Carnal Magic
Christine McKay

www.spice-books.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Chapter One

Elaine Feller glanced at the moonlit sky and cursed the falling snow. Snow on Halloween? It seemed blasphemous. Snow was for St. Nick’s and Christmas. Just because the stores couldn’t keep the holidays separate didn’t mean Mother Nature needed to jump on the bandwagon, as well.

There was a blessing to the wintry weather, though. It kept all but the most determined off the streets. In St. Beatrice’s Cemetery, even the dead lay quiet beneath the blanket of snow.

If she had her way, she’d be disturbing one dead man’s rest.

It’d been two years since her Tom had died and of all the inconsiderate things to do, left her behind. She’d gone through the normal stages of grief. To everyone around her, she’d moved on. If she didn’t have a boyfriend, well, it was because she was so immersed in life there was no time for another man.

What she’d failed to tell them was if it was up to her—and she didn’t see why it wasn’t—there wouldn’t be another man. Tom Vaughn had been the love of her life, her childhood sweetheart, her best friend, the man who made her laugh at herself but adored her peculiarities. Her soul.

God, she sounded like she should be a heroine in some over-the-top Shakespearean drama. Too bad she got stage fright.

Fear wouldn’t stop her tonight.

Hefting her shoulder bag, she walked down the cemetery path. She didn’t need a flashlight. She could find his grave blindfolded. Shadows writhed across the sheet of snow, a twisted bit of branch here, a stone cherub’s distorted outline there. Beneath her winter coat, her skin was cold. She’d spent two years as a solitary studying the occult, haunting The Coven’s aisles. Victoria Ramlin, the shop owner, high priestess and queen many times over, had taken her under her wing when she’d needed guidance. The woman had never once refused to answer to Elaine’s questions, nor had she asked any of her own.

Elaine almost wished she had.

Tom’s grave was nestled in a newer portion of the cemetery, beneath the branches of a weeping willow tree. The tree wasn’t actually owned by the cemetery, but bordered the back lot. Much to the caretaker’s dismay, the messy willow was allowed to live. Repeated discipline by the pruner kept it in check on his side of the fence. On nights like tonight, though, the wind whipped its spidery arms over the lot line, taunting.

She set her bag down behind Tom’s stone. Out came a runner of black fabric, cut from the dress she’d been wearing the night he died. The dry cleaner never could get all the blood out. Might as well put the dress to good use. She draped the runner over his stone, anchoring each side with a fat pillar candle, one black and one white. Next came a fir branch. The wind played with it, scraping its needled fingers across the smooth granite. Nestling a small vase between the branches, she filled it with a white iris, a red rose and a chunk of clematis vine.

Swallowing hard, she stepped away and walked a small circle around the grave. It was more oblong than completely spherical. She hoped it didn’t matter. When she reached the front of the site, she paused, fingers itching to trace the name carved there. She bit back a small sob, tears stinging her eyes. She’d shed too many tears already. Now was the time for action, not misery. Finishing the circle, she returned to the altar.

Shrouded in leather, her fingers were still cold. Pulling off her gloves, she tucked them in her coat and retrieved Tom’s cigarette lighter. It was a simple silver rectangle, worn smooth by his touch. She used it to light the candles. They flickered and guttered, nearly going out when a gust of wind swept through. She’d anticipated the wind, though, and carved a depression around each wick, providing a shelter of wax for the flame.

It was now or never. She shucked her coat and mules, standing nude and barefoot in the snow.

She faced the north. “I invoke Earth, Mother of mystery and growth. Guard me tonight.” With a trembling finger, she sketched a pentagram in the air. She turned. “I invoke Air. Give breath to that which I seek to create.” Another pentagram drawn, another turn.

God, it was friggin’ cold. Her breath came out in a puff of white air. She fought the urge to shiver. “I invoke Fire. May I have success in my endeavor tonight.” Her hand again trembled as she drew her pentagram.

Last turn. Last pentagram. “I invoke Water. Bring him back on a tide of love.”

She was facing the back of the gravestone again. Maybe she should have stood in the front. Maybe she should have stayed the fuck home and not tried to tackle what no one else had ever successfully done. Who did she think she was? A voodoo priestess? A witch queen?

