Deadly Night: 1st in Flynn Brothers Series Heather Graham
Mira
Paperback, , October, 2008
Book Description:
The Flynn brothers have inherited more than a New Orleans plantation. They've inherited a ghostly presence… and a long-kept secret.
Aidan Flynn, a private investigator and eldest of the Flynn brothers, scoffs at the haunted-house rumors—especially since Kendall Montgomery, a tarot card reader who has been living in the mansion, is the one to tell him the tale of a woman in white. But when he finds a human bone on the grounds and another by the river, Aidan delves into the dark history of the Flynn plantation.
Forced together to uncover the truth, Aidan and Kendall realize that a serial killer whose victims seem to vanish into thin air has long been at work…and that their own fates are about to be sealed forever unless they believe in the unbelievable.
Deadly Harvest: 2nd in Flynn brothers Series Heather Graham
Mira
Paperback
November, 2008
Book Description:
When a young woman is found dead in a field, dressed up as a scarecrow with a slashed grin and a broken neck, the residents of Salem, Massachusetts, begin to fear that the infamous Harvest Man is more than just a rumor. But out-of-town cop Jeremy Flynn doesn't have time for ghost stories. He's in town on another investigation, looking for a friend's wife, who mysteriously vanished in a cemetery.
Complicating his efforts is local occult expert Rowenna Cavanaugh, who launches her own investigation, convinced that a horror from the past has crept into the present and is seducing women to their deaths. Jeremy uses logic and solid police work. Rowenna depends on intuition. But they both have the same goal: to stop the abductions and locate the missing women before Rowenna herself falls prey to the Harvest Man's dark seduction.
Deadly Gift: 3rd in Flynn brothers Series Heather Graham
Mira
Paperback
December, 2008
Book Description:
Caer is spending this Christmas among strangers. Brought to Newport, Rhode Island, from her native Ireland to nurse ailing millionaire Sean O'Riley, she's living a life few can imagine. But money can't hide the tension between O'Riley's trophy wife, his paranoid daughter, the eccentric aunt in the attic and the staff members who run the house.
When O'Riley's business partner goes missing, family friend Zach Flynn arrives. Determined to help him solve the case, Caer becomes enmeshed in a mystery that weaves together the sins of the past with one family's destiny…and a spirit that watches the mansion, possessing a deadly gift.
A string of homicides is mirroring the author's macabre stories.
And Genevieve O'Brien's mother is next.
Genevieve knows all about nightmares. She herself survived two months as a psychopath's prisoner. And now this new menace stalks the city. Spooked by the bizarre slayings, she turns to P.I. Joe Connolly, her past rescuer, friend and…hopefully something more, if he would just quit avoiding her.
At first Joe isn't even sure there is a case. But the body count rises, and it's clear that a twisted killer is on the loose. Even more unsettling is the guidance he starts receiving from beyond the grave. People he knows to be dead are appearing, offering him clues and leads, and warning of some terrible danger ahead.
But can even the spirits stay the hand of a madman bent on murder?
Night Walker
Mira
Hardcover
April 2009
Book Description:
Jessy Sparhawk has seen firsthand how gambling can ruin people's lives. But one night, desperate for money, she places the bet that will change her life forever. Just as she's collecting her winnings, a man stumbles through the crowd, a knife protruding from his back, and crashes into her, pinning her to the craps table.
Hired to investigate the murder, private detective Dillon Wolf finds himself fascinated by the gorgeous redhead who'd been trapped beneath the victim—and by the single word the dying man had whispered in her ear. Indigo.
What neither of them realizes is that the nightmare is only just beginning. Because bodyguard Tanner Green may have been killed by that knife, but his angry ghost isn't going anywhere—not without vengeance. Now, literally caught between the living and the dead, Dillon and Jessy have no choice but to forge ahead together.
Their investigation will take them from the glitz of the Vegas strip into the dealings of casino magnate Emil Landon, the man who signs both their paychecks, and out into the desert to a ghost town called Indigo, where past and present come together in a search for gold.
Years ago, blood was shed on that very ground, and now it looks as if history is about to repeat itself, with the living and the dead facing off for possession of a fortune, and Dillon and Jessy fighting not only to stay alive but for the chance to build a future.
Night Moves: Famous First
Mira
pp
Reprint
June, 2009
Book Description
Photographer Bryn Keller is struggling to raise three boys while getting her career on track, so working with superstar Lee Condor is an opportunity she can't pass up…even if he is the most infuriating—and desirable—man she has ever met. But then Bryn finds herself in unexpected danger. Someone wants something from her—badly enough to hurt her family. The only person Bryn can turn to is the one man she can't trust: Lee. But under his protection, Bryn knows she's in more danger than ever….
Dust to Dust: Start of the Prophesy Series
Mira
pp, ,
July, 2009
Book Description:
Not long ago, Scott Bryant would have described himself as an ordinary guy. But one act of heroism has changed his life forever—or at least until the apocalypse occurs. Because the end of the world is on its way.
Suddenly and inexplicably possessed of superhuman strength, Scott finds himself allied with the enigmatic and alluring Melanie Regan in a quest to find the mysterious Oracle in hopes of averting the absolute destruction that threatens.
Melanie herself has been falling into trances, sketching terrifying visions of future events—and she wants answers. She knows better than Scott where to look for help, but even she cannot fathom the powers that have thrust them together in an epic battle of good against evil. The earth itself will soon turn against its inhabitants, and now mortal and immortal must join forces if any are to survive.
Home In Time For Christmas Heather Graham
Mira
Paranormal Romance
Hard Cover
Book Descriptipon:
Centuries ago, by a scaffold in Manhattan, rose petals drifted gently to the ground...
...like snow on a wintry Massachusetts night. Melody Tarleton is driving home for Christmas when a man - clad in Revolutionary War-era costume - appears out of nowhere, right in the path of her car. Shaken, she takes the injured stranger in, listening with concern to Jake Mallory’s fantastic claim that he’s a Patriot soldier, sentenced to death by British authorities. The last thing he remembers is the tug of the noose.
Safe at her parents’ house, Melody concocts a story to explain the handsome holiday guest with the courtly manners, strange clothes and nasty bump on the head. Mark, her close friend who wishes he were more, is skeptical and her family is fascinated - though not half so fascinated as Melody herself.
Jake is passionate, charming and utterly unlike anyone she’s ever met. Can he really be who he claims? And can a man from the distant past be the future she truly longs for?
With the aid of enchanted petals, ancient potions and the peculiar magic of the season, Melody and Jake embark on an unimaginable Christmas adventure - and discover a love that transcends time.
CONTEST: NY Times Bestselling Author Heather Graham will pick one lucky commenter to win a copy of "Dust to Dust". To enter leave a comment with your email for Heather to contact the winner. Good Luck!
Unhallowed Ground: Harrison Investigation Series Heather Graham
Mira
pp
August, 2009
Book Description:
When Sarah McKinley is finally able to buy and restore the historic Florida mansion that she has always loved, she dismisses the horror stories of past residents vanishing and a long-dead housekeeper who practiced black magic. Then, in the midst of renovations, she makes a grim discovery.
Hidden within the walls of Sarah’s dream house are the remains of dozens of bodies - some dating back over a century. The door to the past is blown wide open when Caleb Anderson, a private investigator, shows up at the mansion.
He believes several current missing persons cases are linked to the house and its dark past. Working together to find the connection and stop a contemporary killer, Sarah and Caleb are compelled to research the history of the haunted house, growing closer to each other even as the solution to the murders eludes them. But there is one who knows the truth…a spirit who follows every move they make. Soon Caleb begins to fear that if he can't stay a step ahead, he could lose Sarah to a killer with an ability to transcend time in a quest for blood and sacrifice.
In Depth interview with NY Times Bestselling Author Heather Graham
CSM: Please help me welcome New York Times Bestselling Author Heather Graham to Over the Edge Book Reviews. Heather, my readers and I are so psyched that one of my go-to authors has dropped to spend time with us. Thanks so much!
Please,Tell us more about yourself. Readers love learning new and interesting things about an author, and this would give you a chance to make them feel close
HG: Hm, well I started out doing dinner theater, wasn't paid terrifically, and it became two expensive for me to go to work--go figure on that! Reading has always been my passion, so I started writing. I went through a period of rejection--quite blindly, the groups were just beginning to form back then--and then I made two sales in a about a week. One, a short horror story, and the other, a category romance which was picked up by Dell. Since then, it has been trial and error. I did raise five kids--the last is in college now!--this way, and I still love what I do
CSM: If you have 2 hours free time tonight, what would you rather do? Why?
HG:Free time is not easy to come by--I belong to MWA, HWA, FRW, ITW, Ninc, and Sisters in Crime, and I love conventions! Being with people of a like mind is always exciting for the writing mind. And, hey, they take place in different cities. I also love our band--The Slush Pile--and we play in New Orleans, for my Writers for New Orleans, at HWA, and this year, I'm excited to say, we're off to World Horror in Brighton. So, going back to the old is great. I'm a Criminal Minds junkie--Law and Order is all its guises, Dexter, and I like Burn Notice, and White Collar is looking pretty decent. I only see most of these as repeats, tho, late at night. My second son is an Arthur Murray instructor, and we actually started taking lessons together years ago, so I still love ballroom dance and will probably attend at least one pro-am event next year. And diving! I think I can never move away from Miami because I can dive any time the opportunity presents itself. I'm one hour from Key Largo, and don't mind the drive.
CSM: What kind of books do you love to read? Why?
HG: I read everything. Old, new, fiction, non-fiction, cereal boxes!
CSM: What type of music do you relax to?
HG: I listen to all music! Five kids--I get barraged. My daughter is in theater at CalArts, and she's surrounded by musicians as well, so visiting her is amazing. I love everything--that's what's so fun about the band. Each member has something different that they want to do, and so we all learn it--or try to! But classical, Broadway, old rock, new rock . . . ska, jazz . . . blues . . . you name it!
CSM: Besides being a total book junkie I’m also a music junkie. When I’m writing I have a sound track playing either in my mind or in my cd player. What’s your sound track? What type of music is on it?
HG: see above :-)
CSM: Describe yourself in one word?
HG: Describe myself in one word? Surviving!
CSM: What’s your biggest regret in life?
HG: My regret is rather personal. My sister died of hepatitis. I regret that we didn't know that live partial liver transplants weren't done in Florida because at some time someone sued someone in Boston. If I--and other family members had been equipped with more medical knowledge, I think we could have saved her. I don't beat myself up feeling responsible, I'm just angry because she was such a beautiful person.
CSM: What is the adventurous thing you’ve ever done?
HG: I'm just back from Bouchercon, before that, book tour, and before that, NOLA, L.A., and Killercon, in Vegas. I'll be updating the websites soon, but I can be found at theoriginalheathergraham.com, eheathergraham.com, and heathergraham.tv.
CSM: When did you write your first book?
HG: My first book was 1982--and I don't remember how long it took to write. To this day, every book is different. Some take less time, some take more!
CSM: Did you encounter any obstacles in writing?
HG:There are always obstacles in writing. Work, children, family, trips--the IRS! There are always obstacles. But everything can be overcome--tenacity is an amazing asset.
CSM: What do you think about editing?
HG: Editing is something every author needs. Always! I've noticed that sometimes, the most popular authors in the world wrote better books early on. Sometimes, I think, they might use their popularity to push some of their points when they shouldn't be pushed. A good editor is the best asset in the world for a writer. They save you from stupid mistakes, and they make you take a harder look at your words.
