by Taylor Fray
The Cursed Prince
Fated by Magic: Book 1
Taylor Fray
Tempest Books
Contents
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
Author’s Note
Copyright © 2017 by Taylor Fray
All rights reserved.
Published by Tempest Books.
This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except by an authorized retailer, or with written permission of the publisher.
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1
Yellow leaves crunched as she stalked into the forest. She had lost track of time, but it must have been at least an hour since she veered off the hiking trail. She had come this far, and she couldn’t stop hunting that… man, the blurring shape she had glimpsed through the web of tree trunks.
Her name was Morgan St. Claire. Many thought she was cold, a straight up bitch. She welcomed the title. Really, it was never unwarranted. If a guy put a hand on her ass at a club, he was getting his teeth knocked out—she just saw that as the logical reaction. If she was considered a loner, so be it. Even her family had become estranged to her. But the death of family brings out bonds that are almost impossible to break. That’s why she was out in these woods. To do what the police were too inept or too lazy to do: to catch her sister’s killer.
She came to a small clearing. As she studied the area she felt the chill of the wind. Her hiking vest and denim pants couldn’t keep out the Appalachian cold. An eyewitness had placed this man she was hunting at the scene of her sister’s murder. He had been spotted rushing out of her sister’s house moments after she was killed. Morgan had dug for information around town, and two people had spotted the same man here, in these woods. One of them had given him a name, Zak.
Dusk was settling in, so she strained her eyes to scan the forest.She felt for her gun snugged underneath her belt. It reassured her, despite the glaring risk she was taking by following a killer. Suddenly she whipped around at the sound of snapping twigs.
“Who sent you?” said the imposing man standing in front of her. She gasped. Her senses were sharp, but he had snuck up on her, far too close for comfort. He seemed tense, threatening almost. For a moment she felt a shudder run through her body, like the tingling one feels when a limb falls asleep. She felt it from head to toe, and it made the solid world around her suddenly feel light and tenuous. It left her wordless. The stranger also seemed suddenly at a loss as he stared at her, wild eyed. Those icy-blue eyes seemed to hold back rage. He stood enormously tall, almost seven feet, with horse-like shoulders, a thick corded neck. He wore a quilted leather jacket with metal rivets over his bare chest, and a bracer around one wrist. Together with his untamed hair, he looked out of place, like he belonged on an ancient battlefield somewhere instead of these Tennessee backwoods. Finally, he seemed to gather himself. “Whoever sent you, the Striders, the Howlers, the Hand, you can tell them this land is mine now. I won’t kill you unless I have to. Take that as mercy and go.”
She was frozen with confusion, but clearly this was the man she was looking for, and his apparent insanity matched what he had done. The witnesses had been wrong. His hair was not gray. It was silver. It grew dark at the roots and became bright at the ends. She had never seen anything like it; it shimmered so bright it looked metallic. She had expected an old man from the descriptions, but now she saw he radiated vitality like the sun. “What do you mean it’s your land?” she managed to say after taking in the sight of him. She needed to buy herself some time. “This is part of the natural reserve, how can you own it?”
“Because I’m going to kill every single Black Hand in this holding, and any who serve them.” The mention of killing again made Morgan swallow and feel for her gun. “From the Tacona River to the hills in the west, no Shifter can set foot here without my permission.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “I don’t want any other clans interfering. My fight is not with them. Or with you.” He stepped closer to her. “You should go now. Believe me, you’ll be glad you got away from here.” She stepped back and almost tripped on a fallen branch. She studied him, her mind racing—fight or flight. He didn’t seem armed. She was the one with the gun, but for the first time in a long time, she was afraid.
“Listen,” she said, concern growing at the way his eyes seemed to turn a strange amber color in the dimming light. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I’m a private investigator. I’m not trespassing. I’m not here about any of the nonsense you’re spitting out. I’m here because you have to answer for—”
He stepped closer again, as if he was studying a strange animal. His chiseled jaw tensed as he loomed over her like a timber wolf over a fawn.
Her breath caught in her lungs. She wouldn’t admit it, but mixed with the fear was a rush of exhilaration. Still, out of sheer instinct she reached for her gun. With the speed of a striking snake, he snatched her wrist in his hand. His grip had the crushing force of a steel wrench.
“Enough. Who sent you? What clan are you with?” He pulled her closer, so close that she could hear a rumbling growl building in his chest. Her mind couldn’t process how that could be—all she could do was resist as best she could.
“Let go!” She said. BLAM! The gun fired off as she struggled. With inhuman speed, he pried the weapon from her hand.
“Are you insane?” He let her go, but kept the gun.
She took out her phone. “I’m calling the police.”
