Fate's Kiss Read online

  Anne scooted to the edge of the bed and stood. She’d had enough of Demon Gabriel’s belligerence. Snatching up her skirt and bodice, she jerked them on and whirled to face him. Her hands fisted at her side.

  “You. Are. An. Idiot. How many times must you be told our life mate bond can’t be broken? Not even death will sever the tie between us. For once in your wretched existence, Gabriel Elstone, become the man you claim to be and accept there are things in this world over which you have absolutely no control.”

  She walked over to the window and unlatched it. “Now that we are mated, you and I don’t need to see each other again unless circumstances force us to be in the same place at the same time. I doubt that will happen as it’s quite easy to avoid a fool.”

  Before he could speak, she shifted into a hawk. Her piercing hazel gaze focused on him for a brief second. “A fucking idiot.”

  Gabriel stared at the open window. Night had fallen with a darkness that matched his mood. With a wave of his hand he closed and latched the window. He scooted up until he was seated on the bed and his back pressed against the bolster. Lifting his hand, he glanced at the brandy and an empty glass. In a second, his fingers closed around the stem of the glass. He drained the amber liquor and disappeared the goblet.

  Anne’s final words brought a grin to his face. It was the second time he’d heard the word fuck roll past her lips. His hand scrubbed his face and he sighed noisily. Why couldn’t she see he was trying to save her? She would become a weapon Mephistopheles would use against him if the demon king discovered their bond, or thought his offspring had feelings for her. It was the reason Gabriel had taught himself not to care for anyone.

  In the game the demon king played, human beings were expendable. For Gabriel, the fewer the casualties, the fewer the marks on his already blighted soul. His mother’s disappearance was enough, especially since Mephistopheles taunted him with her abandonment.

  If Mirelle had wanted you, she would never have left. She ran away because of you. Your mother couldn’t bear the sight of you.

  Gabriel slammed the door shut on the painful memories. He had refused to be a pawn to Mephistopheles and Satan. He would do the same with the archangels. Gabriel Elstone would not be ruled by anyone.

  Anne glanced over her shoulder. She had chosen to venture out unaccompanied. A decision she now questioned. Determined to visit her sister and her cousin Mariam, she had taken the usual precautions with her disguise. Bella’s teary-eyed laughter had provoked her own when she had introduced herself as Rufus Brewster.

  Limp unwashed hair touched the collar of her greased-stained linen shirt. The trousers had been patched several times and her shoes had definitely seen better days. It wasn’t so much her costume that evoked Bella’s laughter; it was the crookedness of her expression. Rufus’ nose slightly bulbous sat perched over thin slices of lips. His brown eyes were dull, as if the drudgery of his daily life had squashed any dreams he might have held. One of his large hands reached up to scrub his slightly pock-marked face.

  Anyone watching Holland’s League wouldn’t have given two pence for the uncouth lad making his way from the brothel to London Bridge. Yet, by the time she reached Covent Garden, Anne knew she’d been followed. Time to end this cat and mouse game.

  She turned down a narrow alley sandwiched between two buildings. A smile flitted across her lips and she lumbered towards the Mews. It had been some time since she fought one of Mephistopheles’ carrion. The faint crunch of gravel was her only warning as she continued down the narrow alley that cut across the Mews to St. James Square. Despite the shadows cast by the tightly knitted houses, she wasn’t worried. She had been trapped in far worse circumstances on Barbados.

  Stopping, she quickly scanned the area to make certain the battle would not be witnessed. “You have followed me long enough, Demon.”

  A thick stone wall suddenly appeared at her back, trapping her in the alley. Running her hand along her left hip, she eased her dagger from its sheath. An apparition slowly became solid until the demon stood several feet from her. Anne reached across her right shoulder. When she brought her hand back, she held a sword and glared at the demon. “I assume your appearance is because of the demon who called herself Betsy. Was she important to your master? His concubine? Are you willing to give me your name before you die?”

  His fingers gripped his sword and he took a step toward her. “Ishtar, and you are responsible for my daughter’s death. Is it true you are life mate to my liege’s loyal offspring?”

