by Julie Leto
He was going to…
Jump.
He was there.
And then he was gone.
Ben made a move toward the drop-off, but the police yelled for everyone to stay where they were.
Lauren didn’t need to be told. She didn’t care what happened to Pryce or the damned sword. She only wanted Aiden, alive, solid. Permanent.
She shifted so that his head was in her lap. It was so dark. The glow from the lanterns hardly gave her enough light to see anything, especially once she realized that her eyes were filled with tears. She swiped them away and patted Aiden’s cheeks.
“Aiden, I know my admitting that I love you came as a huge shock, but you’re giving me a complex here. I went to all the trouble of opening my heart; the least you can do is tell me you love me back.”
His lips twitched, then, millimeter by, millimeter, curved into a cocky smile. “You couldn’t resist me.”
She nearly shot back with some stupid, snarky remark, but instead she kissed him, both hands cupping his face, and her hair curtaining them from view.
In the background she heard Catalina sniffle, then Ben assuring the police that they were all fine and encouraging them to pursue Farrow Pryce. Someone shouted for spotlights. The scuffle of Farrow’s thugs being dragged to their feet, protesting and shouting about crazy magic and invisible ropes and flying guns, was noise she barely registered as she concentrated on the feel of Aiden’s mouth on hers. Slowly the coolness of his skin surrendered under an intense heat, and when she pressed her cheek against his chest and allowed her tears to flow freely, the heartbeat beneath her ear blocked out every other unimportant sound.
He wrapped his arms around her, and though she was holding him, Lauren had never felt so cradled, so protected in her entire life.
“Ma’am, is he all right? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
Lauren looked up. The policeman, dressed in black and helmeted, threw back his night-vision visor. “He’ll be fine.”
Aiden groaned as he untwined from Lauren and tried to get to his feet, but with a quick assist from the cop he was standing, just as strong and proud as he had when he’d first emerged from the sword. “Thank you, sir,” he said to the policeman. “I merely took a bad fall.”
“Not as bad as your friend,” the cop replied, thumbing toward the cliff. “No way he survived that drop. We’re going to need a statement, if you’ll all take a seat over there. Nice costume, by the way. Doing a period piece next, Ms. Cole?”
“Something like that,” she replied.
Aiden chose the chair at the head of the granite table, where Farrow had held court, then tugged her into his lap. He kissed her thoroughly, his hands intent on touching every part of her, as if he were assuring himself that she was real. That he was real. That they were both alive and free of any curse, magical or otherwise.
Lauren lost all track of time until someone cleared his throat.
She blinked and focused on Ben, who was sitting behind Catalina, his arms wrapped possessively around her shoulders.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Ben said sheepishly.
“No, he’s not,” Catalina amended. “The police are busy searching for that maniac, but they’ll be back soon. You need a cover story.”
Aiden looked perplexed.
“It’s not every day the Malibu police meet a man in eighteenth-century clothing who has no identification, no job, no address,” Lauren explained.
“ ‘Tis untrue! I shall soon have documents from the Screen Actors Guild that will say precisely who I am. I heard Helen tell you as much. So apparently in this century I am an actor. And if I’m not mistaken, my address is a rather tony home in an area you call Beverly Hills.”
Lauren’s heart swelled. This couldn’t be happening.
Aiden, no longer a phantom cursed and bound to the sword, had the whole world to explore, and yet he seemed to want to stay with her. Could this be possible?
“You’re not mistaken,” she managed to say, her voice squeaking only a little. “But what about finding your brother? Avenging Rogan’s heirs for the curse they put on your family?”
His expression became serious. Turning to Ben, he asked, “Where is Paxton?”
Ben frowned. “Missing, but he went willingly with a woman named Gemma Von Roan to try to find other objects that could contain your other three brothers.”
“You mean four,” Aiden corrected.
“No, three,” Catalina insisted. “Your brother Damon—he’s already free.”
