Cursed Miracles Read online

  Jennifer’s right eyebrow ticks up. “Pity,” she murmurs. “Oh well.”

  The door finally opens, and William escapes. The air outside the carriage is less tension-filled. His lungs are finally able to expand. He helps Jennifer down the steps, and arm in arm they enter the stately home of the Duke and Duchess Kinley. The stairs are covered in a layer of white snow, slushy in spots thanks to those who have come before them. His feet quickly grow wet as the snow seeps through, but he can’t move faster, Jennifer taking her time, clearly reveling in the weather.

  “I’d like to go for a stroll in the gardens later,” she says outside the grand entry doors. “You will accompany me.”

  He’ll freeze his ass off. “All right,” he says. He tugs his coat collar a little tighter around his neck with his free hand. His ears and nose are going numb from the cold. Inside it’s much warmer, filled with hundreds of bodies. Everything is appropriately gaudy and expensive, from the décor to the gowns and suits worn by the guests.

  A butler comes over to take their coats, and then Jennifer—with a strong grip on his hand—pulls him to the crowd of dancers. The orchestra is playing a slow waltz, and they slip right into the jumble of men and women. He’s reminded of his wedding day. The way people pause to stare at them, the way Jennifer’s long gown flows out around her legs. It looks like blood spooling out over the floor. He shakes his head. His imagination is running away with him.

  He looks over her shoulder at one point, and there’s Brady. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray outfit, the pleated pants snug and flattering to his legs. His thighs look exceptionally muscled and pleasing in the fabric. His waistcoat trims in his waist, accentuates the width of his hips. Their eyes meet, and Brady smiles at him—a tiny, almost invisible twitch of his lips. William returns it.

  Jennifer steers him around so his back is to Brady and he’s looking over her shoulder at Lady Hampton’s shockingly yellow dress.

  They dance till he’s nearly bored to death.

  Lord Luke Reynolds relieves William, Jennifer graciously taking his offered hand as he asks for a dance. William retreats outside, needing to get away from the inside heat. He feels sick, his stomach roiling, and he thinks it might be the atmosphere inside. And possibly Jennifer’s perfume. He’s never liked it. It’s a sharp, burnt, and bitter kind of smell.

  He collapses on a bench in the garden, staring blankly at the fountain in the center of the small clearing he’s seated in. It’s a bulbous fish with water pouring from its mouth into the pond beneath. He’s far enough into the garden that the lights from the house are distant, and so is the noise. He takes in an icy breath, his chest expanding.

  He’s not surprised when Brady joins him.

  Brady kisses him, not nearly as deep and lengthy as William would like. They can’t do that here. “Merry Christmas,” Brady whispers. He’s hot against William, stirring warmth inside of him and chasing away the chill.

  William nuzzles the side of Brady’s face, confident no one can see them over the high hedges and this far out. “Merry Christmas.”

  Neither of them sound very merry, but they haven’t in over a year.

  William ducks his head against Brady’s shoulder. “Run away with me,” he says, and it’s not pleading this time. Like all the other times. He’s completely serious—now or never. “I can’t live like this anymore. We’ll tell everyone we’re going on a hunting trip, and we’ll disappear. We’ll go north. Live in the country.”

  Brady curls an arm around his waist. And for the first time, he says, “Let’s do it.”

  They jerk apart at the sudden sound of palm meeting palm. William’s heart thunders in his chest as Jennifer rounds the hedge, clapping. He’s not going to be able to play this off. Frankly, he doesn’t want to. Jennifer doesn’t love him. And he certainly doesn’t love her. She can have his money, all of it. She can have whatever she wants, but she doesn’t need him. He grabs for Brady’s hand, and their fingers slide together like perfect pieces fitting into place.

  “Jennifer,” he says. “I think we should talk.”

