Read The Witching Hour (The Grim Reaper Saga (Urban Fantasy Romance)) for Free Online Page A

breathing.
    “Be well, Chaos,” Dagda called after her.
    She turned and nodded toward her scheming consort. His eyes gleamed differing shades of gold and black. A smile cut his features, the white of his teeth in sharp contrast to the natural tan of his flesh. With a final snarl, The Morrigan turned on her heels and proceeded toward the rack room.
    Dagda was keeping secrets. He never involved himself in her affairs. Now twice he’d done so.
    Anger sizzled through her veins. She cracked the whip against her thigh in agitation. The burst of pain exquisite, and she grinned.
    Hundreds of flickering torches lit the winding stairway of stone. Thin jets of light cut through the shadow at intermittent spaces. The gloomy, dank path had been designed with purpose--to create a sense of panic, of fear, to increase the heart rate into a pounding melody of terror. There wasn’t much that could scare an immortal centuries old. Nothing that is, except the rotten stench of dried blood, torn flesh of their kith, and knowing they’d soon be next. She bit her lip, her fury increasing with each step she took.
    Finally, three flights down and in the darkest corridor of the castle, she arrived at the rack room. Two guards with crossed sickles stood before the door.
    Her lips twitched at the sight of Cahal. One eye was beginning to swell with an overflow of blood. The white of his eye, now a shocking sea of busted blood vessels. She loved death. They were a lethal predator.
    Cahal’s good eye was a startling blue in contrast. He remained aloof, but she could tell by the pounding of a vein in his neck that he was agitated by her cold perusal. A thrum of electrical pleasure hummed through her veins, she vibrated with the beginnings of blood lust and reached out a hand to caress the side of Cahal’s face.
    He shivered under her touch, and leaned in just slightly. A perfect teardrop of blood slid from the corner of his eye onto her pinky finger. She held it up to her nose, inhaling the scent of autumn leaves. Excitement quickened her pulse, and with a delicate flick of her tongue she lapped up the drop. The sweet taste filled her mouth.
    “Cahal,” she said with a husky tenor, “you are truly a prize to be savored.”
    He closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with breathless wonder. The redolent musk of his pride filled the air with the thick scent of turning leaves and sweet apple cider.
    A feral need for more blood ripped through her. “Leave me now," she growled, wanting to save the fire of her madness for Cian.
    “My Queen,” they said in unison, and not with a small amount of relief. As one they turned and marched off with exact precision.
    She opened the door. Cian was shackled to the wall with his back toward her. A sliver of light fell across the sculpted beauty of his body. He shifted, and the locks of his long hair swished down his thighs in waves. Alternating strands of polished sable and ivory gleamed with unholy light. The long, hard lines of his body flexed with his movement.
    “What are you waiting for?” His voice was like fine whiskey. Smooth, hot, and raw.
    She narrowed her eyes, excited by the rising fury rolling through his veins, and walked up to him with cat-like precision. Already the taste of Cahal was making her crave more, crave death itself. She trailed the grip of her whip against his back, the itch flowing through her for the sight of his blood. “You know what you’re here for, don’t you?”
    His body tensed, andthe rigid cording of his back flexed as he turned his head to glare at her. The midnight blue of his eyes turned black with rage.
    That was when she finally got a good look at his face. His face was a bruised mess. His jaw nearly twice it’s normal size. Blood already covered his chin, and long gouges ran the length of both cheeks. She chortled, and grabbing his jaw, squeezed tight.
    “Such tough words,” she spat. “I’ll enjoy making you beg for mercy.”
    “You’ll have none from