CSM: What books would you recommend to aspiring writers to improve on style, character development, plot structuring, dialogue, etc?
HG: Writer's Digest Writer's Market is my favorite book for writers. Reading--constantly reading books that you admire, authors you admire, is one way to hone your skills. Study what you love.
CSM: What is your advice for aspiring writers?
HG: Tenacity, reading, reading, reading--and dogged belief in oneself will get you where you want to go! Never stop--and take criticism intelligently. Reading is subjective, so know your characters and your story. Politely find out why someone is criticizing. A critique can be genuine, or perhaps the reader is fond of sci-fi and you've handed over a hardcore detective novel.
CSM: Where do you get your ideas? Do you jot them down in a notebook in case you forget?
HG: My ideas usually come from life--and people out there in it--and, definitely, the newspaper!
I'm horrible--don't own a notebook. But I write almost every day of my life, and my memory as far as ideas go is still functioning pretty well!
CSM: Which of your books feature your family/friends, etc? What characters are modeled after them? Why?
HG: My family--my dad was born in Stirling, Scotland, and my mom in Dublin, Ireland. I grew up with the Irish. Two books feature a lot of family feeling, one suspense called Night of the Blackbird, and a Christmas/suspense novel called The Last Noel.
CSM: Which of your heroes/heroines is most similar to you?
HG: I don't think I modeled any particular heroine after me. I often wonder what it was like if someone were different, so I like to play on that. Sometimes, however, I do give them what I know, so a lot are involved with theater or music. Oh--I have used artists, though, and I can't draw a stick figure!
CSM: Who is your strongest/sexiest/most lovable/hottest hero/heroine? Why?
HG: I don't think I have a favorite hero or heroine--it's always the people in the next book, because they're closest to my mind. Night of the Wolves, out in December, does have a dark, dangerous, hero--and in Home in Time for Christmas, out at the end of October, my guy was a lot of fun--he's a Revolutionary War hero about to be executed, but his sister, a witch, casts a spell to bring him home. She manages to do so, but she plops him down in the middle of a snowstorm in contemporary Massachusetts. For that book, I had a lot of fun asking one question to friends -- if you were suddenly hurled from the past into today, what would you find the most amazing?
CSM: Tell us more about your current MIRA release "Unhallowed Ground".
HG: The current book on the shelves is Unhallowed Ground. It takes place in St. Augustine where murders that occurred over a hundred and fifty years ago start happening in a like style again. Our heroine finds bones in the wall, and there paranormal aspects as well.
CSM: Any new projects, works in progress?
HG: Right now I'm working on a three book ghost series that takes place in Key West. It will be out next summer. After Night of the Wolves, I have a pp reprint of Nightwalker in March, and The Killing Edge in April.
CSM: I want to take this time to thank you Heather for stopping by and sharing with my readers and myself a little bit about yourself. This sure has been loads of fun. I hope you enjoyed being here as much as we enjoyed having you.
Happy Sunday Readers! Hold on to your seats! This week we have the incomparable lady of romantic suspense and paranormal romance… New York Times Bestselling author Heather Graham is sharing the week at Over the Edge. Known for her emotional charged and nail biting paranormals Heather is spending time chatting about what makes her writing truly unique.
Come and join us as we delve into the world of Heather Graham and enter to win a copy of her recent release, "Dust to Dust".
Don’t worry kids. I’ll save a place for you next to the roaring fire with a nice cup of tea, so sit back, relax and enjoy!
Dust to Dust: Start of the Prophesy Series Heather Graham
Mira
Paranormal Romance
July, 2009
Book Description:
Not long ago, Scott Bryant would have described himself as an ordinary guy. But one act of heroism has changed his life forever—or at least until the apocalypse occurs. Because the end of the world is on its way. Suddenly and inexplicably possessed of superhuman strength, Scott finds himself allied with the enigmatic and alluring Melanie Regan in a quest to find the mysterious Oracle in hopes of averting the absolute destruction that threatens. Melanie herself has been falling into trances, sketching terrifying visions of future events—and she wants answers. She knows better than Scott where to look for help, but even she cannot fathom the powers that have thrust them together in an epic battle of good against evil. The earth itself will soon turn against its inhabitants, and now mortal and immortal must join forces if any are to survive.
Street Game Christine Feehan
JOVE
Paranormal Romance
Release: December 29, 2009
Print
Book Description
For Mack McKinley and his team of GhostWalker killing machines, urban warfare is an art. But despite a hard-won knowledge of the San Francisco streets, Mack knows from experience that too many things can still go wrong. Danger was just another part of the game—and now he’s come face-to-face with a woman who can play just as tough.
She’s Jaimie, a woman with a sapphire stare so potent it can destroy a man. Years ago she and Mack had a history—volatile, erotic, and electric. Then she vanished. Now she’s walked back into Mack’s life, as a spy with more secrets than are good for her. Against all odds, she’s hooking up with Mack one more time to take on an enemy that could destroy them both, or bring them back together in one hot, no-holds-barred adrenaline rush.
Excerpt from Street Game by Christine Feehan
Black night. No moon, no stars. Just the way he liked it. Master Gunnery Sergeant Mack McKinley crouched in the alley, close to the tall dirty building, allowing his senses to become tuned to the familiar sounds. A cat raked through a garbage can, a drunk moaned and shivered in the cold. Waves pounded the beach and sloshed against the pier just behind the building. Three stories up, lights went out leaving the long row of windows like giant gaping black mouths. McKinley smiled at the image, smiled up at the windows. His smile was not pleasant.
This was the all important tip. Tracking the explosives through Lebanon, Beirut, the South American Freighter. San Francisco. Always one step behind. He had moved fast to check out the information, praying it was correct. They had less than twenty-four hours to find the guns and the five-man unit of Doomsday. He sneered at the name of the terrorist unit, but he had to give them kudos for scaring the crap out of every country they had visited. They left behind wreckage and carnage and death. More—they left behind fear.
Urban warfare was an art, anyway one looked at it, and his team had knowledge of the streets, were the best there was, but it was dangerous work and one had to have a cool head. Too many civilians, too many potential hostages, too damn many things to go wrong, but his men were good at it, more than good—he counted them the best and Sergeant Major Theodore Griffen wanted Doomsday taken out and when the Sergeant Major gave an order it was carried out immediately and to the letter.
The warehouse was wired. He knew it, could ‘feel’ it. But something... His men were in position waiting for him. As always First Sergeant Kane Cannon was at his back. They’d started on the streets together, two kids trying to stay alive, eventually pulling in six other boys and two girls, all with ‘different’ abilities to make up their rag-tag family.
From the streets Kane and Mack and one of the girls—Mack didn’t want to think about her—had gone on to the University. The others had gone into the Marine Corp. All had a gift for languages as well as too many other things, such as what he was doing now. They were recruited right out of school and trained as operatives until the psychic testing. That had been a huge mistake and all of his family had followed him—as they had all along.
Force Recon—Special Forces. Psychic testing where they’d all come back together just like on the street. More specialized training. S.E.A.L. training. Urban war games. Even more specialized training until they were pretty much killing machines. They had stuck together and knew each other’s every move. They trusted each other and no one else, not in the business they were in. Well…with the exception of the new kid, but that was a whole other story. There was no good thinking about that right now, not when he was surrounded with the ones he loved, leading them into a situation that was explosive at the very least.
Mack signaled for the others to pull down their night goggles, making it easy to see in the blackness of the night. He and Kane didn’t need them. They could both see in the dark as easily as during the day. Something to do with the experiments they’d lent themselves to. Stupid, but they’d done it for the good of the country and their need for a home. Yeah, he knew the psychological bullshit everyone spouted. It was probably all true too, but he didn’t much care. It was also one hell of an adrenaline rush.
Still, he waited, hesitating before signaling his team forward. His men were coiled and ready. He had a bad feeling, deep in his gut, and he never discounted his instincts. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
What is it, Top? Kane questioned, using telepathy, communication they had perfected as children and the military had enhanced when they volunteered for their psychic GhostWalker program.
Something’s wrong? Not wrong, maybe, just not right. How the hell could he explain that strange kick in his belly?
I feel it too, but I’m not sure what’s out of sync here. There was another long moment of silence. Abort? Kane asked.
Mack took a breath. Let it out. No, but let’s all be very cautious.
Of the eight of them, only the new kid the Sergeant Major had insisted they add to their team couldn’t communicate telepathically. Telepathy had been the common denominator that had drawn them together on the streets. They were all different and they’d all recognized the psychic gift in one another. Mack had been the acknowledged leader and Kane had always, always had his back.
He glanced at the man and saw he was doing what Kane did best, searching the huge warehouse with his strange eyes. He could, if he wanted, see right through the wood and metal to the heat inside, a gift from Whitney and his experiments. Unfortunately if he used that special gift, he paid for it with blindness for several minutes after, rendering it an extremely dangerous talent to use in the field. There were several new abilities in all of them. Animal DNA. A new genetic code. They hadn’t signed on for that kind of experiment, but when they woke up, they had been changed for all time. This time, he kept from trying to look through the walls and used his enhanced sight to detect movement only.
Mack signaled his men forward. It took minutes to bypass the alarm on the side entrance door, far longer than it should have. The alarm was too complicated for a wharf warehouse. Who put together a triple, sophisticated alarm system, so complex, it took Javier, his best tech, precious time to unravel it?
We’ve got ourselves a pro system, here, boss, Javier said. One I’ve never seen before. Whoever put this mother together, knew what they were doing. There was frank admiration in the voice.
No activity in the lower warehouse that I can spot, Mack, Kane said. I can’t detect heat on the second floor either, but someone’s on the third floor.
Just one person? That made no sense.
Just one.
Mac moved first, his brain more reluctant than his body. He rolled inside the door of the first floor, under a trip wire, crawled military fashion beneath the maze of track beams. The entire room was empty, deserted, with the exception of scattered building materials here and there. The sophisticated alarm system seemed ridiculous. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, refusing to leave him alone.
Where are the sentries, Kane?
I don’t know, bro, but this is all wrong.
The roof was clean, protected only by an alarm. His man, Gideon, was up there now, with a rifle and a radio. Gideon could see in the dark, hear like an owl, and shoot the wings off a fly in the middle of the night if necessary. Mack should have been feeling good, but that punch in his gut was getting stronger. And where the hell was the sentry on the ground level? Was this an elaborate trap? Had Doomsday been tipped off that they were coming?
The little band of terrorists had no cause, no politics, no religious war to fight. They were mercenaries, a brand new type spawned by the times. They showed off their talents, sparing no country, no man, woman or child, with one idea, working for the highest bidder. They sold their services to the highest bidder, which made them difficult to track as no one could ever figure out who they worked for and where they would be next. This was the GhostWalker’s one opportunity to get them, following the weapons, yet Mack just couldn’t shake it that something was wrong.
Even as his mind struggled desperately with the problem, he was aware of every detail around him, aware of the newbie, young Paul that inch too high, close beneath one of the beams. Mack hissed and all movement ceased. The warehouse was utterly still. His cold gaze pinned Paul. Mack signaled with a flat hand. The rookie’s body hugged the cold cement. Despite the cover of darkness, Mack knew Paul flushed crimson.
The kid blushed a lot. What the hell he was doing with their team, Mack couldn’t figure out. Basically, they were babysitting and that could get them all killed. No one on the team wanted the kid with them, but Sergeant Major Griffen had been more than insistent. It wasn’t that the kid wasn’t highly intelligent—he was. He also was psychic, although none of them had gone through Dr. Whitney’s program with him. All the GhostWalkers tended to know or at least recognized one another. Paul was an exception. Mack didn’t like question marks, and the kid posed too many.
