Good morning, everyone!  It's Tuesday again, and we're peeking at Marked for Death.  It will be available tomorrow!!

So let's get back to where we were -- chapter 2, I do believe.


Taran McLaine knows the agony of his incubus father's curse more intimately than his siblings. A century ago he murdered the only woman he ever loved. When he finds her alive, he's faced with the ultimate heartbreak. They have no chance at a future--he's done all he can to insure that on his day of judgment the ancestors will deny him a mortal life.

Years ago, Solene Larouche embraced Taran and the dark curse that cloaked him. She knew the risk she faced, but when Drandar pulls her back to life, she agrees to aid the demon and damn Taran to eternal suffering. One look at the man who held her heart so long ago, however, changes her mind. She must find a way to free him, even if it means condemning herself to eternity as Drandar's slave.

As Samhain approaches, Solene and Taran conspire to destroy Drandar. But will their combined effort enable them to kill the incubus or will they be cast into Drandar's own special Hell and all hope of their renewed love marked for death?


Chapter Two

Twenty steps away from the hauntingly beautiful woman, her words registered in Taran’s mind.  He came to an abrupt halt beneath the light of a streetlamp.  She knew his name…

Beneath his feet, the world fell away.  He curled a hand around the iron post to keep from stumbling to his knees.  Solène—it couldn’t be.  He had felt her blood on his hands, watched as she gasped her last breath.  He had put her broken body in the ground, along with all that was good and decent in his soul.

Yet how else could she know his name?  She was identical.  She even wore the same perfume—jasmine with the faintest hint of cinnamon.  Solène Larouche was the only woman who could pull off such mismatched aromas.


Something deep inside Taran began to tremble.

Her laughter rang through his head.  A vision of her as she raced into the grand music room and spun a circle on the parquet wood floor, her arms outstretched, her glorious long hair spilling out behind her.  It’s ours.  It’s really ours, Taran.  We’ll call it Serenity.  Come and dance with me.

He had taken her in his arms, laughing with her as he held her body close and spun her across the waxed floor.  The music was their own.  A sensual rhythm that held notes of whimsy and an undertone of danger.  They danced until standing so close became intolerable, and the fire that burned between them drew them to the floor, where she had cried out his name in ecstasy, and he had stared into her eyes, lost to the love that shone there.



Now, when he had done all he could to insure he would never know mortality.

He ground his teeth together and released the light post.  She could not possibly be alive.  This was some cruel trick of his mother’s, meant to somehow divert him from his intentions.  He was sick and tired of Nyamah’s interference.

With a hand clenched at his side, he turned back to the shop and the woman within.  He’d allowed her to  catch him off guard and sidetrack him from his purpose.  No more.  He had one final step to take to secure his end. Nyamah would not deter him from that plan.

He crossed to the door in half the time it had taken him to leave and jerked on the handle.  It didn’t budge.  She’d locked it.

Damn it.  Damn her.

To stop the rush of nonsensical rage, he inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and counted to thirty.  One more reason why he needed to finish this vile act—the darkness raging in his soul made control damn near impossible.  Every little impulse wanted to take life.  Like kicking in this door.  He could try—venting the fury would bring an enormous rush of relief.  But all he would succeed in was breaking his toe.  He had helped drive the stake-like nails that held the wooden bar in place on the other side.  No one would get through this door without mechanical help.

And if the woman was Solène, she had further barred entry with her own powerful magic.  When a witch did not want interruptions, she did not have them.

Instead of following the rash urge, he hiked himself onto the short retaining wall and took a seat.  Someone else would come before she turned out her light.  Someone who wouldn’t be content with a locked door.  When the woman opened it to send the visitor away, he would let himself inside.

If not, she still had her late night coffee appointment to attend.  When she came out, as she always did shortly after the midnight hour, he would grab her then.


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"Victorians used the term 'limbs' as a euphenism for legs, which were thought to be so sexually exciting to a man, even a glimpse of a table leg could incite him to sexual frenzy. Table skirts were invented to prevent any unnatural unions between men and furniture."
(History Channel International)



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