Heiress to a Curse

by Zandria Munson

  In walked the gargoyle.

  He was gasping as if he’d been racing against time itself. The sleek muscles of his chest were glistening, and his long hair hung dripping over his shoulders. At the back of her mind, past the fear and desperation that jerked every nerve ending she possessed, Alexandra realized that he had probably flown through a thunderstorm.

  His glare went straight to her, then to the scattered items of the chest on the floor. “How did you get in here?” he growled.

  She’d been right! Marius was harboring the creature. Slowly she stood, the sound of her heart drumming in her ears.

  He extended a hand. “I will not harm you. Please, you must come with me.”

  Alexandra’s attention drifted to the blood-stained bandage on his arm. And the leather tie that held it in place.

  “Marius?” she whispered.

  ZANDRIA MUNSON

  was born and raised in the Bahamas on a beautiful island called New Providence. Her early education was enhanced with history and folklore lessons on pirates, mermaids, the Lost City of Atlantis and other fanciful topics. As a child she spent lazy summer days slipping in and out of her imagination. She started writing at thirteen.

  Zandria attended the College of the Bahamas, where she obtained her degree in nursing. Along with her passion for storytelling, she harbors a driving need to help others. She presently lives in Texas with her husband, Christopher, and kitties Munchkin and Chloe.

  HEIRESS TO A CURSE

  ZANDRIA MUNSON

  Dear Reader,

  Heiress to a Curse is the first novel in the HEARTS OF STONE series. My inspiration for this book came from two directions. One, my love for romance and for dark and dangerous alpha males. *Winks*. And two, my desire to be original. It seems everyone is trying to write the next great vampire novel. Although I have nothing against vampires, I just needed to think outside of the box.

  I’ve found there are so many other creatures that one can make, shall we say, alluring. I chose gargoyles because I’ve always been fascinated by the ancient stone statues that sit quietly monitoring our mundane routines from their vantage points. From this idea I was able to fashion the Drakon clan.

  While writing this story I took every opportunity to visit places that would keep me in the right frame of mind. I wanted the scenes and characters to leap from the pages and tamper with the senses and emotions of readers. One of my most memorable experiences was visiting a haunted site in Michigan called the Paulding Light. There’s nothing like creeping through a dark and misty forest at 1:00 a.m. on a cold September morning to get my creative juices flowing. I didn’t see any ghosts that night, but I did gain a wealth of inspiration.

  Please enjoy Marius and Alexandra’s love story. I hope these characters bring you as much excitement as they did me.

  Happy reading!

  Zandria Munson

  For my wonderful husband and my pooh,

  Christopher.

  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

  Chapter 22

  Prologue

  16th Century, Romania

  Lord Victor Drakon stood at the foot of his wide, four-poster bed as he watched his wife in repose. Her tall and elegant frame was entwined with the many furs that covered the bed, while the lovely wealth of her hair lay splayed about her face. She was beautiful and equally as gentle hearted and he loved her dearly. From the moment he’d first spied her picking flowers on his land, he’d loved her. She held no title and she wasn’t of noble birth, but she was pure and her love was sincere.

  He’d gone against propriety, against his family’s wishes, and severed his betrothal to Lady Vivian Dancescu to claim this woman as his own. She was his heart, his life and his love.

  Moving closer, he gazed upon her face, bathed in the flickering glow from the hearth. She sighed then, her soft breath fanning the stray tendrils that had fallen near her lips.

  He leaned over her and gently drew away the black curls. “My sweet Amelia,” he breathed.

  A sudden knock sounded at the door. It was his messenger, no doubt. He’d been waiting for news of Lady Vivian. After learning of his covert marriage to Amelia, the lady had been consumed by rage, hacking off her hair and publicly cursing the day of his birth.

  He, however, didn’t hold himself accountable for her ill feelings, for he’d tried desperately to reason with her. They’d been forced into their betrothal as children—a union that was to join the wealth of two powerful houses. There was no love between them and thus, he’d offered her freedom. He’d proposed a sizable fare to appease her wounded pride, but she was a greedy and self-righteous woman; it was his lands she desired. And so, he’d been left with no choice but to summon the chancellor during the silence of the early morning to perform the ceremony that would join him and his beloved Amelia.

  He quickly donned his cloak and opened the door. His manservant stood on the other side, panting and covered in soot. “The Lady Vivian, my lord, she is dead,” the man informed him.

  “What do you mean, dead? Surely you jest!”

  “No, my lord. She took her own life.”

  The blood drained from Lord Drakon’s face and a sudden feeling of guilt overcame him. “How?” he asked.

  “She burned herself alive, my lord. Even now fire consumes Elburich Castle.”

  Lord Drakon’s nostrils flared as he inhaled a pained breath. Why anyone, most especially the gentle-bred Lady Vivian, would choose to end her life in such a horrific way was beyond him. “And her family?” His voice trembled.

