Fate's Consort: Daughters of Saria, #3

By Elysabeth Grace

A pawn, or the chess master?

Analise Saria Willoughby's entire life has been shadowed by death. A telepathic shifter, she limits her romantic involvement to the devastatingly sexy telepath who invades her dreams nightly. It is safe and harmless, a convenient "lie" to keep other men at a distance.

A horrific crime drives Analise from her San Francisco home to a desolate canyon in New Mexico. Deep inside the canyon, the mystery of Analise Saria Willoughby , and the more she learns about herself the more Analise wonders whether she is Fate's pawn, or a deadly game's chess master?

When angelic twins Lucifer and Satan stake a claim to her, Analise realizes only one angel is destined to be her life mate. Can she trust her heart and head to make the right choice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Midsommer Publishing
• Release date: Jun 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733356343

Elysabeth Grace

Elysabeth Grace (pen name) writes paranormal, contemporary, and historical romances where love and HEAs accept no impediments. Her stories and characters are diverse, sensual, and occasionally wicked. A native Californian and Professor emerita of English literature, Elysabeth currently resides in Nevada where she remains an unrepentant commentator on Shakespeare and other things.

Book preview

Prologue

It didn’t matter that he came to her with the same sensuous gait, the same heated gaze in his eyes, and every night she watched him stride across the sand, and every night, it was like she saw him for the first time. And every night, for two years, it was as if they’d made love for the first time. None of this mattered: he was her Dream Candy.

Angelic Dream Candy.

Analise’s mind lurched at the second description. There was nothing angelic about the dream sex between them. Why did the word angelic make her nervous? Make her want to hide?

She continued to stare at him. A thin scar bisected his right lower jaw, and shoulder-length platinum hair swung seductively with each step, the strands a pure, unblemished color unlike any she’d seen, nearly translucent silk resting against the ivory color of his skin.

His eyes did her heart in every time. Those stunning tanzanite blue eyes melted every argument she created to end the telepathic connection. The moment she gazed into their depths, her soul declared he belonged to her and she to him.

Life mates.

Words important to her racial history. Life mates. An antiquated pair reeking of paranormal or fantasy romance. Definitely not one she’d apply to a lover, especially one she’d never met except in a telepathically-induced dream. Yet in her dreams, he was always her life mate. Another dream irony: Analise Saria Willoughby, aka Analise Drake, stopped dating white men after Jason Alton, the date from hell. Clearly, dream Analise Saria never got the text.

I am no dream, Consort.

He always called her Consort or Analise Saria, never Analise. She shifted on her bed and shook her head. It’s time to end this fantasy since it’s unlikely we’ll meet in real life.

He stood inches from her, his dark blue eyes studying her face. His head dipped as if he was about to kiss her. Instead, a slow smile formed on his lips. Our bond cannot be broken.

She moaned softly, almost a purr. His mouth was a temptation beyond all temptations. The prospect of kissing him, her tongue tracing the unsmiling curves of his lips, made her clit twitch. Dream Candy’s smile deepened, as did the warmth between her legs.

Damn, he knew her so well.

Because you are my life mate, Analise Saria.

Listen, we’ve engaged in a telepathic link with some wild and satisfying dream sex. Now you want to make more of it? I don’t think it’s a good idea.

Analise wasn’t sure who created the link, or how it even came into existence, but it was time to break it. Two years of her life, kneaded like dough into nightly visitations, was enough to give to a sexual fantasy. She was thirty-one years old. It was time to pursue a real-life relationship, preferably with a man whose full name she knew.

The telepathic feel of his tongue tracing her jawline sent shivers through her. Then his whisper sounded in her head. Do you believe you will ever have such passion with another? I doubt it, Analise Saria.

Dream Candy’s voice moved through her body as smooth as her favorite tequila. The liquid sensuality of his tone pushed the words into her mind and accelerated the ache between her thighs.

Tequila? Isn’t that a clear liquid made from the agave plant? Why would you compare my voice to a beverage?

She caught his confusion and giggled. You’ve never tasted tequila? Where do you live, in a cave?

Actually, I am in a cave.

