Wicked Omens (Cursed Coven Book 5) Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Patricia D. Eddy

  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.

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  Foreword

  Welcome to the magical world of the Midnight Coven. Within the pages of our books, you’ll find vampires and demons, witches and fae, dark magic and happily ever afters. Each Midnight Coven book is a romance novella featuring characters who occasionally cross over from book to book, so we hope you’ll read them all. You just never know when your favorite character might show up again.

  Your initiation begins now…

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sneak Peek - Storm of Sin

  About the Author

  Also by Patricia D. Eddy

  Chapter One

  Killian

  Power burst from his hands, turning his fingertips black and rather…crispy. Stalking over to his freezer, he grabbed one of his many ice packs. The sizzle as ice met skin made him cringe.

  “If anyone in this world still made wands…” His familiar, a small black kitten appropriately named Tiny, yawned and started cleaning her paw.

  “Shut it, cat.”

  “If I were a cat, perhaps I would ‘shut it.’ As I am not, go fuck yourself, Killian. You are a terrible witch, and hopelessly incompetent.” With her tail in the air, Tiny pranced away, heading for a patch of sunlight in the front window.

  “You’re supposed to be helping me with this shite. Or have you forgotten the role of a familiar?”

  From the other room, Tiny called, “Start acting like a witch and maybe I’ll start acting like a familiar.”

  Killian sank down at the kitchen table, the ice pack numbing his fingers as he ached for something to dull the pain of failure deep inside him. Every bloody day he tried, and every day, he either injured himself, set fire to something, or—on the worst days—set off a small explosion in the woods behind his property.

  The knock at the door startled him, and the ice pack landed on the kitchen tile with a dull thunk.

  Not now.

  But whoever wanted to see him wasn’t taking no for an answer. Or even waiting for him to reach the front room. The lock flipped open and the door creaked as sharp footsteps rapped across his hardwood floors. Killian’s fingers closed over the silver and iron cuff he’d left on the counter, and he barely managed to snap it around his wrist before Beatrix Pearce, head of the London Coven entered the room.

  “Torturing yourself again, Killian?” She tutted softly as she narrowed her ice blue eyes at the cuff and his blackened fingers. With a few whispered words, Beatrix draped her hands over his, and the burning pain faded almost instantly as his skin mended.

  Stepping back, she tucked a long strand of white hair back into her bun. “Better?”

  “Yes, High Priestess. Thank you,” Killian said. He stopped himself before he asked her what she was doing way out here in the Tonbridge countryside. It had been years since Killian had been willing to live in a city—among people. Not since he’d lost control and killed the vampire he’d been falling in love with.

  “Your thoughts betray you, witch,” Beatrix said. “Perhaps, since I came all this way, you could offer me some tea? Or…something stronger?”

  He hated that word. Witch. He’d begged Beatrix more than once to call him a warlock, but Beatrix insisted that was not the proper term and she would not be using it. Trudging to his stove, he lit the burner and added water to the kettle. “To what do I owe this pleasure, High Priestess?”

  “You’d best control your tone, young man. You may be one of the most powerful witches of an age, but I can still give you a thrashing.” Beatrix examined her nails as Killian opened a tin of black tea and withdrew two bags.

  The act of preparing the tea centered him a bit, and by the time he brought the mugs and the sugar bowl he knew Beatrix would want to the table, his emotions were almost under control. At the last moment, he snagged a bottle of bourbon and set it in front of her as well. “My apologies. It has not been an easy day. But that is no excuse for my rudeness.”

  “No, it is not.” Beatrix added two spoonfuls of sugar to her tea along with a healthy pour of bourbon, stirred daintily, and then sighed. “You know of the Witches’ Ball and coven meeting in America?”

  “Of course. I’m not that much of a fuck-up, High Priestess.”

  She snorted, then touched her bun again, making sure every hair was in place. “We are not at the coven house. You may call me Beatrix. A one-time dispensation only.”

  This couldn’t be good. Beatrix was well over seventy years old, and some of the other coven members believed her to be closer to two hundred and seventy. She did not bend the rules, did not take to casual conversation. She also did not make house calls. She summoned.

  After a sip of the steaming liquid, she set the mug down and withdrew an envelope from the pocket of her skirt. “It is a great honor to receive an invitation. I have attended a dozen times. But this year, the letter that arrived was not addressed to me.”

  Killian choked on his tea as she slid the thick, cream-colored envelope across the table. “Are you having a laugh? No one would invite me. Not unless they had a death wish.”

  But there on the front, in thick, gold embossing, was his name. Killian Wade, Witch.

  Of course they’d include that word.

  “You should open it,” Beatrix said. “Ignoring such a summons can be unwise.”

  Killian pushed his chair back and stood. “No. I won’t touch it.”

