Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Lindsey R. Loucks

  Clinging tighter to Matteo, she pressed her face into his neck, while he ran his hands over her back and bottom in a soothing gesture. His fingers flexed and lingered on the latter, as if he just couldn't help himself.

  “You really are a witch, mi amore,” he said.

  Lifting her head, she met his teasing expression. “I think that's been suitably established my lord,” she said wryly.

  “I was referring to the healing charm you managed to imbue in your beautiful body. You picked the one thing I would never be able to deny myself,” he said, gloved hands moving down her breasts to the apex of her thighs.

  She blushed, growing warm beneath her dress. But her countenance was sober, because what she had to tell him was serious.

  “It was still a risk, my lord. There was every chance that you'd grow tired of me now that you were alone in there,” she said, pressing a hand to his chest.

  He frowned and began to speak but she cut him off with a hand over his mouth.

  “I was afraid, you see,” she continued, moving her hand over his heart, “that your feelings for me were an artifact, a side-effect of your affliction. There was a danger that over time that your regard and those sentiments would fade away, as if they'd never been there. And if you didn’t touch me, my cure would never work.”

  He laughed at her, and she scowled.

  “It was a genuine concern.”

  He leaned in until their brows touched. “No, my love, there was never any danger of that at all,” he whispered before he kissed her again.

  And again. And again.

  The End

  Read the FREE short story The Hex, a Cursed Prequel

  Available Now, at http://www.authorlucyleroux.com/free-reads/

  Continue the Spellbound Regency series in book two, Black Widow, Coming Soon.

  www.authorlucyleroux.com

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  About the Author

  Lucy Leroux chose love.

  Lucy moved to France for a one-year research contract. Six months later she was living with a handsome Frenchman and six years later is happily married to him…and still in France.

  When her last employment contract ended Lucy turned to writing. Frustrated by the lack of quality romance erotica she enjoyed reading she set out to create her own. Her stories feature heroines who are smart, brave, and resourceful. She enjoys writing men who are thoughtful and slightly obsessive alpha males.

  Her ‘A Singular Obsession’ series is a combination of romance erotica and suspense that feature intertwining characters in their own stand-alone novels. Four are completed and additional three books are planned. Follow her on Facebook or twitter for news and updates.

  Read More from Lucy Leroux:

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  Mysterium: The Oracle’s Fortelling

  Simone Pond

  Mysterium: The Oracle's Foretelling © 2017 Simone Pond

  * * *

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Mysterium: The Oracle’s Foretelling

  Prophecy has a mysterious way of coming true.

  Magic has been banned from Mysterium because of a supernatural virus. The Rightbankers blame the Leftbank Ancients––but High Warlock Magnus knows better. He has heard the Oracle’s prophecy, and will stop at nothing to maintain his power. Including the wholesale slaughter of all young girls who show signs of having the Ancient Power.

  But one slips from his grasp.

  And he must hunt her down to stop the prophecy before it can get started ...

  I

  Magnus

  Lightening flashed over the night sky of Mysterium. Then again, and again, and again. The effect was like a strobe-light, almost mesmerizing. The hooded horse-rider was not mesmerized; he was focused. His horse ambled up the steep grade of the one-lane dirt road—quickly becoming a mud-road—toward the cottage perched high upon one of the hills overlooking both the left and the right banks of the city.

  Squash, squash, squash the horses hooves maintained a steady gait despite the gail-force winds, torrential downpour and steepening grade putting forth their best efforts to impede the progress of the steed and its rider. The closer they got to the cottage, the fiercer the wind and stronger the rain. More lightening erupted; the atmosphere was aglow with a flickering ocean of electricity as thunderclap bled into thunderclap in an orchestra of explosions and low rumbles.

  Horse and rider reached the top and stopped at a rudimentary gate at the driveway. The hooded figure gestured with his hand—an almost imperceptible quick wave—and the gate swung open. The horse continued toward the soft fire glow emitting from within the cottage. The gate closed behind them.

  The rain pelting the roof of the cottage, the thunderclaps and the approach of the rider outside were not heard by the old woman called the Oracle of Mysterium, who was seated cross-legged on a cushion on the floor in front of a fireplace. Her friend and confidante, an orange tabby cat named “Gabi,” was not nearly as impervious to the ungodly clamor transpiring outside. The cat continued to seek the best possible place for comfort—on the couch, or near the fireplace, or behind the statue of the Great Deity Ashtar. The feline finally opted to try and gain solace in the lap of her old friend, the Oracle. But the Oracle wasn’t quite present at the moment though her “vessel” (or rather physical body) was still there with palms raised upward, seated on the floor. No, the Oracle was currently inhabiting the 7th Astral Plane (where the Hall of Vision was located). Regardless of where her friend's astral body was, Gabi the cat still sought refuge in the lap of the Oracle.

