Romania, 1476

Chicago, 2006

Retta had forgotten the beauty of her homeland. But as they made their way up the narrow mountain pass toward the hotel where she and Francesca would stay, old memories slammed into her. Even with her eyes wide open, Retta could still see this land as it had been when there were no power lines or modern buildings to mar it. No roads except for dirt paths worn by horses as they traversed the Wallachian landscape on their way to villages and Bucharest.

God, how she missed the mountains of her childhood. As a young woman, she'd spent countless hours staring out at them from the windows of her convent. No matter the season, they'd always been breathtaking—like a piece of heaven that had fallen to earth. It had never failed to capture her imagination and make her wonder what it would be like to fly over the mountains and explore distant countries.

Of course in her human lifetime that had been an impossible dream. Since her death, she'd traversed the entire globe trying to escape Velkan's cruelty.

As they rode in the taxi, they passed many thatched cottages that seemed lost in time. Some she could have sworn were here five hundred years ago when she'd fled this land to escape her husband.

She'd vowed that night to never return.

Yet here she was. And she was every bit as uncertain now as she'd been then. Her future every bit as unclear. The only thing that had kept her going back then had been Francesca's friendship. Francesca had joined her in Germany as Retta had been making her way from Wallachia to Paris. They'd met in a small inn where Retta had stopped for food.

There had been an awful rainstorm that had come up suddenly while she dined. It was so bad that her driver had refused to go onward until it stopped. Because of that, there weren't any rooms left for rent. Francesca had been kind enough to share her room with Retta.

Since that fateful night, they'd been virtually inseparable. There was nothing she'd treasured more over the centuries than Francesca's loyalty and wit.

"You okay?" Francesca asked.

"Just thinking."

Francesca nodded as she looked out the window. "Is it the way you remembered it?"

She didn't comment as she realized the driver was looking at them in the rearview mirror.

"Goat!" Retta shouted in Romanian as the animal darted into the road in front of them.

The driver slammed on the brakes, causing her and Francesca to tumble forward in their seats. They both let out "umphs" as they hit the back of the front seat and had the breath knocked out of them. Exchanging looks of aggravation, they resettled themselves back into place.

Francesca fastened her seat belt.

The driver smiled at them from the rearview mirror. "You are one of us, eh?" he said in Romanian. "I thought you looked like a natural daughter."

Retta didn't respond. How could she? He'd die to know just how natural a daughter she was. After all, it was her infamous father who had made this little corner of the world such a tourist spot.

That thought made her ache as she remembered the turbulent time of her mortal years. This land had been covered in blood as battle after battle was fought between the Romanian people and the Turks. Between her family and her husband's as they vied for political power. She'd foolishly thought that by marrying Velkan she could ease the war and hostility between their families so that they could focus on the land's invaders.

That mistake and the well-known tragedy of their lives during the fifteenth century was what would lead a man called William Shakespeare to write Romeo and Juliet roughly a hundred years later. And just like his couple, their secret marriage had led to both their deaths.

But it'd been her husband's black sorcery that had led to their resurrections and immortality. Damn him! Even after all these centuries she couldn't forgive him. Besides, what few times she'd weakened, he'd always done something to renew her anger.

She pushed that thought aside as they reached the hotel. She got out first while the driver went to pull their suitcases from the trunk. Retta looked up at the quaint hotel with its highly arched roof and stylized black trim. Dusk was setting as she took her suitcase from the older man and paid him his fee.

"Thank you," he said.

Retta inclined her head as she and Francesca made their way toward the hotel's blackwood stairs.

Francesca frowned at a flyer that was on a bulletin board at the base of them. It was identical to several others except for the fact that it was written in English. "Did you see this? Dracula tour begins in an hour at the old church."

Retta seethed. "A pox on both his testicles."

Francesca laughed at that. "That's harsh."

"Yes, it is. But he deserves a lot worse. Bastard."

"May I help you with your bags?"

Retta jumped at the deep, thickly accented voice that appeared suddenly. Where the hell had he come from? Turning around, she met the gaze of a handsome man in his late twenties who stood just in front of her. A man who looked enough like Francesca to be her brother—right down to the dark chestnut hair and strikingly blue eyes. "Are you with the hotel?"

"Yes, my lady. My name is Andrei and I will be here to serve you in any manner you wish."

Francesca laughed, but Retta had a sneaking suspicion that his double entendre wasn't from trying to speak a different language. He knew what he was offering. "Thank you, Andrei," she said coldly as she handed him her bag. "We just need to check in."

"As you wish… madame?"

"She's a madame, I'm a miss," Francesca said, handing him her suitcase as well.

"I knew I should have left you in Chicago," Retta mumbled as Francesca winked at the handsome Romanian. Yet she wasn't flirting with him, which for Francesca was a first.

"I am sure you will both enjoy your stays here at Hotel…"—he paused for effect before he rolled the next word with true Romanian flare—"Dracula. We are having a special tonight. Staked steak with a tart raspberry sauce and minced-garlic mashed potatoes for keeping away those evil vampires." There was a devilish gleam in his eyes that Retta didn't find charming or amusing.

Rather, it just pissed her off.

"I imagine the garlic will keep away much more than vampires, eh, Andrei?" she said sarcastically.

He didn't speak as he led them up the stairs to the hotel's doors. There was a stereotypical winged vampire head on each door that opened into the blood-red lobby. There were pictures of different Hollywood depictions of Dracula everywhere, along with sketchings and paintings of Retta's father.

And her "favorite" was the golden cup in a case with the plaque that declared it to be the cup her father had set out in the central square of Tîrgoviste. He'd proclaimed his lands so free of crime that he'd put it there to tempt thieves. Terrified of him, none had ever dared to touch it. It'd stayed in the square all throughout his reign.

Right next to that was what appeared to be a stake with dried blood on it and a plaque that said it was the one her father had used to skewer a monk for lying to him. Bile rose in her throat.

"Ever feel like you've walked into a nightmare?" Retta asked Francesca.

"Oh, c'mon. Enjoy it."

Yeah, right. The only thing she would enjoy was kicking Velkan's balls so hard that they came out of his nostrils. Hmmm… maybe she was her father's daughter after all. For once she understood her father's deep need to torture his enemies.

Andrei led them across the lobby. "Would you like tickets for tonight's tour?"

Retta spoke without thinking. "Like another hole in my head."

He frowned at her.

"That's American slang for 'no thank you,'" Francesca said quickly.

"Strange. When I was in New York it was slang for 'no fucking way.'"

"You were in New York? When?" Francesca asked in a stunned tone.

"A year ago. It was… interesting."

Something strange passed between them.

Retta shook her head. "It must have been quite the culture shock for you."

"It took a little getting used to, but I enjoyed it there."

"What made you come back?" Retta asked.

His gaze bored into hers as if he knew who and what she was. "Once Transylvania is in your blood, it never leaves you."

Retta disregarded that. "Tell me, Andrei. Do you know a Viktor Petcu?"

He arched one handsome brow. "And why would you wish to speak to him?"

"I'm an old friend."

"I somehow doubt that, since I know all of his old friends and I would have remembered a woman so beautiful in his past."

Someone tsked.

Retta turned toward the counter to find a woman moving to stand before the old-fashioned ledger that was there. Appearing around the age of forty, she was dressed in the traditional Romanian peasant blouse and loose skirt. Tall and quite striking, she was someone Retta hadn't seen in over five hundred years.

Surely it couldn't be…

"It is not Viktor she wants, Andrei," the woman said, indicating Retta with a tilt of her chin. "She is here for Prince Velkan."

"Raluca?" Retta breathed as she stared in shock at the woman.

She bowed to her. "It is good to have you home again, Princess. Welcome."

Her jaw slack, Retta approached the woman slowly so that she could study her features. She looked only slightly older than she'd been when Retta had last seen her. Only then Raluca had been a servant in Retta's father's castle.

"How is this possible?"

The woman glanced to Andrei before she answered. "I am a Were-Hunter, Princess."

Were-Hunter. They were akin to the vampires or Daimons her husband had been created to kill. The Daimons had once been mortals who'd run afoul of the Greek god Apollo. A group of them had assassinated the god's mistress and child. As a result, Apollo had cursed them all to having to drink blood to live and for all of them to die at the tender age of twenty-seven. The only way for them to live longer was to steal human souls. Dark-Hunters had been created by Apollo's sister Artemis to kill the Daimons and free the human souls before they died.

Several thousand years after that, an ancient king had unknowingly married one of their cursed race. When his wife had decayed on her twenty-seventh birthday, he'd realized that his beloved sons would meet their mother's fate. To save them, he'd magically merged the souls of animals with their race until he'd found a way to save them. Thus, the Were-Hunters had been created. Able to bend the laws of physics and with highly developed psychic sense, the shape-shifters lived for centuries.

But it was rare for a Were-Hunter to be near a Dark-Hunter, never mind serve one. Since Dark-Hunters were created to kill their Daimon cousins, most Were-Hunters avoided them at all costs.

Most.

Retta looked over her shoulder to Francesca, who was now squirming uncomfortably. A bad feeling went through Retta as she realized that Francesca had befriended her just weeks after she'd fled Romania. They'd known each other almost fifteen years before Francesca had confided the truth of her existence to Retta.

Now she had a suspicion that sickened her.

"Lykos?" Retta asked Raluca. That was the Were-Hunter term for their wolf branch.

"Raluca is my mother," Francesca said quietly. "Andrei and Viktor are my brothers—it's why I never used a surname. I didn't want you to realize I was one of the family."

Retta couldn't breathe as she stood there with her emotions in turmoil. Anger, hurt, betrayal. They were all there and they each wanted a turn at Raluca and Francesca, but most of all, they wanted Retta to beat her husband. "I see."

"Please, Princess," Raluca said, her bright blue eyes burning with intensity. "We're only here to help you."

"Then call me another cab and get me back to the airport ASAP."

Francesca shook her head. "We can't do that."

Retta glared at her. "Fine then. I'll do it myself." As she moved toward the phone on the desk, Raluca pulled it away.

Retta saw the sympathy in Raluca's eyes as she cradled the phone to her chest. "I'm truly sorry, but you can't leave here, Princess."

"Oh yes, hell I can and I am." Retta started for the door, only to have Andrei block her path.

"You are in danger, Princess."

She narrowed her eyes on him. "Not me, buddy. But you are if you don't move out of my way."

Francesca took a step toward her. "Listen to him, Retta, please."

She turned on Francesca with a hiss. "Don't you dare start on me. I thought you were my friend."

"I am your friend."

"Bullshit! You lied to me. Deceived me. You knew how I felt about Velkan and yet you never once told me that you serve him."

Francesca glared at her. "Yes, Retta. Prince Velkan sent me to watch over you because he was afraid for you to be alone. As you've said repeatedly over the centuries, you were young and naive. You spent the whole of your life behind a convent wall. The last thing he wanted was for you to be hurt again, so I was charged with your care. Is that really a crime after all we've been through together?"

"I didn't need a babysitter. How could you play both sides of the fence when you knew how much I hated him?"

Those blue eyes singed her with sincerity. "I never played you. Okay, so I didn't mention that he'd sent me to stay with you originally. So what? We are friends."

"Uh-huh. Friends don't lie to each other."

"What lie?"

"You said you never met him."

"She has never met him," Raluca said quietly. "I am the one who sent my daughter after you at the prince's request. She was the one closest to your area when you left here. But Francesca has never met His Highness. Not once."

That made Retta feel better than she wanted to admit, but still it didn't rectify any of this. They'd all deceived her and she was too tired to play this game anymore. "It doesn't matter. I'm going home."

Andrei blocked her way again. "You are home, Princess."

"Like hell." She feinted to the right, then rushed left, past him.

He caught her in his arms before she could make it to the door.

"I don't want to hurt you, Andrei, but so help me, I will."

Before he complied, Francesca went to the door and locked it with a key. "You're not leaving."

"Damn you!"

"Look, spew at me all you want, but you need to be aware of why I brought you here."

Retta crossed her arms over her chest. "Let me guess. Velkan wants to see me?"

"No," Raluca said, joining them. "The only thing His Highness would like to see in regards to you, Princess, is your disembowelment."

Now that surprised her. "Since when?"

It was Andrei who answered. "Since about halfway through the sixteenth century when it became obvious that you had no intention of returning. He's been cursing your name ever since. Loudly, too, I might add."

Raluca nodded eagerly.

For some reason Retta didn't want to think about, that actually hurt her feelings. She'd assumed that all of his attempts to besmirch her father's name and reputation had been his way of getting her to contact him. Of course, she'd had no intention of ever doing that since she still wasn't convinced he hadn't intended to kill her the night he'd given her his sleeping potion.

"Then why am I here?"

Andrei took a deep breath before he answered. "Because of Stephen Corwin."

She was baffled by the name. How in the world could he fit into this madness? "The investment broker?"

"Among other things," Francesca said. "Remember when I told you I had a weird feeling about him?"

"You have weird feelings all the time. Nine times out of ten, they're attributable to either pizza or spoiled beer."

Francesca gave her an unamused stare. "Yeah, right. Remember when I told you that his scent bothered me? That I couldn't place it? Well, I did some checking and it turns out he's a member of the Order of the Dragon. Sound familiar?"

Retta rolled her eyes. Both her father and grandfather had been members. Their epitaphs of Dracul and Dracula had stemmed from their membership. "That order ceased to exist not long after Velkan killed my father."

Raluca shook her head. "No, Princess, it didn't. They merely went underground and wanted the rest of the world to think that. It was a cousin to Mathhias Corvinus who lost his wife to a Daimon. Horrified by the demon who claimed her life and soul, he reestablished the order to purge the world of the undead. They went on a killing spree of Daimons, and he called for his brethren to help him. But they didn't stop there. They killed our people and countless Dark-Hunters as well. They don't distinguish between us. To them, one preternatural being is the same as the other and all of us should be exterminated. Even now, centuries later, they hunt us without discrimination, brutally slaughtering all they find."

Retta felt terrible about that, but it still didn't explain why they wanted her to stay here. "What has this to do with me?"

Francesca took a deep breath before she answered. "I think Stephen was sent to kill you."

Retta scowled at her friend. "Are you insane? There's no way."

"Remember the tattoo on his arm you told me about? The one of a dragon coiled around the cross? It's their emblem. He's one of them, Ret, trust me."

"Trust you? After all these centuries when you were lying to me? Think again. Stephen wouldn't hurt me. He's had ample time to try."

Francesca gave her a deep, meaningful stare. "Are you sure?"

Retta hesitated, then hated herself for it. Stephen had never once given her an indication that he was anything more than an acquaintance who wanted to be more significant in her life. But since she was still technically married and an immortal, she'd kept him at bay. "Of course I'm sure."

"Then why has he been sniffing around you?" Francesca asked coldly.

"Because maybe he likes me?"

"Or he was trying to use you to get to Prince Velkan," Raluca said. "That has been my theory. It is why the prince made sure that all mentions of you and your mother were purged from historical records. He didn't want anyone to learn that Vlad Dracula had a daughter, and most especially he didn't want them to know that you had married him. He knew that the order would pursue you to the ends of the earth if they ever learned of your existence."

"It makes sense," Andrei added. "The Corvinuses and the Danestis have a long history of bad blood between them."

Still Retta discounted their argument. "This is not the Middle Ages, people. In case you haven't noticed, the wars are over."

"No," Andrei said, glancing past her, toward the door. "I think the war is only beginning."

Frowning at his dire tone, she turned her head to see what had his attention.

Her heart stopped beating as she saw the tall figure dressed in black armor, complete with helm and heraldry.

It was Velkan's.

And he was heading straight for her.

Retta couldn't so much as draw a breath as Raluca opened the door and Velkan swaggered in. At six foot four, he'd seemed like a giant to her when she'd been human. And again, she remembered the first time she'd seen him. Blood had coated that black armor. The blood of those out to rape and kill her. She could still recall the sound of steel scraping steel as he moved. The sight of his dexterity even though every inch of his body had been covered by armor.

More than that, she remembered the beauty of his face… the tenderness of his callused hands as they caressed her bare skin. The way he'd held her as if she were unspeakably precious, as if he feared she would shatter in his arms and leave him alone again.

Those memories surged and buried all the anger and hatred she'd nursed against him. There for a moment, she wanted to go back to the beginning of their marriage. Back to the days when she had lived and died for this man. When she had trusted him without question.

He had been her entire world.

She'd known this moment would come, and in her mind she'd practiced a thousand things to say to him.

A thousand and then some.

But every one of them fled her memory as he approached her and some foreign part wanted to embrace him after all these centuries. She wanted to rush into his arms and just feel him hold her again.

She'd expected him to curse her or kiss her. To stare at her as if he couldn't believe she was here. To try to strangle her. Something. Anything. But in all her imagined scenarios nothing had come close to what he did next.

He walked right past her as if he didn't know her and seized Francesca in a fierce hug before he danced around the room with her.

Baffled, Retta put her hands on her hips as a wave of rage whipped through her body. How dare he grab another woman and not even acknowledge her! She opened her mouth to speak only to be hushed as the knight started laughing in a tone that was nothing like Velkan's. It was light and almost boyish.

"Oh, my little sister! It's been far too long since I last saw you. How have you been?"

"Viktor," Raluca said with a laugh. "Put Francesca down before you bruise her."

Francesca pulled the bird-shaped helm from his head, exposing his laughing features, as opposed to Velkan's serious countenance. With brown hair and teasing blue eyes, Viktor quickly complied with his mother's orders and set Francesca back on her feet. Laughing, she hugged him close while Retta let out a long breath.

That had been close. Too close in fact and it made her realize that she didn't want to meet Velkan on his terms. She needed to make sure that she had control of their first meeting. That her emotions and body didn't betray her again.

"It's so good to see you," Francesca laughed at her brother. "I've missed you so much."

