Sin & Redemption (Caprice Chronicles Book 4) Read online

  The main house itself didn’t scream money or power. It screamed tradition, like something one would see in Wuthering Heights or Manderley from that Hitchcock movie "Rebecca."

  Stars, she loved those old black and white movies. Loved even more when Iowin made the popcorn, and she brought the beer, and they watched for hours on end--

  No. Shaking her head, she rounded the last curve of the road that pretended to be a driveway. There wasn’t time to lose herself in what was and couldn’t ever be again. Not when she pulled to a stop before the massive double doors. Not when Iowin himself stood on the marble steps to greet her.

  Chapter 3

  "Welcome," he inclined his head in greeting.

  Alynia strode up the polished white steps, her scuffed boots, jeans, and faded black MDPD T-shirt clashing horribly with the opulent surroundings. Waist-length black hair wove a simple braid down her back, and the only jewelry she ever wore stood out like a beacon against the shabby attire. The pure silver of the pendant glowed in the dim light, as if sucking up the available sunbeams and reflecting them like a temporary moon. The Caprice Family Crest hung around her neck, a constant reminder than some things come at too high a price.

  That, and for other, more practical reasons.

  She stopped on the second step from the top, just out of arm’s reach, staring at him through the filter of her sunglasses. He wore another expensive suit, this one as dark and gray as the clouds. Silver cufflinks echoed the silver rims of his own sunglasses, the lenses so dark she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. No tie graced his throat this time, though, his one concession to casual lunch attire. She squared her shoulders beneath the battered black leather of her jacket, trying to ignore the itching worry building there. Once, he dressed as she did. Once, he was a good guy.

  One ebony eyebrow arched at the false politeness. "Right," she gritted out, the only compromise to civility she was ready to make. She sure as fuck wasn’t going to thank him for the invite. "Let’s make this quick."

  The corners of his mouth did that curving thing again, that almost-smile. At least that expression she could read well enough. It all but screamed she might not be thanking him when she left. If anything, she might be cursing his name. Warning or not, she wasn’t going to throw away the opportunity to finally get inside his home--to get inside his head. And maybe, just maybe, get some answers.

  When he didn’t step out of the way or invite her farther into the house, she lifted one eyebrow. "We doing this out here or what?"

  "Just a moment, please."

  "A moment for what?"

  The ‘for what’ revealed itself as two men came out of the mammoth double doors behind him, moving quickly to flank her. Bodyguards. She didn’t have to be asked. She knew the drill here, too, and let the pat-down commence. They found her badge won its clip at her hip, something they graciously allowed her to keep. Her gun she’d locked away back at HQ, knowing better than to bring it. He wouldn’t have permitted her to keep it at any rate, and yet something in her knew he wouldn’t gun her down in his own home. If she behaved, so would he. Besides, a dead cop would definitely give credence to that warrant her department was salivating to slap on him.

  In short, her death or harm would be extremely bad for business. One glance at his home more than proved that business was extremely good right now, and only a moron would destroy that.

  "Satisfied?" she asked as the goons stepped back.

  He didn’t say anything, staring at her from behind those dark lenses. Slowly he reached into his inner jacket pocket, the one right above his heart, and withdrew a set of familiar white beads on a black silk cord.

  Her beads. The ones she’d dropped at the church.

  Alynia recoiled, nearly sliding down the steps and falling on her ass. "No."

  He held the beads outward, let them dangle from one fingertip. "Yes, or this interview is over."

  "You’d bind my magic, even after I’ve given you my word?"

  "If you saw something in my home that went against your morals or your precious laws, would you hesitate to bind me?"

  She blanched, more at the ‘precious laws’ than anything else. Sean had screamed that exact phrase at them more than once during their years hunting him, and it hurt to hear Iowin use it against her. "Without the artifact, I couldn’t bind you anyway. You know the Caprice family is on the outs with its own magic and has been for two thousand years or more. I can’t even light a candle without my amulet let alone bind someone like you without help."

