Kiss Me Deadly: Tales of a Paranormal Romance

“Miss Cunningham said Miss Abrams offered resistance. Myself and two other servants carried her in. She’s dead to the world, pardon the expression.”

Chauncey thought on this a moment. He hadn’t expected her to arrive drugged, but it was of little consequence. She was here. His eyes swept to the window. The moon was high, the stars taunting in their brightness; midnight sneaked closer with every passing second. He’d planned on relishing the deep, lurid satisfaction that came from hearing Jolie scream as he dragged her deeper into the labyrinthine tunnels, damp with standing water, musty from the catacombs, but there wasn’t time to let the sedative wear off. He needed to get her into the bowels of the château before he left to meet the angel in the cemetery. There was much still to do: he had to map the way. He had to prepare provisions to last her a fortnight, just in case. He had to instruct Boswell and the other servants to stay away from the château. He wanted no one around to unwillingly help the angel—

Suddenly his impatience faded away. Knowing he was not the only one unable to control his own destiny tonight caused him a sudden wave of satisfaction.

In the kitchen, Chauncey lit a torch and opened the heavy door leading down to the cellar. The tunnels were still very much a mystery to him, despite all the years he’d lived in the château. He’d gone down once or twice since his last excursion as a child, and only to prove to himself he could—he was a grown man now, and not afraid of the invented monsters of his childhood.

He thrust the torch into the darkness of the stairwell, light gleaming on the gray walls. His boots rang out against each stone step. At the bottom, he fixed the torch into a wall bracket. There was one other bracket on the far side of the cellar, but as far as he knew, it was the last. There had been no need for brackets in the tunnels beyond, as nobody but prisoners and their guides had ventured there.

Chauncey had four large spools of thread in a leather satchel slung over his shoulder, and he pulled out the first. He tied one end to the banister, tugging on it several times to confirm it was secure. The hairs on his neck prickled at the thought of losing his way in the tunnels. His stepfather had joked that there was only one direction to the tunnels—in. Reminded of this, Chauncey gave one last jerk on the thread. Satisfied it would hold, he picked up the torch and set off into the devil’s mouth, unraveling the spool as he went, mapping his way with a web of thread.

* * *

Even in the smoky near-black cell, lying awkwardly on the dirt floor, Jolie Abrams was pretty. She was unconventionally tall for a woman, but Chauncey was hardly one to be critical of height. Her peasant clothes were gone, replaced by peacock green silk, and her wavy brown hair was pinned up, giving him an unobstructed view of her cheekbones and oval face. She had obscenely long eyelashes and a splattering of freckles that he somehow intuitively knew caused her to throw her hands up every time she faced the looking glass. A gold locket adorned her neck.

Chauncey growled at the locket, using his thumb to push it open. To his surprise, it wasn’t the angel’s face painted inside, but another woman. She resembled Jolie too much to be anything other than a sister. He closed the locket, feeling suddenly foolish at prying into her most intimate belongings.

He inspected the cell. A cot in the corner and a silver tray of food on a table, out of reach of the rodents. He suddenly wished he’d brought something to make her more comfortable. Extra blankets at the very least. She was a lady, and proper treatment of the opposite sex had been ingrained in him by tutors as far back as he could remember. Which probably explained why he chose farm maidens or dancers, like Elyce, who sought a wealthy patron, not a husband—when he wanted a woman at all.

He eyed the manacles hanging from the walls, but saw no need for them. The cell door was as thick as the tree it had been cut from; Jolie would have to scratch at it with her fingernails for a thousand years to carve a way out. A pair of mice scurried along the wall as he waved the torch into the deeper shadows. He chased them under the door and scraped their droppings off the heels of his boots.

Jolie stirred at his feet, letting go of a sleepy troubled sigh. She was on her side, lying on dirt made colder by late October. Frosty puffs of air smoked from her lips.

“Who are you?” she said between her teeth, her voice a hiss of anger. Her upturned shoulder rose and fell with every breath. “What do you want from me?”

He felt the need to tell her this was the angel’s fault, but the truth was, he could have let her go. He could let her walk out right now. He could order one of his coachmen to drive her home. She would return to her safe comfortable life, while he spent the next fortnight in agony.

“You’re going to be staying here for a while,” he said. “I’ll see that you’re comfortable, with enough food and water—”

“Comfortable? Comfortable? ” She sat up and flung a fist of dirt at him.

Chauncey was slow to brush the dirt off his shirt. He was a brute, was he? A mindless savage? What did she think of the angel? That he was better?

If Chauncey was a tyrant, the angel was ten times more the devil. He held Chauncey’s body hostage every year! And it wasn’t like Chauncey could run away during those dozen days and nights, or block out what he saw. No. For a whole fortnight he was trapped in a body that didn’t feel like his own, forced to watch every despicable act the angel put him through. The angel gambled his money. Drank his wine. Commanded his servants. Romanced his women.

Two years ago, he’d suffered in raging silence as the angel seduced Elyce, treating her to what she pronounced were “the most magical fourteen days” of her life. Chauncey had ordered her out of his presence the moment Cheshvan ended. He still remembered the confusion and fury in her eyes. He didn’t tell her he wasn’t responsible for her fortnight of blissful magic.

“You don’t have the decency to tell me what this is about?” Jolie’s cheeks were fully flushed, every word that came from her mouth stabbing Chauncey like a needle. Her eyes raked his tailored clothing, and Chauncey read her thoughts.

A gentleman in dress, but not in action.

What gentleman would kidnap a lady and hold her prisoner? He swelled with humiliation, but he also had the angel to think about. Chauncey wasn’t going to let the angel possess him again. The thought goaded him past reason.

Jolie cocked her head to one side, the light of recognition filling her eyes. “You ... you were at the fight. In Angers. The other night. I saw you.” He could practically hear her thoughts trying to pull sense from her words.

“I have business with the angel.” He smiled faintly, in spite of himself.

“Who?”

Chauncey’s smile deepened. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” she said testily.

“Your lover isn’t a man. More like an animal, I’d say.”

The first glimpse of wariness shadowed her face.

“He’s one of the banished angels. That’s right, love. An angel. Don’t believe me? Get a good look at his back. Wing scars.” Oh, he was enjoying this.

“He—told me he was flogged.”

Chauncey tipped his head back and laughed.

She was on her knees, her hands balled into fists. “He told me it happened while he was in the army!”

“Did he now?” he said, then let himself out of the dungeon room. He’d planted the seed. The angel wouldn’t find his sweetheart quite so ignorant at their next meeting. If she agreed to meet him at all.

He pulled the door shut hard, locking it with the drop of an iron bar. He heard her on the other side, beating the door and shouting profanities. He heard the tray of food clash against the door, and growled. Now he’d have to leave the thread intact so Elyce could deliver a second tray.

He groped blindly for the thread, feeling his way out. Each step felt heavier, and each breath took more work. Cheshvan. Midnight was all too close. He felt its approach echo in every sinew. Chauncey redoubled his efforts, walking more quickly, fearing what would happen if he didn’t reach the cemetery in time.

* * *

Rain pattered down on the darkening countryside surrounding Château de Langeais, but Chauncey