The House of Crimson & Clover Volumes V-VIII: Crimson & Clover Collections, #2

THE HOUSE OF CRIMSON & CLOVER

VOLUMES V-VIII

SARAH M. CRADIT

CONTENTS

Also by Sarah M. Cradit

Playlists

Midnight Dynasty

I. Malediction

1. Elizabeth

2. Tristan

3. Amelia

4. Colleen

5. Tristan

6. Amelia

7. Tristan

8. Amelia

9. Colleen

10. Tristan

11. Amelia

II. Convocation

12. Julianne

13. Adrienne

14. Tristan

15. Markus

16. Olivia

17. Colleen

18. Oz

19. Alain

20. Oz

21. Markus

22. Colleen

23. Adrienne

24. Katja

25. Oz

26. Olivia

27. Tristan

28. Alain

III. Omega

29. Tristan

30. Colleen

31. Katja

32. Adrienne

33. Amelia

34. Olivia

35. Tristan

36. Alain

37. Markus

38. Adrienne

39. Colleen

40. Katja

41. Adrienne

42. Tristan

43. Oz

44. Alain

45. Nicolas

46. Olivia

47. Tristan

48. Markus

Epilogue: Amelia

Asunder

1. Amelia

2. Tristan

3. Oz

4. Jacob

5. Amelia

6. Tristan

7. Colleen

8. Jacob

9. Tristan

10. Colleen

11. Amelia

12. Oz

13. Colleen

14. Tristan

15. Jacob

16. Oz

17. Tristan

18. Colleen

19. Jacob

20. Tristan

21. Amelia

22. Tristan

23. Oz

24. Amelia

Epilogue

Empire of Shadows

Prologue

I. Discovery

1. Aidrik

2. Nicolas

3. Anasofiya

4. Amelia

5. Aidrik

6. Nicolas

7. Anasofiya

8. Amelia

9. Aidrik

10. Nicolas

11. Agripin

12. Amelia

13. Anasofiya

14. Nicolas

15. Aidrik

16. Amelia

17. Agripin

18. Nicolas

19. Anasofiya

20. Nicolas

21. Aidrik

22. Agripin

23. Amelia

24. Nicolas

25. Anasofiya

26. Amelia

II. Brotherhood of the Dragon

27. Aidrik

28. Lucia

29. Amelia

30. Anasofiya

31. Nerys

32. Tristan

33. Anasofiya

34. Nicolas

35. Agripin

36. Amelia

37. Anasofiya

38. Cyler

39. Lucia

40. Jacob

41. Aidrik

42. Amelia

43. Anasofiya

44. Tristan

45. Lucia

46. Agripin

47. Cyler

48. Jacob

49. Anasofiya

III. Empire of Shadows

50. Morrigan’s Prophecy

51. Finnegan

52. Jacob

53. Nicolas

54. Jacob

55. Anasofiya

56. Nicolas

57. Finnegan

58. Jacob

59. Anasofiya

60. Nicolas

61. Jacob

62. Tristan

63. Cyler

64. Anasofiya

65. Aleksandr

66. Amelia

67. Anasofiya

68. Nicolas

69. Agripin

70. Amelia

71. Finnegan

Epilogue

Myths of Midwinter

1. Quillan

2. Finnegan

3. Lauren

4. Finnegan

5. Leander

6. Finnegan

7. Quillan

8. Jonathan

9. Quillan

10. Finnegan

11. Estella

12. Nerys

13. Quillan

14. Jonathan

15. Quillan

16. Olivia

17. Estella

18. Nerys

19. Quillan

20. Katja

21. Estella

22. Nerys

23. Quillan

24. Olivia

25. Estella

26. Nerys

27. Lauren

28. Katja

29. Estella

30. Jonathan

31. Quillan

32. Olivia

33. Quillan

34. Katja

35. Finnegan

36. Quillan

37. Olivia

38. Quillan

39. Jonathan

40. Katja

41. Quillan

42. Nerys

43. Estella

44. Grace

45. Quillan

46. Finnegan

47. Katja

48. Olivia

49. Estella

50. Finnegan

51. Olivia

52. Estella

53. Katja

54. Colleen

55. Estella

56. Finnegan

Epilogue

The Hinterland Veil Excerpt

Also by Sarah M. Cradit

Crimson & Clover Connections

About the Author

Copyright © 2014-2015 Sarah M. Cradit

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, at Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Sarah M. Cradit

Tarot Design by Sarah M. Cradit

Publisher Contact:

[email protected]

www.sarahmcradit.com

ALSO BY SARAH M. CRADIT

KINGDOM OF THE WHITE SEA

Kingdom of the White Sea Trilogy

The Kingless Crown

The Broken Realm

The Hidden Kingdom

The Book of All Things

The Raven and the Rush

The Sylvan and the Sand

The Altruist and the Assassin

The Melody and the Master

The Claw and the Crowned

THE SAGA OF CRIMSON & CLOVER

The House of Crimson and Clover Series

The Storm and the Darkness

Shattered

The Illusions of Eventide

Bound

Midnight Dynasty

Asunder

Empire of Shadows

Myths of Midwinter

The Hinterland Veil

The Secrets Amongst the Cypress

Within the Garden of Twilight

House of Dusk, House of Dawn

Midnight Dynasty Series

A Tempest of Discovery

A Storm of Revelations

A Torrent of Deceit

The Seven Series

1970

1972

1973

1974

1975

1976

1980

Vampires of the Merovingi Series

The Island

and more

The Dusk Trilogy

St. Charles at Dusk: The Story of Oz and Adrienne

Flourish: The Story of Anne Fontaine

Banshee: The Story of Giselle Deschanel

Crimson & Clover Stories

Surrender: The Story of Oz and Ana

Shame: The Story of Jonathan St. Andrews

Fire & Ice: The Story of Remy & Fleur

Dark Blessing: The Landry Triplets

Pandora's Box: The Story of Jasper & Pandora

The Menagerie: Oriana’s Den of Iniquities

A Band of Heather: The Story of Colleen and Noah

The Ephemeral: The Story of Autumn & Gabriel

Bayou’s Edge: The Landry Triplets

For more information, and exciting bonus material, visit www.sarahmcradit.com

PLAYLISTS

Every book in the House of Crimson & Clover Series has its own Spotify playlist. They’re designed to be an accompaniment to the reading experience, but are by no means necessary. You can also follow me to get updates when I update old playlists or add new ones.

