Weddings From Hell, Page 7

  He even knew how to hold her closer and tighter as she came back down, how to make her feel safe and protected in his strong arms while her body slowly stopped trembling. And he knew exactly what to say to make it absolutely perfect.

  “I love you, Kira MacLellan. I love you.”

  Tears springing inexplicably into her eyes, she whispered, “I love you too.”

  And as he held her there, it seemed the sky grew darker. Wind she’d been oblivious to before howled and moaned around the corners of the house. The bedroom door smashed open, and an unearthly keening wail filled the room.

  Kira sat up in the bed, stunned. And she heard, beyond it all, footsteps, dragging their way up the stairs.

  “No!” she cried. Scrambling from the bed, she snatched Ian’s shirt from the floor, pulling it on. He was beside her, yanking on his shorts.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What the hell is happening?”

  And she knew, right to her gut she knew. Miranda had seen them, somehow, seen them making love, and was reliving that night when all of this horror had begun. The night when her heart had been shattered so badly that neither death itself nor the centuries that had passed in between had been able to heal it.

  “This isn’t your husband!” Kira cried. “This is Ian!”

  The windows smashed inward, and the wind and rain surged into the room. Kira gripped Ian’s hand as terror clutched her heart, and tugged him with her out of the bedroom.

  It was dark, but she sensed Miranda’s spirit to her right, near the bedroom door. Dashing past her, pulling Ian in her wake, she headed for the stairs, racing down them as fast as she could manage.

  And she sensed it. The pursuit.

  “Kira, where are we goin’ lass?”

  “Out. You have to get out of here. Don’t you see, Ian, she’s going to kill you!”

  He stopped on the landing, gripping her shoulders hard, staring into her eyes in the darkness. “Lassie, it’s only the storm. You’re in a panic, but I promise you, it’s only the storm, and—”

  His words cut off mid-sentence, turning into a cry of alarm as he was shoved bodily. He sailed down the stairs, hitting the landing below as Kira turned to stare in shock at the form that stood beside her now. Misty, with a faint glow and the dimmest hint of her own features staring down at Ian.

  And then slowly, the ghost’s focus shifted to her.

  From the corner of her eye, Kira saw Ian move. He was alive, the fall hadn’t been a deadly one. She couldn’t let Miranda realize that her task was not yet accomplished. So as the woman turned to her, she wracked her brain. In the story, Miranda had murdered the faithless maid as well. And there was definitely murder in her eyes as she stared at Kira.

  “My turn now, is it?”

  Mist like tendrils extended toward her. Kira bolted up the stairs. “Come and get me, then. Come on, Miranda! You want to do this, let’s do it!”

  She hit the top of the stairs, glancing over her shoulder to see that the shape was following. And then she tripped over something, and scrambling to her feet, realized it was the shotgun that had hung on the wall above the fireplace, beneath the portrait. Miranda must have managed to bring it with her, but discarded it. Too hefty for mist to manage? Or was it simply unloaded and useless?

  It didn’t matter. She got to her feet and kept running, even with the chilly essence of the ghost touching the back of her neck. She hit the second stairway, and raced up it, bursting through the door at the top. The door that led to the room where the MacLellan witch had allegedly cast her deadly spell. Kira flipped the light switch, but nothing happened, so she raced to the odd little table at the room’s center, and fumbled for the matches she’d seen there earlier. Wooden matches, and God only knew if they were any good. She struck one, struck it again, and again, and finally it sparked and flared. She touched it to the candles on the table, all of them, and she noted there were more than there had been before.

  Frowning, she looked at the table in the dancing light of the candles. There were five of them, four forming a circle and one in the center. All black. Dishes of herbs she couldn’t identify rested there too, along with a dead dove, three hat pins sticking out of its chest.

  Kira caught her breath, stepping backward, away from the table.

  And then she felt Miranda behind her, and turned.

