Cursed to Kill Page 7

  “You’re the only woman I’ve ever really pictured spending my life with. The only one who’s ever really fit.”

  “Oh, Cian,” she murmured as tears misted.

  He held up a hand, begging her off. “Don’t. I don’t want you saying anything you’ll regret in a few minutes.”

  Unease pricked through her budding elation, sending ragged claws down her back. She froze, afraid to breath, terrified of what she inherently sensed was about to break her heart.

  “I need you to go, Miranda. Walk out of this room and away from me. Don’t look back. Forget everything I’ve said.”

  Her chest constricted painfully, the twisting behind her ribs fierce and unrelenting. She swallowed hard, determined the rising sob wouldn’t escape her lips.

  Cian’s throat worked visibly. When he spoke again, his voice roughened. “I have to go away for a little while. Work out some things. I don’t know if I will come back...If I can.”

  “Why? Tell me what’s going on, Cian.” To her horror, her anguish oozed out with a choked cry. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t give me the one thing I’ve wanted, and then yank it out of my reach.”

  His shoulders heaved as he expelled a heavy sigh, and still he didn’t look at her. He continued as if she’d said nothing at all. “If I do come back, I’ll explain everything. It’s a lot to ask, and I don’t want you to wait for me. Don’t expect you to. But please, Miranda, go. Before I can’t let you.”

  “Cian—”

  “I mean it,” he said more emphatically. “It’s not okay for you to be here right now.” Standing, he picked up her clothes that he had folded while she slept. Firm resolve etched into his handsome face, harsh lines that warned arguing would get her nowhere. He’d made up his mind. Nothing she could say would make him change it.

  She dressed in silence, fighting down the fierce urge to beg him not to do this. But she wouldn’t plead, wouldn’t throw herself at his feet in desperation. Pride reared with a lioness’s fury. If he didn’t want her, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his rejection cut.

  When she was once again clothed, she glanced at the door, then back at him. He hadn’t moved from his place near the window. Back to her, fists clenched at his sides, he was the picture of stubborn resolve. Her gaze dropped to the ancient writings on his desk, and the petty need for retribution struck.

  She crossed to the desk and picked up the folder. “Until you can explain, these aren’t for sale.”

  Ignoring the wince that etched into his profile, she stalked out of the room, out of his house, and out of his life.

  Chapter Nine

  It was three-thirty before Cian managed to gain enough control over his dark nature to venture out of his room and consider what he would do about the loss of his mother’s written ritual. A storm had passed, adding to his foul spirit, making the raging fury in his veins that much more impossible to overcome. All he knew was he couldn’t possibly take Miranda to Scotland, no matter what Dàire translated in the runes.

  No way could he make it through a plane ride with her that close. Lying beside her, the haze of fantastic sex worn off, it was all he could do to keep his hands still, the aching need to claim the very breath that filled her lungs possessed him so. He’d sought refuge in the shower, but even that did little to calm his vile calling.

  The curse was claiming him. Fast.

  Worse, when he had managed to push her far enough out of his mind by focusing on the hand-drawn runes, Cian had discovered the reason Belen cackled with glee when Rhiannon explained why he had been summoned from New York overnight. Two years younger than Cian, Belen had often argued with Cian over who would lead the family. The natural right fell to Cian.

  Their mother, with her phenomenal connection to the Aether realm and her incredible powers, had discovered the means of terminating their father, to be certain. What she did not know, what she warned heavily against, was the additional death that it would bring. In order to cleanse themselves of the dark curse, they must forfeit their own lives. Belen had known the ritual revealed a way to grant him the leadership he craved.

  He knew also that the balance of nature held the ability to bring them back. Whether their souls returned to their bodies as mortal entities depended on external factors their mother didn’t explain, other than to relay they would each be weighed against their immortal existence. That each one of them, if they chose to go through with the act, would face their past, their present, and their potential future. If the balance was strong, elemental forces might choose to bring them back.