Mack rolled free of the interlocking track beams. The loudness of the freight lift was out of the question. It had to be the stairs, each one more perilous than the next. There would be two flights to get to that third floor.
Where the hell are the sentries? The question nagged at him, would not let him go.
Everyone was on high alert now, the question as disturbing to them as it was to him. He waited a heartbeat, but couldn’t find a reason not to continue.
He moved cautiously. Four stairs—seven. He felt it on eight. The wire puzzled him. It was an alarm, not a mine. His mind seized on that, worried at it.
Mack had done this so many times he knew exactly how each one of his men was feeling. Adrenalin pumping, heart racing, fear choking, guns rock steady.
Something was off kilter. Wrong. The word fluttered in his head, beat at him like tiny wings.
Definitely off.
Kane’s anxiety heightened his own.
Mack gained the second floor. Where the first floor had been mostly empty space and building materials, this one was packed with electronic equipment. A bank of computers was built into the far wall, the only thing completed. Everything else was in boxes, all electronics equipment, high end.
“Bingo,” Paul’s whisper came over the radio, trembling with excitement. “Moving day.”
Check it, Kane. Maybe we’re looking at how they transported the guns.
Inside electronic equipment? This is satellite tracking, cameras, stuff like that, not guns. We’ve stumbled onto something, but I’m not certain it’s what we’re after.
Mack wasn’t certain either. He shook his head, his mind screaming at him now. This was all wrong. No sentries. This type of equipment was far too advanced for the kind of terrorists the Doomsday organization were.
He moved up the staircase. Third stair this time. No explosives. Seventh stair. He rolled beneath the beam on the landing, came up on one knee, breathing deeply. Here! Here! His men were spreading out, back-to-back, in a standard search pattern.
What is it? What’s wrong? Find the answer! Find the answer! Mac moved carefully through the furniture.
The furniture, Mack. All wrong, Kane hissed in his mind.
A long plush couch, a hand carved wooden coffee table, a priceless Persian rug. Beautiful, expensive. A small object on an end table. A dragon. Like in a living room. A home. Knowledge came a heartbeat too late.
Something stirred just feet from him, a weapon glinted.
Book Description:
Rafael De La Cruz has spent centuries hunting vampires with his brothers, and with each passing year his capacity to feel emotions has grown weaker and weaker until finally there's barely been a memory left-until only sheer willpower keeps him from turning into the very abomination he hunts. But it'll take more than will to keep him away from the woman who is meant to be his and his alone…
For five years, rancher Colby Jansen has been the sole protector of her younger half-siblings, and with fierce determination and work she has kept her family together and the ranch operational. Now, the De La Cruz brothers are threatening that stability. They claim that her siblings belong with their father's family, not with her. Colby vows to fight them-especially the cold and arrogant Rafael De La Cruz. But Rafael is after more than her family-he wants Colby and will not let anything stand between them. After ages of loneliness, the raw desire to possess her overwhelms his very soul, driving him to claim her as his lifemate….
Excerpt from Dark Secret by Christine Feehan
"Come on, Colby," Ben Lassiter yelled, feeling like a fool running along side the tractor. "You have to be reasonable. Get off that damn thing and listen to me for once in your life. You're being stubborn!"
The ancient tractor bounced along in the gathering dusk, shooting up clouds of powdery dirt to spray over Ben's immaculate sheriff's uniform. Colby waited until he was totally out of breath and at a complete disadvantage before she stopped the tractor and sat staring moodily out over the field. Very slowly she pulled off her leather work gloves. "I'm getting tired of these visits, Ben. Just whose side are you on, anyway? You know me. You knew my father. These people don't belong here and they certainly don't have the right to try to force me to turn over my brother and sister to them."
Ben swiped at the dirt covering him, gritting his teeth against his frustration. He took several deep breaths before he answered her. "I didn't say it was right, Colby, but they have money and power. You can't just ignore them. They aren't going to go away. You have to talk to them or they're going to take you to court. People like the De La Cruz brothers don't lose in court." He raised his hands to grasp her small waist before she could jump off the tractor by herself. Resisting the urge to shake some sense into her, he lifted her down easily, retaining possession for a moment. "You have to do this, Colby. I mean it, honey, I can't protect you from these people. Don't put it off any longer."
Colby pushed away from him, a small gesture of impatience, swinging her head so her disheveled hair spilled out from under her hat, hiding the sudden sheen of tears swimming in her eyes. Ben quickly looked away, pretending not to notice. Colby in tears was lethal either way. A man would have to kill for her if she cried, and anyone witnessing her tears would be very likely to take the brunt of her anger.
"Fine," Colby began moving across the field at a fast pace. "I presume you have the entire lot of them camped on my porch?"
"I knew Ginny and Paul were gone tonight." Ben had ensured his sister-in-law invited the two kids over for homemade ice cream.
"Like that was hard to see through," Colby tossed the words sarcastically over her shoulder at him. She had known Ben since kindergarten. She was certain he persisted in thinking of her as a wild, untamed little girl, not quite bright, when she was perfectly capable of running a ranch all by her little lonesome and had been doing so for some time. She wanted to box his thick skull for him.
"Colby, don't go in there like a powder keg. These people aren't the type to be pushed around." Ben easily kept pace with her.
"Pushed around?" She echoed his words, suddenly furious, stopping abruptly so that he had to rock back on his heels to keep from running her over. "They'retrying to push me around. How dare they come here acting so arrogant I want to sic the dog on them! Men!" She glared at him. "And another thing, Ben. Instead of kissing up to Mr. Moneybags and his entourage, you might consider what is going on out here. All my equipment keeps disappearing and some little gremlin is messing with the machinery. That's your job, isn't it, not escorting the rich and infamous around." She began moving again, setting her usual fast pace, her small feminine body radiating fury.
"Colby, you and I both know it's a bunch of kids playing pranks. Probably friends of Paul," Ben tried to soothe her.
"Pranks? I don't think stealing is a prank. And what about my missing person's report? Have you even tried to find Pete for me?"
Ben raked a hand through his hair in sheer desperation. "Pete Jessup is probably off on a binge. For all you know that old man stole your things to pay for his alcohol."
Colby stopped again very abruptly, so that this time Ben did run into her and had to catch her shoulders to keep from knocking her flat. She slapped his hands away, a fine outrage smoldering in her. "Pete Jessup quit drinking when my father died, you turncoat! He's been invaluable around here."
"Colby," Ben tried to calm her down, his voice persuasive and gentle. "The truth is you took in that homeless old coot out of the goodness of your heart. I doubt if he did more than eat your food every day. He's a broken down cowboy, a drifter. He's just taken off somewhere. He'll turn up eventually."
"You would say that," she sniffed, truly aggravated with him. "It's just like you to let the disappearance of an old man and sneak thieves go by the wayside so you can mix with some rich idiots who are here to try to stealmy brother and sister."
"Colby, come on, they proved they're relatives and they claim they have the children's best interest at heart. The least you can do is listen to them."
"You probably agree with them, don't you? Paul and Ginny are not better off with that group. You don't know anything about it, or them. Paul would end up just like them, so arrogant no one could stand him and poor little Ginny would grow up thinking she was a second class citizen because she's female. They can all go straight to hell for all I care!"
Although it was early evening and still relatively light, the sky suddenly darkened as if a giant shadow was passing overhead. Black ominous clouds boiled up out of nowhere. A cold wind arrived on the wings of the dark mass, tugging sharply at Colby's body. A shiver of apprehension blew straight down her spine. For a moment something touched her mind. She felt it, felt the struggle for entrance. It was so real she stopped moving and Ben nearly tripped over her again.
"What is it?"
Colby could see Ben was clearly uneasy as he turned in a slow circle to scan the surrounding area. He had his hand on his gun unsure what was stalking them or where the threat was coming from, but he obviously felt it as well.
Colby stayed very quiet, not moving a muscle, like a small fawn caught in a poacher's light. She immediately sensed she was in mortal danger. It wasn't hostile toward Ben, but she could feel the malevolence directed at her. Whatever it was struck directly at her mind, seeking entrance. She took a deep slow breath and let it out, forcing her mind to stay blank, thinking of a wall, high, impregnable, a fortress nothing could enter. She focused completely on the wall, keeping it strong, impenetrable.
The thing seemed to withdraw for a moment, puzzled perhaps by her strength, but then it struck again, a hard thrust, spear-like that seemed to pierce her skull and drive right for her brain. Colby uttered a soft cry of pain and dropped to one knee, holding her head even while she forced herself to breathe evenly and calmly. Her mind was strong, invincible, a wall so thick and high no one would ever break it down. Whatever malevolent thing was after her would not be allowed to breach her defenses.
She became aware, after a few minutes, of Ben's large hand on her shoulder. He was bending over her solicitously. "Colby, what is it?"
Cautiously she lifted her head. The presence was gone, winging away from her, back towards the ranch house. "My head, Ben, I have the headache from hell." She did too; it wasn't a lie. She'd never experienced anything quite like the attack. She actually felt sick to her stomach, and she wasn't certain she could walk without her head falling off. Whatever it had been was strong and terrifying.
Ben took her elbow, helped her to her feet. She was trembling, he could feel the continuous shivering beneath his hand so he held on to her. Colby didn't pull away from him independently like she normally would have and that worried him. "You want me to call an ambulance?"
Her emerald green eyes laughed at him even as they mirrored her pain. "Are you crazy? I have a headache, Ben. The mere thought of contact with the Chevez family gives me major headaches."
"Your brother and sister are both members of the Chevez family, Colby. You would have been too if the adoption had gone through."
Colby ducked her head, his words hitting her dead center in her heart. Armando Chevez had never adopted her. He had confessed his reasons on his deathbed, hanging his head in shame, tears swimming in his eyes while she held his hand. He had wanted his grandfather to relent, to accept him back into his family. Due to the circumstances of her birth, Armando had known if he adopted her, his grandfather in Brazil would never allow him to come back to the family. It had been too late then, to push the paperwork through. Armando Chevez was ashamed that he had betrayed her unconditional love for him for a family who had never answered a dying man's letter. Colby had remained loyal and loving, nursing him, reading to him, comforting him right up until the day he died. And she still remained loyal to him. It didn't matter that he had died before the adoption, Armando Chevez wasn't her biological father, but he was her father all the same. In her heart, where it counted.
The way the Chevez family hated her had never mattered to her, but she loved Armando with every fiber of her being. She loved him with same fierceness she loved her brother and sister. As far as she was concerned, the Chevez family didn't deserve Armando and his children. And the two De La Cruz brothers, guardians and bullies for the Chevez family, could go straight back to whatever hell had spawned them. They were directly responsible for Armando's grandfather's bitter hatred of her. She wasn't good enough to be a member of the De La Cruz family. Neither was her beloved mother. Armando's grandfather pronounced she would never be accepted into their illustrious family and his reasons had been abundantly clear. Her mother had never married her father, there was no name on the birth certificate and Armando's grandfather would never accept an Anglo bastard into his pure blood family.
As they moved around the vegetable garden towards the ranch house, Colby slowed her pace, turning her mind inward for a moment to focus her strength of will on control. It was important to stay calm and relax and breathe naturally. She tilted her chin and walked with her head up to meet the all powerful De La Cruz brothers and the Chevez family members who had come to steal her brother and sister and their ranch.