  He frowned, glancing at the Caprice symbol around her throat and then at the beads as if considering. "I’ve heard your family is overcoming that curse by small degrees."

  "Yeah, we’re a regular ‘Bewitched’ crew now. Just slap me with a true love and color me Samantha. You should see what we’ve got cooking in our cauldrons, in fact. All set up to take over the world and bring New Rome to life." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Got your ‘Welcome to the New Old Magic Order’ pamphlet in the back in the back of the Hummer right now. Wanna see?"

  "Is everything sarcasm and dark humor with you?" he asked, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice.

  "Is everything mistrust and paranoia with you?"

  He took a step forward, that frown deepening. She held her ground, bracing one foot behind her, ready to accept a charge if he came at her. And oh, wasn’t there a large portion of her that wanted him to do just that. To take a swing at her, to let them beat the emotional anger and hurt out of each other until they were both empty. Until they could bridge that unconscionable gulf between them to figure out what went wrong. But, of course, he stopped short. Mobster or not, he was still a gentleman beneath the crime and slime and silk. They wouldn’t be rolling around on the perfect lawn anytime soon.

  He thrust the beads forward, a physical punctuation mark ending the silent demand hidden behind those sunglasses.

  "Io--"

  "These are the rules, Lieutenant Caprice," his words came out clipped, controlled, and buried in the ice she’d come to know so well. "You enter my home as Alynia, as my guest and under my protection, or we end this here and you leave my property. Now..." The beads sparkled, glowing with the silver-like tendril of his power, as he shifted them into his open palm. "Do we have an agreement?"

  She closed her eyes, trying to find a way out of the situation, out of being helpless in his home. No gun. No magic. No gun--the itching in her empty palms demanded that be stated twice. But God, answers. Real answers. Answers to why he turned, why he killed, why a good man could go down such a self-destructive path.

  "If I don’t check in with my team at regular intervals," she gritted between clenched teeth, taking that step forward and extending her right hand. "This place will be crawling with cops, both magical and normal. I want to make that absolutely clear."

  "I would expect nothing less."

  Stars save her, she let him wrap those beads around her wrist. The effect was instant, like someone sucker-punched her in the head. The world swam, lost focus, tilted on its axis as the breath whooshed from her body. No, not her breath but the birthright of the Caprice family. Magic, the life force of the universe, the power that held molecules together and filled the space between atoms, was suddenly outside her reach. It was like being dipped in resin, her soul submerged in a formless invisible plasma. Magic glittered on the other side of it, if she could push through the sea of viscous fluid around her. But that was like swimming uphill through ice, while drunk, blind, and disoriented.

  Hollowness tunneled into her. It hurt, ached.

  Warm arms encircled her, kept her from tumbling to the ground and kissing dirt as the parameters of her invisible jail made themselves known. "Easy," he whispered. "Breathe, Nia. Just breathe. It’ll pass. You’ll get used to it."

  She wanted to sink into the feeling of his strength, the heat of him scorching the present into ash and making way for the past to live again. The scent of his skin beat its way out of the locked box in her mem
ory, superseding the heavy starch of his suit and the expensive cologne. He’d never worn anything more than a drugstore brand before, just as she’d always favored the simple fragrances.

  Simple things had bound them as one.

  So much had changed in the years separating this moment from the last time he’d truly held her, and yet her body fit against his all the same. Sculpted by the same master to fit together, notes of the same song blending into one chord. And God help her, she wanted to stay there in his arms and let the world burn.

  It felt like forever before she lifted her head from his shoulder--how had she let that happen?--and the world righted itself. Reality, that cold-hearted bitch, had to get her way.

  It took Alynia three attempts to find her voice again. "Get your hands off of me, Tintreach."

  He let go instantly, the kindness of the moment gone as if wiped away with a cloth. She stumbled without his steadying arm, recovered, and took a harsh and deep breath. Slowly rising to her full height. "Satisfied?" she all but snarled. "Disarmed and de-magicked. Helpless as a babe in your tender care."

