Blood Kissed

  Blood Kissed

  The Lizzie Grace Series, Book #1

  Keri Arthur

  Contents

  About Blood Kissed

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Keri Arthur

  Copyright © 2017 by Keri Arthur

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-648-00770-8

  Created with Vellum

  With thanks to Bec and Rob

  About Blood Kissed

  In a world where magic and science sit side by side, and powerful witches are considered necessary aides for all governments, Lizzie Grace is something of an outlier. Though born into one the most powerful blue blood witch families, she wants nothing to do with either her past or her magic.

  But when she and Belle, her human familiar and best friend, open a small cafe in the Faelan werewolf reservation, she quickly finds herself enmeshed in the hunt for a vampire intent on wreaking bloody havoc. It’s a hunt that soon becomes personal, and one that is going to take all her skills to survive—that’s if the werewolves, who hate all things witch, don’t get her first.

  Chapter One

  The silver bell above the door chimed, a soft sound that complemented the singing coming from the café’s small kitchen.

  I looked down from my perch on a ladder across the other side of the dining room, where I was hanging fairy lights. The woman who entered was tall, brown-haired, and wrapped in a vivid red coat so bulky it hid the shape of her body. Her complexion was pale, her face angular and, aside from the color of her coat, she looked no different to the half dozen other women who’d entered the café since we’d opened yesterday.

  But the psychic bit of me—the bit that had caused so much damn heartache in the past—began to stir.

  This woman was trouble. The sort of trouble I’d been running from for the past twelve years.

  Her gaze swept the room, no doubt taking in the mismatched furniture, the bright prints and old plates that covered the walls, and the small teapots of flowers that decorated each table.

  What she thought of it all, I couldn’t say, because when her gaze finally met mine, all I could see was her fear and anguish. The force of it was so strong, it wrapped a fist around my heart and squeezed tight.

  I don’t need this, I thought. Not now, not again.

  I hardly think this woman’s problems are going to be that bad, Lizzie. The comment ran through my mind so clearly it might well have been said out loud. It surely can’t hurt to at least hear what she has to say.

  Isabelle—the singer in the kitchen and my closest friend—was not only a spirit talker gifted with telepathy, but also my familiar, and that meant we had constant access to each other’s thoughts. Not all witches had familiars, of course—only those of us born to blueblood families. I had no idea why that was, but I suspected it had something to do with the greater power most bluebloods could call on. Familiars were usually of the animal or spirit kind, but I was at best a less than average blueblood witch, so of course my familiar was always destined to be something so far south of the norm it was yet another disappointment to my family.

  I had a very long history of letting my family down—one that had started with my birth.

  You say that with such surety, I replied, mental tone dry. Anyone would think precognition was one of your gifts.

  Her sharp snort echoed through my brain. It doesn’t take precognition to make a statement like that. I was with you twelve years ago, remember? Nothing could ever be as bad as that. Nothing.

  The woman took several tentative steps forward and then stopped. “I’m looking for Elizabeth Grace.”

  Her voice was as uncertain as her steps. I hooked the unstrung portion of fairy lights onto the ladder and then climbed down. “Please, just call me Lizzie. What can I do for you, Mrs.—?”

  “Banks. Marjorie Banks. And I’m sorry to come here so late, but I saw your light on and I just thought—” She paused, and then continued in a desperate sort of rush, “I just thought you might be able to help me find my daughter.”

  A runaway, Belle said. That’s hardly dangerous.

  Maybe.

  Well, if you wanted to avoid any chance of the past repeating itself, we should be running an ordinary café rather than playing about with psychometry, dabbling in readings, and selling charms.

  Psychometry isn’t magic. And it wasn’t as if the charms we were selling did anything more than grant the wearer a greater chance of collecting good fortune rather than bad.

  But those charms still contain real magic, even if we don’t advertise it, Belle said. And it’s a sad fact that those without psi skills often align them to magic. Besides, it’s not like psychometry or charm making are your only skills.

  No, but it wasn’t like I was much more than the sum of those two, either. Hell, my lack of magical strength was one of the reasons behind my estrangement from my family.

  That, and my sister’s death.

  Cat’s death, Belle stated, mental tone tart, was hardly your fault.

  But it was, if only because I’d tried to save her myself rather than informing my parents.

  Your parents would not have listened.

  But I could have at least tried. If we’d both insisted, Mom might have investigated—

  My input wouldn’t have made any difference. I’m your familiar, and one of the lowly Sarr witches besides.

  Unfortunately, there was a bitter edge of truth in that statement. There were six lines of witches—three of whom were considered “royalty,” and three who were rather disparagingly described as “commoners.”

  Like most of those from the lower witch houses, Belle hadn’t always viewed my family in such a dour light. In fact, she’d held the so-called bluebloods of witchery on something of a pedestal. That had all changed in the aftermath of Cat’s death.