  She stops in front of them and wags her finger. “Oh no. I think the time for talking is past.” The wind picks up, rustling the bushes, spitting water from the fountain their way. Jennifer’s dress billows around her legs, and the snowfall picks up. “I’ve been imagining how this would happen since the day our marriage was announced.” When she drags her nail down his cheek, it leaves blood in its wake. “You two are the worst-kept secret in the ton. Everyone knows. The two boys who couldn’t grow up past teenage dalliance.” She purses her lips. “True love in the wrong time.” She cups his cheek, her palm ice against him. “I know a little something about that.”

  Jennifer takes a step back and elegantly sinks to a seat on the ground in front of them. Her dress splays out around her, blood on the ground. She strokes the fabric. “Let me tell you a story,” she says, voice a husky purr, “about a young maiden and the love of her life. Maybe it’ll sound familiar in parts to you. See, he was away at college with a lovely woman waiting at home for him. A woman who loved him passionately. And he had these friends who urged him to take an adventure. Who encouraged his desire to join the military despite the woman’s protests and declarations of love.”

  She smiles sharply at them, and William has a good idea where this is going.

  “So he did. He lasted one year, two months, and seven days before he was killed.”

  “Henry Markham,” he and Brady whisper at the same time.

  “Ah, so you do remember. Good.” She pushes to a stand, gracefully as she does all things. She dusts her hands off. “I’ve waited a very long time for this moment.”

  William doesn’t know what “this moment” is, but he’s not feeling good about it. He rises, Brady alongside of him, and they circle to put the bench between Jennifer and them. “We were devastated when he died,” he says. “We’re not to blame for his death.” Henry had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. He’d wanted to make his family proud and have a use since he wasn’t the eldest son, was in fact the last of three. He’d asked Brady and William’s opinion, and they’d told him to follow his heart.

  “That’s a matter of opinion.” She raises her hands, fingers spread, and then shoves them out.

  Brady’s hand is torn from his as they go flying into the hedges. The hedges that are moving. Prickly branches are winding around his limbs, holding him in place no matter how much he struggles. The same is happening to Brady, and the fear on his face makes William’s own feel like it’s going to burst his heart from his chest.

  What the fuck is happening?

  Jennifer stops in front of him, placing one finger over his heart and tapping. “I told you I love full moons,” she says. “Beautiful things happen on them. There’s magic in the air. It’s an especially powerful time for those of us with magic in our blood.”

  She pulls out a knife. William finds he can’t speak, but he fights to get free for all he’s worth.

  “I want you to feel what I feel. You’re going to walk this earth frozen in time—trying to find your dear Brady. Good luck with that.”

  She moves to Brady and rests the knife tip over his heart.

  William can’t breathe. The branches have sliced his skin to all hell, but he doesn’t stop trying to free himself.

  Jennifer is smiling at Brady. She twists the knife, and Brady makes a choked gasping noise.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she says, like she’s telling him the weather. “But I don’t want to make that the end for you. A bit anticlimactic, no? Every time you’re reborn, you’ll clearly remember everything. Every life you’ve lived. You will pine for William. And you won’t have peace until William does.”

  William swears his heart stops beating when Brady’s does.

  Chapter Two

  TRISHA’S KNOCK on his door tears William from his horrible memories, and he swivels in his chair to beckon his secretary in. She’s wearing a sleek green dress with a large
slit up the left leg and reindeer ears on her head. The headband is carefully concealed by her flowing auburn hair. She’s about six feet tall with her heels on and five nine without them.

  “The catering company has arrived at the Hilton, and Mr. Paulson requests that everyone be there at eight on the dot. I’ve arranged for your secret Santa gift—a stunningly gaudy diamond Cartier watch and matching cufflinks for Marks.” She sets a box on his desk, presumably containing the aforementioned gift for Leighton Marks, one of his fellow partners at the investment banking firm. “I’ve also taken the liberty of writing your speech.”

  He blinks up at her slowly. “My speech?”

  She slaps flashcards down on top of the box. “It’s your turn to give the Christmas speech for the company party. I knew you’d forget.”

