Dark Legacy (House of Winterborne Book 1)

by Luanne Bennett

  “Don’t get mad,” I said as I got ready to burst her bubble and end the evening. I’d put in my appearance, and I was done for the night. “I have to go.”

  Her shoulders sagged as she slumped dramatically against the bar. “You’re dumping me?”

  “Yeah, and I’m taking you home.” I wasn’t about to leave her there half-drunk.

  She ignored me and asked the bartender for another drink, but I shook my head to warn him not to. Then I called Edward and steered her out the door.

  Chapter 7

  The sound was muffled, but it was enough to wake me and make me sit straight up in bed. It was a banging noise that sounded like it was coming from the other side of the penthouse. My phone on the nightstand said 2:36 a.m. New York was never quiet, not even in the early morning hours, but the sound that woke me wasn’t the familiar white noise of the city.

  Slipping on a pair of sweatpants, I listened for a moment to see if I heard it again. The banging continued at a measured pace, dull and repetitive at equally spaced intervals.

  On my way to the bedroom door, I opened a small chest on the bookshelf in the corner of the room and pulled out a doubled-edged knife sheathed in a leather scabbard. My athame. I felt a little guilty even touching it, having ignored it for so long. My mother had insisted I own one because every proper witch had an athame, a psychic shield. The fact that I didn’t know how to use it properly didn’t help, but it was coming with me. I just prayed I wouldn’t need it.

  As the banging continued, I walked into the living room and glanced around the dark penthouse illuminated only by the city lights. The sound came again from just outside the terrace door. Someone was out there.

  With the knife gripped firmly in my hand, I slowly walked across the room toward the door, holding my breath as I reached for the handle. Through the glass, I spotted the door to the conservatory flapping open and shut from the wind.

  Relieved, I exhaled my pent-up breath, but a second later my calm vanished. Even unlocked, that door was solid as a rock. The highest winds had never pried it open.

  I walked outside and into the conservatory, chilled by the cool, damp air circling me. As I walked deeper into the jungle of ferns, I sensed something foreign, something out of place.

  “Monoclaude?”

  There was no response as I walked deeper into the inner realm toward the waterfall. The stone effigy of Monoclaude was gone, but the box was exactly where it had landed when the pond expelled it, although it had turned back to wood and was still sealed shut.

  I shoved the athame into the pocket of my sweatpants and picked up the box to bring it inside the house just in case it decided to turn to stone again. On my way out, I stayed focused on my surroundings because something still had the hair on my neck standing on end.

  When I stepped outside the conservatory, I set the box down to make sure the door was firmly shut. After yanking the handle a few times, I turned around and slammed into someone, then stumbled backward before hitting the ground. The athame flew from my pocket and skidded across the patio before coming to a stop against the terrace wall.

  It was the guy with the blond hair from the club.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” And how had he gotten up here?

  He reached down and offered me his hand, but I backpedaled as fast as I could, glancing at my athame several yards away.

  “Just take my hand.” His voice was deeper than I remembered, but his eyes were just as bright. “Don’t be so stubborn, Morgan. Let me help you up.”

  “Don’t touch me!” I knocked his hand away as I climbed to my feet. Jesus, I couldn’t think straight, and a witch who can’t think is as good as dead when cornered by a wolf, and this guy smelled of wolves. He was also standing between me and that blade. “How do you know my name,” I asked, glancing at it.

  He came closer and reached out to touch my hair. I shook it away from his fingers and stepped back. Staring at the spot just below his chest, I directed some well-focused energy at his center of gravity, which should have at least sent him flying backward, but nothing happened.

  With his brows knitted tightly together, he glanced down at where I’d aimed, the brightness in his eyes turning dark as he looked back up at me. “Why did you do that? I told you I wouldn’t hurt you.” His voice was calm, but his words came out with a slight growl—that wolf I’d smelled a moment earlier.

  A cold chill ran through me the moment my instincts kicked in. I darted past him and ran for the door.

  He grabbed ahold of me around my waist and carried me to the edge of the terrace, pressing me against the short wall that served as a meager barrier between me and the sidewalk below. “You’ll forgive me for this eventually, but I can see there’s no other way.”

  The upside-down view of the city was the last thing I saw as he pushed me backward and sent me tumbling over the edge. As I fell toward the street, dozens of images bombarded my mind—my mother’s face, the cold concrete below waiting to break my fall, my skull cracking against it, a bird.

  Suddenly the wind stopped beating against my face and I started to fly upward. The air I sucked back into my lungs shocked me into opening my eyes, to see the sky getting closer and to feel something gripping me from behind. It all happened so fast I wasn’t sure if it was real or if I’d slammed against the sidewalk and was ascending toward the afterlife.

  The answer came when I landed on the terrace with a thud and saw the intruder’s reflection in the glass door as he stood behind me. Then the athame caught my eye. It took me less than a second to reach it and another to have it at his throat.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “What are you? And don’t even think about lying to me, because I’ll know.”

