Mystical Love (66 page)

“The joy in magic still lives, Devlin. Can you feel it?”

“I can feel it.” He molded her curves closer into the contours of his body, and his mouth grazed her earlobe. “It's right here in my arms.” His lips seared a path down her neck to her shoulder, and then with a quick spin, he swept her, weightless, into his arms. He immediately devoured her lips, reveling in the shared intimacy of the kiss—until, to his annoyance, a strong pressure knocked against his legs.

“Rrr-ooww.”

The kiss ended abruptly, the pair springing apart.

“Damn cat,” Devlin drawled.

Brianna's laugh echoed as she backed out of his arms.

“He means well. He's reminding me, I must close the circle.” She spun around and headed back down the incline. Reaching the circle, she gathered the girls together and began powering down the energy cone.

Watching the group from the ridge, a grin overtook Devlin's features.

“Rrr-owww.”

“Yes, I know. It's not at all proper to envision my hands roaming intimately over a High Priestess's naked breasts.”

Nicodemus sneezed his dislike immediately, and Devlin's grin turned up a notch. No one was going to keep him from rousing his wife to a frenzied state of love-making in the next hour. Not even a damn, magical cat.

 

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Rachel Schneider.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-9451-1

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9451-9

eISBN 10: 1-4405-9449-X

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9449-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © 123RF/ostill, 123R/Fandreykuzmin.

• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• 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
  
• CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
• CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
• CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
• CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
  
• CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
  

Jenny Flores lay on the table, staring at the ceiling with lifeless eyes. What the man was doing to her was obscene. Yet, for some unknown reason, she couldn't find the courage to make him stop.

“Kiss me,” a pleasant, deep voice said.

A hand slipped beneath Jenny's back and lifted her torso up. She raised her face, and warm lips smothered hers. “And where are you now?” a different voice asked; it was louder, less distant.

Her breathing became erratic.

“I'm having sex with Phil. He's a wonderful lover. We make love two or three times a week … ”

“And where are you now?” asked the voice.

“I'm in the park with Phil and the kids. It's Sunday. We always picnic in the park on Sundays. The weather is picture-perfect, and the kids are playing with our dog, Scruggs.”

“Kiss me,” the pleasant voice interrupted again.

Jenny fell back, staring up at the ceiling with lifeless eyes. What the man was doing to her was obscene. Yet, for some unknown reason, she couldn't find the courage to make him stop.

• • •

Hurled out of a white vortex and back to reality, empath Sonny Blake hugged the bedpost. Something was wrong with her skills. The same vision was replaying over and over—one she couldn't make sense of, or stop.

An icy fear snaked around her heart muscle and squeezed. Was she finally going mad after all these years? Had her mind been flung in and out of time and space so many times that it could no longer tell one vision from another?

The young girl's face swam through her mind again. Who was the girl, and why couldn't she identify where she was?

And who owns that distant sexy voice requesting a kiss?
Sonny's inner voice asked.

And why are two visions overlapping one another?
she shot back.
We never mix and match our visions.

You're the interpreter, Miss Empath. You tell me
.

Her inner voice fell silent, and Sonny sighed. She was talking to herself—a clear sign that she needed to start using her brain for something more rational than stolen kisses and frightened girls. There were bills to pay, schedules to keep, and a host of employees to manage.

She attempted to haul her body away from the post, only to cling to it again as a bout of nausea swept over her. The vision had not only drained her psychic energy, but her physical energy as well.
Not a good sign
, her inner voice chided. No, if she kept on, she would be hauled off to the funny farm and dropped down a rabbit hole so deep not even her family would be able to find her.
And who belongs to that sexy voice that keeps requesting the kiss?
her inner voice prodded.
He sounds delish—not like the other one.

Annoyed by her ego's fixation on erotic kisses, Sonny crawled back under the covers. There'd be plenty of time to look for answers after she got her nausea under control. She closed her eyes, snuggling into her pillow. She needed to realign her body and mind with her personal mantra.
Down the rabbit hole, one, two, three;
out the rabbit hole, fiddle-dee-dee …

Sonny smiled at her self-mockery. The similarity between her and
Alice in Wonderland
wasn't far off the mark. They both went down rabbit holes in pursuit of a White Rabbit—or, in her case, a white vortex. And while in Wonderland, they both endured trials that tested their souls, yet managed to re-energize their spirits.