  Her chuckle contained no mirth. “That will end badly for you, Killian.”

  “Being among other witches will end badly for me, Beatrix. Or have you forgotten what I did?” Killian could still hear the screams in his nightmares. Shadows flickered in the corners of the room, and the cuff around his wrist burned his skin as his magic fought to escape.

  His memories haunted him. Oliver screaming, burning, dying. Blood dripping from numerous wounds, half his head bashed in, and missing his right hand.

  Killian couldn’t breathe. He had to get outside. Somewhere he couldn’t hurt anyone. Pushing through the back door, he sucked in deep lungfuls of the cool autumn air, staring out over the misty landscape.

  “I would not leave that envelope untended for long,” Tiny said as she padded lightly into the tall grasses off his back porch. “The New Orleans coven’s magic is legendary, and they do not take kindly to being made to wait. If the cottage is destroyed, you are not putting me in a kennel.”

  Fuck me.

  Stalking back inside, he swiped the envelope off the table and broke the seal before he registered that Beatrix was no longer there. “What the bloody hell—?”

  His entire body folded in on itself, twisting and compacting until he was no more than a speck of dust in the air. And then, as if the world’s largest vacu
um cleaner had suddenly turned on, he flew. Over the lights of London, the black nothingness of the Atlantic Ocean, the eastern seaboard of the United States, until he found himself in the middle of Bourbon Street, New Orleans, where with a subtle pop, he was suddenly returned to his original form.

  “Fucking magic.”

  Maddox

  The celestial realm was boring.

  Maddox leaned against a pillar in Azrael’s foyer, waiting for the Angel of Death to grant him an audience. Even here, where archangels came and went frequently, ferrying souls—some willing, some very unwilling to leave their bodies—to the realm, he still couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to care.

  His immortal life stretched out before him, endless time he couldn’t break into hours or days like his brother could. Sinclair had been banished hundreds of years ago, consigned to Hell for a century after his part in one of the most depraved crime sprees the world had ever known.

  Prohibited from returning to the celestial realm and made to live among humans on earth, Sinclair was trying to atone for his sins, but, his ledger was weighted so far to the negative that it would take him a thousand human lifetimes or more to even be able to visit Maddox for a short time. His soul had been fractured into pieces, and only a very small part of it remained within his body. The rest…lost to the demons who’d used him, controlled him, and forced him to do their bidding.

  Maddox missed Sinclair. They’d grown up together, earned their wings together. Once Sinclair had been released from Hell, Maddox had been able to visit him. They’d walked among the humans so Maddox could experience the earthen realm. He’d tried alcohol, watched a football match, and enjoyed something called a movie.

  Unlike Maddox, who was half angel and half human, Sinclair’s angelic parentage was mixed with that of a demon. A succubus, to be exact, making Sin an incubus. And while Mad had watched, Sinclair had fed from half a dozen humans, taking their sexual energy and leaving them with pleasant or thrilling memories.

  He never took from anyone unwilling. One of the conditions of his sentence—but also something so very ingrained within Sin’s personality after what he’d been made to endure, he could not possibly do anything else.

  When he required energy, he’d glamour a human into ducking into an alley or a closet with him, search their minds for their deepest sexual fantasies, and use those thoughts as his meal. If the unsuspecting human kissed Sin, all the better, but it wasn’t required. And when he was done, he wiped their memories and replaced them with something happy.

  Maddox didn’t need sexual energy, but he’d been so curious, he’d chatted up several humans, both males and females, and even kissed two of them—one of each sex. He much preferred the male human to the female.

  “Both men and women are sexual beings, Mad,” Sinclair said as he and Maddox walked down a busy street in Seattle after spending time in what was called a pub. “I can take from either, but I prefer those of the female persuasion.”

  “I felt nothing kissing the woman,” Maddox replied. He’d been so disappointed in his first kiss, he’d almost left the pub and returned to the celestial realm immediately, but Sinclair had urged him to talk to a few men before he left, and the last one…he’d been delicious. Maddox’s dick—which he’d never given much thought to while in the celestial realm—had hardened, and a deep ache had started in his balls.

  And then he’d been called back to the celestial realm by a very impatient Azrael, who demanded to know why Maddox had been about to have sex with a human. It wasn’t exactly...forbidden, but highly frowned upon. One too many angels had succumbed to human temptation and decided never to return, and Azrael, one of the few who could grant access to the earthen realm, was tired of losing his angels to earth.

  Mad sighed as he watched another soul struggle in an archangel’s grip, wailing, “I want to go back! I don’t want to die!”

  Why would any soul want to return to a body that was decaying? Sin had talked about pain. About how he’d been injured while working for a human law enforcement agency. How earthen bodies took time to heal. As a half-demon, half-angel, Sin healed quickly, but humans often did not.

