Midnight Curse (Disrupted Magic Book 1) Read online

  By Melissa F. Olson

  Boundary Magic series

  Boundary Crossed

  Boundary Lines

  Boundary Born

  Scarlett Bernard novels

  Dead Spots

  Trail of Dead

  Hunter’s Trail

  Short Fiction

  Sell-By Date: An Old World Short Story

  Bloodsick: An Old World Tale

  Malediction: An Old World Story

  Also by Melissa

  The Big Keep: A Lena Dane Mystery

  Nightshades

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2017 by Melissa F. Olson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503942820

  ISBN-10: 1503942821

  Cover design by Mike Heath | Magnus Creative

  Cover photography by Gene Mollica

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  But first, on earth as Vampire sent

  Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:

  Then ghastly haunt thy native place,

  And suck the blood of all thy race;

  There from thy daughter, sister, wife,

  At midnight drain the stream of life;

  —Lord Byron, “The Giaour”

  Prologue

  It had helped that she knew exactly how the whores would react.

  The setting had changed, but the setup hadn’t: A large “visiting” room where the girls had to parade around in whatever passed for sexy at the time. A gaudy, ornate staircase leading to a long hallway of doors upstairs. Every door led to a small room that contained only a bed and a chair. Unlike most brothels, there were no security guards here, no bouncers. It wasn’t necessary. Abuse of the girls was not only expected, but welcome, and no one knew that better than the girls themselves. It didn’t matter where they came from, what cultures or languages or backgrounds. They first thing they were taught in their new lives was never fight back. And they didn’t. They couldn’t. The magic didn’t let them. She had been an anomaly that way.

  She arrived in the most expensive outfit she owned: a scarlet-red pantsuit with nothing underneath, so that the suit jacket gaped almost to her navel. It was sexy, and made her look like she had money and power, which she did. Female clients may have been rare at the brothel, but it was common enough that her presence didn’t even raise an eyebrow, just welcoming smiles. The female manager began to lead her into the visiting room, and for a moment she felt a sharp slash of panic. She could see the girls posed around the room, holding watery drinks and making small talk with listless smiles and empty eyes. Many young women in their position took something to numb the senses, but no drugs in the world would work on these girls.

  She felt the familiar urge to fight, to snap the manager’s neck and run out of there, but she reminded herself that she was no longer property. She gave the aging woman her name and explained that she was not here for a date, but to see the owner. They were old friends. The manager paused and eyed her with renewed speculation. Then she simply shrugged and walked over to a black telephone.

  Within moments she was being led into his office.

  He looked the same, of course. Why wouldn’t he? True, the cut of his suit was different, and his hair was brushed straight back instead of parted in the middle. But he had the same powerful movements and calculating eyes that were always judging the value of goods. Those eyes took in her suit and her heels and her warm, apologetic smile, and concluded that she was exactly who she’d claimed to be: an old friend, looking to make amends. He was arrogant enough to believe it.

  Vampires did not hug, but she came around the desk and moved to kiss him on each cheek, in accordance with European fashion. He had always loved that continental bullshit. He smiled genially and reached for her. As she’d expected, he turned his head to kiss her on the mouth, testing her compliance. She forced herself to melt against him, her arms winding around his neck.

  While his slimy tongue probed her mouth, her fingers worked the makeshift clasp of the “bracelet.” She was proud of the garrote, which she’d fashioned herself out of titanium cord and oak. The sharpened wire was strong enough to cut through even vampire bone. She had practiced on a tree stump. When he pulled back to leer at her, she smiled as sweetly as she could, flipping one end of the weapon around his neck with supernatural speed. She had drawn it tight and begun to pull before confusion even registered in his eyes. Fast as he was, by the time he got his fingers up to claw at the garrote string, it was too late. She pulled with every bit of her considerable strength, and the garrote snapped the bone of his spine. His head was turning to dust before it hit the tacky shag carpet.

  Later, some of her accusers would argue that her actions were a treacherous betrayal of her own kind. They insisted that she should have challenged him to an honorable fight. But she didn’t care about being honorable. She cared about him being dead.

  Chapter 1

  “What is that thing?” came a disgusted voice from across the table.

  I smoothed the sweat-dampened hair off my forehead so I could lift my gaze to the speaker. It was nearly dinnertime, but the heat from the day seemed to linger in the air, making our table at the Downtown LA Art Walk almost unbearable. If that weren’t uncomfortable enough, a ray of sunlight had managed to find a crack between skyscrapers and was rapidly intruding across my table like a three-foot melanoma laser. I knew from experience that in a few minutes it was gonna hit me right in the eyes.