  The blast of lightening directly outside the cottage didn’t motivate Gabi to jump from the lap of the Oracle, but the front door opening did. The cool wind from outside invaded the room, stoking the fire in the fireplace and some rain drizzled in through the threshold. The cloaked, hooded figure stepped inside and the door closed behind him. He first removed his sodden gloves and put them on a perch next to the door. Then he removed his drenched cloak and hung it on a rack that could have been mistaken for a long-beaked, spindly bird-demon frozen in time.

  The visitor's greenish-yellow panther-like eyes surveilled the room, then locked with Gabi. The cat was now in a cautionary crouch next to the fireplace, examining this new “guest.” For a few seconds, neither moved. Then the rider’s boot made a firm “clomp” on the wooden floor as he stepped from the vestibule and into the room. He casually strutted by the entranced Oracle and stopped next to the fireplace. Gabi tracked his every move. The rider again locked eyes with Gabi and grinned a grin perhaps only the cat could perceive. Gabi tracked down the right arm of the rider as it slowly moved toward the handle of a poker that was leaned up against the wall of brick encompassing the fireplace. The fingers lightly caressed the handle of the instrument, riveting the cat––almost mesmerizing him. Then in an abrupt motion, the visitor grabbed hold of the poker as the outside of the cottage erupted in a series of powerful explosions of electricity. Gabi scattered to some hiding place only he knew about in the cottage. The visitor jabbed at the wood in the fire, then leaned the poker back against the wall. He walked across the room and sat on a sofa the opposite end of the room.

  The Oracle’s eyes shot open and she muttered something under her breath. The visitor could have sworn she were cursing about something, but he couldn’t quite hear. She turned around to face him and poi
nted her bony, nicotine-stained finger. “You don’t have to terrorize little ol’ Gabi every time you come here, Magnus!” She muttered some more words that the visitor—Magnus—presumed were curses, most likely directed at him. Then she got up, pulled her stringy golden-grey hair into a bun and made her way through an opening to the left of Magnus, into a little kitchen.

  Magnus wondered when she had last clipped her fingernails. Or if she ever had.

  “You want tea or anything?” she yelled from the kitchen.

  “No.” he said.

  More muttering and cursing among what was now a mild clamor of pots and utensils emanated from the kitchen. She emerged with a plate of cookies. She held them out for Magnus.

  He simply shook his head and waved his hand “no.”

  She shrugged and set the plate down on a small coffee table in front of the couch. “If I were gonna’ poison your ass I’d a done it many moons ago, Magnus my paranoid protege. Sheeesh.” She reached in and stroked his long, jet black hair. “You growing it out like one of them repulsive yippie Madlander Warlocks? Hideous.”

  “More in the classical vein of the Uragitic priests of Leviathan. They had style,” said Magnus.

  The old lady shook her head and chuffed in disgust. “Why don’t you just wear nothin' but a linen tunic with sandals and carry a staff around while you’re at it then?” The tea-pot from the kitchen whistled and she went back to get it, muttering, “Uragitic priests of Leviathan … Foolish child.”

  She returned with two cups of tea. She set one down in front of Magnus and sipped from her own before placing it on the table. She grabbed the floor cushion and set it by the table, the opposite side of Magnus. She sat down cross-legged on the cushion and grabbed her cup. “How’s council business?”

  “Banal. I heeded your wisdom and counseled our young leader to form a trade pact with the Pyres. The covenant will be officially sealed the next Blood Moon.”

  The Oracle dipped her cookie into the tea-cup then took a bite. “Yeah, nice. Just remember this: vampires are honorable until they smell blood…and they always smell blood.” She finished her cookie then grabbed another one, dipped it and put it into her mouth.

  Perhaps if Gabi were around, the cat would have perceived the slight twitch on the lip of Magnus and the subtle movement of his eyelid which connoted an ever-growing sense of disgust on the part of the man. Did this lady ever bathe or shower? What the hell was that stench? Patchouli? How could someone so wise, so visionary, so influential have such questionable hygiene? Magnus examined his own perfectly manicured fingernails, then with that right hand on which five of those perfectly manicured fingernails resided he combed back his own hair: well maintained. Would he someday become like this old recluse and just stop caring about keeping up a respectable appearance? Parish the thought! No way. Though the Oracle of Mysterium was the invisible hand of power over the city, and some day she would undoubtedly bequeath Magnus with her slot, he had loftier heights to scale. And in those heights he would present himself with class, decorum, and good hygiene.

  “What else!” she cackled, thwarting Magnus from his brief vision of future splendor.

  “What else. Many Leftbankers have been exercising their free-spirited nature with strikes, demands, and prayer-ins at the Temple Chever.” He could no longer handle the smell of patchouli wafting off the Oracle. He got up and walked to the fireplace. He grabbed the poker and jabbed at the log again, more out of something to do rather than out of necessity. “The council has been gridlocked as far as how to deal with them. Half want to negotiate, the other half suggest iron-fisting them back into submission.” He stabbed the cindering log. A burst of flames and sparks shot about the fireplace along with a hisssssss.

