House of Darken (Secret Keepers #1)

He appraised me for an extended moment, then nodded. “So it does.”

Once he and the others were gone, I leaned heavily against the closed door. Lexen interrupted me before I could make a suggestion: “I think we should pick this up in the morning.” I had been about to propose some research time. Somehow he always knew.

“Bed sounds pretty good, actually.”

I conceded defeat for now, secure in the knowledge that Daniel was on his way to New Orleans and that he would keep us updated. Once we were in the room, I barely managed to crawl my way across the bed before collapsing face-down on it. Lexen pulled the covers over us both.

“I need to brush my teeth,” I mumbled.

There was a rustling and then Lexen was back with a new toothbrush still in the package, toothpaste, and a glass of water. “That’s very thoughtful,” I said, smiling around the brush.

I made quick work brushing and rinsing my mouth out, finally surrendering to the super soft bed. My eyes were closed by the time Lexen rejoined me, once again pulling the covers over us, spooning his body behind me.

“I’m not going another month without you in my arms, in my bed,” he said into my hair. “My draygone was impossible to control. I almost climbed through your window.”

“When?” I asked, twisting around so I could see him. Only the faintest light shone through his nearby window, but it was enough to make out his features.

“Every night.”

Wrapping my arms around him, I let myself relax against him, and as he captured my lips in the most gentle of kisses, I decided that Lexen was right. As usual.

No more time apart. We were a team. We would figure out whatever battle was coming for us and we would not be defeated, because we would fight together. Always.





House of Imperial - Secret Keepers#2





Release June 30th 2018





Chapter One



www.amazon.com/House-Imperial-Secret-Keepers-Book-ebook/dp/B07D1YQLPL/



The French Quarter was a place I wanted to tell my children about. Not that kids or family were an actual possibility in my life, but this city … it was a world worthy to be passed on, to be spoken about in stories and song. There was something special here. I had felt it the first moment we arrived.

As I strolled along the colorful street that led into Jackson Square, I wondered what my life would have been like if I’d been born here. I mean, not right here on this somewhat grimy pavement, but in New Orleans. Maybe I would be reading tarot cards like the woman on my right, set up at her small white table, long dark curls spilling out from under the jeweled headpiece adorning her forehead, purple nails flashing as she placed cards down for an eager tourist.

Or maybe I’d paint.

That always looked like a fun way to tell a story. Street artists were everywhere, some amazing, others average, but all of them expressing their creativity in a way that I couldn't imagine doing. I’d never held a paintbrush, not even as a child. Circumstances from before my birth dictated that my life would never be my own.

Something I’d grown numb to over the years.

As if to prove me wrong, a haunting saxophone tune started up from a jazz musician leaning close to the wall of a café; the low reverberations hit me deep in my soul, in the place that had been cold and dormant for a long time. I basked in that feeling for a moment, closing my eyes and letting the music take me away.

I probably looked like a crazy person, standing in the middle of the Quarter, face lifted to the sky, my shoulder length platinum-blond hair no doubt sticking out in a million directions. Okay, so it was NOLA, I no doubt fit in perfectly, but for someone who had always tried to blend it was making me uneasy being in public like this. But for the first time in a long time I felt alive. I wasn’t sure if letting myself feel things was a good idea, but I couldn’t seem to stay away. I kept coming back here, to this center filled with life and vibrancy, watching the other tourists as they took their spooky tours and filled their bags with fancy masks, religious trinkets, and hot sauce. I envied them their laughter, and their ability to afford copious amounts of beignets. Those puffy balls of magic were everything. I'd had one my first day and since then I must have thought about their deliciousness at least seven times a week. I was addicted and was totally okay about it.

Mostly I envied them their happy moments and families. That existence was not for me, but at least being here I got to experience a small sliver of what they had every day. Glancing at my watch, I stifled my groan: 3.50pm. I’d already been gone for two hours, wandering the streets.

It was Wednesday. I was supposed to be at the farmers’ markets on Peters Street. My mom allowed me to make this once a week trip from our tiny condo in the Marginy to gather some groceries. I’d be punished for taking my time today; I always was. We had strict rules in my family – my mom and me – and one of the most important was that I never put us at risk of exposure. We were to always stick to the shadows and live like ghosts. Most days I felt about as substantial as a ghost, so she had achieved one of her goals.

With reluctance, I turned away from the square and started my trek back toward the market area. It was only a few blocks, but in this million-percent humidity it would feel longer. I really wasn’t in any rush to get back to our tiny condo. So even though it felt like I was striding through a sauna I did my best to enjoy the journey. Heat didn’t bother me normally, but I hadn’t quite understood the true scope of “sweating like a pig” until we arrived here.

I let my eyes roam across the streets, waiting for the next new and crazy sight. One literally never knew what was going to happen day by day. We’d only lived in New Orleans for a few months. To the locals I’d always be a tourist, but I was okay with that. I would take that title in exchange for getting to experience this world. I was fascinated with it all. This city was hard to truly describe; a place like no other, and considering I’d moved two to three times a year since I was born, that was really saying something. Its French influences, not only in architecture but food and culture … I loved them all.

I’d started hoping each night, before I went to sleep, that nothing would spook my mom into running again. Two months was usually the shortest time we remained in one place, so we should still have at least another two months here. But I wanted forever.

Far too quickly I arrived at the market, hurrying about to finish my shopping before it closed. The walk back to our condo would take forty minutes, but I’d brought some bags with cold packs for anything that could spoil in this hot weather.

My mom didn’t work – she told me that neither of us could leave a paper trail, which included social security numbers and tax declarations – we lived off a huge settlement payout from my father’s death. He was killed in a hit and run when my mom was pregnant with me. It had been a very big deal, something to do with unsigned roadworks and safety issues. Whatever the cause, I lost a parent, one who might have actually loved me, and in exchange we got enough money to live like nomads.

The money was almost gone now. Eighteen years of being on the run was pretty expensive, even if we did live in rundown-no-names-asked rentals.

A group of kids pushed past me as I left the market, yelling and throwing a football around. School had started up again; they’d probably just gotten out and come straight here with their parents. I’d been homeschooled. Sort of. I wasn’t sure there was an actual name for what my mom did, which was teach me the basics, lecture me incessantly about the dangers in our lives, and fill my young innocent mind with the sort of scary stories that not even adults should hear.

“Callie!”