  Anne adjusted her stance. “Are you aware Demon Gabriel is determined to kill Mephistopheles? Does that sound like something a loyal son would do?”

  “You have no idea of the power you challenge, witch,” Ishtar growled.

  “Neither do you. However, since you’re in a rush to join your daughter in whatever hell she’s gone to, I’m happy to aid your journey.”

  Ishtar cast an illusion. It had been some time since she fought a demon. She flashed a smug grin at his bewilderment when she didn’t cower or retreat in fear. He stepped back and studied her. Apparently, Satan hadn’t shared the fact all of the gifted Tamahaq were immune to demonic illusions. “Your tricks have no effect on Lilith’s descendants.”

  She watched Ishtar closely, waiting for a sudden strike. With all the Fallen and their creations, unearthly beauty was a given and Ishtar was no different. His was a disarming beauty. The midnight black hair, tied at the nape his neck with a leather thong, betrayed his hybrid nature as did the gray eyes that marked the Fallen’s offspring. The only exception was Gabriel. The sapphire blue eyes were unique, which probably explained why she didn’t recognize he was an undead.

  “What are you?” Ishtar asked.

  Anne noticed he favored his right foot as he slowly advanced toward her. It was a peculiarity of the demons she’d encountered. She’d have to give the matter some thought once she was back at Holland’s League. For now, she accepted the telltale sign of the direction of his first strike. She adjusted her stance and was prepared for the feverish attack of short feints and thrusts. She grinned as confusion planted itself on the demon’s face.

  “Your confusion tells me you didn’t expect a skilled opponent,” she said. “Allow me to introduce myself, Ishtar. My ancestress was the Tamahaq Amina bint Daoud, the daughter of Saria who descended from the first Tamahaq Lilith, consort to Lucifer and slain by Satan. I was born to bring an end to your kind.”

  She rebuffed Ishtar’s attempts to breach her defenses. When he thrust, she parried. Her ability to evade his sword increased his frustration and anger. Despite his skill, the demon grew careless, allowing her to strike at will, her sword savaging demonic flesh with finesse and accuracy.

  “Has fear begun to clot in your belly, Ishtar? Do you foresee your death at the hands of a woman?”

  Anne abruptly shape-changed and became a mirror image of the demon. “This is how I see your fear.”

  She knew Ishtar gazed upon his own pale white face, terrified gray eyes staring into terrified gray eyes. He saw the thin scratch along his jaw, the dark blood trickling down his neck. Her laughter poured cruelly from his open mouth when he stumbled back, terror carved on his face.

  “What you see is what I see, Ishtar. Your death.”

  With an enraged howl he lunged. Anne expected the move and retreated, easily defending against a flurry of angry slashes. She danced away from his sword before launching a vicious counterattack, varying her strikes and forcing Ishtar to engage in defensive maneuvers. He stepped back and feinted to the left, expecting her to advance. Instead, she flowed away from him and stopped. His gray eyes widened in confusion.

  “Lesson one,” Anne said, changing back to her natural form. “Expect the unexpected.”

  You need not play with him, Demon Gabriel whispered in her mind. If you are going to kill an enemy do it quickly.

  Anne’s sword flowed across the air, a silver glimmer of heat and light as it sank into demonic flesh. I don’t need instr
uctions from you. I have fought demons before.

  She retreated swiftly as black blood spurted from Ishtar’s severed head when it fell to the ground. Seconds later the demon’s body pitched forward at her feet. She quickly plunged the tip of her sword into Ishtar’s convulsing body, piercing his heart. Flesh corroded until all that remained was an oily mixture of black soot and ash. She grimaced as the puddle desiccated and vanished.

  Her sword, no longer needed, disappeared and she returned her dagger to the sheath on her hip. The wall vanished and Rufus wandered out of the alley, making his way towards St. James Square. Where are you, Demon?

  On the king’s business. Would you care to explain why my life mate was engaged in swordplay with a demon in an enclosed alley?

  I’ve been out of practice. She entered St. James Square and turned toward Portugal Street. The demon was Ishtar and father to Betsy. He believed I was a witch.

  Gabriel’s laughter echoed in her mind. And therein lay his mistake. Where are you going?

