Supernatural Bundle

by Jacquelyn Frank

  “Why?”

  Dante hesitated. Although he had determined not to hide the truth from Abby, he conceded that there was no need for graphic details. Not when they were only bound to upset her further.

  “They perform . . . certain rites that they would not want others to witness.”

  Thankfully she was too distracted to consider the nature of the rites. Instead she chewed her bottom lip until Dante shivered with the need to soothe it with a soft kiss.

  “Then how can we possibly find them?”

  Now it was Dante who was distracted. The scent of her satin skin, the feel of her soft curves, the delicious heat that stirred his passions.

  “Leave that to me,” he muttered, his hands slipping down the curve of her spine to rest upon the swell of her hips. “Now, what would you say to a hot bath?”

  “A bath?” The frantic urgency faded as a dreamy longing settled upon her face. “I would say that it sounds like heaven.”

  Dante silently groaned at the thought of seeing that dreamy expression for an entirely different reason than hot water and soapy bubbles. Reasons such as his hands skimming over that silken skin and tumbling those honey curls while his lips blazed paths that had never been blazed before.

  Abruptly he stepped away, not at all accustomed to restraining his passions. The witches might have stolen his lust for hunting humans, but every other lust remained in exquisite working order.

  “Come along, lover. You shall have your bath.”

  Turning on his heel, Dante moved to a door neatly hidden by the paneling. A press on the hidden lever and the door swung open to reveal a narrow hall. With a glance over his shoulder to ensure that Abby was following, he led her past the various bedrooms to the master bathroom.

  With a flick of the switch, muted light filled the room. From behind him he heard a faint gasp, and then Abby was stepping into the center of the room with a dazed expression.

  For a moment Dante regarded her in puzzlement, but as she reached out to run a hand over the marble tub that was the size of a small swimming pool, a smile touched his lips. Of course. For one unaccustomed to Viper’s extravagant taste, the perfect replication of a Grecian bath would be somewhat surprising. And perhaps just a tad overwhelming.

  “Viper is never subtle,” he murmured, sweeping past her to turn on the faucets that were shaped as goddesses.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  Pausing to pour a measure of scented bubble bath into the cascading water, Dante turned back toward Abby and then firmly reached out to begin unbuttoning her grimy shirt.

  Her eyes widened as he nimbly dealt with the fastenings and stripped the offending garment from her slender form. Without hesitation, he performed a similar duty to her khaki pants and slid them down the length of her legs.

  “Dante,” she at last managed to croak, “what are you doing?”

  Flowing to his knees, he removed her shoes and pulled away the slacks to toss them into a pile in the corner.

  “Preparing you for your bath, my lady,” he murmured, rising to tackle the lacy bra.

  Instinctively her hands rose in protest. “You can’t . . .”

  His gaze collided with her own as he swept aside her hands and undid the clasp to her bra with one motion.

  “Trust me, my love.”

  She swallowed heavily, but clearly too weary, or perhaps as caught in the spell-tingling moment as he was, she didn’t protest. Still holding her gaze, he caught her silk panties in his fingers and slowly slid them down before at last lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the waiting bath.

  With a careful tenderness, he lowered her into the water and reached for a washcloth that was folded in a pretty seashell.

  He was forced to kneel upon the marble floor as he began the slow task of scrubbing her skin clean. Not that he noticed the hardness beneath his knees or the warm steam that was making his silk shirt cling to his body. His every thought was consumed with the sensual delight of touching this woman.

  “So soft,” he husked, rubbing the cloth down the length of her arm. “Like warm ivory.”

  Leaning back her head, Abby allowed her eyes to drift closed. “That feels wonderful.”

  Wonderful. Yes. And wicked. And sinfully tempting.

  A slow, simmering hunger woke within Dante as he continued his self-imposed torment. Lying in the tub built for the worship of goddesses, she might have floated down from Mt. Olympus itself with her long, slender limbs and honey curls floating about her fragile face.

