Kiss of the Phantom: Sexy Paranormal (Book 3, Phantom Series) (3 page)

“What the hell just happened?”

Gemma crashed backward, colliding with a collection of dusty knickknacks that rained to the floor and shattered on impact. The sound magnified. She grabbed her temples and pressed hard, crouching into a ball as pain radiated throughout her body. She forced her eyes to squint open. She was still in the repository. She hadn’t left? Hadn’t actually traveled back to the past?

It had seemed so real.

She caught sight of Paschal splayed on the ground. She crawled across the floor and turned him over. In the uncertain light from the lantern, his skin resembled fine vellum—thick, but translucent. The dark rings beneath his eyes looked nearly black against his ashen complexion. His mouth, parted slightly, was ringed in blue. Was he dying or already dead?

She pressed her cheek to his chest and tried to distinguish the throbbing in her brain from the beating of his heart. He was still alive. Which was good, because when he came to, she was going to kill him.

“Paschal! Wake up. What just happened?.”

His eyes fluttered but didn’t open. His groan sounded dry and weak.

Visions of her father crushed her with an emotional weight she had worked hard never to bear again. A lifetime clinging to dreams of limitless magic could not save him from mortality. Instead, he died, his beloved organization in disarray, his children pitted against each other in a battle for supremacy, and now, his daughter making pacts with the enemy to regain her family’s once-precious status.

But that enemy was going to die, too, if she didn’t get her head on straight. With a push of determination, she staggered to her feet and grabbed the lantern, but then decided to leave the light and brave the darkness in case Paschal woke up. She tripped only once, upending a shelf and bringing down an avalanche of dusty books.

At the top of the stairs, she caught her breath. The house was still empty, she was sure. But as she opened the hidden door that led from the underground storage area into the old manse, the atmosphere seemed to shift, as if she’d walked into a dream.

It had been daylight when she and Paschal had gone down into the bowels beneath the house. Now an inky blackness doused the innards of the creepy old house. Though she’d spent much of her childhood in these rooms, she hadn’t lived here for more than ten years—hadn’t visited for more than three. She couldn’t remember where the light switches were, so she concentrated on finding the kitchen from memory. The kitchen had windows. The kitchen was where she’d find something to bring Paschal out of his fugue.

She reached back into her childhood, breaking into the memories she’d so carefully locked away. Her flitting around the house in the frilly, old-fashioned dresses her father so adored, trying to stay clean, trying to stay out of the way while the men talked of things she shouldn’t understand. Magic. Power. Domination.

And perhaps she hadn’t understood what those words in combination truly meant, though she’d operated for the past three years thinking that she did. What Paschal had just done—what he’d just shown her, had nothing to do with magic born of nostalgia or tradition or wishful thinking. The K’vr viewed magical power as something their leader had possessed in the past and that they intended to regain. But the magic Paschal wielded was very real. Very now.

Doubling back after a wrong turn, she finally found the kitchen. Shiny silver moonlight illuminated the window above the sink, so she pushed back the curtains. Except for a breeze flitting through the collection of willows that dominated the front of the property, she saw no movement. Even if someone from the K’vr had returned, she’d have no energy to fight him. She had to focus hard just to fill a large tumbler with ice water from the refrigerator and then retrace her steps back to the repository.

Paschal had managed to pull himself up against the shelf, but his eyes were closed and his face looked as pale and semitransparent as before.

“Here,” she ordered, holding the tumbler to his lips. “Drink this.”

He obeyed, then coughed and sputtered, showering her with water.

“Damn, woman,” he choked out. “Water? Need brandy.”

She shoved the cup to his lips again. “You’ll drink this water and savor every drop, old man. Once your whistle is wet enough, I want a full explanation of what the hell just happened. Then, maybe after that, you’ll get your booze.”

He didn’t argue, but drank as she instructed, resting between sips. She took some of the cold water herself, suddenly feeling the full effects of her exhaustion now that adrenaline had subsided.

She’d never experienced anything so draining and disturbing, and yet so fascinating. Somehow, they’d traveled into the distant past. She’d felt the body of the man named Rafe wrapped around hers, as if he were a thick wool blanket in an icy storm. His emotions flowed through her. His anger. His fear. His rage. He’d lost his sister to her ancestor, Lord Rogan, for whom the K’vr had been founded. And in the end, he’d become trapped within some sort of magical lockbox. Why?

