The Witching Hour (The Grim Reaper Saga (Urban Fantasy Romance)) (6 page)

She walked up to him and laid her hand against his lacerations. He hissed and hung his head. “Now imagine how much more the rest will hurt. You’ll never disobey me again, Cian. I vow it.”

***

Dagda glanced up as the door to his chamber cracked open with a loud boom. The Morrigan stood in the entranceway. Blood and gore covered her from head to toe.

He stood and held out his hand. She walked toward him and dropped a gentle kiss against his cheek. “It is finished,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Now?”

She eyed her clothing and sneered. “I clean up. Then I’ll send Frenzy to finish what Cian could not.”

Dagda blinked.

An explosion of magick took her breath. The aftershocks of so much power sped through her veins. She pulled out of his embrace and gazed at him. Her brows lowered. “Why have you sifted the strands of mortal time?”

“To make the fight fair.”

She cocked her head. “How very, very interesting. Whatever are you hiding from me, Consort?”

He raised a brow, though the rest of his face remained impassive. “Why would you think I’d be hiding anything?”

“You won’t win.”

“Who said this was a contest?”

She shook her head. “I don’t trust you.”

He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckle. “Take your bath, Chaos. I have matters to attend to.”

She eyed him and turned. “Whatever it is you have planned, Dagda... don’t.”

His lips curved as he walked from the room.

***

Cian lay in a puddle of his own blood, spots danced before his eyes. A rush of vertigo had the room moving in circles. The burst of energy that had ripped into his back from the witch at the club, paled in comparison to the madness of the Queen. She’d been possessed and torn almost all the flesh from his body. White bone stood out against the red of his muscle.

The door to the room opened, and a shadowy figure entered. Its movements were lithe, fragile. Like a delicate bloom on a stem. Not The Morrigan.

He blinked. A gentle voice drifted towards him, and a soft hand touched his face. “Cian. It is me.”

“Wistafa,” he croaked. Now recognizing the mass of riotous brown curls. “Leave before she catches you here.”

She kneeled, pulling his head into her lap, crooning softly. Instantly Cian became drowsy and closed his eyes. Wistafa was the great healer to the house of feathers of the royal court. Her scent of mint and sage wrapped him up in a comforting cocoon. Like a mother’s warm embrace.

He took a deep breath, wanting to inhale more of the intoxicating aroma. Fire sizzled through his veins. He felt like the needles of a million scorpions had suddenly stabbed him, and every breath was agony. His eyes opened sharply.

“I’ve come to help,” she whispered, her brown eyes twin pools of compassion. Her fingers massaged a circular pattern on his temples, distracting him for the pain. “Close your eyes and simply relax.”

Cian gripped her wrist. “Why are you doing this? I’m a grim reaper. Death,” he stated with emphasis. Even the fae had always treated him with contempt and spite. A dark smudge to the beauty they worshipped. Power play with death, fine. But show any mercy or compassion, goddess forbid.

She just smiled, a small curling at the corners of her mouth. “You are just a man. What you do is not who you are, Cian. I would have come had I not been commanded.”

“Commanded? By whom?” he demanded. Who could care?

“Dagda.”

He narrowed his eyes. Instantly distrustful. What game were the Gods playing at?

“He said that you were to be healed and sent to the mortal woman immediately.”

Was this a trial? It didn’t make sense. Why would Dagda want to help him?

“Your eyes, Cian. Close them now. Or I’ll force them shut,” she said with an authoritative tone.

Normally her tone would incite Cian into a riot of anger, but her words possessed a lyrical, soothing quality that instantly calmed the beast within and stamped out the fury of resentment. She’d laid the full charm of her healing magick upon him. His response was immediate and instinctual.

He closed his eyes.

A warm heat spiraled from her fingertips throughout his body. It was a soothing balm. Healing the throb traveling his limbs. It felt like tiny fingers manipulating the ache in his joints, tendons, and muscle. The next breath he took was free of pain. He opened his eyes and saw he was healed. His flesh looked firm. Smooth. What would have taken him days on his own to mend, had taken only seconds.