And those words tugged at Retta's heart as she saw the affection her best friend shared with her family. Retta's own brothers had died hundreds of years ago, as had their entire lineage. There was no joyous homecoming for her. No parents.

No husband.

Nothing.

That hurt most of all.

Viktor paused as he realized that they weren't alone. "Princess Esperetta?"

"Yes," Raluca answered for her.

Panic flickered in his blue eyes. "We must get her out of here before the prince sees her."

Finally someone who actually saw reason.

Raluca waved his words away. "He won't come here this early."

Viktor shook his head in denial. "She can stay the night, but come the morrow, she needs to leave before he learns that she is here."

Francesca argued with him, "I brought her here for protection. She must stay."

"No," Retta said, growing tired of the way they spoke about her like she was a lost puppy who was out in the garage. "I came here because Velkan is planning on putting my father's remains on display."

They exchanged a puzzled frown as Francesca turned a bit sheepish.

Absolute rage tore through Retta's entire being. "Don't tell me you lied."

Francesca cringed. "Only a little. I knew if I told you that, that it was the one thing that would get you to leave Chicago."

In all her life, Retta had never been more livid. "Unbelievable! Un-friggin'-believable. How could you do such a thing?"

Francesca was completely unrepentant. "I did it to protect you."

Retta held her hand up as pure disgust filled her. "Thanks, Frankie. It's not like I have a life as well as clients who need me."

"You can't have clients if you're dead. Besides, Trish is handling them. They won't even miss you."

"Save me the bullshit." She looked at Viktor. "Get me a cab and I'm out of here. Right now."

He started for the counter.

"Viktor," Raluca said in a thick, drawn-out accent. "Touch that phone and you will regret it for the rest of your existence."

He arched both brows as he froze in place. "But Mother… the prince will—"

"I will deal with the prince. You need to prepare yourself for the tour. Now go."

Retta could tell he wanted to argue but didn't dare. Instead, he cast a sullen look her way before he complied with his mother's orders.

"Where is Velkan?" Retta asked Raluca.

"Not to be flippant, Princess, but he is wherever it is he wishes to be."

"You won't tell me?"

Raluca hesitated before she answered. "I will not allow you to blindside him in his home after all he has suffered for you, Princess. I know of your feelings toward him from my daughter."

"And still you side with him?"

Raluca's gaze went toward the blunted spike tip on the wall. "I will protect His Highness with every breath I hold in my body. But for him, I would have been impaled, too." And with those words spoken, she turned around and left Retta alone with Francesca and Andrei.

Retta gave Andrei an expectant look.

"He will be in the Bloody Dungeon later."

"The what?"

"It's a club," Francesca explained. "One where Daimons tend to pick off tourists who want to meet real vampires."

Well, didn't that make perfect sense? "What time does he go there?"

Andrei shrugged. "Any time between now and dawn."

"You are just so helpful, Andrei."

"I try to be, Princess."

"And you fail with such panache."

He ignored her sarcasm.

Sighing, Retta looked at Francesca. "I don't suppose I could talk you into just poofing me home again, could I?"

"You don't like to teleport. It makes you queasy. Besides, I thought you didn't like me anymore."

"I'm bordering on it. But you are the only family I have. Good or bad, and right now it's definitely bad. Let me go home and I will forgive you."

"I can't do that, Retta. Sorry. But trust me, this is for your own good."

Fine then. Come morning, she'd slip away from them one way or another. She looked back at Andrei. "We are one hundred percent sure Velkan won't come to this hotel, right?"

"Oh, I can absolutely guarantee it. He wants nothing to do with your family. He only ventures here once in a blue moon."

That just made her all warm and toasty inside. "Then why do you run this place?"

He grinned at her. "The money. We make a killing on it."

Great, just great. "Whatever. I'm going to bed now. Give me a key and let me put this whole nightmare behind me."

Francesca frowned. "Aren't you hungry?"

"No. I just need to sleep and forget this whole day has happened."

Andrei went behind the counter to sign her in. "Would you like Dracula's Suite?"

Retta narrowed her eyes at him. "Keep pushing, Andrei, and you and I are going to play a game."

"And what game is that, Princess?"

"Find the Ball in My Hand."

He frowned. "I don't see a ball, Princess."

"Oh, you will, just as soon as I snap it off your body."

He flinched.

Francesca laughed. "She's teasing, Andrei. Her bark is always worse than her bite."

Wishing she'd left her friend at home, Retta took the key card from his hand. "Where's the room?"

"Top floor."

Without a word, Retta grabbed her suitcase and headed for the elevator. She got in and turned around to see Francesca and Andrei teasing each other as the doors closed. Pain sliced her heart. How she wished she could have her family back again. She'd adored her two little brothers. They had been one of the greatest joys of her human life. And a twinge of guilt went through her that she'd deprived Francesca of hers. She hated they'd been apart all these centuries.

But that had been Francesca's decision, not hers.

Sighing, she rode the elevator up to the room, and as soon as she pushed open the door she felt the need to go downstairs and hurt Andrei and Raluca. To say the place was tacky would be an insult to tackiness. The suite was large and airy, with blood-red walls that were decorated with every kind of woodcutting imaginable that depicted impalements.

She rolled her eyes as she headed for the bedroom, then stopped dead in her tracks. Unlike the sitting room, this one was done in black, white, and gray and was identical to the bedroom from Bela Lugosi's Dracula, where he'd bitten his fair maiden.

"You people are sick," Retta said, grateful that at least in here there were no reminders of her father.

Setting her suitcase down, she peeled her coat away from her body as she toed off her shoes, then headed for the bed. She'd take a little nap to get the edge off her exhaustion and then she'd see about finding a rental car to get back to the airport. One way or another, she was going to get out of this place and go home.

She pulled the covers back and tucked herself into the large bed that cushioned her like a cloud, and before she knew it, she was sound asleep.

But her sleep was far from peaceful. In her dreams, she could hear her father's voice calling out to her. She could see Velkan delivering the death blow that had ended her father's life as his serpent emblem drifted through her mind, over all the images.

You are the daughter of the dragon… Death to the Danestis.

She came awake with a start. Retta lay silent as she listened to a fierce wind whipping against her windows. But that wasn't what had disturbed her.

She sensed a foreign presence in the room. It was powerful and frightening.

Reacting on pure instinct, she quickly rolled to her feet and struck out at where she sensed the presence. There was nothing there but air.

Now the presence was behind her.

She whirled about to confront the intruder only to find herself face-to-face with the last person she expected.

Velkan.

He stared at her with eyes so black she couldn't even tell where the iris stopped and the pupil began. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a tight black shirt, he wore his long, wavy black hair pulled back into a ponytail. He still had the same sharply chiseled features. The same feral look that announced to the world this was a man who not only could take your life but one who would relish the killing.

God, he was unbelievably sexy. Tall and commanding, he made every part of her warm and breathless. And as she stood toe-to-toe with him, she was tormented by images of being held between those muscular arms while he made love to her. Of being kissed by that perfect mouth. Of fingering the long scar that ran from the outer corner of his left eye to his chin. A scar that in no way detracted from the beauty of that masculine face. If anything it added to it.

She couldn't even think as a wave of pent-up emotions seared her to the spot.

Velkan couldn't breathe as he stared into eyes so blue they reminded him of the summer sky he'd not seen in over five hundred years. The scent of her hung heavy in his nostrils, reminding him of a time when that scent had clung to his body. Her skin was still as pale as a snowy field. Her hair the deep auburn red of a fox.

Not once in all these centuries had he forgotten her beauty. Her scent. The sound of her voice calling out to him.

The sound of her voice cursing him to death.

It was a mistake to be here. He knew it.

Still he was here, staring at a woman he wanted desperately to kiss.

A woman he wanted to kill. He'd given her everything he had and more, and in return she'd spat at him. He hated her for that even as a buried part of him loved her still. He'd lived and died for her. Had died a death no human being should ever have to suffer. And for what? So that she could run from him and deny they'd ever loved each other.

His father had been right. Women were useless outside of the bedroom and only a fool would ever give his heart to one.

"What are you doing in my room?" she breathed, finally breaking the taut silence that was rife with their bitter emotions.

His gut tightened at the sound of her cadent voice that was so similar to what he remembered and at the same time alien. She no longer bore her native accent. Now she sounded like the women in the American TV shows that Viktor watched.

Velkan ached to reach out and touch her, but honestly he didn't trust himself not to choke her if he tried. Anger, lust, and tenderness were at war inside him and he had no idea which of them would ultimately win. But none of it boded well for the woman in front of him.

"I wanted to verify your presence with my own eyes."

She held her arms up in a sarcastic gesture. "Obviously, I'm here."

"Obviously."

She stepped back, her eyes guarded. "Well then, you can leave." She gestured toward the door.

It was hard to stand here when all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and taste those mocking lips. The air between them was filled with their mutual hatred. Their mutual desire. He still didn't know how it had come to this. How a man could love a woman so desperately and still want to kill her.

It didn't make sense.

A million thoughts clashed inside his head. He wanted to tell her that he'd missed her. He wanted to tell her that he wished she were dead. That he'd never laid eyes on her.

Most of all, he just wanted to stay here and soak in the beauty of her features until he was drunk on them. You are one sick bastard. This was a woman who'd abandoned him five hundred years ago.

He might not have much in his life, but he did have his dignity. Be damned again if he'd allow her to take that from him. With a curt nod to her, he stepped back and turned toward the window to leave.

"I want a divorce."

Those words stopped him cold. "What?"

"You heard me. I want a divorce."

He laughed bitterly as he looked at her over his shoulder. "As you wish, Princess. But make certain that you take a camcorder to the courthouse, as I would like to see the look on their faces when you present them with our marriage scroll and they note the date of it."

"That's not what I mean," she said coldly. "I want to be free of you. Forever."

Those words tore through him like a hot lance and did twice the damage. Grinding his teeth, he looked out the window, into the black night that had been his only solace all these centuries past. "Then take your freedom and leave. I never want to see your face again."

Retta didn't know why his words shredded her heart, but they did. They even succeeded in bringing tears to her eyes as she watched him turn himself into a bat before he flew through her open windows.

In spite of everything, she wanted to call him back, but her pride wouldn't let her. It was best this way. They would both be free now…

Free for what?

She was still immortal. And no matter how much she hated it, she was still in love with her husband. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she realized the truth. She should never have come back here. Never.

But now it was too late. After all this time, she knew the truth. She loved Velkan. Even with all the lies and the betrayal. He still held her heart captive.

How could she be so stupid?

Closing her eyes, she saw him as he'd been on the day they'd married. It'd been a small monastery in the mountains. For the first time since childhood and in order to honor her, Velkan had laid aside his armor and wore a simple doublet of black velvet. Still unrefined even though he was a prince, he'd left his long hair loose to trail over his shoulders. She'd been dressed in a gown of dark green samite and velvet, trimmed in sable that matched her fur mantle.

It'd been the only time she'd seen him clean-shaven. His dark eyes had scorched her as he stared at her and uttered the words that would bind them together before God.

What she hadn't known then was that Velkan's mother had been a sorceress who'd taught her son well. And while he and Retta had taken holy vows, he'd bound her to him with the darkest of arts.

Without telling her.

What he'd done was unforgivable. So why then did a part of her ache to forgive him?

Retta tilted her head as she heard a light scratching at her door.

"Velkan?" she whispered. Her heart leaped at the prospect of it being him again.

Before she could stop herself, she rushed to the door and opened it. Her jaw dropped at the sight of the last person she'd expected to be there.

Tall and blond, he was a far cry from her darkly sinister husband. And for the first time, she realized he was pale in comparison to the man she'd left behind.

"Stephen? What are you doing here?"

His light blue eyes were filled with sympathy. "My name is not Stephen, Retta. It's Stefan."

Before she could ask him what he meant by that, he blew something into her face.

Retta staggered back as her senses dulled. Everything shifted around her. Reacting on instinct, she kicked her foot out, catching him right between the legs. He doubled over immediately. But as she tried to close her door, her sight went black and she fell to the floor.

Velkan landed on the balcony of his mansion that overlooked the quiet valley, and shifted back into human form. Five hundred years ago, this place had been accessible by a dirt road that led up the mountainside to his courtyard. It was a road he'd closed and let be overgrown two hundred years ago when he realized how often he watched it, waiting for Esperetta to return.

Now that road was completely covered by brambles and vines as the forest had reclaimed it. The only way to venture here was by flight or teleportation. Two things that helped to keep away anyone who had no business here.

Velkan paused on the carved-stone balcony to look back toward town. He'd already cleared out the Daimons who'd come to town to prey on the tourists and he still had hours before dawn. His house was completely dark and silent in the night. Viktor had chosen to stay at the hotel with his family—no doubt in fear of Velkan's mood.

And the man had every right to be afraid. Velkan didn't like surprises and Esperetta's arrival had definitely qualified as that. The Weres should have told him to expect her. What they'd done was unforgivable to him.

The gilded French doors to his room opened silently at his approach, then slammed shut behind him. Long ago, his wife had been terrified of his supernatural powers. What he had now made a mockery of the ones he'd borne as a mortal man. Back then, he'd been limited to simple premonitions, curses, potions, and spells that had to be worked with blood and ritual.

Now his powers were truly fierce. Telekinesis, shape-shifting, and pyrokinetics. Over the centuries, he'd become the monster Esperetta had feared. He held his hand out and the bottle of bourbon flew to him. Uncorking it, he drank the bourbon straight from the bottle as he walked past a mirror that didn't cast his reflection.

He laughed at that. Until he neared the fireplace where Esperetta's painting hung. The look on her face froze him to the spot. And as always, it took his breath.

He'd commissioned it right before their wedding. He'd hired Gentile Bellini and had practically been forced to abduct the man out of Venice for the work. But Velkan had known that no one other than that artist would have ever been able to capture her youth and innocence.

Bellini hadn't disappointed. If anything, he'd excelled past all of Velkan's expectations.

Esperetta had been so nervous that day. With bright summer flowers in her dark auburn hair and dressed in a light gold gown, she'd been an absolute vision. Bellini had placed her in the garden outside of Velkan's residence—a garden that was now a gnarled, unsightly mess from lack of care. She'd been fidgeting unmercifully until she'd spied Velkan sitting on the wall, watching her.

Their eyes had met and had held, and the shyest, most beautiful smile that ever graced a woman's face had been captured by the artist. It was a look that could still bring Velkan to his knees.

Snarling at the picture, he forced himself to walk onward, away from it. He should have burned it centuries ago. He still wasn't sure why he hadn't.

In fact, he could send a blast to it even now and burst it into flames…

His hand heated up in expectation. But he balled it into a fist as he left his room, then descended the stairs to the first floor, where Bram and Stoker waited for his return. Calling out to his Tibetan mastiffs, he made his way to his study, where his fire had all but gone out.

He shot a blast of fire into it, making it roar to life. It bathed the room in a dull orange light and caused the shadows to dance eerily along the cold stone walls. He petted his dogs as they welcomed him home with joyful barks and licks. Then they bounded off to retake their seats beside his padded chair. Sighing, Velkan took his seat so that he could stare into the fire that did nothing to warm him. The light was painful for his eyes, but honestly he didn't care.

He glanced over at the dogs on each side of him. "Be glad that you're both neutered. Would that I had been so fortunate." Because right then, his body was hard and aching for the one woman who would never again submit to his touch.

His anger mounting, he took another swig only to curse over the fact that the alcohol couldn't do anything to him. As a Dark-Hunter he could never get drunk. There was no escape from this pain.

Growling, he threw the bottle into the hearth, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. The flames sparked in greedy consumption of the alcohol. The dogs lifted their heads in curiosity while Velkan raked his hand through his hair.

As bad as it had been before, it was so much worse now knowing that she was only a short distance away. Her scent still hung in his nostrils, making him even more feral than he'd been before.

You should go to her and force her to take you back.

That was what the Moldavian warlord Velkan Danesti would have done. He'd have never allowed a slip of a woman to lead him about.

But that man had died the night an innocent young woman had looked up at him with eyes so blue, so trusting, they had instantly stolen his heart. Perhaps this was his punishment for having lived such a brutal human life. To want the one thing he couldn't have. Esperetta's peaceful, soft touch.

Restless with his thoughts, he rose to his feet. Bram rose as well until he realized that Velkan was only going to pace the room. The dog settled back down while Velkan did his best to banish his memories.

But unfortunately, there was no way to cleave his heart from his chest and until he did that he knew he would never escape the prison his wife had condemned him to.

Velkan ached with a pain that was second only to impalement. His Dark-Hunter powers should have healed him by now… it told him just how severe his injuries had been that he was still hurting from them.

He turned as he heard the door open.

It was Esperetta, and there for a second he was back five hundred years ago when they'd shared this room together, when she had willingly joined him here every night.

Once he'd reclaimed this house after his death, he'd taken great pains in making her room down the hall look just as it had when she'd lived here. But though her personal items were there, she'd never really used it for anything other than dressing. In contradiction to the customs of their time, she'd shared this room with him for sleeping… and for other things the memory of which warmed him completely.

Wincing, he could still imagine the way her scent had clung to his sheets and pillows…

The way it had clung to his skin.

Be strong, Velkan. He had to be. The last thing he wanted was to let her hurt him any more than she already had.

She came forward a bit hesitantly before she set the tray down on the table by his bed. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she looked extremely tired. And yet she managed to be the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. "Do you still prefer your steak served with onions and stewed apples?"

Her question surprised him. He couldn't believe that she'd remembered that. Nodding, he watched as she pulled the silver top off the platter and then uncovered the onions.

"Are you not eating?" he asked as she handed him the plate.

"I'll just take some of the bread. I'm not really hungry."

He shook his head at her. "Bring the bread plate and split this with me."

"You need it."

"I will live and I can send for more. Now bring me the plate."

She arched a brow at his sharp tone.

