Monster (A Cassidy Edwards Novel - Book 1) (22 page)

“Hush!,” I scolded him, brushing him away a little too well. “I’m trying to carry on a conversation here.”

“Oh, I can see that,” he agreed amicably enough from where he’d splatted against the wall. Sliding down, he continued to speak. “But the question is why? They’re just old portraits, love. Not even worth filching. They’re worthless. It’s time we got you back to the villa for a bit of help, eh? Talking to a bowl of fruit? No matter how you look at that pear, it’s not a lady.”

Tossing him a look of supreme irritation, I turned back to Lady Rowle.

“Yes, I’m Lady Rowle, Lady Elizabeth Rowle,” she said the name with great sadness. “A Terzi warlock captured my soul in a painting—a curse of the strongest kind. He was a master painter, and it was the end for my family. When my dear husband discovered what had happened … when it couldn’t be broken … he lost the will to live. We were undone.”

“I’ll take you with me,” I said, reaching for the canvas.

“No, your imp is right,” she said, sighing heavily. “It isn’t that simple, child. These paintings are useless. It’s the one in the Terzi stronghold that must be set free.” And then a look of horror crossed her face. “The Terzi warlock! Hide!”

I whirled around, just as Ricky gasped, “Someone’s coming! Hide!”

But there was no place for me to hide. I lunged for my knives, but it was too late.

The attic door crashed back, revealing a short, chubby bald man. I couldn’t smell him, but I didn’t take any chances—after all, I couldn’t smell Lucian, either. Maybe it was a warlock thing.

My blades flew in quick succession and with unerring aim, straight at him … and then 
through
 him, burying themselves in three loud thumps on the wall behind.

I blinked.

A moment later, I caught a distinctive whiff and the real short, chubby bald warlock arrived, carrying a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other.

I’d been duped.

“Projection,” he explained with the most irritatingly insincere smile that I’d ever seen. “Can’t tell you how many times that’s saved my life.”

“Clever,” I snapped.

I didn’t like feeling powerless. I wondered if I could summon a bit of whatever had taken me over before, but I didn’t know even how to begin. And I was pretty sure it was an all-or-nothing thing, anyway.

The warlock didn’t approach me. He just stood there, scribbling in his notebook.

“Get out of my way,” I opened my mouth to say. But to my surprise, I didn’t utter the words aloud. My lips hadn’t even opened.

It took a moment for me to realize that I couldn’t move, not even an inch.

“Ah,” the warlock chuckled. It made his double chin jiggle a bit. “It’s too late for that, you know. You’ve left a lot of personal items all over this place. Unwise.”

Holding out his hand, I saw several strands of auburn-colored hair—my own. He flipped his notebook then, revealing a sketch. A portrait. Of me.

“It’s just a quick spell,” he explained, tucking the hair into the notebook and then the entire bundle under his arm. Lacing his fingers together, he cracked his knuckles and said, “It’s enough to keep you bound until evening. I daresay Dorian doesn’t want you out and running about quite yet.”

I’d been spelled.

Helplessly, I watched the warlock waddle over to the window and squint outside.

“Will that werewolf ever learn?” he mumbled as if to himself. “He’s never going to find us, the fool.”

As if on cue, I heard a howl.

Heath’s howl.

Were they coming for me?

Hope sprang in my heart—hope that was dashed the next moment when the warlock reopened his notebook to draw again.

It was a far more developed picture than what he’d sketched of me. A detailed, well-shaded rendering of a massive werewolf. Heath. I wanted to shout, to warn Heath that he was being spelled. No wonder he’d seemed kind of useless. I guess it hadn’t been his fault.

“What do you say, my dear?” The warlock turned on me suddenly. “Shall I break his leg? His neck? Blind him?”

I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t move.

But then, I heard a voice I hadn’t realized just how much I’d really missed. A deep voice. A mocking, sarcastic one.

“I’d say you should draw attention to his mouth,” Lucian’s distinctive tones carried through the air. “And give particular focus to the fangs.”

The Terzi warlock paled.

And then, to my utter relief and delight, Lord Lucian Rowle stepped into the attic.

It Matters

Suave and aristocratic, that’s what Lucian was, and handsome as sin. Thick black lashes framed his astonishingly clear blue eyes. He was fit. Extremely fit. Dressed in a gray shirt and with his dark hair loose around his shoulders, he stalked into the room, casually placing one foot in front of the other in a leisurely gait.