I was joking. Did you just admit you live in a cave?

She cursed inwardly. It was just like her pathetic self to find an imaginary, cave-dwelling loser to hook up with.

Analise Saria, I am not imaginary.

She heard the smugness in his voice, which pissed her off. Well, what if I’m not real, dream boy? she snapped. Which means you don’t exist either, especially since you live in a cave. I assume you know the story of Schrodinger’s Cat.

The peculiar inhumanity to a hapless feline placed in a container along with radiation and poison—yes, I know the account. I can assure you my present situation bears no resemblance to the misused cat. I am possessed of flesh, bones, blood, and internal organs. Unlike the cat, I exist.

It was an unnecessarily cruel way to determine a theory… Analise’s voice trailed off. What the hell am I doing? I don’t even know your name, and I’ve spent two years of my life on you.

For now, shall we agree on Luc?

No, we won’t agree on anything. You don’t get it. My romantic life is nonexistent, I’m a virgin because of you…well, not just because of you. Anyway, I’m done.

It is too late.

Analise’s eyelashes flew up. His voice was coming from somewhere in her bedroom. She frantically searched the shadowy corners, too terrified to move from her bed. Please tell me you’re not in my room.

Of course not, he said smugly. Circumstances require me to remain in a cave some distance from you, Consort.

Then why are you projecting your voice into my bedroom? Never mind, don’t answer, I want you gone. She slammed her palms over her ears.

Your stubbornness forces me to provide non-telepathic evidence I am real, Analise Saria.

I don’t date, and I hear voices, she mumbled. I need a social life and a real-life love interest, preferably a non-white man living in San Francisco.

You are my Consort, Analise Saria Willoughby, and nothing can alter or break our bond. You do not need to find another, and I am Seraphim, not a white man. Please do not impose your racial categories on my kind.

She inhaled and broke the link. Pain whipped across her forehead, and his outrage thundered in her ears. Her hands squeezed her head as she drew her body into a tight fetal position. I won’t do this anymore.

Analise breathed slowly to calm down, numbering each breath until the quaking stopped. Despair took hold despite her efforts, fracturing her determination. She couldn’t figure out what was happening to her.

We are not done, Analise Saria. You are my life as I am yours.

She tried to push him out of her mind then stopped when a flash of color caught her attention. Searching for it, she discovered a slender cobalt thread curled in her heart. Analise telepathically touched it, and her awareness jerked.

Who are you? What have you done to me?

Your soul knows who I am. Say my name, Consort.

Whatever just happened, Analise swore it wasn’t going to change her decision. She wasn’t going to let Dream Candy or Fate control her destiny. Digging her fingernails into the fleshiest part of her thighs, she whispered, I. Am. Done.

1

Analise dragged herself out of bed and staggered over to her closet, swearing this would be her last sleepless night because of him. She stared at her lingerie shelves, trying to decipher her mood and choose the right outfit for her day. The color-coordinated shelves were sorted according to fabric because, while mixing colors didn’t bother her, the idea of a silk bra and cotton panties sent shivers across her skin. Instinctively, she vigorously rubbed the back of her hand as if it itched. Her gaze finally settled on a silk panty and bra set that reminded her of his eyes.

Pushing the thought from her mind, she took the underwear set, grabbed a pair of Levi 501 jeans and a black silk T-shirt, and headed to her bathroom.

Coffee.

A quick U-turn took her back to her bed to grab her phone from the nightstand. She tapped an icon, uttered a command for her favorite app to start her coffee, then retraced her steps to the bathroom. Lights came on as she walked in, and she silently thanked Sydney Elgin, her decorator, not just for her design brilliance, but also Sydney’s willingness to listen. Their only source of contention was the smooth black stone used for the double sink and counter. The imported hematite and granite stones came from the Ahaggar Mountains of Algeria, and even though Sydney had complained about the expense, the designer was proud of the sanctuary she created.

Analise stripped and tossed her clothes into the large hamper before walking into the open shower. The weight of her foot on an ocean blue tile sent warm water cascading from the showerheads, another brilliant idea. This one came via her executive assistant Mark. He’d persuaded Sydney to let one of his geek friends design the mechanics of the plumbing system. After her first time in the shower, Analise had given Mark a substantial bonus.