"Please," he added, softening his voice.

Retta paused at that. This was a man who was used to issuing commands. To her knowledge, he'd never even uttered "please" before. Her heart softening, she picked up the plate and did as he asked.

"Thank you," she said as he halved his food with her. "By the way, I have a bone to pick with you."

"Only one?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "At the moment."

"Then I can't wait to hear it," he said before tasting his steak.

"'Bram' and 'Stoker'?"

He laughed, a deep, resonant sound. "It was fitting, I thought."

Retta growled at him. But she didn't mention her room, which she'd seen the night of her arrival. It had been an eerie reminder of their past, and it had brought home to her just how much Velkan loved her. Even if he denied it, she knew the truth. Everything had been laid out as if he'd expected her to return at any moment.

When she'd seen it, she'd actually sat down on the floor and wept over her own stupidity.

Forcing that thought away, she cleared her throat. "Did you have to give that man that awful book about my father?"

He shrugged those broad shoulders before he wiped his mouth. "I was stationed in London at the time and bored. He'd been working on the book and had been calling the lead character Radu—which, no offense to your uncle, isn't nearly as compelling as Vlad Dracula. Besides, it's not my fault the book took off. It would have been forgotten completely if not for the movie decades later."

She narrowed her eyes on him suspiciously. "I heard you had a hand in that, too."

"That is a rumor of which I'm quite innocent."

"Uh-huh." Even so, she wasn't really angry at him. At least not now. A century ago, she'd wanted to cleave his head from his shoulders, but strangely, now that she was here, she felt an odd kind of peace. It was so bizarre.

He set his plate aside.

"You're not through, are you?"

"I'm not really hungry."

The only problem was that she was starving… and it wasn't for food. What she really wanted a taste of was that delectable mouth of his. He was sinful and decadent. He'd always been that way, and it had been so long since she'd last had a kiss, Velkan could barely focus as his body burned for a taste from his wife. How cruel to be this close to her and to not be allowed to sate the need that burned so furiously inside him.

She finished her food, then moved to retrieve his plate. As she did so, she turned to look at him. It was a mistake.

Unable to stand it, he buried his hand in her soft auburn hair and pulled her closer to him. He expected her to push him away.

She didn't.

Instead, she met his lips with remarkable passion. It was as if she wanted to devour him.

Velkan growled at her enthusiasm. It'd been the last thing he'd expected from her. But God, how good she tasted. It was the most incredible moment of his life and all he could think of was pulling her naked body flush to his.

Retta couldn't get enough of him as she folded herself into his arms. At least not until she eagerly brushed her hands against his ribs and felt him cringe from the pain of his injuries. "I'm sorry," she breathed, pulling back.

But he didn't let her go far. He pulled her back to him and gave her a kiss so sizzling that it melted her completely. With a teasing laugh, she nibbled his lips. "You're still hurt."

"You're worth a little pain," he whispered before he buried his lips against her throat.

Retta groaned as chills spread over her, and her body heated up immediately. It'd been way too long since they'd been together. She'd all but forgotten how good this felt. How good Velkan felt. Leaning back, she pulled him with her until his weight was pressing her into the bed. Still his lips didn't leave her neck as he unbuttoned her shirt. His eyes were dark with hunger as he cupped her breast while his thumb slipped beneath the lace to touch her skin. She shivered at his hot touch as she pulled his shirt from over his head.

His skin was still burnt and angry looking, but even so, she'd never seen anything more exquisite. He was so lean and ripped that she could see the outline of every muscle on his chest. And she remembered the first time she'd seen him naked. He'd been hesitant, afraid of hurting her. And she'd been stunned by the size of him. By the contrast of his masculine body to hers. Where she was soft, he was hard. Where her skin was smooth, his was chafed by battle scars and calluses. And his scent…

It was warm and masculine, all-consuming.

Shivering, she reached around and undid her bra, then let it fall to the floor.

Velkan could barely breathe. He still couldn't believe she was allowing him to touch her. Not after all the anger she'd spewed. All the insults that had gotten back to him over the centuries. If he were smart, he'd send her packing. But how could he? No matter the anger, he knew the truth..

He still loved her. He still wanted her.

She was everything to him.

And she might change her mind…

That would be too cruel for words. Cruel even for the daughter of Vlad Tepes.

Her eyes dark with longing and passion, she moved from the bed to divest herself of her pants. Velkan thought he was going to die as she reached for her panties. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as she licked her lips, teasing him, exciting him. The tips of her fingers went beneath the black satin fabric.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked as she hesitated while he waited for her to lower that damned skimpy piece of fabric.

What, was she insane? Or just plain cold?

"Hell, no," he growled.

Smiling, she slowly pulled the panties down her legs until she could step out of them. In that moment, it was a struggle not to come from the sheer pleasure of seeing her naked alone. Damn, but she had the hottest body the gods had ever gifted to a woman. Granted her breasts weren't very large and her hips were a bit wide, it didn't matter to him. There was no woman more perfect.

Retta loved the power she felt as he watched her with hooded eyes. Even so, she could tell how eager he was. But that was nothing compared to how badly she wanted a taste of him.

She pulled the covers away from Velkan's body, then crawled back onto the bed between his legs while never breaking eye contact with him. Her mouth dry, she finally dropped her gaze down the bulge in his pajama bottoms. She could have sworn she heard him whimper.

But still he didn't move while she moved her hand so that she could cup him through the flannel. He hissed as if it were sheer torture, and yet she knew by the look of relief on his face that he was enjoying it immensely. It still wasn't enough. Her heart hammering as her entire body burned for him, she dipped her hand into the slit of his pants to seek him out. His skin was so hot and smooth as she touched his cock. He was already wet and leaking. She brushed against the tip of him, making him arch his back as if he were being tortured on the rack.

Laughing in delight at his response, she pulled her hand away so that she could taste the salty sweetness of him.

Velkan was absolutely on fire as he watched her lick the tip of her finger. But that was nothing compared to how he felt as she reached for his waistband to pull his pants off. He lifted his hips to accommodate her even though her slowness was starting to piss him off. He wanted to savor this, and at the same time he wanted inside her so badly that he could barely contain himself. It was all he could do not to seize her and whip her under him.

But his patience paid off as she tossed his pants over her shoulder, then dipped her head down to take him into her mouth.

The sight of her hair fanning out over his lap while she tasted him was almost more than he could suffer. She looked up at him and met his eyes with nothing but raw hunger in her gaze… He had to grind his teeth to keep himself from his orgasm. But it was hard and he didn't want this over so quickly.

He had to lean back and stare at the ceiling just to control himself, and even so he still felt the moist heat of her mouth as she tongued him from hilt to tip.

Retta groaned deep in her throat as she saw Velkan clutching the sheet in his fists. He lifted his leg between hers, and when his thigh touched her core she almost came from the sheer pleasure of it.

But that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted to make amends to him for all the centuries she'd allowed her unfounded fears and stupidity to keep them apart. She owed him so much and she wasn't going to leave him until he knew just how sorry she was for what she'd done to both of them.

Her body throbbing, she slowly kissed her way from his cock to his navel. Then she moved to his nipple so that she could lave it while he sank his fingers deep inside her. Closing her eyes, she savored his touch as she moved herself so that she straddled his hips.

He moved his hand and cupped her face before he kissed her, and in that moment every bad thought she'd ever carried for him melted and she couldn't remember what about him had ever made her flee. Closing her eyes, she savored his tongue and mouth. Savored the feeling of his hands on her face before she lowered herself onto him.

Velkan shivered as she took him in all the way to his hilt. He'd dreamed of this moment for the last five hundred years. And all those dreams paled in comparison to this one moment in time. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of her skin as she rode him slow and easy.

This was all he'd ever wanted in his entire life. Esperetta in his bed. His body inside hers. He growled deep in his throat as she continued to ride him, driving both their pleasure onward. She nipped and licked the pad of his finger as he gently traced the curve of her lips.

Needing to touch her, he dropped his hand down so that he could cup her breast in his hand and let her hardened nipple tease his palm. He lifted his hips to drive himself even deeper into her.

Retta smiled and took Velkan's hand into hers while she gave them both what they needed. The look of pleasure on his face only added to her own. It felt so good to be back with him. So natural. For the first time in centuries, she honestly felt like she was home.

And she was never going to leave it again.

That thought swept through her an instant before her body shuddered and spasmed. In a glorious flood of ecstasy, her body splintered. Crying out, she leaned forward over Velkan as he quickened his strokes, heightening her pleasure even more.

And when he came, he whispered her name like a breathless prayer. That gave her more hope than anything else that he'd forgive her.

Her heart pounding, she laid herself on his chest while he held her close in the firelight. There was no sound in the room except their breathing and the sound of his heart thumping under her cheek. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the scent of them and caressed the muscles of his arm.

Velkan lay quietly as he felt every inch of her body pressed against his. He loved the sensation of her flesh on his. Of her hand gliding over his arm. But he knew this couldn't last.

He knew he couldn't trust her.

No matter what he felt right now, the past stood strong in his mind. And it was a past he didn't want to relive. Learning to get through each day while that pathetic part of him had kept watching the road, thinking, no, praying, she would come back to him.

She might be with him now, but she didn't trust him. She never would. And that burned through him like a stringent poison.

"What are you thinking?" she whispered.

"I'm wondering when you'll be on the next flight out of here."

"I'm not leaving, Velkan."

"I don't believe you. You have a business to run. A life to get back to."

Retta grew quiet at that. He was right… and he was wrong. "I've had other businesses in the past that I had to walk away from. I can leave this one as well. I belong here, with you."

He didn't say anything, but the doubt in his eyes tore through her.

"Will you at least give me another chance?"

"At what?"

"Being your wife."

"Do you think that could make you happy? I'm stationed here in Romania. In the backwoods of the world that you've embraced. You wouldn't be happy without all the conveniences you're used to. Besides, Dark-Hunters aren't married. They're not supposed to have any kind of emotional ties whatsoever."

"Then we'll get our souls back and be free."

"And if I don't want that?"

She was taken aback by his question. "You'd rather stay in Artemis's service?"

"I'm immortal, and I'm an animal, remember? I live for war."

"You would choose that over me?"

His black eyes burned her. "You chose much less than that over me."

Retta looked away, ashamed. He was absolutely right. Her heart heavy, she slid herself off him. Her gaze fell to the areas of his body where his skin was still blistered from his rescue of her. "Then I guess there's no future for us."

He let out a tired sigh. "We were never meant to be, Esperetta."

She ground her teeth in frustration. "Then do we divorce?"

"Why bother? Death has already separated us."

Not true. Stupidity had separated them, not death.

Retta scooted from the bed and gathered her clothes before she dressed without another word to him. She didn't know what to say. "So that's it then?"

"That's it."

She nodded as she opened the door to the hallway. She hesitated. "I have to say I'm surprised."

"By what?"

"Your cowardice. I always thought you had more guts than this."

He turned in the bed to give her his back. "Then we're even?"

"How so?"

"I misjudged you, too. I once thought you were worth dying for."

The door slammed shut in her face.

Retta stood there staring at the wood, her mouth agape, his words ringing in her ears. She glared at the door, half-tempted to kick it in and beat him. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of it.

Fine. If he wanted to play it that way, so be it. Far be it from her to argue. As he'd pointed out, she had a life in America. Lifting her chin, she turned and walked toward her room down at the end of the hallway.

And with every step she took, more tears gathered in her eyes as pain filled her. Her heart broken, she opened the door to find Raluca in her room, shaking her head at her.

Retta cleared her throat. "Don't give me that look. You don't understand."

"I do understand." Raluca crossed the small distance between them and held her hand out to her.

Needing to feel comfort, Retta took Raluca's hand and then gasped as a spike of hotness tore through her. It ripped her from this room out into a lightless void that was searing and frightening. She heard winds howling in her ears as something whipped against her body. She held her hand up to protect her eyes as a sudden light pierced the darkness.

No longer in the manor, she found herself in the small cottage where she'd taken refuge with Velkan after their families had learned of their marriage. His family had disowned him and her father had vowed to see Velkan dead. And it'd been her father who'd found them first.

Completely disembodied, she stood in the corner where she could watch Velkan, who was kneeling beside her comatose body. Because they were in hiding, he didn't wear the armor of a warrior. He was dressed in a simple tunic and hose. To her utter shock, there were tears in his eyes as he held her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. She'd never seen him look so vulnerable.

"I won't let anyone hurt you," he whispered, lowering her hand from his face. "Raluca will see you safe for me. Please don't be angry that I'm leaving you. It's the only way I know to free you to live the life you deserve." He rose up so that his lips were only an inch above her own. "I love you, Esperetta.' Always." And then he pressed his lips to hers before he tore away with a growl.

Still, she saw the lone tear that slid from the corner of his eye, down his whiskered cheek. He brushed it away before he turned and opened the door to their cottage.

There before him was her father with his army. Dressed in armor, her father wore no helm to cover his stern, chiseled features. His long black hair brushed his shoulders as he narrowed his black eyes on her husband. She winced at the rage that contorted her father's face. Never once had she seen this side of him. To her, her father had only been loving and indulgent. Kind. Velkan drew his sword and stood there as if to take all of them on.

"You're outnumbered, boy," her father snarled. "Is this how you would die?"

"In battle, aye. It's what I prefer." Velkan glanced back over his shoulder. "But you promised me that you'd allow my servants to take Esperetta home for a proper burial. Do you still swear it?"

Her father's lip curled before he nodded.

Velkan planted the blade of his sword into the ground beside his foot. "Then I surrender to your…" he paused before he said, "mercy," from between gritted teeth.

Two of her father's men dismounted before they came to take Velkan. As soon as they held him, her father slid from his horse. He came forward with an angry swagger.

"She's dead," Velkan spat, trying to free himself. "Leave her in peace."

Her father scoffed as he entered the cottage and moved to stand beside her. Retta held her breath as she saw the pain that darkened his brow. His lips quivered ever so slightly as he looked down on her body. He lifted his hand to press it against her mouth and nose so that he could hold them closed.

"I told you," Velkan said, his voice rife with anger. "She's dead."

Her father jerked the dagger from his waist as he turned on Velkan with a fierce curse. "She's nothing but a Danesti whore." And then her father plunged the dagger straight into her heart.

Velkan let loose a cry so anguished that it made every hair on her body stand up as he shook off the men who held him and grabbed his sword. Before he could pull it free, two arrows were shot into his back—one striking his shoulder, the other to the left of his spine. Velkan stumbled to the side, and when he failed to go down, another arrow was shot into his leg. He cried out, reaching for the fallen sword. Until another arrow was embedded into his forearm.

"Don't kill him!" her father roared. "Not yet!" He kicked Velkan's sword out of reach before he shoved the arrow at the small of Velkan's back deeper into his body. Velkan growled, trying to move, but there was nothing he could do.

Instead, he looked to where she lay inside. "Esperetta," he breathed in a tone that was filled with tragedy and loss.

Her father seized Velkan by the hair and pulled him back. "She's the least of your concerns, you bastard."

Velkan tried to fight, but he was too wounded to have much effect on the knights who were better armed.

Unable to bear it, Retta turned away. "Take me out of here, Raluca. Now."

She did, but still she didn't take Retta back to the manor. Instead, Raluca took her to where her father was torturing her husband. Retta's breath caught in her throat as she saw him bleeding and bruised as they laid hot pokers over his skin.

"Stop!" she screamed, closing her eyes and covering her ears. "Take me home. Now!"

To her instant relief, Raluca obeyed her.

Retta glared at her in anger. "What was the point of that?"

"Understanding."

"I got it, okay? I was willing to—"

"No, not for you. I know you were ready to start over. But now you know why Prince Velkan isn't. You couldn't even look at what your father did to him and you didn't even see the worst of it." Raluca's eyes blazed in anger as she glared at her. "What do you think he'd have given if he could have simply closed his eyes and told me to take him home?"

Retta swallowed against the knot in her throat. Raluca was right. He'd endured hell for her.

"I can't undo what I did and he won't forgive me. If you have some magic trick in your bag that will give us common ground, then by all means pull it out. But at this point, I'm not the one being stubborn here. And I'm not the one who has to forgive. I've apologized. There's nothing more I can do."

Raluca let go her hand before she gave a curt nod. "You are absolutely correct, Princess. Forgive me."

And before she could even blink, Raluca vanished from the room.

In all the centuries, Velkan had never bothered with the Order. He'd left them alone to run amok without his interference. But all that was about to end.

They'd threatened Esperetta and had almost killed her. Now that he had his wife back, he wasn't about to let anyone take her from him again.

Without preamble, he used his powers to open the door to Dieter's home. Velkan strode through the doorway as if he owned it. Dieter and Stephen looked up with a gasp, as did five other men.

And before Velkan could move, an arrow was shot at his chest. He caught it in his fist and tossed it to the floor. "Don't even try that again," he snarled.

"W-what are you doing here?" Dieter said as a fine sheet of sweat appeared on his forehead.

Velkan pinned each member there with a hostile glare that should adequately cow them. "I'm here to bury the proverbial ax. Where exactly I bury it is entirely up to you. Either we can bury it in the ground and let bygones be bygones or I can bury it in the heart and head of every one of you here. Either way, the persecution of my wife and her friend stops now."

Dieter stiffened. "You don't come in here and order us about."

Velkan shot a blast that knocked him off his feet. "Be smart. Take the out I'm offering you. I promised Esperetta that I wouldn't be a barbarian anymore. So I'm trying to be civilized about this and let you live even though the warlord inside me would rather I bathe in all your entrails."

"We are sworn—"

"Save it," Velkan snapped, cutting Dieter off. "I was one of the members of this Order five hundred years ago and I know the oath you've all taken. And I've taken a new one. The next man or beast who threatens my wife or my servants will not live to regret that stupidity. Is that understood?"

He waited until each man had nodded.

