This Soul Magic

Once an all-powerful soul bringer, Reichardt gave up his immortality for a feisty red-headed witch. Though his passion for Libertie St. Charles is undeniable, he must learn to give her what she craves.

Libby knew Reichardt was her soul mate even before the fallen angel had a soul. Now she just needs to convince him. She fantasizes about him taking control in the bedroom—and she’s more than happy to tutor him in the pleasures of the flesh.

But when they discover his one chance to regain his powers—and keep his soul—lies in staying pure, will they be able to resist their forbidden desires?

This Soul Magic

Michele Hauf

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Copyright

One

I am a mortal man.

I’m not sure how I feel about losing my immortality. I gave it up freely.

For a woman.

Did I make the right decision? It’s too soon to know. It has only been a week since I changed from an all-powerful soul bringer to mere mortal. Yet the woman does seem like a good trade-off. To be a part of Libertie St. Charles’s world is a wonder and a learning experience....

* * *

I, Reichardt Fallowgleam, watched through the kitchen window from Libby’s hexagon house as the bold redheaded witch wandered through the backyard garden, here and there plucking a petal to nestle in her basket of spell supplies.

The sun shone in her candied hair like the clear coat on a Maserati. (I find that car the only thing capable of distracting me from Libby.) Her hips rocked to a rhythm I couldn’t hear. She wore the earbuds often, listening to music from the tiny metal box clipped at her hip. There were so many kinds of music, and I was just dipping my toes into Libby’s favorite genre, country. I had to take it slow, though. So much to overload my new senses in this world—like shiny red cars.

Generously curved hips shifted side to side, swaying her gorgeous bottom and the flirty hem of her purple skirt. Libby’s ample curves filled my hands whenever I put them on her. Everywhere I touched her she was soft and so warm.

Yet I had a lot to learn about touching a woman.

I’d tallied over two thousand years in my lifetime, yet thanks to recent events, I now felt as new and lacking in experience as a newborn. Once I’d been a soul bringer, an angel forced to Fall from Above and assigned to collect souls from this realm immediately following the death of the mortal body. Constantly—24/7, as Libby referred to it—I’d delivered souls to Above and Beneath without regard or judgment for the destination. I had known nothing else.

Save for the woman now smiling at me from over her shoulder.

I waved to Libby and received a wink in return. Her long lashes, which she lengthened with some fancy black stuff from a stick, drew me to her green eyes. Green like thick moss coating a lush forest floor. Mesmerizing. Made my heart shudder in a good way.

My heart hadn’t beaten until a week ago.

Apparently, as the soul bringer, I had taken Libby’s soul, and her sister Vika’s soul, as well, because I felt I’d been owed after Vika had inadvertently stolen souls from my usual daily rounds. The theft hadn’t been purposeful on Vika’s part; she was a witch possessed of a sticky soul who attracted lingering souls, those myself and other soul bringers couldn’t get to quickly enough.

According to Libby’s report, I’d been unemotional and hadn’t cared less to strip the sisters of their most prized possession. Vika’s boyfriend, a dark witch named Certainly Jones, had offered up his soul in trade. I had refused the offer.

When the dark witch had found the halo that contained my earthbound soul—lost after my fall to the mortal realm millennia ago—and had offered it in trade for the sisters’ souls, apparently I had also refused. To have a soul would strip me of my powers and condemn me to mortality. It would also strip away memory of my angelic life.

What I knew now was only what Libby had told me after the transformation. Yet I could remember why I had finally decided to take that deal. I had looked into Libby’s eyes, and she had promised she would be there for me. And I’d remembered all the times she’d offered me chocolate-chip cookies when I’d come to scrub her sister of souls. Something about the feisty red-haired woman had rapped against my glass heart.

Placing a hand over my heart now, I was glad I’d made that choice. Yet I regretted the lost power. Libby had detailed the few times she’d seen me move objects or command people to act against their will. I had shaken entire buildings and brought the rain and lightning to this realm. Fierce stuff, that.