  He stares blankly at the cards. He’s supposed to give an uplifting, life is so great, Merry Christmas speech to a room full of hundreds of employees. Him. He who hates Christmas and only attends this stupid party because it’s a job requirement.

  “I’m sick,” he says to Trisha. “I’ve come down with a fever.”

  She rolls her eyes. “No one’s buying it. Your suit is pressed and waiting for you in your closet. I snuck it in on your lunch break. I’ll wait outside while you change.” She points to her desk and then to him. “Don’t make me come back in here and dress you.” The door clicks softly shut behind her.

  William genuinely likes Trisha, and he’s as happy as a two-hundred-and-twenty-eight-year-old man who’s watched everything in his life pass by can be. He’s going to miss Trisha more than most. He’s only got a few more years before this particular version of himself has to disappear. People start to notice when you’re not aging after a certain point. He’s been working with this firm for going on fifteen years, and he’s getting tired of applying makeup to make himself look older and using dye to add patches of gray to his hair.

  After this maybe he’ll take a break and backpack through Europe. He’s due for a retreat into solitude. He can skip the next ten Christmases. Find a place where they don’t celebrate it.

  He crosses to his office closet and takes a gander at his suit. Trisha went for classic and timeless. It’s an elegant black tux with velvet lapels, a crisp white shirt, and a cream waistcoat. The pants come with suspenders. She knows he likes them. Unfortunately the tie is a red-and-white candy cane abomination. A nod to the holiday. If he doesn’t wear it, she’ll probably put salt in his morning coffee instead of sugar.

  He takes off his nice navy blue suit with the gunmetal-gray waistcoat and white dress shirt and swaps it for the tux. He can’t help the way his nose scrunches up as he fits the tie into place. If he thinks about the motion, he won’t be able to do it right, but if he does it automatically, his hands naturally make sure the tie is perfect. He’s been doing this for so long, it’s ingrained. He doesn’t need to look in a mirror to know that everything is perfectly in place. And truth be told, he doesn’t care if it’s not. He’s not trying to impress anyone. He exchanges his brown Oxfords for sleek, so-shiny-you-can-see-your-reflection black ones, and his outfit is complete.

  He’s seen the ebb and flow of fashion throughout the years, and while he does prefer this era—with its lean lines and lack of frills—he wishes someone would opt for less layers when it came to men’s formal dress. Once he puts his winter coat on over it all, he feels like he shouldn’t be able to move his arms he’s so bundled up. And he’s sure to get hot at the Christmas party. They always jack the heat up for these things, and there’s so many bodies in one small area…. Why did he think it would be fun to do investment banking this go around? He should have gone into accounting. The less glamorous version of investment banking. Kind of. He bets they don’t have parties at the Hilton.

  Trisha pokes her head around his door, not caring that he could still be changing and indecent. “Stop stalling and feeling miserable for yourself.” She waves a Santa hat. “If you smile, I won’t make you wear this till we get there.”

  “I’m not wearing it at all.”

  “You’re such a Scrooge,” she says. “All the hardasses get soppy and sweet at this time of year, and you go from soft and sweet to grumpy. Makes no sense.” She holds the hat out. “You’re a favorite for the kids. You’re the only one that lets them stand on your shoes for dancing.”

  Sighing, he takes the hat. The kids only like him because he actually listens to their stories. He doesn’t filter them out like everyone else.

  At least he doesn’t have to wear the Santa costume this year.

  Trisha literally had to twist his arm to get him into it the last time.

  “I hate this holiday. Let’s get it over with,” he says, scooting around her and making for the elevator.

  Trisha’s heels click sharply on the tile as she follows him. “That’s the spirit, boss.”

  THE HILTON’S ballroom is as extravagant as always. The center crystal chandelier could provide enough money to feed a third world country, and the smaller ones scattered throughout are just as decked out. Circular white tables with varying centerpieces take up most of the floor, but a portion in the middle has been left empty for dancing. Lining the room are tables with wrapped baskets on them—the prizes for the silent auction. The proceeds go to homeless teens and LGBT youth programs. It’s the one extracurricular that William controls (and insists upon) for the firm. Christmas music plays low over the speakers, and shiny snowflakes hang from the ceiling, shimmering in the lights. The cheery music makes his back teeth grate and his overtaxed brain throb.