  Knowing the depth of Miranda’s feelings for him, even if Cian could manage to temper the killing urge long enough to make it across an ocean, he would not force her to sit and watch him die. He could not subject her to that level of pain.

  There must be another way.

  Another translation to the writings his mother so painstakingly crafted.

  So far, the only alternate solution he could think of was distancing himself as far as possible from Miranda and refusing to go through with the ritual. Doing so, however, sentenced him to eternal damnation. His siblings too would suffer. Those who craved freedom from the curse, at least.

  Cian had never been more brutally conflicted.

  Hunger took him to the thankfully empty kitchen. In his earlier brief foray downstairs, Rhiannon conveyed Belen left while Cian had been bone-deep inside Miranda. Sometime between Miranda’s departure and now, Cian heard Dàire’s Jeep rumble away. Rhiannon remained, but she hadn’t left her position near the hearth and the fire blazing within.

  Leaving Cian alone with his misery and his hunger.

  He slapped a wad of salami between two slices of bread, kicked a chair away from the table, and dropped into the seat. The flavor was flat, the bread stuck to the roof of his mouth. Alleviating that stickiness, however, meant getting up, and damn it, he was too exhausted to move. He needed sleep. Yet he didn’t trust that when he let go of consciousness enough to rest, that the demon wouldn’t rise, and once again he would find himself at Miranda’s…this time too late.

  Fuck.

  He opened his fingers and dropped the sandwich on the tabletop. He’d hurt Miranda. After he’d poured his soul into her, along with his tainted seed, he had shredded her to bits. He didn’t need words to tell him this. Her expression said everything. Pain. Betrayal. Sorrow—all of it shone in her eyes, gutting him until he bled alongside her. It might have been easier if he had just carved out her heart.

  If he ever had the chance to make this right again, he would fall to his knees at her feet and beg. She would never believe he was over two-thousand years old, that his blood was half demonic, and all the other fantastic reasons he had forced her away. But maybe, just maybe, he could find something right to say. Something that mended all the bisected bits of her heart.

  Angry with his fate, frustrated with his impossible choices, he kicked the chair opposing him. It skittered across the kitchen floor, clanged into the counter, and topped sideways. The clatter satisfied a portion of his agitation.

  “You’re in love with her,” Rhiannon observed quietly as she stepped into the doorway.

  Cian swore beneath his breath, in no mood for his sister’s well-intended badgering.

  “That’s what this is about isn’t it? The brooding. The indecision. The inability to do anything but rage.” She moved across the room and eased into the chair at his right. Her warm hand fell on his arm, her touch soothing to his agitated skin. “Why didn’t you tell me, Ci?”

  Tell her what? That their curse was ripping him in half? That for the first time in his immortal creation he loathed what he was? What they all were? He clenched his teeth and looked away from her probing blue eyes.

  “Now I understand why Belen was so mad about you disappearing into your room with her.” A soft chuckle accompanied the wry shake of her head. “You have something he wants.”

  “Sibling rivalry at its damnedest,” Cian muttered.

&
nbsp; She cocked her head, watching him with keen intelligence. Perhaps a touch of higher wisdom. Cian didn’t know exactly what she latched onto, but he resented her intuition. Her ability to read him so well.

  “Miranda,” she murmured thoughtfully.

  He glanced sideways at his sister. Not once had he revealed Miranda’s name. Unless they’d been eavesdropping on his encounter in the hall, no one should know.

  “Belen knew her name. He’s met her, hasn’t he?”

  Visions of the one evening the three of them had spent together flashed before his eyes. Belen sugarcoating his voice, wrapping seduction around Miranda in attempts to draw her away from Cian. Coercion meant to entice, pleasure he would grant, all the while plotting how he intended to inflict pain.

  Surprising even to himself, a low growl rumbled in the back of Cian’s throat.

  “Cian, tell her.”