Lucian and Dorian were as different as night and day, after all.

Dorian, a man of raw power—the epitome of strength and passion.

Lucian, a man of confidence and polish, displaying an altogether different kind of strength, but one just as powerful. He was the kind who was always ten steps ahead of everyone else.

As far as passion went … well, I’d bet he wasn’t any less accomplished than Dorian. And at this very moment, the way he just stood there unruffled, poised, facing down the Terzi warlock with the corner of his lip curled into a smile, I thought he just might hold an edge over the Scottish vampire.

With an amused purr of a laugh, Lucian impaled the bald-headed man with a glance as he continued his casual approach. Spreading his arms with an easy grace, he asked with a thread of mockery in his tone, “And what do we have here? An art student hiding in the attic?”

The bald-headed Terzi quailed before Lucian’s advance, clearly knowing he was at a disadvantage. He did briefly fumble with his notebook, but his hands shook so hard that he dropped his pen.

“It’s not what it seems—you’d do well to—to—really, I should be going—mercy, I beg you. Mercy! 
Show Mercy!”
 The man tripped over his own tongue.

Lifting a slow finger to his lips, Lucian shushed him to silence and came to a stop in the center of the attic.

“You’ll not be harmed,” he said in a commanding tone before softening it with menace to add, “Yet, anyway.”

The bald warlock turned white.

“I’ve a message for your master’s ears,” Lucian continued in deadly tones. “Tell him that I protect what was, what is, and what will be mine. Now, be gone before I’m tempted to show you the meaning of real power!”

The chubby warlock bolted for the door, but Lucian blocked him with a single arm. Still staring straight ahead, he informed the man calmly, “I’ll take that.”

The Terzi warlock knew what he meant. He didn’t even try to object. Groping for the sketchbook tucked under his arm, he threw it at Lucian and fled.

Lucian caught the book with ease and with a yawn, flipped it open.

Clearly, he had a reputation. I couldn’t help but admire him. More than a bit.

Still frozen, I waited as he casually thumbed through the notebook.

Minutes passed.

It was torture. I wanted to shout for him to hurry, but he just took his time, standing there to inspect each sketch in a thoughtful manner, at times tapping his finger on the page.

It was aggravating. Did he fancy himself some kind of art critic?

“Ah yes,” he finally murmured under his breath.

Rip. Pieces of paper fell to the floor.

Apparently, he’d just found the sketch of me. I gasped as I was freed and pitched forward, momentarily losing my balance. My arms tingled, as if they’d fallen asleep.

Another rip. More paper fell to the floor.

A fragment drifted down to land at my feet. The rendition of a wolf’s head. Heath. Whatever curse the Terzi had been weaving over the werewolf was apparently now broken. Perhaps it had been the cause of his dull sense of smell.

Rubbing my arms, I swallowed. “You came.”

Lucian didn’t look at me. He merely kept flicking through the sketchbook. After a moment, he arched a cool brow. “And you find that surprising?”

I did, actually. Especially after the letter he’d written to Dorian.

“The letter,” I began.

He looked at me then, silencing me with a cool, appraising look. “Words are tools to be used, sometimes as diversionary devices.”

I blinked. I wanted to ask how anyone could ever trust his words then, but I felt drained. Instead, I just admitted, “I thought you broke our contract.”

“All the better and more convincing then,” he said in an infuriatingly terse tone.

I studied him, wondering just where the real Lucian resided. How many layers had he built around him? If someone were to peel through them all, what would they find underneath? Anything?

Ricky chose that moment to creep out from under the paintings.

“You took your sweet time, imp.” Lucian shot him a withering glance.

My imp flattened his ears, but replied, “Nothing of value, guvna.” He pointed a spindly finger at the pile of paintings he’d just exited. “Not what you’re looking for.”

I glanced over at the painting of Lady Rowle sitting in her chair, but to my surprise, it was gone. In its place was a cheap print of a bowl filled with plastic-looking fruit. I frowned, taken aback.

“Shall we be going?” Lucian asked.

He didn’t wait for a response. Spinning on his heel, he left the attic and swept down the stairs—both flights. I followed him out of the house and into the bright morning sunlight. After spending the past couple of days cooped up in a rundown moldy old house, the fresh crisp air was particularly invigorating.