Midnight Dynasty

Asunder

Empire of Shadows

Myths of Midwinter

MIDNIGHT DYNASTY

THE HOUSE OF CRIMSON & CLOVER VOLUME V

PART ONE

MALEDICTION

APRIL 2006

A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.

Mark Twain

1

ELIZABETH

Elizabeth woke abruptly, sweat pooling at her brow. Her dreams only grew to levels this vivid when their reality was imminent.

Beside her, Connor lay snoring, undisturbed. He had never, not in nearly three decades of marriage, had trouble sleeping through his wife’s episodes. She could wake screaming at the top of her lungs and he’d continue on in uninterrupted, restful bliss.

As a seer, Elizabeth often saw glimpses of the future. When awake, her visions were unreliable. She was only given snippets, with much of what she saw open to interpretation. When dreaming, however, they were painfully lucid. She could see the future in all its terror or glory, with no filter to help ease the burden.

Of course, as a Deschanel, this ability was not wholly unique. Her relatives were healers, empaths, and other powerfully gifted individuals. But the rest of them experienced things in the now. They laid their hands on someone sick and that person was healed. They sensed disquiet in another and helped soothe it. Elizabeth only ever saw what was to come. And, whether it came to her in a dream or otherwise, it always, without fail, came to pass.

She glanced at the clock: two in the morning. Connor would be waking in a few hours to head in to the law firm. Tristan, her son, would be dead to the world until lunchtime.

Though Tristan didn’t figure into her dream—thank God, she couldn’t lose another child to this wretched Curse—she still had a pressing urge to check on him. Since he was born, nearly twenty-one years ago to the day, she’d always feared he would stop breathing in his sleep. Some nights, even now, she sat at his bedside and watched his chest rise and fall. She’d done the same thing for Danielle too, but now Danielle was gone.

This was the life Elizabeth Sullivan led day in and day out: one of dread. Fear the Deschanel Curse would continue to strike those she loved. Terror it might take Tristan, as it had Danielle.

Tristan lay askew in his old childhood bed, long legs dangling out from the side of his sheets. Elizabeth released the sigh she’d been holding in, and sat quietly on the pine chest beside his bed. Once filled with toys and plush friends, now it lay stuffed with forgotten sports gear and a messy stack of dog-eared video game magazines.

He wasn’t in the vision. He was safe, she kept telling herself. But years later, she was still unable to get the sight of her only daughter, lying broken in the street, out of her head. Eyes open, closed, it didn’t matter. That image was burned in her heart and mind for all of time. It was a wound that would never heal, a grief she would never recover from.

Though Tristan was safe, for now, there were others in the family, people she loved, who were not. Nieces and nephews she watched grow up. Children who never would.

And there was nothing—not one thing—Elizabeth could do to stop it. It was going to happen. The only unknown was when.

2

TRISTAN

Tristan finished cleaning up the dinner mess. His father was working late at the firm, as he often did, and while Tristan knew his mother wouldn’t eat, he fixed her dinner anyway. After eating alone, he checked on her, and she was just as he’d left her an hour before: curled-up in a living room chair, head pillowed on one upholstered armrest, vacant gaze fixed on the wall beside her. He considered moving her, ultimately deciding it unnecessary. Elizabeth had her own bedroom for times like this, although when she was present, she stayed with her husband. In any case, she wouldn’t even realize Tristan was gone. She never did.

Tristan drove down to the Quarter. Entering the Desire Oyster Bar, he waited at the small, isolated table in the corner while he listened to the endless drone of tourists around him. He would have to deal with it, as he had for the past year. He chose the tourist traps for her sake. In a room full of locals, the risk of someone recognizing her would be too great.

She was usually a few minutes late. Tristan checked his watch anyway, neurotically every few minutes, as if simply having a grasp on the time might cause her to materialize. About twenty minutes after the hour she finally arrived, rushing toward him in a great frenzy, an attempt to project her tardiness was the result of some comedy of errors, and not the norm.

Emily was not exactly beautiful, at least not in any traditional sense. She had pretty, apple-shaped cheeks, and soft, but not shiny, brown hair. Her height and figure were equally average, and unremarkable. It was really her smile that caught Tristan’s heart the day he met her. Her face was rather ordinary without expression, but when she smiled her entire presence transformed, blossoming with hints of the beauty she must have possessed in her youth.

Emily. He’d been seeing her for over a year now. He couldn’t even really call it dating. She was fifteen years older, but more to the point, married to someone else. Her husband remained perpetually buried in his work, and she was looking for more. Tristan happened to be present and available when she realized her need. And although he felt guilty about her situation, it was the safest kind of relationship for Tristan: enjoyable, but without any risk of long-term commitment.

If he’d been born into another family, with different genes, his possibilities would’ve been limitless. But he was Tristan Sullivan, of the Deschanel clan, and family was not an option. His mother had spent twenty-one years driving this unfortunate point into his head with dogged determination. Because of her emphatic insistence, he was among those who really, truly believed in the Deschanel Curse. His young life—if you could call it that—revolved around this conviction.

He made a vow, with his cousins Amelia, Katja, and Markus, to never, ever have children. Solemnly, they swore to set aside selfish desires, and to never be responsible for bringing more anguish to their family. We will always have each other, they’d promised, confident that would be enough. As if the day would never come when they’d realize all they were giving up, for something they had no control over.

There were cousins who disregarded the warnings and started families. Not a day went by that Tristan didn’t worry about their safety.

On the other hand, he never let himself get too attached to them, either.

Hi, Emily greeted, beaming down at him. Her smile was even more ethereal than usual. In fact, she appeared to be very nearly glowing. Sorry I’m late.

You’re always late, Tristan teased, crossing his arms over his chest in feigned vexation. Sometimes I’m tempted to change the meeting time to thirty minutes earlier, just so you’ll arrive on time.

She wrinkled her nose and frowned, but knew he was teasing. Leaning forward, she planted a soft kiss against his mouth, and he began to relax, remembering this was his escape. It was his time to allow the endless worries to fade away, and let her soothing presence take over.

