Cursed to Death

by L. A. Banks

  Clarissa stared down at the cards and placed her fingertips on the edge of the card containing a burning tower. “It’s all coming down, isn’t it? The fortress . . . and old alliances. Just like in the cards . . . that’s what it means, right?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ in stone. Can’t never be sure what people gonna do—but there’s three men about to act a pure fool,” Madame Cottrell said, pointing out cards with a hanged man, a knight surrounded by bundles of twigs, and a court jester. She then laid her finger on a card with a blindfolded woman who sat with two swords in her hand. “She’s gotta make a choice, hold her ground. Seems she got blades that can cut deep no matter which way she swings ’em.”

  Both Clarissa and Bradley stared at each other.

  “Something is driving the allies toward war,” Clarissa said. “And they are using a female as bait.”

  “You said it, I didn’t . . . You’re the seer, child. I just read the cards,” Madame Cottrell said smiling. “Sometimes men lose their natural mind over a pretty woman. Sometimes a pretty woman gets a kick out of watching them scrap like dogs just for her. Then, once everybody done got cut up and kilt up and the cops come, she cries. That’s the sick part. Happens every day in the bars. Ain’t so uncommon. I ain’t tellin’ tales outta school,” she added, looking around nervously as though some unseen force might be eavesdropping. “Everybody’s got a weak spot.”

  “Just like the Fae’s weak spot is staying undisclosed to human view through a glamour . . . and Phoenixes must be able to transition from flames, and Yeti and Unicorns rely on being elusive, and Dragons count on brute strength that might fail in a firefight,” Clarissa said softly, her voice gaining a far-off tone. “If all that changes . . .”

  “Bingo,” Madame Cottrell said with a triumphant smile. “Pixies and Faeries got to be sure their dust works, too . . . even they can get thrown off. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “And wolf packs have to observe serious territorial protocols between clans . . . between brothers.” Clarissa closed her eyes. “This could get really, really bad, if Hunter perceives a threat, and Sasha, under the influence of dark magick, stokes that in him . . . or a rival. It could tear the Wolf Federations apart. We’ve got to get back, Bradley. We need to let Silver Hawk and Doc know, stat.”

  “So you’re saying dark magick is at the root of it? Then how do we counteract what’s been done?” Anxious, Bradley leaned forward, but Madame Cottrell sat back and placed a gnarled finger to her lips for a moment.

  “I ain’t saying nothing.” Madame Cottrell folded her arms over her bony chest. “Common sense be your guide, not me. Just stands to reason that when folks tend to make a really ugly spell, they generally seal it with a backlash. I ain’t fittin’ to be backlashed. This reading is over.”

  Bradley looked from Madame Cottrell to Clarissa as the old woman began collecting her cards. “This thing has what amounts to a dead man’s switch. That’s why none of our usual contacts will talk to us.”

  Madame Cottrell just nodded with a sad smile. “You folks have a blessed day.”

  CHAPTER 8

  She’d transitioned so quickly that for a moment all Hunter could do was stare at the majestic silver wolf that graced the stage. Her clothes floated down to pool at her paws. Quiet murmurs of awe wafted through the room and in the next second she was one with a shadow and gone.

  The righteous fury that he felt fled him the instant she disappeared. He felt his brother lunge forward in wolf form too late. Sasha had chosen the shadows—a place that Werewolves couldn’t navigate. The choice, therefore, in his mind, was clear. She’d chosen him over a rival.

  He wouldn’t turn around to witness Shogun’s distress, would allow his rival to save face, and wouldn’t acknowledge that his endurance had shattered . . . That might start a war—and they were still brothers, after all.

  Without turning, Hunter leaped up onto the stage in two easy bounds, swept up Sasha’s clothes, and found her shadow haven.

  The moment he saw her, saliva burned away from his mouth. She was sitting in the shadow land mist with her arms wrapped around her knees, shivering violently in her human form . . . beautiful eyes closed. There were a hundred points he needed to make, a thousand injustices to correct. The way she’d treated him had been outrageous; she could have started something no life mate should have to endure—a dominance battle for the affection of one’s chosen.