  Careful to do nothing that might startle her out of her oblivion, he washed her creamy skin and then the honey curls. The warmth of her filled his cold body. Filled him and made his blood run hot as he rinsed the last of the shampoo from her hair.

  Barely aware of what he did, Dante softly cradled her face and traced her cheeks with his thumbs. Such delicate beauty, he admired in silent satisfaction. Not the absurd physical beauty that humans held in such high regard and could change at the drop of a hat. Hell, anyone could buy that sort of beauty from a plastic surgeon. But Abby possessed a spiritual beauty that called to him with irresistible force.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his head and stroked his lips over her mouth. For a moment she seemed to stiffen, but even as he prepared to pull back, her lips astonishingly parted in silent invitation.

  The capitulation was as soft as a whisper, and yet Dante felt a bolt of pleasure shimmer through his body.

  Bloody hell. He had dreamed and ached for this woman for weeks. Months. Now he trembled with the sheer force of keeping himself from devouring her.

  His fingers tightened upon her face. He could taste soap upon her lips and smell the heat of her blood. Sweet, forbidden magic raced through him as his kisses deepened with demand.

  Beneath him Abby offered a sigh of appreciation as she lifted her damp arms to wrap them about his neck. Dante moaned his approval. He savored the fierce sensations clenching his body. His passions had always run high. He had enjoyed countless women over the centuries. But never had he been stirred with such a relentless force.

  It was as if she had awakened a slumbering hunger that would not be satisfied with anything less than absolute possession.

  Parting her lips with his tongue, he explored the moist cavern of her mouth. He needed more. Her body pressed beneath him. Her legs wrapped about his waist. Her hips lifting to sheath him deep into her body.

  Her fingers clenched in his hair even as his mouth shifted, tracing a path of searing fire over her cheek and down the curve of her neck.

  He felt as if he were drowning as he nuzzled the frantic pulse at the base of her throat and moved his hands down to brush over her slender curves. Abby shuddered in response before her fingers were suddenly cupping his face and her body arching upward.

  “Dante?” she demanded in soft confusion.

  Lost in his heated passions, Dante wanted to ignore her whisper. It would be so easy. Beneath his hands he could feel her shiver with a longing that matched his own. Why shouldn’t he provide the sweet release that lurked so tantalizingly close?

  It was the unwanted memory of his own words that made his head slowly lift.

  Trust me, he had commanded as he had prepared her for her bath.

  Damn. He had urged her to put aside her natural caution and place herself in his hands. Perhaps the most difficult thing for a woman such as Abby to do. Whatever his desire for her, he could not risk any belated sense of betrayal. Both their lives depended upon her faith in him.

  Grimly lifting himself upright, Dante gathered Abby carefully in his arms and wrapped her in a warm towel. “Come, it’s time you were safely tucked into bed.”

  For a moment she stiffened, as if embarrassed by her blatant reaction to his touch. Then with a rueful sigh she allowed her head to drop onto his shoulder.

  “I’m so tired,” she muttered.

  “I know, my sweet. We will rest here today.”

  He dropped an absent kiss
on the top of her head as he moved through the door that connected directly with the master bedroom. Despite the fact that morning had long ago arrived, not even a stray hint of light marred the perfect darkness. Still he had no difficulty in finding his way across the lush carpeting to the bed. Sweeping aside the blankets, he laid Abby onto the satin sheets and pulled the duvet over her.

  About to pull away, he was caught off guard when she abruptly reached out to grasp his hand.

  “Dante?”

  “Yes?”

  “We will be safe here?”

  “Nothing will harm you here.”

  “And”—there was a pause as if she battled something within herself—“you will be near?”

  A small smile touched his lips. He knew this woman would rather have a root canal, a bad perm, and cellulite rather than confess her vulnerability.

  “I’ll be right at your side, lover,” he promised as he gracefully moved to lie on the bed and take her into his arms. Covering them both with the duvet, he allowed her warmth to cloak about him. “For all eternity.”