  Despite the heat, the woman standing in front of me was immaculate, a heroin-thin fortyish blonde with a Prada bag in the crook of her elbow. Her perfectly made-up eyes were fixed on Shadow, who was curled up on the sidewalk, her chin
resting on my foot. I think the woman’s features were trying to convey revulsion, but they were having a hard time fighting through all the Botox. Shadow, for her part, cracked open one eyelid, glanced at the woman, and went back to sleep. I was suddenly very jealous.

  “This is my dog,” I said, trying to keep my voice pleasant. Well, okay, I tried a little. Shadow had started life as a dog, it was true, but a hundred-eighty-pound dog that was part hairless Peruvian, part wolf, and God knew what else. And that was before she was spelled to be ink-black and have superpowers.

  “Well, that is the ugliest dog I have ever seen,” the woman sniffed, tossing her perfectly blown-out hair.

  I hear this line at least once a day, and it’s astounding how many ways there are to deliver it. Some people are shocked, and some are even sort of admiring. I don’t really mind that because, well, Shadow’s ugliness is so thorough that it really is impressive.

  But this particular woman was using a tone that suggested I should really consider putting Shadow down to liberate the world from the blight of her hideousness. I put down the binder of notes I’d been studying. “That’s so funny,” I said to the Prada woman. “I was just going to say the same thing about you.”

  She gave me a blank look. “But I don’t have a dog.”

  I sighed. She was literally too stupid to insult. “Are you going to buy a sculpture?” I demanded, waving a hand at the beautiful handmade carvings spread across the table in front of me.

  She turned her nose up. “No.”

  “Then go away, or I shall taunt you a second time,” I said in my best French accent.

  The woman gave me a bewildered look but had the sense to back away. “Your customer service is appalling,” she snapped as a parting shot.

  “So are your shoes,” I called back. There. That was hitting her where she lived. The woman made a “humph” noise and flounced away on her Chanel espadrilles. Not for the first time, I wished Shadow and I could high-five.

  I felt the buzz of a werewolf behind me a moment before I heard Eli’s amused voice say, “Making friends again, I see.”

  Shadow lifted her head, and was halfway through a growl before she saw who it was. She settled back down, resigned to being near Eli again. As a null, I negate supernatural powers and abilities within a small area around myself. This works out nicely for my werewolf boyfriend, especially when it comes to getting along with my “dog,” who has been magically altered to hunt and kill werewolves. Yes, I know how all that sounds, but I wasn’t the one who turned Shadow into a bargest. I was just the one tasked with keeping her from murdering anyone. Well, anyone who didn’t deserve it.

  Eli deposited a lemonade in front of me and sat down in the empty chair, taking a sip from a clear plastic cup of iced tea. “She’s not wrong about the customer service, you know,” he said mildly.

  “Hey, I asked her if she was going to buy something before I insulted her shoes,” I protested. “That’s tremendous customer service.”

  Eli grinned at me and shook his head. “I told you you’d be bored. This just isn’t your thing, Scarlett. I get that.”

  I chewed on my lip, squinted against the sunshine, and said nothing. Eli created beautiful sculptures out of driftwood he found on the beach. Plenty of people sold carvings at these art events, but Eli’s were stunning: he had a gift for using the wood’s natural shape and grain to make it look like the subject—a mermaid, a sea star, a humpback whale—had formed organically out of the wood, or maybe vice versa. At my urging, he kept raising the prices, but he still sold at least three-quarters of what he brought to each event.

  Between carving the sculptures, his bartending job, and his position in the werewolf pack, we were reaching a point where if I didn’t hang out at either the art walks or the bar I never saw him. And hanging out at a werewolf bar came with its own complications.

  Still, if I scared the customers away, he was eventually going to stop inviting me to come along. “I’ll be good,” I promised him.

  He leaned over and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Nah. You were right. Those shoes were totally last season.”

  “Right?” I said happily. Neither of us knew anything about fashion.

  He nodded at the unlabeled binder in front of me. “You studying for tomorrow night?” He’d made an effort to sound casual, but I knew him too well to miss the edge of anxiety in his voice. In his own way, Eli was as nervous as I was.

  “Yeah.”

  Eli squeezed my hand. “I’ll be right there in the audience, for every minute. And you’re gonna do great, babe. You know that, right?”

  An older couple covered in wrinkly tattoos came up to exclaim over Eli’s sculptures, which saved me from having to answer. Beginning the following night, the Los Angeles Old World would be staging the dramatically named Vampire Trials, which was sort of our answer to The People’s Court. It’s supposed to happen every three years, but it had been more than six since the last one, for the simple reason that there hadn’t been very many interspecies disputes.

