In 1815 Wales, the evil being Maelodor believes the
Kilronan's Diary has been destroyed. The nine formed the
inner circle with only Maelodor left alive and forced to a
life of hiding and running, unless he can obtain the
Kilronan's Diary. Lazarus, the dead brought back to life,
is charged with retrieving the book from the Earl of
Kilronan in Dublin, Ireland.
Aiden, the Earl of Kilronan, believes the diary to be the
key to answering all his questions when Catriona O'Connell
attempts to steal the document. Cat has been cast aside by
her prominent family as an embarrassment. Stealing is her
survival. Cat possesses magic, as does Aiden, both being
fey. Cat reads the ancient language of fey and is held to
read the diary. Before Cat or Aiden realize it, they have
fallen into a web of love. Complete with fey and human
blood, mage energy filled with fire and chants, the real
and unreal bodies clash in a storm of swords and blood.
Surviving the war between the Duiredon and Other, Cat and
Aiden fight for their lives.
EARL OF DARKNESS is the first book in a new paranormal
series about a mysterious Irish family fighting to stop the
resurrection of King Arthur. This read is fast-paced and
littered with special powers between the normal and the
evil brought back from the dead, who with their unlimited
paranormal powers are indestructible. Every page is a new
mystery complete with unexpected powers. I found some
difficulty in understanding the paranormal aspects of the
various characters until I read deeper into the story.
The magic she tries to hide…
Born a lady, but reduced to surviving in the slums of
Dublin, Catriona O’Connell has been hired to steal a
mysterious book from Aidan Douglas, Earl of Kilronan. But
Cat is secretly Other, an age-old mixture of Fey and
human—something Aidan recognizes immediately when he
surprises the lovely young burglar in his library, about to
steal a magical diary.
…is the magic he desperately wants.
From the moment Aidan sees her, Cat’s spirited beauty
enchants him, but her uncanny abilities are what he truly
needs, for Cat can understand the mystical language in the
diary he inherited from his murdered father. So Aidan makes
an offer: translate the book or be thrown in prison as a
thief. And as Cat slowly deciphers each page, she and Aidan
are drawn together by passion . . .and into the violence of
the Other world that is the Kilronan legacy. Can they defeat
those who seek the book, or are their lives in even greater
danger than their hearts?
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Kilronan House, Dublin
May 1815
Cat crouched in the bushes below the window. Branches poked
her in places best left unpoked, and nervous butterflies
queased her stomach, but she willed herself to relax just
as Geordie had taught her. No use getting bothered. It
would be the work of a minute to nip in and filch the
goods. Nothing to it.
Hoisting herself up onto the sill, she scrambled for
purchase on the slick, mossy granite. Turned her attention
to the window, sliding the thin metal of her betty between
the casement and sash.
She swallowed a contemptuous sniff as a jiggle and a twist
of her wrist released what passed for a lock. Committing
this sorry excuse for security to memory, she dropped
soundlessly into the room. It might be worth her while to
return another night. Not too soon. But if she needed a bit
of something to pawn, it was good to know where a ready
supply of pocketable trinkets might be found.
She cast a quick glance around. In the dark, furniture
stood humped and unrecognizable, though the desk was easy
enough to spot—an enormous black shape at the far end of
the room, facing the window she’d just come through. But it
was the rows upon rows of shelves catching her breath in
her throat and squashing her earlier optimism.
Was she insane? What had she been thinking when she’d
offered to come here in Geordie’s place? This was a job for
a professional, not a novice with more bravado than skill.
She’d never find one book among the hundreds rising from
floor to ceiling on every wall.
She gave a passing thought to returning to the cottage and
explaining her failure. Discarded the idea almost
immediately. Geordie needed her. He’d asked so little over
the years they’d been together, the least she could do was
complete this one small job.
Plucking a candle from a low table nearby, she mumbled the
words to set flame to wick. She’d learned over the last few
years to hide even the small bits of household magic she’d
been allowed at home. Survival meant being normal. Passing
as one of the non-magical Duinedon in a world where to be
Other meant persecution and worse. But she was in a hurry
with no time to waste searching for flint and steel. Not
when she had a much bigger and more frustrating search
ahead of her. Magic would have to serve.
Yet the futility of her task was simply made more clear to
her in the light of the tiny flame. Had she said hundreds
of books? There must be thousands. And more spread out on
tables. Heaped upon the desk. Some even stacked in corners
for lack of other space. She’d never seen so many in one
place. Not even in her stepfather’s library, the coveted
symbol of his newfound wealth.
Cat started at the shelves, browsing the titles and spines,
hoping against hope the damned thing would jump out and
holler, here I am! Found nothing even remotely resembling
the diary’s description Geordie had given her.
