Chapter Two

Twenty steps away from the hauntingly beautiful woman, her words registered in Taran’s mind. He came to an abrupt halt beneath the light of a streetlamp. She knew his name…

Beneath his feet, the world fell away. He curled a hand around the iron post to keep from stumbling to his knees. Solène—it couldn’t be. He had felt her blood on his hands, watched as she gasped her last breath. He had put her broken body in the ground, along with all that was good and decent in his soul.

Yet how else could she know his name? She was identical. She even wore the same perfume—jasmine with the faintest hint of cinnamon. Solène Larouche was the only woman who could pull off such mismatched aromas.

Solène.

Something deep inside Taran began to tremble.

Her laughter rang through his head. A vision of her as she raced into the grand music room and spun a circle on the parquet wood floor, her arms outstretched, her glorious long hair spilling out behind her. It’s ours. It’s really ours, Taran. We’ll call it Serenity. Come and dance with me.

He had taken her in his arms, laughing with her as he held her body close and spun her across the waxed floor. The music was their own. A sensual rhythm that held notes of whimsy and an undertone of danger. They danced until standing so close became intolerable, and the fire that burned between them drew them to the floor, where she had cried out his name in ecstasy, and he had stared into her eyes, lost to the love that shone there.

Solène.

Alive.

Now, when he had done all he could to insure he would never know mortality.

He ground his teeth together and released the light post. She could not possibly be alive. This was some cruel trick of his mother’s, meant to somehow divert him from his intentions. He was sick and tired of Nyamah’s interference.

With a hand clenched at his side, he turned back to the shop and the woman within. He’d allowed her to catch him off guard and sidetrack him from his purpose. No more. He had one final step to take to secure his end. Nyamah would not deter him from that plan.

He crossed to the door in half the time it had taken him to leave and jerked on the handle. It didn’t budge. She’d locked it.

Damn it. Damn her.

To stop the rush of nonsensical rage, he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and counted to thirty. One more reason why he needed to finish this vile act—the darkness raging in his soul made control damn near impossible. Every little impulse wanted to take life. Like kicking in this door. He could try—venting the fury would bring an enormous rush of relief. But all he would succeed in was breaking his toe. He had helped drive the stake-like nails that held the wooden bar in place on the other side. No one would get through this door without mechanical help.

And if the woman was Solène, she had further barred entry with her own powerful magic. When a witch did not want interruptions, she did not have them.

Instead of following the rash urge, he hiked himself onto the short retaining wall and took a seat. Someone else would come before she turned out her light. Someone who wouldn’t be content with a locked door. When the woman opened it to send the visitor away, he would let himself inside.

If not, she still had her late night coffee appointment to attend. When she came out, as she always did shortly after the midnight hour, he would grab her then.

****

Solène turned off all the lights in the tiny shop, save for one Quinquet lamp. She turned the wick up and carried it behind the counter to the screened-off preparation table. Old stains in the wood illuminated in the faint light. Reminders of the life she had once delighted in. She gave into a wistful smile as she set the lamp down.

What lay beneath the table only served to remind her of the current monstrosity her new life had become.

Not wanting to touch the vile parchment, she forced herself to face the inevitable and remove the scroll Drandar had given her from its hiding place within a latched crate. Power radiated beneath her fingertips, a vile blend of all that was good and healing, and all that was malicious and destructive. She fought back a grimace.

If she intended to discover what Drandar had altered that turned Nyamah’s last words of power into an unholy creation, touching it was necessary.

She should have examined it long before now. But until Taran had walked into the home they had once shared, and she’d witnessed the anguish etched into his handsome face, she hadn’t realized how impossible it would be to honor her bargain with the demon.

Nothing on this earth would make her convince Taran into conducting this rite and damning himself to eternal existence. Not even Drandar’s promise that if she revealed the scroll’s altered abilities, she would spend her own eternity as his slave. His sexual slave. Bound to providing him the children he desired that could restore his disrupted power.

Taking a deep breath, Solène unrolled the four, brittle parchment pages and laid them side-by-side. Taran had taught her how to read runes years ago, and she quickly scanned the hand-crafted ritual. But as her fingertips passed across the ancient writing, the extent of what she handled settled on her fully.

Beneath her fingertips lay the words and wishes of a Celt High Priestess, a mother who had sacrificed her life to protect her eight surviving children and to save the remainder of her Selgovae tribe. Solène touched ancient power that signified an end, as well as a beginning to the family she had once considered her own. To Taran’s family. To his very existence.

This document held the capacity to free him from the curse he had suffered for too many centuries to count. It avenged Solène’s own death. And if she could decipher what portions Drandar had altered and reconstruct Nyamah’s original words, they would all know freedom.

She scanned the pages again. Most of the phrases made sense. Too much sense. Drandar knew Nyamah too well—to the point he had managed to blend his own words with such mastery the ritual flowed as one solid voice. Only someone who knew Nyamah, not just the meanings of crafted runes, would recognize the difference.

Sighing, Solène rolled the pages together. She couldn’t take this to Taran, no matter how she wanted to. In so doing, she would defy Drandar, and he would make good on his promise. Besides, she needed someone who knew Nyamah intimately, and Taran had never connected with the lightness in his soul.