  And they aged. Broke down. Could not move quickly or without pops and creaks and...noises. Maddox would have to ask Azrael one day why a soul would not want to be free from pain. Or, perhaps the souls simply knew how completely devoid of fun the celestial realm was.

  A golden door burst open, and the Angel of Death strode across the foyer. “If you want an audience, Maddox, you will follow me. I have little time.”

  Mad trailed behind Azrael, into a sparkling, lavish bathing chamber with a bubbling fount in the center. Azrael shed his robes and stepped into the water, his corded muscles flexing with each small movement.

  Unprepared, Maddox gaped at the pure beauty of the angel, and under his robes, his member started to throb. Quickly, he clasped his hands in front of himself and stared at a point over Azrael’s head until the angel was submerged up to his neck. “Well?”

  “I wish to ask for an indulgence.”

  Azrael waved one of his hands—he currently only had two, but they multiplied when he was recording the various births and deaths on earth—urging Maddox to get on with it.

  “Sinclair. His sentence in the earthen realm may never end without assistance.”

  The angel’s eyes narrowed. “And you think you can help him with his redemption?”

  “There must be something I can do.” Maddox took a step closer to the fount, but that only revealed more of Azrael’s defined muscles, and so he kept his eyes downcast. “I…miss him.”

  “Sinclair will return to the celestial realm when he is ready. His sentence has nothing to do with time. Only with the clearing of his soul’s mark.”

  “Then tell me how I can help him clear the mark.”

  The frustrated sound rumbling in Azrael’s chest, along with the jerk of his wings sent Maddox stepping back in fear. No one crossed Azrael. Making him angry was a very good way to find yourself assigned to Purgatory.

  After a moment, the Angel of Death sighed. “There is something I require. An item stolen from our realm and in the possession of a coven of witches in a place called New Orleans.”

  “I can retrieve it for you,” Maddox said, hope building deep inside him. “Anything. What is it?”

  “A vial of celestial sand from the shores of the Sea of Redemption. With it, the witches have power over life and death, a power no human should ever be able to wield. Find it and bring it back to me, and I will see what I can do about your brother.”

  Maddox bowed, his wings dipping and touching the ground as he backed away. “Thank you, Azrael. Your kindness knows no bounds.”

  “You may not think me so kind when you land in the human realm,” the angel muttered. “I have heard nothing good about this New Orleans. A den of sin and iniquity. See the Traveler before you leave. He will provide you with appropriate clothing and a token for your return. Now be gone. This is the only time I have to myself, and I would like to enjoy it.”

  Maddox spun on his heel and sprinted from the room. By the time he’d left Azrael’s dominion, he was floating two feet above the ground, his wings fluttering softly in air that was always the perfect temperature, smelled like the freshest breeze, and cushioned every fall.

  He was going to the earthen realm. To New Orleans. And he was finally going to be able to help Sinclair return where he belonged.

  Chapter Two

  Killian

  The crowds were going to drive him mad. Or cause him to lose control. Killian fingered the cuff around his wrist, praying his emotions would not overwhelm the dampening spell infused into the metal before he got somewhere…quiet.

  But where?

  Beatrix could have warned him. Or Tiny. That damn cat had known there was magic in the envelope. “No more tuna for you,” he muttered to no one.

  Glancing down at the invitation, he frowned.

  Killian Wade

  You are invited t
o the Gathering

  Magnolia House, Samhain Eve

  As he read, the words shifted.

  You will be met at the Monarch Hotel. All you require will be provided.

  Fucking spelled ink. He didn’t even have his mobile on him. And with the dampening cuff, he could not summon it. Not unless he wanted to risk the lives of the hundreds of people around him.

  Scanning the street, he spied a police officer watching the crowds. Certainly he would know where this hotel was. “Pardon me,” Killian said as he approached slowly. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself all turned around. Would you be able to direct me to the Monarch Hotel?”

  The officer peered down at him—the man had to be half a head taller than Killian—and frowned. “How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  Arching a brow, the police officer nodded toward the corner. “Because the Monarch Hotel is all of thirty feet away.”

  “Bugger it,” Killian said as he sighed and gave a small shake of his head. “My better half is right. She can’t take me anywhere. I have no sense of direction. Apologies. When I tell her how daft I was that I couldn’t see what was right in front of me, she’ll never let me live it down.”

  The cop’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “I won’t tell her. Just…don’t get yourself in any trouble.”

  “No, sir. Not at all. Good night.” Killian rushed across the street, weaving through a parade of revelers wearing all manner of costumes, until he could push through the doors of the Monarch Hotel.

  The scent of jasmine floated over the air, along with a hint of spice and sandalwood. The lobby was done up in rich paneling, thick golden and burgundy carpets, with antique lights hanging from the ceiling.