  He dropped her clothes at his feet to make her aware that he was there, fury on a collision course with desire. Then she opened her gorgeous gray eyes and held his complaints for ransom.

  “Why?” His voice came out sounding gentler than he intended. He hadn’t wanted her to hear the hurt within it. Any other questions he’d had got trapped behind his Adam’s apple when she stood in one graceful move, nude.

  “It will never happen again,” she said quietly, walking toward him.

  “It can never happen again,” he shouted. “Not like that! Not with him! Not with any fucking body, Sasha!”

  He hated that she hadn’t even flinched and that her eyes held no remorse, only desire. He hated that his will was in shambles as she sauntered closer . . . hated that he couldn’t take his eyes off her exquisite nakedness. But more than anything, he hated that until his brother entered the bar, sex had been the last thought on her mind.

  “Get dressed.” His directive sounded hollow even to him; he hadn’t moved, hadn’t looked away. She owned him and she knew it. “This doesn’t change anything, Sasha.”

  Her warm palm slid against his cheek. “I was so hoping that it would.”

  “You truly wanted us to kill each other—is that it? Is that what turned you on!” He still couldn’t look away or back away as she closed the space between them and her body molded to his.

  “What do you want me to tell you?” she whispered, tilting her head to the side as she studied him. “Some things are inherently female. You know the way of the wolf.”

  He wanted to slap her, needed to push her away. That was not what he wanted to hear. She seemed to understand that, too; her slight smile told him so.

  “I love you. If anything happened to you, I’d die—and you know that.”

  “I’m done, Sasha.” Dead serious, no nonsense in his tone, he would walk. On principle, he would!

  “Actions speak louder than words. I came to where there could be no battle, knowing how badly I needed to mate . . . Despite the dark energy, my choice was clear.” She took his mouth and stole all future protests with it. “If you’re still angry, I can understand . . . but why don’t you punish me now and we can discuss it later.”

  He’d slowly fisted her hair as she’d spoken; her murmur offering redemption, her plump mouth an intoxicant. This woman, bad spell or not, was incorrigible. There was no apology even in her tone, just an outrageous statement of fact. What she’d said was the bitter truth. It was an argument he would have used under similar circumstances.

  Still, he wanted her contrition for the suffering she’d caused. Maybe even wanted her to walk a mile in his shoes—when he was so close to begging that he’d had tears in his eyes. All day long he’d wanted her like this and then to almost have to fight to be with her was more than he could tolerate.

  She leaned in to kiss him again, and this time he lifted his chin, intent on telling her no. He would not be played like this, no matter what. It was in that moment that he knew something was wrong with him, with her, with them. If there was dark magick afoot, then clearly they’d been influenced.

  But she stripped his resistance when she stripped his t-shirt over his head, then unbuttoned and unzipped his fly. There were things he needed to say, there was bullshit they needed to get straight, and she needed to know that . . . but damn.

  Skin to skin, he was wide open. Sweat-slicked fire, she climbed up his body like a hungry flame and brought him to his knees, all offenses torched.

  “Take me somewhere safe.”

  It wasn’t a request but a throaty dem
and. He remembered her edict. Never here. She was right; there’d be no way to stop. He’d heard her in his soul, not with his ears. Right now he was deaf. Instinct kicked in as he kicked out of his boots, shed his fatigues, and dropped her in a hard roll in a wildflower field—the Uncompahgre was his territory, his home hunting ground. North country. Great Spirit deliver him, he’d die in her arms.

  Sasha’s fire burned away principle, scorched will, wiped the slate clean. There’d be no argument left once she got done.

  Her hands traced heat-seeking shudders down his back and over his ass. Butter-soft skin fused to his, her tongue untangling sanity from his mind. Without warning, she pulled him inside a liquid inferno; pain, pleasure, a near loss of consciousness, all so fast and hard his voice rent the air.