He stood up and patted himself to make certain it was real and not some illusion. There was no pain. There were no lacerations. He was whole.

Unaccustomed to kindness, he was unsure of what to say.

“Thank...you,” he hissed, the words foreign on his tongue.

Wistafa shook her head. “No thanks required, reaper. Find the woman, Dagda will come to you in a couple of days. Go now.”

She stood and turned to leave.

There were too many gaps. He hated being kept in the dark and knew something was amiss. If the God wanted him to go to the woman, why not come to Cian himself and demand it? The secrecy and subterfuge had him on edge and made him uneasy.

“Is that it? Is there no more? Does The Morrigan know of this?” He grit his teeth in frustration.

She stopped but never turned. “If you don’t leave now, all will be lost. Find the woman.” Then she was gone. Her soft scent the only clue that she’d ever been.

He marched from the room, dressed himself using his essence, and opened a portal between the here and there with a swipe of his hand.

Curiosity, an emotion he’d buried long ago, rose to the forefront. What game were The Morrigan and Dagda playing, and why was he involved?

He stepped through the portal. The witch’s lifeline beckoned. Already familiar with her spirit he attuned himself to her. Perhaps it was as simple as finishing the task he’d been sent to accomplish in the first place. His gut clenched, could he even do it? He’d tried once and failed.

He glanced at his hand. It was flesh. Not skeletal. Small comfort, which only compounded his confusion. What was going on? Dagda and The Morrigan always had an agenda, but usually they worked on the same side, having Dagda act so secretive made Cian troubled.

The Morrigan had not stripped the flesh from his body because she planned to easily forgive in the next breath. Her anger and ability for revenge were legendary. Which meant everything Dagda was doing now was without The Morrigan’s knowledge. Cian--whether he’d wanted to or not--had now become Dagda’s pawn. A game piece easily sacrificed for the greater good.  

When he stepped through the portal he expected to arrive back at the gruesome scene he’d left. Instead he found himself peering at his witch through a shop window with the words
Witch’s Brew
stenciled across the front.

She looked healthy, full of vigor. Her hair was longer, hanging well past her lower back. A rosy flush encompassed her pale cheeks.

The sight caused his heart to twist painfully against his chest.  

Then he frowned and shoved his hand through his hair. Who’d sifted time? The Gods rarely manipulated mortal time. The instances were rare, few and far between.

All the scenarios he’d anticipated suddenly took a turn for the worse. Dagda’s conspiracy was greater than he’d at first imagined and a black chill rushed down his spine.

“What have they done?”

“Argh! If I have to make another effing love charm I’m gonna tear my hair out.” Eve eyed the dangling piece of clay with disdain.

Tamryn snorted. “Don’t worry. In another hour we’ll be sipping on Gorilla Farts and man scouting. Life can’t get better than that.”

Eve wrapped her hand around the charm and dragged it to her heart, almost as a protective shield.
Not again.
Her sisters were gonna try and force the issue. She wasn’t ready. Period. End of story. Not wanting to wax on again about a subject she’d rather see dead and buried, Eve switched topics.

“Why do humans insist on buying this charm? Money, protection, luck. Okay, those I can understand. But love? Don’t they know that’s not how love works? You can’t force it on someone.” She tried, but couldn’t keep the hurt from creeping into her voice.

Tamryn eyed her. Aware, Eve was sure, of her inner torment. For the moment however, her sister didn’t pursue the matter and shrugged her slim shoulders instead. “Why do you care? I’m always upfront about this particular charm. If they insist on buying it anyway, it’s their business.”

“Besides,” Tamryn yanked on the dangling leather chain in Eve’s hand, “we both know humans come to San Fran because this is horror central. Weres, Vamps, and Witches, living out in the open. You know better than anyone, it’s us on display and not our wares. So no, I don’t feel bad at all taking their money. Tit for tat far as I’m concerned.”

