Spell Bound (Darkly Enchanted) Read Free

black rotary phone in the dressing room. That phone was connected to the communication system only Etruscans could use.
More waiting.
Please don’t let it be too late.
She turned to Leo with a smile, this one more natural. “Looks like it worked, babe. We’ll give Mr. Brown a call later, okay? You and me, we’re a great team, huh?”
Leo nodded but he didn’t smile. He never smiled. He barely ever spoke.
And it broke her heart.
She took a deep breath. “Alright, then, how about some breakfast?”
Leo’s big dark eyes, so like their dad’s, just watched her. Silent. Waiting.
Shea wished she knew for what.
* * *
Another dead end.
Gabriel Borelli slammed the front door behind him and threw his coat at the nearest chair. It missed and fell to the floor with a heavy thud.
Fuck it. He’d check the weapons later.
Right now, he needed a drink. That bottle of Mezzaluna vodka in the cabinet didn’t stand a chance. Not after the month he’d had.
Four fucking-endless weeks chasing a rumor that turned into a dead end. The versipellis Harry had put him in touch with had been positive she’d seen a man who fit Dario Paganelli’s description in a restaurant in the Outer Banks. It’d been his first lead in more than a year, but it’d been a damn bust.
And now it was time to face the music for his absence.
Bottle in hand, he took a healthy swallow before he picked up the black handset from the 1940s-era phone and dialed the eight-number code to get Phil.
“May I help you?”
As always, that high-pitched female voice made him think of the old Lily Tomlin phone-operator skit on “Laugh In.” His dad had loved that show.
“It’s Brown. Messages?”
Phil’s purely feminine sigh made his temples throb.
Damn, this is gonna suck.
“There are several, as you would know if you’d checked in every week, as you’re supposed to. Not once a month, Gabriel.”
Gods be damned. He was a grigorio , a lean, mean, Etruscan bad-ass whose enhanced senses made it damn-near impossible for anyone to get the drop on him. His affinity for all metals but iron gave him the power to slap bullets out of the air with a simple spell. And his unusual strength made him hard to kill and nearly impossible to beat in a fight.
And Phil was not his mother so why the hell did he, a twenty-eight-year-old man, feel like he had to apologize?
No way. He wasn’t gonna do it. He didn’t need to—
“Look, I’m sorry.” Shit, you’re an idiot. “I’ve been out of touch—”
“And where exactly have you been?”
Not in this lifetime, babe. “Personal business. What messages?”
Phil huffed and, for a few seconds, he was sure he was going to have to apologize again and that might just make him chug the rest of the bottle.
“Crimson Moon called three times.”
Yeah, he’d figured his mom would call at least once while he was gone, even though she had his cell number.
“Lupe’s Low End called twice.”
Goddamn Quinn. His best friend needed to get over his distrust of cell phones, too.
“And one attempt was made to procure your services.”
Fuck. For Phil to forward an outside call to him meant someone had asked for him by name. That usually only happened when another grigorio wanted his help.
“Who was it?”
“Unknown.”
Huh? “What the hell does that mean?”
“That means,” Phil huffed, “she didn’t leave her name.”
“And this female asked for me by name?”
“Yes, she asked for Mr. Brown. When I told her you were unavailable, she hung up.”
Well, shit. The existence of the grigori and the cursed streghe they protected was a carefully maintained secret, even among the Etruscans. The story of how the women had been cursed by Fabrizio Paganelli to unending life had become myth. How their sons were born grigori , the great warrior protectors thought to be extinct, a legend.
For someone to ask for him by his call name…
“Christ, Phil. Did you find out where she was calling from? Did you—”
“Do you think I don’t know my job, Gabriel