Velkan took a deep breath. "Good. Now that we have an accord, I'll leave you in peace."

Turning toward the door, Velkan caught sight of something from the corner of his eye. Before he could react, a single gunshot rang out.

He snapped his head toward a corner of the room where Esperetta stood with Raluca, Francesca, Viktor, and Andrei.

Esperetta was holding the gun in her hands. Her eyes were narrowed on the men in the room. "Anyone else want to try and go for my husband's back?"

Velkan looked to see Dieter lying on the floor with a single gunshot in his chest. Stunned, Velkan met Esperetta's gaze.

She didn't speak as she moved forward to take his hand while the wolves stood their ground. "Gentlemen," she said quietly. "I think most of you have met Illie's family and I believe they'd like a word with you. Alone."

Stephen came to his feet. "Retta…"

"Save it, Stephen. You already told me what I needed to know."

Velkan wasn't sure what he should do, but as Esperetta pulled him from the house, he followed. And as soon as the door was closed behind him, he heard the screams of the men.

He stared in stunned awe of his wife. "I thought you wanted them spared."

"I'm not the girl you married, Velkan. I'm a woman who now understands the way the world works. They wouldn't have stopped coming for us. Ever. Frankie and her family owed a blood debt for what the Order did to her father. I say bon appétit." She stepped into his arms and placed a chaste kiss to his cheek. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For trying to be a gentleman when I know it had to go against every part of your nature."

He took the gun from her hand and threw it into the woods before he cupped her face in his hands. "For you, Esperetta, anything."

She gave him a speculative look. "Anything?"

"Yes."

"Then come and get naked with me. Right now."

Velkan laughed before he kissed her lightly on the lips. And for the first time in his life, he gladly submitted to someone else's orders. "As you wish, Princess."

This story belongs to my Street Team… those folks who have embraced the Vampire Huntress Legends series and who ride it like the night wind. THANK YOU! The whole concept of doing backstories for each of the series Guardians within anthology shorts came from your fantastic, avid support. Feel the love coming right back atcha…

BIG PHILLY HUG,

Leslie!

After the fall of the dark angel, after man and woman were deceived and ousted from Paradise, the legions of evil beset humanity with all manner of strife and hardship to sway their choice. Earth became the Gray Zone of choice, where free will could manifest for good or evil, and a soul could be compromised in this fragile environment that cast shadows of darkness amid the light.

The angels on High wept as they watched the fate of humankind in their struggle against demonic forces, mere flesh and bones and the hope of earthbound spirits crushed by plagues, pestilence, famines, disasters, violence… no mercy. The cry for help that went up to heaven from the peoples of the earth was heard.

From the twelve scattered tribes, twelve Guardian Councils were mission-anointed and made up of honorable, courageous men and women of all positive faiths and all races, working as a united front, quietly moving behind the scenes, each battling evil in their own corner of the globe. The balance could not be easily tipped; their fight was vigilant. But just as the forces of evil had human helpers to reinforce the negative spheres of soul-killing influence, the forces of good had the Guardians… those who held the line no matter what challenges befell them. They would not allow the Light to be extinguished.

And from those twelve armies came the Covenant—one from each Guardian Council, twelve members in all, the bravest of the brave, the wisest of the wise, the keepers of the faith and the knowledge between worlds.

Only the Covenant could foretell the coming of the Neteru, although they would never know whether this mortal superbeing would come as male or female. All they could do was prepare a special Neteru Guardian Team as they searched for the prophesied being.

Anointed with the Divine mission to protect the Neteru, this elite category of spiritual warriors was chosen to surround their charge with heightened extrasensory awareness, superior physical and inner strength, unmatched courage, keen battle strategy, and unparalleled skill. These strengths not only protect but also reinforce the Neteru's learning curve and developmental life preparation for his/her own perilous mission.

Each Guardian's mastery was a lone, hard-won trial by fire and a baptism of struggles until their faith was made impervious to doubt. They come from the ranks of the unwashed, huddled masses, the tired, the poor, the downtrodden, the nameless, the faceless, the obscure—but they are mighty… for in the last days "… the first shall be last and the last shall be first."

Spread-eagled on the hood of the police cruiser, Jose gritted his teeth as his legs were kicked open and his body frisked for a weapon. His letter from the city might as well have been toilet paper, for all the good it did him. Anger fused with spray paint, engine fumes, gasoline, and the cops' dank sweat plus a hint of sulfur made him want to hurl. But he knew better than to argue with LA cops down in the barrios. Going to lockup was the least of his worries; getting shot and beat down was a high probability.

But the scent of something was raising the hair on the back of his neck in the darkened street. A shadow flitted past his peripheral vision, and in reflex he jerked his head up, only to have it slammed down again.

"You resisting arrest, punk?" one burly officer said.

"Naw, man," Jose said between clenched teeth. "I saw something outta the corner of my eye."

The two officers glanced at each other.

"Better check it out," the tall, lean one said. "Might be more of 'em out here with this one. They always work in packs."

"Call for backup," the thick officer with a barrel chest warned.

"Gimme a minute. You stay here with this punk. I'll just do a quick recognizance; then we can haul his ass in."

Jose was yanked back by his shirt.

"Get in the car."

The officer who was still with him had opened the door, taken the safety off his revolver, and begun to shove him into the vehicle when they all saw it. The building came alive, blackness pouring over the edges of the windows, sliding out from under the bolted doors. The two officers backed up, and the three men stood paralyzed for a second by terror.

It seemed like the ooze had created a yawning blackness that was darker than the night, and then within the fragile seconds it took for natural human reaction, the surreal darkness separated, took flight, and hundreds of bats fanned out in the air.

"Oh, shit!" the burly officer yelled as tiny beasts swarmed him in a billowing funnel cloud.

Gunfire ripped from his revolver as his bellows turned to screams. Fearing what he was seeing more than a shot in the back, Jose made a break for his motorcycle. He immediately smashed on his helmet to keep the vicious flying creatures from attacking his head.

Jose turned to glance over his shoulder only once to see a swarm gather around the other cop and then become a large singular entity masquerading as a bald, jaundiced-hued, black-suited man with hooked claws, red gleaming eyes, and fangs. He was out.

Stomping down on the motor, he careened away from the highway underpass near the scaffold-clad building, heading for open, wide streets that were populated by something that made sense—people. In a blur, a wisp of red fabric stabbed into his vision from the sidewalk. The high-pitched scream of a woman became a Doppler effect in his mind, welding it to the piercing decibel of screeches from the things that flew.

Billowing sulfur-tainted smoke obscured all but the woman's terror-stricken brown eyes as he drove, turning to look over his shoulder, hunkered down to keep control of the bike. The sound of guttural moans, then the stench of blood made him hock and spit in the wind as his bike raced down the center of the lonely street. He wasn't stopping for shit!

"Oh, my God! Help me!"

The female voice rang in his ears behind him. The familiar scent dragged his bike to a pivoting spin. Two beasts had her cornered against a vacant building in a huddled mass. He reached, one-handed, into his saddlebags and found paint. His bike became a weapon, hitting the curb and barreling down the sidewalk playing chicken with the unknown. Something landed on his seat behind him with a heavy thud, but his Harley was a part of his body, and Jose instantly whirled around to blacken gleaming eyes with paint, sending the invader shrieking to the ground clutching its hideous face.

Kicking and screaming, the woman covered her head as a predator bent. But the thing looked up too late to avoid Harley wheels burning at 80 miles an hour. Jose braced for the tumble, expecting the collision to throw him from the bike. Instead the entity parted in a foul splatter of sulfuric green gook that wet his helmet, chest, and the sidewalk.

"Jump on!" Jose yelled. "Up now, or I'm leaving you!"

The woman scrambled to her feet and immediately mounted his bike. Gone in seconds, he zigzagged them into traffic, popping a wheelie as they entered a busy intersection to make cars stop and give way.

His heart thudded, sweat blinding him along with demon gook on his helmet shield, forcing him to snatch it off and let it bounce away in the street. Frightened hands clung to his chest, and a feminine face pressed to his shoulder blades. He rode like the night wind itself, still smelling approaching sulfur.

Lead the mass of shrieking demons to his mother's home?

Impossible. Stop riding? Not likely. Talk to this chick on the back of his bike and figure out how to ditch the unexpected passenger along the way? Not. Oh yeah, hang around and try to explain that he hadn't butchered two cops? Suicide. Stop? Oh, hell no. Not until he ran out of gas. Not until he was somewhere safe. Not until his heart stopped slamming into his chest. Not until he reached the only place in the world where he knew people who believed in such things and had something to deal with it—Grandpop's.

The responsibility weighed on him heavily in several ways as he ushered Juanita to the bathroom. Part of him stood taller, felt a sense of quiet, resounding pride that a woman as beautiful as her actually thought of him as some sort of neighborhood knight. Him? A kid from the barrios without any real money beyond chump change to his name? But every glance she offered was filled with awe and respect like he'd never been given by any female eyes. Yet another part of him was extremely worried. What if his grandfather had been wrong and those things that attacked them came back… what if he wasn't able to fend them off this time? What if they hurt her in some way? That outcome was totally unacceptable now, especially when she'd scooted into the bathroom behind him and shut the door, seeking a lock.

"My grandparents don't believe in locks in the house," Jose said, turning his back to Juanita.

Her eyes darted between him, the window, the door, and the shower. The man hadn't lied; the bathroom was so small that both of them could barely turn around within it, but every horror movie she'd ever seen converged in her rapid pulse.

"Check the shower," she said, whispering. "Please."

Jose flung the curtain back with bravado, brandishing the weapon, using the rifle barrel to hold back the white plastic. "It's cool."

She sighed and closed her eyes. "Good."

Perhaps it was the expression of relief on her face or the way the statement had come out on a breathy rush, but it made him need to turn around to pull himself together.

"I'll, uh, just stay like this till you tell me it's cool. Okay?"

Juanita nodded and opened her eyes. The entire experience felt like a crazy, jumbled-up dream. A part of her was scared to death, horrified by what she'd seen. Another part of her felt like she was embarking upon the greatest adventure of her life… and the man who had saved her was the most handsome, sexy hunk she'd ever been this close to.

Tingles claimed her belly as she hunted through the medicine cabinet looking for mouthwash and spied small Dixie cups. There was baby lotion and Jergens lotion. She tried to forestall getting undressed as long as possible. But she knew in her soul that this barrio prince who stood like a soldier, back erect, gorgeous eyes alert to the darkness, would not turn around or fail her by breaking his honor.

Little by little, she eased her jeans down and then quickly turned on the water. "Don't listen. This is so embarrassing."

"I'll just sing," he said, laughing, and began humming a heavy rap tune. When she flushed, he laughed. "You're gonna have to holla and stomp your feet to drown me out when I go, girl. That wasn't nothing but a princess tinkle."

She laughed as she washed her hands. "You so crazy."

"Like none of what we're dealing with tonight is crazy?"

"It is crazy," she said, stripping off her clothing, by shy degrees. "But I'm not scared in here with you. And I'm sorta glad we met, anyway."

"You know, most guys meet a fine woman in a club, down on Venice Beach, walking down the street… but no. I have to meet the finest babe I've ever seen while on a motorcycle tear down a demon-filled street. That's the type of year I've been having. Truth be told, that's the kind of life I've been having. So, my bad if I wish I had met you under different circumstances… but I am glad we hooked up."

Juanita turned on the water and slipped under the spray without a word. He'd said she was the finest woman he'd ever met. Wow. A guy like him? He'd also said, in so many words, that he was unattached, since it was hard to meet people and he was having a bad year. Plus had said she princess-tinkled. She smiled as the warm water covered her and she doused her hair in it, finding a bar of Ivory soap on the rack. Her papi used to say that to her when she was a little girl… "go make a princess tinkle." She wanted to laugh and cry both at the same time.

"Your people are really nice, Jose. Thank you for sharing them with me for the night, and for taking me in… and for doubling back to pick me up on your bike. My family isn't as cool as yours."

"Yeah, well, you ain't never met my mom. She's a trip," he said, watching the window intently. The scent of Ivory soap was embedded in his nose, creating a memory template that he'd never forget. Wet woman splashing behind a thin curtain… naked. Trust was as thick between them as the growing steam and the heavy throb that had begun to cause a dull ache in his groin. Co-dependency—her dependent on him for safety, him dependent on her for hope, for balm to his wounded male pride… to make losing his mural, his last-ditch dream, worth it all, with both of them wrapped in the faith that they weren't crazy. They'd both seen it, had tribal elders confirm it.

"My mom is a trip, too… that's why I was out tonight," she said so quietly and in such a sad voice that he was tempted to turn around but didn't.

"Moms can be like that," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but the response came out on a gentle rush of breath.

"You have any brothers and sisters?" She peered around the curtain and drew his attention away from his neutral post.

"No," he said slowly, unable to keep from looking at her squeaky-clean face and how the water ran down her wet hair, down her throat, and then slid away behind the semi-sheer curtain that barely concealed her wet cinnamon-brown skin. "Long story. But it's just me and her."

"Oh," she said, ducking back into the water behind the curtain.

Conflict tore at him. He wanted to keep staring at her and yet also needed to turn around to keep her from seeing the state she'd put him in.

"You and your mom had an argument?" He needed to talk, keep things moving in the bathroom. If it got too quiet, she might be able to hear him breathing through his mouth.

"I wanted to go out with friends," she said in a tight murmur, just above the spray. "But she slapped me and called me a whore—and I've never even been with a man. All I do is go to work, watch my little brother, clean up the house after him and Juan, my older brother, who she thinks walks on water, no matter what he does. Cook, clean, 'do this, Juanita,' 'do that, Juanita,' that's all I ever hear, ya know? I wanted to go to college one day but wound up working in a drugstore ringing a register, just to help Momma out. So, I just got fed up when she slapped me for wearing red and makeup, and I ran away. But I didn't ever think…"

"Hey, I hear you. Noticed you, like me, weren't in a hurry to make the call home. Maybe when we get outta here, huh?" he said, trying to mentally catalog everything this beauty had told him in one rush.

She, that fine babe, was a virgin—he'd heard that first. Then, his mind processed the rest: She didn't have a man. Had dreams that had been crushed by duty—he could relate—which meant that she had a good heart, a tender spirit, cared for people, and put family first. She didn't have a man? Shee-it. Problem solved.

"What were you doing out there?" she asked quietly, turning off the shower.

Jose let out a long breath. "I was almost dog meat," he replied, leaning against the wall with a thud as the grim reality finally hit him. "I was up on the scaffolding of the building that the city gave me a contract to paint a mural on. Up there, at night, by myself, studying the bricks and where to lay down the design—then cops pull up, hassle me, make me come down. In a weird way, they probably saved my life."

He heard the curtain yank back and steeled himself against the shudder of desire that ran down his spine.

"Ohmigod, you were out there by yourself, all alone, doing the mural, and could have been killed? You're an artist? Like a real artist, and went out there at night?"

The tone of her voice, the excited rush, and the awe that echoed in the bathroom made the muscle in his jaw pulse. No woman had ever listened to what he had to say with bated breath. No one had ever heard his tales of victory after near death like he was some street warrior returned from battle—he'd never had anything like the other hombres had to tell an adoring feminine crowd. But right now he had Juanita's full attention focused on him, her wet movements beneath a towel driving him to the brink of insanity; then the sweet smell of lotion and the sound of it being applied almost made him groan out loud.

"Yeah… I can draw," was all he said.

"But you were out there by yourself, Jose. Ohmigod!"

"Yeah. But it was cool."

"Whew," she whispered. "Okay, you can turn around now."

He shook his head no. "Uh… why don't you turn around so I can jump in there?"

"All right. I'm not looking."

She heard him drag in a deep breath and begin taking off his clothes. His sneakers fell to the floor in heavy thuds, and the vibrations made her belly quiver. This fine man was getting naked behind her back. This awesome guy had just stripped to the raw—this same man who had saved her life. He was an artist, single and unattached. The city thought enough of his work to give him a contract, at his age, so he had to be ba-a-ad. He was a man going places and a man unafraid. He made her feel safe and have hope and faith and something she dared not name. Just hearing him turn on the water and jump into the shower made her mouth go dry.

She peeped over her shoulder. "Want me to hold onto the gun?"

"It's a rifle," he said, chuckling, "but if it'll make you feel better, just keep the barrel pointed away from me, aw'ight?"

She laughed and didn't go near the weapon that rested on the floor. "That's okay," she said, stealing glances at his moving form behind the plastic curtain. Her body was responding against her will. The humid, foggy enclosure reminded her so much of the best parts of her crazy dreams… angry black smoke giving way to a thick rain forest-like mist… primordial steam, the sound of a waterfall. She was a water sign, Cancer, and the element was a part of her. That had to be it.

"So you hungry?" he asked over the din of the spray.

She towel-dried her hair harder, trying to wrest her thoughts back to appropriate topics. "Yeah, I guess."

"Cool. After I get out, we can go see if there's anything in the fridge."

By the time the water stopped, her heart was thudding in mild arrhythmia. When he leaned out of the curtain to grab a towel, rivulets of water running down his body, she didn't even bother to turn away. Toffee-hued bronze-tan skin cut through the steamy haze. Pure masculine scent mixed with the water and made her lean against the sink to stare. His chest was carved into two solid blocks of hard muscle, and as her gaze discreetly slid down his torso she had to bite her bottom lip to keep from going hang-jawed.

Perfectly sculpted abs in isolated free-standing muscles drew her gaze down to a silky thin line of water-slicked hair just under his navel. This wasn't the soft body of an artist; what Jose owned belonged to a warrior. Heaven help her, desire bathed her in a hot sheath of want. Her skin was on fire, her nipples were so hard they hurt, and the moisture that crept between her thighs made her face burn with sudden shame. He was the entire package—a decent human being, listening ear, soldier at the ready, generous of spirit to share his family, a man with integrity who had saved her life.