  Miranda stood there, staring at her. And while she was still translucent, she was also far more fully formed than before. Kira could see the waves of her hair, the tears in her eyes, the greens in the gown she wore.

  “Miranda,” she whispered.

  “How could he? How…could…he?” the heart broken spirit whispered.

  Kira stood there, frozen. “Why…don’t you ask him?” she suggested.

  “I’ve killed him. I wish he’d killed me instead. I wish he’d spared me this pain. Better he put a knife in my heart than betray me this way. I’ll see to it none of my descendents ever hurt the way I do now.” She looked at the table.

  “No you won’t.” Kira swept an arm over the table, scattering the dishes of herbs. Then she snatched up the murdered dove, yanking the pins from its poor wounded breast, and racing to the doors that led onto the widow’s walk, she flung them open.

  “No!” Miranda cried.

  Kira hovered there in the doorway with the dove’s still warm, limp body in her hands. “I’ll toss it unless you ask him yourself, Miranda! I will!”

  “How can I? He’s dead.”

  “So are you.”

  The wraith went silent, her eyes seeming to focus inwardly. She remained that way for a long moment.

  “You’re dead, too, Miranda. You took your own life, and you died in pain and anguish. But before you did, you cursed your entire family. No MacLellan woman has known love since. The few who’ve tried have died at the hands of their husbands. The rest are too afraid to give love a chance. You’re destroyed your daughters, and theirs after them, for generations to come. And soon the line will die out. All because of your actions that night.”

  The ghost’s brows rose, her eyes lowered, her head moved slowly from side to side.

  “Talk to your husband, Miranda. Call out to him. He’ll hear you, I know he will.”

  The winds of the storm raged on. Lightning flashed, and the curtains flew as the rain slashed inward.

  “Victor?” Miranda whispered on a broken plea. “Can you hear me?”

  To Kira’s amazement, a form appeared in the room then. A man’s form. He took shape slowly, growing more solid before her eyes. Two of the candles went out as the wind-driven rain spat at them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Victor, why? Why?”

  “I got very drunk, my love. I was missing you, and drinking, and she came to our room. I took her into my arms, thinking it was you. And even as I realized in my drunken state that she was not my beloved bride, you burst into the room on us. You never gave me a chance to explain.”

  Miranda’s form fell to its ghostly knees, her head lowering, sobs wracking her frame. “But I…I k-k-killed you!”

  “I forgive you, my love. I forgave you long ago. And I’ve waited, all this time, for you to forgive me, and yourself, to free yourself of the bondage you created for your soul, and to join me on the other side.”

  Her head came up slowly. Kira felt tears pouring from her own eyes as it did.

  “You forgive me?”

  “I love you, lass. It’s unendin’ what I feel for you. Let it go, my beautiful Miranda.” He held out a hand. “Join me, my love. I’ve missed you so.”

  Rising slowly, Miranda lifted her hand and took a single step toward him.

  “Wait!” Kira cried. “Wait, please. Remove the curse first.”

  Both heads turned toward her. Miranda nodded slowly, and held out a hand. “Give the dove to me.”

  Swallowing hard, Kira handed her the lifeless bird, feeling the cold touch, like heavy fog, touching her hand as Miranda took it from her. Cupping it between her ghostly ha
nds, Miranda bent her head close to the bird, whispered something, and then straightening, she moved to the open doors, lifted her hands, and opened them.

  The dove soared from her palms, and even as it entered the storm, the winds died. The rain ceased. The lightning and thunder ended. Kira stared skyward as the black clouds skittered away, making a clear path to the new moon that was a thin silver sickle in the sky.

  “Thank you, Miranda,” Kira whispered. “Thank you.”

  She turned to look at the couple, but there was no one there. It was over. It was honestly over.

  And then she remembered. Ian!

  Racing from the room, and down the stairs, she headed through the hallway, and saw him lying on the landing below. Rushing down to him, she took his shoulders, pulling him upright. “Ian, darling, are you all right? Talk to me! Please?”