Lathering her body, she decided to focus on the problem at hand. First, she needed to end her telepathic connection with Dream Candy. She had to admit what they had went beyond mind-blowing sex and veered into a kind of relationship since her dating game was negative Pi even with the rare blind date.

However, something had shifted a month ago. Images of the last place on Earth she wanted to be, Chaco Canyon, surfaced. Then there was her.

Hearing voices was a telepathic hazard. Most often, it was the conversations of people in close proximity. She wasn’t one of those random voices; she was always there, inside Analise’s head, and believed it was her right to interfere whenever she chose. At six, Analise had named her Fate. When she stopped believing in Fate, Analise simply thought of the voice as third person singular—capitalized of course. It was easier.

When the images of Chaco surfaced, She became more intrusive and pushy. Analise couldn’t silence or block Her the way she did with human or supernatural mental intrusions. For some reason, her shields never worked with Her.

Analise stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and dried herself. The attempt to break up with Dream Candy was more visceral and painful than she expected. While she could block him from her mind, she discovered there was nothing she could do about the cobalt life thread coiled inside her. She knew what it meant to her Tamahaq history, but that didn’t mean she had to embrace its control over her destiny. Whoever Dream Candy was, he wasn’t the only alternative to celibacy.

All she needed to do was disrupt her pattern of non-dating. To do that, she needed to consider her assets and liabilities. She was the owner of a successful biotech company. Asset. Attractive, with a pretty decent body. Asset. Intelligent, with a good sense of humor. Asset. The ability to hold her tequila. Definite asset. The liabilities were her emotional armor and her status as a death magnet. Not something she’d put on a dating profile, but they were definite obstacles to a long-term relationship. More assets than liabilities.

Analise moisturized her body as she weighed the best approach to jumpstart her love life. Getting a date wasn’t the issue. Going on a date was the problem. Dating was one of the few times she fully embraced her telepathic side since it helped weed out the trash. The one date with potential had been Jason Alton. She’d met him at one of the rare biotech conferences Mark forced her to attend. Jason worked for a marketing firm expanding its portfolio of biogenetics startups. While she said no to his sales pitch, she agreed to dinner the next time he was in San Francisco.

They communicated through video chat, text, and emails for several weeks. Jason’s sense of humor and intelligence made it easy to say yes to dinner when he messaged about a visit to the city. She’d enjoyed her dinner with Jason, even considered flying to Boston to see if the chemistry was real. Then—

Perhaps she was naïve, but a meal didn’t translate to a promised night in her bed. She also didn’t anticipate she’d have to make the point forcefully. At least Jason did have the use of his right hand when he left San Francisco, and she did pay the hospital bill.

Dating post-Jason was pretty much one and done. The first hint sex was expected meant there was never a second date. Analise knew her sexual drought needed to end, and soon. Time to let Mark engage in matchmaking. At least that way, she wouldn’t end up with someone who lived in a cave. Her decision made, she got dressed and walked into the kitchen.

A smile flitted across her lips as she did a quick happy dance. Although she rarely spent time in the French provincial kitchen, she loved the warmth and openness of the space. It was where she started her day or unwound at its end. The smell of coffee reminded her why she was in the kitchen. Analise grabbed a coffee mug and filled it. While her coffee cooled, she toasted a bagel and slathered on raspberry jam.

She sat on a stool and considered the dream as she ate. It was never her dream—just the dream. Her last therapist had said the dreams were a manifestation of the psychic trauma she had suffered in childhood. Sexual fantasy, the therapist stated, was Analise’s attempt to compensate for being alive. Her dreams, according to the dipshit, were fear of real-life intimacy. Analise argued that wasn’t the case. She ended her relationship with the therapist when they pulled professional rank. They declared that Analise didn’t have control over life and death and she needed to get over herself.

The dipshit was only half wrong.

We are so not engaging in these conversations, Analise replied.