She turned her head like she'd been slapped when he swathed himself in a towel, but she noticed that he just stood in the tub, breathing in slow, paced sips.

He willed his legs to move, but they didn't cooperate. He begged his eyes to go back to an appropriate place, but they wouldn't listen. The finest woman he'd ever seen was leaning on his grandfather's sink in a white cotton nightgown that her wet hair had made cling to her. Nipples hard, dark brown hair making the gown sheer in all the right spots, curves unconcealed beneath the fabric. Just slap him. Adrenaline and the whole drama were clearly making him stupid. This woman trusted him and depended on him, but por dios, she was fine.

"You look much better after the water hit you," she said, trying to make a joke of their previously grimy condition.

"I'm a Pisces," he said, his laughter strained. "What can I say? Water is my thing."

For a moment she didn't answer, processing the comment a number of wicked ways. "I'm a Cancer," she said with a shy smile. "Water is my thing, too."

"Moonlight doesn't do too bad on you, either, moon child." He smiled and glanced at the window and then at her.

He stepped out of the tub and was standing two inches from her. She tried not to glance down at his towel or the hard length it shielded and fixed her gaze on his eyes. He was standing so close that their bodies almost brushed.

"Any sweats or anything in there that I can throw on?"

"I think so," she whispered, and then pulled her gaze away from him with great effort.

"Give me a second; then I'll go find you something to eat."

Him for dinner was a viable option. She turned around quickly, wishing that the steam hadn't claimed the mirror so completely. She peeked but turned away and simply suffered at hearing him drag on the soft fabric.

"I'm decent," he said in a low murmur.

She turned to face him again, smiled, and stopped breathing as his body made a definitive tent in his gray sweats.

"You hungry?" he asked in a quiet, sensual tone that released a new flow of thick wetness between her thighs.

She nodded and swallowed hard.

"Me, too. Been a long time since I had anything good."

She stared up at him as he closed the distance between them and allowed his body to brush hers to get a towel to dry his hair. The sensation of his naked torso sweeping against her breasts almost made her gasp. Her stomach clenched, and his erection grazed her thighs, making her want to open them.

About to hyperventilate, she clasped the edges of the sink with both hands behind her. She'd never felt a man's body against hers, had never been touched so gently in an accidental rake of bare skin against cotton. Her nipples pouted with the urgent need for one more pass, one more feather-light contact Even in the dense, steamy heat, gooseflesh had risen on her arms. But he simply stood inches from her, drying his hair, staring at her.

"Can I tell you something?" he finally asked, reaching past her again to slip the towel on the edge of the sink, his chest gently touching hers again when he did so.

She nodded quickly, his caress sending shards of lightning between her legs. "Yes," she breathed out. "What?"

"You are so beautiful that I really wanna kiss you, but I'm not trying to freak you out, after everything you just went through." He swallowed hard. "It's just that, I'm so glad you weren't hurt, so glad to be alive… and can't get the fact out of my head that we've been dreaming the same dream—and before tonight I didn't even know you."

She couldn't move or take her eyes off his as his finger softly traced her cheek and then found her ear to move her wet hair behind it.

"I don't want you to think I'm trying to take advantage of you, because I'm not… and it ain't like I'm trying to look for some payback for the ride. I don't roll like that."

It was the stone-cold truth. His actions were driven by none of those things. She was simply beautiful, a heaven-sent gift. A phantom beauty in the mist, sipping air, making his skin burn beneath too-tight sweatpants, making him remember how alone he was in the world—no touch, no mouth to hunger for his, no hands or body to make him know life was worth living.

He smiled a half smile. "Maybe I should have taken a cold shower instead. I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she whispered, her soft voice holding him for ransom. "Maybe we both should have."

The way she turned her head, bit her bottom lip, and gripped the edge of the sink tighter did something to him. He knew it was foolish, to go for it under the circumstances, but if he didn't touch her, he'd lose his mind.

Ever so slowly, he took her mouth, testing for acceptance as he closed his eyes and his tongue met hers. The warm, moist yielding of her soft lips drew his body nearer, yet he took care not to crush his to hers—he didn't want to offend her or scare her off. But the sensation of her satiny skin in patches against his made it necessary to swallow a groan. He deepened the kiss and allowed his palms to slowly slide up her rigid biceps, closing the small fraction of space between them until his pelvis welded with hers.

The sound of her voice trapped in their mouths made his tongue more aggressive, but he took great care not to move against her like he so desperately wanted to. She had sanctioned a kiss, had only said yes to that. She'd never been with a man and had almost lost her life. Her momma had put her out, or some variation on a theme. It wasn't about working on Juanita while she was in a vulnerable, messed-up mental state. Yes, he wanted her, but not like that in his grandfather's house… tears the next day, recriminations, no.

Yet his hands kept gliding up and down her arms and on each pass edging nearer to the side swell of her breasts. He couldn't help it. She tasted so good, smelled so sweet, his body ached for touch so badly, and she had turned him on so thoroughly. When her hips slightly lifted to press her mound against him harder, he allowed his thumbs to caress the sides of the breasts, gently tracing the heavy lobes that rose and fell with her shallow inhales.

She broke from the kiss, breathing hard, but didn't pull away. He loved how she stared up at him, a question in her beautiful brown eyes. His thumbs never stopped moving against the sides of her breasts. He never took his eyes away from hers. Compelled, his thumbs grazed her nipples, and she closed her eyes with a shiver. That was all he needed to witness. Permission granted to explore how far she wanted to go.

This time when he took her mouth, his lazy thumb roll back and forth became a quick flicker of attention that made her gasp. Her hands left the sink and found broad shoulders to hold. A man she'd just met on the back of a bike in a deserted street was between her legs, moving hard against her, making her cling to him, making her moan, making her ready to grab his back, making her lean her head to touch the medicine cabinet mirror.

Hot kisses along her neck stole her breath. Male hands both rough and gentle at her breasts made a whimper escape and fuse with the steam. It felt so good, so wonderfully, terribly good, as his body now created an insistent pulse, like he was trying to climb inside her, simply pull himself through the fabric, and God how she wanted him to do that.

Yet from some very remote place in her mind she'd been called out of her name, a vile word delivered by her mother that gave her pause. His family had offered them both trust and asylum, and an old Indian woman had kissed her cheek. Yet this man was coming out of his pants, the friction wearing loose the drawstring, wearing down her resolve, wearing a hole in her brain while wearing her out, hiking up her gown, making her bud ache with such agony that she almost cried and begged him to touch it.

"Your grandparents," she gasped in a rush as he suddenly bent, dipped low, and pushed her gown up to French-kiss her navel.

"They're cool; they're gone for the night," he said in a ragged whisper against her belly. "I'll be gentle."

He was on his knees on the bathroom floor, whispering promises with kisses against a place that only her fingers had ever touched. Her thighs parted without her rational consent. But she couldn't help it. He had spoken truth and torture against the swollen wet lips between her legs, finding spots that made her shoulders collide with mirror glass. If he didn't stop, she would lose her mind; if he stopped, she'd slap him. She covered her mouth to stifle the sound creeping past her larynx, but her hand fell away and her voice rent the room, echoing, bouncing off the tiles, a wail that she couldn't hold.

The scent of ready woman was all in his nose, had penetrated his sinuses, was in his mouth, and lit the back of his tongue to ignite his groin on autopilot. Damn… this was the one. Right here on the bathroom sink. Butter-soft thighs tensing and releasing, hot flow all over his face. Her tight, round ass lifting, hips jerking under his hold… sweet virgin essence washing his face, her voice a moaning plea for something more to quench her that only he had. Oh yeah… he'd be gentle but firm, would take her spilling tears of pleasure. Her hands had found his hair and had become fists—he knew exactly what she was trying to say.

He didn't need a bed; a bathroom floor would do. The wall, whatever, oh, baby… yeah… just let it go like that when I'm inside you.

It was impossible to catch his breath as he pulled her down to the floor with him. Her mouth fought his for more tongue, a deeper kiss, her hands seeming as though they couldn't touch enough of his skin fast enough. Her breasts begged to be suckled, and he obliged as he slid down his pants and nestled himself between her legs. Tears made her eyes shimmer in the lifting steam.

"I won't hurt you; I promise," he whispered, finding her slick entry point.

She looked up at him with eager, trusting eyes. "Just don't get me pregnant, okay?"

Her voice was so small and tight, just like he knew she'd be, that it split his conscience in two. "Okay," he said on a ragged whisper.

She closed her eyes; the rational side of his brain shut down with them. He entered her slowly, easing in just the head, and dropped down on his elbows to cradle her skull in a gentle grip.

"Take a deep breath," he said quietly, watching her expression. "Don't tense up, all right?" Agony clawed at his groin until it felt like his sac would be drawn up into his abdomen with each inhale.

She nodded quickly but kept her eyes closed.

" 'Nita, look at me," he whispered, kissing the bridge of her nose and waiting until she did. "Trust me. It won't hurt in a minute. Don't take your eyes off mine," he said, allowing more of him to fill her.

She arched and he reached down with one hand to hold her hips steady, careful not to press his full weight down on her.

"It… oh God… it feels so good, but hurts a little, too."

He nodded, unable to speak for a moment, his eyes sliding shut as the sensation of a near convulsion swept through him. "I kn-n-n-ow," he stammered, then nestled even more of him within her. "Let me put it in slowly, then you get used to it, before I move."

A hard shudder claimed him as she stroked his chest, her graceful, soft fingers grazing over his nipples. When her hands slid over his ass, he was barely lucid. Every impulse within him hovered on the very shaky border of moving in hard-driving jabs, yet her tear-filled eyes held such trust that he had to open his, stare at hers, just to remain nearly sane.

In slow increments he entered her deeper, watching her writhe beneath him, the suffering of want becoming hot need as he lowered his weight on her fully and kissed her hard. Her thrashing, her touches, her soft moans that he swallowed, the tight, slick, contracting sheath she pumped against him in urgent mini-upthrusts, broke him. His hands found her wet hair once more, his tongue diving at hers the way he wanted to move inside her. Short, even strokes soon became longer thrusts bordering on desperation. He stopped when she cried out his name and spent hard, his burning forehead pressed against her shoulder.

"Why'd—"

"I have to stop. Now or never."

He clung to her, trembling, begging her with his mind not to move, lest he explode and accidentally fill her with his seed. But pulling out was going to be painful, worse than having dental work done without Novocain. He lied to himself, trying to make it seem rational that he'd pull out in a moment, as soon as that got easier to do. Never happen. It was gonna be a bitch no matter what.

He tilted his head, took a deep breath, and squeezed his eyes shut and withdrew with a hissing inhale. "Oh, shit…"

Her caress found his face and her arms held him closer to her. "Papi, I'm so sorry I'm not on the pill."

"Shush," he whispered into her hair. "Don't call me sweet names while I'm in a way like this. Let me get myself together."

"But you let me over and over again." She hugged him tighter. "I never thought it could be like this."

Didn't she understand that she was making him crazy, making him rethink his position, lying between her spread thighs, his member pulsing, so close but so far?

"Baby—"

Her kiss stopped his words; the heat of her hand stole his breath.

"That's not fair," she whispered against his ear, her hand moving swiftly up and down his slick, engorged shaft.

In no position to argue, he grasped her around the waist tightly, convulsed with a low sonic-boom moan that bounced off the tiles, and collapsed, breathing hard.

Dawn crept through the windows, adding pink and orange paint to the white ceramic tiles around them. Only his deep pants chasing hers echoed within the tiny space.

"I think we need to take another shower before my grand-pops and abuela come home." He'd spoken without opening his eyes but could feel her nod and sweet acceptance with a kiss before she struggled to get up.

"Yeah, Jose, I'll die if your grandparents ever see me like this."

As he helped Juanita to her feet, after-the-fact guilt gnawed at him. Just seeing the slightest wince flit across her pretty face let him know he should have waited. A woman like this didn't deserve to have her first time be a heated rush on a bathroom floor. Damn, what had he been thinking?

Jose cupped her cheek. "I'm going to run into the kitchen for a second and will be right back, then—"

"No. You promised you wouldn't leave me," she said, holding him tightly, her eyes growing wide.

"How about this," he said softly. "You sit on the edge of the tub, hold the rifle, I'll leave the door open and will talk real loud—nonstop—so you can hear me. We'll keep talking during the thirty seconds it'll take. Then I'll wash you up in the shower." He held her face with trembling hands and kissed her gently. "You trust me?"

She begrudgingly nodded and loosened her grip on him. "Do I have to hold the rifle, though?"

"No, just stand by the door, then, and leave it open. Talk to me while I walk the short distance. It's only like twenty-five feet down the hall."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna go get something that'll make you feel better."

He swept her mouth with another quick kiss, opened the door, and began talking loudly as he dashed through the house. "So, what are you in the mood for? Breakfast, a sandwich, maybe some soup?" he hollered as he yanked open the freezer, grabbed an ice tray, and ran back toward the bathroom.

"Wow, that was fast," she said, hiding her body behind a damp towel. She stared down at the tray of ice. "What's that for?"

He just smiled. "You'll see," he said, and turned on the shower water again, closing the bathroom door behind him. He motioned to the tub with a nod. "C'mon. Hop in."

She gave him a quizzical look but slipped into the spray like he'd asked. The sound of ice breaking filled the tiny room, and within moments he'd joined her in the water with ice in his fist.

"Turn around and face the water," he murmured against her neck.

She did what he'd asked but had questions. "What are you going to do?" She gazed at his fist, trying to keep her face out of the spray.

"Relax and lean back against me," he said in a gentle command, sliding one palm across her belly as he lowered his ice-filled fist near her mound. He kissed her shoulder. "Open your legs… I know it's tender there, like a friction burn."

When she complied, he cupped his hand against her, allowing warm water to blend with the ice and pour a cool, soothing stream of relief over her bud, the swollen lips of her delicate flower, and where he was sure it hurt the most.

"Oh God… that feels wonderful," she whispered, melting against his chest the way the ice was melting in his hand.

"Bueno," he whispered against her ear. "All I ever want you to feel with me is good."

He applied a gentle caress to the fragile haven that had taken him in, and could soon feel a different slickness from just water spilling against his fingers as the ice disappeared. The sensation made him want to move against her again, but he'd already done enough.

"Hand me the soap," he ordered quietly. "Let me wash you off."

With her leaning against him, eyes closed, the spray pummeling her breasts, he lathered his hands and then gave her the bar of Ivory soap to hold. He took great care in sudsing her delicate throat, her collarbone, her arms and shoulders, and then allowed his hands to revel in the varying textures of her breasts, the soap a slickened glide over her soft skin. Her quiet whimper of pleasure made him focus on her nipples perhaps longer than he should have, but he couldn't help it. That part of her required special attention. A dull ache burning him again, he slid his hands away and simply kissed her neck to regain his focus.

As he repeatedly took the soap bar from her, he added more lather and worked his way down her torso and belly, stopping to spread wide, slow circles over her navel. She didn't say a word but just pressed her backside to him in a way that produced a shudder. The moment his palm slid against silky hair, he petted the tender area in silent apology. Next time would be the way she deserved.

He could feel her thighs parting but took great care to rinse soap away, lest it sting. He reached for the soap and then slid down to a squat behind her, kissing the firm rise of her behind while splaying his hands along her shapely legs to coat them, caress them, kissing the backs of her thighs until she fell forward with both hands pressed flat against the tile wall.

Looking up at her wet behind from that position was tearing him up. But rather than hurt her again in an impatient rush, he soaped the backs of her legs and slowly stood to make soapy swirls over the firm swell of her bottom. The dip in her spine called his name, made him kiss it deeply and then plant kisses up her spine, finding each vertebra to anoint with his mouth, followed by soap. By the time his hands slid over her shoulders, she'd released a low moan and had leaned against him again. Soap created a slick emulsion on her back and sweet ass, causing him to slide against the slippery surface and release a quiet moan.

They said nothing as they moved against each other, but he dared not enter her again. The first time had been Russian roulette. His shaft had filled so hard and so fast his greatest fear at the moment was that she was already pregnant. One drop was all that was necessary.

"I should probably make you something to eat," he murmured thickly against her hair. "If we keep this up…"

"I know," she whispered, "but…"

"I can't promise I can control it this time."

She nodded but didn't stop grinding her backside against his length. He understood more than she knew, and slid his hand down her belly until she moaned at the touch that found her bud.

"Is it still tender?" he whispered, gently massaging the outer folds that hid the pouting knob of flesh.

"It throbs," she whispered, shivering. "I've never felt anything like this in my life."

"The water's getting cold," he murmured into her ear, then swallowed hard.

"But it feels like it's on fire."

Her voice had come out in a quiet, strangled rush. Each time he moved against her, the muscles in her backside clenched, gripping him and driving him nuts. Cupping her breast with one hand, he kept the other palm moving in a slow, gentle graze against the tender region between her parted thighs. She needed to release again, and he could tell how close she was… just like him.

Water spilled down her chest and belly, and he caught it in a slight cup of his palm between her legs, allowing the water to add to his touch, sending it between the hot, sensitive lips in a pulse that matched his gentle thumb flick.

In total trust, she'd reached back with lathered hands, finding him, stroking him, almost making him forget that he couldn't put it in again. When she came hard, her grip made his eyes cross beneath his lids. His body found a demanding rhythm against the outside of her soap-slicked ass at the same time his arms found anchor around her waist. Close to madness, he forgot about the possible danger of a slip-and-fall injury; he had to let her worry about that. She braced her hands against the tiles; he braced for the swift convulsion that dredged his groin and sent jerking, twitching spasms into his limbs.

This didn't make sense. He lifted his head from her shoulder and they both turned around in the spray to rinse off again. He took her mouth hard this time and then held her face to look at her without playing.