  “Why didn’t I call in sick today?” he wonders aloud.

  Trisha whistles, ignoring him. “They’ve outdone themselves this time.” Her gaze is homed in on the chocolate fountain at the center of one of the tables. “I better be sitting there.”

  She abandons him for the promise of chocolate. Her reindeer ears bounce with each step she takes. It should look hilarious, but somehow she pulls it off, and he sees more than one head turn in her direction.

  He’s not left alone long.

  Leighton claps a heavy hand to his back. He’s a tall, round man, with a bald spot in the middle of his head that he jokes came about from the stress of his job. “Hey, man. Look at you making it with a minute to spare.”

  William takes a subtle step away. He doesn’t much care for people touching him these days. He smiles his work smile. “Paulson’s not going to do anything if we’re actually late.” Except maybe dump bullshit files on their desk for them to wade through. Tedious, but not really threatworthy.

  The grimace on Leighton’s face says he finds it more than tedious. “Last time I was late to a function, he made me find his wife an anniversary present. She’s picky, man. So picky.” He shudders.

  William blinks slowly. His smile becomes a little more real. “Haven’t heard that one yet,” he says. He’ll keep his paperwork punishment. He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks onto his heels. He’s dropped his secret Santa gift off at the table in the corner already, and there’s not much to do but mingle until speech time. So small talk it is. Leighton won’t ask him about his holiday plans, at least. It’s not socially appropriate to say he’s going to stay at home, in bed, drinking vast amounts of whiskey to numb his pain. “You bid on anything in the auction yet?”

  “A boat. I’ve been thinking about getting a vacation house on a lake. It could be fun.”

  William snags a glass of champagne from one of the waiters passing by and sips steadily as Leighton explains—in great detail—his dream vacation plans. He has the money to do the stuff and two children who think time away from the city is a death sentence.

  “So I’d have to deal with all the bitching,” he ends with.

  William hums. It’s a neutral sound that Leighton can take however he wants. He takes it as encouragement, and he’s off on another tangent about how his wife wants to redecorate the house because she saw someone else’s and fell in love. When William starts to feel jealous of Leighton
’s connection with his wife—strained and superficial as it may be—he knows it’s time to get out of there.

  “I need to go for a smoke,” he says and excuses himself. It’s a gross habit, but since he’s not capable of dying, he doesn’t bother quitting. Besides, if it would kill him, he’d probably smoke ten packs a day. Two hundred years of this lonely existence and he’s ready to hand in his ticket. He wants off the ride.

  After he’d been cursed, he’d scoured the world for people with magic, hoping one of them would have a solution to his particular problem. No one had been able to reverse it, and not one of them had been able to tell him what would end the curse—or when the unknown might occur. He’d been to seers in Asia and tribal leaders in Africa, and he’d spent a year with a witch in France who said the dark energy cloud hanging around him was unlike any she had seen.

  So he’s pretty sure he’s in for another two hundred lonely years.

  The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as he crosses through the bustling kitchen to get to the service exit. The caterers are running around at warp speed, preparing the five-course meal and making hoity-toity appetizers that look too pretty (and some too gross) to eat. William’s been around a long time, but no matter what fancy thing they do to a cow’s tongue, he’s not eating it.

  He’s passing one of the workstations when from the corner of his eye he sees a flash of auburn curls tucked into a hairnet. They’re trying to poke free, wild and voluminous despite the effort to tame them.

  His heart skips a beat.

  He shakes his head. He’ll always have a fondness for auburn curls—will always feel his breath catch and his fingers twitch with the need to touch when he sees them—but it’s not Brady. It never is, and it can’t be. He forces himself to keep going. He’s not going to ask the poor man to turn around so William can stare at him to confirm that, other than the curls, this man has nothing in common with his man.