Now, to look at my hands, I felt...less. As if I was missing something. The air also felt wrong. Heavy upon my shoulders. Intrusive.

Beyond that ineffable longing, I did look forward to learning emotions, something I’d never utilized while immortal. But had the sacrifice of power been worth this new step as a mortal?

I needed to find out.

* * *

He was watching me again. The attention made my ears grow warm and my core tingle. And yet I guessed Reichardt wasn’t sure why he was watching me. The man was like a babe venturing through the big bright world. Certainly he knew the world and all its trappings—he’d retained that knowledge after gaining his earthbound soul—but he didn’t know how to use his newly beating heart.

I intended to help him learn.

Because I, Libby St. Charles, was all about indulging one’s pleasures. And if the sexy new mortal fell in love with me, then who was I to protest?

Plucking a few sprigs of potent dill for a cleaning spell I wanted to try the next time Vika and I were called to do a job, I placed it in my basket, along with various flowers and herbs. Turning, I sashayed down the stone garden path toward the French doors at the back of the kitchen. A tune hummed in my brain. I loved to listen to music while concocting spells and hoped to turn Reichardt on to music, as well.

Baby steps, I said to myself, reminding of my big plans. I didn’t want to overwhelm the man and push him away.

Yet this was the first time I’d known—deep down in the depths of my soul—that a man was for me. Even when he’d been the emotionless soul bringer and had almost stolen my soul, I had loved him.

I believed in soul mates, because the universe could be sneaky like that.

Reichardt is my soul mate. Now I just need to make him believe it.

The house I had shared with my sister since we were children was a white hexagon tucked in a cozy neighborhood of Paris’s fourth quarter. According to the nineteenth-century builder’s notes, each of the six outer walls had been positioned to face a celestial body and was aligned with the planets. An excellent place to practice magic, and, while warded against vampires and werewolves, my sister and I had decided against warding it for soul bringers and angels. We didn’t want it to repel Reichardt should he retain any latent angel mojo.

Which, I suspected, did linger. Because the man glowed. More like an aura of all colors permeated off his being. I had seen auras on people. They came and went, sometimes very obvious, other times elusive. Reichardt’s aura was bold, yet sometimes it blinked at me as if it were a lightbulb losing its juice.

Remnants from his previous existence? If so, I would love to get my magical hands into that and stir it up a bit. I’d always preferred the paranormal types over a plain mortal, so adjusting to Reichardt’s new status would take some doing.

My big, handsome former soul bringer opened the glass-paned door for me. So tall and built like a Spartan warrior, I mused, though his features were forged from all nations. Though his name sounded German, angelic in origin, the man must represent all walks of life.

When he held his arms out to receive me I wasn’t sure it was because he wanted to hug me, or because I’d explained to him a hug was something friends did, and even people who were more than friends.

But resist his powerful embrace? Never. The man’s muscles had been forged by angelic means.

I intended to keep the cookies available, but not in such great quantities that he became a softy. That was my department. I might wear a double-digit size, but I was proud of my curves, and especially liked the way his hands slid over those curves as if exploring uncharted territory.

“The air is better now,” he whispered in that stalwart tone that always tightened my nipples in anticipation.

I had no idea what he meant by better air, but he’d said it a few times before. The heat of his iron-hard body lulled me into a swoon and I laid my head against his biceps. Happy to be there. Let this fantasy never end.

When a few flowers fell from the basket hooked at my elbow, I reluctantly pulled from the hug and twisted to pick them up.

Reichardt commented, “Now that I could look at all day.”

“What? My ass?” I straightened and wiggled my hips. “You can touch.”

“Really?”

Such innocent devilishness in the man’s tone. Monsieur Sex on a Stick had it all, yet was naively unaware of what that all did to a woman.

He slid his hands down my hips and cupped my derriere, growling a satisfied purr, and whispered at my ear. “Teach me about kissing.”

“Oh, lover, I adore your curiosity.”

We’d kissed once, before he’d gotten a soul. It had been a means for me to distract him from harming Vika—and it had worked. At the time I had almost thought Reichardt had been all in with the emotions and fresh love thing, until he’d then taken my soul.

