A Bargain With The Shadow Prince (paperback)

Opening the box again, I bring it nearer to the fire for a better look. Shadows dance across the contents. Inside, a dingy, yellowing candle stub stinks of beeswax, incense, and dust—the scent of an ancient church or maybe a tomb. Beside the candle is a knife, its bone handle giving way to a curved blade. Clutching the collar of my pink bathrobe tighter under my chin, I reread the instructions.

Light the candle.
Stand naked before the symbol.
Offer your blood.

“Why does there have to be cutting involved?” I place the box on the mantel and cross the room to take another swig of the wine. It doesn’t help. I’m afraid there’s not enough liquid courage in the world to make this easy.

Gong. The clock chimes. Midnight. I’m out of time.

I abandon the wine, rush back to the box, and position the candle at the head of the symbol. Grabbing matches off the mantel, I fumble for one and strike it against the gritty strip along the side of the box.

Gong.

When it doesn’t light, I steady my hands and strike again, relieved when I hear a chiff and the match head sparks to life. Bending carefully, I touch it to the wick, my heart thundering. The flame burns black.

“What the actual fuck?” I toss the match into the fireplace.

Gong.

Stand naked before the symbol. With a deep breath, I shrug out of my robe, letting the fluffy cotton pool around my ankles. I glance at the wall of windows behind me and the red oak whose gnarled branches wave in the breeze beyond. Harcourt Manor stands at the end of twenty acres of remote land and borders a cliff overlooking the Rappahannock River. No one will see me, but I can’t help feeling exposed.

Gong.

A chill snakes through the room, tightening my nipples to hard peaks. I thank my lucky stars Grams is a heavy sleeper. I’d die if she walked in right now. I snatch the blade from the box and extend my hand over the candle.

Gong.

What am I doing? Cutting myself? Fuck, this is messed up.

Gong.

I close my eyes. This is for Grams. For my parents’ memory. For the ancestors who are buried near the forest behind this house. I take a deep breath.

Gong.

I slice across the fleshy heel of my palm. Blood pools in the hollow. I turn my wrist and let it dribble onto the edge of the symbol.

Gong.

Everything tilts and the world takes on a dreamy quality, but I know I’m awake because my hand throbs. My eyes bulge as the chalk rises off the wood, the symbol twinkling like it’s constructed of tiny stars. The lamp on the end table flickers and goes dark.

Gong.

A bolt of lightning illuminates the yard outside the window. Is it even raining? I swear I see a figure standing next to the red oak tree—a decisively male silhouette, massive in stature. Someone is watching me.

Lightning strikes again and the figure is gone.
Gong.

With only the fire to light the room, I can’t trust my eyes as shadows gather in the corners—thick, smoky masses that tangle, then close in, bleeding into the symbol. The scent of dark spice overwhelms me. Gooseflesh marches up my arms. If the clock chimes again, I can’t hear it over the pounding of my heart.

All that darkness coalesces into a great, black, beastly form with demonic horns, wings, and a barbed tail. But as the thick smoke becomes corporeal, something else takes shape. A pair of leather shoes. Black slacks straining over thick thighs. Tapered hips. A narrow waist that widens into a broad chest. Heavily muscled shoulders. Corded arms. He is dressed in a loose white shirt, ordinary enough, but there is nothing ordinary about the face that forms from the ether. He is stunning. A dark-haired angel. A marble sculpture brought to life.

This is the advocate? God, the man is huge, six-four, if I had to guess, and built like he chops wood for a living. Menace bleeds off him, even before I see his scowl. And when he turns brilliant silver eyes on me that seem to glow in the dim light, I almost wet myself.

My throat gives a loud reflexive gulp.

I offer my cut hand, trembling hard enough to cause the blood to spill, and force out a raspy plea. “I need your help.”
He takes a step toward me, his mouth bending into a look of disgust as he scans me as if I’ve just climbed out of the sewer. “You are no Gowdie witch.”