To Hell and Back Page 10

  She flinched as he flicked his wrist—a subtle motion—and the music silenced.

  He arched a brow. “Granddaughter?”

  His eyes glittered, a strange shimmer deep within their depths. His voice was low, and she detected a slight accent when he spoke. She couldn’t place it.

  “I won’t ask again.” Rowan straightened, glad her voice was firm, no matter that her insides were mush. “Who are you and why is there”—she took a moment—“blood in the kitchen?” A small tremor caressed the end of her sentence, but it couldn’t be helped.

  She was freaking out, scared as hell, and there was a mountain of muscle between her and freedom.

  The stranger cursed. “No one mentioned a granddaughter.”

  “Listen—”

  His hand silenced her—an arrogant shut up, as he cocked his head to the side and frowned. “We’ve got company.”

  He crossed to the window and yanked the drapes into place in one quick motion. At the same time the glow from the night-light was extinguished.

  Rowan didn’t know what to think, but she was starting to get pissed off.

  “This is crazy. Where is my Nana?” She took a step forward.

  “Cara is … ” His voice trailed into silence, and he scowled as the windows began to shake, the panes rattling against a fresh onslaught of wind and rain that hit the glass like bullets against steel.

  “She’s what?” Rowan’s eyes were huge as she stared into a face devoid of emotion. There was a coldness there that was unsettling.

  “I’m sorry,” he said abruptly. “She’s dead.”

  The iron poker slipped from her fingers as she stared up at the stranger. She heard the words, but her brain wasn’t translating them. Rowan shook her head, “I don’t … that can’t be, I’d know …” She couldn’t articulate the words in her mind. None of this made sense. Her eyes fell to the book on the bed, the reading glasses at its side, and she felt something inside her break.

  Nana.

  In that moment she knew the truth, felt the pain and the guilt. It’s my fault. The whisper slid through her mind. I never should have left.

  A low keening erupted, one that shot up several decibels in seconds until the window shattered. Glass blew everywhere and shredded the curtains into billowing tatters, long plumes of crimson silk that fluttered like crazed feathers in the wind.

  Rowan winced at the sharp sting of shrapnel as it sliced into her arms and legs. Searing pain ripped across her cheek, but she paid no mind. The wind pulled at her, whirling into the room with a hazy cloud of freezing mist that made it difficult to breathe.

  The touch of his hand on her flesh pulled her from the darkness. The roaring dialed down, and as she stared up at him her lungs expanded and she was able to draw a shuddering breath.

  “Who … who did this?” she rasped. She had no idea who the hell he was, but in that moment she knew he meant her no harm. The darkness, the evil, wasn’t in this room. It was out there, beyond the broken window.

  “I think your answer is there.” His solid, flat, black eyes were intense, and the white of his teeth flashed through the gloom as he spoke. He pointed outside, and Rowan turned to the window. Thunder and lightning had joined the chaotic dance of rain and wind. A bolt of energy streaked across the sky, illuminating the entire front yard in a flash of white.

  It was a quick, precise hit, and gave just enough light for her to see seven hulking figures standing in the pouring rain.

  Their scent reached her, and she nearly gagged on the thickness of it. Demons. Their eyes glowed red. Blood demons. A weird calm settled over her. She’d come full circle, it seemed.

  Rowan squared her shoulders and glanced up at the man beside her. “Who sent you?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Someone who cared deeply for your grandmother.”

  She felt her stomach twist. She didn’t like the stranger’s vague answer. Her Nana was dead, and outside seven blood demons called—his presence was no coincidence.

  A guttural cry rent the night—a harsh echo that slid like nails against chalk—and her hackles rose. She didn’t have time to worry about the details.

  “I’m Rowan. What should I call you?” she asked as she grabbed the iron poker off the ground.

  “Azaiel.”

  The name whispered through her mind.

  The demons howled in unison, their voices rising into a crescendo of noise that dropped suddenly until there was nothing but the rain to break the heavy silence. It was eerie.

  The tallest of the demons grunted and started toward them, a deadly machete trailing behind him in the mud as it took slow, deliberate steps. Another series of lightning strikes crashed across the sky, and its ugly horned face split open into what she supposed was a grin.

  “I’m sorry, but it looks like things are about to get nasty,” she whispered, her gaze focused upon the gathering outside. “But then again, with a name like that, I suppose you’ve not forgotten.”

  “Forgotten what?” he asked, moving beside her.

  Rowan whispered. “What it feels like to get your ass kicked.”

  About the Author

  * * *

  JULIANA STONE lives with her family and dog somewhere in Canada. Her passion for music and the written word has been a lifelong addiction, which explains her love of romance books and ’80s rock. Juliana is currently at work on the next book in her League of Guardians series.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  Also by Juliana Stone

  Wicked Road to Hell

  His Darkest Salvation

  His Darkest Embrace

  His Darkest Hunger

  Novellas

  Wrong Side of Hell

  Give in to your impulses . . .

