Kiss at Your Own Risk Read online

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie Rowe

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Jamie Warren

  Cover photography by Stephen Youll

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Ariana, my best friend, my joy,

  my laughter, and my heart.

  Chapter 1

  When the black skull and crossbones carved into Alexander Blaine Underhill III’s left pec began to smoke, he knew tonight wasn’t the night he was going to get his newest cross-stitching tapestry finished. His escape from the Den of Womanly Pursuits, the hellhole he’d been imprisoned in by a black witch for the last hundred and fifty years, was about to get complicated. “Look pretty, boys, we’re going to be entertaining.”

  “Shaved two days ago. Good enough?” Nigel Aquarian was sprinting beside Blaine, his shitkickers thudding on the stainless steel floor of the Hall of Embroidery. He was wearing only dark leather pants and a pale pink rose tattooed on his left cheek. His palms had turned to blackened charcoal, and burning embers were sloughing off onto the floor. “Forgot the cologne, though. Never remember to smell nice after I party with starving piranhas.” He held up the pinkie finger he’d had time to grow back only halfway. “I hate fish.”

  Blaine leapt over a breeding pit for vipers that was blocking his path. “Spiders are worse.”

  Nigel grimaced. “Bet the witch is good with spiders.”

  Blaine refused to revisit that particular hell in his mind. “Toughened me up. It was fun.”

  Nigel shot him a knowing look. “Yeah, I bet it was.”

  One hundred and fifty years at the non-existent mercy of Death’s grandma, Angelica, had given new meaning to the definition of hell. The black witch was diabolical in her quest to become the most powerful practitioner in history, and she wasn’t exactly the nurturing type when it came to her experiments. Ruthless evil bitch from hell was probably a better way to describe her. But after a century of planning their escape, it was finally hasta la vista time for Blaine and his boys.

  Blaine flipped a grin at one of the security cameras he’d disabled only moments before. “Hope you miss us.” He was so jonesing for a little mano a mano to make her pay for all she’d done, but his brain was the one thing she hadn’t managed to mess with, so he was hitting the road instead of gunning for a battle he couldn’t win. Embarrassing as hell that one grandma could kick the shit out of four badass warriors. Not going to be posting that on his online dating profile when he got out.

  Green and pink disco lights began to flash, and the screams of men being tortured filled the air.

  “The fire alarm? Come on, guys. Can’t you two keep the smoke in your pants for five minutes?” Jarvis Swain sprinted up beside them. A checkered headband was keeping his light brown hair off his face, and he was streaked with sweat and blood from the spar he’d been winning when Blaine had pulled the trigger on the escape. For Jarvis, a practice session ended only when his opponent was on the bleeding edge of death. He was clenching his samurai sword in his fist.

  “Nice pants.” Nigel nodded at the yellow tulip cross-stitched on the hip of Jarvis’s badass martial arts outfit. He raised an eyebrow at Blaine. “Is that your delicate touch, Trio?” His question smacked with friendly insult.

  Blaine ignored Nigel’s sarcastic reference to his pedigree. Far as he was concerned, everyone he was related to could go to hell. Hoped they already had, in fact.

  He looked over his shoulder to check on the progress of the most important member of their team, Christian Slayer, but the Hall of Embroidery was empty. “Where’s lover boy?”

  “He detoured for his girlfriend when we passed through Flower Appreciation.” Jarvis hurled his sword at a small black box tacked onto the seventeen-foot high ceiling. “He caught her scent, said she was nearby, and took off to get her.” The blade hit cleanly, sparks exploded, and the alarm went silent.

  Without breaking stride, Blaine leapt up and grabbed the sword. “We’re in the middle of a daring escape from our own personal torture chamber, and he’s taking time to get a girl?”

  “That’s what he claimed,” Nigel said. “He can’t lie worth shit, so I tend to believe him.”

  They continued to haul ass toward the door at the end of the hallway. Freedom was less than fifty yards away. “Well, damn.” Blaine hurled the sword blade-first at Jarvis’s heart. “That’s really sweet of him.”

  Jarvis snatched the sword out of the air easily, his hand unerringly finding the handle. “You think?”

  “Sure. It’s not every man who will strand his team in a war zone so he can go rescue a girl.” Still running hard, Blaine pulled out a pair of small blue balls from a sack strapped to his hip. “Of course, I’m going to have to kick the hell out of him for doing it, and there’s no way he’s going on future missions with us, but I admire that kind of choice.”

  The three men he’d handpicked to escape with were the only residents of the Den of Womanly Pursuits he’d trust with his life. He didn’t take loyalty lightly, and neither did his team. Yeah, Christian’s detour showed that honor could be a liability, but Blaine was down with that kind of cost. Anyone who refused to leave someone behind had his vote, no matter what the repercussions were.