"I have to put my pants on," he told her firmly, saying it out loud more for his benefit than hers. "We have to get out of the bathroom. One more go-round like this, and I'll lose it."

He stepped out of the shower and snatched his pants off the floor, wondering how in the world one could get out of a shower sweating. He didn't even bother to dry off, nor did he look back. The rifle went with him the moment his pants were drawn on, the fabric clinging. The soft padding of her bare feet was immediately behind him. The decision was clear—at full sunrise, he had to ride. At full sunrise, he had to find some gas. At full sunrise, he had to go into town. Full sunrise demanded action. Find a drugstore and some condoms.

The moment she heard Jose's voice calling out, it suddenly dawned upon her that she'd been all by herself in the pantry, standing near the washer and dryer, doing laundry for an entire fifteen minutes—alone. How had that happened? Wanting to be with him had her nerves so rattled that she'd temporarily forgotten about those things that had chased them? Was she insane!

Juanita ran to meet the voice that had become synonymous with safety. She couldn't sort out why Jose, this house, or daylight had chased away her terror or the images that by rights should have given her a nervous breakdown. All she was clear about was the fact that this man's presence made everything seem normal. His excited expression made her smile through the panic. He didn't even have the rifle with him. The only weapon he had, which instantly blew her away, was his brilliant smile.

She stood before him in the hallway, now nearly ready to laugh, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot like an excited kid with a secret.

"They redid my room, and made it into a guest room. But they didn't throw out all my old sketches. Wanna see 'em?"

How could she refuse an offer like that? Juanita's smile widened.

"You'd let me see your art?"

"Yeah. C'mon," he said, dragging her down the hall by her arm. "I forgot about half of this stuff. I used to have some wild-ass images in my head as a kid, and me and this older guy, Rider, used to hang out, practice sharpshooting cans… then I'd see stuff, could almost smell it." He turned to her as they entered the room. "I'm wondering, like, if we've been having the same dream, and hooked up like we've known each other for years, maybe some of the stuff I've drawn might be a trigger for you… like help you remember your dreams, too."

"Okay," she said, hedging, not sure if she had the special insight he was seeking. She would have been happy enough to see his work just on the basis of getting to know him better.

He took a deep breath and walked over to his old desk. "All right," he said, hesitating. "Granted, some of this stuff is rough." He ran his palm across his jaw, suddenly appearing shy. "I'm much better now, but, back then, I didn't know how to always get the shading right, or the depth perception to make things pop off the page in three-D, and—"

"Jose," she said, putting her hands on her hips and smiling wider. "Are you going to show me, or what?"

The fact that he'd grown shy about unveiling his work endeared him to her. The humility that had arrested him and had made him look away, along with all the qualifiers and disclaimers, made her want to hug him. She waited with great anticipation and much respect for him to share this intimate peek into his mind.

"Yeah… it's just that I only showed people the good stuff," he said quietly, motioning to a few framed pencil sketches on the walls. "I got all hyped when I thought about it, and may have spoken too soon. I never let anyone see my books, my pads—where I was just messing around." He turned away from the desk and leaned on the dresser. "It ain't nothing, I guess. Just some old kid nightmares… like you'd wanna see that. You'll probably look at them and go, 'This brother is touched—loco,' and then laugh, anyway."

She went to him and placed her palm gently in the center of his chest. "I would never laugh at something that came from inside you, Jose." She stared up at him. "A little while ago, you asked me to trust you—and I did. I've never let anyone get that close to me, or make me open up like that."

He covered her hand with his own, nodded, and drew a deep breath, then let it out through his nose. "Okay. But promise not to laugh or run screaming into the driveway to hitchhike a ride outta here."

She kissed his cheek. "Lemme see what's in there."

Slowly, he moved away from his perch against the dresser and she watched him go to the desk to extract several huge sketch pads. She sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him to sit down beside her.

"These were when I was in high school and used to visit here for the summer," he murmured, not looking at her as he opened the first book on her lap. "Wasn't much else to do out here; no clubs and I was too young for the one bar they had in town. So, I sorta amused myself and helped Pops. Nothing special."

She was rendered mute, her fingers tracing the edges of the exquisitely detailed drawings. A quiet gasp of appreciation was all she could initially offer him as she turned the pages. "Wow…"

Every image was a finely crafted series of individual dots and hatch lines, if one looked closely enough. But upon her pulling back, the minute markings evolved into epic images of demons and angels in furious battles… smoke, fire, huge, sinewy protectors standing tall with outrageous weapons, holding the line with female warrior counterparts against evil. Juanita lowered her face to the pages to better see how he'd patiently, painstakingly laid down each black mark to expertly make an entire living dream come to life on a single page.

"Oh, my God, Jose," she whispered in reverence. "How long did it take you to do one of these, let alone all of these?" She hadn't even looked up at him. She couldn't look up. The question had simply spilled from her lips in honest awe. Each page was a living fresco, jogging her memory, making her mind flex and bulk with images of her own that matched what she saw.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "I lose track of time when I'm working. I get all caught up, and that would always get me in trouble at home… or at school," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. "My mother thinks I'm a bum. Maybe she's right. You can't make money on stuff like this."

"Are you crazy?" Juanita whispered, turning pages, engrossed in his book.

"Yeah, totally," he said, laughing nervously and then standing to cross the room. "Told you."

She jerked her attention up to stare at him. "No. That's not what I meant." She held his gaze. "You're a freakin' genius, Jose. Why aren't you in art school, or in galleries somewhere? A bum? Are you nuts?"

His gaze left hers to seek the window. "Couldn't get my tuition together, and—"

"Did you ever apply for a scholarship, or send them your portfolio?" She was on her feet with a sketchbook extended. "With work like this, you could go anywhere, brother!"

"I never applied… didn't know they'd take me without cash on the barrelhead. Didn't wanna get my hopes up for nothin' that wouldn't work out anyway." He just looked at her.

"Did you ever show these to a guidance counselor at school?" Indignant, she put the book with the others on the bed and stared at him. "Didn't those damn people who are supposed to talk to kids about their future—because that's their job—ever tell you, 'Jose, man, you got skills. Lemme help you fill out an ap' to apply to a big-name university'?"

He didn't know how to answer her. No one had ever gotten angry at him for not using his art to better his life. No one ever had fire in her eyes because he might not have followed his dream or used his passion to earn opportunity. But this gorgeous woman nearly had tears in her eyes, hands on hips, and looked like she was ready to fight the whole world for his cause.

"Didn't they tell you that you could work as a cartoonist or that you could be the next great film animator—or even be the mastermind behind all those expensive video games, working for the big companies? Oh, my God, Jose!" she exclaimed, beginning to pace. "This is a travesty! A bum? Your momma called you a bum? Do you know that you could design video sets for the music industry, or, or… oh, help me, Blessed Mary!"

Juanita had placed her hands on top of her head and was now staring out of the window. Just seeing her so upset about no one understanding his hidden talent was blowing his mind.

"They all told me to stop dreaming… to get the three Rs of reading, writing, and arithmetic down. Said that my SAT scores were pitiful, like my grades. Said that I was wasting time doodling in notebooks, and—"

"They never saw your work?" Her hands slid off her head and hung loosely at her sides. "Never saw the quiet genius in you, a poor kid from the barrios." Her voice became a whisper of outrage. "Never thought you had dreams worthy of anyone's time. I know. Been there."

"The way you just broke down those industries and opportunities… you could be a businesswoman," he said, pushing off the dresser to go collect his books to hide them away again. This was too intense and had been a bad idea.

Her indignation made him nervous; he wasn't used to anyone caring so deeply about him. "You should be counseling kids, giving them hope and direction," he said, sudden depression weighing in on him. "Lotta parents just don't know what's out there, as far as different careers and stuff, and only want their kids to take the safe, guaranteed route… like a vo-tech school. I can't blame them." He shoved the books into the drawer and looked up at the few framed sketches on the walls. "You could be a talent agent, too," he said, laughing sadly as he thought about the mural contract that he'd lost. " 'Nita, I was gonna paint the hell out of that wall… was gonna funk it out, trick that bitch out so lovely that there'd be accidents on the 405 from people staring." Jose let his breath out hard and turned around to look at her.

Tears stung her eyes and she swallowed hard. "How did you know?"

"Know what?" He hadn't meant to upset her by his outburst.

"That I wanted to be a businesswoman, not a cashier in a drugstore?"

"I thought that was a part-time thing, until you did your thing?" He closed the space between them. "With your mind… the way you just dissected my shit, pulled it apart, and came up with solutions that I couldn't figure out? C'mon, girl. Be serious."

"You be serious," she said, lifting her chin. "Vo-tech? You? I don't care who told you that; it's bogus."

"I just draw, but you seem like you were an As-and-Bs kinda student. Real book smart."

She turned away from him and went to stand by the window. "Yeah… I got straight As, but a lotta good that did me. When it came time to apply for college, they said that getting straight As at a low-expectations high school in the inner city wasn't as good as coming from a top-notch public high school, or private school. Plus, my momma needed help at home, and nobody was helping me find scholarships. I learned about all that career and scholarship stuff on the fly, when customers would come into the store to buy what they needed to go off to school… I wanted to be them so bad, Jose, you just don't know—and I'd eavesdrop or make small talk to get them to tell me where they were going and how they got there, just dreaming. Then I'd sneak to the library and try to figure out what they meant. But I'd missed my chance by then."

"It ain't over till it's over," he said, coming to her and gently hugging her from behind. He placed a kiss on the top of her head. "You can still go if you want to; all you have to do is try."

She turned into his embrace and kissed the underside of his chin. "I'll take that advice, if you will. Deal?"

He nodded and shrugged. "I guess so—but you should go."

"So should you," she argued with a smile. Her fingers traced his mouth, her eyes following the invisible imprint of where her touch had landed. "Jose, you are so talented, have so much to offer the world with your inner vision. Promise me that, no matter what happens, you won't allow yourself to wind up in some dead-end job that will kill your spirit." She brushed his mouth with a kiss and then pulled back. "Do the wall, baby. That mural. Do it on paper, if you can't have the wall right now. Add that into your going-to-college-or-bust portfolio. Put your all into it, like you would have up on that scaffolding. Please, dear God, whatever you do, don't waste this gift."

The way her eyes searched his and her words coated his insides with heat lowered his mouth to hers in quiet surrender. Never in his life had anyone gone to bat for him like this, had ever pushed him so hard with such a tender shove. If he couldn't give himself over to his art completely, today, at least, he could give his all to her.

"Only on one condition," he whispered.

"Name it," she murmured, running her fingers through his hair.

"That you go to school with me and never stop looking at me like this when I show you my work."

"How could I stop looking at you like this, when you and your work makes me know there's still hope and love and beauty in the world?" She grazed his mouth with a kiss and then shook her head. "Jose, you also make me know that I'm not crazy to dream… I've seen those same images before. They'd start behind my eyelids when I'd shut my eyes at night, like pinpoints of black dots fired by lights behind them… then the image would become clearer when my body would lift above it to see it all from an aerial view. And that's just how you drew the sketches—dot by dot."

"You serious?" he whispered, the words catching thickly in his throat.

"I swear it," she replied, staring at him without blinking. "The thing I can't understand is… how I know you?"

She pulled out of his embrace and wrapped her arms around herself. "I have to just say this, because my mind won't let it go."

He nodded and gave her space.

"I've never been so afraid in all my life." Her eyes sought his for confirmation and found it. "I didn't know you, had never seen you, had no reason to trust you." She looked away, shame glittering in her eyes made dazzling by the sunlight. "I don't just meet men in the street, jump on a motorcycle with them, and do the wild thing on a bathroom floor in their grandparents' house, of all places, for chrissakes." She covered her face with her hands and breathed in deeply. "I'm not like that, Jose. I have some pride and some decency, no matter what you might think. And yet I'm here in a borrowed nightgown, half-naked. I've just given my body to a man for the first time, and I don't even know his last name."

He went to her quickly and enfolded her in his arms. "Ciponte. My last name is Ciponte. And I know that you've never been with a guy like that, have to be freaked out, and have never done it before. That's why I was so angry at myself for going there with you; you aren't that type of… I mean—"

"I'm not," she said, huge tears spilling. "I have to get dressed and go home to my momma."

"I know, baby. We'll get dressed right now and I'll take you home. But I don't want you to think that all this was the norm for me, either. It's been a really long time since I had what you could call a girlfriend, or something. Years, and that's no bull." He raked his hair and kept his gaze on her, forcing her eyes to stay with his. "Guys get a bad rap for always being dawgs, but I swear on my father's grave, I've never had an experience like what we just shared. So, don't make it out to be dirty, in your mind. It was pure passion, from my point of view."

When she looked away, he returned her gaze to his with a gentle finger beneath her chin. "No, look at me—dead in the eyes so you can see the truth or a lie." He let out a long breath filled with emotion. " 'Nita… No one has ever believed in me, treated me like I was their hero, given themselves to me without games. You think men don't have feelings? You don't think we ever dream of finding the one?"

He released his hold on her and went back to his desk, yanked out a drawer, and selected a pad. "Look at this one," he said, shoving the book toward her. "Every page owns my secret lover."

She cautiously accepted the book and he came closer.

"Look at her," he said, his voice becoming strident as he finally saw the eerie similarity between the woman standing in the room and the one gracing every page.

Growing more unnerved by the discovery, he led Juanita to the mirror that hung over the dresser and took the book from her to hold it up beside her face. "Same body, same hair. Every pose is you—same eyes, I just didn't have the rest of the face. The hero is standing in front of her, guns blazing, trying to keep demons at bay." Jose flipped another page and forced her to stare more deeply into the mirror. "Got her on his bike, rough-riding out of hellfire."

He flipped another page quickly, growing more urgent that she see into his heart. "Then he was so grateful to be alive that he made love to her in a tangle of passion in the mist—place to be determined, location unknown." He slammed the book shut and flung it on the dresser, bracing a hand against the furniture on either side of her body.

They both stared at each other's reflection in the mirror.

"Operative words—he made love to her, didn't screw her," Jose murmured, his eyes never leaving the mirror. "Would die for her, would take a bullet for her, would battle the darkness, just for her. Fell in love with her somewhere in the mist, I guess when he was losing his mind. I don't know when that happened, or how. I'm just the artist that draws them. All I know is, for years, he couldn't wait to go to sleep so she'd come to him in a dream. Years of wanting someone to see that he was a hero deep inside, and to have someone to call his own, someone who had his back, someone who could see what he saw and had vision. Artist by day, superhero by night… Years, 'Nita, that's how long he'd been waiting for her to step across the threshold of a dream and be made flesh, and be real."

She nodded, tears now streaming down her face while she stared at his pain-filled expression. "Years of running through the darkness in dreams," she whispered. "Years of feeling different, and knowing she was… years of waiting for that voice she knew by heart in her head. Years of waiting for those right eyes that saw her as more than a booty call, some chica airhead to use and then throw away… hoping, believing, knowing there was only one man in the world who could chase the demons away. Only one who made her feel like a princess and special… who would make her body yield and then burn and give her all… and then feeling so foolish for having to bite her lip to keep from saying that she was falling in love with him the moment he took her in the steam on a bathroom floor."

His ardent kiss on the side of her neck caused a hard shiver at the same time his hands swiftly traced up her arms to produce a gasp.

"I can't explain this," he said in a hot whisper, aggressively nuzzling her neck. "I can't explain what we saw out there, or how I can be feeling this so strong with everything that just went down." He delivered mind-stunning kisses against her jawline and then shoulder. "I can't explain why I can't keep my hands off you, or can even think about something like that after what we just went through." He dragged his nose up the side of her neck and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, breathing her in. "I'll take you home, if that's where you wanna go. But don't ask me to stop feeling like this about you, okay?"

"I can't explain it, either," she said, her breaths coming out with the words in short, staccato pants. Her body moved against his and her voice became strangled as she tried to speak. "It doesn't make sense. After what we just saw we should both be so wigged out right now that… it doesn't make sense."

"Does it have to?" he said in a low rush, his hands covering her breasts. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, gently kneading her flesh while capturing her nipples between his forefingers and thumbs. "All I know is you looked at my drawings like you were looking into my soul, 'Nita."

His voice fractured as he began to slowly pump against her backside through her nightgown. "All I know is that it's like I found you from somewhere in my mind, like some weird and wonderful out-of-body experience," he murmured, ending the statement on a deep, sensual moan. "And, baby, if you came to life from my sketches, I'm not ready for you to disappear yet… can't bear the thought of you being black-and-white, two-dimensional, anymore." He kissed the nape of her neck when her head dropped forward and her hands braced on the dresser. "Oh, shit, I need you in three-D right now."

Unable to withstand his impassioned outburst, common sense fled her as she reached back and yanked at the sides of his sweatpants, pulling them down over his hips. They both looked up into the mirror at the same time.

"Go 'head," she said on a hard exhale. "I've been waiting for you to step out of my dreams and become real, too."

For a second he didn't move; she didn't move. Then suddenly his hands raced up her sides, lifting her gown. He kept his eyes on her through their reflection and entered her tender, wet valley hard, sinking against her with an agonized groan. The new sensation lit her spine with fluid motion as her hands gripped the dresser's edge. She watched his eyes slide shut with an expression of pure torture.

"Oh, Jesus, if I don't reach into that top drawer right now… I'll get you pregnant today."

No words would form as he gathered her around the waist with one arm and yanked the drawer open by several inches. She didn't care what he did or that there was something hidden in there, as long as it would allow him to continue to be inside her.

Through half-closed eyes she watched him fumble with a brown bag, then a box, ripping and tearing away the cellophane covering like a madman, moving against her with insane thrusts that made her belly repeatedly collide with the furniture. Pleasure like she'd never known tore through her while she watched him struggle with the small foil wrapper, and she held on to the dresser, arms extended, head down, gasping.