Rather than asking how her day went, Tristan waited for her to share. Emily had a rather uneventful life. She was a schoolteacher, and didn’t get out much. Evenings were spent either with Tristan, or at the school helping students. Her husband was an executive in some banking company downtown—which one exactly, Tristan never wanted to know, just as he didn’t really want to know Emily’s last name—and worked late into the evenings, leaving his wife to her own devices. He apparently never wondered or cared where his wife invested her time. Tristan suspected Mr. Emily probably had his own fun on the side.

The Canal Streetcar was packed, she lamented, as if her lateness had nothing to do with her own lack of time management. She drew a deep sip of the long-melted ice water. Oh, did you hear about the shooting down on Derbigny?

No, Tristan replied, not bothering to add that gun violence in New Orleans wasn’t exactly front-page news. With nothing polite or interesting to contribute, he decided to break his own rule. How were the kids today? Any more crazy science experiments?

Emily brightened at his asking, and started in with a story about something funny one of her third graders did involving the class hamster, George Washington. Tristan smiled and laughed at the right moments, but his mind was elsewhere, despite having resolved to set aside his worry.

He was at a complete loss about his mother.

On one hand, she was right to worry about the Curse. Tristan himself believed in it. And not solely because of his mother, but because the two aunts he respected most also gave it credence. Colleen and Evangeline were both women of science. Colleen was a brain surgeon, and Evie a damned nuclear physicist, for god’s sake. They believed, as did most of their children. Amelia, Colleen’s daughter, was basically Tristan’s hero. He admired her intelligence and kindness, and she took after her mother in many ways. Colleen’s son, Ashley, didn’t put much stock in the Curse, but he was a good man who Tristan could look up to in other ways. Markus and Katja, Evangeline’s kids, were ridiculously smart, too. Markus was one of Tristan’s best friends.

Amelia, Markus, and Katja, along with their parents, believed in the Curse on an intellectual level. They saw it through the lens of something that did not necessarily have a logical explanation, but was nonetheless irrefutable.

Tristan’s mother, though… her belief in the Curse was different. She viewed it far more personally than anyone else in the family, especially after the shocking death of her daughter. Tristan overheard his Uncle Augustus once say Elizabeth was afraid of her own shadow, for the love of god. He accused her of still believing in monsters under her bed, and boogeymen lurking in the woods. He meant it as a joke, but as with all well-aimed humor, a great deal of truth interlaced his words. These beliefs of things that went bump in the night were slowly undoing her. Tristan wondered how much longer she could function.

Connor was a decent husband and father. In fact, if not for Connor, Tristan might not have survived childhood. His mother often forgot when summer was nearing end and that the kids needed clothes, but Connor remembered. He would give Colleen or Maureen some money to take Tristan, and his sister Danielle, along when they did the shopping for their own kids. Then there were nights Elizabeth would get so caught up in writing her memoirs she’d forget the kids needed dinner. Or going further back, their diapers changed. Connor took care of everything, and in a lot of ways, he was a parent to three, not two. He coddled Elizabeth in a manner that suggested their marriage was less equal, more that of caregiver and patient.

But in the last year or so, his father had seemingly given up. It had been a slow decline, starting with Danielle’s death, but recently he appeared to have lost all hope. Tristan thought it was because he’d begun to really feel the burden of his wasted efforts and came to realize he couldn’t save his wife, just as he hadn’t been able to save his daughter. He escaped to the office more, seeing as though Tristan was now an adult and could look after himself. Tristan didn’t blame him, but it only reinforced the sinking dismay as his mother faded further into melancholy.

Tristan tried talking to his father about this subject many times, but Connor’s protective nature would minimize the issue. Your mother has always been this way. You know that.

But his mother was drowning in her tortured daydreams, and his father would rather disappear into his work than address it. The Sullivans came from a good, solid family. Irishmen. They understood hard work might bear fruit, and sometimes it could result in famine. A part of Connor accepted his wife was slipping further away, but that same practicality understood there was nothing to be done about it.

Stop it. This isn’t the time to be thinking about this. This is your escape, you stupid fool.

Emily eventually realized Tristan was not all there. Am I boring you?

No, he said honestly, but not confidently. Her face fell. It isn’t you. I’ve had a rough day.

Your mom again? she asked as her expression softened to disproportionate concern. He imagined it was the look she gave her students when they scraped their knee on the playground, right before they erupted into world-ending hysterics.

He nodded in confirmation, but didn’t offer anything else. Tristan, of course, had never told her about the Deschanel Curse or his mother’s mania, but he had relayed some half-truths. It had been enough to say his mother was ill, and he worried for her.

And while he didn’t want to talk about it, in acknowledging the upset, he would both be truthful and get her to not press the matter. Emily knew it was a touchy subject and empathy was one of her finest traits. Predictably, she offered more of her exaggerated concern, and covered his hand with a gentle pat. In spite of himself, he enjoyed this tenderness, but continued to keep the wall between them, so as not to ever feel too much around her. The barrier of her marriage, and the Curse, kept his mind focused where it belonged.

While measured empathy felt nice, Emily was working herself into full-on pity, which he detested. In an effort to redirect her compassionate efforts, he suggested, If you have some time, we could go to Ana’s.

Emily immediately brightened at the suggestion they retire to their usual spot. Tristan’s cousin, Anasofiya, had been overseas for months, on business only the Deschanel Magi Collective knew the specifics of, and had given him permission to use her apartment on Chartres. He and Emily couldn’t exactly escape to her house, and bringing any female to his would raise all sorts of questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

"I would love that," Emily exclaimed, eyes twinkling. She placed her napkin on the table, and stood, leading the way as if any hesitation might cause Tristan to change his mind. Tristan left some money for the water and bread, and followed her.

They took his car, and he parked in Ana’s spot, ushering Emily back through the wrought-iron gate and into the brightly foliaged courtyard. The sound of jazz from Jackson Square, a block away, filled their ears. He twisted the key in the lock, and as the door swung open, her arms were already around his neck, landing kisses across the hollow under his jaw, and the dimpled cleft of his chin. With practiced dexterity, she had his pants off before he could kick the door closed.

Tristan lost himself in her fervor, unsure of where his usually reserved Emily had gone, but certainly not raising any complaints. Forcibly setting confusion aside, he pressed her up against the secretary.