  I’ve not seen my cousins in sometime.

  When do you return to Holland’s League?

  Anne chuckled softly. Miss me? Before sunset. I am never away from the house at night.

  Gabriel’s voice inside her head was curt when he said, Expect me by midnight.

  “Oh, my Lord Elstone,” she murmured to the air, “when will you learn I am not your servant to do your bidding without question. Whether you wish it or not, the life mate bond is one of equality.”

  10

  Anne smiled when she strode into Holland’s League’s dining room. The day of the banquet always stirred a current of excitement among the women. As much as she wanted to share in the women’s mood, she just wanted the past twenty-four hours to leave her memory. Ishtar’s unexpected attack had set her on edge. The only calm she felt recently was when Demon Gabriel took her to his bed. For one night she’d set aside her war with the Fallen, forgot the threat they posed to her and the witches. In Demon’s arms, despite everything between them, she lived a few hours as an ordinary human.

  She brushed aside her worries and walked around the dining room. It was the one successful bidders remembered and bragged about most often. As always, the room was impeccably scrubbed and polished. The fragrance of rose-scented beeswax deepened her smile. Angelica made all the candles used throughout the brothel and the witch’s magic suffused the room, providing an additional protection against most forms of demonic intrusion.

  Everything about the room, the house itself, spoke to Anne’s determination to protect the women who had joined Holland’s League. The simplicity of the dark wood table and chairs offered a striking contrast to the six colorful wall hangings. Each tapestry depicted pastoral scenes favored by the six courtesans chosen at auction. Spells were interlaced with the threads to counter demonic illusions since, despite their magic, witches were human and susceptible.

  Her safety required different precautions. There was a price all Tamahaq paid for their angelic descent and it came in a simple metallic form, gold. The metal caused excruciating pain to any Tamahaq who came in contact with it. Gold also allowed a Fallen to control Lilith’s descendants born with her gifts. To protect herself, Anne ensured all plates, eating utensils, and serving dishes were crafted of purest silver and by her cousin Richard Drake. Even her drinking glasses were untouched by gold. The Murano glassmaker earned a handsome sum to make certain no gold ever came in contact with the goblets and glasses used in Holland’s League.

  The faint chimes of an ornate silver clock on a console table near the door reminded her of the hour. In a few minutes the successful bidders would gather in the parlor like anxious dogs in heat, waiting for the entrance of the women. She was no longer surprised by the rapacious thrill the men got from their success. It was, she knew, as much the ritual of conquest as the actual time spent with one of the courtesans.

  Anne made her way to the parlor. Entering the room, she chuckled. Ishmael and Malcolm lounged on couches far too small for their brawny bodies. On either side of them stood small tables. A silver tankard sat on the table next to Ishmael. Despite his baptism in the Church of England, Ishmael chose to follow the tenets of the Koran. He consumed only water, tea, and coffee, would not eat swine’s flesh, and bathed daily.

  Malcolm, on the other hand, held a whisky glass in his hand. He loved coffee and bathed daily. He swore his Gaelic ancestors would rise from their graves if he rejected the liquor of their race, which was why he drank a dram a day. His cause was seconded by O’Brien and Anne often found herself playing peacekeeper between the three friends and lovers.

  “Gareth Malcolm, I will not have you start a brawl tonight.”

  He looked up and gave her an unabashed grin and a wink. “Now, would I be about that, lass? That’d be Ishmael’s way. Look at him. Dressed like a Turk, scimitar and all.”

  Ishmael glowered affectionately at Malcolm. “This sword has stemmed many a fracas before they started. Tonight its mere appearance will keep the gentlemen on their best behavior. Although, there’s one nobleman who doesn’t fear my blade or my face.”

  He quirked a single eyebrow at Anne before he returned his gaze to Malcolm. “I’ll leave Demon Gabriel to you, gentle Gareth. It seems he loves a good fight as much as you do.”

  “You two should join the troupe at the Theatre Royal,” Anne said.

