Marked for Death

by Claire Ashgrove

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Titles in the Inherited Damnation Series

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  For more in the Inherited Damnation series, you’ll want to read:

  Marked for Death

  by

  Claire Ashgrove

  Award-Winning Author

  Inherited Damnation, Book VIII

  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.

  Marked for Death

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 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, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2013

  Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-683-3

  Inherited Damnation, Book VIII

  Published in the United States of America

  Other Titles in the Inherited Damnation Series

  available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Cursed to Kill

  Tormented by Darkness

  Destined to Die

  Ensnared by Blood

  Fated for Sacrifice

  Doomed to Torment

  Enslaved by Fear

  “Claire Ashgrove...has a unique way with words that always makes a reader believe what she says.”

  ~The Reading Frenzy

  ~*~

  “Authentically researched and convincingly told, with a pleasing mix of magic and lust, dangerous depths and sensuous heights, CURSED TO KILL will thrill you through a long lunch break or a night at home and leave you wanting to believe in magic.”

  ~NightsandWeekends.com

  ~*~

  “Ms. Ashgrove has an amazing talent to make your heart break for the tortured souls in her books, be they an injured soldier or an imprecated half-demon.”

  ~Night Owl Romance Reviews

  Dedication

  To all the dedicated members of The Wild Rose Press staff, thank you for your wisdom, your support, your guidance and your commitment to both the authors that you serve and the products you deliver. You have made publishing a wonderful journey, and I am proud to have grown my roots here.

  ~

  Acknowledgements

  Without the support of my family, there would be no books, no novellas, no nothing—thank you from the bottom of my heart for everything. Boys, Mom—I love you!

  Thank you to Heartland Romance Authors and Midwest Romance Writers for your support and the "family" you've become. I’d have given up a long time ago without all of you.

  Thank you also, Jackie Bannon, for introducing me to paranormal romance those many years ago! You never realized what you’d start, did you?

  Last but in no means least, thank you Jewelann Cone and Callie Lynn Wolfe for dedication to this eight-part venture, and your continued enthusiasm throughout.

  Chapter One

  Like sapphires hidden in earth’s inky depths, the subtle cobalt sheen of her hair called Taran McLaine by name. Within the cover of deep shadow, he tracked the glossy sway as the woman crossed the Rue de Rennes and strode past a small café that bustled with late night activity. She stopped before an ornate iron gate that enclosed a recessed door on the ground level of a five-story, gray, stone building.

  To anyone else, the building looked just like its neighbors. Astute, touched by time, and weathered with charm. To Taran, the building was Notre Sérénité, and the memories that came with the house haunted him.

  Much like the woman who he had literally stumbled into months ago, when he was hurrying through a downpour to feed the mangy tomcat that watched him from a nearby trash container now. She’d been running for the gate, he for the corner of the antiquated block, when they’d collided into one another. He’d taken one look at her fair features, her vivid green eyes, and forgot how to function.

  In 125 years, he had never encountered a woman who bore such a striking resemblance to Solène Larouche, the woman who had captured his heart and died at his hands.

  Keys jangled as the woman unlocked the iron gate. Hinges squeaked. She slipped inside, shut the heavy iron behind her, and locked it once more. Taran shifted his stare to the window on the left. A light switched on within. A few moments later, another illuminated the second-story window atop the first.

  She had even chosen the same bedroom Taran had spent too many nights in, for her own. She was the only person to do so in over a century. The other owners—tenants when one owner converted it into flats in the early 20th century—had somehow always chosen another room in the vast five stories as their personal sleeping quarters.

  Taran fought a grimace as icy fingers gripped his heart. A memory flashed, the same long dark hair spilling across white linens, her flawless skin flushed with unspent passion. He squeezed his eyes shut against the unwanted recollection and shifted his weight.

  When he had tamed the yearning, he opened his eyes to find the window dark once again. If he stole around the block, behind to the terraced patio, the pavestones would be aglow with soft yellow light. The rear entry would be unlocked, braced partially open to allow the October breeze in and the diverse aromas of incense out.

  Whoever she was, she had opened the store once more. The same shop that Solène and he had opened together, to service the desires of a spiritualistic community that dared not show their faces in the light of day. He’d only had to make a few discreet inquiries to discover she sold the same wares.

  Who was she?

  Dáire encountered her briefly, back before their mother’s scrolls had been discovered. After recognizing the same similarities Taran did, he duped the woman the niece. Taran couldn’t bring himself to ask. She was too much like Solène. Too much like the memory he couldn’t escape.

  The woman held the power to drag him into the abyss of feeling, to provoke emotions he hadn’t experienced since the night he murdered the woman he loved.