  Read on for a sneak peek at two brand-new

  e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.

  Available now wherever e-books are sold.

  THE FORBIDDEN LADY

  By Kerrelyn Sparks

  TURN TO DARKNESS

  By Jaime Rush

  An Excerpt from

  THE FORBIDDEN LADY

  by Kerrelyn Sparks

  (Originally published under the title For Love or Country)

  Before New York Times bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks created a world of vampires, there was another world of spies and romance . . .

  Keep reading for a look at her very first novel.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tuesday, August 29, 1769

  “I say, dear gel, how much do you cost?”

  Virginia’s mouth dropped open. “I—I beg your pardon?”

  The bewigged, bejeweled, and bedeviling man who faced her spoke again. “You’re a fetching sight and quite sweet-smelling for a wench who has traveled for weeks, imprisoned on this godforsaken ship. I say, what is your price?”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The rolling motion of the ship caught her off guard, and she stumbled, widening her stance to keep her balance. This man thought she was for sale? Even though they were on board The North Star, a brigantine newly arrived in Boston Harbor with a fresh supply of indentured servants, could he actually mistake her for one of the poor wretched criminals huddled near the front of the ship?

  Her first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with anger. It swelled in her chest, heated to a quick boil, and soared past her ruffled neckline to her face, scorching her cheeks ’til she fully expected steam, instead of words, to escape her mouth.

  “How . . . how dare you!” With gloved hands, she twisted the silken cords of her drawstring purse. “Pray, be gone with you, sir.”

  “Ah, a saucy one.” The gentleman plucked a silver snuffbox from his lavender silk coat. He kept his tall frame erect to avoid flipping his wig, which was powdered with a lavender tint to match his coat. “Tsk, tsk, dear gel, such impertinence is sure to lower your price.”

  Her mouth fell open again.

  Seizing th
e opportunity, he raised his quizzing glass and examined the conveniently opened orifice. “Hmm, but you do have excellent teeth.”

  She huffed. “And a sharp tongue to match.”

  “Mon Dieu, a very saucy mouth, indeed.” He smiled, displaying straight, white teeth.

  A perfectly bright smile, Virginia thought. What a pity his mental faculties were so dim in comparison. But she refrained from responding with an insulting remark. No good could come from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again.

  “I do so like your nose. Very becoming and—” He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed.

  She waited for him to finish the sentence. He was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn’t help but wonder—did he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end.

  He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. “Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and . . . disdainfully haughty. Yes, that’s it.”

  Heat pulsed to her face once more. “I daresay it is not surprising for you to admire something disdainfully haughty, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, sir, we have not been introduced.”

  He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Definitely disdainful. And haughty.” His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks.

  She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved.

  A short man in a brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. “Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?”

  Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. “Oh, dear, what a delightful little faux pas. I suppose you’re not for sale after all?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I do beg your pardon.” He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face.

  A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed.

  “Well, no harm done.” He waved his handkerchief in the air. “C’est la vie and all that. Would you care for some snuff? ’Tis my own special blend from London, don’t you know. We call it Grey Mouton.”

  “Gray sheep?”

  “Why, yes. Sink me! You parlez français? How utterly charming for one of your class.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she considered strangling him with the drawstrings of her purse.

  He removed the silver engraved box from his pocket and flicked it open. “A pinch, in the interest of peace?” His mouth twitched with amusement.

  “No, thank you.”

  He lifted a pinch to his nose and sniffed. “What did I tell you, Johnson?” he asked the short man in brown buckram at his side. “These Colonials are a stubborn lot, far too eager to take offense”—he sneezed delicately into his lacy handkerchief—“and far too unappreciative of the efforts the mother country makes on their behalf.” He slid his closed snuffbox back into his pocket.

  Virginia planted her hands on her hips. “You speak, perhaps, of Britain’s kindness in providing us with a steady stream of slaves?”

  “Slaves?”

  She gestured toward the raised platform of the forecastle, where Britain’s latest human offering stood in front, chained at the ankles and waiting to be sold.

  “Oh.” He waved his scented handkerchief in dismissal. “You mean the indentured servants. They’re not slaves, my dear, only criminals paying their dues to society. ’Tis the mother country’s fervent hope they will be reformed by their experience in America.”

  “I see. Perhaps we should send the mother country a boatload of American wolves to see if they can be reformed by their experience in Britain?”

  His chuckle was surprisingly deep. “Touché.”

  The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her skin, striking a chord that hummed from her chest down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked at him more closely. When his eyes met hers, his smile faded away. Time seemed to hold still for a moment as he held her gaze, quietly studying her.

  The man in brown cleared his throat.