But now was different. He’d hadn’t the power, let alone the heart, to enact such an evil scheme.

“Or will this stop me from getting too close?” he asked, tapping the object strung around my neck on a thin leather cord.

I touched my grandmother’s nail, coiled about the leather. All three St. Charles sisters wore one of the nails that had been pounded into our grandmother’s jaw by a witch hunter in order to keep her down during the burial process, following a vicious dunking that had ended in her death. The nail possessed power and acted as a sort of protector.

“Grandma would approve, I’m sure, lover.”

“Why do you call me lover?” he asked. “We aren’t lovers, as far as I know.”

“It’s just a pet name,” I said, batting my lashes coyly. “You don’t like it?”

“I do like it. It would be more fitting if it were true.”

The man was big on truths and morality, which clashed only a little with my energy. I hated lies and tried to be as moral as a witch possibly could. Did chocolate binges and crushes on celebrities count against my moral compass?

I trailed a finger along his chin, tapping the black goatee that called attention to his rugged square jaw and gave him some rock-star appeal. “Soon enough, lover boy, soon enough. Much as I’d love to push you onto the floor and ravage your sexy body, I think it best we take things slow.”

“Is ravaging good?”

“Ravaging is the bomb. But let’s do something about the kisses first. You want to learn?”

“Such a lesson would prove more interesting than how to mow the lawn or sweep the floor.”

So I’d been teaching him a few domestic skills. Every man should know the routine, am I right?

“Come here.” I grabbed his shirt and pulled him close enough to feel his breath against my chin.

The man’s eyes had retained the kaleidoscopic colors innate to angels. Every time I looked into them I saw a different color, from blue or gold to violet and even emerald. I could stare into them for hours.

“What do you see?” he asked with a concern that gave me a tickle.

“Curiosity.”

And that flickering multicolored aura that I had no intention of telling him about, because to do so would distract from my goal of a kiss.

“That’s because I am curious.” He squeezed my derriere. “I like this part of you. It’s soft and fills my hand.”

“Oh, lover, what did I do to deserve you?”

“From what you’ve told me, you gave me back my soul.”

Indeed, I had held his halo—which contained his earthbound soul—above his head but a week ago. That had caused Reichardt to rise from the ground, the halo affixed above his head. Briefly, Vika and I had witnessed the blue smoke wings Reichardt had never worn as a soul bringer, and had watched them shatter into so much angel dust, leaving the man lying unconscious in the garden before us. It had been a beautiful yet frightening experience.

“Come here,” I coaxed. “A little closer so our mouths almost touch, but not quite.”

He smelled like the homemade bay rum soap I’d slipped into his shower a few days ago to stock his barren apartment. I loved a spicy man, and it was all I could do not to hook a foot behind his knee and throw him to the black-and-white harlequin-tiled kitchen floor.

Patience, Libby.

But not too patient. This woman had needs and desires that demanded attention. How long could a girl be happy with a fumbling beginner when what she really needed was a skilled lover to master her mind, body and soul?

“Your breath on my skin feels good,” he said. “I know your lips are soft because they are the color of the rose petals in the garden.”

Mercy, but the man was a romantic without even trying.

“You don’t remember, but we’ve kissed before,” I said. “When I was trying to distract you from taking Vika’s soul.”

“I wish I could remember. I’ve lost so much.”

“I’ll refresh your memory.”

“Should I tilt my head?”

“No, I’ll do that. You just let it happen.”

I pressed my mouth to his and spread my hands across his rock-hard pectorals. I had to stand on my tiptoes, which gave me a thrill because—hell, it just did. The connection—no movement, just touching—activated all my nerve endings to scream pleasure and feed me.

I gripped him by the back of the head, running my fingertips through his short dark hair, and deepened the kiss. The man’s mouth was receptive and so hot. Spice teased my senses. I could have stayed right there all day. Oh, to bespell his heart and make him mine!

The guy was mine. Let no woman dare to take him from me.

Wait. Really? Claiming the guy? I was being too forward.