  The messenger’s head lowered. “They were all sleeping. Everyone perished in the flames.”

  Lord Drakon spun away from the door and ran his fingers through the thick mane of his hair. Had the woman gone mad? To end her life was one thing, but to do so without the slightest consideration for her own family was another.

  Was he to blame for her crime? Had his rejection driven her to insanity? No, he told himself. Her actions were the result of her own lust for greater wealth. No, the only one to be blamed was her.

  A shrill cry resounded from the window of his bedchamber, shattering the solemn moment.

  “Lord Drakon, I curse you!”

  He exchanged confused looks with his messenger and they hurried toward the open shutters. Below, a woman stood bearing a torch. She was garbed in a heavy cloak that permitted only a shadowed view of her face.

  “I curse your house and all who dwell within!” she continued.

  “Who is she?” Lord Drakon asked.

  “The witch Necesar. She was cousin to Lady Vivian.”

  By this time, Amelia had awakened, and she slipped from the bed, draping the heavy coverlet around her. “Victor, what is it?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Lady Vivian’s cousin,” he replied.

  Again the voice of the woman below rang out. “You rejected my cousin to take a common woman to your bed! Her heart was slain by your insult and now she is dead, taking her beloved household with her!”

  “It was not her heart that was slain, but her pride!” Lord Drakon called in return.

  “You are one to speak of pride when you have disgraced yourself and sullied your family’s name. Tell
me, when you lay with your peasant bride, do you see Vivian’s face? Do you feel her pain?”

  “Go home, woman!” he barked. “The hour is late and my patience runs low.”

  “I do not fear you,” she snarled. “My beloved cousin bestowed a task upon me and I shall not fail her. You and your house shall suffer as she has. Your souls shall be stripped from your flesh and even the sun will betray you. Curse upon you, Lord Drakon, and curse upon your kin.”

  “Silence!” he shouted, consumed by rage now. “Leave this place, you wretched witch.”

  She stripped the hood of her cloak from her head, revealing a mass of silver hair. “My death will not end your torment. You and your generations to follow shall bear the same fate. Darkness will be your prison and you shall pray for death, but it will flee from you.”

  Lord Drakon turned to the man at his side. “Go below and cease this heresy. Give her a horse and send her on her way.”

  The messenger nodded and left to do his bidding. Lord Drakon maintained his post at the window as the woman continued her ranting. Deep within him, fear kindled, for he’d heard of the power of the witch Necesar. Her spoken word was potent, like the venom of a serpent. Yet could one possess such power that she could curse an innocent man and his entire house? Would God allow such a thing?

  Amelia appeared at his side, her beautiful features ashen. “Why does she speak so?”

  He draped an arm about her, drawing her to him. “Lady Vivian has taken her life. The Elburich Castle has burned to the ground and everyone inside has perished.”

  “Oh, dear God,” she gasped.

  Beneath them, the sound of hooves emerged as three armed men on horseback, one with a mare in tow, moved to circle the witch.

  Necesar continued as if they’d never come upon her. “For an eternity you and your children will be feared by all men and you will be hunted like beasts! The world will change, and as the vines come creeping to shroud the walls of your castle and the trees grow so dense that you cannot see beyond them, you will remember this night and what was lost in it.”

  One of the men advanced upon her. “Be silent, sorceress!”

  She continued. “Five were those who perished, and in five winters darkness will be brought upon you. From thence, for five centuries will I be your constant torment. And when this time is spent, the one whose love you rejected will claim the body of my descendant and gain her vengeance.”

  With an angry growl, the horseman dismounted and drew his sword. “Be silent!”

  She fixed the horseman with an unblinking stare. “Your wife is only two moons from giving birth,” she stated.

  Slightly taken aback, the horseman halted his advance.

  “You will have a son. He will be born beneath the sign of Aquarius. He will be in your image, but his eyes will be taken from him. Born into darkness, he will never see your face.”

  “I am warning you, witch,” the horseman growled.

  “Your young wife, in her grief, will fall into madness.”

  “Silence!”

  “For an eternity you shall dwell in this castle….”

  Her words were cut short as he thrust his blade into her abdomen just as Lord Drakon’s protest echoed over the courtyard.

  “No!” he shouted. But it was too late. The blade passed through her slender frame.

  Necesar gasped, her eyes turning to the balcony. “Remember this night well, Lord Drakon, for it marks the beginning of your eternal torment.” With that she collapsed to her knees.

  Lord Drakon turned from the window and raced down to the courtyard. He pushed aside the horseman who remained above Necesar, staring in disbelief at what he’d just done.

  It seemed that time slowed as Necesar’s gaze roamed the faces of each individual present. She fell onto the dirt, her breathing slow and labored.

  Lord Drakon moved to her side, stripping his cloak from his shoulders and draping it over her. He eased her head from the cold ground. The last thing he’d wanted was to see her slain, witch or no witch. The night had already claimed too many souls. He hung his head. To think that something as pure and simple as love could brew such a tragedy saddened his heart.