  Without as much as a flinch, he calmly replied, “If you’re planning to slit my throat, it won’t work. You’ll have to take my head clean off.”

  I pressed the blade harder to his throat, careful not to nick his skin because a witch’s athame is forbidden to draw blood. I knew that much about it, but I hoped he didn’t. It was a dangerous bluff. “I’d prefer not to cut you open with this blade, but I will kill you if you don’t start talking.”

  “Easy, love. There are certain things you can’t take back. Killing me is one of them.”

  “You haven’t told me how you know my name.” I continued to hold the blade firmly against his neck, but I had a feeling it was the strange surge of energy coming from my hand that was causing him discomfort.

  He winced and let out a weak laugh. “You’re the daughter of Katherine Winterborne. Your family has been all over the news since your mother—”

  My guard eased up from the shock of hearing him say my mother’s name, and the tables were turned. He knocked the athame out of my hand and backed me against the conservatory glass, cupping my jaw with his palm. “Morgan Winterborne. Witch and queen of the House of Winterborne. I knew who you were the second I saw you in that club. I could smell you.” He lost his confident grin and stepped back, giving me room to breathe. “But I didn’t come here to hurt you.”

  “You keep saying that, but throwing me over the side of a building says otherwise.”

  “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?” He huffed a laugh. “If I wanted to harm you, you’d be plastered all over that sidewalk right now.”

  Based on his cocky expression, I think he’d actually convinced himself that the death-defying stunt wasn’t the act of a psychotic.

  “You seem to know a lot about me,” I said, my mouth dry. “But you still haven’t told me who you are.”

  He got up in my face again and leaned one of his forearms on the glass, pinning me against it and staring down at me with his obscenely attractive eyes. “My name is Hawk.”

  “Hawk? What kind of name is that?” I tried to come off confident, but he had me shaking inside. He obviously wasn’t human. For all I knew, he’d been sent to kill me by one of the clan’s enemies. With my mother out of the way, we were ripe for an attack. Or maybe my po
wer-hungry uncle had resorted to murder.

  His eyes grew darker and his chest expanded, nearly touching mine as his breathing quickened. I could feel his power as he hovered over me and inhaled my scent like he had back at the club. And then his audacity emboldened me when he leaned closer and brought his lips so close to mine I could feel his breath.

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  He cocked his head and pulled back to look me in the eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  The light from the sky hit my eyes when he suddenly pulled away from me. I looked up as something black crossed over the moon, turning the sky dark. A moment later the light returned as the shadow passed overhead and continued toward the Hudson River. When I looked back at Hawk, he was gone.

  I spotted the box sitting next to the conservatory door and grabbed it before running inside. When I turned around to slam it shut, the giant crow was perched on top of the wall, staring at me with its glossy black eyes. Its wings fanned out a good ten feet as it lifted into the air and headed straight for me. Unable to take my eyes off its talons as they splayed wide and reached toward the open door, I stumbled backward and tripped, hitting my head against something hard.

  Everything went black.

  A wave of nausea woke me. My head felt like it was spinning and being punched at the same time. I ran into the bathroom and hugged the toilet, vomiting the drinks from the night before. But since I’d only had two shots, I suspected the nausea was from the throbbing lump on the back of my head.

  I climbed to my feet and walked back over to the bed, trying to clear my thoughts long enough to remember what had happened. My T-shirt was soaked and my brain was so foggy I wasn’t sure if the memories of the night before were real or if they’d been a bad dream. Then I spotted my athame on the dresser.

  A spike of fear hit me square in the chest when I remembered the box. I stood back up and ran into the living room to look for it. The terrace door was closed and locked, and the penthouse looked pristine, but where was the damn box?

  “The crow,” I whispered, remembering its massive wings sailing across the terrace with its talons aimed at me.

  After frantically searching the room, I figured it was gone. Then I heard a little voice in my head telling me it was still in the house. I could feel it. I followed that voice and headed for the kitchen, spotting it on the breakfast table, the lid wide open.

  For a few seconds I just stared at it from a distance, terrified I’d find it empty. When I did finally get up the nerve to look, I was surprised to see a book inside. A black leather-bound notebook to be exact. Such a large box for such a small thing.

  Lifting it out and setting it on the table, I noticed the blank cover. Before opening it, I grabbed a pair of white gloves from a drawer, a habit from handling rare and fragile books and manuscripts at the auction house, something I should have done before even touching it.

  I carefully opened the cover and looked at the inscription on the first page. It appeared to be a journal, and the handwriting nearly took my breath away. The journal on the table in front of me was written by my mother, confirmed by her signature in the upper right-hand corner.

  Lost for words and feeling like I’d just been given a rare gift from the gods, I sat down and stared at it, wondering who had opened the box—Hawk or the crow?

  Chapter 8

  Katherine Winterborne

  November 20, 1994

  It was brutally cold this morning, so I threw a wool scarf around my neck and brought a pair of gloves just in case. When I was at the library a few days ago, my hands nearly froze. Try writing or turning the pages of a book when you can’t feel your fingers. The house has been buzzing with visitors for the past week with Thanksgiving only days away, so I was relieved to be able to slip out for a few hours.