  He heard the muted pitter-patter of little feet skittering around the corner behind them, and he swung around to face their pursuers, spinning the blue balls in his hand. Instinctively, one hand went to the long tube he’d strapped to his hip. Just checking to make sure the one cross-stitching project he was taking with him was still secure.

  It was.

  “Personally, I think he’s lost his sense of perspective.” Nigel planted himself at Blaine’s right shoulder and extended the burning embers of his hands toward their oncoming pursuer. “Getting laid has completely compromised his a
bility to think clearly. I’m thinking celibacy is the way to go. You boys in?”

  Blaine snorted. “Sex can be good for the brain. Depends on the situation.” Blaine’s blue balls caught fire, and he swiveled them in his palm. He wanted to toss those suckers at the bastards on their tail, but he’d blow Christian to hell if he were in the middle of the pack. Where was the slacker?

  “How would you know whether a man’s brain gets fried when he gets laid?” Jarvis asked. “When was the last time you got some, Trio?”

  “A real man doesn’t discuss his conquests.” Blaine caught the faint scent of kibble and he stiffened, hoping he was wrong about what was after them. Yeah, a good battle was fantastic for achieving inner peace, but some things really were the stuff of nightmares.

  Jarvis barked with laughter. “A real man keeps a journal and reads it to his sex-deprived buddies. Last action we got was the stick figures Nigel painted on the bathroom wall with toothpaste.”

  They’d all agreed long ago that the forced intimacy with Angelica didn’t count as sex. Some things had to stay sacred.

  Nigel shot Jarvis an annoyed look. “Don’t knock my artistic talents. You’re just jealous because you can’t knit your way out of a weekend of torture with the witch.”

  “I choose to suck at knitting. Being subjected to another of her experiments makes me tougher.” Jarvis began to whip his sword over his head in a circle. The air crackled with the energy he was generating. “You’re the pansy, choosing to make beautiful pictures so she’s happy with you and lets you skip out on the torture.”

  “I like to paint.” Nigel’s unapologetic tone was a truth that Blaine knew they all felt. Anything they could do to get through another hour, another day, under the blonde despot’s reign was a victory. Nigel was lucky she’d chosen painting for him, because the lightweight actually dug it.

  Counted cross-stitch hadn’t exactly been a mental haven for Blaine.

  His team was comprised of the only four men left from the batch of thirty boys kidnapped and brought to her realm that night a hundred and fifty years ago. Most had died. A few had been rescued. Jarvis and Nigel had hoped to be saved for a while, but Blaine had never bothered.

  Even as a four-year-old, he’d known no one would come for him. He’d heard his own parents make the deal with the sorceress. Still remembered sitting there at the top of the stairs, clutching the wolf he’d just finished carving for his mom’s birthday. The clunk of the animal hitting the wood floor, the snap of its leg breaking off, as he’d sat there in stunned silence, listening to his own mother hand his soul over to the devil.

  He’d been no match for Angelica when she’d come to get him, and the thick scar down the length of his forearm was proof. He rubbed his hand over the mark, the last injury he’d gotten before he became her plaything and developed the ability to heal from anything.

  That scar was his reminder never to trust a soul with anything that mattered to him. The day she’d dropped him on his ass in that cellar was the day he’d decided to save himself. There were times when his thirst for freedom had been the only thing keeping him going. Lying there, his life bleeding out, the witch standing over him… his refusal to die a prisoner had often been the only thing strong enough to pull him back from the edge of death.

  His resilience had made him one of Angelica’s favorite playthings.

  And now he got to win. Rock on.

  “I hate knitting. My hands are too damn big for all those little knit/purl things.” Jarvis flexed his fingers as he moved beside Blaine. Shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, in strict formation. The witch tried to emasculate them with womanly pursuits so she could control them, but she’d also wanted her warriors to be tough as hell. She had no idea how far they’d taken it.

  Today was her lucky day. She was about to find out.

  “Knitting is about finesse, not the size of your hands.” Thick black smoke flowed out of Nigel’s palms. “It seems to me that you have a mental block about it.”

  “Nigel does have a point, Jarvis.” Blaine focused his energy into his chest. The skull and crossbones mark burst into flames, and he opened himself to the pain. Bring it on. “I’ve seen you do some good detail work with the knitting needles when you’re in the zone.” The flames licking at his chest were orange. Not hot enough. He thought of the last time he’d been alone with Angelica, and what she’d done to him. Fury rose hard, and the flame turned blue-white. Now that’s what he was talking about.

  Then their assailant arrived. The first of the schnoodles rounded the corner, teeth bared, ears pinned. Blaine tensed as it erupted into frantic yapping. Dammit. He’d wanted to be wrong.

  It could have been the demons.