She moved to the tables. Plucking books up. Leafing through
them. Putting them back disappointed. Scowling, hands on
hips, she surveyed the bibliophilic excess. This was
getting her nowhere. And time stood as her enemy. The
longer she remained, the greater the chance she’d be
caught. She needed a plan of action.
So, if she had a diary, where would she keep it?
Simple. Close at hand. Easily accessible. That meant the
desk.
She focused her attention on the volumes scattered there. A
book did lie open. But a quick scan showed her columns and
rows of tiny, carefully written numbers. Sheet upon sheet,
with little to show for them at the end if she were any
judge.
Pushing it aside, she took up the next in the pile. And the
next. A third followed. Then a fourth.
She gave up. Started rifling through drawers. Ledger books,
receipts, correspondence. She’d progressed as far as the
bottom right-hand side when she encountered a lock. Out
came the betty. With a practiced flick of her wrist, the
lock gave way. And . . . success. A book lay at the bottom
of the drawer. A drawer empty but for this one item.
Carefully, she withdrew the book. Placed it on the desk,
her breath coming jumpy with excitement.
Old?
Frayed at the edges. A cover of tooled leather, supple from
handling. So far, so good.
A crescent pierced by a broken arrow in gold leaf?
She studied it in the weak light. Turned it one way, then
the other.
Here was a funny squiggle rubbed to a dull brown, but if
she squinched her eyes almost shut, it sort of resembled
the sketch Geordie had given her to memorize.
The final test. The stamped personal crest of Kilronan.
Cat smiled. That was easy to see. A spread-winged bird atop
a crooked sword had been pressed into one corner. Fortuna
ventus validus. Luck favors the strong.
Latin. A straightforward language and one she’d learned the
secret of long ago, despite Mother’s gimlet eye on her
every moment she’d not been at her needlework or helping
with her half sisters.
This was it, then. She could taste success.
Curiosity set her fingers leafing through the pages.
Her heart beat sharp as a bird’s, her mouth going dry, her
throat tightening. Not Latin this time. No language she’d
ever seen.
She lost herself in the hand-inked marks upon the vellum,
in the the swirl and slice of each faded letter. Strung
together like beads upon a string. She studied their weight
and shape. The emptiness between. They fell into her head
like stones into a pool. Rippled and struck. Bounced back
until they met their echo in the still center of her. And
from the unintelligible came meaning.
This was what she’d been sent for. She’d bet her only
farthing on it.
She smiled, shifting on the balls of her feet as success
lit her insides. Clutched the diary to her chest as if
embracing a baby.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” A deep baritone
voice punctuated by the snick of a cocked pistol.
Cat froze.
Aidan studied the woman as he might some rare new species.
Womanus Exoticus.
Black hair swept up and accentuating a delicate jaw line,
the pale slash of a scar down one cheek. Wide green eyes
round with panic. And a body disturbingly contoured in a
snug jacket and a pair of hip-hugging trousers.
“Put the book down and step away from the desk,” he ordered.
Her eyes flicked to the open window.
“Don’t even think it.” Exhaustion edged Aidan’s words. His
head hurt from a long day spent sparring with lawyers,
bankers, and the occasional family member. And sleep
beckoned with the arms of a lover. The only lover he’d had
in more months than he could count.
Something he needed to remedy soon if his reaction to this
woman leaned more toward lust than rage.
His eye fell upon the book she still clutched. Coincidence
she chose this item instead of shinier, more tempting
baubles?
Aidan had long ago decided there was no such thing as
coincidence. Even more disturbing, she’d actually seemed to
be reading the impenetrable text, something no bookseller
or scholar in Dublin had been able to do. And he should
know.
He’d been to them all.
The woman stiffened, her gaze falling beyond Aidan’s
shoulder to something or someone behind him. Her eyes
widened, her mouth rounding into an “O” of astonishment.
An accomplice? Servant?
Aidan turned. A moment only for his concentration to stray,
but all it took for chaos to break loose.
A book came hurtling toward Aidan’s head, catching him in
the arm; his pistol going off with a report to wake the
dead. The recoil jarred his shoulder while smoke stung his
eyes.
The woman took that moment to bolt for the window, hitching
herself up with a moan of desperation. Scrabbling at the
latch with nimble fingers.
Aidan sprang, catching her by the ankle. Dragging her,
kicking and flailing, back into the room. “Neat little
trick,” he hissed.
“You fell for it, didn’t you?” she snarled. “Just shows
what a stupid prat you are.”
A knee caught Aidan in the groin, sending agony curdling
along every nerve in his lower half. He resisted the urge
to drop into a fetal curl, but the gloves came off. She may
have been female, but she was dangerous.