As I followed Lucian through the neglected garden, I jumped back as a startled flock of birds burst from the nearby thicket to escape over our heads. I stood there, listening to the beating of their wings.

Heath chose that moment to bound up, still in wolf form. He was alert, tense with a stifled energy that broadcasted only excitement. His great mouth hung open, his bright eyes were wide and alert. He seemed more alive, more ‘werewolfy’ than I’d ever seen him before.

“They’re not resting here,” he growled in greeting. “I picked up their trail, leading to the docks.”

They. I knew one of “they” had to be Dorian.

“Continue to track them,” Lucian ordered calmly. He’d scarcely finished the sentence before Heath was gone again.

The dark-haired warlock watched him go and then nodded, ever so slightly. That was it. No, 
I just broke a curse on you
 or anything like that. I guess he wasn’t into sharing much.

Not that I was, either, truth be told. I didn’t feel particularly inclined to inform him of much of anything as we hit the maze of alleys leading back to the villa. Yeah, if interrogated, I’d probably mention that Dorian had—somehow—talked me into revealing a bit more than I should.

But I wasn’t about to divulge the whole having-a-stake-in-my-heart incident.

Or the gray, swirling mist of the Nether Reaches.

Or the fact that I’d heard Lady Rowle’s voice when Ricky couldn’t. But then, did that really mean anything? It was Ricky, after all. He could be lying. Or he could just be plain defective—he was a rehab imp, after all.

Hex it all, it was all so bewildering.

I blew my hair out of my face in frustration. I hadn’t showered in two days. I smelled rank. And I was hungry. Very hungry.

A chorus of voices greeted my ears and for the first time, I paid attention to my surroundings. We weren’t taking the normal route back to the villa—if that was even where we were headed. We stood in front of the church at the edge of Piazza San Marco. The public square teemed with pigeons and tourists, countless numbers of both, all ages, sizes, and shapes
.

So many tourists
 .
..

I glanced involuntarily at Lucian.

He was watching me with those magnificent blue eyes. He nodded his chin towards the people milling about in the square. “Be quick,” was all he said, his voice ever so soft.

I didn’t need a second invitation.

I fed quickly, watching Lucian from the corner of my eye almost the entire time as he sat down at an outdoor café to sip on an espresso and wait for me. I couldn’t read the man. It bothered me. Still couldn’t smell him, either. It was as if he wasn’t really there, but I knew he was.

What a mystery, was Lord Lucian Rowle. And why was it a mystery I suddenly wanted to solve?

The sun was much higher by the time I’d finished.

Finally sated, I slid into the chair opposite Lucian where he still lounged at the outdoor café, legs casually stretched out and crossed at the ankle.

He finished reading a message on his phone before glancing up to meet my gaze. “Ready now?” he asked in a Zen-like manner.

“In a minute,” I said. I’d thought a lot about what I’d say to him as I’d siphoned mana. I wanted to get it over with. “About Dorian,” I began.

There it was—the ever-so-subtle tightening of the jaw. I almost missed it.

“What of him?” he probed when I didn’t immediately continue.

Unexpectedly, I felt a sudden surge of guilt. Guilt over my Dorian-kissing session. But why? I didn’t owe Lucian anything. He was simply my employer. Nothing else, right? Still, I felt a trace of color tinge my cheeks. It wasn’t much. I wasn’t one predisposed to blushing, but I’m sure there was the tiniest tinge of color.

Lucian didn’t miss it. His piercing eyes raked over my face.

“I see,” he said, growing strangely distant all at once.

“No,” I disagreed, shaking my head. “It’s not like that! No, not at all.” A tiny voice in my head warned that I was protesting just a little too much. I bit my lip and switched subjects. “It’s something else.”

“Do tell then,” he suggested in a decidedly sardonic tone.

“I don’t trust Dorian,” I began.

Lucian arched a skeptical brow.

I frowned at him. “He’s using my mother.”

“And?” he asked, tilting his head to the side as he pocketed his phone.

“I want to get her back home, out of his clutches,” I answered. That was the truth. I didn’t want my mother to be a pawn in this game. She wanted to play on Emilio’s side, but I couldn’t think about that right now. I had to get her safely back home, and then I could continue my business of revenge—once I’d recovered and regrouped.