KICK ASS: A Boxed Set (65 page)

“What advantage would that be for me?” she asked. “No, I can free you from Rogan’s curse.”

“How?”

She sidled closer. “You made her fall in love with you, didn’t you? And I don’t think she’s the type to just give that away for free. Trouble is, she didn’t spend any time trying to get you to love her back. Seems to me that if you were raised Romani, you need someone a little more… compliant. Old-world. I can be whatever you want me to be. All you have to do is ask.”

Her hand was sliding up his chest now. Her right hand. Her left had curved around to the small of his back and was drifting lower until her fingers spanned over his buttocks and then squeezed.

Disgusted, Rafe pushed her away—not with his hands, but with the magic. She stumbled back several steps, then smiled so that her eyes lit like stars.

“Rafe, don’t!” Paschal warned, jogging away from where he, Ben and Cat had been plotting Mariah’s rescue.

Gemma clutched her chest lovingly, as if he’d just given her his heart rather than repelled her with evil magic.

“It’s remarkable! So strong. Do it again,” she ordered. Paschal planted himself in front of her. “Don’t! If you use the magic on her, she’ll steal it.”

“I can only steal psychic powers,” she countered.

Paschal whirled on her. “You don’t know what you can do. Stay away from my brother. You can’t free him. Only Mariah can.”

Gemma yanked herself out of Paschal’s hold. “Well, at least we know why Farrow isn’t just attacking. If that push was any indication, he knows Rafe’s magic is stronger, especially here in the castle. He wants a more balanced battlefield.”

“But he hasn’t taken Mariah off the island,” Cat argued. “I know she’s still here.”

Cat guided Rafe to the dining table, where she and Ben had been poring over a map of the island. When Rafe attempted to disengage himself from her grip, she stopped him with a quelling glare.

“Concentrate,” she ordered. “Just think about Mariah. I can find people. It’s what I do. But I need to connect through an object that is close to the person who is missing. I can use you to pinpoint precisely where Mariah is.”

Despite the cool blackness of the magic tearing through him, Rafe pictured Mariah in his mind, trying to remember her face in the jungle lagoon or in the cabin during the rainstorm. But no matter how much he tried, only the blush of expectation that had colored her face just after her confession of love came to his mind. She loved him. Why, then, could he not love her in return?

“I have her,” Cat said, her free hand floating toward the map. “They are at the lagoon.”

“We can use some of the renovation tools as weapons,” Ben said. “It’s the best we can do.”

“Farrow can use the magic!” Gemma insisted.

Paschal pointed his finger at her. “You! Stay out of this. Your loyalties are suspect at best.”

“I told you Farrow was here,” Gemma insisted, fury in her eyes. “I could have sneaked out and joined him if that was what I wanted to do.”

“You only want Rafe to use the magic so you can mimic it,” Ben replied.

“So what if I do? It’s Rogan’s magic, isn’t it?. I’m his heir. I’m the one who deserves to have it. My whole life has been about the pursuit for that power. Why would I stop now?”

“Because you’ve grown a conscience?” Paschal said hopefully.

Gemma crossed her arms tightly over her chest and laughed. “Whatever made you think I’d done that?”

“Wishful thinking?” Cat replied.

Rafe pulled away from the argument. None of it mattered. If Gemma Von Roan wanted the magic, she was welcome to it. He simply wanted it out of him. He glanced up at the mosaic and wished he had been there that night—that he had died at the hands of the soldiers. Death would be a release, at the very least. Returned to the earth, he would not suffer knowing that, yet again, he could not save a woman he loved.

And then, suddenly, he could not breathe.

Twenty Nine

“Like… hell… I… will,” Mariah said, shoving each word out of her mouth. Each syllable tasted of burned cotton and mercury, but when she strung them together, she regained her defiance.

She was not going to die like this. Not that succumbing to a power-hungry madman wouldn’t be the perfect capper to the worst couple of weeks of her life. First, she’d had to kowtow to Hector Velez, who’d wrecked her reputation and threatened to burn her alive. Then she’d had to run away from a former lover who’d lured her into this mess from the beginning. And after she’d stolen a rare Gypsy artifact that should have bought her out of all her troubles, she’d ended up with an arrogant, cold-as-ice opportunist who had taken the detritus of her emotions and compacted it into a tiny, insignificant square of scrap.