She ate the last bit of her bagel and slid off the stool to put the dirty dish in the dishwasher and refill her coffee mug. Strolling into the living room, she considered a drive to Santa Cruz. The weather forecast sounded perfect. She could get a burrito and work in a meeting with Richard Houston, director of her company’s Santa Cruz lab.

She picked up a remote from the coffee table and pressed a button. An opaque wall of glass became transparent, giving her a view of Treasure Island and the Oakland Bay Bridge. The sun’s rays danced on the bridge’s gray metal. A sudden movement drew her eyes to the upper rim of the bridge, where shadow-like figures perched on the railing. One of the shadows launched itself into the air and flew across the bay. She blinked rapidly, narrowing her eyes as it disappeared into the sun’s brightness. What in the world?

Your guardian angels, Dream Candy’s voice whispered in her head.

Her gaze returned to the upper rail. All she saw was steel. Her shoulders drooped, and she released a disappointed sigh. She lived in a world where supernaturals existed, mostly shifters and telepaths. The possibility of guardian angels, and even demons, had always excited her curiosity.

With a final glance at the bridge, she turned away with a self-deprecating laugh. John Milton, what’ve you done to me? Got me wishing for angels and demons as if things weren’t already bad enough for supernatural folk.

She strolled into her office and turned on her computer. When the image of Catalina Island morphed onto the screen, she set her cup on the desk. Hey, Siri, is Mark's computer on?

Good morning, Ms. Drake. It is. Would you care to send a message?

If you don’t mind.

Your statement assumes I have emotions, which I do not. Your statement, however, does require a response. I do not mind, Ms. Drake.

As Siri’s voice faded, a man’s face filled the right corner of Analise’s screen. Good morning, Marcus. How’s Jess?

A pair of sleepy green eyes blinked Mark’s irritation. Marcus is my uncle for the gazillionth time. Good morning, Empress of the Universe. Jess is happy, sated, and in the shower.

You call me Empress, I call you Marcus, and the battle goes on. TMI. Analise squinted at him. What the hell happened to your hair?

Last night’s fun, and you dared me, he retorted. Like it?

True, but I didn’t have a variation of orange in mind. How does Jess feel about it?

Loves me, loves the hair.

The man’s an amazing lawyer, a police commissioner by day, and upright as they come. What have you done to him? Although, since he married you, there’s a dark side to him I’m loving. Hmm, burnt sienna belongs on a bird of paradise.

Jess’s days are intense enough, especially with the glory hound in the mayor’s office, Mark stated. He needs to come home to fun and games. If the color of my hair makes him lust, so much the better. Besides, hair color is better than body art unless there’s a cultural reason for tattoos. Although I’ve considered getting an archangel and my name tattooed somewhere.

You’re all talk, she tossed back. Hmm, didn’t you run screaming when I got my dagger and hamsa?

Yeah, Mark replied. I watched your face when the tattooist started.

He looked away for a second. When he faced the screen once more, Mark’s eyes peered at her. Why are you up so early, Lise?

She lowered her eyelids. Dreams. She saw the concern on his face when she opened her eyes. I’m thinking a trip to Santa Cruz will cure what ails me.

You mean El Jefe’s will cure you, and not today. You have meetings.

Analise groaned. There was nothing on my calendar.

When did you last look at your calendar? Mark demanded.

I don’t know. Yesterday, maybe. She winced when Mark rolled his eyes and shook his head. That’s why you’re in charge.

He leaned back against his chair. We’re not playing that game. Repeat after me: check my calendar, not just my text messages before I go to bed. Do this first thing in the morning. Rinse and repeat. On occasion, you’re a beautiful waste of perfectly good oxygen and brain cells, Analise Saria Willoughby.

The whole actual birth name? she squealed. I can’t believe you really went there. Mark was the only person who knew most of her history. Except for Dream Candy. What happened to Empress of the Universe?

Mark pursed his lips. When you don’t act like the hard-ass owner of a biotech company, I’ll definitely invoke found family privileges.

She failed to smother a giggle and earned a fierce snarl. It took a minute to compose her expression. What’s on my calendar?

Your company’s version of Doofensmirtz’s lab, which for reasons known only to you sits in the building where you have corporate offices and where I work ... his voice trailed off.

