Reborn

A Division of
Whampa, LLC
P.O. Box 2160
Reston, VA 20195
Tel/Fax: 800-998-2509
http://curiosityquills.com

© 2013 Aiden James & Lisa Collicutt
http://aidenjamesfiction.com
http://darkedgedromance.blogspot.ca

Cover by Eugene Teplitsky

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information about Subsidiary Rights, Bulk Purchases, Live Events, or any other questions - please contact Curiosity Quills Press at
[email protected]
, or visit
http://curiosityquills.com

ISBN 978-1-62007-290-5 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-291-2 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-292-9 (hardcover)

"The Serendipitous Curse: Reborn is seriously cool, and another winner for Aiden James! This time he teams up with the talented Lisa Collicutt--and what a fantastic team it is!"
~J.R. Rain, Bestselling author of
Moon River
and
Silent Echo

1. Start Reading
   
2. A Taste of: The Serendipitous Curse: Reviled
   (next book in the series)
   
3. A Taste of: The Judas Reflections: Curse of Stigmata
   
4. A Taste of: The Gathering Darkness
   
5. About the Author: Aiden James
   
6. About the Author: Lisa Collicutt
   
7. More Books from Curiosity Quills Press
   
8. Full Table of Contents
   

“To the love of my life, Fiona. Without her passion for the rich history of the Deep South, and in particular, Savannah, Georgia, this magical story might never have come to fruition. She is forever my muse and inspiration.”

~Aiden James

“For Justin, my son, and the most important person in my life.”

~Lisa Collicutt

n explosion shook the ground—maybe the world. Senses returned, and with them… pain.

A blinding light carried me to the unknown. Commotion circled me, confused me. Searing pain swept through and over my body. Between matted straggles of dark hair, I watched a thick cloud of gray dust settle on the strange scene in front of me. When I tried to move, I felt heavy… battered… ripped apart.

People yelled.

“What the fuck?” said a man wearing a yellow hat, while brushing debris off his chest and arms.

“Who is this asshole?” said another, picking himself off the ground, holding the same type of hat, his body also covered in dirt.

With their looks of disgust pinned on me, I realized immediately I was the asshole they spoke of. With all the strength I could muster, I unlatched my fingers from the mane of a white horse I lay upon and straightened up.

Excalibur.

I didn’t know how I knew the horse’s name—I just did. But who was I? Where was I? And why did I feel bashed and beaten?

A cool breeze sailed over my skin, alerting me to my nakedness. The light pressure of the wind caused me to grimace and moan. I tore my gaze from the seemingly confused and angry group of men and looked upon myself. Through the filth covering hard muscle, bright crimson gashes were visible. With a movement that caused me more grief, I brushed dirt-crusted lines of blood off one arm and blinked dust from my eyes.

Excalibur lifted his head and neighed. Particles of dirt slid down his coat. His action caused sharp pains to shoot into my groin, pressed against the horse’s warm back.

One of the men broke from the agitated group and shifted closer. He stopped a few feet from me, gave the horse a look of unease, then looked up. A layer of dirt covered his deeply tanned body and filled in the squint lines around his eyes. “Hey, are you drunk?”

Was I drunk? After brief consideration, I decided I was not drunk, although I wished I were and that this scene was all a bad dream.

The guy spit to the left of him. “You got a name?”

The horse gave a soft nicker and turned, facing me in another direction. Instinctively, I flattened my hand on its neck to calm it. In front of me, near the edge of the debris-littered road, a white ornate sign, framed in gold, hung from two posts.
Welcome Home to Solomon Brandt Estates,
written in black script, stuck out at me from inside the frame.

“The idiot doesn’t know his own name,” belted another voice from the crowd.

“I-I’m… Solomon Brandt.” The weak rasp of my voice sounded unfamiliar. My seared throat begged for liquid.

Laughter rang throughout the circle of bystanders that formed around Excalibur and me.

“Yeah, sure you are. And I’m Abraham fucking Lincoln,” said someone else.

More laughter.

Their jesting didn’t divert my focus, however. My gaze was plastered to the name on the sign. My name. I was certain of it.

“Hey, Frank, did you call the cops?”

“Yeah, they’re on their way.

The guy called Frank removed his white hat, similar to the yellow ones, and raked a hand through his flaxen hair. “You’re gonna pay for the damage to that sewer line, asshole.”

After managing to work a wad of spit, flavored with dirt and blood, down my parched throat, I turned toward him and answered in a stronger voice. “What is a sewer line?”

The grin Frank sported was a sign of trouble—I knew that much.

The muscles in my chest twitched under the lacerations, adding to the sting. Excalibur pawed at the flat, strange-looking ground. Even though I sat upon a horse, I could tell I was a good six inches taller than the guy glaring up at me, and broader. Although the muscles in his arms bulged from whatever he had been doing, I somehow knew I could snuff out his life with one blow, in my best form. But I wasn’t in good form, and I had to find out why.

A squeal like nothing I’d ever heard before pierced my eardrums. My mount crouched on its hind legs. With a white-knuckled grip on the horse’s mane, and my knees pressed hard against its sides, I clung to the beast beneath me, as his front hooves lifted and his upper body reared.

The screeching grew louder, and my heartbeat drummed against my chest wall, as I fought to hang on to Excalibur—my lifeline.

The crowd parted, and through the break burst a shiny, white, motorized vehicle, with swirling red and blue lights on top.

With a jolt to my entire body, the horse landed on all fours.

A man and a woman, wearing some sort of identical uniform, exited the vehicle and swaggered toward me. My gaze drifted over the strange-looking couple, until it landed on a handgun in a holster fastened to the woman’s belt.

Powerless as I was, my urge to flee the lynch mob suddenly grew stronger. With amused expressions, the uniformed couple stopped a few feet from my mount, closing the gap in the circle. As the man opened his mouth to speak, I leaned forward and spoke low into Excalibur’s ear.

“Run.”

Without hesitation, Excalibur reared once more before lunging at two men, who sprang to the side, creating a tight opening in the circle. The horse dashed between the frantic-looking people, then veered right and jumped a white picket fence.

The force of the wind stung my skin as Excalibur carried me up an oak-lined driveway toward an enormous white house with a row of huge columns across the front. For a fleeting moment, I felt as if he was taking me home. Familiarity picked away at my brain as we hurtled up the drive closer to the mansion. As familiar as the structure and sweeping grounds seemed, the place also looked foreign, leaving me more confused than ever.

When we rounded the side, leaving the cool shade of the oaks behind, an expanse of well-trimmed lawn, with paths laid out in rose bushes, lay before me. The sun beat down on my exposed skin as Excalibur galloped through the floral labyrinth, as if he knew exactly where he traveled to.

Shouts from the mob carried across the breeze, then diminished altogether as we neared the woods edging the back field. But Excalibur didn’t slow until we were well hidden amongst the moss-covered trees in the dense forest. I loosened my grip on the mane and straightened, flexing my cramped fingers.

The inside of my thighs chafed against the horse’s hide, and I was sure, by the bouncing I received on our escape, my most sensitive areas would be blue and blistered. But despite the agony, I remained on my mount, for I knew nothing else.

A canopy of twisted branches shaded us from the sun as Excalibur wove his way through the old forest. Before long, a chill settled over me, awakening wounds, transforming misery to new heights. But the unbearable thirst soon overpowered all other conditions that assailed my body, heightening my sense of survival. There had to be a water hole, a puddle, somewhere in this damp, mossy shelter.