  She shook her head as her eyes swept Ishmael’s garments. Until he spoke, it wasn’t difficult to believe him a Moroccan. To look at him, no one would suspect he, his parents, and his grandparents were all London-born. Not until his Southwark accent betrayed his English birth. Ishmael’s dark brown skin marked him as alien despite knowing no other home than the suburbs of London. When Malcolm gave voice to her thoughts, she hid her grin.

  “Why a Turk? The closest you’ve ever gotten to Turkey was unloading an Italian vessel carrying Turkish goods when you worked at St. Katherine’s dock,” Malcolm declared. “You’re no more a Turk than I’m an Englishman.”

  Anne shook her head when the pair began trading insults. Malcolm was relentless in trying to force Ishmael to accept he was nothing but an Englishman. He couldn’t understand why the man didn’t embrace his nationality. Finally, Malcolm threw up his hands.

  “It don’t matter to me if you want to be a Turk instead of who you are. Just don’t expect me to save your sorry arse when some English prick decides to cut your cods off for being a Turk.”

  Anne’s laughter finally erupted. “You know your words are a lie, Gareth. Any man foolish enough to attack Ishmael would wish he were dead by the time you and Sean were done.”

  Malcolm shrugged. “Ishmael is ours, as we belong to him. Me and O’Brien are the only ones to cut off his cods if they’re to be cut.”

  That simple statement said so much about the love between the three men. The tinkle of a bell sounded in the room and the two men rose at the same time. Malcolm sauntered over to the door while Ishmael positioned himself against a wall. Anne moved to a chair set off from the rest of the room’s seating. Once she was comfortably seated, she nodded to Malcolm.

  She tapped a finger against her bottom lip when five men jostled into the room. She buried her smile at the thought of how the women saw the men. Would they be chomping at the bit if they knew the women of Holland’s League considered them sheep to be shorn? Fleeced with little in return except the illusion they bedded the courtesan of their choice? She imagined their rage should they ever learn a witch’s magic, as well as a skilled hand, firm thighs, and a well-placed mouth, kept the women of Holland’s League untouched.

  Narrowing her eyes, she listened as several men complained about the king and his mistresses. The others whined about the price they’d paid for a whore. The men fell silent when a serving girl approached and offered Anne a glass of wine. She closed her fingers around the stem, wishing it was the necks of the men who called the women whores. Instead, she brought the glass to her lips and sipped.

  Music played softly behind her, a se
ductive aria for the evening. When the clock struck eight chimes, she nodded to Ishmael and he strolled to a corner of the room opposite her. Anne slowly rose from her chair. Raising her wine glass, she said, “Gentlemen, the ladies of Holland’s League have arrived.”

  A section of the corner wall to the right of Ishmael parted seamlessly to reveal an opening. A breathless silence swept the room as the women walked in. The men stood like statues, giving off the unmistakable scent of anticipation. Anne wrinkled her nose at the simmering odor of uncontrolled male desire in the room. The musk of power, lust, and arrogance all captured in a single drop of sweat. She just didn’t understand why men couldn’t control it.

  Because men’s cocks are the true sites where the male brain resides. For most men, once their penis seizes control, the actual brain is no longer capable of reason or the ability to control a man’s physical reaction to the object of his desire. We’re quite like dogs, only more civilized in our approach.

  Her body stiffened. She closed off all but a tiny corner of her mind where she shoved Gabriel’s presence. She stabbed at his awareness, quick razor sharp cuts. Her life mate’s pain screamed across her nerve endings. Her body absorbed the agony as she silently cursed the life mate bond. Once their shared pain eased, she plastered a smile on her lips.

  Never enter without permission. You may be my life mate but you are not my master. There is only who enters at will, the archangel Raphael and he never does me the discourtesy you’ve just done.

  Before Gabriel’s reply arced in her mind, she imposed barriers so powerful only her guardian could breach them. His rage battered at her before he admitted defeat and withdrew. Her head throbbed and she eased the ache, refusing to sit through dinner with a headache.

  She glanced at Malcolm who opened the door. Anne inclined her head to the women and silently led the paired couples into the dining room. She stood by the door while the women led the men to their chairs. Once the men were seated, the courtesans individually arranged themselves behind the men’s chairs.