  I stepped clear of the ladder and brushed some dust from my hands. “How old is your daughter, Mrs. Banks?”

  “Please, call me Marjorie. And she’s sixteen. She went out with friends last night, but she hasn’t come home and I know—” She paused again, and swallowed heavily. “Something has happened to her. I can feel it.”

  The certainty in her tone had my gaze narrowing. Underneath the pall of misery that hung around her body like a heavy cloak were flashes of hazy purple, and that was usually the sign of an untrained talent. Of course, her certainty could also be nothing more than the deep connection of a mother to her daughter.

  Either way, this really wasn’t something I should be getting involved in. “Mrs. Banks, you really need to report this to the rangers—”

  “I have,” she said. “And they’re looking, but it’s not enough. I know it’s not enough—”

  She broke off, obviously battling tears. I hesitated, then walked over and tentatively put an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened briefly, and then her body sagged and she started sobbing. I didn’t say anything; there was little that could be said other than the usual useless platitudes, and she’d undoubtedly already heard those from the rangers.


  After a while, she pulled back and dug a tissue out of her purse. “I’m sorry. That was very ill-mannered of me.”

  “But totally understandable.” I kept my voice soft. I had a bad feeling a full breakdown was only one harsh word away. “How about I make us pot of tea, and then you can tell me about your daughter?”

  Hope flared in her brown eyes. “Then you’ll help me?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know if I can.” Which was an honest enough answer, but not something she wanted to hear right now. As her face began to crumple again, I quickly added, “But I’ll try.”

  Do you want me out there? Belle said. Or are you going to use the reading room?

  I hesitated again. When we’d decided to offer psychic readings as well as the usual café fare in an effort to establish a point of difference from all the other cafés in Castle Rock, we’d set up a small rear room strictly designed for that purpose. As such, it was not only a soothing space to be in, but also one that was magically well protected.

  But most of those spells had been specifically designed to counter arcane forces, and wouldn’t actually repel the dark, desperate energy Marjorie was emitting. It was the sort of energy that could draw even darker emotions to it, and I really didn’t want to risk infecting the warm, safe environment we’d created in the reading room.

  I think it might be wise if you are, Belle, just in case things go ass up. Out loud, I added, “Mrs. Banks, do you mind if I call my friend in to help me when I attempt it?”

  Marjorie frowned. “Is it necessary? I really don’t want the whole town knowing I’ve come to you for help. It would be… inconvenient.”

  “Belle is co-owner of the café,” I said, “and the soul of discretion.”

  Your parents wouldn’t agree with that.

  My parents didn’t agree with a lot of things, especially when it came to the two of us. They hated Belle almost as much as they hated the fact they’d bred a daughter so low down on the scale of magical ability that I might as well have been born to one of the more common lines.

  “If you really think it’s necessary—”

  “It is if you want a better chance of the reading being successful.”

  “Then I agree.”

  “Thank you.” I cupped a hand under her elbow and escorted her across to a table. “How do you like your tea? And would like something to eat? Belle’s just baked a fresh batch of rather decadent red velvet cookies.”

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her left eye. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  “Cookies for three please, Belle,” I said, and made my way behind the counter to make a large pot of tea. When that was done, I wasted several more minutes studying the multitude of cheery china cups and saucers, trying to decide which ones to use. Like most of the items in the café, we’d salvaged them from various secondhand stores, and they all had a history and a presence the sensitive could feel. While most people would scoff at the thought of something as simple as a cup making any sort of difference to a person’s mood, I knew from experience that the wrong choice could have an unsettling effect in this sort of situation. Even though the holiday season was still over a month away, I eventually selected cheery Christmas ones for Belle and me, and a more ornate white and gold cup for Marjorie.

  “Right,” I said, as I placed the full tray on the table between us. “Tell me what you know.”

  “That’s just it,” Marjorie said. “I don’t know much. No one does. And no one will believe me when I say she’s—”

  She stopped, her gaze going past me and widening just a fraction. I knew without looking that Belle had just entered, because by anyone’s standards, she was a sight to behold. At just over six foot and with an athlete’s physique, she was something of an Amazon. She was also stunningly beautiful, with ebony skin, long, silky black hair, and eyes that were a gray so pale they shone silver in even the dullest of light.

  That eye color was the one feature all six witch families had in common, and I couldn’t even get that right. Mine were emerald green, the same as my grandmother’s.

  “Mrs. Banks?” I prompted when she didn’t immediately continue.

  Belle placed a small plate of red cookies on the tray and then began pouring our drinks. Hints of lemon and passionflower teased the air; it wasn’t strong enough to overpower the taste of the English Breakfast tea, but it would, hopefully, help soothe the older woman’s jangled nerves.