They were gathered together on her small porch. Juan and Julio Chevez resembled Armando so much Colby had to blink back unexpected burning tears. She had to remember this was the family who had so cruelly rejected her mother because she had given birth to Colby out of wedlock. This was the same family who had callously ignored her beloved stepfather's pleas and allowed him to die without so much as a word from them. Worst of all, they were here to take Paul and Ginny away and to confiscate the ranch, their father's last legacy.
Ben saw her lift her chin and he sighed heavily. He had known Colby nearly all of her life. She had a stubborn streak a mile wide. If these men underestimated her because she was young and beautiful, because she looked small and fragile, they were in for a big surprise. Colby could move mountains if she set her mind to it. He had never seen anyone so determined, with such strength of will. Who else could have nursed a dying man and run a huge ranch with only the help of an old broken down cowhand and two kids?
Colby walked right up to the two men, her slender shoulders straight, her small frame as tall as she could make it. "What can I do for you gentleman?" Her voice was polite, distant, she gestured toward the chairs on the porch rather than inviting them into her home. "I looked very carefully over the papers you sent and I believe I already gave you my answer. Ginny and Paul are United States citizens. This ranch is their legacy, entrusted to me to preserve for them. That is a legal document. If you wish to dispute it, you can take me to court. I have no intention of turning my brother and sister over to complete strangers."
A man stirred, he was back in the shadows. Her gaze jumped to his face, her heart pounding. It was strange she hadn't noticed him immediately. He seemed blurred, a part of the gathering darkness. As he stepped under the porch light, she could see he was tall and muscular, very imposing. His face held a harsh sensuality, his eyes black and cold. His hair was long, pulled to the back of his neck and somehow secured there. He made her heart race and every warning sense shrieked at her. He held up his hand effectively silencing Juan Chevez before he could speak. That imperious gesture, stopping the proud, very wealthy Brazilian, set her heart pounding. She had a feeling he could hear it. The brothers moved aside as he glided silently forward. The parting of the Red Sea, Colby thought a little hysterically. Was there a touch of fear in the eyes of the Chevez brothers?
Colby stood her ground, trembling, afraid her rubbery legs might not hold her up. This man scared her. There was an edge of cruelty to his mouth and she had never seen such cold eyes, as if he was without a soul. She forced herself to stand, not to look at Ben for assurance. Clearly this man could take a life and never think twice about it. That made her all the more determined to keep her brother and sister safe. If the Chevez family used him for protection, what did that say about them? She stared up at him defiantly. He bent closer, his black eyes staring directly into her green ones. At once she felt the mesmerizing pull. Hypnotic. Powerful. She recognized that touch from the mental attack on her in the field. Alarmed she jerked back, twisting away from him to focus on Ben's scuffed boots. This man was like she was!
"I am Nicolas De La Cruz." He said his name softly, his voice as mesmerizing as his eyes. "I wish you to hear these men out, they have come a long way to see you. The children are of their blood."
The way he said blood sent a shiver running through her body. He didn't raise his voice at all. He sounded perfectly calm and reasonable. His voice was a powerful, hypnotic weapon and she recognized it as such. If he used it in a court of law on the judge, could she combat it? She didn't honestly know. Even she was somewhat susceptible. Her head was pounding. She pressed a hand to her temples. He was exerting subtle pressure to do as he bid her.
Colby knew she wouldn't be able to resist the relentless invasion for long. Her head felt as if it might shatter. Pride was one thing, foolishness completely another. "I am going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave. Unfortunately, this is a bad time for me, I'm afraid I'm ill." Pressing a hand to her pounding head, she turned to Ben. "Would you please escort them out of here for me and I will try to schedule another meeting when I'm feeling better? I'm sorry."
She jerked open the door to her home and fled inside to the safety of her sanctuary. Nicolas De La Cruz would be a powerful enemy. The pounding in her head from fighting off his mental attack was making her physically sick. She buried her face against her quilt and breathed deeply, waiting until she felt the steady pressure slowly retreating. She lay there a long time, terrified for her brother and sister, terrified for herself.
Book Description:
Manolito De La Cruz knew he was dangerously close to turning into a vampire. The last thing he expected after being called back to his Carpathian homeland by Prince Mikhail was to catch the scent of his destined lifemate in MaryAnn Delaney. MaryAnn is human, but she knows all too well the overwhelmingly aggressive instincts of Carpathian males. And they're not exactly the kind of men she'd prefer to be bound to for life.
A dedicated counselor for battered women, MaryAnn has a fulfilling life with no room for someone like Manolito, born and bred in the Carpathian Mountains, a law unto himself. But when MaryAnn agrees to go to South America to offer guidance to a brutalized young woman, she's oblivious of the trap that awaits her in the sweltering thick of the jungle. She has been lured there by Manolito himself, who has seductive plans for the unaware, irresistibly human female.
Once there, she will be his. Once his, she will never be released. He is her lover, her predator, her lifemate. She is his dark possession....
Excerpt from Dark Possesion by Christine Feehan
Manolito De La Cruz woke beneath the dark earth with his heart pounding, blood red tears streaking his face and grief overwhelming him. A woman’s despairing cry echoed in his soul, tearing at him, reprimanding him, drawing him back from the edge of a great precipice. And he was starving.
Every cell in his body craved blood. The hunger raked at him with merciless claws until a red haze covered his sight and his pulse hammered with the need for immediate sustenance. Desperate, he scanned the area above his resting place for the presence of enemies and, finding none, burst through the rich layers of soil, into the air, his heart thundering in his ears, his mind screaming.
He landed in a crouch in the midst of dense shrubbery and thick vegetation, and took a slow, careful look around him. For a moment everything was wrong. Monkeys shrieking, birds calling out a warning, the cough of a larger predator, even the brush of lizards through vegetation. He wasn’t supposed to be here. The rainforest. Home.
He shook his head, trying to clear his fragmented mind. The last thing he remembered clearly was stepping in front of a pregnant Carpathian woman, shielding mother and unborn child from a killer. Shea Dubrinsky, lifemate to Jacques, brother to the prince of the Carpathian people. He had been in the Carpathian Mountains, not in South America where he now called home.
He replayed the images in his head. Shea had gone into labor at a party. Ridiculous that. How could they keep the women and children safe in the midst of such madness? Manolito had sensed danger, the enemy moving within the crowd, stalking Shea. He’d been distracted, dazzled with color and sound and emotion pouring in from every direction. How could that be? Ancient Carpathian hunters didn’t feel emotion and saw in shades of gray, white and black—yet—he distinctly recalled that Shea’s hair had been red. Bright, bright red.
Memories whirled away as pain exploded through him, doubling him over. Waves of weakness rocked him. He found himself on his hands and knees, his belly in hard knots, and his insides heaving. Fire burned through his system like molten poison. Disease didn’t plague the Carpathian race. He couldn’t have become ill with a human disease. This was manufactured by an enemy.
Who had done this to him? His white teeth snapped together in a show of aggression, his incisors and canines sharp and lethal as he glared fiercely around him. How had he gotten here? Kneeling in the fertile soil, he tried to sort through what he did know.
Another jolt of blinding pain lashed at his temples, blackening the edges of his vision. He covered his eyes to try to block out the shooting stars coming at him like missiles, but closing his eyes worsened the effect. “I am Manuel De La Cruz,” he murmured aloud, trying to force his brain to work…to remember…pushing the words through teeth clenched tightly together in a grimace. “I have one older and three younger brothers. They call me Manolito to tease me because my shoulders are broader and I carry more muscle so they reduce me to boy. They would not leave me if they knew I had need of them.”
They would never have left him. Never. Not his brothers. They were loyal to one another—they had been through the long centuries together and would always remain so.
He pushed past the pain to try to uncover the truth. Why was he in the rain forest when he should have been in the Carpathian Mountains? Why had he been abandoned by his people? His brothers? He shook his head in denial, although it cost him dearly as the pain increased, as spikes seemed to stab through his skull.
He shivered as the shadows crept closer, ringing him, taking shapes. Leaves rustled and the bushes shifted, as if touched by unseen hands. Lizards darted out from under the rotting vegetation and raced away as if frightened.
Manolito pulled back and once again looked warily around him, this time scanning above and below ground, quartering the region thoroughly. There were shadows only, nothing flesh and blood to indicate an enemy close. He had to get a hold of himself and figure out what was happening before the trap was sprung—and he was certain there was a trap and he was truly caught.
Throughout his time hunting the vampire, Manolito had been wounded and poisoned on many occasions, but still he’d survived because he’d always used his brain. He was cunning and shrewd and very intelligent. No vampire or mage, would best him, sick or not. If he was hallucinating, he had to find a way out of the spell to protect himself.
Shadows moved in his mind, dark and evil. He looked around him at the growth of the jungle and, instead of seeing a welcoming home, he saw the same shadows moving—reaching—trying to grasp him with greedy claws. Things moved, banshees wailed, unfamiliar creatures gathered in the bushes and along the ground.
It made no sense, not for one of his kind. The night should have welcomed him—soothed him. Enfolded him in its rich blanket of peace. The night had always belonged to him—to his kind. Information should have flooded him with each breath he took into his body, but instead, his mind played tricks, saw things that couldn’t be there. He could hear a dark symphony of voices calling to him, the sounds swelling in volume until his head pounded with moans and pitiful cries. Bony fingers brushed at his skin, spider legs crawled over him so that he twisted left and right, flailing his arms, slapping at his chest and back, brushing vigorously in an effort to dislodge the invisible webs that seemed to stick to his skin.
He shuddered again and forced air through his lungs. He had to be hallucinating, caught in the trap of a master vampire. If that was the case, he couldn’t call on his brothers for aid until he knew if he was bait to draw them into the web as well.
He gripped his head hard and forced his mind to calm. He would remember. He was an ancient Carpathian sent out by the former Prince Vlad to hunt the vampire. Vlad’s son, Mikhail, had centuries since, taken over guiding their people. Manolito felt one of the pieces snap together as a bit of his memory fell into place. He had been far from his home in South America, summoned by the prince to a reunion in the Carpathian Mountains, a celebration of life as Jacque’s lifemate gave birth to a child. Yet he now appeared to be in the rainforest, a part familiar to him. Could he be dreaming? He had never dreamed before, not that he remembered. When a Carpathian male went to ground, he shut down his heart and lungs and slept as if dead. How could he dream?
Once again he risked a look at his surroundings. His stomach lurched as the brilliant colors dazzled him, hurting his head and making him sick. After centuries of seeing in black and white with shades of gray, now the surrounding jungle held violent color, hues of vivid greens, a riot of colored flowers spilling down tree trunks along with creeper vines. His head pounded and his eyes burned. Drops of blood leaked like tears, trailing down his face as he squinted to try to control the sensation of pitching and rolling as he viewed the rainforest.
Emotions poured in. He tasted fear, something he hadn’t known since he’d been a boy. What was going on? Manolito fought to get on top of the strange tumbling of jumbled thoughts in his mind. He pushed hard to clear away the debris and focus on what he knew of his past. He had stepped in front of an elderly human woman possessed by a mage just as she thrust a poisoned weapon at Jacques and Shea’s unborn child. He felt the shock of the entry into his flesh, the twist and rip of the serrated blade cutting through his organs and ripping open his belly. Fire burned through his insides, spreading rapidly as the poison worked its way through his system.
Blood ran in rivers and light faded quickly. He heard voices calling, chanting, felt his brothers reaching for him to try to hold him to earth. He remembered that very clearly, the sound of his brothers voices imploring him—no—commanding him to stay with them. He’d found himself in a shadowy realm, banshees wailing, shadows flickering and reaching. Skeletons. Dark spiked teeth. Talons. Spiders and cockroaches. Snakes hissing. The skeletons drawing closer and closer until…
He closed his mind to his surroundings, to all shared pathways so there was no chance anyone could be feeding his own fears. It had to be hallucination brought on by the poison coating the blade of the knife. No matter that he had stopped anything from entering his brain—something malicious was already present.