Blood from her wound leaked down her arm as she thought about Rafe. Rafe, who’d seduced her. Who’d wanted her so desperately when he’d been infected by this dark and evil magic but, in the end, couldn’t love her. How dared he treat her no better than he might a common whore? Who the hell did he think he was?

Suddenly, the blue light that had held her as if encased in ice began to melt—not to the consistency of water, but to the viscous texture of hot wax. It clung to her insides, solidifying and edifying her until she could stand against Pryce’s attack. She grabbed the blade and, though her hand was sliced open, she felt no pain. Instead, she imagined Farrow dropping to his knees in subservience, and seconds later he complied.

Her eyes seared with heat. She gulped in great breaths and pushed the air past her thickened trachea and into her heaving lungs. The more she inhaled, the more aware she was of the rush of blood pumping through her veins—the more she remembered how Rafe had spurned her. He hadn’t even faced her after he’d sent her away. He had not deigned to acknowledge how she’d plumbed the depths of her psyche in order to find the slit in the armor she’d erected around her heart. She’d broken down her barriers, opened herself up to ultimate rejection—which was precisely what she’d gotten.

“You will not hurt me,” she said to Farrow, her voice echoing as if nothing existed inside her skull except pure, white heat. He released the sword and dropped to the ground, his hands digging into the sand, sweat pouring from his face and soaking his back. Her gaze darted to the men he’d brought with him—the ones who had dared to grab her, paw her, manhandle her. Suddenly they were on their knees, too, and their eyes bulged and their faces turned bloodred.

Mariah was in control of the magic—and she would finally have her revenge.

On Pryce.

On Ben.

On Rafe.

* * *

Rafe crumpled to the ground. Pain scorched through him as his insides attempted to burn their way out of his body. He howled, barely aware of the others standing around him—Ben holding Cat back, Paxton frozen in place and Gemma inching her way closer. He attempted to push her away, but he no longer had the power. After a flash of blinding light, total darkness engulfed him.

Light taps on his face brought him back to consciousness. He blinked to find Cat standing over him, smiling broadly.

“Welcome to the land of the living,” she said.

His neck ached, but he managed to turn and see his brother and his nephew standing over him, their expressions of happiness just as bright as Cat’s. He relaxed, and his head hit the ground with a thump. A painful thump.

“Ow,” he said.

“Yeah,” Cat said wryly. “You’re going to have to be a little more careful about things like pain now. You’re no longer invulnerable to little things like, you know, dying. You’re just human like the rest of us.”

“But I can’t…”

Ben reached down, offering his hand, which Rafe took. His nephew pulled him up, though Rafe wavered in a flux of dizziness until Paxton braced him on the shoulders and his equilibrium returned.

“You are alive again,” Paxton assured him. “Mariah’s confession must have had a delayed reaction.”

“I don’t think it was Mariah’s fault,” Cat snapped.

Ben turned to argue, but Rafe stopped him with an unsteady hand on his shoulder. “Catalina is right. I was so engulfed by my guilt and grief over the fate of my wife and the Gypsy villagers”—he gestured to the mosaic—”I could not open my heart and accept Mariah’s love any more than I could return it. But I do love her—desperately. I cannot allow another woman I worship to die because of me. If Farrow wants the stone, I shall bring it to him. We’ll have to find another way to stop his quest for power—one that won’t cost Mariah her life.”

They turned to the table where Paxton had left the stone after Mariah had left, but it was gone.

And so was Gemma Von Roan.

* * *

“You want the stone?” Mariah shouted at Pryce, who was now prone on the ground, his legs soaked by the waves in the lagoon, which had swelled in her fury. He’d crawled on his elbows to her feet, attempting to snatch at her with feeble hands, but she kicked sand in his face, laughed and backed away.

She now held the sword by its handle. The gold fused around her hand. The metal was red-hot, but the burn invigorated her and sealed her wounds. She possessed the magic now. Her insides writhed with the dark power of pure anger and rage. Rafe had despised the sensation, but Mariah had never felt so strong and invulnerable.

And she wanted more.

“I call to the stone,” she shouted.

In the distance, she heard a feminine scream and a thrashing in the palmettos. She expected someone to spill onto the beach with the Valoren marker, but no one came.