“Touché.” Eve snapped her fingers with a grin.

She then turned her attention back to the table, hoping the message was clear. Go away. Leave her alone. But her sister didn’t walk off. Her palms grew increasingly sweat slicked, knowing her sister was still behind her. Boring holes into her back. She closed her eyes.
Please don’t do this, Tamryn.

“So...”

She groaned and turned, knowing no amount of ignoring her would get her to leave.

Tamryn trailed her finger along the spine of a Grimoire. “You coming tonight, or what? It’s time we reinstate our weekly get together, don’t you think? Drinks, chips, and gossip. Fun huh?” Tamryn wiggled her brows, using a different tactic to entice Eve. Thing was, she wasn’t ready to go back to the life she’d lived before Michael’s death.

“No.” She set her mouth in a thin line.

“Eve. C’mon.”

“No. Okay.” She pushed away from the workbench, scattering several charms in the process. “Why do you keep doing this to me?”

Tamryn huffed. “Because you’ve become a shell of your former self. Do you honestly believe for one minute that Michael would have wanted this?” She lifted a brow and laid a hand on her hip, her stance defiant.

“That is not fair!” Eve jumped up, glaring daggers at her sister. “You wouldn’t understand. You wouldn’t even know what I’m going through,” she said, her voice breaking.

Tamryn’s violet eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It’s not like I didn’t lose a brother-in-law. It’s not like I didn’t go through the pain of Mom’s death. Of course I wouldn’t understand, Eve.”

Eve winced and glanced away.

Tamryn blew out a heavy breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that...”

She shook her head, holding out a restraining hand as the truth of the words sunk deep into her heart. Her sister was right. Fact was, she knew she was being ridiculous, and it was hard to admit this--especially to herself--but what hurt most was the guilt. Guilt for surviving when Michael hadn’t. Guilt for actually wanting to go out and have fun again.

Tamryn had never had anything but the best of intentions for her. Mentally, Eve knew hanging onto the past brought a lack of resolution. She’d loved Michael, and she had to believe that somewhere up there he knew and would understand that eventually she’d have to move on. Still, it was hard to think about making a fresh start.

Just the idea of starting over, of having to reenter the hit and miss world of dating made her heart stutter. Women her age were usually nice and settled, with two point two kids, the white picket fence, and all that jazz. Here she was thirty, and contemplating a life of spinsterhood, not because she was too old, but because she was in a comfort zone she feared changing. Deep down she knew Michael would have been furious with her for mourning him so long. But that was love, and she’d loved him hard.

She blew out a deep breath. He shouldn’t have died so young, and that was the irony of the situation. Michael had seemed like the man of steel. So strong, virile, and full of life. To have seen his life snuffed out by such a senseless act--the thought still made her twitch with anger.

But she couldn’t keep doing this. It had to stop sooner or later, she admitted to herself with reluctance.

With a sad smile she turned toward her sister and gave a weak nod. “You’re right. I’ve been selfish, you and Cel were there for me when everyone else left.”

She pulled Tamryn into a quick hug. “I don’t want to go to the club tonight, but I’ll do it for you. Deal?”

Tamryn grinned and ran a hand through her unruly red curls. “Good. For a second there I thought I was gonna have to get all kung fu on your booty.”

They laughed.

***

Later that night Eve studied her wardrobe dispassionately. She hadn’t returned to the X after Michael’s death.

Breath, Eve.
She closed her eyes for a split-second.
You will do this. You have to.
She repeated the mantra over and over.

Not only would she do this, but she’d go all out. All or nothing. She stripped off her clothes, showered, and then returned to her closet.

She grabbed a black chiffon skirt, one that hung snug at her hips and gently flared around her knees. She nibbled on her lip studying her tops, finally deciding on a black and red off the shoulder corset. Grabbing the first pair of red stilettos she found she sat down on the edge of her bed and slipped them on.