Taking a deep breath, she tried to block out all the distracting thoughts. In theory, it sounded simple. But in reality, her brain was accustomed to the constant stream-of-consciousness bombardment of life. Keeping still was like trying to pry the needle out of an addict’s hand. Again, in theory, possible, but more likely than not someone was going to get stabbed.

“I, Elaine Feller, align myself with Persephone, Goddess of the Underworld. I ask you to bring Tom Vaughn back to me.”

Kneeling in the snow, she pulled a pretty cut-crystal container of crimson fluid out of her bag. She lifted it over her head. The moonlight kissed its facets. “Blood of my love.” Lowering it, she pricked her finger with a needle and squeezed the skin until a drop of blood formed. Her hands were shaking so badly she was afraid the drop might fall on the snow, instead of in the glass. “Blood of his love.” Her blood dripped into the glass, smearing the rim. She bowed her head. “Please bring him back,” she whispered.

On Samhain, the beginning of the witches’ New Year, the veil between the worlds was at its thinnest. She prayed it’d be enough. There was no room for failure. She didn’t care how he came forth, be it zombie or spirit or whole. She just couldn’t live without him. Hot tears spilled over her hands, which were clutching the glass.

“Please.”

Willow branches flogged the cemetery fence. The candle flames guttered and nearly went out. Her vase toppled, the sound of glass breaking loud in her ears. Her flowers plunged over the edge of the gravestone.

She didn’t know what she should have expected, but it was too damn cold to kneel for long in the snow. Standing, she started to follow her footsteps counterclockwise around the grave. Breaking the circle. Breaking her heart, as well.

“You’re more likely to catch pneumonia than a spirit that way.”

She froze, glancing around wildly. The wind chased clouds across the star-spattered sky. Shadows danced on the snow, grotesque parodies of the cherubs and angels guarding their sleepers. “Who’s there?” She was fairly certain it was a man’s voice, not Tom’s, but then again, it’d been so long since she’d heard it.

A human shape disentangled itself from the shadows near the willow, one hand resting on the waist-high wrought-iron fence. Someone from the Historical Society, no doubt. She didn’t think any functions were planned tonight at the old church sharing the cemetery border.

She needed to finish breaking her circle, shadow person or not. Whoever it was had already seen her nude. Why hide now? She stepped in her former footprint.

“Don’t move.” Definitely a man’s voice. Hopping the fence, he started toward her.

She hurried to finish her circuit. The thought of waiting another year to attempt her spell was inconceivable.

His hand caught her elbow. How the hell had he moved so fast? One more step and she’d be finished. One more step and she’d scream bloody murder and hope to God there was someone at the old church. The stranger stepped in her last track, completing the circuit.

“This circle is open, but never broken,” he said.

She jerked her arm free. Great, just great. Another witch had stumbled over her rite. “Damn it. What are you doing? Go away.”

Stepping into her circle, he knelt down and picked up her coat. He held it out to her. She wrapped her arms around her chest and glared at him. He wasn’t a big man, but then again, she wasn’t exactly tiny, either. He wore all black, from the upturned collar of his leather duster to the toes of his boots peeking from beneath the well-cut fabric of his pants. In the moonlight, his hair and eyes appeared black, as well. Stubble dusted his jaw and chin.

“You’re intruding on a private ceremony.”

He held his gloved hands apart, her coat still dangling from one. “You called. I came.”

Her cheeks burned. He’d watched the whole thing. A thousand curses came to mind, each one worse than the last. “You’re not my lover.”

He tipped his head. “Are you certain?”

Unsure, she snagged her coat from his outstretched hand. Her fingers were too numb to work the buttons. She wanted to scream in frustration. “Tell me something only he would know.”

“He died in your arms, head resting in your lap. The driver that hit your car was drunk. Didn’t even know he hit anything.” He fingered the black cloth fluttering on the gravestone. “This is from the dress you were wearing.”

That knowledge elevated him from common peeper to stalker. She didn’t even have her pepper spray on her. It was locked with her purse in the car. “Get away from me.” Her voice was hoarse. “I have a knife. I’ll scream.”

He ignored her threats. “Your mentor should have taught you to clear your circle better.” Kneeling in the snow, he dug at the base of the gravestone.