The first time was quick. With her so ardent, there was no chance of him lasting. But then he let her lead him to the guest bedroom wearing only her Cheshire-cat smile. He followed behind her nude figure, admiring how, even in her late-thirties, her ass was still firm and high, her skin smooth and unlined. I am so unbelievably fortunate to have a beautiful woman who gives so much to me without asking for anything real in return.

She climbed atop him as he settled against the satin sheets. Under her tender ministrations, Tristan blissfully escaped into the slow rhythmic movements pulling him further, and further, away from his troubles at home.

After their release, Emily hesitated, looking down at him with wide glistening eyes. At first Tristan was alarmed, worrying he’d hurt her in some way. But then her brown eyes turned glassy as she opened her mouth, and with a great, soft sigh whispered, I love you, Tristan.

I love you. Words Tristan had avoided, and dared not say to anyone outside his family. Words he never expected having to say in this arrangement. Words that could not ever be unsaid.

He was entirely lost for response and, in his horror, flipped her off on to the bed beside him and stumbled out of the room. Instinctively, he knew she was hurt, unsure, and probably many other things he’d caused with such an insensitive reaction. He hated himself for it. But in his panic, he didn’t stop.

Why was I such a gentleman about my telepathy around her… why didn’t I sense this… how could I have not seen this coming… I am such an idiot!

With the door locked behind him, Tristan dropped to his knees and slid to the floor, cold sweat beading up all over him as the uncontrollable shaking began.

3

AMELIA

Amelia closed the manila folder after making her final notes, ending her day in the office. The last patient, a man with borderline personality disorder, was especially troubling. Not so much what he’d said in his therapy session, but more so what he had not.

As an empath, it was difficult not to let her natural abilities seep into her sessions. Newly a doctor of psychology, she had already learned many patients, despite their honest attempts at reaching out for help, often lied about their problems. Instead, they crafted a world more palatable, where they could feel safe. It was Amelia’s job to gently deconstruct this illusion, providing reassurance while helping them peacefully accept reality.

Aside from her nagging worry, in all she’d sensed from Jeremy Boudreaux, she did not suspect he would harm himself, so there was little she could do beyond continuing to work with him. And as Jacob would gently remind her, she couldn’t always take these emotions home. Allowing them to bleed over into her world was exhausting, and unhealthy. And potentially fatal, her mother’s words added.

Jacob. Even his name summoned a smile to her lips. Jacob Donnelly was the only man who’d ever brought a blush to Amelia Jameson’s pale cheeks. And, she suspected, the only one who ever would.

She observed Jacob’s handsomeness as charming, and completely unintentional. His short black hair flashed here and there in adorable spikes, but not from any great effort on his part. His eyes sparkled emerald green, with a gaze so intense people often looked away without realizing why. But this was a misleading trait, for those who knew Jacob gravitated toward his playful nature. He especially loved to make others laugh. And where Amelia was concerned, Jacob never failed in that.

Amelia knew she should marry him. He had, after all, insisted up and down he could live without having children, as long as he had her. But this wretched Curse didn’t exactly come with a manual, and she couldn’t be sure bringing him into the family wouldn’t put him in harm’s way.

As if sensing she was thinking of him, Jacob called. "Mi bruja blanca, I don’t have to be a damn psychic Deschanel to know you’re still sitting at your desk, dwelling, he good-naturedly teased, from across town in the Garden District home they shared. Besides, I did what we both know you cannot, and concocted a killer jambalaya. I make no promises as to its future if you’re not home in thirty minutes."

Amelia smiled. Mi bruja blanca. My white witch. He’d called her that for years. Her hair was so light it was very nearly white, almost devoid of pigment. This, combined with Amelia’s sky blue eyes and Nordic skin tone, often produced a startling effect on people when they first met her.

Donnelly, we both know you don’t enjoy sleeping on the couch, so why make idle threats? she bantered back.

Don’t test me, woman. I’ll take my jambalaya in the bedroom and lock the door.

Hmph, she replied, with a short laugh. You’re right, there’s not an entire locksmith in all of New Orleans. Whatever will I do?

You mean none of your relatives can open a lock with their mind yet? Amateurs.

They could spar like this for hours, but she’d rather do it in person. I’ll be home in a few. Try not to annihilate the jambalaya before I get there.

Effort promised. Results uncertain, he replied. She could see his wide smile through the phone, as he added, "Love you, Blanca." Connected to him on a much deeper level, her empathic senses also felt his pure happiness, a feeling she shared with equal intensity. How he could still make her feel tingly inside, after all these years, was simultaneously baffling and reassuring.

Still smiling, Amelia locked her office and walked a few blocks to the streetcar stop. In tandem with the low rumble of the Canal Streetcar, a ripple of deep pain seized her, shattering her smile as she picked up the agony of someone dear to her. This was not her empathic touch, this was the other ability she had. A seer, some called her, but she was nowhere near as powerful, or precise, as her Aunt Elizabeth. Amelia’s felt more like vague premonitions. Loose and unfocused, hinging instead on the emotional impact rather than the physical. A perfect and terrible match for her empathic nature.

Amelia closed her eyes for a moment, trying to solidify any details her mind would allow. Someone close to her, but who? Not Jacob, no. And not just one individual, either. Two. Tristan. And Aunt Elizabeth. With both, it was a feeling of intense foreboding, on the scale of life-changing.

Amelia gripped the streetcar sign as a wave of nausea and lightheadedness overtook her. A man rushed to her side to help, but she waved him away. Regretting the need to be rude in the face of his kindness, the feeling only grew worse when others interfered.

And then, as quickly as the dread had assaulted her, the forewarning was gone. She felt the light breeze from the approaching streetcar and focused on the sounds of wheels and cables crunching, trying to ignore the way her blood coursed feverishly through her veins, whispering of unfathomable agony.

Once safely seated, Amelia tried to make sense of what she’d felt. Elizabeth existed in a constant state of emotional turmoil, so she often featured in Amelia’s premonitions. But Tristan. This was new. And, oh, was it powerful. His raw, acute pain overwhelmed her so greatly her knees had buckled, and her lunch threatened to overturn. Please God, not Tristan. I can’t lose another cousin.