  Virginia blinked and looked away. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Once more, she became aware of the murmur of voices and the screech of sea gulls overhead. What had happened? It must have been the thrill of putting the man in his place that had affected her. Strange, though, that he had happily acknowledged her small victory.

  Mr. Stanton gave the man in brown a mildly irritated look, then smiled at her once more. “American wolves, you say? Really, my dear, these people’s crimes are too petty to compare them to murderous beasts. Why, Johnson, here, was an indentured servant before becoming my secretary. Were you not, Johnson?”

  “Aye, Mr. Stanton,” the older man answered. “But I came voluntarily. Not all these people are prisoners. The group to the right doesn’t wear chains. They’re selling themselves out of desperation.”

  “There, you see.” The dandy spread his gloved hands, palms up, in a gesture of conciliation. “No hard feelings. In fact, I quite trust Johnson here with all my affairs in spite of his criminal background. You know the Colonials are quite wrong in thinking we British are a cold, callous lot.”

  Virginia gave Mr. Johnson a small, sympathetic smile, letting him know she understood his indenture had not been due to a criminal past. Her own father, faced with starvation and British cruelty, had left his beloved Scottish Highlands as an indentured servant. Her sympathy seemed unnecessary, however, for Mr. Johnson appeared unperturbed by his employer’s rudeness. No doubt the poor man had grown accustomed to it.

  She gave Mr. Stanton her stoniest of looks. “Thank you for enlightening me.”

  “My pleasure, dear gel. Now I must take my leave.” Without further ado, he ambled toward the group of gaunt, shackled humans, his high-heeled shoes clunking on the ship’s wooden deck and his short secretary tagging along behind.

  Virginia scowled at his back. The British needed to go home, and the sooner, the better.

  “I say, old man.” She heard his voice filter back as he addressed his servant. “I do wish the pretty wench were for sale. A bit too saucy, perhaps, but I do so like a challenge. Quel dommage, a real pity, don’t you know.”

  A vision of herself tackling the dandy and stuffing his lavender-tinted wig down his throat brought a smile to her lips. She could do it. Sometimes she pinned down her brother when he tormented her. Of course, such behavior might be frowned upon in Boston. This was not the hilly region of North Carolina that the Munro family called home.

  And the dandy might prove difficult to knock down. Watching him from the back, she realized how large he was. She grimaced at the lavender bows on his high-heeled pumps. Why would a man that tall need to wear heels? Another pair of lavender bows served as garters, tied over the tabs of his silk knee breeches. His silken hose were too sheer to hide padding, so those calves were truly that muscular. How odd.

  He didn’t mince his steps like one would expect from a fopdoodle, but covered the deck with long, powerful strides, the walk of a man confident in his strength and masculinity.

  She found herself examining every inch of him, calculating the amount of hard muscle hidden beneath the silken exterior. What color was his hair under that hideous tinted wig? Probably black, like his eyebrows. His eyes had gleamed like polished pewter, pale against his tanned face.

  Her breath caught in her throat. A tanned face? A fop would not spend the necessary hours toiling i
n the sun that resulted in a bronzed complexion.

  This Mr. Stanton was a puzzle.

  She shook her head, determined to forget the perplexing man. Yet, if he dressed more like the men back home—tight buckskin breeches, boots, no wig, no lace . . .

  The sun bore down with increasing heat, and she pulled her hand-painted fan from her purse and flicked it open. She breathed deeply as she fanned herself. Her face tingled with a mist of salty air and the lingering scent of Mr. Stanton’s handkerchief.

  She watched with growing suspicion as the man in question postured in front of the women prisoners with his quizzing glass, assessing them with a practiced eye. Oh, dear, what were the horrible man’s intentions? She slipped her fan back into her purse and hastened to her father’s side.

  Jamie Munro was speaking quietly to a fettered youth who appeared a good five years younger than her one and twenty years. “All I ask, young man, is honesty and a good day’s work. In exchange, ye’ll have food, clean clothes, and a clean pallet.”

  The spindly boy’s eyes lit up, and he licked his dry, chapped lips. “Food?”

  Virginia’s father nodded. “Aye. Mind you, ye willna be working for me, lad, but for my widowed sister, here, in Boston. Do ye have any experience as a servant?”

  The boy lowered his head and shook it. He shuffled his feet, the scrape of his chains on the deck grating at Virginia’s heart.

  “Papa,” she whispered.

  Jamie held up a hand. “Doona fash yerself, lass. I’ll be taking the boy.”

  As the boy looked up, his wide grin cracked the dried dirt on his cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Jamie winced. “Mr. Munro, it is. We’ll have none of that lordy talk aboot here. Welcome to America.” He extended a hand, which the boy timidly accepted. “What is yer name, lad?”

  “George Peeper, sir.”

  “Father.” Virginia tugged at the sleeve of his blue serge coat. “Can we afford any more?”