“Stay away from that.”

He held up a limp plant, leaves shriveled with frostbite. “Nightshade.” He offered it to her.

Death. She clutched her coat more tightly around her, teeth chattering. “What do you want?”

He scooped up her flowers, strewn across the snow. Breaking the stem of the iris, he tossed it over his shoulder. “Reincarnation is overrated.” The clump of clematis was discarded next. “Soul mate. There’s no such thing.” Twirling the rose’s stem between his thumb and fingers, he studied it. “Ah, passion. There’s a thing every creature understands.”

She should run. The ceremony was probably ruined, circle marred by another’s footsteps. Everything in her shoulder bag could be replaced. She tried to take a step. Her feet were frozen to the ground. A low whimper escaped from between her chattering teeth.

“You noticed that? I apologize. I hate chasing, brings to mind the analogy of predator and prey.” He wrinkled his nose. “Most distasteful. And your circle’s not truly open yet.” He nodded toward the guttering candles.

Victoria must have guessed her intentions. She’d been so careful, so certain she’d asked random innocuous questions. She’d never mentioned Tom, never spoke of the cemetery. “Did Victoria send you?”

“Who?”

“Victoria Ramlin. She owns The Coven.”

Another nose wrinkle. “Ah, the witch queen. I told you, you called me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Just as you don’t believe I’m your lover reincarnated.”

“No.”

“He has no unfinished business, your Tom. You cannot call back those who do not wish to come.”

“He left me behind.” Her nerves shattered. Hands clenched at her side, she screamed, “I’m his unfinished business!” Her voice was swallowed by the night. Shards of the vase scraped the edge of the granite, tinkling as they fell.

Setting the rose on the gravestone, he stepped to her side. She had to tip her head back—she could at least move that—to gaze into his eyes. They weren’t really black, more a storm-ridden gray.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t see it that way.” He reached for the edges of her coat and slowly did up the buttons. His gloved fingers brushed her throat as he secured the last button.

“You lie.”

For a moment, anger flashed, but it was quickly controlled. “That is one thing I do not do.” Stepping back, he picked up the cut-crystal glass. “His and your blood mingled. How trite.” He tipped the container upside down, spilling the liquid onto the snow.

Her heart sank. There’d be no re-do. Everything she’d practiced and trained for was useless without his blood. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“It was your botch, not mine,” he retorted, a hint of heat in his voice. He examined the crystal. “Though I’m not certain it was entirely your fault.” Walking around her, he studied her. Her face burned.

“You’ve kept yourself for him.”

“There’s money in my purse. In my car, in the parking lot. The keys are in my bag.”

He folded his hands, returning to stand in front of her. “I have no need of money.”

“Then what in God’s name do you want?” She was crying now, shaking from fear and the cold.

“I believe you invoked Persephone, not the Bright Lord or Lady.” He picked up the rose again, then executed a formal bow before her, at odds with his appearance. “I have a proposition for you. You seek passion. I am willing to offer it.”

Her lip curled. “The love I knew died with Tom.”

“I beg to differ. Three nights, Elaine Feller. For three nights I will pull passion from your veins. If, at its end, you can honestly say your Tom still arouses you as no other can, I will take you to him.” She started to speak, but he held up his hand. “But if I kindle that flame within you, you stay here and make no more futile attempts at resurrecting that which should be left to sleep.”

“Have sex with you or be murdered? Gee, thanks, what a choice.”

“It’s death you seek on a night like this standing skyclad in a cemetery.”

“How do I know you can do what you say you can?”

He stepped behind her, leaning over her to whisper in her ear, “What assurances do you need?” His arms circled her shoulders, one hand plucking the leather glove off the other, finger by finger, in front of her.

She stared at his now bared hand. It was nothing but bone. A scream lodged in her throat, but she fought for control. “Neat trick.”

“Touch it.”

She raised a trembling hand. He linked his bony fingers with hers. The noise that escaped from her throat was part whimper, part moan. She could feel every joint, every bone. The skeletal hand closed around hers and brought both to her face. Bone brushed her numb lips.

“Dear God,” she breathed.

