Cursed in Love
Cora Kenborn
Dani René
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
About Cora Kenborn
Follow Cora Online
Also By Cora Kenborn
About Dani René
Follow Dani Online
Also by Dani René
Cursed in Love © 2019 Cora Kenborn & Dani René
Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
Blurb
Detective Mila Moroz didn’t believe in life after death. Until the dead came back.
Mila
Respect death and it will respect you.
Those were my mother’s last words, but she's not the one called to crime scenes full of pissed-off spirits demanding justice. I’m a sensible homicide detective. Conversations with dead people were never in my job description until a string of murders rocks the French Quarter and dredges up a dark force wanting one thing—me.
I’m in over my head.
Unfortunately, help comes in the form of Odyn Broussard, a cranky, condescending pain in my ass. I’ve always heard it’s best to fight fire with fire. If that’s true, Odyn and I are about to ignite an inferno.
* * *
Odyn
I’m retired.
That’s what I should’ve told the pushy brunette who showed up on my doorstep demanding my help. Now, I'm fighting in a world I swore to never return to with Mila who claims she doesn’t believe in our gift. Against my better judgment, I’ll train and protect her, but I won’t give in to this dangerous attraction.
I’ll never make that mistake again.
I have to choose between protecting Mila or driving her into darkness. One will win the battle, and one will end the war.
But there can only be one survivor.
Prologue
Mila
It’s late when headlights flash through the double windows in the living room. Standing in the hallway, I smooth a sweaty hand over my white cotton dress and jump as a low rumble of thunder rolls across the sky.
Deep breath.
I have no idea how much time has passed while waiting to hear his heavy footsteps lumber up the front steps, but it’s long enough for me to pace the perimeter of the room six times.
I wring my hands as the door flies open. His six-foot-two inch frame hunches over, gripping the wooden molding as he stumbles inside, stopping cold when he sees me. “Mila?”
His tie is pulled loose, and his hair is even more disheveled than usual. My earlier suspicions are confirmed when I see his face. His nose is swollen and purple, the shape bent at an unnatural angle.
Definitely broken.
The scent of stale whiskey radiates off him in a nauseating wave I can taste.
“Where have you been?” I demand.
Eyes as rich as the earth’s soil glare back at me. “Out trying to numb the pain in my face. Someone has a nasty right hook.” His eyes scan my dress. “I see you decided to finally change clothes.”
He tries to move past me, but I block him. “Answer the question.”
He takes a purposeful step forward, and I step back. The tension between us crackles, and his jaw tightens. “I think the better question is, why did you break into my house? What the hell is wrong with you?”
What the hell is wrong with me?
My actions are riding on a picture I can’t get out of my head and a stranger. A stranger who may or may not have fed me a line of bullshit to get us both out of the way. Still, there’s guilt in his eyes, and it fuels my nerve.
“I know,” I announce, the confidence in my stance betrayed by the slight wobble in my voice. Clearing my throat, I take a step back, determined to not show weakness.
“Is that so?” He smiles. The asshole actually smiles, and a sliver of fear crawls up my spine. “And what is it that you think you know?”
“You‘re one of them.” I almost choke on the words, the taste of them as bitter as they sound.
His furious expression turns to stone, and his cold eyes bore into me. A few precious beats of silence between us break as he lunges forward and cups my cheek. Unforgiving fingers dig into my hair and jerk my head back. Refusing to show weakness, I wait for his muscles to tighten — a sure sign of what’s to come — but it’s his eyes that give him away, narrowing until only a dark void remains.
“You’re starting to act a little crazy, Mila,” he snarls, the smell of stale alcohol and fear making me gag. “You should probably shut your mouth before they find out and you end up like all the others.”
The others.
Horrific pictures flash through my mind, and I swallow back the bile crawling up my throat. He wants my fear, and the battle waging inside me almost gives it to him. Instead, I clamp down on my tongue. He can’t have my fear. It’s the only thing reminding me that a piece of me is still in there.
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
A low growl rumbles in his throat, forcing a wall of panic to swell within my chest. Realizing my mistake, I brace for an impact that never comes. Instead, the corner of his mouth curls up in a chilling smile just before he turns his back to me. Only then do I realize it’s not whiskey swimming in his eyes. It’s the devil himself.
“Have a seat, Mila.” My eyes focus on his stiff and robotic steps as he makes his way down the hall. “It seems I have some calls to make.”