And how on earth had she piggybacked onto Paschal’s psychic journey? She’d studied the phenomenon of psychometry since the first time she’d heard rumors of what he could do. But until she’d experienced the sensations for herself, she’d truly had no idea what magic felt like.

“Ready to talk yet?” she asked.

“Didn’t you see everything for yourself?”

“Who is Rafe?” she asked, annoyed. She had no time for his coyness now. Not when there was so much she needed to know. “Did he own the flute?”

“Owned it or carved it,” Paschal replied. “His connection to the instrument was strong. I felt him the minute I turned into this aisle. We channeled into his last memory.”

“How?”

He shrugged, though the motion was barely noticeable. “If I have contact with an item associated with...certain people...I can view their final or, at the very least, most powerful experience.”

“But he didn’t die,” she insisted. She wasn’t entirely sure how she knew this, except that what happened, though painful, had not felt like death. There was something constraining about the experience. Something tight and dark. But the rage and anger and fear never dissipated. She continued to feel them now, though they were a fading echo, giving way to her own confusion and, truth be told, excitement.

“No,” Paschal replied. “No, I don’t believe he died.”

Crouched beside Paschal until her legs ached, Gemma let him drink the last of the water, then eased onto the stone floor and stretched her limbs until the kinks loosened. A year ago, even six months ago, she would not have anticipated this series of events, all culminating with her sitting on a dirty floor beside a man she’d once considered only a means to an end—a source of information that would lead her closer to authority over the K’vr. But in the time she’d spent with Paschal, he’d become her mentor and teacher—in ways her father never had.

“When did you realize you had this ability?” she asked.

“Since childhood, though I kept it hidden from my family. My stepmother guessed, though, and helped me hone it in secret.”

“It’s remarkable. And I was able to come with you. Was it because you were holding my hand? Can we do it again?”

Paschal pressed his lips more tightly together, enhancing the blue line circling his lips. Okay, so he wasn’t up to another go so soon. Neither was she, truthfully. But she would revisit the idea once they had their energy back. Wasn’t like he was going anywhere. Not without her, at any rate.

“Tell me about Rafe,” she asked, changing tack. “How did he know Rogan?”

“You heard his thoughts,” he replied, the relaxation of his jaw indicating that she’d hit a topic he was willing to discuss. “Rafe’s father was the governor of Valoren, the land your ancestor usurped.”

“So this Rafe was somehow important to Rogan? An enemy?”

“Important? Hardly. But an enemy to the last. Sarina was Rafe’s only full-blooded sibling. They were very close. Until Rogan seduced her away from her family.” Paschal’s volume dipped to barely a whisper. Even clearing his throat did nothing to strengthen the sound of his voice. “She was young and beautiful and wild as the wind.”

For a split second, Gemma thought she heard more in Paschal’s voice than the mere repetition of Rafe’s emotions. It was almost as if he’d known her himself. But that was impossible. Rogan had disappeared over two hundred and sixty years ago. The Gypsies of Valoren and the family of the governor were all as dead as her forebear.

But Rafe had not died. At least, not in that moment.

“Rogan must have loved Sarina,” Gemma insisted. “She must have been the woman to whom he gave the Queen’s Charm.”

The truth about her ancestor’s life was, for the most part, a great unknown, but the stories were endless. Rogan’s brother, Lukyan of Hungary, had started the K’vr, and wrote extensively about how his sibling had used his magic to collect great wealth and control the locals. Then Rogan had left his homeland and migrated first to England, and then to a Gypsy colony named Valoren by King George, its founder, who’d wanted to cleanse the Romani from London. He’d set aside barren Hanoverian lands for the task, lands that, unbeknownst to the monarch, possessed a powerful magic all their own.

According to K’vr archives, Lukyan never saw his brother again. But Lukyan used the villagers’ fear of Rogan’s power to maintain a position of might over them. And his strength did not die with him. His son kept the K’vr going, as did his son afterward. War and political change forced the K’vr underground, where they remained to this day, amassing wealth in anticipation of the day their legacy of magic would take them out of the shadows and into a position of unyielding strength that armies of the greatest nations would not be able to thwart.

And though Gemma knew that various grand apprentices, as their leaders were called, often wielded psychic abilities that helped them make money and influence others, she’d never seen anything like what Paschal could do—not even in her own father.

“Rogan wanted Sarina, yes,” Paschal offered, “but Sarina received the Queen’s Charm from her father.”

“That’s not the story I heard,” she contradicted.

Paschal did not argue. He said nothing at all. Then she realized his eyes had closed and he was, undoubtedly, asleep.