  That not-smile came back, grew slightly, and for a second she thought she detected a note of amused sarcasm. "More pleased than satisfied," he had the gall to say, walking into the behemoth he called a house.

  She supposed that was her invitation to enter. Another deep breath, another moment to reorient herself with the center of gravity, and she followed. Maybe it was the binding dulling her wits, or maybe the house was just that spectacular, but she didn’t bother to hide her shock at the interior of his home. He could fit five houses inside his foyer alone. The gold that accented the huge marble compass inlaid in the floor was enough to purchase a small country. Power sang from those cardinal points as she crossed, a soft brush of wind against her skin. The beads around her wrist let out a corresponding hiss.

  "The artifact you wear serves two purposes," he said without her asking, taking off the glasses and placing them in his jacket pocket. "Binds your power and allows you to cross my defenses without harm. I did promise your safety, Alynia. I always keep my word."

  There was so much she could say in rebuttal to that. Wisely, she chose not to speak.

  Art and paintings, items of extreme and exquisite beauty graced the walls or stood resplendent in alcoves carved into the many pillars. Twin ivory and mahogany staircases spiraled up to a second floor balcony. It was everything Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous creamed their jeans over.

  Tintreach seemed not to notice it. Probably used to the splendor, was her first thought. And yet she changed her mind about that almost instantly, observing him as he walked. He wasn’t used to it. He owned it all, but he moved like he wasn’t a part of it. Like a man suspended in time, a second out of step from the rest of the world, unable to touch or affect what was around him. Against her better angels, that thought gave her chills. What the actual hell happened to him to make him like this?

  And worse, did she have the courage to find out?

  He walked toward another set of double doors in between the curving staircases. She followed, stepping into a library larger than the main branch of the Miami-Dade Public Library System. Books from floor to roof, cascading up walls to an edged balcony then continuing to the domed ceiling. Funny little ladders slid quietly on oiled racks attached to the shelves, and everywhere she turned, the scent of tannin and old leather caressed her senses. It was comforting and unnerving all at once. Of everything she’d seen of his house, this one room seemed to fit the man she used to know.

  This was his true domain, a place of knowledge and peace and learning. Whatever he had made himself into, Iowin was forevermore a scholar and teacher at heart. That part of him would never change, and that meant there was something human left in him. On the other hand, it also indicated a rational intelligence remained in him, too. Which meant he wasn’t crazy or driven by his emotions. He knew--and knew damn well--the cost of each action he took.

  "You spend every moment you can in this room," she whispered, running a fingertip over the books. "Inviting me here is inviting me into your most intimate thoughts."

  He missed a step at that, almost turning to face her. Almost. "I thought you would appreciate it."

  "Yeah, I do," she answered honestly. "Not sure why you are showing it to me, though."

  "Aren’t you?"

  "Other than to try and throw me off balance by reminding me of who you once were, I honestly have no idea."

  He turned, his profile erratic and distorted against the lightning flashes streaking through the windows behind him. She glimpsed a shadow of him, a hint of a small smile. "Perhaps you do." He indicated a small table nestled against those windows, lit with softly glowing bulbs of magefire. "At any rate, I’ve arranged for us to have lunch here. Join me?"

  That uncomfortable itch blossomed between her shoulder blades as she stared at the spread of finger sandwiches and chilled salads. "Mr. Tintreach, I can’t stay that long. You asked me here to talk--"

  "I asked Alynia to have lunch in my home," he cut in again, annoyance creeping through his emotionless mask. "I didn’t invite Lieutenant Caprice. You know very well what I’m saying."

  She pursed her lips. He wanted honesty? He wanted a conversation with her outside of official channels and forced courtesy? Fine.

  "Ground rules first," she said by way of agreement, crossing her arms over her chest.

  "I am open to negotiations." He pulled out the chair for her.

