Death And Undone

He wore a black suit with a narrow silver tie, both immaculate except for the dark stain blooming beneath his collar. His skin was too pale, his lips almost colorless, and a fine crack ran from the corner of his mouth toward his jaw. His dark hair fell neatly over one eye.

He looked dead.

He also looked annoyingly pleased to see her.

“You’re late,” he said.

Kiki glanced at the empty chair. “You’re undead.”

“I prefer memorable.”

“Your preference is not evidence.”

His mouth curved. “You broke into my séance, insulted my appearance, and still expect cooperation. I admire the confidence.”

“I’m Kiki Lee lunaria.”

“I know.”

That stopped her.

The wards reacted before she could ask how. Silver wire snapped taut across the walls. Every candle flame stretched toward her, thin and blue. The chalk marks began to crawl.

The room inhaled.

Kiki’s fangs dropped. Her nails lengthened, dark and sharp. The wolf surged beneath her skin, eager to tear through the ritual and whatever smug corpse had arranged it.

The people around the table began chanting.

“Don’t,” Kiki warned.

No one listened.

The nearest ward flared. Pain flashed through her wrist, hot enough to make her stumble. A black sigil appeared beneath her skin, its curling lines spreading like ink dropped into water.

The undead man’s expression changed.

Not fear. Never fear.

Interest.

He lifted one hand. “Stop.”

The chant broke apart.

Every candle went out.

The darkness pressed close, filled with the damp breath of the old house and the soft scrape of bodies shifting away from her. Kiki heard someone whimper. She heard another person reach for the door.

Then the man snapped his fingers.

The door slammed shut.

The wards settled.

Kiki stared at him. “You could have done that before they branded me.”

“I was assessing the situation.”

“You were watching.”

“I was assessing while watching.”

“Ah. A multitasker. How comforting.”

He stepped around the table. His boots made no sound on the warped floorboards. Up close, the wrongness of him became impossible to ignore. No warmth came from his body. No living pulse moved in his throat. Yet he carried himself with the lazy assurance of someone who expected the world to make room.

His gaze dropped to her wrist.

The sigil pulsed once.

His eyes sharpened.

Kiki noticed. “What is it?”

“An invitation.”

“I hate parties.”

“It’s a curse.”

“That’s worse.”

“Much worse. Parties usually have cake.”

One of the robed figures lunged for the back exit. The man turned his head.

The fleeing summoner was lifted off the floor by an invisible force and pinned against the wall. Silver wire wrapped around his throat without touching him.

Kiki’s instincts snapped toward the trapped man, but the wards hissed when she moved. Her blood was feeding them. Vampire venom, wolf heat, and whatever ancient bad decision lived in her bones made the entire room react like a starving animal.

The undead man watched her notice.

“Don’t interfere,” he said.

“Release him.”

“He invited something into my house.”

“This is a condemned townhouse.”

“It’s still my house.”

“You don’t own condemned property.”

“I own the curse. The property is merely emotionally attached.”

The summoner choked. Kiki smelled terror, sharp and sour.

She turned on the undead man. “Let him go.”

His brows lifted. “You’re giving orders?”

“I’m asking.”

“No, you’re threatening. There’s a difference, and yours is much prettier.”

The mark on her wrist pulsed again. The room answered with a low groan. The silver wires tightened.

Kiki took one step closer. “If you kill him, I’ll tear this place apart.”

His gaze moved over her face with slow, infuriating attention. “You say that as if I’m supposed to be impressed.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

“That’s tragic. Most people try very hard.”

“You’re a narcissist.”

“Finally, an accurate observation.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Kiki hated that she noticed his smile. Hated even more that it was not empty. There was something alive in it - not warmth, exactly, but amusement sharpened by loneliness. He looked like a beautiful mistake who had decided to charge admission.

“Name,” she demanded.

He released the summoner.

The man collapsed, coughing, and scrambled behind the table.

The undead stranger adjusted his silver tie. “Death and Undone.”

“That’s not a name.”

“It’s the name I use.”

“What’s the name you were born with?”

His expression went still.

For the first time, the room did not seem to belong entirely to him.

“Marcus de la visto,” he said.

The words fell softly, but the wards reacted as if he had struck a match. Every mark on the wall turned black. The candles reignited in a ring of blue flame.

Kiki’s wrist burned.

Marcus looked at the sigil again. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“I was hunting the source of the undead activity in the city.”

“You found it.”

“Good. I’m taking you in.”

A laugh escaped him, low and surprised. “You?”

Kiki bared her teeth. “I have arrested things larger than you.”

“Were they better dressed?”

“They were less irritating.”

“Then I’m clearly an improvement.”

He moved closer.

Kiki held her ground. She could hear the séance-goers breathing behind her, could smell Marcus’s cologne beneath the rot of his curse. Cedar, smoke, and something metallic. His face was cold enough to belong in a crypt, but his eyes were bright with wicked attention.

The sigil pulsed between them.

Marcus stopped.

His gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

The gesture was small. Deliberate. A thread pulled tight.

“You’re enjoying this,” she said.