The guttural sound he released deep within his throat fused with the sting of cold air against her back. Near weeping for his return, she arched into him, taking him in sheathed with latex. Instantly, strong arms gripped her waist, his hot cheek pressed against hers. She was blinded by the new sensation, and her legs threatened to go out from under her as he slammed pleasure into the tender place he'd so gently deflowered before.

Her hair swept the top of the bureau, swinging back and forth like a maddened feather duster. Tears blotted the surface, rolling down her cheeks to land in ecstasy-driven splotches. Her voice was not her own as it blended with his deep, grunting exhales, a unified chant till her nails raked wood severely enough to almost draw splinters. If this was what it was like, don't stop. If this was the next level, keep moving! If this was just the beginning, por dios, she would die and didn't care.

"Girl, I love you," Jose said on a hard shudder, then convulsed in waves of jerking thrusts.

Her body slammed against the dresser, the wind knocked out of her on a wail: "Jose!" Then wave after wave of womb-deep tremors consumed her, releasing bands of color behind her tightly shut lids.

The dresser held them both up, panting. She could feel his kisses pelt her shoulder blades. He was still rock hard inside her; a sob crested, and then she utterly broke down and wept in earnest. What was this sweet madness? No one had ever told her it could be like this. She'd practically been speaking in tongues, lost to reality. Strong arms were holding her; she could feel Jose extracting himself, breaking the connection to divine insanity. Reflex dug her nails into his hips.

"Don't move," she whispered between her teeth. "Not yet."

He nodded against her back, gulping air. "Tell me when. Did I hurt you?"

"No… it just feels so good. Don't take it out."

"Jesus," he said against her shoulders. "I've gotta put another one on."

Their eyes met in the mirror.

"What time will they come home?" Her glance went to the bed and then sought his again in the reflection.

"In three days," he said, swallowing hard and still gulping air.

"You sure?"

He nodded and stroked her hair. "Wanna go lie down in bed?"

She nodded but couldn't move.

The only rational thing to do, so they could get out of the house, was let the woman go into the bathroom alone.

"Open the window," he said as he walked down the hall with a rifle. "It's not dark yet, got a few hours, and I'm gonna go check on the bike—see how much gas is left to get us to town."

He didn't wait for her to argue. He was on a mission. He needed to score latex like a junkie needed to get crack.

Out the back door, down the steps, Jose went to his bike and groaned. Damn! His black beauty was running on fumes. Okay, new plan. The toolshed caught his eye. Maybe, just maybe, if there was mercy in heaven, his grandfather might have an old red gas can with a spit of fuel in it.

Jose jogged across the backyard, scattering angry hens. Resting the rifle against the outside wall of the dilapidated structure, he pulled the rusty door open with both hands. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness, he squinted, searching for a light. But soon the low afternoon sun and opened door allowed his eyes to scan the interior. However, what he saw gave him pause.

It was a veritable artillery shed. Medicine wheels and amulets with eagle feathers covered the walls, along with silver stakes, crossbows, and bowie knives in varying degrees of blade length. He stepped inside, his curiosity dragging him over the threshold. In the center of the floor were strange circles and symbols, bones and stones, as though a hex or a ward against evil.

His gaze went to a litter of shells and dirt on the small wooden table by the wall. Jose approached it with care, peering down at the gleaming silver bullets and dark soil that had an incense fragrance. Jugs of water with war paint etchings from a time long gone sat beside the shells. He looked up at the crossbows and the long stakes plumed with eagle feathers.

They knew. Not just empathized or believed but knew.

Jose stared harder at the walls as dust motes danced and played in the murky stream of low sunlight. The interior had been whitewashed with war paint. The scent of white sagebrush hung heavily in the air, stinging his nose. A sense of calm, safety, spiritual fortress emanated from everything around him. Sagebrush and silver, chicken blood and burnt wood, all of it crawled over his skin in an odd sense of knowing. He was standing in the middle of a spiritual bomb shelter. If his people had built this, then what was coming?

Suddenly getting into town had less urgency. But finding gas to ride out a storm was still the thing to do. Jose walked through the shed with new reverence, only to be disappointed. He grabbed the rifle and jogged back to his bike, determined to rinse the demon gook off it before Juanita saw it again.

Hurrying with the task, he got the backyard hose and quickly blasted off the muck—this time more careful with the water that was scarce where his grandparents lived. Respect for them, what they knew, what they calmly accepted, what they'd built, entered him as he dropped the hose and ran up the back steps.

He passed Juanita in the hallway. "I'll be in and out in a few seconds." He knew he sounded panicked; he was panicked. But she didn't need to know why.

When he got out of the shower and raced to the bedroom, she had on her jeans and broken spike heels in her hands and was covering her breasts with her arm.

"Can I wear one of your T-shirts?" She gazed at him, chewing her lip for a moment. "My mother said the red halter made me look like a whore… and I don't want to look like that when I'm with you."

"You don't look like that to me, no matter what you wear." He pulled on his jeans and nodded toward the dresser. "You can have one of my T-shirts, and Nana left you some dresses in there, too."

"How did she know I was coming, Jose?"

They both stopped dressing and stared at each other.

"She's a seer," he said quietly. "Don't ask me how they do it; all I know is, that's what she is. Abuela knows things. So does Pops."

"I know things like that sometimes," Juanita said, going to the drawer to get a T-shirt. "That's why I know I don't want to wear this red halter right now."

He stared at her back for a moment and then found his sneakers and a T-shirt and she began to finger-comb her hair.

"When we go to the store, I'll get you a brush, too, and get us some toothbrushes—I need a razor," he said, rubbing his chin and trying to distract himself from the eerie feeling that had come over him. "But one thing's for sure; we've gotta get you some flip-flops, or something, until we can get you some sneakers."

Juanita bent without speaking and opened the bottom drawer. She slowly lowered herself to a squat, her hand stroking the doeskin dress. "There's moccasins in here with this dress."

Jose rushed to her side and stooped down to look, then snapped his glance to her quickly. "Full ceremonial outfit—how'd you know it was in there? 'Cause I damned sure didn't."

Juanita shrugged. "Can I wear the shoes, until I get some slides or flip-flops?"

He nodded and walked away, pacing in front of the bedroom door. "Let's make this a quick run. I think we should hang close to the house till my people get back."

Warm air slapped his face as he rode hard, but he tried to keep the speed to a level where Juanita could hold on to his waist with one arm. She held the bags; he held the handlebar. He talked, hollering over the roar of the bike, trying to rationalize the irrational. She listened, soaking it all in, holding out hope that he was right—that what had happened in the diner was just a freaky aftershock effect brought on by suppressing what had happened the night before. It was an unrehearsed dance of trust through the wind, down the dirt road, the family house a destination of sanctuary. The moment they crossed the threshold, he felt better.

It was near dark and his nose was picking up every scent in the house and beyond it, but burgers, fries, and two Cokes were calling his name. Why he was so hungry was a question he didn't have time to ponder. They both tore into the bags, swiping fries, stuffing their mouths, relief glittering in their eyes as they sat down heavily on kitchen chairs.

"I'm starved," she said through a mouthful of food. "I don't know why, but I am. After all this I should be ready to puke."

"I know. Ridiculous," he said, wolfing a burger and then closing his eyes. "I could eat a horse."

Slowly calm began to settle over them as they sloppily ate, licking their fingers and practically inhaling their food. He wondered what it would have been like to meet her under different circumstances and was glad that he'd shared so much with her while they recovered between lovemaking sessions in bed. It was odd, now, that they could just vibe, didn't need to say much, but could read each other even though only having known each other for such a short time. She was so easy to talk to. It was as though he could tell her all his dreams—even the crazy ones about joining a band—and she didn't laugh at him. He quietly wondered how things like that happened but was glad that they did. More important, he just hoped that he was right about her vision in the diner being set off by the past, not the future.

"Good thing you didn't join a band like you'd wanted; they'd put you out for eating up the concert door draw," she finally said, smiling and watching him devour his food in record time.

He glanced up from his Styrofoam and smiled, knowing that she was making small talk to stave off the earlier case of nerves. "Hey, they wouldn't put their lead drummer out," he said, banging on the table in a riff.

"You're pretty good at that, hmmm… maybe they'd keep you."

"Used to practice for hours, banging on anything around the house to keep my chops right," he said with a wide smile and striking the table to keep the conversation light—anything to keep fear at bay. "Would watch all the college bands on TV and could mimic whatever they did in a day; love the drums. Would work at it for hours till I got it down cold… sweatin' and thumpin' on the coffee table. You'd be surprised, but to play the drums, you've gotta be in serious shape. It ain't as easy as it looks."

"For hours," she said with a sly smirk. "Now I know why you've got a hard, soldier's body, not a soft, artist's gut." She laughed and shook her head. "I've experienced the upper-body strength that comes from hours of beating on furniture… sweatin' and thumpin', as you say."

They both laughed.

"I'ma have to practice some more tonight," he said, shoving another bite of burger into his mouth and giving her a sexy wink. "Bought two boxes." He lifted an eyebrow. "That oughta hold us till daylight."

"Man, stop talking trash and eat your food!"

Knees touching beneath the table, feeding each other fries, glances going between food and the other bag from the drugstore, they laughed like little children who had stolen fresh-baked cookies. Finally sated, they both leaned back in their chairs and groaned.

"We should have done this hours ago," he said, rubbing his stomach.

"I kept trying to make you get up, but you wouldn't listen." She giggled as she sipped her Coke loudly through a straw.

"And that's exactly why I couldn't get up," he said with another wink, standing to fold away the greasy containers.

"What?" she said, playing with the straw, complete mischief on her face.

He stood by the trash can with a smile, his mind working on a comeback, when a shadow flitted by his peripheral vision. His smile faded. She set down the cup gingerly, her smile fading, too.

"Jose, what is it?" she whispered.

He held up his hand, sniffed, and caught a whiff of sulfur. His gaze immediately tore around the room for the rifle, and he went to it and cocked back the hammer. "I saw something."

She stood, almost toppling her chair. "What was it?" she said in a fast, harsh whisper.

"I don't know, but it went past the side window." He stood legs wide, braced toward the window, and then backed up to keep her behind him.

A thud on the porch made her cover her mouth in a silent scream. He held up his hand and shook his head, begging her with his mind not to shriek. Whatever it was had the same smell as the things that had chased them. The dank odor of rotting meat and sulfuric ash created a slurry of nausea in his gut. What had gone wrong? Pops and Nana had said the house was safe! Strong medicine was supposed to protect it. Panic-induced sweat made his T-shirt stick to him. But there was something else roiling in his system, something lethal and inspired by adrenaline.

"I'm going outside," he murmured, his voice a low growl.

Two small fists clung to the back of his shirt. "Oh no, the hell you aren't!"

"I'm damned sure not waiting for it to come in here and get us." Jose looked at her hard. "The sun just set; we've got twelve hours till daylight."

"Then we can just freaking wait in here for twelve hours with the lights on and live!" she whispered furiously through her teeth. "My momma said to pray the demons away!"

Another thud hit the porch, and then another sounded above them on the roof.

"You really think so?" he asked, shrugging out of her hold. "You stay here and pray while I blow the bastards off the porch."

Something insane had been embedded in his DNA, as he broke from Juanita's hold and stood by the door, opening it slowly, and then kicking it wide, gun barrel out first. She ducked down beneath the sofa and covered her head, and the moment he quickly peeked out, a hideous face with drool-slicked fangs leaned in. It was pure reflex. Dead-aim, center of the creature's head, and green gook splattered the porch with the shot. The smell of demon blood entered Jose's sinuses, connecting with a craziness encoded in his system like he'd never known.

Juanita's shriek blended in with hisses and snarls coming around the sides of the house. He ran to the steps and jumped down them into the front yard, spinning to catch an airborne predator in the center of its chest with a shell midnight. Two more creatures scampered over the flat rooftop and leaped, claws extended. Jose was down on one knee in seconds, pulled the trigger, and no shot rang out. But he held his position, gouging into the heart of the first beast as it attempted to land on him, then yanked hard to extract the rifle barrel and slammed the other one's skull with the gun butt.

Piles of smoking ash were all around him. He was pure motion. The thing that had fallen from the gun butt was only temporarily dazed. He needed more artillery!

Jose hit the front door and slammed it, hearing the thing behind him crash through the door. Kitchen knives in both hands, he flung them, sending blades into a yellow-green-skinned chest. Smoke and a sulfuric stench were everywhere. He could hear Juanita screaming, couldn't see her, but could smell her. He reached out, grabbed her arm, and hustled her through the house out the back door.

"Stop resisting; the house is about to be overrun!" he hollered.

"Not in the dark, not outside!" she shrieked.

He didn't have time to argue, just simply dragged her until she got with the program. She looked back and the windows were blackened by the unnatural infestation. Black ooze poured out of windows and cracks in the frame as Jose and Juanita ran across the open lot in a hundred-yard dash toward a rickety old shed. Once inside, Jose barred the door.

"Now, start praying," he said, yanking down a crossbow, loading it with silver stakes, and then opening the door wide.

He got the first creature that materialized in the chest, exploded it, and slammed the door shut again. Juanita stood cringing against the wall saying the Lord's Prayer between sobs.

"Say it like you mean it, sister!" Jose hollered. "Put authority in your tone, and back this shit up!" He whirled around, eyes wild. "Not on my land! Not in my grandfather's house! Not when I'm with my woman!"

A bowie knife went into his back jeans pocket, and he shoved a jug of water toward Juanita, frantic. "Get away from the walls; the boards are loose. Anything that comes near it can scratch you—splash the mutha, and get it away from the walls!"

She nodded, her face streaked with tears, and the moment a demon tried to get its claws between a loose board she screamed and flung a large splash against the wall. Horrible screeches and hisses became one with the smell of burning, rotted flesh.

"Keep praying—loud," Jose commanded, his gaze going to the ceiling, his nose instant radar.

Reloading the crossbow, he sniffed, took aim, and blew a hole through the roof, and a screeching, squealing demon dropped into the center circle on the shed floor, then caught flame. Spinning wildly, the thing on the floor reached to grab Jose's leg in a death cry, but a bowie knife ended the creature's suffering the instant Jose flung the knife down hard.

"Douse the bastard," he said to Juanita, who was clutching the water jug to her chest. "Do it now!"

She flung water at the thing from where she stood, hiccup-crying. Jose's attention went to the walls, sensing, smelling, and then a low, threatening voice laughed quietly outside the shed.

"You're one of us," it hissed. "Vampire. Distant cousin. A very young one, but the nose is a dead giveaway. You love the night, just like we do. It makes you stronger, just like the female in your lair made you fearless. We'll be back to finish this another time, half-breed. Maybe next time you'll get a nick or a scratch, perhaps a little bite, that will make you lose your human stink."

Drums and car horns crashed into the yard. Headlights lit the shed from the outside. Chants and voices, torches, were one.

What the demon had said made Jose's blood run cold. It had to be bullshit, because he could touch silver, stand in a prayer circle, endure the white sagebrush and sacred anointing water.

Jose opened the shed door, and a ring of pickup trucks filled with old men and women who had hands raised, pumping shakers, surrounded them. One-by-one they calmly climbed down from the vehicles dressed in full ceremonial garb, feathered headdresses bouncing as they stomped the dried grass under the moonlight and made a circle. Spitting and lighting fire to the ground, they walked with blind purpose, not even looking at Jose or Juanita. Women dropped bundles of sticks and sagebrush in the ring of dirt until it roared and sputtered with fury. Jose held Juanita close to him, a crossbow at his side at the ready.

His grandfather stopped and spoke first, addressing the spiritual war dancers in Creek, then Navajo, and then finally looked at Jose and Juanita.

"It is time to join the circle," the old man said as the drumming quieted and the chants subsided. "Under the silver of the full moon, learn your true destiny, young warriors… Clan of the ancient Thunderbird, step forward."

Frozen where he stood, Jose gripped Juanita closer to his side.

"She is from the clan of the nighthawk and has seer eyes, that understand the darkness. But you must step forward first."

Reluctant and glancing up at the shed roof to ensure no predators would harm her, Jose left Juanita to walk forward a few paces to stand before his grandfather.

A gentle, calloused hand petted Jose's face as a shaker hissed in his ear, and then his grandfather began a slow, stomping circle around him, dusting his body with a handful of eagle feathers, chanting in a deep tone he'd know in his sleep.

The drumming stopped when his grandfather stopped to face him. "Young warrior, they came for you early, because they sensed it was time when you left the house to go to town, son." Tears made his grandfather's eyes glisten in the moonlight. "The prophecy begins… It will be hard, but we have made good medicine for you."

The circle shifted, and women shamans collected Juanita to make her stand by Jose before the roaring fire. Embers rose and carried on the wind like red-flecked fireflies. The silence created a natural harmony as fragrant sticks and twigs crackled and popped, and coyotes howled in the distance. Jose's grandfather waved two women forward; one was Jose's nana. The women came with bowls of oily water for Jose's grandfather to dip the feathers he clutched into, and he violently splashed the liquid across Jose's and Juanita's chests as though exorcising demons.

"Legend is truth; truth becomes legend. Without one the other cannot endure. We go back in time, many moons," he said as Native American flutes filled the quiet around them. "Eight generations ago, when the buffalo were plentiful, and the wolf could shift into man-skin and still run with packs at each full moon, it began on this land."

He paused and splashed Jose and Juanita with more of the strange liquid. Jose touched his chest with his fingertips as the substance started to make his skin tingle. He looked at Juanita and her lids were heavy. Instinct made him reach for her to hold her upright as she weaved a bit, appearing flushed and faint. The scent from the ministrations was strong, but he couldn't place it. He just prayed it wasn't some serious tribal hallucinogen, but everything was becoming hazy and his body felt too warm. Jose rubbed his eyes with his fists, seeing double. There was a ghostly layer of bluish-white aura around the old men and women in the circle, and his eyes went in and out of focus as it seemed like transparent forms of spirits wafted among the living, standing elders.