After the door to his office slams, I stand in silence. I don’t remember moving, but minutes later I find myself in the kitchen, holding an empty bottle of beta blockers in one hand and a glass of cloudy whiskey in the other. His words echo in my head as if he’s still standing in front of me.
“You’re starting to act a little crazy, Mila. You should probably shut your mouth before they find out and you end up like all the others.”
He’s both right and wrong. I’m not crazy, but when secrets are revealed, history repeats itself.
Just not today.
The amber liquid inside the glass turns my stomach, but I walk with a steady hand toward his office. Taking a deep breath, I drop the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels by the door and knock.
“I’m sorry. I brought you a drink to apologize.” As I wait in silence, I press my ear against the door, afraid he may have passed out. Unsure, I take two backward steps when the door swings open, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes. He has discarded his suit jacket a
cross the small leather couch and opened three buttons on his shirt, either getting comfortable, or ready to make good on his promise.
I have no plans to wait around and find out. Forcing a smile, I extend my arm. “Whiskey neat. Just the way you like it.”
He grabs the glass and returns to his desk, stopping only to glance over his shoulder with a sneer. “It’s a little too late for a peace offering.”
I watch as he lifts the glass to his lips and drinks. First one sip. Then another. Then another.
My heart races. I wait.
He drains the glass. I wait.
Sweat beads across my forehead. It drips down his temple.
I bite my lip. He rubs his furiously.
“Are you okay?”
He claws at his throat, the glass slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor. “I can’t . . . breathe.”
“What’s that? You’re mumbling.”
His eyes flutter and narrow as he tries to focus. The wheezing sounds worsen as he tumbles off the chair onto his knees. “No . . . air . . . call . . .” He crawls to his desk, his hand slapping frantically beside the laptop.
Calmly stepping over the shards of glass, I pick up his phone from the edge of his desk. “Is this what you need?”
He nods while foaming at the mouth. “911,” he croaks, the exertion sending him flat on his back.
“About that.” I tap my index finger against my lips. “See, I would, but I’ve been ordered to shut my mouth.”
Both hands grab his chest, and his eyes widen. I don’t know if he can read my thoughts, but the moment his expression changes, he understands.
“He . . . will . . . rise.”
His body jerks twice then collapses. Part of me wants to cry. Part of me wants to touch him — to make sure he’s really gone. In a city like New Orleans, sometimes death is only temporary. Just to be sure, I hold his phone to my chest a few more minutes before wiping it down and tossing it across the room on the couch.
While facing him.
A sharp whiff of stale whiskey knocks me out of my haze, forcing me to take a good look at what I’ve done. The man I once trusted lies motionless, staring up at a ceiling he doesn’t see. I can’t help but feel a little envious. His problems are over, but mine have just begun.
I’m lost in thought as the lights flicker then go out, plunging the house into complete darkness. I rationalize it’s just the storm until the sky illuminates, and I see a shadow pass outside the window.
Shit!
I don’t have the stomach for the more gruesome aspects of what I’ve seen done to the others, so I settle for the finale. Pulling a book of matches from my pocket, I strike four until I’m able to ignite a single flame. With the tiny flicker lighting my way, I retrieve the bottle of whiskey I left sitting outside the door. Before I can change my mind, I dump it over his body and drop the bottle by his feet.
There’s only a slight hesitation — one moment where I wonder if maybe he’s right.
Am I crazy?
But before I can answer my own question, the flame hits the bottom of the stick, singes my fingers, and I drop it.
Within seconds, his body is engulfed in flames.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Forcing myself to look away, I feel my way to the front door and fling it open, fighting my own feet as I tumble down the front stairs. My perception of time distorts, and everything slows until I can see nothing but a sky that seems to swallow me whole. The weightlessness ends, and reality comes crashing back around me as my right hip takes the brunt of my fall.
“Son of a bitch!” I let out a shriek as I land. Pain from nerve endings I didn’t even know I had sears through my body, momentarily blinding me.
Focus!
Thunder cracks again, and I crawl on my hands and knees away from the iron railing. I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that metal is dangerous during storms, but if I don’t get the hell out of here, I won’t have to worry about the storm killing me.
