Free Tempted By the Night by Elizabeth Boyle Page A

would wake up. But instead of rescuing her from the dark, sleepy realm of Queen Mab, she only gained a series of marks up and down her arms.
    No, she was awake. And this terrible creature before Rockhurst was real.
    But he couldn’t be. Why, he was exactly like some terrible, wicked fae devil their Irish nanny had threatened her and her brothers and sisters with when they misbehaved.
    Tall and elegantly attired like some great prince of old, Melaphor stood as tall as the earl, if not a little taller. Sleek of build, he moved like one of the large cats she’d seen at the Tower. Why, his golden hair alone, what with the way it fell to his shoulders in angelic waves, would probably have every debutante in London swooning.
    But this man was no heavenly guest, for Hermione sensed the evil clinging to him as thickly as the Floris perfume Lord Hustings wore.
    “Melaphor,” Rockhurst was saying, “I grow tired of your threats and musings.” He pointed Carpio at the glowing opening in the opposite wall. “Go back and amuse your companions in hell with your tales of long-ago valor. You haven’t killed one of my kin in nearly three hundred years.”
    “Amusing, Paratus, quite amusing.” Melaphor paused and glanced over the earl’s shoulder. “How about that one?” he asked, pointing directly at Hermione. “Can I kill her?”

Four
    Kill her?
    Hermione tried to breathe as Melaphor flicked his red-hued gaze toward her. She would have liked to point out to both this horrible man and the earl that she’d said nothing about dying when she’d made her wish.
    Nothing whatsoever.
    But she suspected neither of them would be sympathetic to her plight, caught as they were in some sort of Montague and Capulet blood feud.
    Well, before there was any killing to be done, she was going to excuse herself.
    Wavering in her ruined slippers, her knees knocking together worse than they had the first night she’d set foot in Almack’s, she went to flee—well, slink offunnoticed. But at the bottom of the steps, she stumbled over the earl’s discarded cross-bow.
    Rockhurst turned at the noise, and Hermione stilled. “What the devil sort of trick is this, Melaphor?”
    His enemy paused. “What? You don’t see her?” A sly smile spread slowly over his lips. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise. Come, sweetling,” he called to her. “Speak to the Paratus. Show yourself, as it were.”
    Hermione shook her head, fear running rampant through her every limb. Never had she seen evil personified, but this Melaphor was everything that was foul, and her gaze was now locked to his, a slow, hypnotic lethargy filling her veins, stealing away her fears.
    Come to me, his voice whispered in her ear. I won’t harm you, child.
    Her foot rose and wavered, taking a step of its own volition. Hermione tried to glance down at her ruined slipper, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from Melaphor’s. This creature was controlling her as if she were nothing more than a puppet, his blood red gaze now a cord that bound her to him. And as he held out his hand to her, she was utterly and inexplicably drawn to him.
    “Come with me,” he said, in tones that dripped with smooth charm. “I’ll show you the heights of a realm you could never imagine.”
    Hermione’s foot moved forward clumsily, that is until it stubbed once again against the oak of the cross-bow. And in that instant of brief pain, she found the wherewithal to look away.
    “End this game, Melaphor,” Rockhurst was saying. “We have a matter to settle, and settle it we will.”
    “Ah, not until I’ve discovered your charming companion’s secret,” Melaphor replied.
    A ripple of panic ran down Hermione’s spine, but she didn’t dare look up. So she fixed her gaze on the cross-bow at her feet.
    The ring thrummed to life on her finger. Pick it up. Pick up the cross-bow.
    Not that she wanted to listen to the very same ring that had gotten her in this mess. Not that she was generally