  I arrived at Columbia U just before noon and headed straight for the third floor of the library. I found an interesting book the last time I was there that delved into Eastern European death rites. It was part of the collection on Magic in Antiquity in the Special Collections section, and it looked like it might provide some information on a matter I’ve been researching. Unfortunately, the library was closing by the time I found it, so I made a point of getting there earlier today.

  With the holiday approaching, the place was nearly empty except for a few people sitting at the other end of the room. After the librarian fetched the book for me, I sat down and found the section that had caught my eye the other day. It was a chapter titled “Contamination of the Dead.” I’d seen something about this in one of the other books I researched, but the information was too basic, only containing references to the practice of making sure the dead stayed dead.

  Before diving in, I flipped through a few pages and came across a picture of a wild animal. It looked like an unnatural cross between a wolf and a bear, with fangs that dripped blood.

  I almost shut the book and changed my mind about reading it, but then I probably would have left and not met the man I’m having drinks with tomorrow. His name is Ryker, and he’s fascinating in a dark and dangerous sort of way. The kind of man who doesn’t waste words. I thought he worked at the library, the way he navigated the stacks without making a sound, shuffling books around and keeping his eyes on anyone who entered the collections room. I don’t know what got into me, but we played a game of eye contact before he eventually came up behind me and peered over my shoulder to see what I was reading. Then he asked me if I wore my scarf and gloves to bed at night. I guess because I was wrapped up so tight in that cold room. Isn’t that the most ridiculous line you’ve ever heard? I nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt his breath against my cheek, but then I got a look at his spectacular eyes and my common sense flew right out the window. I did give him a hard time about sneaking up on women in libraries before inviting him to sit down though.

  We talked for at least an hour, so I never did get to read that book. He’s an art dealer, of all things. Can you imagine how wide I grinned when he told me that? I could barely contain myself while I let him educate me on the ins and outs of spotting valuable pieces. Halfway through our chat, I finally told him about the family business. I think he was a little embarrassed, but he got over it quickly and invited me for a drink tomorrow night at a club in the Village.

  Did I mention that he’s gorgeous? Icing on the cake.

  It’s getting late and I’m exhausted, so that’s all for today.

  “She was having an affair?” I muttered to myself.

  I started the coffee and was about to dive into the next entry of the journal when I heard the elevator door open. “Jesus, I’ve got to change that elevator code.” The courtesy of calling first before stepping into my apartment was a foreign concept to my family. It was my mother’s fault. She’d had an open-door policy with the clan—literally. That had to change.

  My sister walked into the kitchen with Michael, her symmetrical chestnut bob clinging to her jawline as if glued in place. “Good God, Morgan, what happened to you?”

  Avery didn’t have a filter, so I was pretty sure she was being completely honest in telling me I looked like shit.

  Hawk and that frankencrow happened to me last night.

  “Tequila and Jules,” I replied. A convenient lie, because I’d left the club long before I could do any real damage with alcohol. I glanced at my brother, who looked a little rough himself. “Don’t tell me you two are having breakfast together.”

  Michael and Avery loved each other, but they didn’t actually like each other very much. It probably had something to do with her constant berating of his lifestyle. She was practical and independent, and he was the polar opposite, choosing to supplement his meager income with the family fortune. My sister, on the other hand, would have jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge naked if it would release her from her immortality. She craved a mundane existence, as long as she got to keep her high-paying Winterborne job of course.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Michael said with a smirk. “Avery
hates me.”

  “Not true,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “If I hated you, I would have drowned you when you were a baby.”

  “Aww, you two are so sweet together.” I forced a grin and tried to shove the journal back into the box before they noticed it and got curious.

  It was too late for that.

  Avery glanced at the box. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” I shrugged and closed the lid.

  “Hmm.” She pursed her lips, trying to decide if I was lying. But then she mercifully lost interest when she spotted the fresh pot of coffee. “I hope you have soy milk. I’ve given up dairy.”

  Michael and I glanced at each other and tried not to snicker. Last month it was wheat. Before that it was anything white like rice or bread.

  “Half-and-half is the best I can do.”

  “Maybe you can pour a little flour in your cup,” Michael said. “It’ll thicken it up and give it a nice creamy texture.”

  I admonished him with a look before picking up the box to take it to my bedroom.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Avery was gone and Michael was leaning against the counter and glaring at me. “Did she head over to Starbucks to get her soy milk latte?”

  “She left, so now you can tell me what’s in the box.”

  Trying to avoid eye contact because he could spot my lies from a mile away, I poured myself some coffee. “It’s just a box, Michael.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “Well, that is often true,” I said over the rim of my cup. I trusted Michael more than anyone in the family. Our secrets were like a trip to Vegas, and I had enough of his for leverage. “Can you keep your mouth shut to you know who?”