Breaking the kiss, I stepped away, smoothing my hands down my dress. “Whew! Sorry about that.”

He touched his lips and shrugged. “Sorry for what? I liked it. Did I do it wrong?”

“Not at all.”

His brows fell and his mouth pouted. The puppy dog had been denied a treat.

Shame on me. Libby St. Charles was not the denial sort. Be damned this too-forward business. I tended to take what I desired, and if it made me feel good, I’d overindulge.

“All righty then, here goes nothing, lover boy.”

This time I dashed my tongue across his, coaxing him to a sensual dance that teased at my inhibitions like a feather tracing me from head to toe. Every part of my skin craved contact with his. Clothing felt bothersome. And when I wanted him to dip me backward and make me his, the man simply took what I gave.

So I would become the teacher. He would learn, and then take the control I wanted him to own.

Sliding my hands down over his, I moved them lower on my hips. Reichardt squeezed and I moaned into his mouth. “You squeeze all you like, lover.”

“So much of you to enjoy,” he murmured, and this time he initiated the kiss.

He pressed my body against the counter and probably wasn’t aware how hard he leaned into me. I didn’t care. I wanted to be controlled by a man, needed it. His mouth, firm and seeking, tasted my lips and a murmur of satisfaction was my reward for this teaching session. I loved every moment of this connection, even his awkward movements as he tilted his head one way and then the other.

And when I felt his erection harden and lengthen against my mons—oh, baby. Did I mention I was a master of overindulgence?

“Uh...” Breaking the kiss, Reichardt looked down at his groin. “I’m not sure...”

“That’s supposed to happen,” I said sweetly and traced his moist lower lip with my finger. “That means you’re doing things right.”

“It’s so...hard. I feel as if I want to...”

I lifted a brow, waiting for him to list his fantasies about me. I could ramble off a salacious litany for him. But one step at a time. It was going to be difficult to control my urges around this man.

“I need a moment to myself.” Reichardt dashed out of the kitchen and through the swinging French doors.

Turning to the flower petals in the sink, I whistled a tune about two lovers finding one another. The former soul bringer had never had sex. I had myself a two-thousand-year-old virgin.

And I had so many great plans for him.

Two

While I dressed, Libby waited out in my starkly furnished living room. She was an early bird, or so I’d heard that expression in the market the other morning as we’d shopped for milk and bread and the apricot jam I enjoyed.

I liked to linger in bed, tucked between the sheets that smelled like cedar. If I wasn’t so compelled to become a useful, working part of society, I could entirely imagine becoming a bum who slept and ate his way through life.

I noticed the blue feather lying on the floor before the bed and picked it up. When I moved my fingers over the vanes, they shivered as if liquid yet felt cold and hard like iron. It was my feather. Libby said she’d found it in the pile of crystal ash that had remained after my wings had shattered and fallen away.

“Wings,” I murmured. “Could I get them back?”

I flexed my shoulders and spread out my arms, wondering what wings must have felt like. How large had they been? What purpose might they have served in the mortal realm? Had they been blue like this feather?

I overheard Libby out in the living room, on the phone with her sister, chatting about everything from cleaning solutions and getting blood stains out of vinyl couches to the latest music and—me.

My ears perked, my arms dropping the imaginary wings.

“He’s doing well. Still pretty weak. I wonder if he’ll always be so? He’s the muscles of a workhorse, but he can barely lift the vacuum.”

I clasped my hands across my chest, inadvertently squeezing a bicep. The muscle was hard, and it seemed I should be stronger. It bothered Libby that I couldn’t do some things? Hell, I’d needed her to help me move around the sofa. Shouldn’t a man be able to do that himself?

“Yes, he’s adjusting. CJ did that? I couldn’t imagine Reichardt lifting a washing machine to let me get to the dust beneath.”

I winced. Indeed, I needed to become stronger to gain Libby’s admiration. I’d seen the commercials on the television that featured muscle-bound men lifting heavy weights. Women swooned over them.