In a blur of muscle and gritting teeth he was on her, knocking her to the ground, the phone flying from her hand. He tossed the gun aside. He was actually on top of her now. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, the pressure of his weight, the musky smell of his breath. She kicked and tried to wrestle her way up but he held her down with a single hand locked on her arm. She couldn’t believe it—it was like he was solid concrete.
“You’re not with a clan, are you?” he asked amidst the tussle.
“Get the hell off me!” She went on struggling as he breathed deep.
“Your scent—it’s just like hers!” he said, confused.
Morgan’s eyes flared with alarm. “What?”
With the grace of a wild animal, he recoiled away from her. “Who are you?”
She stared back at him. She knew it was a terrible idea to reveal anything to this predator, and yet, she was sure he had just made reference to her sister. Any doubt she had vanished—she was looking right at her killer. She ran, picked up her gun. Aimed at his heart. She panted as a few stray hairs clouded her vision. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
“I’m Morgan…” The man just stared back at her in disbelief. Her grip on the gun tightened. “Harley’s sister.” Her face twisted in a rush
of emotions. “And I don’t care how strong you are. You just gave me an excuse to put this whole clip into you… for what you did to her.” She kept waiting for the criminal emotions of hate and fear to show on his face, but all she saw there was shock. She tried to work up the nerve to kill him on the spot. Another breath, just one more breath and she would pull the trigger.
“I didn’t kill her—” Suddenly he perched up, alert. His eyes scanned the surroundings—he darted off. He moved at such speed that Morgan just saw flickering limbs and the rustling of leaves.
“Hey!” Morgan yelled. She was on the verge of shooting as he ran off, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her mind was reeling—what the hell had just happened? There was something about him—he wasn’t an ordinary person. In her rush of adrenaline she had only seen her sister’s killer, but there was more to him, something strange, something unsettling. And stranger still, she had felt some connection to him that she couldn’t explain. Before they had become confrontational, every muscle in her body had clenched with fear… and excitement, a promise, a cold sweat running over her.
“Who’s out there?” a voice yelled behind her. She turned, had to squint as two flashlights shone on her. As she got a better glimpse, she realized they were two sheriff’s deputies. She recognized one of them, Colin. She had seen him at the station a week earlier, when she had come in to look at the case file on her sister’s murder. The other officer wore a sheriff’s badge. The two men in khaki uniforms approached her, guns drawn.
“Mam, I need you to drop your weapon,” Deputy Colin said.
She had almost forgotten about it. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Mam, please put the gun down,” Colin repeated.
She nodded and accommodated the request.
Colin and the sheriff walked closer, holstering their weapons. Colin looked young to be a deputy, with blonde hair and bright hazel eyes that suggested a genuine concern. “Morgan, Harley’s sister right?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. She looked over at the sheriff.
“Miss,” he said to her, “I’m sheriff Albhanz.” The sheriff was tall and lanky, a clean-shaven face with black hair that streaked back. He exuded a penetrating intellect, constantly studying people and his surroundings as he chewed on Tic-Tacs. “You mind explaining what you’re doing out here with a drawn firearm?”
“I was hiking… There was a man. He attacked me.”
The two officers glanced around.
“What happened?” Colin asked. “Are you hurt?”
“No, he just said I was on… his land. Then he kept coming closer. Knocked me to the ground. And I—I drew. It was for protection.”
“We better make an official report,” Albhanz said, and motioned for Morgan to come with them. She followed, looking back at the clearing, the imprint of her attacker still on her body and mind. She could swear that between the quivering branches, he was still watching them from the shadows.
2
They hadn’t been close since they were teenagers. Morgan had always been in awe of Harley. Two years older, the one who got the best looking boys to chase her, the one everyone knew and lit up when they saw her. But something happened after Harley graduated high school. She changed. She became unstable, slept with every boy who came her way. Rumors circulated that she was on crystal, or heroine, or who knows what—rumors that she was prostituting herself.
Morgan had to live with it through the rest of high school. The last time that she had seen her sister, Morgan had told her she loved her, in a desperate plea to get her to stay, to get her to change, only to be told, “You don’t even know me.” And just like that, Harley had driven off, to the backwoods of Gilbert County, to get knocked up by some drunken boyfriend who would also knock her around in time. Or so that’s what Morgan always imagined. In truth, they hadn’t spoken in ten years. Morgan had moved away to New York for college, and came back only now and then to visit her mother. With every letter to Harley, with every phone call that went unanswered, Morgan lost hope that she would ever get her sister back.
After Harley missed their mother’s funeral, she had become more or less dead to Morgan. Just when she had needed her most, Harley was nowhere to be found. It made it all the more surreal to be investigating her murder. She had to dig up that connection to the sister she had when she was a child, to forgive the years of absence. Perhaps it was closure she was seeking here. Perhaps what brought her here was the guilt she felt for running away from her childhood. Perhaps piecing together her sister’s life was a way to piece together her own. She had never known her father, hardly knew her own mother. All through the years, when her classmates, her coworkers had some warm place to go to for holidays, for birthdays, she had a cold room and a flickering TV. Solving her murder, perhaps it was one last chance to give some dignity to where she came from.