  He lifted his head, blinking at her as she searched his face. “I’m…fine. I think. What happened?”

  “It’s over, Ian. It’s over, the curse is broken.”

  “Thank the Lord,” he muttered, and pulling her into his arms, he lay back down, snuggling her close, right there on the floor. “Now let’s go back to sleep, love.”

  Kira frowned, because she wasn’t lying on the stair landing. She was in the bed, in the same bedroom where they’d fallen asleep. Ian had rolled onto one side, and was breathing deeply, steadily. Sound asleep.

  Kira threw back the covers. She was naked, not wearing Ian’s shirt. It was on the floor right where it had been before.

  She got up and put it on now, then looked around the room. The windows were not smashed in. There was no rain. The storm outside had abated. The bedroom door was still closed.

  She opened it and stepped out into the hall, trying a light switch. It worked fine, flooding the corridor with light. Kira traversed it, seeing no shotgun lying on the floor near the top of the stairs.

  She kept going, to the second staircase, and up it, to the spell room at the top. Its door opened easily, its light switch also in working order. The table in the room’s center was empty, except for the thick coating of dust, the two candles and the matchbook that had been there earlier in the day. The doors to the widow’s walk were closed. But she could see the sliver of moon just as she had seen it before.

  Had it all been a dream? Was the curse truly broken?

  She left the room, shutting off its light and closing its door, then headed all the way down to the first floor, to the living room. The fire she’d left burning there was only a soft bed of red-orange coals now. Again, she turned on the lights, and again, they worked as they should.

  Then she stood, staring up at the gun, that hung right where it should have hung, above the mantel. And above that the portrait was just as it had been before.

  Or was it?

  Kira moved closer, staring up at the painting. No, she realized, it wasn’t the same. The couple—their eyes were different. And their mouths. It seemed they were almost smiling now.

  Something tapped the window behind her and she turned quickly, startled.

  The drapes were parted, and there on the other side of them, she saw a dove. It stared back at her for a minute, then spread its wings and took flight.

  “Darlin’?”

  She turned to see Ian in the doorway, looking at her worriedly.

  “You had a bad dream, lass,” he said. “Is everything all right now?”

  “Yes, Ian.” She moved into his arms, and felt them close around her. The most incredible feeling of rightness washed through her, and she relaxed against him. “Everything’s really all right now. I’m sure of it.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “I want to marry you. I’m sure of that too.”

  His brows lifted in surprise, and then a smile appeared on his handsome face, a smile she loved with everything in her. “But what about the curse?”

  “There is no curse, not anymore,” she told him. “But even if there were, I’d marry you anyway. It would be worth the risk. Love is worth any risk, Ian. I understand that now.”

  He stared into her eyes for a long moment, and then he kissed her, more tenderly, more gently, than he ever had. And Kira knew then, that her life was perfect.

  About Maggie Shayne

  It was a sleepless night spent caring for a sick baby that jump-started New York Times bestselling author MAGGIE SHAYNE’s writing career.

  Now she is the author of more than forty novels, ranging from stories about witches, vampires, psychics, and ghosts to bone chilling, edge-of-your-seat romantic suspense and beyond. Maggie has appeared on the New York Times, USA Today, Amazon.com, B. Dalton, Booksense, Ingram’s, Barnes and Noble, and Walden-books (where she reached #1) bestseller lists.

  What would she be doing if she wasn’t so accomplished a writer? Maggie maintains she’d be equally happy as a rock star. “I have a karaoke machine, and I’m actually damn good,” she says. “Furthermore, Sheryl Crow and I are the same age, so I figure if this writing thing doesn’t work out, there’s still time.”

  www.maggieshayne.com

  HAPPILY NEVER AFTER

  Jeaniene Frost

  Prologue

  The old woman glanced at her watch. Quarter to eleven. It wouldn’t be long now.