Amelia forced herself to disregard the omen, at least for the time being. Unlike her empathic skills, her abilities as a seer were not specific enough to ever be useful. And if she didn’t clear her head, Jacob would sense her disquiet and worry for days. Neither voiced it, but the reality she could fall victim to the Deschanel Curse, as many others had, hung over them. She would not add further worries to his already troubled mind.

Sometimes she felt her love for Jacob was incredibly selfish, given her circumstances. Before she met him, she’d always been careful to keep romance at arm’s length. It was Amelia who taught Tristan about dating safe. Until Jacob came into her life, she’d found comfort with older men. Much older men, with age differences that startled her mother. Colleen often remarked, I don’t know which is better, Amelia. Safely dating men twice your age, or taking your chances with someone who might actually speak to your heart. Even so, her mother understood Amelia needed companionship. Perhaps even more acutely than others, Amelia craved a safe haven in her raging sea of emotions. After watching her brother, Ben, fall victim to the Curse, Amelia couldn’t take any chances.

Unlike Tristan, she’d never dated people who were married. She wanted her arrangements to hurt no one. Mostly, she’d gravitated toward old bachelors, or widowed businessmen who wanted no more than she did: simple companionship. None were her type, but this was by design, as she could never risk becoming attached. Ever. Thanks to Colleen’s investigative watchfulness, and her empathic abilities, she understood, even if Tristan did not, he was already attached to Emily. Amelia feared it wouldn’t end well for either of them.

Maybe that’s what I’m sensing.

The streetcar screeched to a halt at Carondelet, and she disembarked, switching to the St. Charles line, as she pushed through throngs of tourists gathering at the edge of the Quarter. Finding a seat near the back, she closed her eyes.

The closer she moved toward home, the keener her sense of Jacob.

They’d gone to high school together. Amelia never had much choice in her social circle, as Deschanels were old money, and local celebrities for reasons both philanthropic and unseemly. Jacob, on the other hand, fell among the kids who were not exactly popular, but well-tolerated. Sharp-witted, he was funny, and people were drawn to him. Amelia had always been on the verge of striking up a conversation with Jacob, but circumstances never aligned until the day he showed up at Tulane, right as she was entering graduate school.

Amelia smiled, leaning back against the flat wooden seat as she allowed herself to get lost in the one memory that always helped calm her fears, and steady her heart.

Amelia wandered into the college pub, looking to see if anyone she knew was hanging out. Then she saw him: Jacob Donnelly, that goofball from her high school, who had enough of an Irish accent to sound like he didn’t belong here. He wore a baby-blue collared shirt, first two buttons undone and one flap defiantly pulled free of his waistband. The belt cinched at his waist struggled valiantly to keep his trousers on. Black spiky hair atop his head pointed in twelve directions, as it always had, but his facial features had matured into a finer definition. His trademark goofy smile had evolved charmingly, giving an expression bordering on arrogance, but speaking more to his innocence.

Amelia’s heart caught in her chest as his appearance produced a completely unexpected reaction. Why is it she never noticed how beautiful he was? Or how that softly-grooved cleft on his chin invited her fingertip’s touch?

Jacob was off in his own world, eyes closed, lost to an enthusiastic air drum solo of The Foo Fighters’ Everlong. He mouthed the words as his hands swung with every wild-yet-precise drumbeat, oblivious to the gathering crowd. When the song ended, he finished off his beer accompanied by applause from a handful of college kids. He offered them an exaggerated bow, and as he came back up, his eyes fell on Amelia, who shamelessly stared at him in dumbfounded awe.

Miss Amelia Jameson! Princess of Prytania, Goddess of the Garden District, he intoned, a great big smile spreading across his face as he sauntered over to her. His dimples appeared, accented by a light touch of facial hair. You know it’s customary to tip when you enjoy the show.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, she protested, flustered. Worse than the lie was that she couldn’t figure out why she was telling it. Playing coy had never been her thing, and she was certain he saw right through her. I didn’t know you went to Tulane, she added, attempting to veer the conversation away from her mortification.

The mischievous glint in his green eyes told her exactly what he thought of her falsehood. She half-expected him to flat out accuse her of gawking, when instead he asked, Have you eaten? I was planning to take the streetcar into Carrollton and grab a burger at Camellia Grill. We can catch up along the way, and if you actually have something interesting to say, I might even buy your burger, too.

Amelia had been too surprised to say anything but yes. And too smitten to recognize how dangerous being around him could be for her heart.

This was 1997, the year after the Deschanel Curse last struck the family, taking more than a half-dozen of Amelia’s relatives. Beyond the deaths, her cousin Adrienne went missing, and was still missing in 1997. Amelia’s grief was still raw and unchecked, and she hadn’t realized, until Jacob came into her life, how much she needed someone to brighten her gloomy world. Someone who was not a Deschanel.

They became fast friends, surprised at how much they had in common. Amelia found herself inadvertently looking for Jacob between classes, and caught him doing the same. She warned him she wasn’t looking for a relationship, and he assured her, with a twinkle in his eye, "Blanca, you couldn’t pin me down if you dropped your house on me." The friendship blossomed.

On weekends, they’d explore the city like a couple of adventurers, born of Jacob’s offhand comment that visitors likely knew more about the city than residents. This resulted in the two of them trying to outdo each other with their New Orleans facts. Amelia had a slight advantage because of her family’s rich past and connections to the area, but it quickly became apparent Jacob’s stubborn insistence on being right would lead them to an inevitable stalemate. Mere debate unsatisfactory, they took their conversations outdoors, determined to find new experiences.

They started in the Quarter, eating at a different restaurant each night after classes, bringing their historical notes with them. Often proprietors would eagerly share colorful stories beyond the dry historical accounts. Napoleon House was an especially fun experience, even though the legend about Emperor Napoleon plotting there in subterfuge was not actually true.

They branched out into the Garden District, where Amelia’s family—and many other Deschanels—lived. Jacob’s family lived closer to the river, near the wharves, but he told Amelia he spent many hours wandering the avenues as a boy, sketching some of his favorite homes. He would write stories about the people inside the houses, imagining what their lives must have been like.

Tedious, Amelia told him. Mystery solved.