Aiden’s chest stiffened. Lauren curled her arms around his neck just a bit tighter, hoping to offset some of the shock.
“Where is he?”
“Europe, but he’ll head back here as soon as he knows you’re alive. He’s been looking for you and your brothers as well. And for Rogan’s heirs. Paxton—who now goes by the name Paschal Rousseau—is the only one he’s found.”
Quickly, and in hushed tones, Ben and Cat, as she told them she preferred to be called, filled them in on the wild tale of their journey thus far to reunite the cursed Forsyth clan. When they had finished answering as many questions as they could, the police came with the news that Farrow was nowhere to be seen, and though they’d initiated a search of the rocky beach below, they did not expect that he was alive.
Once the group was alone again, with instructions to stay put until the police took their official statement, Aiden and Ben exchanged a long stare that caused a chill to run up Lauren’s spine.
“What?”
“Pryce was holding the sword when he jumped,” Ben said.
“So? They’re both gone. Good riddance,” Lauren said, though she figured there was going to be some serious fallout on the set over the loss of the sword. Well, they had a gazillion pictures. They could make a replica, though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to touch anything associated with the curse now that it was finally broken.
Aiden and Ben, however, did not seem relieved at the absence of Rogan’s weapon. Cat winced, as if she’d finally figured out what concerned them, though Lauren had not caught on. “If someone doesn’t—”
“The magic,” Cat said. “The magic could have saved him.”
Lauren could not breathe. “He’s still alive? We have to tell the—”
But she cut herself off. They’d all be carted off to the psychiatric ward if they started telling tales about magic and sorcerers and curses. Farrow Pryce might have escaped, but he also might not have. That was a worry for another time and place.
After Ben and Cat went inside to talk to the cops about their kidnapping, Aiden and Lauren were left alone on the cool pool deck, the water still and the night blossoming with possibilities.
“There’s so much,” Aiden said simply.
She nodded, still curled in his lap, thinking there was nowhere in the world she’d rather be. “We’ll sort it all out. We cheated death in a big way. I can’t think of anything we can’t weather from this point on.”
“Even love?” he asked.
She stared into those silvery gray eyes of his and lost herself in the emotion so evident there. “Especially love. You know, I told you I loved you and look what happened. I broke a centuries-old curse. What do you think will happen when you tell me you love me?”
For a split second, though it felt like several long moments, Aiden did not speak. Then he slid his hand gingerly around her cheek, kissed the bruise with a soft brush of his lips, and whispered words she hadn’t known she’d longed to hear until he spoke them.
“I do love you, Lauren Cole. And I believe—no, I know—that the entire world will be ours for the taking so long as we remain together.”
“The whole world? That’s pretty ambitious,” she teased, kissing him along his jawline, across his forehead, on the tip of his nose.
“That’s the least of what you deserve, my lady.”
And when he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as if the sun would never set again, she completely and thoroughly believed him.<
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************
KISS OF THE PHANTOM
PROLOGUE
Gemma Von Roan dangled the antique keys in front of Paschal Rousseau’s face, shaking them enticingly, her back to the door he’d anticipated entering for more than six months. Inside a room hidden beneath this centuries-old manse in upstate New York was the secret horde of the K’vr, a cult founded to plunder the bounty of the eighteenth-century sorcerer Lord Rogan. Even through the thick oak door, Paschal sensed the blackguard’s bloody fingerprints on the cache within.
Gemma, young and stylish and cunning beyond measure thanks to a bloodline that she could trace back to the wizard himself, knew how badly Paschal yearned to explore the collection. Undeterred by his advanced age, she’d pulled out all the stops to entice him away from his family, promising him unlimited access to the vast assemblage of Gypsy-wrought artifacts.
All she wanted in return was the very thing Paschal had sworn he’d never give away.
“So we have a deal, yes?” Gemma asked. “I let you in and give you open access to my family’s store and you’ll show me how to do what you do.”
He frowned, his expression lost in the dim light. “It won’t be that easy.”