“I’m enjoying you.”

“That was not permission.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “It was an observation.”

The wolf inside her leaned toward him.

Kiki wanted to bite him. She wanted to put him against the nearest wall and find out whether the dead could shiver. She wanted, most dangerously, to know why he had stopped when the mark pulsed - as if it hurt him too.

She curled her marked hand into a fist.

“What did you do to yourself?” she asked.

Marcus’s amusement thinned.

The séance participants went silent.

He looked toward the blackened wards. “I cast the ultimate curse.”

“On whom?”

“Me.”

The answer landed harder than it should have.

Kiki studied him. “Why?”

“Because I was tired of being breakable.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”

“Did you copy it from someone?”

His jaw tightened.

A name appeared in the chalk on the floor, written by no visible hand.

FALSE THE FOOL.

The letters shuddered.

Marcus looked down at them with an expression so nakedly furious that Kiki forgot to breathe.

“False the fool,” he said. “My hero. My inspiration. My catastrophic example.”

The room trembled.

“He made a curse out of his own legend,” Marcus continued. “I improved it.”

“Of course you did.”

“I made myself impossible to kill, impossible to heal, and very difficult to love.”

The last words slipped out before he could polish them.

Silence followed.

Kiki’s anger shifted, unwillingly making room for something else.

Marcus seemed to realize what he had said. His face closed at once, vanity sliding back over the wound like a jeweled mask.

“Not that I’m seeking love,” he added. “It’s terribly inconvenient. People expect emotional availability and shared snacks.”

“You’re undead,” Kiki said. “Can you even love?”

His eyes met hers.

For one unguarded second, he looked less like a monster and more like a man who had asked himself the same question every night since dying.

“I don’t know,” he said.

The honesty struck deeper than any threat.

Kiki’s wrist flared.

Marcus reached for her.

She caught his hand before he touched her. His skin was cold, smooth, and utterly still beneath her fingers. The contact sent a shock through the mark, up her arm, straight into her chest.

Marcus looked at their joined hands.

“You should let go,” he murmured.

“Why?”

“Because the curse recognizes attachment.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It becomes a you problem when it decides you belong to me.”

Kiki released him.

The sigil pulsed harder.

Marcus’s eyes darkened. “Too late.”

The townhouse groaned around them. Plaster rained from the ceiling. The silver wires snapped one by one, whipping through the air. The séance-goers screamed and ran for the doors, but the wards had already chosen their shape.

A circle of black fire erupted beneath Kiki’s boots.

Marcus seized her by the waist and pulled her clear.

The movement was fast, controlled, and protective. His arm locked around her, holding her against the cold line of his body while the fire licked across the floor.

Kiki looked up at him.

His face was inches from hers.

“Put me down,” she said, though she did not struggle.

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t thank you.”

“You should. Praise is the only thing keeping me generous.”

“That explains the personality.”

His grip tightened just enough to steady her as the floor split beneath them.

“Say something nice,” he demanded.

“You’re less hideous up close.”

His eyes flashed with satisfaction. “Better.”

“You’re also saving my life.”

“Excellent.”

“And you’re still a self-obsessed corpse.”

His smile returned. “I’ll accept two out of three.”

The fire surged.

Marcus shoved her toward the broken parlor window. “Go.”

Kiki caught the sill. Rain slapped her face, cold and clean after the suffocating ritual air. Behind her, Marcus stood in the burning circle as if the flames were an audience he had dressed for.

“Come with me,” she said.

He glanced at the ruined room. “You’re worried about me.”

“I’m worried about the city.”

“Liar.”

The sigil pulsed.

Marcus flinched.

It was tiny. Almost invisible. But Kiki saw it.

The curse hurt him whenever she moved away.

Her chest tightened. “Marcus.”

He looked at her then, stripped of the smugness for one bare, terrible moment.

“Run, Kiki.”

She should have obeyed.

Instead, she reached back.

His fingers closed around hers.

Cold met heat. The mark on her wrist blazed black, and a matching sigil opened across his palm. The townhouse screamed through every wall.

Marcus yanked her toward the window.

They crashed through together.

Kiki hit the muddy garden and rolled beneath the rain. Marcus landed beside her without a sound, already upright, already looking infuriatingly elegant.

Then the townhouse windows exploded behind them.

Kiki scrambled to her feet and ran.

Marcus followed only as far as the iron gate. He stopped beneath the broken stone arch, framed by firelight and rain, one hand pressed over the curse in his palm.

Kiki reached the street before turning back.

The sigil on her wrist pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Marcus’s gaze locked onto hers across the rain.

“Don’t come looking for me,” he called.

Kiki wrapped her hand around the burning mark. “Then stop haunting my city.”

His smile was crooked, beautiful, and entirely untrustworthy.

“I’m not haunting it,” he said. “I’m protecting it.”

“From what?”

Marcus glanced at the burning townhouse.

Then at her.

“From me.”

The mark pulsed again.

Kiki ran into the dark with his curse beating beneath her skin, and every step away from Marcus felt less like escape than an invitation.

End of chapter one. 39 more chapters in the full book.