Easy for you to say. Jacob reached over to her mouth and mocked wiping something away. Sorry, you had a silver spoon still stuck to your lip.

She rolled her eyes, but was smiling. Calling me ignorant of my situation doesn’t make you somehow an expert, she said. But who cares about that, I want to see these sketches and stories!

Jacob’s face flushed bright red. Embarrassment was not an emotion he showed very often, preferring to cover his awkward discomfort with dry humor. They’re dumb. I wasn’t any good at it. Why do you think I’m going to medical school?

You don’t have to be good at something for it to be interesting. I love photography, but my mom and brother always tease me about how blurry the photos are. Do I care what they think? She shrugged indifferently, as he gazed skeptically, eyebrow cocked. Well, maybe a little, she admitted.

You don’t talk about your family much, Jacob ventured. They had been sitting on a bench in Audubon Park, watching the geese play in the pond. It was spring and a light breeze formed off remnants of an earlier rainstorm, but it was an otherwise beautiful day.

I don’t remember hearing your complete family history either, Donnelly, she argued.

I don’t recall you ever asking.

Well, I don’t recall you ever asking, either.

I just did, Jacob teased. He leaned back, against the tree behind the bench, staring at her with that startlingly intense gaze of his.

Well, my family history is well-documented, Amelia responded with a dismissive wave, looking away to hide her unease. Most of it is pretty simple to look up.

Do I look like I enjoy research? he asked, leaning back on one elbow. When he smiled, his dimples appeared, and disappeared, his emerald eyes never leaving her. Her heart skipped a beat at how handsome he was.

Amelia laughed. Some doctor you’re going to make then. Doctor of Bullshit, maybe.

He sat up, feigning offense. You know how to cut right through the heart, Amelia. Straight. Through. Clean cut. His eyes started twitching and filling up with obviously faked tears. Hurtful.

I would say I was sorry, but I don’t wish to be disingenuous.

Clean through the heart again! But I know how you can make it up to me…

She lifted an eyebrow. Oh, how?

His face grew serious. Most of Jacob’s serious faces were some form of goofball mockery, but she knew his real one and this was it. Her pulse quickened. What if he asked for a kiss? What would she do? Her heart was already softening toward him and she’d been thinking it might be prudent to start spending less time together.

First, I have to confess something to you, he said. Her eyes widened, but he kept talking. I actually know quite a bit about your family.

Then why did you ask me about it? she demanded. His revelation had the effect of an ice cold shower. Foolish to think he wanted to kiss her! I don’t understand where you’re going with this.

"Calm down, Blanca, he said, lightly. This isn’t some silly romantic comedy where you discover the dude you’ve been hanging out with has an ulterior motive. I didn’t plan meeting you on campus, getting closer to you and extorting you for information, only to fall in love with you against my better judgment."

A smile played at the corner of her lips. He was such an ass! She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a full smile though, until he told her what he was up to.

Jacob raised an impertinent eyebrow. Not as funny as it sounded in my head? Okay, well, anyway... I know about all of the things that happened to your family last year. He let that sink in.

Amelia’s breath caught, but she hid her annoyance. Everyone does, Jacob, it isn’t exactly a secret, she said coolly. Where was he going with this? Had she misjudged him all along?

When your Uncle Charles, and his family, got into that car accident down near Abbeville, we, that is, my family, followed the story closely. We couldn’t get over how sad it was, and how horrible it must have been for your cousin, Nicolas… both parents dead, three of his sisters also dead, and one completely missing. I found myself wondering what happened to that family. Like I used to do with the Garden District houses when I was a boy.

He looked for her reaction, saw none yet, and kept going. I approached Nicolas once but he wasn’t very nice to me. I tried to give him my condolences and offered my help in finding his sister. He laughed at me and then told me to go fuck myself.

At this, Amelia chuckled. This was exactly the response she would have expected from Nicolas, especially then. He’s like that with everyone.

Yeah, he’s charming. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Adrienne. How does someone disappear? If she had died, there would have been evidence of it.

She interrupted him, wincing. Two years after this discussion, they found Adrienne alive and well. At the time of this otherwise happy memory, Amelia still keenly felt Adrienne had died, primarily because she could no longer sense her younger cousin. None of the empaths or seers in the family could, either. The police said the… gators probably got to her.

Amelia, you’re a student of biology. You know even if that happened, there would still be some evidence… pieces of her clothes, something. An heir of Charles Deschanel’s fortune… completely disappeared. He stopped and his voice took a softer tone. I’m sorry, I didn’t come here to lecture you about your family. Putting my foot in my mouth is not a skill I’m proud of. I know this is still a fresh wound.

She nodded. It is. Very fresh.

Jacob put his hand over hers. I am so sorry. This was a bad idea. Amelia ventured a look up, and in his eyes saw a kindness that gave her comfort unlike anything else had since the tragedies.

She put her other hand over his. You’re fine, Jacob. Really. Go on.

He didn’t move his hand, and continued. So I thought back to earlier in the year and remembered what happened to your brother.

Amelia said nothing. She missed Benjamin every day. Amelia loved both her brothers, but she had loved Ben best.

He gently squeezed her hand as it was sandwiched between his. And I thought, how can one family go through so much? And then at Christmas…

Danielle, she finished. Tristan’s sister.

He nodded. It seemed almost unreal for one family to go through so much in a single year. It was really Adrienne’s disappearance that piqued my interest to do more research. I found a lot of information about your family online.

I can’t say I’ve ever looked, Amelia said, meticulously wiping away a tear that had sprung up. For Amelia, tears could be dangerous, her emotional acuity both a gift and potentially her destruction. But I’ve never needed to, because my family keeps good records.

Mine didn’t, he said, without elaboration. So in my digging, I discovered what happened last year was not the first time large-scale tragedy struck your family. Maybe you already know those details.

I do.

I figured. But what was interesting to me was a group of archived letters I found on a genealogy website. Someone had posted them anonymously as a contribution to family records, so I don’t know where they came from. They were letters between an Ophelia Deschanel and a friend of hers, someone named Edna Wallace. Do those names sound familiar?

Edna doesn’t, but Ophelia was my mother’s great-aunt. She died just before I was born.

She lived a long time, he agreed. In the letters, she talks about the stuff that happened through generations of your family, and she specifically states her belief none of it was an accident.