  The Oracle wiped some cookie crumbs from the table into her hand. “That’s what you get with an ancient race of powerfully supernatural nomads who feel they’re the Entitled Ones. The city’s ancestors screwed the pooch when they went to those vagabonds for help. Reap what you sow, etc… Anyway, what’s our young Prime Master think of the current situation?” She brushed the crumbs from her hands into her tea.

  Magnus jabbed at the log some more. “Bachar is—as usual—on the fence. His empathetic side wants to simply let them be. But his severe nature dictates he keep them indentured. It doesn’t help that one of his advisors is one of them.”

  “Typical wish-wash. All those council buffoons would’ve driven the entire city into the ash-heap and taken everyone with it if it weren’t for our … guidance.” She gulped down the rest of her tea. “Your tea is getting cold.”

  Magnus ignored her comment about his tea and flipped the log over. He said, “The solution is in the ether—I just haven’t quite apprehended it. Obviously the Leftbanker’s skills, labour and access to Ancient Power is a tremendous asset to us, but if they were to really unite, they could end up burning down the entire city––left and right banks––and wander back out into the countryside without a second thought.”

  The Oracle got up and took her tea-cup and dish to the kitchen. She re-emerged with a small velvet satchel. “Catch!” She tossed the satchel to Magnus, who caught it with his unoccupied left hand.

  He set down the poker and opened the satchel, reached in and pinched some of the contents between his thumb and forefinger: a reddish dust.

  The Oracle spoke: “Florocid powder. It is the byproduct of the Therian silver mines. They have no idea of its value. Ask them to deliver it in bulk along with the monthly silver deliveries. They’ll be more than happy to oblige. This is just a waste by-product to them.”

  Magnus smelled the dust. No odor. “And?”

  “And?!” she walked back to the coffee table. “And we begin putting it into the Leftbanker’s water supply. It’ll act as a pineal blocker. Make them more docile, without destroying their … supernatural aptitude. Win-win. They can be more relaxed about things, and we can continue utilizing their valuable assets.” She picked up the tea cup she had intended Magnus to drink.

  Magnus pocketed the satchel. “I like it.”

  “Of course you like it. It’s diabolical.” She ambled back over to Magnus, who was gazing at the fire. The patchouli wafted again into his nostrils and stunned him back to attention. She handed him the cup and leered into his watering-eyes. “Your tea, dear.” She crookedly grinned and showed-off her missing-front-teeth smile.

  Yes, she is taunting me on purpose, Magnus thought. He turned his attention back to the flaming log and tapped at it a few times.

  The Oracle went to the couch and sat down. She absently began picking at a loose piece of skin on her thumb for a good minute before she spoke. “There’s more …”

  Magnus had come to expect this from the Oracle; always stretching things out for maximum dramatic effect. He had come to to find these theatrics tedious. “Please, do tell.”

  She grinned and continued picking at the skin. “There has been activity detected in the Plane of Future Time. I went into the Hall of Vision to investigate.” She flicked a piece of skin to the floor.

  “What did you see?”

  “The Ancient One will empower a female. A mighty one who will rise from the flock of Ancients and lead them to freedom. And it don’t look like it’s going to be an orderly exit, if you catch my drift.”

  Magnus stopped jabbing at the log. This indeed was new. The Ancient One had ceased activity in these parts for so long that Magnus had almost forgotten that he had even existed. He had assumed the Ancient One had packed up and resumed operations in planes and places far outside the spheres of the Confederated Six. “When will this happen?” he asked.

  The Oracle stopped her picking, closed her eyes and inhaled. “She has already been born. But she is still young. Under the age of three. There is time to stop her before she grows into her powers.”

  * * *

  Magnus felt the room around him constrict. His heart began pounding and he thought it was going to explode out of his chest. Was she doing this to him? He controlled hi
s breathing and fixed his gaze again upon the scaly black-white-golden-orange simmering log. It hissed and crackled and his eyes began to water and blur again, this time from the smoke of the fire. Then a thunder-crack outside jettisoned his consciousness into a completely different dimension that Magnus had never seen before.

  It was dark, yet glowed like a late-night campfire nearing its end. The entire place seemed to be walled with black and gold scales that undulated and writhed like a snake’s but Magnus could only perceive that peripherally, for when he attempted to look directly at it he saw only a nebulous darkness. The entire place reverberated in a low, hollow hum, almost like a cello but deeper and nearly terrifying. He couldn’t quite place the smell, but it was like an incense he’d never come across; he couldn’t tell if it stank or not.

  Then from all around him—almost like a fog from behind, above, and below—a presence enveloped him. It was heavy, powerful, and in complete command. Magnus was paralyzed in a terror he had never thought imaginable; he couldn’t speak, swallow or even blink. Only the thumping of his heart broke the monotony of the low, guttural hum. He could “see” the presence only in his peripheral vision all around him. It was like an undulating, multi-layered black, gold, silver and red dragon-like creature whose millions of scales looked like glittering exotic jewelry. But even those words didn’t come close to what this thing looked like. It’s shape could not be put into three-dimensional context; it was multi-layered and all around Magnus like a fog.