Fire ringed him, crackling flames reaching greedily toward the sky and stretching like obscene tongues toward him. Out of the conflagration, women emerged, women he’d used for feeding throughout the centuries, long dead to the world now. They began to crowd around him, arms reaching, mouths open wide as they bent toward him, showing their wares through tight clinging dresses. They smiled and beckoned, eyes wide, blood running down the sides of their necks—tempting—tempting. Hunger burned. Raged. Grew into a monster.
As he watched, they called to him seductively, moaning and writhing as if in sexual ecstasy, their hands touching themselves suggestively.
“Take me, Manolito,” one cried.
“I’m yours,” another called and reached out to him.
Hunger forced him to his feet. He could already taste the rich hot blood, was desperate to regain his equilibrium. He needed and they would provide. He smiled at them, his slow, seductive smile that always foreshadowed the taking of prey. As he took a step forward he stumbled, the knots in his stomach hardening into painful lumps. He caught himself with one hand on the ground before he fell. The ground shifted and he could see the women’s faces in the dirt and rotting leaves. The soil, black and lush, shifted until he was surrounded by the faces, the eyes staring accusingly.
“You killed me. Killed me.” The accusation was soft, but powerful, the mouths yawning wide as if in horror.
“You took my love, all that I had to offer, and you left me,” another cried.
“You owe me your soul,” a third demanded.
He drew back with a soft hiss of denial. “I never touched you, other than to feed.” But he’d made them think he had. He and his brothers allowed the women to think they’d been seduced, but they had never betrayed their lifemates. Never. That had been one of their most sacred of rules. He had never touched an innocent, not to feed. The women he had used for feeding had all been easy to read, their greed for his name and power had been apparent. He had cultivated them carefully, encouraged their fantasies, but he had never physically touched them other than to feed.
He shook his head as the wailing grew louder, the ghostly specters more insistent, eyes narrowing with purpose. He straightened his shoulders and faced the women squarely. “I live by blood and I took what you offered. I did not kill. I did not pretend to love you. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Go away and take your accusations with you. I did not betray my honor, my family, my people or my lifemate.”
He had many sins to answer for, many dark deeds staining his soul, but not this. Not what these sensual women with their greedy mouths were accusing him of. He snarled at them, raised his head with pride and met their cold eyes straight on. His honor was intact. Many things could be said of him. They could judge him in a thousand other ways and find fault, but he had never touched an innocent. He had never allowed a woman to think he might fall in love with her. He had waited faithfully for his lifemate, even knowing the odds that he would ever find her were very small. There had been no other women despite what the world thought. And there never would be. No matter what his other faults, he would not betray his woman. Not by word, not by deed, not even by thought.
Not even when he doubted she would ever be born.
“Get away from me. You came to me wanting power and money. There was no love on your side, no real interest other than to acquire the things you wanted. I left you with memories, false though they were, in exchange for life. You were not harmed, in fact you were under my protection. I owe you nothing, least of all, my soul. Nor will I allow myself to be judged by creatures such as you.”
The women screamed, the shadows lengthening, casting dark bands across their bodies, like ribbons of chains. Their arms stretched toward him, talons growing on their fingernails, smoke swirling around their writhing forms.
Manolito shook his head, adamant in his denial of wrongdoing. He was Carpathian and he needed blood to survive—it was that simple. He had followed the dictates of his prince and had protected other species. While it was true that he had killed, and that he often felt superior with his skills and intelligence, he had kept that place that was for his lifemate, the one spark of humanity alive, just in case.
He would not be judged by these women with their sly smiles and ripe bodies, offered only to capture the wealthy male, not for love, but for greed, yet grief was pushing at his emotions. Cruel, overwhelming grief, coming at him and stealing into his soul so that he felt weary and lost and wanting the sweet oblivion of the earth.
Around him, the wailing grew louder, but the shadows began to leach form and color from the faces. Several women pushed at their clothing and murmured invitations to him. Manolito scowled at them. “I have no need nor want of your charms.”
Feel. Feel. Touch me and you will feel again. My skin is soft. I can bring you all the way to heaven. You have only to give me your body one time and I will give you the blood you crave.
Shadows moved all around him and the women came out of the vines and leaves, burst through the earth itself and reached for him, smiling seductively. He…felt revulsion and bared his teeth, shaking his head. “I would never betray her.” He said it aloud. “I would rather die of slow starvation.” He said it in a low snarl, a growl of warning rumbling in his throat. Meaning it.
“That death will take centuries.” The voices weren’t so seductive now, more desperate and whining, more frantic than accusing.
“So be it. I will not betray her.”
“You have already betrayed her,” one cried. “You stole a piece of her soul. You stole it and you cannot give it back.”
He searched his broken memory. For a moment he smelled a wisp of fragrance, a scent of something clean and fresh in the midst of the decaying rot surrounding him. The taste of her was in his mouth. His heart beat strong and steady. Everything in him settled. She was real.
Dark Curse Christine Feehan
JOVE
Paranormal Romance
Released:
Print
Book Description:
Born into a world of ice, and slave to her evil father, Lara Calladine knew only paralyzing fear as a child—and escaping with her mysterious gifts unbroken would be the only way to survive her great Carpathian heritage as a Dragonseeker. Human, yet mage, she was of the blood of three species yet belonged to none. She walked her chosen path alone, guided by the wisdom of her aunts—to blend in and let no one know of her ancestry and powers. And never trust anyone. For beyond the frozen hell of her youth was a world of even greater mysteries and dangers.
Today Lara is the leading expert in the field of ice cave study around the world and the healing microorganisms that thrive in them. She’s also in search of something else: the source of her nightmares—the cold dark corners of her childhood. Only one man has the will and the powers to help her: Nicolas De La Cruz, for whom centuries of hunting and killing have long since taken their toll. Dangerous and arrogant, he still longs to feel sensual love without the hunger for blood. Now, between Lara and Nicolas, a tenuous trust has emerged, and a passion neither has ever known before as a melody of dark promise begins.
But as each scales the treacherous land of the Carpathian in search of their past, they also harbor a secret that could save or destroy them. And as each may be desirous of a new beginning as lifemates, they are also haunted by the unknown dangers of a dark curse.
Excerpt from Dark Curse by Christine Feehan
Today was the day she was going to escape. At eight years old—now—today—she would go out into a world she’d never seen and didn’t know what to expect, that was, if she managed to survive. The cold should have made her shiver, but it was fear, terrible bone-chilling fear that seized Lara, causing such tremors they were impossible to control.
She huddled on the floor of the ice cave, studying the walls of her prison. The ice was beautiful, thick wall with thin blue and white stripes, amazing formations hanging from the ceiling and rising from the floor like a forest of multi-colored crystal. She hunched down watching the lights flicker across the ice and create glittering, dazzling displays on the walls. All the while, her heart beat too fast and she choked on rising terror.
A soft whisper in her mind helped to steady her, to keep her centered and calm when she wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. She looked down at her arms and wrists, covered in bite marks, scars from teeth gnawing through her skin to get at her veins. Her stomach lurched. Today was the last day anyone would tear at her flesh and drink her blood. Today she would escape—or die trying.
I am so scared. Even with using telepathic communication, her voice trembled.
At once she felt warmth pour into her mind. The sensation spread through her body driving away the chill and giving her courage.
You will not be alone. We will aid you to escape. You must be brave, little one.
Will you come with me, Aunt Bronnie? Will you both come? She knew she sounded plaintive and afraid, but she couldn’t help it. She’d never been above ground. The idea of going alone into an unfamiliar world was paralyzing. Without her aunts, she would have no way of protecting herself. They both had taught her, thrusting as many skills and spells into her brain and memories as possible, but she was still a child in a child’s body. Thin. Weak. Pale. A mop of copper colored hair she could never control and little else.
That may not be possible, Lara, and if we cannot, you must go by yourself. You must get far away from this place and hide your talents and abilities so no one will ever imprison you again. Do you understand? You cannot in any way appear different from the outside world.
Her aunts had told her of the world. Long lonely nights they had whispered to her of places above ground, of the moon and sea, of forests of trees, of living animals and birds that flew free. They had filled her mind—and her heart—with images so beautiful they had stolen her breath.
Why must I hide my gifts in the world outside? Lara shivered again, running her hands up and down her body in an effort to warm herself. It wasn’t the temperature of the ice cave, she could control her body temperature when she remembered to think about it, but the idea of leaving was nearly as terrifying as the idea of staying. Here she at least had the aunts. Outside—she didn’t even know what to expect.
CONTEST: New York Times author Christine Feehan is giving one lucky commenter a copy of her recent paperback release, "Dark Curse". To enter please leave a comment and email so we can contact the winner. Good luck!
Dark Slayer Christine Feehan
Publisher: Berkley Hardcover
Paranormal Romance
Release Date: September 1, 2009
Number of Pages: 416 pages
Language: English
ISBN: 0425229734
Book Description:
The dark destiny of a hungry woman. The terrifying fate of a cursed man. Now after a century of longing, the instinct for survival has united them. Prepare yourself for the new Carpathian novel by “the Queen of paranormal romance” (USA Today).
A rumor has persisted in the vampire world of a dark slayer—a woman—who travels with a wolf pack and who destroys any vampire who crosses her path. Mysterious, elusive and seemingly impossible to kill, she is the one hunter who strikes terror into the hearts of the undead.
She is Ivory Malinov. Her only brethren, the wolves. Long ago betrayed by her people, abandoned by her family, and cast out by everyone she held dear, Ivory has lived a century without companionship or love. She has sustained her sanity by the habit of the hunt and the custom of the feeding. Until the night she picks up the scent of a man, her unexpected salvation. Her lifemate. The curse of all Carpathian women.
He is Razvan. Branded a criminal, detested and feared, he is a dragonseeker borne of one of the greatest Carpathian lineages, only to be raised as its most despised—and captive—enemy. Fleeing from his lifetime of imprisonment, Razvan now seeks the dawn to end his terrible existence. Instead he has found his deliverance in the Dark Slayer.
In spirit, in flesh and blood, in love, and in war, Ivory and Razvan are made for each other. For as long as they dare to live.
In depth Interview with NY Times Bestselling Author Christine Feehan
CSM: Please help me welcome New York Times Bestselling author, Christine Feehan to Over the Edge. Christine, I am beyond thrilled to have you here spending time with me and my readers.
CSM: If you have 2 hours free time tonight, what would you rather do? Why?
I would probably watch Bones with my husband and son. We love that show and it relaxes me.
CSM: What kind of books do you love to read? Why?
I honestly read nearly everything. Horror is the only genre I’m not comfortable with, although I have a few favorites in that area as well. Mostly I read all types of romance, but I love to read anything.
CSM: What type of music do you relax to?
I always play music when I write and it’s always a variety. I’m fond of country, but also listen to rock and blues and electronic.
CSM: Besides being a total book junkie I’m also a music junkie. When I’m writing I have a sound track playing either in my mind or in my cd player. What’s your sound track? What type of music is on it?
All mixed up, breaking apart, cry little sister, get to me, how do I live, my darkest hour, one, in your eyes, insensitive, Irish heartbeat, Stay, streets of philidelphia, wicked game- that’s part of my playlist that I often repeat while writing!
CSM: What is your favorite stress reliever?
A good book and a cup of tea
CSM: What is your favorite food?