Amelia’s heart skipped. She had never seen these letters, and was even more alarmed they were online, for the public to see. She thought she knew where he was going, but was terrified of what he might say next. Would he laugh at the superstitions of her family? What if he asked if she believed in it? Surely he would. What would he think of her if she confessed the truth?

She swallowed. Go on.

"Amelia, are you aware that some members of your family believe the Deschanels are cursed?"

A sensation, not unlike the pressure of being underwater, came over Amelia. The world around her muted unnaturally, and she felt light-headed as her heart attempted to thump clear out of her chest. How was she to answer this question? Honesty was an option, but she might lose him completely if he saw her as a superstitious biddy. She had never wanted to be defined by her belief in this, and she had never, ever shared it outside the family. Amid the swirl of emotions, she also considered perhaps it would be for the best if he did bolt.

Ultimately, Amelia would never deceive anyone. It was not in her to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. She always spoke the truth, come what may.

Yes, Jacob, I am, she declared, head up, shoulders squared.

Do you believe in it? he hedged, carefully.

She paused only briefly. If he judged her for it, then so be it. Yes, she said, I do.

Jacob nodded slowly, then moved his top hand off hers. She drew in a nervous breath. What had she done? Then he lifted the same hand and gently laid it against the side of her face, in an entirely unexpected tenderness. Amelia closed her eyes and let herself lean into his touch, as he kissed her forehead.

Does it feel good to finally say it out loud? he asked.

She nodded, but her throat was too constricted to respond. This was not how she expected this conversation to go, if she were ever to have it. He still hadn’t told her what he thought, but his kindness assured her that he wasn’t running for the hills. Her emotions warred between relief, and growing fear of her feelings for him.

I don’t know what to think about it Amelia, but I grew to respect your aunt through her writing. And while I don’t know your mother all that well, she seems like an incredibly sharp lady. She would have to be to operate on brains all day, right? And obviously, she produced you. Jacob smiled warmly. Her heart rate slowly subsided to normal.

If three very smart, astute women believe in this, then there’s something to it. I don’t know what, exactly, but something, he concluded.

When she sat speechless he added, I didn’t plan for you to show up at the pub and ogle me, Amelia. I never expected any of this, but since we’re here now, I thought you should know. I don’t want secrets between us.

Amelia’s eyes welled with more perilous tears as the weight of this discussion pushed her thoughts to more serious matters. I can never have children.

He processed that for a moment and then nodded. Okay.

She released a long, slow breath. Jacob didn’t think she was crazy. He knew her darkest truths, and he was still sitting beside her.

Amelia, I don’t want children, he said to her, in a tone that suggested he’d been mulling her comment over. I never have. I didn’t have… well, the best childhood growing up. Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday. But I want to dedicate my life to helping others. I could live happily with someone amazing by my side. Someone who also accepts children aren’t a part of our future.

Their careful tempo established, Jacob allowed her to digest his words.

When she didn’t speak, he clarified, I’m not proposing, you ridiculous girl! I’m not even asking you out.

Amelia drew back in mock offense. What the hell was all that about then, Donnelly?

He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, easily. It felt natural, as if she were with family. Because I want you to know you’re safe with me.

She fell in love with Jacob Donnelly, at precisely that moment. From then on, there was never a chance of protecting her heart, for it already belonged to him, and always would.

With Jacob, she was safe.

Amelia jumped off the streetcar at Seventh, and let the memories fade away. When her episodes were especially painful, like the one tonight, she latched on to the moment Jacob offered himself to her, selflessly, and without judgment.

Smiling again, she nearly sprinted the half-mile home, premonitions momentarily forgotten.

4

COLLEEN

Colleen observed her baby sister’s ranting with an overwhelming urge to let out a long sigh. Histrionics had always been Elizabeth’s specialty, and she was in top form today.

Liz, it’s been nearly a decade, Colleen attempted reasonably, knowing it would do little to quell her sister’s tirade. And truthfully, Colleen was wary herself. In spite of her dramatics, Elizabeth’s visions were almost always accurate, and always had been, since they were children. But it would do no good to indulge her, or Elizabeth would quickly slip into one of her episodes, and she would be lost for days, if not weeks.

That doesn’t concern you? Elizabeth cried, pacing before Colleen’s marble mantle at The Gardens. "The Curse hasn’t had its fill in almost ten years! It’s hungry!"

Psh, Colleen replied, but looked away. Ten years. Ten years since their brother, Charles, and most of his family, perished in a bayou car accident. Ten years since Elizabeth’s daughter, Danielle, was struck by a car in front of their home. Ten years since Colleen’s son, Ben, and his young family, died in that horrible house fire.

Had Colleen worried the Deschanel Curse would strike again? Of course. That fear floated in the back of all her thoughts. But she also knew dwelling on something you couldn’t change benefitted no one.

Secretly, and with some hope, she also wondered if the Curse was beginning to slow, or dilute itself. The potency had dulled over the last hundred and fifty years. Previously, entire generations were wiped out; the family lived in fear of the line dying off. But August Deschanel’s brood had thrived. Seven children, with children and grandchildren of their own. And aside from the horrible cluster of events a decade prior, there’d been no other widespread tragedies to speak of.

And now… well, now they had bigger things to worry about. Revelations the Deschanel abilities were not merely coincidence, but instead a product of mingling with another race of beings. Empyreans. She thought daily of her niece, Anasofiya, who was somewhere in Wales, with her Empyrean mate and human husband. Their child would be born any day, the new Deschanel heir.

Setting aside her own worries, she knew she must deal with her sister’s current concerns, which would not go away by ignoring them.

Colleen, we’re fighting a power we have no weapons against, Elizabeth pressed, lowering her voice as she stood before her older sister. There’s not a single ability any of us have that can stop this horror. How are we supposed to live with that?

We just do, Colleen said wisely, leaning against the marble hearth. Elizabeth’s outbursts were physically exhausting, as well as emotionally. As we’ve discussed in the Council, we’ve already taken cautionary steps. We’ve gently encouraged our children to reconsider starting families of their own.

Elizabeth snorted. "Yes, a lot of good that did! Your son Ashley has three kids! Maureen’s offspring are starting families now, too, and Adrienne has a couple little ones to worry about. And now, Anasofiya! We are flaunting our children before Brigitte, begging her to take them from us!"