The burning house will.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I press one palm against the concrete and pull myself up. Shaking, I ignore the pain in my hip and run toward my car parked at the end of the darkened street. Throwing myself inside, I close my eyes just as lightning blasts, casting an ominous glow behind my lids.
I have no idea why I bothered to run. It’s not over. They’ll still come for me.
Turning the ignition, I slam my foot against the gas pedal and tear through the historic streets of the French Quarter. Growing up, I was taught that New Orleans is a labyrinth of death. A city of secrets to be loved and revered. Even though I knew the lore well, I blame my mother for forcing the belief down my throat that has led me here.
“Respect death and it will respect you.”
However, she was wrong. Death respects no one, and destiny can’t be denied from the ones who have waited centuries to claim it. That’s what they promised, and if I’ve learned anything in first hunting then running from them, it’s that they always make good on their word.
Chapter 1
Odyn
One Week Ago
Focus.
Deep, haunting sounds come from the stereo. I listen to the melody trickling through the speakers, and I know she’ll come again. The first time I was met with those eyes, I was listening to the exact same song.
It’s on repeat, and I hope I can reach her again.
Focus.
It’s never this difficult.
Normally, they come to me without me asking, or calling, just waiting on the sofa. The dark room holds me in its warmth. Five minutes, and suddenly, I can feel her beside me, but she’s silent this evening. I’ve always wondered what it would take to see her again, but her elusive nature has never allowed me to make contact.
“Why have you hidden yourself?” I question, allowing my eyes to flutter closed. There’s a warmth coming from her, and I can’t help smiling. I don’t move. I allow her the control she’s always enjoyed.
There’s no response, and I wonder if she’ll talk to me again. My heart aches. There’s a crack in my chest where I had loved once, and now that it’s gone, the space is hollow.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt you,” I say with a smile. I know she can see it. A cold shiver races down my spine a second later, and I know someone else has joined us.
They’re silent as well, causing me to furrow my brows. I don’t speak, allowing them to make the first contact. A gentle, cool touch on my arm causes the hair to stand on end, and I wonder who it is.
“Yes, I can feel you,” I tell her. I know it’s a woman. With such a gentle feathering of contact, it can only be one. The air shifts, and I wait. Patience. It’s a virtue I don’t hold. I’ve never been one to allow things to happen naturally. My excitement would always take precedence.
“My daughter,” the stranger says, her voice almost crackling in the darkness. “She’s in need of help, of something I can no longer offer her.”
Frowning, I question, “And what is that exactly?”
I’m met with silence. I can’t open my eyes because I’ll lose contact, so I sit in the dark, hoping she’ll tell me. I only need a hint to find the daughter she speaks of.
New Orleans is my home. I know every nook and cranny of the city, and I can certainly find someone if I have to, but I need a hint.
“She needs . . .” The voice tapers into nothing. It’s almost as if there’s a crackling in the air, like the sound when a radio has lost its signal. That’s how I feel. Like a goddamn radio. Silence greets me, and I know I’ve lost contact.
Shit.
My eyes snap open, and I’m left alone in my apartment with nothing more surrounding me than the furniture I see every day. I don’t even have a name. I should’ve pushed for a name before she left, but there’s no control on when and how they appear. I wonder if she’s hurt, this daughter. She can’t be dead, or she would’ve come to me.
When it first started happening, I ran. From c
ity to city, I would hide in the apartments, in the dark, then I would drink myself into a coma. Nothing helped. Nothing took the voices away.
When I finally accepted what I was, who I was, I allowed them in. Each time I’ve had someone come to me; I’ve found a calming solace that I was chosen. It’s not easy to accept that you’re the connection between life and death, a telephone line to people who have passed over.
I take in the space, the small, comfortable room I’ve set up perfectly so if I do walk around, I’m not bumping into shit at every turn. The emptiness is stark, it’s jarring, and I push off the chair to head into my kitchen. The coolness of her presence is still there, haunting, holding onto me like they always do. It’s become part of my life. My mind and body accustomed to what shudders through me each time I go to that place.
Picking up the coffee mug, I lift it to my mouth and take a long gulp of the now-icy drink. This always happens when I’m not focused. I need to list things. A list. I need to ensure I have a list. Turning to the table, I notice the pad of paper I set out this morning for that exact task. It’s empty, glaring at me angrily like it has a personality.
Shaking my head, I sigh as I settle on the chair. I pick up the pen and make the first note.
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