  For that alone, she must die.

  Taran breathed in the river’s wet scent and straightened his shoulders. He didn’t hold a knife this time, as he had so long ago. No, he didn’t need manmade tools to suffocate life. His hands would work just fine. Quicker too, as he snapped her neck. She wouldn’t suffer, and he would solidify his own eternal demise. For by killing her, he would guarantee the ancestors would never return him to life.

  He pushed away from the shadowed wall he leaned against and struck off down the street, winding beneath the streetlamps that painted Paris’ Left Bank with serenity. For months he had put this off, waiting until he had done all he could to insure he would never draw another breat
h. He’d even left Paris for a few months at a time to avoid the fierce urge that unwanted memories sparked.

  In a few minutes, all he would need was his mother’s last scroll to secure the only peace he would ever know.

  Taran crossed the street in swift, determined strides.

  ****

  As the back door creaked open, Solène took a deep breath to steady the trembling in her hands. She faced the long row of shelves behind the well-worn counter, unwilling to reveal herself in entirety to Taran. The one encounter they’d had, had been close enough. But time was at a premium. Samhain occurred in two nights. She couldn’t ignore her obligations any longer.

  And she couldn’t deny a small part of her relished the knowledge that Taran would suffer for taking her life so long ago.

  A very small part.

  The rest of her was too busy wanting to throw herself into his arms and tumble back into the bed they had shared. The life they had created. The love they had known, despite the curse he suffered that damned her to an early grave.

  Still, the reality of death had a way of tarnishing emotion.

  Footsteps crossed the uneven marbled floor, bringing him closer. She ordered her fingers not to shake as she reached for a green glass jar on the shelf above her head. Pretending she couldn’t feel the threatening presence that clung to him, and ignoring the intoxicating scent of old world spice that drifted off his clothes, Solène removed the glass stopper and picked up a bowl of fresh ground sage. She poured as Taran moved toward the counter.

  At the fringes of her awareness another presence stirred. Her spirit wards closed in, hovering just beyond the barrier of recognition, ready to thwart Taran’s murderous hand.

  Oh, she knew why he had come. Had expected it from the moment the demon Drandar reunited her with the mortal plane. It had only been a matter of time.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she called.

  Without a word, he moved to the north wall, where silver talismans nestled between thin tomes designed for Paris’s true masters of witchcraft. Solène turned her head a fraction, watching the way he ran a reverent hand over the cover of one old spell. Her breath hitched at the sight of his sharp profile, his long dark hair, the mouth that could curve so sensually, and so wickedly as well. Over one hundred years, and he was still every bit as mesmerizing as the night they’d met at the opening of the Moulin Rouge.

  His posture belied discomfort. The lines on his forehead spoke of pain. Her heart shuddered in sympathy. Taran hadn’t come near this place they had once called home since he laid a single red rose on her freshly dug grave. He passed down the street, lingered at a distance, but not once had he entered, not even when it had been opened for display the three times it had been on the market.

  If his reaction was anything like hers when she’d set foot inside the dusty shop they had established together, he bled inside. Looking on the things they had crafted together, the magic they had drawn and channeled during the quiet hours of night, had nearly broken her.

  Taran jerked his hand away from a silver-handled dagger, and his mouth formed a harsh line. He turned toward the counter, his onyx eyes glittering.

  Solène restored the jar to the shelf above her head, smoothed her hands down the front of her black shirt, and summoned courage. She pulled a smile from deep within before turning to face him. In the calmest voice she could craft, she asked, “How may I help you?”

  Shock washed across Taran’s features. He opened his mouth, snapped it shut, then gave a slight shake of his head. “I was told…” His voice vibrated with a lack of confidence that didn’t fit his character.

  She moved to the edge of the counter, keeping her gaze locked with his. “You were told I knew the arts, yes?”

  A short nod of his head confirmed.

  He was lying, but then she hadn’t expected anything less. He’d need some sort of excuse to come into the store. She didn’t cater to the general public, only to those who passed quiet referrals.

  “Was there something in specific you needed?” Solène took care to keep her voice light. It wasn’t yet time to reveal her hand. Spirits above, he looked delicious. She could still feel the weight of his strong arms folding around her. The warmth of his breath as he feathered a kiss across her lips.

  Old longing stirred in the depths of her soul, and Solène had to grip the edge of the counter to ward off a dizzy spell.

  Taran approached the counter warily. His eyes raked down the length of her body, slowly flicked up to rest on her face. Curiosity flashed in his dark stare, then morphed into pained disbelief.

  Yes, it’s me, Taran. Her smile faltered.