After a week of sleuthing in the town of Gilbert, she had discovered that two neighbors saw a man leaving Harley’s house the day she was murdered. Both described this man as tall, massive, with gray hair. Another witness claimed he had seen this man, who he called Zak, in the nature preserve. Apparently this man had been fishing, and had a conversation with a polite, quiet stranger, gray haired and massive, who when asked his name only answered “Zak.” Zak, a man with no last name and no record of living anywhere within 100 miles, or anywhere at all for that matter when all she had to go by was a first name.
That it took a whole week after Harley’s death for her to be notified showed her the kind of police force she was dealing with. Their distant cousin, Paige, had been listed as next of kin; notifying her, the sheriff’s department felt they had done their duty. It made it all the more irritating that she was sitting at a faded desk in their department now, answering their mundane questions.
“I told you,” she said to Colin and Sheriff Albhanz. “He was about six nine, ten maybe, silver hair and dark stubble, looked like he lives at the gym. Or chops down trees or whatever it is you do around here to stay in shape. His grip was so strong—I thought he might break my wrist. And I swear he moved faster than any man should. Like, like a cat or something.”
Colin jotted all of it down on a notepad, a little cockeyed with disbelief. Sheriff Albhanz only pierced her with his gaze.
“Miss St. Claire, we know you weren’t just hiking,” Albhanz said. “What were you doing out there?”
“What do you think? I was looking for my sister’s murderer. The man you said you couldn’t track.”
“And how exactly did you track a man to the middle of nowhere in a forest?”
“Old fashioned detective work.” Morgan had a great poker face. In truth she didn’t have a rational explanation. The fisherman had helped her narrow her search to the forest reserve. But really, she didn’t have an exact explanation. She had a knack for tracking, urban or rural. It was how she made a living. She had learned some reliable skills for tracking in wilderness—reading bent grasses, snapped leaves, footprints, debris—but sometimes, she couldn’t explain exactly how she tracked people down. It was like her rational mind turned off and some unknown instinct took over. “It was two days work for me, so makes me wonder if you even tried.”
Albhanz took that in, concern growing on his face. “That’s still an open investigation, Miss St. Claire.”
“And I’m a P.I. And more importantly, someone who actually cares.”
“I don’t mean to be insensitive, but the way your sister died, I don’t think it’s something you, or any P.I. can handle. If this man you encountered, this Zak is really responsible, then it’s best you let us handle it.”
Morgan stood. “Let you handle it. Right. Well I’ll be doing my make up and baking some peach pie, just holler if you need any help with your man work.” She stood as their replies choked in their throats. She walked out of the room, through the rustic police department, the secretary studying her suspiciously from her desk.
Sheriff Albhanz caught up with her at the door.
&nbs
p; “Morgan,” he said, catching her attention by calling her by her first name. “Listen,” he stepped out the door with her into the chill of the parking lot. “I’ve seen a lot of people grieve while I’ve been on the job, but I’ve never seen anyone grieve like you, because none of those people had the means to take justice into their own hands. And I don’t blame you.”
“If you really mean that, then stop slowing me down.”
“Look, I want to help you.” He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice. “Why don’t we meet after my shift? It’ll be off the books. I’ll give you whatever information you want. Perhaps we can go out there to the woods and look for this guy, just the two of us. I’m new to Gilbert myself, just transferred. I know what it’s like to be an outsider.”
Morgan studied him for a moment. She wasn’t one to flatter herself, but now and then she came across men in her line of work who couldn’t resist her curves. She was voluptuous in a tough, athletic kind of way, and her honey colored hair fell in shiny, wavy locks. Cops especially would play the nice guy trying to help card, and then try to get in her pants with it.
“I appreciate the help, but I’m sure you have all kinds of cases piling up. Speeding, people skipping checks at restaurants, you know, major crimes.” She turned, but Albhanz interrupted.
“The thing is, if it were me, and I was looking for revenge, I’d want someone to keep me from getting into a dangerous situation. A situation where I might hurt someone… or be hurt myself.”
“I barely knew my sister. So tell you the truth, I don’t think this is about revenge.” She stepped to her car, opened the door.
“Then what is it about?” Albhanz asked.
She looked back for a moment. “I don’t know yet,” she answered, then drove off.
She could barely sleep that night. The image of Zak, their confrontation, how such a man could even exist. It haunted her. Frightened her. Strangest of all, she felt an attraction to him that was completely irrational. It was like there was a wild animal inside her that wanted to devour him, to submit to him, to be dominated by this monster she had glimpsed for only fleeting moments. It all made her toss and turn, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, the sheets spilling over the bed.