  He slammed his palms down on the tabletop and rocketed to his feet. “Tell her, what exactly, Rhiannon? That I’ve envisioned methods of killing her that make acts of torture look like child’s play?” Stalking away from the table, he yanked open the refrigerator door. A frosty bottle of beer screamed his name, and he snatched it off the shelf. With a violent hiss, the cap twisted off in his hand. He downed half of it in two gulps. “Fucking grand idea.”

  “Well you’ve got to do something to get her across the ocean tomorrow.”

  He sipped more slowly, savoring the malty flavor as it trickled down his throat. “She’s not going with me.”

  “What?” Her disbelieving cry sliced through the air.

  Looking at his sister over the top of his beer, Cian repeated, “She’s not going with me.”

  She recoiled against the back of her chair. Shock turned her pretty eyes into round windows of surprise. “You can’t be serious. This is what you want. What you need.”

  As fury rose inside his chest, he pounded back the rest of the beer and slammed the empty bottle on the countertop. “And how am I supposed to survive—make that how is she supposed to survive—an extended, private, flight across the ocean? Lock me up with her, Rhiannon, and you’ll be hauling a body off that plane.”

  The very thought made him cringe and sent another bout of fire swirling through his gut. On the heels of the discomfort, an aching hunger rose, craving the predicted outcome. He groaned, the combined effect of both contradictory desires threatening to drop him to his knees.

  “I’ll go with you.” Rising, she moved to his side and squeezed his shoulder. “I can stop you, if it comes down to that.”

  Cian doubted that very much. They had all banded together to stop Taran when he lost his heart. They had all failed. Even if Rhiannon could, it did nothing to prevent Miranda from further pain if nature decided to recycle his soul and restore his energy to the greater existence of life. His sister, no matter her talents in healing, could only mend physical wounds.

  He shook off Rhiannon’s supportive hand and stalked toward the hall, in dire need of an escape from the relentless pounding in his head. “Forget it, Rhiannon. I don’t even have the manuscript anymore.”

  Fast on his heels, her footsteps followed. Her voice rose, her inability to believe his remark clear. “You what?”

  “Miranda took it with her.”

  “Wait.” In a startling display of her true strength, she grabbed his elbow and pulled hard enough to turn him sideways. “You let her leave with the ritual? Are you insane? Do you have any idea what our father would do to get his hands on that? If Taran or Brigid talked to him, if they mentioned one word about Mother’s secrets, he’ll do more damage to Miranda than you could ever dream of.”

  The fire in her eyes, the adamant conviction in her voice froze Cian in place. His heart knocked hard. His stomach hollowed out. Goddess above, he’d been so out of sorts he hadn’t even considered their father’s wrath. He’d let Miranda walk away with the manuscript without a single thought about what might happen if Drandar came after the written ritual.

  “Go get it, Cian. If you won’t, I will.” Her nails bit painfully into his forearm. “You can’t subject her to that. She has magic on her hands. He’ll use her like he used our mother.”

  He wouldn’t. Cian couldn’t allow himself to believe that Drandar would choose a non-magically inclined woman to fulfill his insatiable lust for both flesh and blood. It was easier to believe their father would carve Miranda into pieces, than put the slightest bit of stock into that possibility.

  Yet as he opened his mouth to voice his objections, a thick, oppressive hate made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He searched for the cause, momentarily caught off guard by the tumult of conflict that roiled beneath his surface.

  The way his sister rubbed her arms to ward off a chill, however, told him the evil he sensed wasn’t a product of his own dark soul. She glanced around the room warily, searching for the telltale shimmerings of magic, at the same time he did.

  Drandar was here. Eavesdropping on their conversation, watching the children he had cursed. Everything inside Cian clenched in fury. More than anything, he longed for the power that would destroy the son of a hellhound’s bitch that had turned his existence into a living nightmare. Power Miranda held hostage. Power that would destroy her.

  When the room remained still, Rhiannon’s gaze cut to him, her eyes glittering like bright gemstones. “Go!” she urged in a frantic whisper. Giving him a none-too-gentle shove toward the door, she tipped her face to the ceiling. “How nice of you to drop in on us, Drandar.”