Someone like Isolde, the sister who drove Taran to madness more often than not.

With shaking hands, Solène pulled her oversized satchel from beneath the table and rummaged through the pockets until she located a folded paper napkin. She smoothed it flat, fished out her cell phone before she lost her nerve, then dialed the personal extension for Angus Shaw’s residence in England.

“Hello?” Confusion laced the feminine voice that answered.

Glancing at the hanging wall clock, Solène grimaced. Almost midnight—she had no business phoning this late.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” the woman asked again.

Solène cleared her throat. “May I speak with Isolde McLaine, please?”

The woman’s voice filled with hesitation as she replied, “Speaking. Who’s calling?”

Now came the hard part. They’d been friends long ago, almost sisters. But so much had changed…Best to just spit it out.

“Isolde, this is Solène Larouche. I’m sorry to phone so late, but it’s urgent.”

Heavy silence met Solène’s greeting. When Isolde spoke again, her words came out clipped and bitter. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t appreciate your games. Solène Larouche has been dead for many years.”

Solène let out a heavy sigh. She’d expected this, anticipated Isolde would never believe a random phone call. But hearing the annoyance, the hurt that still lingered in Isolde’s voice, made it that much more difficult to find words.

“Never ring my home this late again.”

“Wait!” She bit out the exclamation before Isolde could terminate the call. “Isolde, I swear, it is me. You came to Paris with Fintan in the spring of 1890, after Belen informed you that I had taken up residence with your brother. The four of us dined at Maxim’s.” Solène gripped the edge of the table top, squeezed her eyes shut, and said a silent prayer Isolde would believe. She had to. She must.

“This is…impossible,” Isolde murmured.

“No. No, it isn’t.” She shook her head, adamant. “When I excused myself to the ladies’ room, you followed. You begged me to leave Taran.”

And from that moment on, they had become the dearest of friends.

In the silence that followed Solène’s words, she opened her eyes and moved away from the table. Her heart thumped against her ribs, her mind churned frantic circles. No one else knew of their conversation that evening. Isolde must believe. Please, please, remember.

“Solène?” Isolde whispered.

Relief rushed through Solène’s veins. She expelled the breath she’d been holding, and the faint beginnings of a smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “I swear it is me. I am alive, Isolde. I am alive.”

“How?” Disbelief clung to her breathless exclamation.

“I can’t explain all of it now. But I need you here. Please come. I have the eighth scroll.” As a sense of urgency overtook her anxiety, Solène strode from behind the screen into the main portion of the store. “You must hurry. It’s been altered, and Samhain is fast upon us.”

“Altered? Where are you? If you have the scroll, you’re in danger.”

“I’m at the house. I’ve been here for almost a year now. Taran’s been watching me.”

“Stalking you, more like.” Isolde’s voice raised in pitch as worry overtook her disbelief. “He’s changed, Solène. Stay far from him. Stay inside. I’ll be there on the first flight I can arrange.”

Movement from outside the window caught Solène’s attention. She cocked her head, squinting through the darkness at the shadowy figure sitting on the retaining wall just beyond. Taran.

His long inky hair ruffled with the breeze. He stared through the glass, his gaze cemented on her, those dark eyes piercing through her skin despite the dim lighting. Her heart tap danced into her ribs. Just one more touch. One more shared breath. One more brush of soft lips.

Spirits above, she missed him.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Isolde.” Unable to tear her gaze away from Taran’s, she lowered her voice to a near whisper.

“Don’t be silly. You know what happened last—”

“He is part of me, Isolde.” Her stomach fluttered as Taran slowly rose to his feet. He took a step toward the window. Then another. “We need his help if Drandar is to be destroyed.”

Another never-ending pause drifted through the receiver. Taran reached through the iron bars that protected the windowpane and flattened his palm to the glass. His gaze searched her face, full of disbelief, even as his expression twisted with a lance of pain. Solène’s pulse skipped into an erratic rhythm.

One more night spent in the glory of his warm body wrapped around hers.

“Then keep him close,” Isolde conceded reluctantly.

“That won’t be a problem.”

“I’ll be there before noon tomorrow. Angus will be with me.”

Barely aware of her actions, Solène nodded as she lowered her cell phone and flipped it shut. She stepped toward the door. Beyond the window, Taran mirrored her movements. Like bees drawn to the sweet nectar of a flower, they gravitated toward one another as they had that long ago night when they first met.

In the back of her mind, Solène knew she flirted with danger. The spirit wards that she had summoned to protect her echoed the same in the way they pressed around her.

She stopped at the door, lifted her hand, and murmured quiet words of magic. Her guardians fell back, though the air churned with disapproving energy. With a deep breath of courage, Solène shoved the heavy wooden slat aside and unlatched the door. When she pushed it open, cool air rushed inside.

But the chill that raced down her spine had little to do with the autumn breeze. Taran stood before her, his big strong body within the reach of her fingertips. She fought back the urge to curl her hands into his shirt and drag him close enough she could soak up the heat of his skin and raised her gaze to his fathomless dark eyes.

“Welcome home, Taran.”