  Across the dark alley, two young men sauntered over with the sly, exaggerated swagger of teenagers up to no good. She barely spared them a glance as she tapped her foot and hummed. Once, very long ago, she’d have sauntered over to them, swinging her hips and murmuring promises of pleasure—for a price. But that had been another lifetime ago.

  The youths came nearer, greed and opportunism glittering in their eyes. The woman knew she looked like an easy target: a senior citizen standing in a dimly lit alley wearing an expensive trench coat, a gold watch, with a bulky purse dangling from her age-skinny arm. She may as well have added a sign that said “come and get me!”

  “Whatcha doin’ out here, grandma?” one of them singsonged. The other hung back a foot or two, eyes flickering around to see if anyone was watching. No one was. People minded their own business on this side of South Philly.

  At a nod from his lookout, the other punk pulled out a switchblade.

  “Give me your money, your jewelry, and your purse. Or I’ll cut you.”

  The old woman smiled. “Do you know what you two are?” she asked in an amused voice.

  They looked at each other in surprise, clearly not expecting her lack of fear. Then their scowls returned.

  “Yeah, we’re the guys robbing you!” the one with the knife snapped.

  “No,” said a voice from the other end of the alley, an English accent decorating his words. “You’re dinner.”

  Before the two could blink, they were dangling by their throats from pale, rock-steady hands. One was yanked close to the black-clad figure. The stranger’s eyes changed from brown to glowing green as he dipped his head to the exposed throat. The youth’s partner in crime, still hoisted aloft, could only make terrified grunts as he watched fangs pierce his friend’s neck.

  Then the stranger dropped the now-limp form and latched his mouth onto the other available neck. A minute later the second youth dropped flaccidly to the street. The stranger wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then pulled the old woman to him.

  Instead of struggling, she hugged him as hard as her feeble body could manage. He squeezed back gently, smiling when he let her go.

  “Greta, whatever were you thinking by telling me to meet you here? This is no place for you.”

  She laughed with a hint of her former bawdy cackle.

  “I was thinking you’d be hungry, Bones. I knew I’d have something for you to eat by the time you got here.”

  He chuckled as well, brushing a strand of white hair from her face. “Same old Greta. Always finding ways to please her blokes.”

  She felt the warmth of many pleasant memories shimmer through her. Bones’ beautiful face hadn’t changed with time, and that was a comfort. Time was merciless on so many things, inclu
ding herself, but it had no power over the blond vampire standing in front of her.

  She glanced at the still forms near their feet. “Are they dead?” she asked, more curious than concerned.

  Absently Bones kicked one of them. “No, just unconscious. I’ll drop these sods in the nearest dumpster before we leave. Serves them right for threatening you.”

  Which brought her to why she’d called him here. “I need a favor,” Greta said.

  He took her hand. Once his skin would have felt noticeably cooler, but no longer. With the meal he just ate and my poor circulation, Greta thought wryly, we’re almost the same temperature.

  If he thought that as well, it didn’t show on his face. Very softly, he kissed her fingers.

  “Whatever you need, you know you have but to ask.”

  Tears pricked her eyes. A long time ago, she’d left the home Bones gave her to marry a man she’d fallen madly in love with. Fifty years later, she didn’t regret her decision, but sometimes she wondered how things would have turned out if she’d stayed with Bones instead.

  Greta shook off the memories. “It’s my grandchildren,” she began. “They’re in trouble.”

  Twenty minutes later, Greta was finished detailing their predicament. Bones nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “I can’t handle this myself, luv, because I’m focusing all my energy on finding someone, but I’ll send a bloke who’ll take care of things. I trust him, so you’ll all be in good hands. My word on it.”

  Greta smiled. “That’s more than enough for me.”

  Chapter 1

  Isabella peeked through the slats sectioning off the prep room from the rest of her restaurant’s on-display kitchen. Yes, the dark-haired man was still at his table, and yes, he was still staring at her.