. Eight infants, also his siblings, had lost their lives after only taking a few breaths. The tribe celebrated the spilling of their blood. Revered Drandar's growing might. All except Cian's mother whose phenomenal power granted her the ability to shield herself from his dark intentions. "And his purpose?" Miranda asked in a whisper. "To create a tribe like my sisters and brothers. Most especially like Brigid, Taran, and Belen, men and women who embraced the same thirst for blood and immortal power." He wound his arms around her more tightly as another shiver worked down her spine. "Why were they so upset? This was your choice, as others said." 146

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"Because..." Cian shifted her, pulling her further upright and twisting her more fully toward him so he could nibble at her sweet lips. "Drandar bound my mother's spirit to the earth." Taking a moment to enjoy the softness of her mouth against his, he let a kiss linger before continuing, "If the rituals are completed, my mother's power will be restored and she'll destroy Drandar. Then she can rest in peace." "Mm," Miranda murmured as Cian suckled at her upper lip. Her distraction was evident in the way her fingers curled into his forearms. The quickening of her breath. "And you? Why did she ward you?" He trailed the tip of his tongue over the soft fullness of her lower lip. "I'm her firstborn son. The first she succeeded in secreting away." Miranda resituated herself, straddling his lap and looping her arms around his neck. "She gave you to me, you know." No, he hadn't known, and hearing that his mother had surrendered his keeping to Miranda swelled his chest to painful limits. Nyamah loved all her children, but he had been the one she visited with the longest when she managed to find a few moments to sneak away and see her children the old woman of the woods raised. She had always favored Cian. Maybe because he lacked the powers the others possessed, maybe because as the oldest he understood the role of mother most and craved what he couldn't have. He didn't know. Still he recognized the meaning in his mother's gift. She approved of Miranda. Not just for him. As part of the tribe that she had loved and served. 147

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"What do you intend to do with me?" he murmured in a hoarse voice. "Oh, I don't know." A smile crept into her big brown eyes, and she slid a delicate palm down his chest. Her fingertips danced tauntingly over his stirring cock. "I suppose I could find a use or two." With a low groan, Cian wound his arms around her tiny waist and kissed her thoroughly. His thoughts blurred, the slide of her tongue against his more intoxicating than any fermented drink. Hunger sparked in an instant, the need to feel her body gliding against his, to experience her with the newness of mortality, igniting like the logs that crackled in the distance. His hands threaded through her hair, tipped her head back to claim her more deeply. Miranda broke the kiss and eyed him warily. "Are you certain you're done with plotting ways to kill me?" Cian couldn't hold back a soft chuckle. Brushing the tip of his nose against hers, he grinned. "I assure you there are many, many things I want to do to you." He dipped his head to give the delicate skin along her throat a sharp nip. "Killing you isn't anywhere on the list." "Good," she murmured huskily. Flattening her palm against the center of his chest, she pushed him back onto the rock. Her impish smile lighted in her eyes as she slid her hands over his abdomen. "Because I've thought of one, very important, use for you." One palm slipped lower to stroke his hardened cock. "Do tell," Cian managed through a closing throat. 148

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Bending forward, she dragged her breasts over his chest as she inched her way to his mouth. "I want to make love to you on this rock." He groaned softly, his body answering like a snapping whip. Dipping his fingertips beneath the hem of her sweater, he stroked her trim sides with the pad of his thumbs. His gaze latched onto hers. In those soulful depths, love shone bright, love he had nearly destroyed. Love he couldn't live without. "Miranda?" he whispered, suddenly in need of something deeper, something more binding than the simple words I love you. A smile drifted across her swollen lips. "Yes?" "I want you to be my wife." For a frightening moment, her smile slipped. His heart skipped several beats. Silently he cursed himself for leaping way ahead. When tenderness infused her expression and tears touched the corner of her eyes, the instantaneous knot behind his ribs unwound. He expelled the breath he'd been holding, closed his eyes in relief. Soul-deep hunger ignited, only this time, it carried nothing of the dark horrific taint. Just the need to love her thoroughly. Until the end of his mortal lifetime. "If you're going to be there when I wake up, I can agree to that." Lightheartedness restored, Cian barked a laugh. He lifted up, latched his teeth into her lower lip, and with gentle pressure tugged her down against him. "I'll be here, sweetheart. Always." **** 149

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A word about the author... Claire Ashgrove has been writing since her early teens and maintained the hobby for twenty years before deciding to leap into the professional world. Her first contemporary novel, Seduction's Stakes, sold to The Wild Rose Press in 2008, where she continues to write steamy, sexy stories for the Champagne and Black Rose lines. Adding to these critically acclaimed romances, Claire's paranormal romance series, The Curse of the Templars, will debut with Tor in January 2012. For those who prefer the more erotic side of romance, she also writes for Berkley Heat under the pen name Tori St. Claire. Claire lives on a small farm in Missouri with her two toddler sons, fifteen horses, four cats, and five dogs. In her "free" time, she enjoys cooking, winning at rummy, studying ancient civilizations, and spending quiet moments with her family, including the critters. She credits her success to her family's constant support and endless patience. To learn more about Claire, visit her on the web at www.claireashgrove.com, or www.toristclaire.com, and at the Cascade Literary Agency blog site, cascadeliteraryagency.blogspot.com. [Back to Table of Contents] 151

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Read More from Claire Ashgrove at The Wild Rose Press Seduction's Stakes Champagne Rose, 2009 All I Want for Christmas...Is Big Blue Eyes Champagne Rose, 2009 Timeless Valentine Champagne Rose, 2010 A Christmas to Believe In The Three Kings, Book III Champagne Rose, 2010 Waiting for Yes Champagne Rose, 2011 Misunderstanding Mason Champagne Rose, 2011 A Broken Christmas Champagne Rose, 2011 [Back to Table of Contents]

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Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication. For other wonderful stories of romance, please visit our on-line bookstore at www.thewildrosepress.com. For questions or more information contact us at [email protected]. The Wild Rose Press www.TheWildRosePress.com To visit with authors of The Wild Rose Press join our yahoo loop at groups.yahoo.com/group/thewildrosepress/

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