She cursed. She shook him once, but when he simply snored more loudly, she gave up. He was in no shape to tell her more right now, but he would. Eventually.

Though Paschal looked uncomfortable sitting on the floor with his head lolling sideways against a dusty shelf, she didn’t imagine she could move him without doing more damage. She pulled off her jacket and shoved it under his head. With sleep, he’d recover.

Hopefully, the same would go for her. Exhaustion unlike any she’d experienced was seeping into her bones, clutching at the insides of her eyelids from the base of her skull and yanking them tight like window shades. Still, she resisted. She had so much to think about—so many questions to find answers to.

First, how had Paschal gained this power to peek into the past? He was not, to the best of her knowledge, descended from Rogan. She’d long suspected that Paschal had access to Rogan’s magical source, which her brother had tried unsuccessfully to recover, resulting in his conviction for murder, among other charges. But Paschal certainly didn’t carry it with him. She’d searched his things on multiple occasions, and since they’d come to New York, they’d traveled light.

Though psychometric talent was rare, it was not unheard-of in her circles. One of the grand apprentices in their long line—a great-great-grandfather, if she remembered correctly—reportedly possessed the ability. Perhaps that was why she was able to see what Paschal saw?

She snuggled beside him and surrendered to sleep with images of Rafe thrashing about in the forest, searching for his sister, replaying in her mind. He’d wanted to find her with a desperation Gemma couldn’t quite comprehend. He’d left his wife and son behind to search for an errant sister. He and his brothers had risked life and limb on behalf of a headstrong girl in love with an older, more powerful man. Why?

So many questions...and no answers. Until, at least, Paschal awoke and told her the rest of what he knew.

Mariah settled into her spacious first-class seat and pulled her fedora down over her eyes. The smell of leather and sweat on the inside band assailed her nostrils, and she couldn’t suppress a chuckle. How ironic that Ben Rousseau had given her this very hat. He’d meant the gift as a joke. Called her a female Indiana Jones after she’d flown them to safety following a narrow escape from a Bedouin sheikh who didn’t appreciate their liberating a valuable scimitar that had been in his family for twelve generations.

Tonight, she’d proved yet again that she could get out of a tight spot without so much as a whip. She’d upgraded to the best seat on the plane without turning out as much as a quarter. A great trick, since that was about as much cash as she had left. She’d need to restock her wallet as soon as she got home.

Not that she had all that much cash left in Texas, but she always kept a few stashes in various locations around Austin in case she had to make a quick getaway. Escaping Europe hadn’t been easy, but she’d managed. Now she had fifteen hours to relax.

Maybe fifteen hours to wonder how the hell she’d managed to get this far.

The incident on the cliff haunted her, but she’d pushed the event out of her mind. She supposed there might be a logical explanation, but Ben’s words in the clearing rang loudly in her mind.

Magic.

Black magic.

Black magic that had saved her life.

Black magic that just might get her out of trouble, once she figured out how to harness it.

She cursed, shifted in her seat, double-checked her seat belt and waited for the Boeing 777-200LR to power up. For years, her competitors had called her insane for the risks she took. Now, finally catching her breath after the narrow escape from Valoren, she wondered if they might have been right. Not only had this been a particularly dangerous dig, but since she’d picked up that ruddy stone, something had changed inside her. Or around her. Had she really flown off the face of a mountain and lived to tell the tale? The whole incident was whacked.

And yet, she’d barely looked at the rock since her escape from the woods. She didn’t want to take any chances. When she was safe at her place in Texas, she’d examine it closely and find a way to determine what price it might fetch. If she got home. There was a very good chance that either Hector Velez, the Mayan collector, or Ben Rousseau would be waiting for her at the airport. If they hadn’t already found her here.

She lifted her hat and took a look around the cabin. No one in first class looked the least bit interested in her. The man in the aisle next to her window seat had a U-shaped pillow tucked around his bulky neck, noise blocking headphones strapped around his ears and a black satin eye mask blocking out any light. His breathing indicated he was already fast asleep, and they hadn’t even pulled away from the gate.

Still, Mariah couldn’t help but shift closer to the window. With Velez after her for his lost coins and Ben Rousseau likely in pursuit to recover the stone, she couldn’t afford to trust any situation. But her best bet for now was to get some rest. Rejuvenate her body and her brain.