Swallowing a growing lump in her throat, Sonny concentrated on her breathing.
In, out, breathe
. Twenty exhalations later, the image of the High Priestess Tarot card swam into view. She attuned her energy to the card, her mind sweeping past the dual pillars, through the door of knowledge, and down into a different kind of rabbit hole. This hole was filled with the shimmering, golden light of the Sun. She turned her face to the orb and basked in its glory.

When a feeling of peaceful euphoria settled over her frame, she snuggled deeper under the covers.

Goodnight, Alice
, her inner voice called, as she drifted down, down, down ...

• • •

Ned Chalmers closed the office door and locked it. His sessions had gone incredibly well today. Two of the clients had actually shown a flair for the therapy. Tomorrow, he'd look for others he could manipulate.

Turning, he hit the light switch and stood in the darkness. There was nothing better than moving through the scrim of darkness—except for when the darkness moved through
him.
Then, he was godlike, the power showering his entire aura and energizing it with a magic that couldn't be halted, or described in human words.

Recalling the elation, he smiled. He had spent years training his senses to align with the dark's spatial energy, and now that he had succeeded, he knew he had earned the skill of seeing, hearing, and moving without detection. The nightly alignment was downright addictive, and, unlike those around him, he considered the darkness his trusted friend.

He moved now, reaching the short staircase without bumping any piece of furniture. A few moments later, his foot hit the bottom step of the staircase, and he paused. Abducting and killing Sonny Blake was his current objective. The bitch was poking her nose into his business. She was questioning his trip schedules, asking for airline and hotel receipts, and demanding to view his therapy session tapes. He'd make her pay for that aggravation when he had her under his thumb and begging for her life. But before he killed her, he'd merge her talent with his power of darkness and, once united, be unstoppable.

He'd have to be careful, though. The bitch could sense any dark thought that came against her. Thankfully, she treated him like a favorite uncle, and that helped him stay in close proximity to her. It also fueled his desire to wound her to the core. Her ability to project her mind into spatial energy and interpret it gave her an edge over him. And that rankled. There was too much on the line. If she learned about his pet project, Pandora, he'd have to go underground again and stay there. No, killing Sonny Blake was his only option. But how to do it? And when?

When no answer surfaced, he bounded up the steps and entered a makeshift bedroom. He made a beeline for the large bed, where he shed his clothes and slipped beneath the sheets. He rolled over and checked the shackles tied to the bedposts.

A frightened scream floated through the darkness at the dip in the mattress. He smiled smugly, moving his fingers down the chains to a pair of magnificent breasts. In seconds, he was mounting the young girl and introducing her to the ways of the dark.

Logan Reed nudged the petite body on the floor with his toe. Shit. Another dead empath—and another goddamned Tarot card. You'd think the bastard would add some variety to his killing ritual. Logan stared down at the purple hair, nose ring, and colorfully tattooed arms. Amy Carlyle was certainly not your average-looking empath. Her talent had obviously hitched itself to the wrong crowd. His gaze swept the needle in the fold of the young girl's left elbow. The mouse might still be alive if Logan had ignored his grumbling stomach and skipped lunch.

He scanned the tank top and cut-off jeans, and then the Death card peeping from beneath her bare torso. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a pair of gloves and donned them. Seconds later, he was studying the skeletal image on horseback with a frown. Meta Corps would be pissed about another sudden death of one of its empathic clients. If and when he reported the teen's death, he would be screwed. The teen had been his to keep safe.

He smacked the face of the card with his fingers. Could he walk away and let somebody else find the body? He could, but ... His gaze landed on the delicately carved, heart-shaped face. No, the teen had parents who loved her—no matter her addictions. Backing out of the doorway of the four-story brownstone, Logan reached for his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

• • •

Idly slapping the encased Tarot card in his hand, Logan listened to the police chatter emanating from the two-way radio atop the interrogation table. The investigation at the brownstone was winding down at last, and in less than twenty minutes, his boss, Dresden Charles, would be seeking a written statement from him.

The two-way radio continued its crackle and then fell silent. Logan sighed loudly. His Meta Corps instincts had taken an unexpected holiday today
.

Every day,
his inner voice chided.

No need to remind me
, he told the voice.

The radio took up its crackle again, dispatching the med techs to a new crime scene. Hearing the line go dead, Logan dropped the baggie onto the table and fished in his pocket for a cigarette. He wished he could kick his nicotine habit permanently. He had managed to cut down his intake after the shooting last summer, but to his disgust, he hadn't quite managed to kick the habit flat out.