I love pasta but my favorite snack is sunflower seeds
CSM: Describe yourself in one word?
Loyal
CSM: What’s your biggest regret in life?
I didn’t get to say goodbye to my son
CSM: What is the adventurous thing you’ve ever done?
Having lots and lots and lots of children. It is certainly adventurous whether I want it to be or not.
CSM: How would readers find out more about you?
I have a community on my website and I often visit there and interact with my readers.
CSM: When did you write your first book?
I was probably in third grade.
CSM: How long did it take you to write it?
I have no idea. If you’re talking about first published book, that would be Dark Prince and I wrote it after my son died, and it took me about five months.
CSM: Did you encounter any obstacles in writing?
Of course. Writing is a fluid. I write every day and often things come up unexpectedly. Characters don’t react the way I want, family crisis’ happen, once my granddaughter deleted ten chapters I had foolishly forgotten to back up. Life happens.
CSM: What do you think about editing?
I think I’m lucky to have Cindy for an editor. She’s amazing and always manages to make the book better.
CSM: Where and when do you write?
I have my ‘office’ which is a large chair my four maltese share with me while I work. I write on a laptop and I start around seven-thirty and work until five or six unless I’m close to a deadline and then I write open hours.
CSM: Maybe you can give us an example with one of your books?
An example of where and when I wrote one of my books? I’m not certain of the question. At present I’m interviewing a primary source, an urchin diver, taking notes for hours and have planned to go out on his boat. I have most of the other research done for this book, but the first chapter will take a good three to four weeks to get it to where I’m happy. Then the rest of the book, already in my head, hopefully will flow.
CSM: What is your must-have book for writing?
Thesaurus
CSM: What is your advice for aspiring writers?
Write. Keep writing. Send your work in. Don’t be afraid. Editors are looking for fresh voices and innovative ideas.
CSM: What genre(s) do you write?
I always write paranormal romance, but I cross into fantasy with the Dark books, thrillers with the GhostWalkers, Suspense with the Drake sisters and hopefully with the new Bound series as well. My leopard books are action.
CSM: Among that you’ve written which is your favorite book and why?
Night Game because I wrote it for my sister who had cancer. Emotionally, the book means a lot to me.
CSM: Where do you get your ideas? Do you jot them down in a notebook in case you forget?
No, I don’t forget ideas. I don’t use a notebook, but when I’m writing a book, then I will write profiles of my characters.
CSM: Which of your books feature your family/friends, etc? What characters are modeled after them? Why?
The Drake sisters of course! The books are about family and I have ten sisters and seven daughters.
CSM: Which of your heroes/heroines is most similar to you?
This is a tough question. I think any author puts parts of herself into nearly every character. The one LEAST like me is Libby, from the Drake sisters. I had a difficult time writing that book.
CSM: Who is your strongest/sexiest/most lovable/hottest hero/heroine? Why?
I’ve always been crazy about Darius in Dark Fire and Kadan in Murder Game, but I’m madly in love with Jack and Ken Norton of Conspiracy and Deadly Game.
CSM: Have you ever wanted to write your book in one direction but your characters wanted to go in another direction. What did you do in such a situation?
Of courses and the character always wins. Once, I had a hero in mind for a book, began the story and even sent a synopsis to my editor, and the hero refused to show up. Another one took his place. What a mess that was!
CSM: Tell us more about your current Dark Series release “Dark Slayer”.
This couple was magical to me. I looked forward to every single day getting up and finding out what they were up to. For me they represented raw courage. I loved them both very much.
CSM: Any new projects, works in progress?
I’m currently working on the first book of a ‘sisters of the heart’ series. It is set in the village of Sea Haven where the Drake sisters live. These women met in grief counseling and ended up pooling their resources to better their lives. They’ve developed their own family, not of blood, by definitely of the heart. Each woman has a different, intriguing profession and they are of various ages. The first heroine, Rikki Sitmore, is 32 and a sea urchin diver. She pulls the wrong species out of the ocean—a very sexy and mysterious man.
CSM: I want to take this time to thank you Christine for stopping by and sharing with my readers and myself a little bit about yourself. This sure has been loads of fun. I hope you enjoyed being here as much as we enjoyed having you.
Thank you for having me and giving me an opportunity to connect with my readers.
Excerpt from DARK SLAYER: CHAPTER 1 by Christine Feehan
Swirling mist veiled the mountains and crept into the deep forest, stringing layers of white through the snow-laden trees. Pockets of deep snow hid life beneath the cap of ice crystals and along the banks of the stream. Shrubs and fields of grass rose like statues, frozen in time. The snow gave the world a bluish cast. The forest, where icicles hung, and the stream with its water frozen in bizarre shapes, seemed an eerie, alien world.
Clear, crisp and cold, the night sky shone bright with stars and a full, glowing moon spilled a silvery light over the frozen ground. Silent shadows slipped through the trees and ice-coated bushes, moving with absolute stealth. Large paws made tracks in the snow, a good six inches in diameter, single file, the trail winding in and out through the trees and thick shrubbery.
Although they looked in good shape, strong with steel muscles rippling beneath thick fur, the wolves were hungry and needed food to keep the pack alive through the long, brutal winter. The alpha suddenly stopped, going very still, sniffing the trail around him, lifting his nose to scent the wind. The others halted, wraiths only, silent shadows that immediately fanned out. The alpha moved forward, staying downwind while the others sank low, waiting.
A yard away, a large piece of raw meat lay dropped on the trail, fresh, the scent wafting temptingly back toward the wolf. Wary, he circled, using his nose to detect potential danger. Scenting nothing but the meat, with his saliva running and his belly empty, he approached again, coming in downwind, angling toward the large piece of life-saving food. He came in three times and backed away, but no hint of danger presented itself. He nosed in a fourth time and something slipped over his neck.
The alpha leapt back and the wire tightened. The more he struggled, the more the wire cut into him, strangling the air from his lungs and sawing through flesh. The pack circled, pacing, his female rushing to aid him. She began to struggle as another wire snared her neck, nearly knocking her off her feet.
For a moment there was a hush, broken only by the gasping breath of the two trapped wolves. A twig snapped. The pack whirled and dissolved in rush of fleeing shadows, back into the thicker cover of the trees. The bushes parted and a woman stepped into the open. She was dressed in black winter boots, black pants that rode low on her hips, a sleeveless vest of black that left her midriff bare and had two sets of steel buckles running down the middle of it. The six buckles were shiny, almost ornamental, with tiny crosses running up and around, embedded in the squared silver pieces.
A wealth of blue-black hair spilled beyond her waist, pulled back in a thick woven braid. The long hooded coat she wore, made of what appeared to be a single silver-tipped wolf pelt, fell all the way to her ankles. She carried a cross bow in one hand, a sword at one hip and a knife at the other. Arrows were slung in a quiver on her shoulder and all down the inside of the long wolf skin were small loops containing various sharp-bladed weapons. A low-slung holster adorned with rows of very small, flat, razor-sharp, arrowheads housed a pistol on her hip.
She paused for a moment, surveying the scene. “Be still,” she hissed, both annoyance and authority in her soft voice.
Both wolves ceased struggling instantly at her command, waiting, bodies trembling, sides heaving and heads held low to ease the terrible pressure closing around their throats. The woman moved with fluid grace, flowing over the surface rather than sinking into the ice-crusted snow. She studied the snares, a multitude of them, disgust in her dark eyes.
“They have done this before,” she scolded. “I showed them to you, but you were too greedy, looking for an easy meal. I should let you die here in agony.” Even as she rebuked the wolves, she withdrew a pair of utility cutters from inside the wolf pelt and snipped the wires, freeing the wolves. She pushed her fingers into their fur, over the cuts deep in their throats and clamped her palm over the slashes, chanting softly. White light burst under her hand, glowing around and through the wolves’ fur.
“That should make you feel better,” she said, affection creeping into her tone as she scratched the ears of both wolves.
The alpha growled a warning and his mate bared her teeth, both facing away from the woman. She smiled. “I smell him. It is impossible not to smell the foul stench of vampire.”
She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at the tall, powerful male emerging from the twisted, gnarled trunk of a large evergreen fir. The trunk gaped open, split nearly in two, blackened and peeled back, the needles on the outstretched limbs withering as the tree expelled the venomous creature from its depths. Icicles rained down like small spears as the branches shivered and shook, trembling from contact with such a foul creature.
The woman rose gracefully, turning to face her enemy, signaling to the wolves to melt back into the forest. “I see you have resorted to setting traps to get sustenance these days, Cristofor. Are you so slow and foul that you can no longer lure a human to use as food?”
“Slayer!” The vampire’s voice seemed rusty, as if his vocal cords were rarely used. “I knew if I brought your pack to me, you would come.”
Her eyebrow shot up. “A pretty invitation then, Cristofor. I remember you from the old days when you were a young man, still handsome to look upon. I left you alone for old time’s sake, but I see you crave the sweet release of death. Well, old friend, so be it.”
“They say you cannot be killed,” Cristofor said. “The legend that haunts all vampires. Our leaders say to leave you alone.”
“Your leaders? You have joined them then, banded together against the prince and his people? Why seek death when you have a plan to rule every country? The world?” She laughed softly. “It seems to me that this is a silly wish, and a lot of work. In the old days, we lived simply. Those were happy days. Do you not recall them?”
Cristofor studied her flawless face. “I was told you were pieced together, one strip of flesh at a time, yet your face and body are as you were in the old days.”
She shrugged her shoulders, refusing to allow the images of those dark years, the suffering and pain—agony really—when her body refused to die and lay deep in the earth, stripped of flesh and open to the crawling insects abounding in the dirt. She kept her face serene, smiling, but inside she was still, coiled, ready to explode into action.
“Why not join us? You have more reason than any other to hate the prince.”
“And join the very ones who betrayed and mutilated me? I do not think so. I wage war where it is due.” She flexed her fingers inside the skintight thin gloves. “You really should not have touched my wolves, Cristofor. You have left me little choice.”
“I want your secret. Give it to me and I will let you live.”
She smiled then, a beautiful smile, her teeth small and pearl white. Her lips were red and full, a teasing, sexy curve inviting him to share the humor. She tilted her head to one side, her gaze moving over his face, assessing him carefully. “I had no idea you had become such a fool, Cristo.” She called him the name she had used when they were children playing together. Before. When the world was right. “I am the slayer of vampires. You summoned me with your traps,” she waved a contemptuous hand, “and you think I should be intimidated by you?”
He grinned at her, an evil, malicious smile. “You have become arrogant, Slayer. And careless. You had no idea the trap was for you and not your precious wolves. You have no choice but to give me what I want, or you die this night.”
Ivory shrugged her slender shoulders and the silvery full length coat rippled, moved as if alive. One moment it loosely flowed around her ankles and the next it was gone, settling over her skin until six ferocious wolf tattoos adorned her body from the small of her back to her neck, wrapping around each arm like sleeves.
“So be it,” she said softly, her eyes on his.
Spinning, she drew her sword with one hand, rushing toward him, going up and over a snow-capped boulder to launch her body into the air. She felt the bite of a hidden snare, and inwardly cursed as the noose closed around her neck. Already she was dissolving, but blood spattered across the snow in bright crimson drops.
Cristofor laughed and leaned down to scoop up a handful of snow to lick at the droplets, savoring the taste of pure Carpathian blood—not just pure—the slayer was Ivory Malinov, from one of the strongest Carpathian lineages possible. He followed the arc of blood, saw her forming a few feet from him, closer to the tree-line and satisfaction made him cackle.