  The once-proud Victorian church with its stained-glass windows and walnut pews had long since fallen into ruin. With the closing of the paper mill, the small town that had been called to worship had abandoned hope and faith and at last migrated to richer pastures. Even the attached graveyard was now only a shell of tumbled crypts and tenacious weeds.

  Beneath the remains of stone and forgotten corpses, however, the vast catacombs were kept with meticulous care.

  Not a rat would dare enter the maze of tunnels or stone chambers that had been polished as smooth as marble over the ages. No spiderweb would disturb the stark simplicity.

  Hardly what one might expect from a demon’s dark temple. But then Rafael, the master of the cult, was not a usual demon.

  In truth, he wasn’t a demon at all.

  A tall sparse man with gaunt features, he had once been as drearily mortal as any other. But he had given his humanity and soul to the Dark Prince centuries before.

  In reward for his cold cruelty, and perchance for evil, he had quickly risen through the ranks into a position of power. A power that had become all but impotent since the arrival of the witches and their damnable Phoenix.

  Pacing through his shadowed chamber, Rafael absently stroked his thin fingers over the heavy silver pendant that hung about his neck.

  So much depended upon him.

  Upon his actions tonight.

  He could not fail.

  Hearing the sound of the approaching footsteps that he had been awaiting, Rafael smoothed his features to a cold mask of invincibility. Now, more than ever, he needed to use the lethal reputation he had earned over the long years.

  There was a tentative knock. Calling the visitor to enter, Rafael carefully surveyed the young apprentice.

  He was standing as still and forbidding as granite as he watched the apprentice close the door and move toward the center of the room. The younger man did not yet have the shaved head of a convert. Such an honor would not be allowed unless he survived the trials. Many came to worship the Prince, but few survived.

  His shrewd gaze easily pierced the modest demeanor of the younger man, discerning the sharpness to the countenance and the cunning in the pale eyes.

  Oh yes, he would do quite well, he decided with an inward smile.

  Clearly unnerved by the relentless gaze, the apprentice nervously shifted. “You summoned me, Master Rafael?”

  “Yes, Apprentice Amil. Please, have a seat.” Rafael waited until the student had moved to perch upon the uncomfortable wooden chair, then he slowly moved to stand before his guest. “You are comfortable?”

  Amil shifted with a faint frown. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Be at ease, my son,” Rafael drawled, folding his hands within the arms of his robe. “Despite persistent rumors among the brothers, I do not usually eat acolytes for dinner. Not even those who have dared to practice the dark arts forbidden even to us.”

  There was a moment of shock before the young man was abruptly sliding out of the chair and landing upon his knees.

  “Master, forgive me,” he begged in unsteady tones. “It was mere curiosity. I did not intend harm.”

  Rafael grimaced as the fool threatened to wrinkle the hem of his robes. It had been more fortune than skill that had led him to discover the overly ambitious apprentice slipping from the tower to recite the black spells. His first instinct had been to rip out his throat. Not only would it have been a fitting punishment, but it would have provided him a great deal of pleasure.

  But in the end he had hesitated. A man in his powerful position was always in need of faithful servants. And no servant was more faithful than one who knew he was a breath away from death.

  “Oh, do get up, worm.”

  Shakily the man forced himself to regain his seat, warily regarding Rafael.

  “Am I to be killed?”

  “That is the penalty.”

  “Of course, master,” the man obediently agreed, although his sincerity was open to question.

  “Dark magics are not a toy. They are dangerous to you and to those about you. You endangered us all with your stupidity and risked exposing our temple.”

  “Yes, master.”

  Rafael’s thin lips hardened. “But you are ambitious, eh, Amil? You desire to wield the power that beckons just out of reach?”

  The pale gaze covertly flicked toward Rafael’s potent medallion, before recalling he was on the knife’s edge of becoming dinner. Or worse.

  “Only if the Prince wills it so.”