After about twenty minutes and two gratis single-malt scotches, however, she realized that relaxation simply wasn’t possible. A heat centered in the pit of her stomach kept her awake. Antsy. She shifted, displacing the bag she’d kept clutched in her lap since she’d boarded. After nearly killing herself to retrieve the stone, there was no way in hell she was going to chuck it into the overhead compartment.

“Ma’am, may I take your bag?”

Mariah lifted the brim of her hat. This was a different flight attendant. Not the one who’d asked her the same question first upon boarding and the second time about ten minutes ago, when she’d delivered her second drink.

“No,” she replied. “Where’s Lisa?”

The flight attendant’s seemingly permanent smile did not falter. “You have to store it at your feet, then, until after takeoff. If there’s anything I can get you, please don’t hesitate to—”

Mariah cut off the rest of the practiced platitude by complying and then lowering her hat. She was rarely rude by accident, having been raised by a woman who considered bad manners to be an abomination only slightly above a lack of education or a misguided fashion sense. On the other hand, her father would have agreed that simply covering her eyes with her hat was a perfectly acceptable way to tell someone that you had no interest in what they had to say. Lord knew the man had done the same thing to her more times than she could count.

With an audible sniff, the flight attendant moved away. Mariah figured she wouldn’t be getting another scotch anytime soon, but that was probably for the best. She wasn’t much of a drinker anymore. First, her tastes traveled to the expensive, and second, she’d come to value a clear head. Maybe if she’d laid off the hooch in her misspent youth, she might never have fallen for Ben Rousseau’s cool gray eyes and silver tongue in the first place.

Just after takeoff, Mariah reclaimed her bag from beneath the seat, surprised by the flare of heat against her lap. She tore off her hat, then dug into the bag to see if the stone was really increasing in temperature. This was the second time the stone had grown hotter—the first time was immediately before she’d nearly fallen to her death. As a pilot herself, she realized that any incendiary device on a plane wasn’t a good thing, though the rock had passed through security at the airport without garnering so much as a sideways glance from the screeners. It was, after all, just a rock.

Once her hand closed around a cool stone, she blew out a relieved breath. Flying commercial, even in first class, wasn’t her preferred mode of travel. She’d practically been born in the pilot’s chair, and she didn’t like handing over the yoke of her avionic destiny to some unknown flyer who might or might not have gotten a decent night’s sleep before embarking on a transatlantic flight. Still, she supposed she should at least find a way to rest while she could.

The scotch finally reached her bloodstream and, after a yawn, she retrieved her hat, settled it over her eyes and pushed back her seat. With her hand still clutched around the stone inside the bag, she fell asleep.

And then, just as quickly, awoke.

The sound of the plane engine had stopped.

She threw off her hat and slid up the window shade. They were still flying. Soft, cottony clouds, shining silver under the rays of a full moon, streamed beneath them. Mariah yawned, determined to alleviate the pressure in her ears that was blocking out all noise, but it did not work.

Silence pressed in on her, and when she turned to look at her seatmate, she jumped back, slamming against the window beside her.

The man beside her was no longer hefty and cocooned. Instead, it was Ben.

“You can’t have it,” she argued. “I found it first.”

Ben smirked, but did not answer. He reached out to touch her face, but she slapped his hand away. He’d lost the privilege of touching her a long time ago.

The moment her palm made contact with his skin, he changed. Morphed. His complexion darkened. His hair deepened to the same blue-black as polished ebony and then lengthened until it covered his shoulders. Only his eyes remained similar—but where they were once light gray, they were now the color of a silvery, moonlit sky.

“Who are you?” she asked, though her voice bounced around in her head as if there were nothing to absorb the sound except her skull.

He did not answer. He simply stared at her with an intensity that made her want to cover herself. She still had clothes on, but felt entirely naked to his gaze. And her arms wouldn’t move. Or her legs. She could not turn her head. The seat belt suddenly tugged tight against her midsection, and her blouse pulled across her chest.

“If you work for Velez, I don’t have the money. But I’ll get it. Soon. I have this—”

His quizzical expression cut off her explanation. He had no idea what she was talking about, and yet he stared at her with a curiosity that, though not threatening, chilled her to the bone. Again, the sensation of being completely exposed washed over her. It was as if he were looking inside her—as if his stare could penetrate not only her clothes, but her very skin.

“Tell me who you are,” she demanded.