  Marjorie cleared her throat and said, “They don’t believe she’s in trouble. They just think she’s run off again.”

  “So she’s run away before?” I asked.

  “It was a regular event when her father and I first separated, but it had stopped until about two months ago.”

  “What happened to set her off again?”

  “I wouldn’t let her go out with her boyfriend.” She accepted the cup of tea with a tremulous smile. “My mother had a set like this. She used to bring it out when we were having a ‘proper’ English afternoon tea.”

  Which was why I’d chosen it. While this particular cup hadn’t belonged to Marjorie’s mother’s set, as far as I was aware, something about its resonance had suggested it would raise happier memories—and Marjorie very much needed those.

  I offered the older woman the milk jug, then, when she shook her head, poured some into my own tea. Two teaspoons of sugar followed rather than the usual one, as I suspected I was going to need the energy boost to get through the night. “Is there a chance she’s simply run off with the boyfriend?”

  Marjorie shook her head even before I’d finished the question. “The first thing I did was ring and check with his mom. Jason is home, and hasn’t heard from Karen in over a week.”

  “Is that usual?” Belle asked.

  Marjorie shrugged. “Who can say? They’re teenagers. One day they can’t keep their hands off each other, the next they’re not talking.”

  “What about her friends? She did go out with them, didn’t she?” I said.

  “Yes, but they said she got a call about nine and claimed it was from me. That I said she had to go home.” Tears filled Marjorie’s eyes and she rapidly blinked them away. “It wasn’t me, of course, and that’s the last time anyone saw her.”

  Which sounded suspiciously like Karen was meeting someone she either didn’t want her friends to know about, or that she knew they wouldn’t approve of. If I’d been a cop, the first thing I would have done was get hold of the kid’s phone records. But I wasn’t, and I had no idea if the rangers here had that sort of power. Castle Rock was the capital of the Faelan Reservation, which was one of only seven werewolf reservations here in Australia. Rangers—who were always werewolves nominated by the council elders rather than those who lived within the reservation—had full police powers when it came to dealing with their own kind, but were somewhat more restricted when it came to the humans living within the reservation. Which was rather archaic, given humans now accounted for nearly 40 percent of Castle Rock’s regular population—and that figure increased dramatically over the summer months, thanks to the mineral springs located in the nearby town of Argyle.

  Of course, archaic pretty much described the world in general. There might have been huge leaps in technology and medicine, but magic and tradition still ruled in many ways.

  And what that all meant was, if something bad had happened to Karen, then the rangers would be forced to call in the Interspecies Investigations Team. And that wouldn’t go down well with either the rangers or the pack elders.

  And unhappy elders generally meant an unhappy town.

  I took a sip of tea and winced a little over its sweetness. “Are the rangers searching for her?”

  “Yes. I asked them to send some trackers into the scrub.”

  Meaning Marjorie had some pull in this town. But given the hills surrounding Castle Rock were heavily forested, a werewolf’s keen nose probably was Karen’s best hope if she was lost out there somewhere. “Then I suggest your next move should be to go home a
nd wait for their call—”

  “No! I can’t. I won’t.” Marjorie’s expression was a mix of desperation and determination. “Surely you can understand that? Surely, if you were in my place, you’d be doing everything you can to find your child?”

  Old pain rose, and I briefly closed my eyes. I had been in the same position, even if the life in question had been that of a sister rather than a daughter.

  The past is never a good place to dwell, Belle said gently. Especially when there’s nothing you can do to change it.

  I knew that, but knowing never stopped the guilt. Never stopped the nightmares that still plagued me. I took a somewhat shuddery breath and said, “I do understand, Marjorie, believe me. It’s just that—”

  “Please,” she said, her voice soft. Beseeching. “You’re Karen’s only hope. I just know it.”

  I leaned back and rubbed my arms. Every instinct I had was screaming any search—be it mine, or the rangers’—was going to end badly. Was it selfish of me to not want to confront all that again? Probably. But the real question was—could I live with the guilt and the what-ifs if I did walk away?

  Probably not.

  Besides, the moment I’d allowed Marjorie to step through the door and tell me her story, I’d basically forsaken any hope of refusal. Hard-hearted, I was not.

  “No matter how certain you might be,” I said slowly, “there’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to find her. Psychometry—or any other psi talent, for that matter—isn’t always as reliable as true magic. Maybe you’d be better to seek the help of the local witch—”

  “There is no witch in Castle Rock,” she cut in. “The elders declared the reservation a witch-free zone just over a year ago.”

  I shared a surprise glance with Belle. That was something we hadn’t been aware of when we’d come here, and it made me wonder why they’d approved our permit for the café. Granted, it was now an accepted fact that psi skills were totally unrelated to mainstream magic, but—as Belle had noted—there were still many who thought otherwise.