“God has nothing to do with this proposition.” His breath whispered across her cheek, warm despite the cold emanating from his hand.

“You swear you’ll take me to Tom?”

He released her hand. “If I fail.” It didn’t sound as if he thought failure a possibility.

“And in return?”

“Beg pardon?”

“What do you get out of this little deal?”

His eyes gleamed. He picked up the rose with his gloved hand and touched the petals with the skeletal one. All the petals dropped off the stem, spattering the snow like drops of blood. “The attentions of someone willing to die for her one true love.”

Her jaw dropped open.

“Ah, I may mock it, humans’ melodramatic nature, but there is a certain appeal.” His lips quirked. “To be loved so completely that another is willing to exchange her life for yours. You cannot fail to see the fairy-tale quality to it.”

She remained silent, shocked.

“Well,” he said a bit gruffly, “what will it be?”

She was certifiably insane. “Yes.”

Taking one step backward, he snuffed out the white candle with his thumb and forefinger. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

He snuffed out the other candle. “The circle is truly open.” He sighed. “Well then, a more eventful night than I first expected. You, too?”

As if the candles’ flames had been all that were anchoring her, she stumbled to her knees. She put her fingertips to her throat, her pulse thready beneath her clammy skin. Things were happening too fast. Her head hurt. Her throat was raw. She’d just made a deal with something not of this world—demon, angel or deity. He offered her his gloved hand.

She carefully took it, watching as the leather folded around her frozen skin. He drew her up. “I think tonight would be suitable.”

“T-tonight?” she stuttered. “But…” She trailed off. She couldn’t think of a single reason not to start tonight. Her eyes teared. Three nights. In three nights she’d be with Tom.

Her tormentor packed her candles into her bag, then carefully folded the black runner. He paused as if reading her thoughts. Maybe they were that apparent on her face. “You will not win.”

For the first time, she offered him a genuine smile. “You should have checked with my friends before you made the bet. They’d have told you how stubborn I can be.”

“I did check,” he said quietly. “With your dearest friend.”

Tears sprang free, the smile wiped from her face. “Damn you.”

He cupped her cheek. She turned away from him, trying to back away, but he gripped her shoulder with the other hand. A gloved thumb wiped the tears from her cheek.

“I apologize. That was insensitive. Forgive me?”

She nodded her head.

“Good,” he said briskly. He dropped his hand. “I admit I’m a bit out of practice, but I think a date should begin with dinner. Don’t you?” He offered Elaine her shoulder bag.

Sniffling, she took it and looped it over her shoulder. “I’m not really hungry.”

He looked momentarily stumped. One elegant black brow rose. “Dancing, then?”

“Sure, I guess.” She looked down at her mules, wondering if she’d break his toe squashing it with the solid heel. She’d made a deal with some supernatural creature and all it wanted to do was dance? How come she didn’t feel lucky?

He offered her his arm. “All set?”

She bit her lip, studying his arm and not his face. “What should I call you?”

There was a long pause. She glanced at him through her lashes. He looked stupefied. “How about Ell?”

She frowned. “Short for Ellis? You don’t look like an Ell.”

“Ray?” he offered.

Her frown deepened.

He folded his arms across his chest. “Pick one, then.”

It was her turn to do the studying. Deity or demon? Or something in between? Despite his imperialness, there was a hint of desperation to his gaze, a bottomless hunger. For the first time in a very long time, her heart struggled out of its vat of self-pity. “How about your given name?” she suggested.

“No.” An answer as solid as stone.

“How about Bob?”

His brows knit. “Bob?” Putting his hands on his hips, he glared at her. “Do I look like a Bob?”

“About as much as a Ray,” she muttered. “Bert?” Color crept up his neck. She masked a giggle with a cough. “Tristan?”

“Do I appear Scottish?”

“No, but I bet you’d look good in a kilt.” That hit a little too close to the truth. She hurried on. “Maddog?”

“I fear I left my eye patch and parrot in my other coat.”

“Why not your given name?” she grumped. “You know mine.”

He met her defiant gaze. “It’s Azrael.”

“Oh.” And she’d complained her name was old-fashioned. She chewed on her lip, then said, “Ell’s not bad.”

“I thought not.” He offered her his arm and this time she took it.

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