Colleen eyed her levelly. Some of the children have listened. My Amelia. Your Tristan. Nicolas. Alain. Evangeline’s kids…

Yes, Elizabeth agreed, thoughtfully. Thank God for that. And now, we are flirting with danger, with all this business about Aidrik, and these Empyreans. I still can’t believe you sent my son to consort with one, though I suppose he did come back safely from Wales… but that’s beside the point! We already had enough to contend with, we didn’t need one more thing!

It wasn’t as though we had much choice. Whether we ignore or address our Empyrean ancestry, it remains a fact. Aidrik’s protection will keep us safe, for now, Colleen soothed. As for your visions…

Elizabeth shook her head, staring off vacantly. Colleen, soon there will be more pain for us. I’m going to be ill.

I wish you would tell me who you saw in your vision. It’s really counterintuitive to barge in here and tell me there’s a problem, but refuse to give me any details, Colleen accused.

What would telling you the names do? You can’t save them!

"What is telling me this doing, Lizzy! Now I know we have more tragedy ahead, and for all I know, it involves one of my own babies."

Elizabeth dropped her head at this, and Colleen’s heart sank. It did. It involved one of her brood. Tell me, Elizabeth, she ordered in a low, stern voice. Tell me now.

But Elizabeth was already lost to herself, crying and gazing off into the corner again. Once she slipped into her episodes, there were no words strong enough to pull her out.

Colleen wished she could disregard her sister’s warning as dramatics, but she couldn’t. The visions were the one thing you couldn’t wade through for the truth; they were truth. More Deschanels were going to die to the Curse. At least one of the victims would strike close to Colleen.

And there was nothing anyone could do.

After Tristan escorted his mother home, Colleen sat before the hearth to collect her thoughts.

As magistrate for the Deschanel Magi Collective, it was incumbent upon Colleen to make a decision. Should she call a meeting to discuss the matter? Wait? As Elizabeth pointed out, there was nothing they could do. Was it better then, to stress over something they couldn’t control? Best to blindly accept the fate their ancestors had given them?

And it was also true, she was forced to admit, the Empyrean business further complicated things. The truth was, she didn’t know what danger awaited from that influence, any more than she knew who the Curse would take next. It was a double-headed dilemma, and they had not the weapons to slay either.

Colleen was tempted to call Amelia. Amelia was reasonable. Level-headed. Of course she was, Colleen had raised her. But Amelia might be the victim Elizabeth saw in her dream, and Colleen couldn’t selfishly involve her daughter in a situation with that kind of unknown hanging over them.

But she’s in the Collective. You can’t call a meeting without including her. Your job isn’t to protect the others, but to advise them.

Of course, first she must engage the Collective Council, the seven appointed Deschanel house heads. Debating the issue was an unnecessary formality.

She only wished Elizabeth’s vague dramatics weren’t clouding the situation further. As painful as it would be to know who was going to meet their fate, not knowing was even worse.

Though the Collective’s main focus over the years had been cataloguing and tracking the various Deschanels and their abilities, the Curse also came up from time to time. A century ago, more focus was placed on trying to combat it. A more urgent topic then, as it had obliterated almost the entire Deschanel line. But the Curse had only struck one year in Colleen’s lifetime, and only once in her father’s. Until Elizabeth’s vision, Colleen hopefully assumed it would not strike again for another sixty years or so. Yet it didn’t surprise her something they couldn’t control was also something they couldn’t predict.

The worst part was their limited knowledge about the Curse. Every bit of information they had was passed down, and the story had been diluted over the years. Fiction, and facts as they were, had become a blurred quandary.

The accepted story was this: Charles and Brigitte Deschanel, the couple who in 1844 built the family plantation, Ophèlie, managed to escape the Civil War unscathed due to Charles’ quick thinking. He turned the vast plantation into housing for an entire company of the Union army, affording his family privileges many of their peers didn’t get in that time of turmoil. This meant not only did the house and belongings stay intact, but so did Charles’ fortune. To his wife Brigitte’s dismay, he also struck up friendships and partnerships with these soldiers from the North, which endured even after the war ended.

Worse than his traitorous associations, Charles would seemingly do anything to keep the men happy. This included turning a blind eye to their treatment of his only daughter, Ophélie, for whom the plantation was named. She ended up pregnant, with no indication of which soldier fathered the baby, and was subsequently found stabbed to death in her bed. Up until that point, Brigitte had grudgingly borne her husband’s behavior. But the gruesome death of her daughter sent her over the edge of madness.

Brigitte was known by her slaves to be a practitioner of dark magic. They feared her, and though she was benevolent to those who served well, the staff went out of their way to never cross her. As Brigitte’s mind spiraled further toward insanity, she eventually formulated a curse upon her husband, Charles, and all his descendants. She vowed no progeny of Charles Deschanel would ever benefit from his behavior, and their lives would be forfeit. In a final macabre ritual, she took her own life thereby sealing the dark words with her blood.

While most of the family saw her actions as a tragic response to grief, some understood it to be far more. When the Deschanels started dying off, one by one, more started taking her ominous oath seriously.

Coming from a family of witches and warlocks, Colleen had no trouble believing the words of a grieving mother could take down an entire family. But what she had trouble grasping was how any mother would want to curse her own descendants for the crimes of one man. Colleen believed the answer to satisfying the Curse lay somewhere in that sentiment, but she had never come close enough to a solution.

Colleen had already lost one child. She would not lose Amelia or Ashley; she wouldn’t allow her grandbabies to suffer.

Colleen picked up the phone and dialed her sister, Evangeline, in Washington, D.C.

Evangeline released a deep sigh, one Colleen knew all too well. Resignation. Dearest sister, how did I know you would call?

Because your hand was already on the phone, preparing to dial me? Colleen teased back. This had been the way between them for years. One always sensed when the other was in need, and often their times of need occurred in tandem. But though she’d been lighthearted in her volley, the practiced greeting was superficial. Colleen knew her sister was also disturbed about something.

All is not well, Evangeline agreed. And I suspected you had some things on your mind when I overheard Markus talking to Tristan.

Oh? Something specific?

No, Evangeline replied. Colleen heard the sound of her