  Overall, of course, this was a good thing, proving that our odd way of doing things in the Los Angeles supernatural community was more or less working. Eventually, though, enough minor problems had stacked up that the powers that be in LA—Dashiell, the cardinal vampire, Kirsten, leader of the witches, and Eli’s alpha Will, plus myself—had decided to put on the Trials, if for no other reason than to clear the air.

  The name makes it sound huge and ominous, but the event itself is fairly straightforward. The three heads of the supernatural communities listen to complaints and make judgments on various conflicts; it’s more “holding court” than “legal court.”

  But the pressure on us was still huge. Los Angeles is the only city in America where all three supernatural powers share power and live more or less in peace. If we fucked that up, there would be a lot of repercussions, which could include anything from snide “I told you so”s to violent attempts to take over our city.

  I’d attended the last Vampire Trials, but two huge things had changed in the last six years. First, back then my psychotic ex-mentor Olivia had been the null on the scene, and I had attended as more of an unpaid intern than anything else. Now I would be the one sitting at the “defendant” table, making sure the vampire, werewolf, or witch sitting with me didn’t try anything.

  Second, three years earlier I’d fought for and earned my own place among the little group that made decisions for the supernatural world in my city. I’d gone from janitor to partner, and this would be my first Trial carrying the weight of that responsibility. I was nervous as hell, which was why I had been reading the binders of handwritten notes from all the previous Trials.

  When the couple wandered off with a wrapped sculpture in tow, Eli turned back to me. “Hey, I forgot to mention, I’m taking the pups out for brunch tomorrow morning, kind of a chill-before-the-Trials thing,” he said, looking hopeful. “Do you want to come?”

  “Uh, maybe,” I said. The “pups” were the three newest members of the LA pack: Lizzy, Troy, and Yola. Part of Eli’s job as the pack beta was to look after them and make sure they were acclimating. “Did they ask for me to come?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

  “Eli . . .”

  “What?” he said stubbornly.

  I raised an eyebrow, but didn’t bother responding. Eli knew damn well that my relationship with the werewolf pack was complicated. Whenever they got close to me, werewolves became human again, which meant that they were free of the uncomfortable, relentless magic that was always scratching at the back of their brains, urging them to do wolfish things. A few of them really did hate me, because they were proud of what they were and didn’t want it taken from them. A few of them were indifferent, and plenty of them, including the pups, adored being near me. To them, proximity to me was like being on a truly spectacular painkiller. And I hated it.

  Being a null didn’t exhaust me or hurt or anything—that wasn’t the problem. Whenever I
got close to those werewolves, though, it was like being the most popular girl in high school, suddenly forced to sit at the loser table. They would alternately kiss my ass, go into stunned silence, or jostle to bring me small treats or do little favors, like fetch me extra napkins or pick up Shadow’s poop. Seriously. They competed for who got to pick up bargest poop.

  Some people might enjoy the attention and solicitation, but I didn’t love being around people—Eli excepted—at the best of times. Unfortunately for me, wolves are extremely social creatures, and Eli needed to be with them. He also didn’t really understand why I would dislike people being nice to me.

  It was, as I said, complicated.

  “I don’t want to have to deal with Shadow scaring the pups,” I said finally. Shadow heard her name—or perhaps picked up on the tension—and lifted her head to look between the two of us. If she got more than fifteen feet away from me, Shadow’s instincts about werewolves returned, and although she wouldn’t kill anyone without a command from me, she became fairly terrifying. This was one of the reasons she went everywhere I did. It had taken nearly two years before she could remain alone with Eli long enough for me to go to the bathroom.

  “So we’ll leave her at the house,” Eli persisted.

  “You know I don’t like doing that.” We had a special room—okay, it was a cell—for Shadow when she absolutely needed to stay at home, like on some of my messier jobs. She hated it, though, and every time she was put in there she found a way to punish me later—pee on the carpet, shredded furniture, that kind of thing.

  “Scarlett . . .” he sighed. “They’d really like to be your friends. Give them a chance.”

  “I don’t need any more friends,” I muttered.

  Eli raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment on the fact that he was my only real friend. In my defense, regular friendships are tough in the Old World, where supernatural politics or danger tend to ruin things. I’d lost one friend, a werewolf named Caroline, because she’d been poisoned and the alpha werewolf had needed to put her down before she could kill any humans. Then my former roommate, a vampire named Molly, had evicted me because I’d repeatedly brought danger home with me. We’d initially promised to keep in touch, but it was awkward and uncomfortable, and I hadn’t spoken to her in years. I’d also sort of been friends with a human cop named Jesse Cruz, but he’d wanted more and I had chosen Eli.