“Sabine suspects,” Tristan said. “She’ll know what to say. To him, and to the rest of them.”

It was as though the last of my burdens had been lifted, and I took a deep breath and savored it, knowing that I’d done all I could for those I loved best. For those I’d left behind. Their lives were theirs to live. As was mine. “Tristan…”

“Yes?” His face betrayed none of the nervousness I knew to be roiling through him.

“You say you saw all?” I cocked one eyebrow, then smiled as I felt his nerves turn to faint embarrassment. “As I recall, some things are better…” I paused, giving him a slow smile, “face to face.”

“I could not agree more,” he replied, embarrassment turning into something far better. Then his arms were around me, his lips on mine, and the feel of them – of him – was infinitely sweeter than memory.

Pulling him down onto grass like velvet, I lost myself in him. In the love that had consumed me for so much of my life. A love that I’d feared would always be colored with the bittersweet tarnish of loss. An echo of a song. But now, against all hope, that love was polished clean and new as it had been in those first days we’d fallen.

My mortal life was over.

But our immortal life had just begun.

The Broken Ones

Prequel to the Malediction Trilogy

For Melissa, who loves my characters
as much as I do. This one is for you!

Prologue

Marc

Blackness fell across the city, and with it came silence, the crowd of onlookers seeming to collectively hold their breaths as the edge of the moon appeared in the sole opening in the cavern’s rocky ceiling far above us. The silver orb inched into view, casting a stream of light down through the mist to fall upon the pair standing on the marble dais at the center of the river, their faces bright with nerves and anticipation as they waited for the magic to take hold. For the bond between their hearts and minds to be formed, remaining unbroken until one of them–

“And Liquid Shackles claims another two victims.”

Tristan’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, and I glanced at my cousin, who stood next to me watching the proceedings. “You’re a cynic,” I muttered under my breath.

“I’m a realist, Marc,” he replied, raising his hands to clap along with the rest of those watching the ceremony. “I can imagine little worse than having another’s emotions invading my skull for the rest of my days.”

“Because she won’t be able to pretend your jests are funny?” I suggested, turning to avoid the dark look our Aunt Sylvie, the Queen’s conjoined twin, was casting in our direction. Bondings were the most sacrosanct of our ceremonies, made more so by the fact they grew more and more infrequent as our race diminished and declined within the confines of the curse.