Gemma fussed with the keys, inserting one in the rusted lock as she spoke. “If my life were ever easy, we’d have had access to this place six months ago.”
“The radon and asbestos report really was genius,” Paschal complimented.
But Gemma only snorted in disgust. Having to resort to chicanery in order to gain entrance to a building owned by her family since the Civil War had chafed her pride raw.
Discounting her brother, currently awaiting trial for murder in Florida, Gemma was the last living descendant of Lord Rogan. And yet, because she was a woman, she’d been denied the leadership of the K’vr. For the past year and a half, the top spot of grand apprentice remained unclaimed while the council of elders determined if Keith Von Roan, the incarcerated brother, or Farrow Pryce, a wealthy businessman whose father had long served the Von Roan family, was better suited to serve.
But with Keith Von Roan looking at a long jail term and Farrow Pryce missing and presumed dead, the K’vr was in disarray. Never had there been a better time for Gemma to step in and fight the patriarchal attitudes of the elders. But instead she was helping Paschal, someone she’d once had a hand in kidnapping, in order to break into her family’s most secret and treasured storehouse. Paschal wasn’t sure why she’d chosen this course of action, but he had no doubt she’d betray him at the first opportunity.
Trouble was, he did not care. He just wanted her to find the right key.
“Need help?” he asked.
She flipped through the key ring again. “You’d think we already had the Source, with all these damned locks.”
Paschal cleared his throat unnecessarily. They’d carefully avoided this topic over the last six months. Both of them recognized that any conversation regarding the mysterious fire opal would go nowhere. She wanted it, but could not find it. Paschal knew precisely where it was—certainly not in this secret storeroom—but he would die before he gave away the location. The stone possessed a frightening amount of dark magic. In the wrong hands, the potential for devastation was too terrifying for Paschal to contemplate.
The Source had been the Holy Grail to the K’vr since Rogan’s disappearance in 1747. Gemma had probably been told bedtime stories about its limitless power. Yet, oddly enough, she did not seem to be after it at the moment. But even the powerful stone could not help Paschal in his quest. He needed whatever was inside the locked room, calling to him. Beckoning to him. Luring him to a fate that might just equal crashing on sharp and pitiless rocks.
“Let me try,” he offered.
Ignoring him, Gemma continued to try key after key. Paschal couldn’t help admiring how stubborn she was—or how lovely, no matter that she styled her hair like a porcupine. Her attempt to camouflage what amounted to a dollish, pretty face with spiked black and blond hair, dark eyeliner and darker lips revealed more about her true personality than she would ever admit. While on the arm of Farrow Pryce, she’d become a sleek, sophisticated seductress. Since his death, she’d taken on a tougher persona, from the shade of her lipstick to her Morticia Addams wardrobe. Paschal couldn’t help but wonder who was truly at the core of this ambitious young woman—or if he’d live long enough to find out.
To her knowledge, Paschal was over ninety years old…though he was still as virile as a man half his “age.” She no longer tried to use sex as a weapon against him, and for this he was grateful. He might be ancient, but he wasn’t dead. Besides, he was on her side now. She’d begun, a little at a time, to treat him more like a mentor than a conquest.
There was a responsibility in that role that Paschal had not experienced in years. While he’d enjoyed being a father to Ben, he’d spent too many years keeping secrets from his son to actually teach him anything of value. Now Paschal had a chance to influence a young woman who unknowingly possessed a unique power—one she could use for either good or evil. Perhaps her choice would depend on how he played this next challenge.
Gemma finally cursed and threw the ring of keys onto the ground, then kicked them until they ricocheted against the scuffed and rat-gnawed baseboard—a rare show of genuine, raw emotion. “What does any of this fucking matter if we can’t get inside?”
