don’t have any idea. But she knew what to say.”
“Describe her.”
He paused, taking time to choose his words. “Long, dark hair. Five-three. Had a kid with her. Said he was six. Didn’t get names.”
“But they mentioned Celeste?”
“Yeah.”
Serena fell silent and Gabriel knew what was coming. It’s what he should’ve done in the first place, if he wasn’t such a screwed-up ass.
“Do you think you could—”
“I’ll bring them up to you.”
He hesitated a split second too long to hang up and heard her say, “Gabriel?”
“Yeah?”
Another pause, this time on her end.
“Will you bring them? Will you come yourself?”
He heard the longing in those words and ruthlessly squashed the small flare of warmth it lit in him. He didn’t have time for it.
“Yeah, when I find them.”
He heard the smile in her voice. “Good. It’s been too long.”
“Goodbye, Serena.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
He depressed the cut-off then lifted his finger to dial again.
* * *
Serena set the phone in the hook, letting one hand linger on the silver handset while the other clutched the iron key hanging from the leather thong around her neck.
Her heart pounded furiously, making it hard to breathe.
She’d last seen Celeste twenty-five years ago. A year after that, her best friend had disappeared off the face of the earth.
And a year ago, Celeste had died.
Serena vividly recalled the night she’d woken from sleep, screaming in agony, knowing Celeste was gone. The psychic tie that bound their boschetta was strong. A death among them felt like death for all.
Serena still missed her with a nagging ache.
Which made the appearance of this girl and her child such a mystery.
Why would they approach Gabriel with Celeste’s name as a calling card? Who was this girl and how had she known Celeste? Why did she have a grigori child and why had she specifically asked for Gabriel?
What had happened to Celeste?
Now there are only nine.
There had been thirteen at first, thirteen women with a sacred duty to the Etruscan Goddess Menrva to protect her most precious treasure. Today, the remaining nine were scattered around the world, living in fear for their lives, under assumed names. Or hiding in luxurious holes.
Because that bastard Fabrizio Paganelli had screwed them six ways to Sunday. Cursed them to this never-ending life, removed them from the natural order of life. Condemned them to wait hundreds of years for the rebirth of their blood-bound mates.
And set his son Dario on them like a rabid dog.
Rage rose like a storm-fed creek, boiled in her chest like the old friend it was until the force of it nearly buckled the floor beneath her feet. Five hundred years she and her fellow streghe had lived—cursed by a distraught father over the death of his beloved son.
With the floorboards still shaking beneath her, she released a scream that would have leveled trees in the forest if the house wasn’t warded to deny the passage of sound. She screamed until she was hoarse, arus swirling around her, threatening to suck everything in the room into a vortex.
Damn it, she didn’t want to have to buy new furniture. Not again. With a final sob, she fell into a heap on the floor, trying to catch her breath.
“Idiot,” she chided herself. “You need to get a grip.”
It was time to get off her ass and break this damn curse.
Her first attempt had failed nearly thirty years ago, when she’d made herself a whore for one night to seduce her most hated enemy.
She’d debased herself because the Goddess Menrva had promised, despite Fabrizio’s curse forbidding the streghe to ever bear another female, that one of the thirteen would indeed have a daughter who would end the curse.
The Goddess Menrva had sent a vision to the boschetta ’s seer, Dafne, just before her death. Dafne hadn’t cried or screamed or begged for mercy when the villagers the streghe had cared for all of their lives had tied her to the stake at Fabrizio’s urging.
Instead, she’d
“Describe her.”
He paused, taking time to choose his words. “Long, dark hair. Five-three. Had a kid with her. Said he was six. Didn’t get names.”
“But they mentioned Celeste?”
“Yeah.”
Serena fell silent and Gabriel knew what was coming. It’s what he should’ve done in the first place, if he wasn’t such a screwed-up ass.
“Do you think you could—”
“I’ll bring them up to you.”
He hesitated a split second too long to hang up and heard her say, “Gabriel?”
“Yeah?”
Another pause, this time on her end.
“Will you bring them? Will you come yourself?”
He heard the longing in those words and ruthlessly squashed the small flare of warmth it lit in him. He didn’t have time for it.
“Yeah, when I find them.”
He heard the smile in her voice. “Good. It’s been too long.”
“Goodbye, Serena.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
He depressed the cut-off then lifted his finger to dial again.
* * *
Serena set the phone in the hook, letting one hand linger on the silver handset while the other clutched the iron key hanging from the leather thong around her neck.
Her heart pounded furiously, making it hard to breathe.
She’d last seen Celeste twenty-five years ago. A year after that, her best friend had disappeared off the face of the earth.
And a year ago, Celeste had died.
Serena vividly recalled the night she’d woken from sleep, screaming in agony, knowing Celeste was gone. The psychic tie that bound their boschetta was strong. A death among them felt like death for all.
Serena still missed her with a nagging ache.
Which made the appearance of this girl and her child such a mystery.
Why would they approach Gabriel with Celeste’s name as a calling card? Who was this girl and how had she known Celeste? Why did she have a grigori child and why had she specifically asked for Gabriel?
What had happened to Celeste?
Now there are only nine.
There had been thirteen at first, thirteen women with a sacred duty to the Etruscan Goddess Menrva to protect her most precious treasure. Today, the remaining nine were scattered around the world, living in fear for their lives, under assumed names. Or hiding in luxurious holes.
Because that bastard Fabrizio Paganelli had screwed them six ways to Sunday. Cursed them to this never-ending life, removed them from the natural order of life. Condemned them to wait hundreds of years for the rebirth of their blood-bound mates.
And set his son Dario on them like a rabid dog.
Rage rose like a storm-fed creek, boiled in her chest like the old friend it was until the force of it nearly buckled the floor beneath her feet. Five hundred years she and her fellow streghe had lived—cursed by a distraught father over the death of his beloved son.
With the floorboards still shaking beneath her, she released a scream that would have leveled trees in the forest if the house wasn’t warded to deny the passage of sound. She screamed until she was hoarse, arus swirling around her, threatening to suck everything in the room into a vortex.
Damn it, she didn’t want to have to buy new furniture. Not again. With a final sob, she fell into a heap on the floor, trying to catch her breath.
“Idiot,” she chided herself. “You need to get a grip.”
It was time to get off her ass and break this damn curse.
Her first attempt had failed nearly thirty years ago, when she’d made herself a whore for one night to seduce her most hated enemy.
She’d debased herself because the Goddess Menrva had promised, despite Fabrizio’s curse forbidding the streghe to ever bear another female, that one of the thirteen would indeed have a daughter who would end the curse.
The Goddess Menrva had sent a vision to the boschetta ’s seer, Dafne, just before her death. Dafne hadn’t cried or screamed or begged for mercy when the villagers the streghe had cared for all of their lives had tied her to the stake at Fabrizio’s urging.
Instead, she’d
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