A man of my stature and with all these muscles shouldn’t be so weak. It had to do with transforming from a soul bringer to a mortal, I felt sure. If I had once traveled from Above and Beneath, I must have had some crazy powers. And Libby had detailed how I’d once lifted CJ and Vika with no more than my mind and had speared them with an invisible bolt that had left them bleeding.

I’d been a cruel man. But I’d also been strong.

I wanted to win Libby’s respect. I just had to figure out how.

* * *

After hanging up with my sister, I waited for Reichardt to finish dressing. The man shouldn’t cover up those washboard abs, but okay, so it was autumn and raining, and—still. It hurt my sense of wanting to drool over man muscle, but I’d have to deal. The man preferred all black clothes because he said putting colors together hurt his brain.

Boys. Gotta love ’em.

After he’d gotten his soul—and before his memory of being a soul bringer had been completely vanquished—Vika and I had quickly learned Reichardt kept an apartment in the fifth quarter, in the shadow of the Jardin des Plantes, and discovered it was empty: no furniture, no food, not even clothing. Just a few odd items sitting on windowsills and counters. The blue feather, a half-full bag of cat food, a yellow-cloth Jewish badge and a live sansevieria plant that looked well cared for.

We’d also learned the entire nineteenth-century building belonged to Reichardt. The building manager had explained their beneficent owner hadn’t charged rent in over two decades. The elderly building residents, upon seeing Reichardt, had offered a “bonjour, Monsieur Reichardt,” and one had told me that while the stoic building owner never chatted, he always ensured the residents were well through a liaison who visited them monthly to check medical stats and ensure their bills were paid, and who also sent food when needed.

I strolled my fingers along the glossy blade leaves of the sansevieria plant now. Quite the fellow, my emotionless and uncaring soul bringer.

We’d decided Reichardt should remain at his place, because when I had suggested he move in with me, he couldn’t get around the idea of it being sinful if we were not married. The man’s morals were old-fashioned yet sweet, and I didn’t want to rush him into the twenty-first century too quickly.

That sounded good in theory, anyway.

“Ready!” He looked over my black-and-white polka-dotted dress and skimmed his fingers along the fringes that hemmed the skirt.

“It’s my rock-star dress,” I said, tilting out a hip and hooking a hand akimbo. I could work a fringe like nobody’s sister.

“But you’re not a rock star. Or are you? You’re so talented—perhaps I’ve not seen all that you can do.”

“No, lover boy, I am not a rock star. But sometimes you gotta put on the fringe and rock out, you know?”

“No.” He eyed me curiously.

Poor amnesiac man. He took everything literally. It was kind of sad and yet a little fun to know I would get to teach him everything he needed to learn.

“Stick with me, Reichardt. You’ll be rocking with the best of them soon enough. Did you ever figure out the cat food?”

“No, but perhaps there is a stray that visits on occasion?”

“I hope so. I love kitties. Though Salamander might be jealous if I went home smelling like another cat.” Sal was Vika’s cat, but since moving in with CJ, she’d left him behind. She never had been a cat person. “Let’s go.”

Outside, we slid into the white hearse I drove for our cleaning business. I’d stuck a sticker that read Jiffy Clean on the trunk years ago as a joke. It annoyed Vika.

Vika and I cleaned up dead paranormals such as slain werewolves, demons and the occasional newer vampire who didn’t completely ash at death. Couldn’t have the mortals seeing such nightmares lying about the city. Cleaning was Vika’s life. Since the rock-star thing would probably never happen and my small flower garden brought in a pitiful amount at the bazaar, I had to do something to earn a euro.

I drove down the street toward the witch’s bazaar, a place I visited every other Saturday to buy and sell spellcraft items, pick up pointers, and chatter with fellow witches.

“Do you have male friends?” Reichardt asked out of the blue.

“Of course I do. A life without men is dull and a little too clean. Why do you ask?”

“I have the feeling I should talk to a man,” he said. “To learn things that a woman can’t teach me.”

“Like what?” I asked cheerfully, excited he was asking for knowledge.

“Like how to get stronger, and how to treat a woman.”