OMG, I loved Phineas and Ferb, she said.

It was an analogy, Lise. Not an invitation to relive your youth. Mark sighed. I don’t get why you didn’t find another location. What if your LRs blow up something?

I don’t think Robert and his group care for the ‘lab rats’ label. My calendar?

Mark rolled his eyes. You’ll face my spouse if anything happens. Anyway, Robert wants you to drop in and taste the latest ice cream flavor he’s concocted. After the taste test, he wants to discuss some anomalies he's found. Last item on the agenda, and I quote, ‘there’s some kick-ass equipment I need’. I’ve checked and it is rather pricey.

What’s the ice cream flavor?

Mud pie.

Analise grimaced. It doesn’t sound too bad, although chocolate isn’t at the top of my list.

It’s real mud, Empress.

She shivered. Yuck. How much do I pay Robert and his researchers?

Way too much, but if you ask Robert, he’ll say not enough for their collective brilliance.

Mark tapped his iPad. Focus, Lise. The anomalies and the expensive lab equipment.

Sorry. Distracted by the idea of eating real mud. Tell Robert I’ll stop by this afternoon. I’ll leave you to negotiate a deal on the equipment he wants. Check with Richard. He’ll want whatever Robert wants. Who or what is the second appointment?

It’s a who, uber-billionaire Peter Nathanson.

Mark watched Analise’s face closely before he continued. He’s in town for some charity thing and requested a meeting. It’s scheduled for 10:30 a.m. instead of the lunch date he wanted. Your mud pie meeting is at 2:30, which gives you plenty of time to consume the pastries I’m providing and justify your refusal to nibble Robbie’s little experiment.

What does Nathanson want? I’ve never met the man or know what he looks like.

Besides AnthroGen? Mark paused for a second. His grin became wickedly mischievous. To your second point, hiding under a rock, Empress, means you miss a lot of life.

Mark’s finger went to his bottom lip. Ooh, Petey hasn’t dated an SF girl, saw your picture on Insta, and your beautiful Black tush is about to get lucky.

I should sack your pretty ass, she fired back.

Language, Dr. Drake, Mark chided. No replacement for your oh-so-exquisite guardian angel. Not cloned yet. I suspect Richard’s recent scientific breakthrough award is the reason for Nathanson’s impromptu visit. Your chariot is at the curb, Empress.

Analise stuck her tongue out at him.

Mark’s laughter flooded her living room before an imploding black hole replaced his face. Her groan was loud. There had to be a way to stop him and his geeks from messing with her devices.

If I didn’t love Jess so much, I’d kill you, Mark Stane, she muttered.

Not true, Empress.

She laughed and turned off her computer. After a quick change of clothes, she walked out of her apartment and into the elevator, exiting when she reached the lobby. The building was as much her sanctuary as her bathroom. After Martine’s death, she had needed a new apartment. Mark persuaded her to buy the building and renovate it into a mixed-use space. The first three floors housed commercial offices while the remaining seven were residential units, with eighty percent allocated to AnthroGen employees.

Morning, Ms. Drake. Mark texted me. Your car is out front.

Good morning, Evan, she replied when she reached the security station. How’s your mum?

She’s doing good. She’s got a pot of jambalaya on the stove. Want me to drop off some?

Analise snorted. You have to ask? Leave it in the refrigerator if I’m not home.

She walked through the door Evan held open. A sleek black Audi A8W12 sat next to the curb, its engine purring softly. A gray-suited driver stood beside the back door, his hand on the handle. The man’s dark sunglasses made his reddish hair and freckled face even more pronounced.

Patrick O’Neill was one of six drivers on call. She’d teased Mark about his thing for hard-bodied, gorgeous chauffeurs. He responded, If I’m spending your money, why shouldn’t I mix pleasure and business? And you can’t tell me you have a problem with our drivers’ looks.

She glanced at Patrick. She definitely didn’t have a problem with the gorgeous men who drove her around, even if they didn’t spark any interest. Patrick, let me see those Irish greens so I can swoon.

His cheeks pinked, and Analise’s laughter trailed her into the car. Before he closed the door, she asked, How did you get stuck with babysitting duties? I assumed Roger was on call today if I needed a driver.