  Birds took flight from the field. Grass and flowers became one with her hair. She-wolf consumed him, ate him alive, her skin igniting crazed thrusts as he looked into her eyes. The bend of his elbow found the bend in her knee; he had to go deeper. Had to find that spot of contrition, that place that made her holler and beg his goddamned pardon.

  Warm summer air licked his back, stroked his shoulders, and pelted his arms. His thrusts became a demand for redress. But she wasn’t backing down; her alto moans simply begged him for more.

  Gasping, sweat pooled in the small of his back, slid down his thighs. Hell yeah he knew the way of the wolf. Her hands threaded through his hair, her breasts a lifted offering he could not deny, the taste of her salt-stained sweetness. He found anchor on her smooth waist, the curve of her hip, then a tight lobe that made her whimper.

  Skin slapping skin, making the sound of hot summer love . . . Yes, this was north territory, his territory, marked by the way of the wolf. Punishment for offenses exacted, alpha style. Yeah, they’d discuss it later. Apology in a pound of flesh accepted. The scent of her and broken grass, rich earth—summer madness. Sasha’s voice bottomed out in his sac, her arches calling his wolf, driving him harder. Heaven help him. Let it rain. His body smoldered till he could feel sweat sizzle.

  Her hard convulsion embedded his name in a sob. All movement stuttered. Blinding pleasure choked his groin, seized his heart, and emptied his lungs. He couldn’t catch his breath as the climax tore through him. Staccato chants of ecstasy stilled wildlife. Eyes shut tightly, head thrown back, he was deaf to all sound but her and his howl.

  After what seemed like a long time, he could finally roll over. Sound slowly returned, but the late afternoon sun was still too bright to open his eyes. Warm, soft skin coated his side and his fingers made a lazy figure eight in the small of her back.

  “You still want to talk . . . you still angry at me?”

  He didn’t move, couldn’t even open his eyes. “No.”

  Her mouth brushed his and he pulled her against him in a tender but possessive embrace. If she’d let him, he’d keep her here until moonrise . . . here in this very natural, uncomplicated place where next time he could love her slow and true.

  But that was doubtful, and knowing that made him sad. He could feel her smile against his chest. The she-wolf had bested him. If he’d had the energy he might have laughed. The entire thing, in hindsight, was so ridiculous—yet he doubted that she would have given him the same pass were the shoe on the other foot. There was no equity; that he was sure of. Female justice was slanted. Any male with common sense knew that the female of the species was brutal . . . never as pliant or as easily satisfied as the male. Women also held a mean grudge. After a beer, he and Shogun would be cool. That was the way of men. Period. Hunter sighed.

  “You’re sure you’re all right?” she asked quietly, seeming intent on destroying his peace.

  “Yeah . . .” he said beginning to doze. “Consider yourself punished once I get my second wind.”

  Silver Hawk sat in a chair facing Doc, both men listening intently to Clarissa’s and Bradley’s report. The old shaman remained silent, his silver braids slowly rising and falling with each quiet breath as he looked at his friend of many years—the doctor who’d helped him save his grandson, Hunter. Two old men of many wars: Doc had fought within the military to keep his daughter Sasha’s Shadow Wolf heritage a secret, while he’d fought within the Shadow Wolf Clan to keep his grandson Hunter alive. Silver Hawk stared at Doc, seeing how time had created a road map across his friend’s weathered brown face and stolen a good portion of his gray hair, knowing that they were mirrors of each other. It was in his friend’s eyes, and he could only assume that the bond was reflected within his own, too.

  Occasionally they would glimpse each other, or look over to monitor Winters, Fisher, and Woods. The suite they’d congregated in at the bed-and-breakfast was crowded. Voices were low murmurs of halting facts. Winters’s fingers were a blur on his keyboard as he accessed the PCU encrypted site, searching for data on the Unseelie-Seelie wars from Bradley’s extensive files on all matters related to dark arts.