Paschal tsked at her colorful language, retrieved the keys and ran them through his fingers, trying to get a reading off the energy embedded in the metal. His talent with psychometry was trained and specific. Accepting energy from every single item he ever touched would be like boarding a bullet train straight to an insane asylum. Instead, he’d taught himself to focus on only the energy signature of members of his own family or on Rogan’s dark magic—which over time had become inextricably intertwined.
He found the key on the second pass and inserted it into the lock. He attempted a twist, but while the lock mechanism gave way, the door did not budge.
“Hot damn,” she said, nudging him out of the way so she could grab the doorknob. “The lock is sticking. Means no one’s been inside for a long time.”
“Or someone hasn’t used the WD-40 in a while,” he offered. “When’s the last time you were inside?”
“Years ago. My father used to find me down here and totally lose his mind. If he ever found out I’d taken pictures of some of the items and kept them hidden, he would have died from an aneurysm rather than cancer.”
She grunted when the door finally yielded to the pressure of her shoulder. Stale air pressed into the dank tunnel. Almost instantly, Paschal felt the presence of Rogan’s magic. He’d had more than fifty years to hone his ability to sense the dark power, even from a distance. The trick would be to focus. According to Gemma, her ancestors had been notorious pack rats. If he did not call upon his psychometric tricks, it could take them weeks to explore every item warehoused in this underground cavern. And they didn’t have weeks. According to Gemma, they’d be lucky if they had days.
She flicked on the flashlight she’d brought along, found an ancient light switch and, with effort, flipped it on. After a few protesting flickers and the pop of a bulb somewhere in the distance, feeble amber light glowed above them. Paschal poked his head in and saw what appeared to be rows and rows of shelving. Layers of dust and cobwebs made everything gray and unappealing—to someone who had to rely on his eyes to find what he was looking for. Luckily, Paschal had other skills at his disposal.
Gemma groaned. “How lovely. You’d think the bozos running this outfit now would assign someone to dust down here every once in a while. My family’s legacy looks like piles of old junk.”
“You know what they say about one man’s trash,” he replied.
She snickered doubtfully. “If you can find a treasure in this abandoned trove, you’ll be worth the price I paid to get you here?”
Flashlight in front of him, Paschal moved through the rows. The shelves, stacked all the wa
y up to the cramped six-foot ceiling, created a maze that snaked deep beneath the house. He found a wild array of vases and urns and boxes crafted in carved wood, fine pewter and even blown glass. Goblets and wineglasses collected inches’ worth of dirt and dust inside their sometimes uneven bowls.
Finally, he found the cup he sought—a pewter chalice marked with Rogan’s seal. Carved into the side of the dark metal, a hawk soared. A red stone glittered from within its talons. Gemma’s photograph of this exact item had lured him here. Could this cup possess the spirit of one of his missing brothers?
He hesitated before lifting it into his hands. He’d anticipated this moment for months. No, years. And yet, when he finally touched the cup, nothing happened; the metal was cold and dead in his hands.
He cursed, then noticed a second, identical chalice on the shelf. In fact, there was an entire collection of seven. Not a single one gave off the vibration he’d awaited for so long.
Yet he’d sensed Rogan’s magic even before he’d entered. Something of value had to be here. He simply had to find it.
The K’vr might be in disarray, but the storehouse of their legacy was divided down distinct boundaries. Household items. Jewelry. Crude mechanical devices and tools. Weapons. Paschal smirked as he looked over the swords, which were not quite as dusty as the rest.
“See anything interesting?” Gemma called, still in the entryway, from the sound of her voice.
“Not yet,” he murmured. But then, it wasn’t his eyes that were going to assist in finding what he sought.
When he approached a row of musical instruments, a shiver up his spine stopped him cold.
“Paschal?”
A golden circle of light rounded the corner. After a moment, Gemma joined him, holding a lantern as he pawed through a box of flutes.
He didn’t need two tries this time around. Not only did he recognize the instrument carved from ebony as belonging to his brother Rafe, but the echo of the half-Romani’s psychic signature, a mournful tune, nearly blasted in his ears. Gemma yelped and jumped back.