When.

When what? she asked, puzzled by his response.

When you need a driver, not if. Mark was afraid you’d sweet-talk Roger into a quick run to Santa Cruz after your appointments.

Patrick shut the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. Pretty boy knows I’m impervious to your sweet-talking ways.

He reached through the opened glass divider between the driver and the back seat to hand her an iPad. Mark didn’t want you at a disadvantage. Said you’d probably forget to bring your office one to avoid a meeting.

Analise laughed. Does he ever know me.

She waited until the car pulled away from the curb and into traffic before tapping the screen and entering her password. Mark’s profile on Peter Nathanson popped up. As she read the document, a soft whistle ruffled past her lips. Nathanson’s credentials were impressive. Andover Academy, Harvard BA and MBA, and a Columbia law degree. Ivy League all the way and achieved by the age of twenty-six. By age thirty, he headed a billion-dollar investment company.

He was a serial dater of beautiful women, not one lasting longer than six months or coming up pregnant. Analise chuckled at Mark’s marginal commentary:

Impressive for a man who can’t seem to keep his willy in his pants, if you believe the tabs.

The rest of the report detailed Nathanson’s generosity to political parties and various philanthropic organizations. Mark’s final comment was in all caps and asterisked:

Stay as far from the man as possible on the personal front. He’s ruthless, lethal, and deadly. A villain who will give you nightmares even as he fucks you into rapturous submission.

Hilarious, Mark.

Did you say something, Ms. Drake?

Analise glanced up. Patrick peeked at her in the rear-view mirror, a puzzled expression on his face. She shook her head. No, trying to decide if it’s time to search for a new assistant.

She scrolled to the next page. A picture of Nathanson’s face coalesced on the screen. It can’t be.

Patrick’s worried face suddenly appeared on the small screen installed on the back of the driver’s seat. Are you okay, Ms. Drake?

She closed her eyes, inhaled, and slowly released the breath before she looked at the screen. I’m fine, Patrick.

Analise wasn’t certain whether the image was a nightmare or a dream come true. It was him—Peter Nathanson was Dream Candy. Had stress and loneliness tossed her into untreatable insanity? If Peter Nathanson and Dream Candy were the same man, why would he engage in pretense?

We will meet soon, I promise.

Analise focused on the screen once more, a finger rubbing the space between her eyebrows. The image on the screen didn’t quite match the face in her dreams. The more she studied Nathanson’s features, the more confused she became. His silver hair was darker than she imagined. Dream Candy’s hair was a striking platinum color. Nathanson’s eyes were all wrong. They lacked the deep blue hue of Dream Candy’s. Her gaze drifted to Nathanson’s thin, unsmiling lips. They suggested a potential cruel side not evident in her dreams.

Analise continued to stare at his face. Maybe it was the beard, which was an auto turn off, but she didn’t feel a thing. Her pussy wasn’t doing the equivalent of backflips and, to be honest, her panties ought to be just a teensy bit wet, her clit throbbing. She should be trying not to moan. Nothing. All she felt was curiosity.

Ordinary, everyday curiosity.

2

Here you are, Ms. Drake.

Analise tucked the iPad into her tote once Patrick opened the door. She took the hand he held out to her and climbed out of the car. Thanks, Patrick.

Tell pretty boy to call when you’re ready to go home.

Shall I quote you?

Nah, Patrick replied. Mark pays too well, and I’d miss driving you, Miss Daisy.

Funny, she said, rolling her eyes. I really need to correct this misperception about who pays everyone’s salaries.

Patrick’s laughter echoed behind her as she entered the lobby. Her heart lurched when the doors closed behind her. Emotional pain skated up her spine to lodge in her throat. Martine Drake’s presence was everywhere: a hint of Africa here, a dash of America there, and a pinch of their English fathers’ culture. It was, for her cousin, a vision of the perfect world for their kind. Analise hadn’t experienced this emotional pain in a long time. Entering the building had triggered a visceral reaction, and despite the two years since her cousin’s murder, she felt herself sliding down the dark rabbit hole