Ivory saluted him with two fingers, touched the thin line running across her neck and put her finger in her mouth, sucking off the blood. “Nice score. I did not see that coming and I shall have to apologize to my wolves for scolding them. But Cristo, if you believe your partner back there in the woods is going to help you after slaying my wolf pack, you are doing some serious underestimating of your own.”
She ran forward again, her hand low, drawing and throwing the small arrowheads, snapping them with tremendous strength so each buried itself deep into his body, in a straight line from belly to neck. The vampire roared and tried to shift. His legs disappeared, melting into vapor. His head swirled and disappeared. Fog drifted in from the trees in an attempt to help conceal him, congealing around his body, forming a thick veil. The torso remained, that straight, damaging line from belly to neck, exposing his heart.
Her sword sank deep, her body weight, strength and momentum from her run driving the blade through the body right beneath the heart. The vampire screamed horribly. Acid-like blood poured from the wound, sizzling over the sword and splattering across the snow. The metal should have been eaten through, but the coating the Slayer used protected it, as well as preventing that portion of his body from shifting. She turned her body in a dancer’s spin, sword over her head, still stuck inside his chest so that she cut a circular hole around his heart.
Ivory withdrew the sword and plunged her hand deep. “I showed you my secret,” she whispered. “Take it to your grave.” She withdrew the heart and flung it away from her, lifting her arms to call down a sword of lightning.
The jagged bolt incinerated the heart and then jumped to the body, burning it clean. “Find peace, Cristofor,” she whispered and hung her head, leaning on her sword, tears shimmering briefly for her lost boyhood friend.
So many were gone now. Nothing remained of the life she’d once known. She took a deep breath, drawing in the crisp night before cleaning her sword and all trace of the vampire’s blood from the snow. She retrieved the eight small arrowheads and slid them into the loops on her holster before holding out her arms for the silver-tipped pelt. The tattoos moved, emerging, sliding once more over her body in the form of a coat. She allowed the silvery full length garment to settle over her body slowly before picking up her weapons and drawing up the hood. At once she seemed to disappear, blending seamlessly with the layers of white fog.
Ivory moved in silence, feeling the hostile energy radiating from her pack. They were under attack and her wall of protection was weakening. She’d thrown the shield up around them hastily when she scented the second predator. Had he not been quite so eager for the kill, and stayed downwind, he might have managed to kill her wild wolf pack. She couldn’t reuse the arrowheads on him, the vampire’s acidic blood would have eaten through most of the coating. She had very little time to kill her enemy once she buried the small lethal wedges in the vampire’s body before that acidic blood ate through the coating and allowed her enemy to shift.
Weaving through the trees, the slayer stayed low to the ground, taking on the shape of a wolf. With her silver-tipped pelt it would be difficult to distinguish her from the others wolves in the area as she slipped through the trees toward the second vampire. She sank behind a fallen tree studying the man hurling fireballs at the wolves. He had cornered them just at the water’s edge where the ice was thin and dangerous. She could see cracks spreading along the thin shield she’d thrown up where the vampire continually battered at it.
She took a breath, released it, and let herself find that place deep inside where there was stillness. Where there was resolve. She stood, and ran at the vampire, firing the crossbow as she went. Again, her aim was for his torso. She caught him as he turned, one arrow slicing into his lower back, the second missing altogether. He flung the fireball at her and Ivory somersaulted on the ground, letting it fly over her head. Then she was up on her feet, still running, always advancing, shooting at him with the crossbow.
The vampire howled in rage, the sound cut off abruptly as an arrow slammed deep into his throat. Her wolves threw themselves at the wall, frantic to come to her aid, but she knew the vampire would simply destroy them all. On the other hand…
The slayer shrugged, this time sending her thick silver-tipped wolf pelt away from her. The heavy coat landed in the snow, wide-spread, the fur rippling as if alive. The hood stretched and elongated, each sleeve did the same, moving with life as the body of the coat formed three separate shapes to match the merging ones of the hood and sleeves. Ivory didn’t wait for her companions to shift to their normal forms, she rolled across the snow, coming up on one knee, firing two more coated arrows into the vampire’s chest while he was distracted by the six emerging wolves.
The vampire hissed, his eyes glowing hot with hatred. He tried to shift, but only his legs, belly and head took the shape of a multi-armed beast, leaving his heart exposed. He realized he was trapped, but was fully aware of the small arrow weakening in his back as the metal was destroyed by his acidic blood. He whirled, sending up a spout of snow, gathering the wind to him and hurling it outward, creating an instant blizzard as the snow was drawn into his circle and flung out around him.
It was impossible to see the vampire in the center of that storm, but the wolves leapt through the swirl of icy snow, guided by scent to attack, tearing at his legs and arms, the alpha going for the throat in an effort to bring him down. The slayer followed them into the circle, knife in hand, hurling herself into the frenzied fray. One of the wolves yelped, and then screamed as the vampire ripped open its sides with curled slashing talons and flung its body at her.
Ivory dropped her crossbow and caught the wolf as it slammed into her chest, driving her backward. The blizzard slashed across her face without mercy, tearing at her exposed skin as she went down, the wolf on top of her. She put the alpha’s silvery body aside as gently as possible and crawled forward fast, covering the snow-capped ground like a snake, picking up the crossbow and loading it as she slithered forward. Rapid-firing, she struck him three more times, exploding to her feet right in front of him, driving the knife deep, her hand, wrapped around the hilt, following as the blade sliced through bone and sinew in an effort to get to the heart.
The vampire reared back, spittle and blood foaming around his mouth. He slammed his fist at her chest, trying to get at her heart, striking the double row of buckles. Howling, he withdrew his hand, the burn marks evident in the flesh of his knuckles. The tiny imprints of crosses woven into the silver and blessed with holy water had burned through his flesh almost to the bone.
The vampire roared, clubbing at her throat in spite of the wolves hanging on his arms. His nails scraped across her neck and shoulder, gouging flesh away as he struggled wildly. The alpha male hit him full force in the torso, driving him back and away from Ivory before those poison-tipped talons could pierce her jugular.
Ivory leapt on him, punching down with her fist, reaching for the heart, ignoring the acid as it poured over her coated gloves and began burning through them quickly. The vampire thrashed and ripped at her, but the wolves pinned him down as she extracted the pulsing black heart, flinging it from her and raising her hand toward the sky.
Lightning zig-zagged, streaked down and slammed into the heart, jolting the ground. The wolves leapt out of the way and the bolt of cleansing energy jumped to the body, incinerating the vampire and cleaning her arrows. Wearily, Ivory bathed her gloves in the light and then sank down into the snow, sitting for a moment, hanging her head, struggling to draw in air when her lungs were burning with need.
One of the wolves licked at her wounds in an effort to heal her. She managed a small smile and laid her fingers in the fur of the alpha female, rubbing her face in the soft fur for comfort. These wolves, saved from death so many years earlier, more even than she remembered, were her only companions—her family. They were her true pack and she owed no loyalty to any other but them.
“Come here, Raja,” she crooned to the big male, “Let me take a look at the damage.”
Still trapped behind the shield she’d created to protect the natural wolf pack from the vampire, the alpha roared a challenge. Raja ignored him as he’d done so many others over the years. The natural pack lived and died, the cycle of nature intervening, and he’d learned such petty rivalries didn’t touch him. He sent the natural alpha a look of pure disdain and crawled to Ivory, lying on his side so she could inspect his wounds. She’d healed him countless times over the years, just as his sisters and brothers healed the slayer’s wounds, their saliva containing the healing agents.
She scraped snow from the frozen ground and dug deep until she had good soil. Mixing her saliva with the soil, she packed the wounds and then hugged him. “Thank you, my brother. As so many times before, you’ve saved my life.”
He nuzzled her and waited patiently while she inspected each of the pack. The strongest female, Ayame, named after the demon princess wolf, cuddled close to him, inspecting his wounds and passing her tongue over the other scratches he’d received. Their littermates formed the rest of the pack, Blaez, his second in command, Farkas, the last male and Rikki and Gynger the two smaller females. They crowded around Ivory, pressing close to her battered and bruised body in an effort to aid her.
The litter mates, born of different parents, were very distinctive with their thick silver-tipped coats, a shimmering fall of luxurious fur, all larger than normal, even the two smaller females. All had the blue eyes from their puppy days when Ivory had tracked blood and death back to the den, finding the mangled bodies of her natural wolf pack all those years ago. Even then, she’d become a scourge to the vampires, a whisper, the beginnings of legend and they’d sought to destroy her. Instead, they’d killed and mutilated the bodies of the wolf pack she’d befriended.
She had found the puppies dying, their torn bodies wriggling across the blood-soaked ground, trying to find their mothers. She couldn’t bear to lose them, her only family, her only contact with warmth and affection and she’d fed them her blood out of sheer desperation to keep them alive. Carpathian blood. Hot and healing. She’d stayed in the den with them, back away from the light of day, nearly starving herself. Forced, again out of desperation, to take small amounts of blood from them to stay alive. She hadn’t realized she was giving blood exchanges, until the largest and most dominant of the pups, underwent the change.
The pups had retained their blue eyes as they’d grown, the Carpathian blood giving them the ability to shift. Their ability to communicate with Ivory had saved them, giving them the necessary psychic brain function to live through the conversion. Like Ivory, they had been wounded a thousand times in battle, but over the last century they’d learned how to successfully bring down a vampire, the seven of them working as a team.
She lay back in the snow, catching her breath, letting her body absorb the pain of her wounds. The one in her neck throbbed and burned and she knew she had to cleanse it immediately. She was impervious to the cold, as were all Carpathians. Her race was as old as time, nearly immortal, as she had found, to her horror, when the prince’s son had betrayed her to the vampires for his own gain. She’d never known such agony, an endless battle deep in the earth as years went by and her body refused to die.
She must have made a sound, although she didn’t hear herself. She thought her cry was silent, but the wolves pressed closer, trying to comfort her and the natural pack, behind the shield took up the cry. Looking up at the night sky, she let her wolves soothe her, their love and devotion a balm to her whenever she thought too much about her former life. Time was creeping forward. This time of day was as much an enemy as the vampire. She had to hurry to get to her lair and there was still much to be done before dawn.
Ivory pressed her fingers to her burning eyes and forced her body to move. First, she removed the poison from the lesions in her flesh, where the vampire’s poison-tipped claws had torn her open. The vampires who’d banned together used tiny worm-like parasites to identify one another and those parasites infected any open wound. She had to push them through her pores fast, before they could take hold and require a much more in depth healing. Again she brought down the lightning to kill them before mixing soil and saliva to pack her own wounds.
“Ready?” She asked her family, picking up her weapons and shoving the used arrows back into her pack. She never left a weapon or arrow behind, careful that her formula didn’t fall into the hands of the vampires, or worse, Xavier, her mortal enemy.
Ivory stretched out her arms and the pack leapt together, forming the full length coat in the air as they shifted, covering her body, the hood over her head and flowing pelt surrounding her with warmth and affection. She was never alone when she traveled with her pack. No matter where she went, how many days or weeks she traveled, they traveled with her, keeping her from going insane. She’d learned to be alone and had the wolf’s natural wariness of strangers. She had no friends, only enemies, and she was comfortable that way.
Striding through the snow, she waved her hand and allowed the shield to disintegrate. The natural wolf pack milled around her, weaving in and out between her legs and sniffing at her coat and boots, greeting her as a member of the pack. The alpha marked every bush and tree in the vicinity to cover Raja’s scent marks. Ivory rolled her eyes at the display of dominance.
