Spell Bound (Darkly Enchanted) Read Free Page A

Borelli?”
Fuck. Second rule of being a grigorio —Don’t piss off Phil.
“Of course you know your job. I’m sor—”
“Don’t bother,” she snapped. “I don’t appreciate your language or your insinuations, Gabriel. You are expected at ritual in four nights. I suggest you get some sleep before you get your ass over there. And the next time this phone rings, I expect you to answer it.”
Gabriel took another slug from the bottle as Phil hung up on him. Loudly. And not before shoving a tiny spell through the line to make his head ache. Damn, that woman was vindictive.
Still, he should have checked in. It was part of the deal. Grigori were to be available at all times, any time. His father, the former Mr. Brown, never would’ve missed a check-in.
No, Davis Borelli had been one of the best grigori ever.
Before he’d been murdered by Dario Paganelli.
No, Dario hadn’t pulled the trigger. But the bastard was responsible for his dad’s death. Just as Dario’s father Fabrizio had been responsible for the curse that had arrested the lives of the streghe .
Maybe Fabrizio would have been more careful if he’d known the curse would screw his son, too. The deities could be spiteful when they granted your wishes. Fabrizio had cursed the thirteen streghe but that curse had trapped his son Dario in eternal life, as well.
And now Dario hunted the streghe with a bloody vengeance. The bastard had a lot to answer for. And Gabriel would make sure he answered in blood.
Another few slugs and the bottle surrendered its last drop.
Gabriel’s gaze slid to the cabinet. No more Mezzaluna. He had a bottle of Grey Goose, but on top of the Messaluna, it might be lethal.
He sat there for a few seconds, wondering just how drunk he needed to be to take his mind off the fact that he wasn’t any closer to finding Dario and murdering him.
Pretty damn drunk.
He definitely needed a change of scenery.

Chapter Two
 
Gods be damned, there he was, Mr. Brown, their supposed savior, drinking himself into a stupor.
For the third night in a row.
Shea grabbed the pole in the center of the catwalk and gave the few men sitting in the Spyder Club’s front row a good view of her naked breasts as she swung around a second time. She needed the tips.
While the midnight regulars lining the catwalk ogled her, Mr. Brown never glanced toward the stage from his table in the back corner. She didn’t think he even realized there was a dancer up there.
The dark-haired man with the don’t-fuck-with-me expression probably wouldn’t recognize her if he fell over her on the street, which was a distinct possibility at the rate he was sucking down tequila.
Great. Just great. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
She barely heard the throbbing beat of the Black-Eyed Peas’ “My Humps” as she went through her bump-and-grind. She knew it well enough not to trip over her four-inch, stiletto heels. But the chill spreading through her body scared her.
Four days ago, she’d called the number in the phone book, the one she and Leo had found using the locator spell.
A female voice had said hello but when Shea had asked for Mr. Brown, she’d been told he was unavailable and would she liked to talk to Mr. Blue?
Her mother’s letter mentioned only one name. Mr. Brown. Not Mr. Blue. She’d hung up without answering.
That night after work, she and Leo had cased the street listed in the phone book. They’d scrutinized every building for ten blocks and she had known immediately which house was Mr. Brown’s. The Etruscan runes carved around the door like decoration gave it away.
They’d parked and staked out the house, her ’72 Dodge Dart blending in among the older Plymouths and Chevys on the street. Later that night, an unfamiliar dark-haired man had walked into the building.
They’d left without knocking on his door.
Tomorrow, she told herself. She’d approach him tomorrow.
But the next night, that man had taken up residence at that table and begun to drink. And