Carnal Magic. Christine McKay

gleamed. He picked up the rose with his gloved hand and touched the petals with the skeletal one. All the petals dropped off the stem, spattering the snow like drops of blood. “The attentions of someone willing to die for her one true love.”

      Her jaw dropped open.

      “Ah, I may mock it, humans’ melodramatic nature, but there is a certain appeal.” His lips quirked. “To be loved so completely that another is willing to exchange her life for yours. You cannot fail to see the fairy-tale quality to it.”

      She remained silent, shocked.

      “Well,” he said a bit gruffly, “what will it be?”

      She was certifiably insane. “Yes.”

      Taking one step backward, he snuffed out the white candle with his thumb and forefinger. “Yes?”

      “Yes,” she repeated.

      He snuffed out the other candle. “The circle is truly open.” He sighed. “Well then, a more eventful night than I first expected. You, too?”

      As if the candles’ flames had been all that were anchoring her, she stumbled to her knees. She put her fingertips to her throat, her pulse thready beneath her clammy skin. Things were happening too fast. Her head hurt. Her throat was raw. She’d just made a deal with something not of this world—demon, angel or deity. He offered her his gloved hand.

      She carefully took it, watching as the leather folded around her frozen skin. He drew her up. “I think tonight would be suitable.”

      “T-tonight?” she stuttered. “But…” She trailed off. She couldn’t think of a single reason not to start tonight. Her eyes teared. Three nights. In three nights she’d be with Tom.

      Her tormentor packed her candles into her bag, then carefully folded the black runner. He paused as if reading her thoughts. Maybe they were that apparent on her face. “You will not win.”

      For the first time, she offered him a genuine smile. “You should have checked with my friends before you made the bet. They’d have told you how stubborn I can be.”

      “I did check,” he said quietly. “With your dearest friend.”

      Tears sprang free, the smile wiped from her face. “Damn you.”

      He cupped her cheek. She turned away from him, trying to back away, but he gripped her shoulder with the other hand. A gloved thumb wiped the tears from her cheek.

      “I apologize. That was insensitive. Forgive me?”

      She nodded her head.

      “Good,” he said briskly. He dropped his hand. “I admit I’m a bit out of practice, but I think a date should begin with dinner. Don’t you?” He offered Elaine her shoulder bag.

      Sniffling, she took it and looped it over her shoulder. “I’m not really hungry.”

      He looked momentarily stumped. One elegant black brow rose. “Dancing, then?”

      “Sure, I guess.” She looked down at her mules, wondering if she’d break his toe squashing it with the solid heel. She’d made a deal with some supernatural creature and all it wanted to do was dance? How come she didn’t feel lucky?

      He offered her his arm. “All set?”

      She bit her lip, studying his arm and not his face. “What should I call you?”

      There was a long pause. She glanced at him through her lashes. He looked stupefied. “How about Ell?”

      She frowned. “Short for Ellis? You don’t look like an Ell.”

      “Ray?” he offered.

      Her frown deepened.

      He folded his arms across his chest. “Pick one, then.”

      It was her turn to do the studying. Deity or demon? Or something in between? Despite his imperialness, there was a hint of desperation to his gaze, a bottomless hunger. For the first time in a very long time, her heart struggled out of its vat of self-pity. “How about your given name?” she suggested.

      “No.” An answer as solid as stone.

      “How about Bob?”

      His brows knit. “Bob?” Putting his hands on his hips, he glared at her. “Do I look like a Bob?”

      “About as much as a Ray,” she muttered. “Bert?” Color crept up his neck. She masked a giggle with a cough. “Tristan?”

      “Do I appear Scottish?”

      “No, but I bet you’d look good in a kilt.” That hit a little too close to the truth. She hurried on. “Maddog?”

      “I fear I left my eye patch and parrot in my other coat.”

      “Why not your given name?” she grumped. “You know mine.”

      He met her defiant gaze. “It’s Azrael.”

      “Oh.” And she’d complained her name was old-fashioned. She chewed on her lip, then said, “Ell’s not bad.”

      “I thought not.” He offered her his arm and this time she took it.