  He looked so wounded. So anguished. How could she have ever believed she could damn him to an eternity of suffering? She could no more carry out Drandar’s dark wishes, than she could hand Taran the knife he needed to kill her.

  And yet…she’d give a thousand lifetimes to ease his pain.

  Focus. She swallowed down the cobwebs that gathered in her throat. “If you’re looking for a rite for Samhain, I have a few hand-crafted rituals on the counter where you were just looking.”

  “No,” he answered brusquely. “I’ve forgotten now.”

  Fine excuse. Did that mean he’d changed his mind? No, knowing him, he’d simply become so off-center that he needed time to reorganize his thoughts.

  Taran tapped a fist on the scarred countertop. His long black hair whipped over his shoulder as he pivoted on his heel. He pushed it aside with a muffled oath and stalked to the door.

  Solène stepped behind the false safety of the countertop. When he set his palm on the door and pushed it open, she dug her nails into the wood. He was halfway outside before she managed to force out words. “Come back when you know what you’re looking for, Taran McLaine.”

  Chapter Two

  Twenty steps away from the hauntingly beautiful woman, her words registered in Taran’s mind. He came to an abrupt halt beneath the light of a streetlamp. She knew his name…

  Beneath his feet, the world fell away. He curled a hand around the iron post to keep from stumbling to his knees. Solène—it couldn’t be. He had felt her blood on his hands, watched as she gasped her last breath. He had put her broken body in the ground, along with all that was good and decent in his soul.

  Yet how else could she know his name? She was identical. She even wore the same perfume—jasmine with the faintest hint of cinnamon. Solène Larouche was the only woman who could pull off such mismatched aromas.

  Solène.

  Something deep inside Taran began to tremble.

  Her laughter rang through his head. A vision of her as she raced into the grand music room and spun a circle on the parquet wood floor, her arms outstretched, her glorious long hair spilling out behind her. It’s ours. It’s really ours, Taran. We’ll call it Serenity. Come and dance with me.

  He had taken her in his arms, laughing with her as he held her body close and spun her across the waxed floor. The music was their own. A sensual rhythm that held notes of whimsy and an undertone of danger. They danced until standing so close became intolerable, and the fire that burned between them drew them to the floor, where she had cried out his name in ecstasy, and he had stared into her eyes, lost to the love that shone there.

  Solène.

  Alive.

  Now, when he had done all he could to insure he would never know mortality.

  He ground his teeth together and released the light post. She could not possibly be alive. This was some cruel trick of his mother’s, meant to somehow divert him from his intentions. He was sick and tired of Nyamah’s interference.

  With a hand clenched at his side, he turned back to the shop and the woman within. He’d allowed her to catch him off guard and sidetrack him from his purpose. No more. He had one final step to take to secure his end. Nyamah would not deter him from that plan.

  He crossed to the door in half the time it had taken him to leave and jerked on the handle. It didn’t budge. She’d
locked it.

  Damn it. Damn her.

  To stop the rush of nonsensical rage, he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and counted to thirty. One more reason why he needed to finish this vile act—the darkness raging in his soul made control damn near impossible. Every little impulse wanted to take life. Like kicking in this door. He could try—venting the fury would bring an enormous rush of relief. But all he would succeed in was breaking his toe. He had helped drive the stake-like nails that held the wooden bar in place on the other side. No one would get through this door without mechanical help.

  And if the woman was Solène, she had further barred entry with her own powerful magic. When a witch did not want interruptions, she did not have them.

  Instead of following the rash urge, he hiked himself onto the short retaining wall and took a seat. Someone else would come before she turned out her light. Someone who wouldn’t be content with a locked door. When the woman opened it to send the visitor away, he would let himself inside.

  If not, she still had her late night coffee appointment to attend. When she came out, as she always did shortly after the midnight hour, he would grab her then.

  ****

  Solène turned off all the lights in the tiny shop, save for one Quinquet lamp. She turned the wick up and carried it behind the counter to the screened-off preparation table. Old stains in the wood illuminated in the faint light. Reminders of the life she had once delighted in. She gave into a wistful smile as she set the lamp down.

  What lay beneath the table only served to remind her of the current monstrosity her new life had become.

  Not wanting to touch the vile parchment, she forced herself to face the inevitable and remove the scroll Drandar had given her from its hiding place within a latched crate. Power radiated beneath her fingertips, a vile blend of all that was good and healing, and all that was malicious and destructive. She fought back a grimace.

  If she intended to discover what Drandar had altered that turned Nyamah’s last words of power into an unholy creation, touching it was necessary.

  She should have examined it long before now. But until Taran had walked into the home they had once shared, and she’d witnessed the anguish etched into his handsome face, she hadn’t realized how impossible it would be to honor her bargain with the demon.