He shifted nearer, and the unmistakable scent of the forest assailed her. Not just any forest, but the one she’d escaped at Valoren. The sweet aroma of pine, the deep, loamy fragrance of soil, and the musky essence of man struck her hard. He said nothing, but stared at her intently, starting at the top of her head and then sweeping downward. Each trailing of his gaze over her body ignited a sexual awareness she did not want to feel. She’d never seen this man before. He had no right to examine her so...intimately.

But she could do nothing to fight him off.

“Please,” she begged, thrown into unknown territory by her utter helplessness. He rewarded her weakness with a smile and then lowered his mouth over hers in a kiss that defied everything she’d ever known about kisses.

He was gentle, but not shy. Exploratory, but not inexperienced. His mouth tasted of dry red wine and some exotic fruit—like plum or currant. His lips were warm and his breath intoxicating. She couldn’t fight the instinctual pull to wrap her arms around his shoulders and feel the sinews of his muscles through his shirt, but the moment she could move again, she woke with a start.

“What the fuck?”

This time when Mariah ripped off her hat, it sailed all the way to the galley. The flight attendant coming around the corner with a tray full of mimosas screamed, then doused herself and the passengers in the front rows with orange juice and champagne. The man beside Mariah, no longer the dark stranger or Ben but again the hefty, world-weary traveler, stared at her as if she’d sprouted a second head.

“Such language,” he muttered, and then returned to buttering his bagel.

Mariah muttered an apology, then sank back into her seat. She’d been dreaming. Only dreaming. But it had felt so real. If she didn’t know she was persona non grata with the airplane crew at this moment, she would have ordered enough scotch to keep her occupied until landing. Instead, she gripped the bag tighter, squelching a yelp at the heat of the stone within.

She didn’t know what the hell she’d found in Germany, but she now knew one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt—at the first opportunity, she was getting rid of it. And the sooner the better.

***

Had he possessed corporeal form, Rafe would have grabbed onto something solid to hold himself steady. The pull, particularly when he had wondered what it might feel like to kiss Mariah, had increased to nearly inescapable levels. He’d dreamed of tasting her, imagined the yielding of her lips against his. But as quickly as he’d felt freedom, the stone encasing his soul constricted. Fortunately. While he remained safe within the stone, he defied Rogan’s magic and stood firm against the elemental call that could come to nothing good. Rafe had had his chance at love and desire—and thanks to Rogan, it was gone.

Once the sensation of floating on the air ended with a jolt and jostle, Rafe understood that Mariah had returned to the ground. He did not understand, of course, how she could fly without his magical assistance, but he knew that she had. Her emotions, so guarded and controlled with everyone she spoke with, flooded from her heart every time she touched the stone. He knew things about her he did not want to know. How much her resentment toward her former lover had faded. How her disappointment in her failure for a man named Velez gnawed at her. How her heart ached for someone she could share her fears with—someone who would not turn her weakness into a weapon to wield at will.

She was strong, this woman. Strong, but damaged. And with Rafe’s own personal history, he was the last man who could offer her solace.

If he was still a man.

At this moment, he knew not what he was. Trapped within the stone, he could think and suffer as a man, but he could not feel the mist of the night on his skin or the ground beneath his feet. Or a woman’s mouth pressed intimately to his. And until Mariah, he had not craved the sensations. Not once.

But now it was all he could think about. The kiss had not been real, but the dream had made his blood rush in his ears. As if he had tasted her, the flavors of her lips lingered on his tongue. Strong, smooth whiskey and sweet feminine warmth had intoxicated him for hours.

He could see nothing from inside the bag where she’d stored the stone, but he experienced a change in atmosphere. The stone suddenly grew moist and hot, and he guessed the temperature had changed to match the air outside. He’d never visited a climate such as this, but he did not have to be free of the curse to know that he’d somehow been transported to a foreign land.

Hours had gone by. Only a few days ago, the passage of time would have been inconsequential, but ever since Mariah dug his prison out of the Valoren dirt, he’d suffered every excruciating minute with an awareness he did not want.

He attempted to block out the murmurs and mumblings of conversation outside the bag, but without trying, he understood that she was attempting to find lodging under a name that was not her own. Once the bartering was complete and a swooping upward ride ended, he heard a door open, then close. Locks snapped into place, and the soft bounce of a cushion jolted him. Had she tossed the bag onto a bed?

Again, he heard a succession of opening and closing doors. The slide of curtains. Clicking noises he could not identify. Suddenly he heard a loud, trilling sound, this time from within the bag. Her hand brushed against the stone as she dug inside, and again, he was overwhelmed with emotions he did not wish to feel. Desire. Longing. Lust.