  A flash of silver toppled from beneath the cloak and onto the hand he had positioned beneath her head. Necesar’s amulet, with the Dancescu crest. He reached out to retrieve it, for she should die with the symbol of her family near her heart. Necesar suddenly snatched his arm in a painful grip. She held on to him, her eyes deep and penetrating. He could only return her unnerving stare, for he found no words to appease the pain he saw there. Then, as silent as the drifting of ashes, her eyes closed and she breathed no more.

  Chapter 1

  New York City, Present Day

  Alexandra Barret tilted up her head toward the warm water that streamed in steady waves down her naked body. She ran her hands along her wet hair, smoothing the long and heavy mass against her scalp. Over the sound of the shower, she could hear the television in the background. It was 8:00 p.m. The familiar voice of the news reporter beamed with excitement as he relayed the latest development on the Central Park sightings.

  With her eyes closed, she reached down and shut off the water. Her pink terry robe, which had been draped over the towel rack, was quickly donned, then she wrapped a towel around her hair and padded out of the bathroom. A single lamp on her bedside table cast a dull glow about her New York apartment. She sat on the edge of the bed and began to towel dry her hair.

  “The eyewitnesses state that the creature resembled a pterodactyl with a reported wingspan of about twelve feet,” the reporter continued. “This new sighting brings the count to five during the last month. Authorities have been hard-pressed to find any clues to aid in their investigation. I’m Anthony Newman with KB1 News.”

  The corny tune of a car insurance commercial filled the room. She stood and walked toward a small table in one corner of her room. Notes and photographs lay scattered upon it. She often brought her work home and her latest assignment was a story about the people affected by a series of mysterious fires in the Hyde Park community. At twenty-eight she was a successful features writer at one of the biggest heralds in New York, the Daily Sun. But where others relied on their interrogation skills to complete a task, she depended on a more mysterious talent.

  Ever since she was a child she’d been gifted with a rare sight. At first it had been limited to her dreams, in which images had appeared to her, often seemingly meaningless. A few days later, she’d realize they were glimpses of events that had occurred. She’d never been able to predict the future, but with the added ability of tapping into others’ emotions, she was often able to make accurate guesses, enabling her to complete assignments with uncanny insight. This ability propelled her to the top of her field.

  Briefly, she skimmed through the photos then moved toward her dresser. She shook her hair out and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. She picked up her comb, a fancy silver and ivory family heirloom, and ran it through her long dark curls.

  My gypsy.

  That’s what her father had always called her. Michael had been American and her mother, Marciela, Romanian. Her father had been a journalist. He’d met her mother thirty years ago while doing a story on Romanian folklore. It had been love at first sight. Within three weeks of their meeting, Marciela and Michael were wed. They’d remained in Romania for a year, but after Marciela’s father had died Marciela and Michael decided to emigrate to the U.S. As her parents’ only heir and the last of the Dancescu bloodline, Alexandra had inherited the entirety of her family’s estate.

  Alexandra put down the comb. Nearly two years had passed since the accident. She missed them sorely. Tears welled in her eyes and she exhaled a shuddering breath. She wasn’t going to do this to herself again. Her parents wouldn’t want her moping over their untimely deaths. They would want her to move on and find happiness.

  She switched off the television, stepped out of her robe, climbed into bed and turned off the lamp. The room w
as completely enveloped in darkness except for a narrow bar of light that spilled in through the window. She stared at it for a moment, feeling the hairs rise at her nape. She had the oddest sense that she was being watched.

  She sat up slowly and glared through the glass door. A few seconds skipped by and she sighed. She really had to stop getting herself worked up.

  She returned to her pillow and gazed at the ceiling as she tried to banish the thoughts she’d awakened. It wasn’t long before her lids grew heavy and her eyes closed as she slipped into a restless sleep.

  Marius Drakon perched on the metal rail of the small balcony outside the seventh-story window, his attention fixed on the form of the woman on the bed. He’d been following her for several days, and if all his father had said was true, then she was the last of the Dancescu bloodline. As his family had come to learn, the witch Necesar had been reincarnated throughout the centuries within the bodies of her descendants. There had been occurrences when her abilities had manifested within them when confronted by members of his clan, but Necesar had never gone out of her way to make her presence known. With the death of this final descendant—which he’d come to deliver—his family would be set free of their five-hundred-year-old curse.

  He shifted his weight, his massive wings spreading to beat against the night air. He’d gladly volunteered to leave his Romanian castle and venture into the West to seek out the one woman who stood between him and freedom. He yearned to taste her blood on his lips. It would be sweet, like fresh air drawn into drowning lungs. No more would the shadows be his home at night and stone his prison by day. No more would he be damned—a gargoyle cursed to walk the earth for eternity.