Daughter of the Thirteen: Witches of Bourbon Street, #1

By Lorraine Kennedy

Laurel Fabre has just discovered she's a witch, but she's not just any witch, she's a daughter of the Thirteen and her lover just might be the devil.

    Her mother dared to break a pact with the devil and Laurel will pay the price. Now she's on the run from all dark creatures, demons, vampires, and even other witches.

Laurel's only chance at survival may be the Prince of Hell's half human son, Marcos St. Clare.     He's dark, sexy and the most dangerous man she's ever met, but he's also her one chance to escape Hell and preserve her soul.

   From a distance, he watched as Laurel grew into a stunning beauty. He longed to hold her, to kiss her, to protect her from all who would destroy her, but to save Laurel, Marcos must overcome his own dark nature. 
   The Witches of Bourbon Street series is a prequel to the Immortal Destiny series and the Light Seekers serial. Each series is connected, but may also be read as a stand alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lavine
• Release date: May 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386162667

Book preview

Chapter One

New Orleans - Present Day

If she listened closely, she could hear it. Just below the distant sound of traffic and the piercing wail of sirens, a bell was tolling - marking the witching hour.

In no hurry, the woman in the skintight black dress strolled down Basin Street; oblivious to the hooting and hollering of the gang members she passed. Most women might have been intimidated, maybe even terrified, but she wasn’t most women.

As the ringing of the bell died away, she stopped and tilted her face to the night sky. The full moon seemed so close, it was easy to imagine that she might actually be able to reach out and touch it.

Tonight they would finally have everything they needed.

It was a full moon, and the anniversary of the curse. According to legend, when a full moon happened on the anniversary, it would light the way to the tomb. That’s where she would find the secrets of the Bourbon Street Witches.

Taking a deep breath, she continued walking, swaying her hips just enough to be enticing. Not that she needed to entice anyone. With her exotic dark eyes, and a cascade of silky black hair, she didn’t even have to try.

Approaching the corner of Basin Street and Conti, the witch fixed her eyes on the old St. Louis Cemetery. A beam of moonlight illuminated a single crypt.

Crossing the street, she made her way to the iron gates. They were locked, but that made no difference. It would take a lot more than a lock to keep her out.

Muttering words beneath her breath, she waved her hand over the lock. Something resembling black light began to seep from the flesh of her hand, reaching out to envelope the lock. An instant later, it clicked open.

Her ruby lips spread into a wide smile.

The sisters of Saint Michael’s believed themselves so smart. They’d thought if they hid the journal in a crypt, it would be safe. They’d tried to destroy it, but to no avail. Not even fire could destroy the words of the Bourbon Street Witches.

The crypt was easy to find, at least it was if you were a witch.

The tomb pulsated with silver light, but the light could only be seen by the eyes of a witch.

Unlike so many of the other tombs, this one was nondescript, and would easily be missed, if not for the magical light emanating from it.

A mortal would look at it and see nothing out of the ordinary. Not even a vampire would notice it.

A witch would see it, but most witches had no idea where to look. The sisters of Saint Michael’s and the Bourbon Street Witches hid their secrets well, but every protection spell has a weakness, especially one that powerful.

She wondered which of the Bourbon Street Witches were interned in there, though it didn’t matter. It was only important that the book was in there.

Again she focused the black light on the crypt’s heavy door and it slowly began to open, making an irritating grinding sound as it did.

A blast of toxic air brushed passed her and she hesitated.

The overwhelming stench of mold and rot pervading the crypt was almost intolerable. Doing her best to ignore the stench, she stepped through the doorway of death.

Moonlight spilled through the open door, blanketing the interior of the tomb in silver light.

As soon as she stepped inside, she no longer had to wonder which of the Bourbon Street Witches had been put to rest here. There were four coffins, one for each of the witches.

That was interesting, but her attention wavered when she saw the black box glowing beneath the moonlight. As soon as she got close enough to block the moonlight, it became invisible.

Interesting!

So the box could only be seen on the anniversary of the curse at midnight, under the light of a full moon!

Though it was no longer visible, she kneeled down and placed her hand where she estimated the top to be and was rewarded with the chill of metal against her hand.

The stories claimed the box was protected by magic.

But there was that unfortunate problem of a loophole.

In this case, that loophole showed itself on the anniversary of the curse, when their magic would be at its weakest. They probably hadn’t fretted too much about that weakness, believing the book would still be protected, as long as it wasn’t a full moon.

Once again, the black light flowed from her fingertips.

The lock clicked.

Smiling, she lifted the lid and there it was.

The words of the Bourbon Street witches, bound in black leather. As soon as she opened the book, the words on the pages began to glow, the magic of the witches still very much alive within its pages.

As her eyes scanned the glowing text, Laurel’s story came alive.

Chapter Two

New Orleans - 1899

A warm wind stirred the treetops - shattering the heavy stillness of the night. Beneath the wind, she could hear the sound of footsteps in the distance.

Laurel retreated to the shadows, hiding behind one of the many cypress trees that obscured the light of the full moon.

The footsteps stopped near where she was hiding. She could just make out the large figure of a man. He was looking around, obviously searching for something.

When he turned in just the right way, his curly blond hair reflected the silver moonlight.

A mischievous smile played on her lips. "Monsieur, I thought you would never come," she said, stepping from behind the tree.

