Nearly 200 years later, Claude’s lover is back … sort of. Gail Colvard may have been born with his sweet Laurette’s soul, but her new-and-improved incarnation is a witch who isn’t taking any mess—not from him, and not from dear old dad, either. Unfortunately, it isn’t just Gulielmus she needs to worry about.
When an enemy intent on upsetting the balance of power in the supernatural world targets Gail, Claude fears he’s doomed to lose her again. And this time, it’ll be for good. Can love truly conquer evil?
Don’t miss the thrilling conclusion to the Sons of Gulielmus series.
by Holley Trent
Holley Trent is a Carolina girl gone west. Raised in rural eastern North Carolina, she currently lives on the Colorado Front Range with her husband, two kids, and two cats. Find Holley at www.holleytrent.com, on Facebook, and on Twitter @holleytrent.
An excerpt from A Demon Bewitched:
If Claude Fortier had been a typical man, he wouldn’t have seen the punches and slaps coming.
A typical man wouldn’t have lost count way back in the 1860s of how many fights he’d had to carefully extricate himself from. Fighting men was too easy. Hurting them was too easy, and he didn’t even have to use his magic to do it. He could probably put a fist through his opponent’s skull without too much effort.
He wasn’t fighting a man this time, though.
The angry witch boldly swinging at his head was very much a woman. To the best of his recollection, he’d never tussled with a woman. For that matter, he’d never come to blows in a country-western bar’s parking lot, either. He was far more likely to be found haunting one of North Carolina’s few strip clubs. The music tended to be much better than the “I love God, America, my truck, and beer (in that order)” tunes played at joints like Rooster’s. However, strip club patrons had a higher-than-average tendency to pick a fight when Claude suggested that they should, perhaps, keep their fucking hands to themselves. The dancers didn’t like being touched.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that it was the incubus in the audience cautioning restraint. Honor wasn’t a catalogued sex demon trait, but a few had consciences. Claude was one of those few.
He laughed and leaned back to avoid a wild punch. “Well, goddamn, chéri. You’re really trying to lay it on me, huh?”
“Save it for the bedroom.”
She swung again, grunting as she missed. “You wish. How about you stand still and make it easier for me?”
“Not today.” He stepped sideways and narrowly avoided her sweeping kick, whistling low. “Damn. I bet you could have me black and blue in all the ways I like. Just ask nicely, chéri. Maybe I’ll oblige you.”
She froze, and the creases in her forehead deepened slightly. “What?”
Thirty. She had to be around there. He’d been following her for weeks, from the time his prescient brother Charles had told him, “She’s back,” but this was the first time he’d seen her up close. Well, this version of her. The last time he’d known her, she’d been a young Creole woman named Laurette and they’d shared a home in 1843 New Orleans. Their love had been passionate, but far too short. He’d thought with her back that they had another chance—but this woman obviously wasn’t his Laurette. Sweet Laurette hadn’t been a witch, and she sure as shit hadn’t had a swing like a prizefighter.
Laurette hadn’t been a fighter of any sort, to tell the truth, and his inner caveman had liked that about her. This chick, though? She wouldn’t know sweet if it bit her on her well-apportioned ass.