  “The seer we went to, Madame Cottrell, got off on a tangent and started talking about ancient Seelie and Unseelie history. Now, I can’t say for sure, but sometimes these old ladies encode their readings . . . so if I go back and assume she wasn’t just sending us on a wild goose chase, hundreds of years ago,” Bradley said, glancing among all parties in the room, “there was a major civil war between the Seelie, good Fae, and the Unseelie, bad Fae. Happened over in Europe and the human populations got caught in some of the crossfire. The conflict lasted for years. Their life spans are different than ours so their wars go on for decades, sometimes centuries.”

  Clarissa nodded. “You gentlemen may remember the Great Potato Famine, the Black Death . . . need I go on? When the Fae go to war and start slinging magick, it’s no less than dropping bombs over Baghdad—the innocent are not spared. Whoever is in the kill zone gets hit right along with intended targets. These guys play for keeps.”

  “This is why, after truces and treaties, a contingent of the Seelie Court came to the Americas,” Bradley pressed on, ruffling his hair as he paced. “There’s been peace amongst the Fae for a very long time. Everybody sort of stays in their lane and there’re no issues. But there’s also no love lost between factions. It’s rumored that some of New Orleans’s worst plagues and outbreaks during that era were due to Fae-against-Fae terrorists attacks . . . yellow fever, scarlet fever, I don’t have to go into some of the events that had the local human citizenry bringing out the dead.”

  “Then why would they act against wolves?” Silver Hawk said, studying Clarissa and Bradley with ancient eyes. He sat very, very still; his long, snow-white braids resting on his shoulders and his weathered, brown hands resting on his knees. “We have done the Unseelie no harm. This could be the work of Vampires attempting to start a war within the ranks of the Fae . . . just as they attempted to break our ranks. This is in their nature.”

  “A wrongfully placed allegation could cause severe collateral damage to human populations,” Dr. Xavier Holland said, folding his arms over his chest. “We need to be very sure there was Unseelie or Vampire involvement before we make any sort of claim to that effect.”

  “Doc,” Clarissa said quietly, staring at her mentor’s elderly, walnut-hued face, and seeming to reference every line of wisdom in it before speaking. “That’s just it, none of this makes sense. The wolves don’t have beef with the Unseelie Fae—they’ve never even met them. The only logical agent of destruction keeps coming back to the Vamps.”

  “But,” Bradley said carefully, “the level of sophistication of this spell set is beyond Vampire capability. I have nothing to go on, except the very strong hints an old seer gave us. To cast bad magick on the Seelie Fae is not in the province of Vampire skills, and to put dead man’s switches in it . . . no. This is why they never get in an outright magick duel with strong members of the Seelie Court. Vampires use mind possession while in one’s presence. They can send a dark energy zap to fry your heart or commit some other act of immediate violence, or even influence a human to do you some ill will. But once they leave
the scene of the crime, generally their power doesn’t hold. That’s also why they have covens do their bidding. There have been no Vampires present when these strange occurrences have gone down.”

  “You said they get covens to do their bidding . . .” Doc Holland stood and walked to the window to stare out of it to think. “What if it’s a strong coven?”

  “I’d say yes, if they hadn’t messed with the Seelie Fae . . . but no human witch or warlock in his or her right mind would attack a well-favored Fae community at the height of their power manifestation time during Midsummer. That would be a death sentence, even if the Vampires did pay a king’s ransom or promise everlasting life. The Fae have a wicked sense of humor and would allow that person who was outted to live forever as the Vamps promised, but as a tadpole with fangs or something equally as heinous.”

  “Besides,” Clarissa added, lifting her hair off her neck. “You can always get human spell-casters to go against one another, as long as a strong supernatural strike team will back them up.”

  “ ’Rissa is right,” Bradley said, glancing around the room. “If the Vamps were backing dark covens, we should have been able to get the Whitelighters to go up against them, if they knew the Wolf Clans and the entire Seelie Fae Parliament had their backs. The fact that everyone is running scared from this thing tells me it’s much larger than coven versus coven. It’s who won’t get involved that gives us the biggest clue to who is involved—like reverse engineering.”

  “Definitely,” Woods said, pushing off the dresser. “They saw the wolves win the last battle, so why wouldn’t the good coven community do something to gain more favor with their strong allies?”