  It could have been the pit vipers.

  But no. She’d sent the schnoodles.

  Their odds of making it to freedom had just gone to hell.

  ***

  “Seven days until you’re murder free!”

  “Nothing like jinxing me to add to the challenge,” Trinity Harpswell teased (okay, maybe there was a little bit of seriousness, aka panic, there as well as teasing). She raised her water and clinked it against the wineglass of her best friend, Reina Fleming. It felt a trifle premature to be celebrating breaking the black widow curse, but she was down with trying to stay positive. She’d made it this far, right? It was all about having the faith. “I can make it a week, don’t you think?”

  Trinity was wearing flip-flops and a black pencil skirt so narrow that she was reduced to a penguin waddle when wearing it. An outfit chosen specifically to make it difficult to sprint after unsuspecting prey if the curse decided to have its merry way with her morals, ethics, and basic human values.

  She was so not loving that feeling of spiraling out of control. That moment when the lights got too bright, when her heart started to race, when her mind was screaming at her not to do it, and somehow, someway, she couldn’t stop herself yet again. The black widow curse was decidedly ruthless in its drive to get her to fall in love and force her to send the guy gallivanting off to the Afterlife. Not the stuff teenage dreams are made of, for sure. Or the dreams of twenty-nine-year-old single gals either, actually.

  “Of course you’re going to make it.” Reina was wearing a sparkly red cocktail dress and strappy sandals. Her auburn hair was in an updo, and her eyes were dancing with the thrill of life, as they always were. Her positive, uplifting spirit had buoyed Trinity so many times, and she treasured her friend. “You’ve made it almost five years. What’s another week?”

  “I don’t think the curse is going to let me go without a fight. Something’s coming. I can feel it.” Trinity leaned back in her chair, not quite able to keep the worried tone out of her voice. “I had this dream last night that I was walking through the Boston Common, and this marching band of really nice guys came by and they wanted to buy me dinner and then I killed them all.” Her stomach churned at the memory. “And they were all dads. And now their kids have no dad and their wives are all single moms and—”

  “Stop!” Reina tossed a roll at her. “For heaven’s sake, girl, you need to get a grip. You aren’t going to orphan any kids or take out an entire fleet of guys. You’re not that bad!”

  “You don’t live in my body. I can feel this darkness pulsing inside me. All the time. It’s freaky.” A flirty giggle caught Trinity’s attention, and she glanced over at the table beside them.

  A twenty-something couple was just arriving. The woman was wearing a beautiful off-white dress, and the man flashed dimples at her as he pulled out her chair. The gal beamed up at him as he guided her into the seat, his hand light on her back with the tenderest of touches. They both smiled, and then he bent and brushed his lips over her cheek.

  Trinity propped her elbow on the table, chin in her palm, and sighed. “Okay, that’s the sweetest—”

  “Hey!” Reina grabbed Trinity’s arm.

  Trinity tensed and looked at her friend. “I did it again, didn’t I?”

  “You have got to
stop noticing nice guys.” Reina pointed at herself with her first two fingers. “Focus on me, killer girl. You know it’s no good for you to be looking at love. It gets you all worked up, and then I have to sit on you to keep you from killing the poor guy.”

  Trinity almost laughed. “Somehow I don’t think you sitting on me would stop me if I was really caught in the thrall.”

  “I know. You’re crazy girl when you fall in love.” Reina twirled her goblet between the tips of her fingers. “You know, I have to say I’m completely impressed you’ve gone this long without killing. You’ve done good, girl.”

  The words released some of her tension, and Trinity felt a sudden thickness in her throat. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Reina sat back in her chair and faked a sigh of exasperation. “You do realize, however, that if I ever thought you’d make it this long without knocking anyone off, I’d never have decided to become your friend.”

  Trinity grinned. As one of Death’s most promising young talents, Reina spent her time around all things dead, which is why she’d been so attracted to Trinity when they’d first met. “Yeah, well, I’m glad you misjudged me.”

  Reina winked. “Me too. Your angelic ways might not be helping my career, but you still rock.”

  “Amen to that, sister.” Trinity might have baggage, but carting people off to the Afterlife didn’t exactly make Reina one of the most popular girls on the block either. Most human and Otherworld beings could sense her aura of death, and they naturally shied away from her, some without even understanding why they were doing it.

  Admittedly, Trinity had been a little wigged by Reina when the feisty stranger had shown up at her apartment door armed with a chocolate cake and an offer to be friends, but in the end, it had been too much to resist bonding with someone who knew what she was like and still dug her, even if Reina did have a vested interest in capitalizing on Trinity’s mistakes.

  A perfect, enduring friendship between a couple of freaks.

  Reina leaned forward. “So, your black widow curse expires Sunday night at seven fifteen, right?”