“Males are the same the world over, no matter what the species,” she said aloud and checked the wolves one by one, assuring herself the vampire hadn’t harmed any of them.
“All right. Let’s get you fed before dawn. I have a ways to travel and the night’s fading,” she told the pack. Catching the alpha’s muzzle, she looked into his eyes. Find and drive prey to me and I’ll bring it down for you. Hurry though, I don’t have much time.
Although she talked to her own pack all the time and they understood her, it was easier with a wild pack to convey the order in images, rather than in words. She added a sense of urgency at the same time. She needed to begin the trek back to her lair. Ordinarily she would fly, and each of her weapons was made of something natural that could shift with her, to transport her arsenal over long distances. But first she had to help the pack find food. She didn’t want to lose them over the winter, and another storm was coming in soon.
The wolf pack melted away, once again fading into the forest to look for prey. She shouldered her cross-bow and began walking through the wilderness in the direction of her home. She’d only make a few miles before the pack would flush something her way, but she would be that much closer to home—and safety.
She understood little about the modern way of life. She’d been buried beneath the ground for so long, the world was unrecognizable when she’d risen. She’d learned, over time, that the prince’s son Mikhail had replaced him as the ruler of the Carpathians and his second in command, as always, was a Daratrazanoff. She knew little else of them, but even the Carpathian world had changed drastically.
There were so few of her species, the race nearing extinction, and who knew? Maybe it was for the best. Maybe their time was long past. So few women and children had been born over the last centuries that the race was nearly wiped out. She wasn’t part of that world any longer, anymore than she was part of the human modern day world. She knew little of technology, other than from books she read, and she had no concept of what it would be like to live in a house or village, town, or—God forbid—a city.
She quickened her steps, and again glanced at the sky. She would give the wolf pack another twenty minutes to flush game before she took flight. As it was she was pushing her luck. She didn’t want to be caught out in the light of dawn. She’d spent so much of her life underground that she hadn’t developed the resistance to the sun as many of her kind had done, able to stay out in the early morning hours. The moment the sun began to rise she could feel the burn.
Of course, it might have something to do with her skin taking so long to renew itself, scraped from her body as it had been until she’d been nothing but bones and a mass of raw tissue. Sometimes, when she first woke, she still felt the blades going through bone and organs as they chopped her into little pieces and scattered her across the meadow, left to be eaten by the wolves. She remembered the sound of their rasping laughter as they carried out the orders given to them by her worst enemy—Xavier.
The wind began to increase in strength and dark clouds drifted overhead, heralding the coming storm. She sought the haven of the trees and took refuge, closing her eyes to seek the wolf pack. They had discovered a doe, thin and drawn from the winter, hobbling a bit from an injury to her old body. Giving chase, the pack had taken turns, running her toward Ivory.
She whispered softly, asking for the doe’s forgiveness, explaining the need to feed the pack as she lifted her weapon and waited. Minutes passed. Ice cracked with a loud snap disturbing the silence. Hard breath burst from lungs in a rapid puff of steam as the deer broke through the trees and ran full out over the icy ground.
Behind the doe, a wolf ran, silent, deadly, hungry, moving across the expanse of ice on large paws. Surrounding them, the pack came in from various angles, keeping the doe running straight toward Ivory. They’d hunted this way more than once, bringing the prey to her in desperate times.
Ivory waited until she had a kill shot, not wanting the doe to suffer before releasing her arrow and taking the animal down. Before the alpha could approach the carcass, snarling at the others to wait until he had his fill, she hurried to it and retrieved her arrow, striding away fast, not wanting to use energy to control a starving pack when there was a banquet in front of them.
Increasing her speed until she was running, Ivory sprang into the sky, shifting, the wolves sliding over her skin to become ferocious tattoos as they streaked through the clouds with her. She always felt the joy of traveling this way, as if a burden was lifted from her shoulders each time she took to the air. Spinning dark clouds helped to ease the light on her skin as she moved quickly toward her home. Maybe that was what made her feel less weighed down—that she was heading home where she felt safe and secure.
She’d never learned to be relaxed and at ease above ground where her enemies could come at her from any direction. She kept her lair secret, leaving no traces near her entrance, so no one had the opportunity to track her. Her unique warning/protection system would not every be detected, of that she was certain. The entrance wasn’t protected with an expected spell, so if a Carpathian or vampire found her lair, they wouldn’t know it was occupied or even existed. She’d learned many years earlier what levels underground her enemies were most comfortable and she avoided them.
Ten miles from her lair, she went to earth, landing, still running, skimming across the surface, arms outstretched so her wolves could hunt. They all needed blood and with all seven of them spreading out, they’d run across a hunter or a cabin. If not, she would go into the closest village and bring back enough to sustain the pack. She was very careful not to hunt near home, not unless she absolutely had to.
As she slipped through the trees, the mountain rising high in the distance, she came across tracks. An early morning wanderer out to get wood perhaps, or hunting himself. She crouched low and touched the tracks in the snow. A big man. That was always good. And he was alone. That was even better. Hunger gnawed at her now that she’d allowed herself to become aware of it. Ivory ran in the footsteps, following the male as he made his way through the trees.
The forest gave way to a clearing where a small cabin and outhouse sat, a stream dissecting the meadow surrounding it. Ordinarily the cabin was empty, but the tracks led through the snow, inside. A thin trail of smoke began to float from the chimney, telling her he’d just come to the hunting cabin and lit a fire.
Ivory threw her head back and howled, calling to her pack. She waited on the edge of the clearing and the man stepped outside, rifle in his hands, looking around him at the surrounding forest. That lonely call had spooked him and he waited, quartering the area around his house.
Ivory took to the sky again, moving with the wind, part of the drifting mist surrounding the house. She stood above her prey on the roof, while he studied the forest and then with a small curse, went inside. She saw the shadows flitting among the trees and gestured to them. The pack sank down, waiting.
The crack beneath the cabin door was wide enough for the mist to flow through and Ivory entered the room, warm now from the crackling fire. Only one room, with a small fireplace and cooking stove, the cabin had the barest of amenities. In modern times, even the poorest of the villagers, had such few trappings. She watched the man from the small corner of the room as he poured water into a pot and set it on the fire to boil.
Crossing the room, she materialized almost in front of him, slipping between him and the fire, her will already reaching for his to calm him and make him more accepting. His eyes widened, and then glazed over. Ivory led him to the chair where she could seat him. She was tall, much taller than many women in the villages, a gift from her Carpathian heritage, but this mountain of a man was still taller. She found the pulse beating on the side of his neck and sank her teeth deep.
The taste was exquisite, hot blood flowing, cells filling and bursting with life. Sometimes she forgot just how good it was to feast on the real thing. Animal blood could sustain life, but true strength and energy came from humans. She savored every drop, appreciating the life-giving blood, grateful to the man, although he wouldn’t remember he had donated. She planted a dream, slightly erotic, wholly pleasing, not wanting the experience to be unpleasant for him.
She flicked her tongue across the puncture wounds to close the two holes and erase all evidence that she’d been there. She got him a drink of water and pressed it to his mouth, commanding him to drink and then she set another one beside him and tucked a blanket close to keep his body heat up before leaving.
The pack met her in the deeper woods, surrounding her the moment she called to them. The alpha male came first, leaning against her knee as she knelt and offered her wrist, the blood welling up. He licked the wound from her left while the female fed from her right wrist. She fed all six wolves and then sat for a moment in the snow, recovering. She’d taken quite a lot from the woodsman, although she’d been careful that he could still function, not wanting to risk him freezing to death before he recovered, and she was a little drained after the fight with the vampires and then feeding the pack.
She rose slowly and held out her arms, waiting for the wolves to shift back into tattoos covering her skin. As they merged with her, she felt a little more revived, the wolves giving her their energy. Again she ran and leapt into the sky, shifting as she did so, giving her body wings as she flew over the forest heading home.
The clouds were heavy and full, and small gusts of wind blew in the mist, blotting out the rising sun. The mountains rose in front of her—snow-capped and high—hiding warmth and home beneath the layers of rock. She found herself smiling. We’re home. She sent to the pack. Almost. She had to scout before she dropped down, check for strangers in her area.
She felt the wolves reach out with each of their senses, just as she did, never taking safety for granted. It was how she’d managed to stay alive for so many years. Trusting no one. Speaking to no one unless far from her dwelling. Leaving no tracks. No trace. The Slayer appeared and then vanished.
She worked her way in an ever-tightening circle, closer and closer to her lair, all the while scanning for blank spaces that might indicate a vampire, or for the disruption of energy that meant a mage could be in the area. Smoke and noise might be humans. Carpathians were more difficult, but she had a sixth sense about them and could hide herself if she felt one near.
As she began her spiral downward, unease rippled through her body and then through the wolves. Below her, through the layers of mist, she caught glimpses of something dark lying motionless in the snow. The snow began to fall, adding to her loss of vision, and she knew by the prickly sensation crawling over her skin that the sun had begun to rise. Every instinct told her to increase her speed and make it to her lair before the sun broke over the mountain, but something far older, far deeper, deterred her.
She couldn’t turn away from the sprawled body lying in the snow, already being covered with the new falling powder. O köd belső—darkness take it. Cursing ancient Carpathian curses that would have shocked her five brothers in the old days, when she remained their protected, adored baby sister, she set her feet down in the snow and threw her arms out to allow her pack to leap down.
The wolves approached the carcass wearily, circling in silence. The man didn’t move. His clothes were torn, exposing part of his emaciated torso and belly to the gleaming, hungry eyes. Raja moved in, two steps only, while the pack continued to circle the body. The alpha female, Ayame, stepped in behind the male and Raja turned and snarled at her. Ayame leapt back and whirled around baring her teeth at her mate.
Ivory took a wary step closer as Raja resumed sniffing the motionless man. He’d once been a powerful male, no doubt about it. He was taller than the average human by several inches. His hair was long and thick, a black-gray pelt that was loose and unkempt. Blood and dirt were caught in the thick strands, matting his hair in places. She leaned over Raja to get a closer look and something inside her shifted.
Gasping, she pulled back abruptly, her body actually turning, ready to flee. He had the strong bones of a Carpathian male, a straight aristocratic nose, and deep lines of suffering cut into his once-handsome face. But what really caught her attention and terrified her, was the birthmark showing through his torn, thin shirt. She could see the dragon on his hip. It was no tattoo, he’d been born with that mark.
Dragonseeker. Her breath rushed from her lungs in a long gasp. Around her the snow continued to fall and the world became white, all sound muted. She could hear her heartbeat, too fast, adrenaline pumping through her body, her blood roaring in her ears.
Raja nudged her leg, indicating they leave the body where it lay. She took a breath, although her lungs could barely drag in air. Her body actually shivered. She turned away, signaling to the wolves to leave him, but her feet refused to work. She couldn’t take a single step. The man with that ravaged face, too thin body and barely a pulse, held her to him.
She raised her face to the heavens, letting the snow cover her face like a white mask. “Why now?” She asked softly. A plea. A prayer. “Why are you asking this of me now? Don’t you think you’ve taken enough from me?” She stood waiting for an answer. Lightning to strike maybe. Something. Anything. Her whispered entreaty was met with implacable silence.
Raja gave a series of whines. Come away little sister. Leave him. He obviously disturbs you. Come away before the sun is high.
For the first time in hundreds of years, she’d forgotten the sun. She’d forgotten safety. Everything she knew, everything she’d learned, it was all gone because of this man. She wanted to go away. She needed to go away, but everything in her was drawn to this one man. Päläfertiilam—lifemate—her lifemate—the curse of all Carpathian women.
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