How dared the magic defy her?

“I call Rafe Forsyth!”

And suddenly he was there.

The violet light burning on the blade and hilt of the sword flickered.

“Mariah,” he said, clutching his stomach and doubling over.

She buoyed the sword with both hands and remembered precisely how she’d felt when he’d turned his back on her. Betrayed. Enraged.

“Where’s the stone?” she asked, her voice shrill to her own ears.

“Gone,” Rafe replied, attempting to look up at her even as he fought against dry heaves. “I apologize… for using the magic… to transport you. The aftermath is sickening.”

Again, the sword light dimmed, and Mariah battled against the darkness inside her to hurry to Rafe’s side. Then Farrow clutched her ankle, and the three men who had taken her hostage climbed to their knees.

“No!” she shouted, and the four of them were blasted back into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

“Mariah, stop,” Rafe begged her, taking in a great gulp of air.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she said with a hiss. The glow on the sword brightened, and the blackness inside her thickened again. “You had your chance to be a part of my life. To
be
my life. And you threw it away.”

“No,” he said sternly, forcing himself to stand. “I was just as I have been since you rescued me, behind the times. I love you, Mariah. And because of that love, I’m human.” He reached out for her, but she blocked him with the sword, swiping the blade so that it slashed across his hand. He winced, and blood spurted from the wound. “I’m alive, Mariah. I’m flesh and blood. I am no longer trapped in that cursed stone.”

Her throat constricted, and the sword suddenly grew heavy in her hand. Even in the moonlight, she watched red streaks slither down his arm. She looked down at her own hand, where blood had caked and dried from the wound Farrow had given her, only he’d jabbed her with the sword, injecting her with magic that had instantly invaded her soul and had given her the power to protect herself. Protect her heart.

“That’s impossible,” she said. “I bared my soul to you. Nothing happened.”

Rafe took a step forward, but Mariah raised the sword higher to keep him at bay. The thought of his touch repulsed her, and yet made her ache for him at the same time. She’d given him everything she had—heart, soul and body—and he’d spurned her. She could never allow a man to harm her again.

Especially not Rafe.

Never Rafe.

She’d loved him.

So deeply.

Deeper than any cut.

More destructively than any wound.

She could no longer keep the sword raised. The blade thudded to the sand as her brain swam with dizzying images of light and dark. A split second later, she felt strong hands on her arms and, in a haze, watched mesmerizing silver eyes come closer and closer until lips crashed onto hers in a kiss that sapped the last of her resistance.

His love injected into her like pure adrenaline. Whatever evil sludge had occupied her body was zapped away by the electric need now stirring in her veins, making her sizzle from the inside out. She speared her hands into Rafe’s hair. Her tongue and his battled and mated and pleasured until she felt certain she would combust if he did not strip her down and make love to her right then and there.

Splashing noises interrupted them. They flew apart to see Farrow Pryce and his men coughing and flailing, then dropping down beneath the surface of the shallow lagoon as if a creature had snagged them by the ankles and pulled them down.

“What’s happening?” Mariah’s vision wavered as her mind and body throbbed with an undeniable need to be with Rafe, now and forever.

“I don’t know.”

Rafe grabbed the sword, but the color had drained from the metal. It was nothing but sparkling gold and steel. Even the fire opal in the center of the handle had dulled to darkest red. And yet the lagoon seemed to have solidified. The waves stopped mid-roll, and when Rafe tried to enter the water to rescue the men, his foot became encased as if in ice.

Mariah grabbed his aim and attempted to pull him free.

Muffled screams and pounding were barely audible over the sudden swirl of the trees and bushes around them. A chill dusted over the icy surface, making her teeth chatter.

“They’re drowning,” she said, surprised that she cared. Farrow had tried to kill her. Twice. The men who obeyed him had treated her like a punching bag. Had Rafe not appeared when she called him, she might have murdered the men herself. But she wasn’t doing this.

Rogan’s magic was responsible, but she had no idea where it was coming from.

She continued to pull on Rafe’s arm, trying to free him, but not daring to enter the water herself. The seconds ticked by in slow motion, and only after she realized that the men below the surface had stopped struggling did she notice someone standing on the other side of the lagoon, her hands gripping Rogan’s marker until her fingers bled.