  She slid into the chair, glaring as he moved to sit across from her. "First off, I can’t discuss ongoing investigations." She held up a hand, finding a bit of sadistic satisfaction in interrupting the objection forming on his lips for a change. "You wanted lunch with me, you got it. I am the job now, Tintreach. So don’t tell me to divorce myself from my work and chat about the fucking weather. It always circles back to the job for me. Once, it did the same for you."

  "Once," he agreed, handing over a plate of fresh fruit. "Not anymore."

  "Second," she ignored that obvious diversion, stabbing a piece of melon with her fork. "You tell me the real reason why you wanted this conversation. Why now, after all this time?"

  He sighed heavily, setting down his fork and wiping his mouth with a silk napkin. "Not to sound overly dramatic, Alynia, but are you certain you want to know? This conversation could break you."

  "I’m already broken," she blurted, surprised at both the admission and the truth of it. "You broke me when you left, when you did what you did to become what you are."

  "Then allow me to attempt to fix what I broke." He pinned her with those jade eyes, the ice in them starting to thaw. "It may not repair the damage, but it will fix it. Do you understand the difference?"

  No. Not at all. But she had the feeling she was about to get educated on the topic.

  Chapter 4

  The storm outside beat a tumultuous harmony as they ate in silence, rain pelting the windows as if trying to fill the quiet for them. She had no idea what he was thinking, those eyes always on her. From the moment she picked up her fork, to her selection of sandwich, he watched. He filled her glass with unsweet peach tea after almost every swallow, serving her by his own hand. No doubt he had an army of servants ready to leap at his every wish, and yet no one interrupted them. No one stood ready to clear dishes or bring more courses.

  In fact, somewhere along the way to the library, the bodyguards had vanished, too. They were alone, perhaps for the first time since Marta’s death. Since the last time they stood together at her graveside.

  "My first murder," he said at length, startling the crap out of her. "It was my father. I came home one day to see my mother lying in a pool of blood, half dead from the beating he’d given her. My brother, Sean, whimpered from the closet our mother had hidden him in, saving him from that monster’s fists. I was fresh from the Academy, if you recall. Still in my patrol uniform, and hadn’t been on the force for more than a month. I’d walked away from magic, wanted my own life. Wanted to help
people. My father was in the living room, snoring so loudly I was shocked the neighbors hadn’t heard. But this was the slums of New York. I could bet all the money I have now that they'd heard every one of my mother’s screams. Every snap of her bones and every plea for mercy was ignored."

  Lightning struck the ground outside the window, bathing the room in the greenish glow of ozone and unbridled, raw electricity. It stole the color from his eyes, made them silver disks, portals to some alien version of himself. The sudden desire for him to stop speaking rocketed from her gut and nearly punched its way past her teeth. She didn’t need her magical instincts to tell her this was wrong, this was bad. That if he continued, she’d never be the same. Maybe it was true that some secrets were better left buried. And if she uttered that four letter word S-T-O-P, he would acquiesce, and never speak of it again.

  Those eyes found hers, and the smile that tipped his lips was nothing short of ghostly. "Perhaps this isn’t the right location for this tale. Come with me."

  His hand grasped hers, guiding her to a grouping of overstuffed leather chairs near the center of his library. A glass of brandy replaced the tea she’d been drinking, while outside the storm worked itself into a fury.

  "I didn’t hesitate, Alynia," he continued, picking up where he left off. "I was in uniform, and I had my sidearm. I used it. I shot him between the eyes while he slept, and I didn’t flinch. My mother died on that floor while I sat holding her hand, praying the paramedics made it in time."

  "It was ruled as self-defense," she interjected. "You were found not guilty."

  "I was found not guilty in the eyes of the law but only because I had friends that cleaned up the crime scene. Everyone knew my father was a mean drunk and a wife-beater. And the good citizens of New York that had ignored to my mother’s screams weren’t going to come forward and admit it. A snoring man followed by a gunshot does not self-defense make. For all the pain he inflicted on us, I'm the one who carries the guilt and the punishment."