You are a wicked girl, Laurel. He reached out and roughly pulled her close to him.

"Yes, Monsieur Philippe, but you would not like me otherwise." Laurel giggled as he pulled her closer.

Philippe lowered his lips to hers, his tongue invading her mouth with an urgent - passionate kiss. Pulling her to the ground, he lifted the folds of her gown and sought out the hot moisture between her legs.

The tingling sensation of his fingers rubbing her swollen bud, left her hungering to feel him deep within her. His tongue danced with hers, as he probed deeper into her core - enticing her to accept him between her legs.

She thrust her hips forward, but he pulled his hand back. When he finally ended their kiss, she was left breathless.

I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to feel you lying beneath me.

Only one time had she nearly given herself to Philippe completely, but she’d come to her senses and stopped it. But when she thought of those moments just before she stopped him, the memory still made her tremble.

But she couldn’t let it happen, at least not yet.

We can’t Philippe.

He groaned in frustration. Laurel, I can take no more of this. I have to have you!

If I should get with child ... Mother Angelique ... The thought was too horrible to contemplate.

Come away with me Laurel. I’ll take you someplace where I can make love to you every night.

Laurel was tempted, but something held her back. Philippe was much older than she, and so much more experienced.

How true would his heart be to a Creole mulatto orphan?

Philippe wasn’t about to let her get away that easy. He pushed against her leg, letting her get a good feel of the stiff erection straining against the material of his trousers.

Laurel wavered.

But then a sense of danger broke through her haze of passion. There was a noticeable change in the atmosphere. The air seemed to crackle with electricity, as if a storm was imminent.

Pulling away, she scanned the surrounding darkness. Something is wrong.

* * *

No more than a silhouette against the moon, he stood nearby - watching and waiting. Just beyond the thick cypress trees surrounding the Saint Michael’s Orphanage, the witch trembled with passion. She yearned to make Philippe her lover.

With a mane of wild - dark curls framing her face, she resembled an angel, but Laurel Fabre was far from that. Now she was also tarnished by her unholy desire.

Oh but she was so beautiful.

Her smooth olive complexion radiated youth and vitality, creating the perfect angelic image.

Suddenly the girl stiffened and she searched for the source of her discomfort.

She sensed him hiding in the shadows.

He ground his teeth in frustration. Just the sight of her enflamed his passion, but combining that with the scent of her sex, the scorching sensation all but consumed him.

The darkness invaded - burrowing into his soul.

He fought his battle in vain. What chance would he have of victory over the cruelest of masters? How could he overcome the darkness in his own nature?

It called to him, enticing him with the sweet - agonizing screams of the damned - the suffering of the innocent. But his human side rebelled, at odds with his dark nature.

The rhythmic pounding in his chest and the hunger in his groin reminded him that he was still alive, and that his transformation remained incomplete, but for how long?

How long until the darkness consumed him?

How long before he could no longer deny what he was?

He must experience his angel witch’s sweet nectar before he was taken into darkness for eternity.

The wind licked at his long - dark hair, sending it flying in all directions. His black eyes burned with the need gnawing at his soul.

One by one, the Dark Prince had claimed the witches, stripping them of all semblance of humanity. They were the children of the legion - demon progeny whose evil knew no bounds. They were all doomed to an eternity of damnation, all of them but this witch.

His wrath had all but destroyed the Coven of Lazar, but this one had escaped. The witch who had not yet been defiled by darkness - whose mother, the betrayer, was now lost to perpetual torment.

Annette the betrayer!

She was to be the last to offer up her body to the Dark Prince - the last to deliver a child that would finally fulfill the pact of the witches.

Instead she’d disappeared, taking with her the child that grew in her womb. Not a daughter of Hell, as she should have been, as was promised, but the child of her lover.

The child escaped.

Her betrayal wreaked havoc on the Coven of Lazar. In his fury, the Fouler of Men brought torment to the witches.

That evil presence pervaded the night. It was near, and also stalking the girl. She was to have been the Dark Prince’s child, and now she must take her mother’s place. It was his duty to bring Laurel back.

If he should fail to convince her, the master would snuff out the witch.

The moon reflected in his black eyes - eyes that held only the faintest hint of the human essence that flittered within him. He thought of the witch’s innocence - the innocence that he must take from her, and he felt regret.

He’d watched her for a long time.

At first she’d been a means to an end, but slowly her light reached into his black heart to stir his humanity.

Over time he’d realized that he no longer wanted to deliver her to the Dark Prince. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted to keep her for himself.

But how?

If he should defy the Dark Prince, the witch would die, and so would he.

He was obsessed with the thought of caressing her smooth - soft skin. His body responded to the thought, his flesh stiffening with hunger.

He would relish her sweetness, but that could only happen if he got to her before she was shred to ribbons by the legion. Those insects that were - at this very moment, crawling from that reeking hole the mortals called Hell.

If he were to taste the young witch’s delights, he would bring that wrath down on himself.

But there might be another way.

The Dark Prince cared only that Laurel should bear a child of Hell. If she were to bear his child, it would still be a child of darkness, but it would be from his seed, instead of the Dark Prince’s.

Immersed in thought, he remained in the shadows, watching and waiting for the right moment.

Even from this distance, he could hear the man pleading with the witch to open her legs to him, but she held him at bay with her teasing giggles. Abruptly, the man walked away, muttering angrily.