  “I sense your talent. It runs deep within you. A pity it shall be wasted before it can ever bloom to its full potential.”

  “Please, master. I have learned my lesson. I shall not stray again.”

  Rafael slowly lifted his brows. “And you believe I should trust your empty promise? You who have already displayed an inbred treachery?”

  Perhaps sensing a glimmer of hope, Amil leaned forward, his thin features flushed. “All I ask is a second opportunity. I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”

  “Whatever? A rather rash promise.”

  “I don’t care. Just tell me what I must do.”

  Rafael pretended to consider the plea. He had, of course, known that the pathetic apprentice would sell his soul. He had depended upon it. In some ways the youth reminded him of himself with his burning thirst for knowledge. But unlike this fool, he had possessed the wits to keep his secret studies well hidden. And the wisdom never to place himself in the power of another.

  “Perhaps I could consider being lenient upon this one occasion,” he slowly drawled. “With one condition.”

  “Bless you, master,” Amil breathed. “Bless you.”

  “I do not believe you will be so grateful when you discover my condition.”

  “What do you desire of me?”

  With measured steps, Rafael moved to take his seat behind the massive desk. He templed his fingers beneath his chin and regarded his guest with a piercing gaze. The next few moments would decide his fate.

  If he was to be acclaimed as the savior of the Prince of Demons or as an arrogant failure. He could not afford a mistake.

  “First I desire that you tell me what you know of the Phoenix.”

  Caught off guard, Amil blinked in surprise. “I . . . what all creatures of the dark know, I suppose. Nearly three hundred years ago, powerful witches gathered together to call for the spirit of the Phoenix and placed it within a human body. The presence of the vile beast has kept the Prince banished from this world and made his minions impotent.”

  “I am not impotent,” Rafael snapped in annoyance.

  “I do not understand.” Amil regarded the older wizard with a wary frown. “Why do we speak of the Phoenix?”

  “Because it keeps us from our true master.”

  The younger man shrugged. “He has been lost to us. What can we do?”

  Rafael barely restrained his flare of fury.

  F
ools. The lot of them. While he had toiled and sacrificed to return his dark lord, the others had allowed despair to overwhelm them. No longer were they proud beasts who inspired fear and loathing among mortals. Instead they scuttled in the shadows like rabid animals.

  They disgusted him.

  “No, my son. The Prince has not entirely been lost to the world.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “The vessel has been destroyed. The witches no longer have control of the Phoenix.”

  The pale eyes widened in shock. “It’s a miracle.”

  “Indeed.”

  The apprentice gripped the arms of his chair. “The Prince will soon be freed.”

  “No.” Rafael’s voice was harsh. “The vessel placed the spirit in the body of another mortal. The Phoenix yet lives, but it is weakened and vulnerable.”

  “It must be destroyed. And swiftly.”

  Rafael’s expression hardened to grim lines, his thin fingers moving to stroke the heavy pendant about his neck.

  “Certainly it must be destroyed.”

  “And what do you want of me?”

  “I want you to bring the vessel to me. Alive.”

  The apprentice narrowed his gaze in a calculating manner. “Forgive me, master, but wouldn’t it be best to call out the minions to crush the Phoenix before it can regain its strength?”

  Rafael twisted his lips wryly. Like most who craved power, Amil was far too ready to resort to violence when cunning was needed.

  “Certainly a simpler, if more bloodthirsty, solution,” he agreed. “But consider, my son. It will be a great honor for the one who offers up the Phoenix to the master. And I intend for that glory to be mine.”

  Amil considered for a moment before giving a nod of his head. “Of course. A clever scheme. But, why me? Why do you not do this grave task yourself?”

  “Because someone must ensure that the witches do not interfere. I am the only one with the power to challenge them.” He shrugged. “And, of course, you have tampered with forces that will assist you in discovering where the woman is hiding.”

  There was a long pause before Amil folded his hands over his chest, a faint smile upon his lips.