Ignoring the upbringing that taught him not to lay a hand
on women, Aidan staggered her with a hard slap to the side
of her head. Grabbed her by the arm, ignoring her cry of
pain and white-lipped grimace. Twisted her other behind her
back, all while avoiding the wriggling kicks and thwarting
the clever maneuvers designed to slither out of even the
tightest holds.
“Careful how you toss the insults,” Aidan cautioned,
guiding his captive toward a chair. Shoving her into it.
“I was being careful,” she sulked, clutching her upper arm,
lines grooved white in her already pale face.
With no hope of escape, the woman seemed to shrink in on
herself, and what features Aidan had been able to
distinguish earlier blurred and faded. What he’d taken for
green eyes were blue now in this light, but a flicker of
the candle and golden hazel might be more accurate. And
though at first she had appeared slender, hunched shoulders
broadened her frame, her face coarsening so that Aidan
questioned his first impression. That or—
He blinked, and the woman’s image settled like sand in a
glass.
A fith-fath? Not exactly. This was a more subtle shifting—a
clever manipulation of awareness leaving the victim
doubting his own observations. An obvious asset in her
chosen profession.
Aidan grabbed her roughly by the collar. Dragged her close
so they stood nose to nose, trying to avoid her all-too-
obvious curves. Her lavender scent so at odds with her
boyish costume.
“Who are you? Answer me, or so help me god, I’ll have you
in front of a magistrate by dawn.”
She swallowed, eyes wide, bottom lip bit between her teeth
as she struggled against Aidan’s grip. “Hired,” she gasped.
“To do what?”
She shook her head in denial.
“I said, hired to do what?”
Still nothing.
“You leave me no choice.” He dragged her toward the door,
her heels scrabbling against the carpet. “What I can’t get
out of you, perhaps your gaolers will.”
“Wait! Please!”
He slowed his steps. “Changed your mind?”
“I . . . that is . . . they might . . . ”
He kept his expression purposefully bland. “A definite
risk. The keepers at Newgate aren’t known for their
chivalry. A female on her own . . . ” He shrugged.
Her face blanched white.
“So what’s it to be? Answer to me or answer to them?”
If looks could kill, he’d be dead thrice over. “You,” she
spat.
Aidan eased his stranglehold. “I knew you’d come to see it
my way. Well?”
“I was hired to find a book. A red cover. Funny picture on
the front.” Her words came fast and shaky.
“Who hired you? What was his name?” Aidan prodded.
“Said his name was Smith. Said to steal the book. Leave it
at Saint Patrick’s. That’s all I know. Honestly.”
He tossed her back into the seat with a muttered oath. He’d
two choices. Summon a constable and write the episode off
as one more instance of Dublin’s pervasive crime. Or lock
her in a windowless room until morning when daylight and a
few snatched hours of sleep might make sense of a situation
that hinted at more than simple housebreaking. A jangling
unease tickled the base of his skull. Made the first choice
untenable.
“Come.” He yanked her back to her feet. Took grim pleasure
in the bitten-off groan as she staggered against him. “I’ve
got the perfect place to hold you for the night.”
The two of them headed down into the kitchens, the passage
growing narrower and dustier the farther they walked.
“Here we are.” Aidan swung a creaking door wide.
The woman ducked inside, studying her surroundings. A row
of shelves, empty now but for a few mismatched pieces of
crockery. No windows. One door.
Still clutching her upper arm, she looked questioningly
back at Aidan, those damn green eyes blinking back tears.
“You’ll stay here tonight,” Aidan said, hating the heavy
knot settling in his chest, as if he tortured a kitten or
tore the wings from a butterfly. Pushing the thought aside,
he growled, “Enjoy it. It’ll be the cleanest cell you’ll
have for a good while I expect.”
Before he could change his mind, Aidan slammed the door on
his prisoner, turning the latch to lock it behind him. Made
it halfway down the dark passage before an idea struck him
with such force that his bad leg buckled beneath him. Sent
him lurching for the door like a drunkard.
A wild, stupid, ridiculous idea. It wouldn’t work. Couldn’t
work. But once the thought had planted itself in his brain,
it refused to be shaken.
If this woman knew enough about her Other abilities to
manipulate perception, who knew what else she might be
capable of? Aidan had been sure he’d seen not only interest
but comprehension in her eyes as she’d flipped the pages of
his father’s diary. Something he would have thought
impossible had he not witnessed it for himself. But there
it was. A thief who could read the headache-inducing
writing that had stymied all his attempts at translation
for months.
Once again Aidan dragged back the lock. Felt the grudging
give of the ancient metal. Pushed wide the door. And
stopped dead in his tracks, the air rushing from his lungs
in a gasping string of curses. Great bloody goddamn.
Womanus Exoticus had shed her plumage.
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