  In the far corner of the room, the shadows stirred. An image took shape, the faint outline of a tall, imposing man.

  Cian didn’t wait to witness his father’s charming face. He bolted for the door, all thoughts zeroed down to one purpose—however impossible, he must protect Miranda from that vile bastard.

  Chapter Ten

  Cian drove the thirty miles from Georgetown to Augusta like a madman, taking all the side roads he could find to keep beneath the local police’s radar. He didn’t have the first fucking clue how he would make it through the night, let alone to the Lughnasadh ritual, with Miranda tucked at his side. But for the first time in months, the dark needs of his soul didn’t terrify him. Sheer panic over what Drandar would do to Miranda if he found her first overrode Cian’s fear of himself.

  If Drandar had already been to her, hurt her in any way, Cian would rouse the fiends of hell to put an end to his sire.

  His grip tightened on the wheel, his knuckles straining white as he rounded the last turn onto Miranda’s quaint street. Historical homes rose on spacious lawns, shaded by thick, gnarled trees that had seen as many years as the hand-hewn boards and fire-kiln bricks. Part residential, part commercial, the tiny square held charm, despite the looming shadows of the more modern side of town in the background. Birds twittered jauntily. The sun played hide-and-seek through a thick canopy of turning leaves.

  Another time, the knots in his body would have unraveled with a trek down this lane. Today, however, Cian observed it all in abstract, his thoughts swirling in a haze of confused trepidation. He’d forced her away this morning. How in the name of all things sacred was he supposed to take it all back?

  I’m sorry, Miranda, wouldn’t cut it. Any man with half an ounce of sense would realize telling a woman he loved her and then cutting her off went too far.

  He could use the excuse that he was new to this game of love. But even that was weak. Insignificant when it came to the heap of hurt he’d piled on her. Ignorance didn’t justify contemptuous behavior.

  Then there was still the very real problem with staying close to her. Not only did he have to concern himself with protecting Miranda from his father, but he also had to protect her from himself.

  Cian swooped into a parking space on the side of her house and slammed the gearshift into park. In a vain effort to collect himself, he took a few minutes to stare at the aged wall, the painted colonial blue sign that read, A Steppe in Time. When his pulse refused to settle, and
the racket in his head didn’t quiet, he thrust open the door and climbed out.

  His soul arced with savage fury, sensing the object of its desire behind the thick walls. Yet another grim reminder of the battle yet to come tonight.

  Steeling himself against the forceful tug of war in his spirit, he stalked up the pavestone walk to the shop’s front door and let himself inside. The usual jangle of bells was like fingernails on slate. His already grated nerves flayed at the high-pitched sound.

  A quick scan of the immediate shelves of books yielded only Susan’s dishwater blonde hair piled high atop her head. No sign of Miranda. Not at the cash register, not hunched over a small stack of unopened USPS boxes.

  He ground his teeth together and wound around a table of 1800s photo albums, approaching Susan. Headphones over her ears, she bobbed her head in time to a tune Cian couldn’t hear. When he set his hand on her shoulder, she jumped so hard her hair came loose and fell into her face.

  As she whipped around, she pushed the unspectacular locks behind her ears. “Cian. Good gracious. You scared me.” Her smile faltered as she plucked the headphones off, letting them dangle around her neck.

  “Where’s Miranda?” he demanded.

  “A bit pissed off at you.” Susan chuckled. “I’m not sure this is the best time.”

  Cian shook his head, his annoyance mounting. He didn’t have time for cat and mouse. His father could be here any minute. Might have already been. Miranda might now need help.

  If he wasn’t too late period.

  “Now’s fine. Where is she?”

  His brittle stare and edgy voice pushed Susan one step backward. The smile that had danced teasingly only seconds before trembled at one corner of her mouth. “I’ll just—I, ah—I’ll get her.”

  As she turned, Cian caught her upper arm, drawing her back around to face him. “I’ll get her. Is she upstairs?”