"A young warrior, our ancestor, was out chasing the shape-shifters… and he was attacked in battle by another beast." The old man paused and flung more oily water at Jose. "The beast with two fangs. The one that can only witness the shadows of the night. But the warrior was strong and did not die from his wounds."

The old man began chanting again and the drums accompanied his dance around the circle until he stopped and stared at the young couple once more.

"He sired many children, and only one lived to pass his seed to the next generation and then the next, all others dying young of blood diseases or sterile… then through the generations times eight you were born. Like your ancestor, part tracker, part the night itself. One day you will hunt what almost destroyed all generations to come. You will stand by one like yourself, a blood brother."

Jose's grip tightened on his crossbow. His mind was on fire like the inferno on the ground. Hot tears stung his eyes. What was his grandfather saying? He was a vampire, or part one, the undead! He didn't realize he was backing up and shaking his head until he almost bumped into another old brave. But Jose's grandfather's eyes held patience and such loving compassion that it made him swallow hard and stop.

"It is a gift," his grandfather whispered, his aged eyes holding Jose's gaze. "You can hold the sacred instruments of cleansing," he said, pointing to the silver stake in the crossbow. "You went into the place that is guarded by the Great Spirit," he added, motioning toward the shed with a wave of eagle feathers, "and the sunlight smiles in your hair. Do not fear. What you received from our ancestor is the best of the beast, making you a strong warrior—like the hunter who kills the bear but gains his strength. This is why you, alone, could defend a house from invasion. We had to see and know before we could complete the prophecy."

The old shaman moved the feathers about and used them to point to Juanita. "Your eyes will also guide him. You see through dreams and are his soul mate. You feed his hunger for the flesh and for the blood by living rhythm… he needs you, like you need him. But you will also have the quest to find his blood brother with your night eyes, and bring them together as one."

"Rider's dead," Jose whispered. "He never came back for his bike. She'd never know where to find him."

"Rider is the brother of your soul, and lives," Jose's grandfather said quietly. "You will soon bring the bike to him. Your blood brother is younger than you, but older in spirit, and does not have the fangs yet, but soon will… She is to wait with him until that happens."

Juanita shook her head and backed up to grab Jose's arm. "I'm not going looking for vampires by myself !"

"You are to hold the place and hold the line for the coming female warrior, the Neteru, who will slay him the way you have slain the inner beast within my grandson," the old man said without blinking. "It is prophecy."

"He will come to you and trust only you for a while before the blood hunger hits…" Jose's grandmother said softly, touching Juanita's arm. "But Jose will come back for you, once the prophecy is complete. It is out of our hands; the ancestors have spoken. Your eyes will be blinded, but soon the second sight will reveal your purpose, child. Do not fear the wisdom of the ancient ones."

"We ain't breaking up; that's all there is to it. As soon as the sun comes up, we're out. I'm going to art school; she's going to college with me. I'm not living my life in this madness—you can forget that!"

Jose grabbed Juanita around the waist and raised a crossbow toward the patient souls who simply stared at them.

"When that which is within comes to the fore," his grandfather said in a quiet, serene tone, "you will be reunited. You were her first, and marked her soul with pure love. She was your first, the first to see you as a true warrior. That marked your soul with pure love. The darkness cannot eclipse a sun so bright."

"I don't care what you say; we're not breaking up so she can go hunting demons alone and I can go on some bullshit quest!" Jose shouted, staring at his grandfather and trying to stay on his feet.

"I'm not leaving him," Juanita whispered, holding Jose's waist tighter as she swooned. "I won't!"

"When the full moon calls the coyote and the demon is ash," his nana whispered, "then you will have each other again."

"When the sun draws your blood brother to dance with ancient spirits… only when you step into the darkness without fear, and a light within burns brighter than that, will you taste your memory of this time." His grandfather began walking in a circle, touching the feathers to the ground. "It is done."

Shakers hissed; a slow drumbeat began. The flutes lilted a sad wail.

His grandfather's voice felt so far away, and Jose struggled to remain standing. He brushed the wet surface of his T-shirt and battled for consciousness.

"It is on your lips, the Thunderbird. Take back the night," a cacophony of faraway voices murmured. "Then it will fill your mouths and lungs to breathe new life again, and you will be home once more."

Arizona, present day

London, March 1820

The sun sank behind the Kasbah tents in Casablanca. Davie watched the light die from the third-story window of the room he had taken. Fear thumped in his chest. The night belonged to them. How would he find Rufford in this teeming city?

He lit a small oil lamp against the coming twilight. The Admiral had given Davie his fastest cutter. Supplies were diverted from a shipment to Gibraltar and sent to Casablanca. Whitehall was pulling out all the stops to give Rufford anything he needed for the war he was waging against the forces of darkness.

Darkness to darkness, monster over monster. Did it matter who won? Davie asked that question and answered himself a dozen times a day.

Yes. The world probably depended on Rufford's brand of darkness prevailing.

Davie had a hard time caring for the world just now. It was eleven days, ummmm, four hours, and twenty minutes since he had seen Emma Fairfield's face, incredulous, then hurt. That look had stayed with him through choppy seas and the smell of tar and salt water. She'd done everything but beg him to take her with him. A woman like Emma Fairfield did not beg. The need to be with her was a physical pain in his belly.

He went to the room's lone window, just an opening in the thick mud brick walls. He looked out across the city. Lights began to flicker as the Kasbah turned into a night market. The braying of donkeys and camels, the smell of spice and fruit and overripe meat, wafted up from streets that teemed with sellers and shoppers and no doubt something far more deadly. He could not have brought her into this chaos and danger.

"You came."

Davie whirled to see Ian Rufford standing in the shadows of the bare room, containing only a narrow bed and a dresser. He sucked in a breath. He thought he saw the gleam of red in Rufford's eyes. But then the man—if that was what you could call him these days—stepped out of the shadows and his eyes were as blue as Davie remembered them. Rufford had powerful shoulders and curling light brown hair worn too long and tied back in a black ribbon. The air was electric with the energy emanating from him. Davie recognized the telltale scent of cinnamon and something else, sweeter, underneath. They all had a variant of that scent and put out some version of that vibrating energy. The brute was handsome. So handsome he had enticed Elizabeth Rochewell into marrying him, even though she knew what he was. Davie and Emma Fairfield had stood up at their wedding. Davie still couldn't believe that Rufford had brought his new wife into the danger of North Africa. "How did you get in?"

Rufford shrugged. "Thank you for coming."

It was Davie's turn to shrug. "Rally round and all that." But he had been thinking about Rufford's wife. "I wonder that you didn't get your wife to see to your supply lines. She was a hand at organizing expeditions as I recall."

"My wife is doing just that for Khalenberg and Beatrix Lisse in Tripoli," he said. "The… extermination effort proceeds on several fronts. Urbano has Algiers."

Beatrix Lisse! Of course! The famous courtesan always wore perfume smelling vaguely like cinnamon. He should have guessed it wasn't perfume at all. "Why not send me to Tripoli and keep your wife by your side?" he couldn't help asking. Too late he realized that Rufford's wife might have left him, and the man just didn't want to admit that.

Rufford smiled grimly. "She can handle Khalenberg. You could not."

Davie was stung into a retort. "A slip of a girl?"

"She's our kind now," Rufford said. "And her blood is strong."

That stopped Davie. Elizabeth Rufford had been made vampire? A fate worse than death. Rufford once thought so, too. His saving grace was that he hadn't wanted to become a monster, had fought against it, hated it. Davie examined Rufford's face. The old pain and sorrow he had once seen there were gone. Rufford looked tired but… comfortable with himself, confident. Had he stopped hating that he was a monster? So much so that he made his wife into a monster, too?

"She was dying." It was as though he read Davie's thoughts. "My blood could save her. What would you have me do?"

Death is better than becoming a monster. That was what came of letting a woman come with you into dangerous climes. Thank God he had not been weak enough to ask Emma to marry him. Davie's heart clenched. He would probably never hold Emma Fairfield in his arms, now.

But he was not here to judge Rufford, or to mourn for what might have been with Emma. He was here to do his duty and help eradicate the remnants of Asharti's army, else humans would be kept as cattle and raised for their blood. He pushed the image of Emma's smile from his mind. "How goes the battle?"

Rufford didn't answer. His mouth set itself into a line and his jaw worked. "We need a safe house to heal during the daylight hours. We'll have to change the location frequently. Food, fresh clothing—African mostly, since we must pry them out of the local population."

Davie nodded. "Weapons? I brought an arsenal of guns."

Rufford shook his head. "Useless. Perhaps some sabers or cutlasses."

"Done. Bandages?"

Rufford raised his intense blue eyes. "No." He hesitated. "But we're going to need—"

Davie didn't want to hear the word. "I've been thinking about that," he interrupted. "Would it raise suspicions if I solicited donations? I could pay handsomely."

Rufford shook his head. "The city is frightened enough as it is. Bring five or six healthy specimens to the safe house each evening before we go out. We'll do the rest, and leave them with pleasant memories of a night of wine or love and money in their pocket they'll think they won at dice. We'll take a bit from each so no one is the worse for wear."

So. He was to be a procurer of blood. His face must have shown his revulsion.

"Look, Ware," Rufford said, his voice rough. "I'm not sure what you know of us, based on your time with her. Asharti," he almost choked on the name even still, "is not a good example of our kind. But you need to know our Rules."

Davie sucked in a breath and nodded. Rufford had suffered at her hands as well.

Rufford held himself still. The light of the lamp was the only flickering defense against the darkness that had grown in the room. Rufford stood outside its circle of illumination. His face was dimly visible in the shadows. "We have a parasite in our blood. We call it the Companion. It gives us strength. We can compel weaker minds as well as suggest memories. We can translocate—draw the power of our Companion until we pop out of space and time and reappear at a place of our choice within a range of a few miles. We are stronger than humans. The Companion rebuilds its host rather than relocating, so we heal wounds and life is extended… indefinitely." He made his tone matter-of-fact.

Immortal? The concept was too big to comprehend. Yet Davie knew from his terrible time with Asharti how true some of those impossible facts were. He had firsthand experience with compulsion. A woman of eight stone had brute strength that far surpassed his own. And he had seen Rufford heal a broken neck after trying to kill himself.

"We aren't harmed by garlic or wolfsbane or symbols of any religion. We don't sleep in the earth of our homeland. We have never been dead and we don't turn into wolves or bats. Those are superstitious myths."

"How can you prevail against your… kind if they are essentially immortal?"

"Decapitation. The head must be separated entirely from the body or it will heal."

Ugly. But at least there was some way to kill them. That's why Rufford wanted swords.

"You'll leave that to us, of course," Rufford continued. "Fedeyah and I—"

"Fedeyah! Asharti's second in command?"

Rufford nodded. "We are responsible for clearing the land west of the Atlas Mountains."

Davie's jaw dropped in horror and surprise. "Two of you? For all that territory? And one her servant? I would never trust him!"

"I do," Rufford said quietly. "With my life. Every night." He brushed aside Davie's outrage and glanced to the window. Outside it had grown full dark. "I must get to it. They are converging on Casablanca, which means this place will get more dangerous before it gets safer. That brings us to you." He turned back to Davie. "Don't go out at night. Stay at the safe house, no matter what you hear, no matter how badly you want to leave. Never touch us when we are wounded. Examine yourself for wounds and bandage them carefully before you get anywhere near us. A drop of our blood in the tiniest scratch or accidentally swallowed will infect you. You either die a horrible death or get immunity to the parasite from ingesting large quantities of vampire blood and become a vampire yourself. Not what you want, I'm sure."

The very concept made Davie's mouth dry.

"Think of your job as setting up a field hospital in a dangerous area." Rufford stepped back into the shadows. A more intense blackness seemed to whirl around him. "Begin tomorrow with finding a safe house. Leave the location here. Cover your tracks. They're everywhere."

And he was gone. Davie wondered where he and Fedeyah would find shelter tomorrow during the daylight. And he wondered just what he had gotten himself into. He had never felt so weak, so mortal. He turned to the window. Somewhere in the darkness Rufford and Fedeyah would do battle tonight with the remnants of Asharti's army converging on the city. He couldn't see them. But they were there. He stepped away from the window. Maybe they could see him.

It was almost dawn. Davie waited in the darkness of the tiny whitewashed house. The windows were covered over with black cloth. Rufford and Fedeyah would be here soon.

He should leave. The weapons cache must be moved and the food supply replenished. Then he would bring several young men and women for Rufford and Fedeyah when they woke. They drained a little blood from each, as the donors drowsed and smiled, and stored it in two leather sacks. They needed it most when they arrived, wounded, just after dawn. Davie had never seen them return from a night of fighting. But he had seen the results of the battle. The city was buzzing with fear. Twelve decapitated bodies had been found in an alley today. Twelve! The number of Asharti's followers in the city had been growing. And they were not as discreet as Rufford and Fedeyah. Human bodies drained of blood were being noticed, even in a city where the poor died on the streets every day. Citizens were leaving if they had the means to do so. Davie dreaded a panic that would send the population of the African metropolis streaming into the desert and certain death by exposure or setting sail for Gibraltar in unsafe craft that would leave them at the mercy of the weather and the sea.

With the turn of days, he had been lingering longer as dawn approached, tempted to stay. Curiosity killed the cat. Possibly quite literally in this case. Who knew what feral monsters Rufford and Fedeyah became after a night of killing? They never let him into the room where they slept. By the time he returned in the late afternoon, they were sitting in the chosen house, with the remains of the food he had brought scattered over a table, making plans for the night. This campaign was taking a terrible toll on Rufford. The man's grim determination had been slowly turning into a heartsickness that was palpable. And Fedeyah? Davie had never trusted the Arab and couldn't read his face. Fedeyah followed Rufford's orders, just as Davie did, though the Englishman was something like a thousand years younger than the Arab.

Davie felt he was doing too little, that he was protected from whatever put such a charge on their souls. At the very least he could witness that cost. So he sat, quiet, as the gap around the cloth that covered the window lightened. He laid a sharp cutlass across his knees, lit a fresh candle, and waited.

The two whirlpools of blackness did not surprise him. He had seen vampires translocating many times. But he was shocked at the figures that materialized out of the darkness onto the terra-cotta tiled floor. They were covered in wounds that showed bone and guts and shouted death. He jumped to his feet. Rufford took a single step forward. His soft leather boots gushed with blood. He was naked except for a cloth around his loins and those boots. His burnoose had apparently been ripped from his body. Davie had been in the Peninsular War. He had seen wounds and death aplenty, but nothing quite so vicious as Rufford's. It looked like an animal had raked him with six-inch claws. Shoulder gaped over ligament; chest showed bone; belly revealed intestine; thigh showed layers of muscle.

Rufford toppled to the floor.

Davie rushed forward. "Rufford!" Fedeyah sank to his knees. He, too, was wounded, but not like Rufford.

"Get from us," Fedeyah gasped in his heavily accented English. "The blood!"

Davie stopped, swallowing hard. Fedeyah's wounds were already beginning to close. Rufford didn't seem to be making the same progress. The scoring Davie could see on his back still bled. The dirt floor was dark with blood. "Can he die?" Davie croaked.

"No," Fedeyah panted. "But drinking blood can give him strength and spare him pain."

"Right, right." Davie scanned the room. "Blood." There it was, on the crude wooden table. He lunged for the leather water sacks. When he turned back, Fedeyah lay on the floor in semiconsciousness. His wounds were visibly healing now.

Davie took a breath. Very well. It was up to him. He held up his hands to the light of the candle, front and back, checking for cuts or scrapes. Nothing. He could do this. He knelt beside Rufford. The man's pale English flesh was an anomaly in this land of sun and sand. Davie sucked in a breath and turned Rufford over by the shoulders. Davie's hands were slick with blood. He heaved the nearly naked man into his lap, not looking at his belly or the wounds in his neck and chest. Holding up his head, Davie got the nipple of the water sack between Rufford's lips and squeezed. Thick, half-coagulated blood oozed from the corners of Rufford's mouth before he gasped and choked and swallowed. But then, barely conscious as he was, he sucked greedily.

God in heaven, what am I doing? Davie might burn in hell, but he wouldn't let a man suffer. When Rufford had taken what there was, Davie laid him down and took the other sack to Fedeyah. Davie roused the Arab, who raised himself on one elbow and took the water sack. Fedeyah upended it over his mouth and squeezed. Blood arced into his mouth. His wild black hair was caked with dirt and dried blood. As Davie watched, a scalp wound closed and sealed itself. Fedeyah leaned against a wooden chest, breathing hard.

Davie turned to Rufford. The belly wound was healed enough so that no intestines were visible now. The gleam of bone had gone from his chest. As Davie watched, Rufford opened his eyes. They radiated pain. His gaze darted about the room until it fell on Davie. "You shouldn't be here," Rufford croaked.

Davie leaned down and hoisted him up by one arm, though Rufford protested weakly. He got his shoulder under Rufford's arm and pulled him onto one of the beds, a simple wooden frame with rope netting supporting a straw mattress. Fedeyah crawled onto the other one. "You were in no shape to get to the blood," Davie panted.

"Doesn't matter," Rufford muttered. A cut on his temple sealed itself and faded into a pink line of new skin. "I'd heal sooner or later."

"If it weakens you for tonight, it matters. Looks like last night was a near thing."

"More all the time." Rufford's voice was bleak. "They make their own reinforcements."

Davie glanced to Fedeyah, who seemed to be dropping off to sleep. "You took the brunt of it," he said to Rufford.

"I have an Old One's blood. I am the stronger. It's up to me to protect him."

"Seems they know that. They're going for you."

Rufford nodded. "Word is out. We no longer have to look for them. They find us."

This whole campaign seemed hopeless to Davie. "Can just two of you turn the tide?"

"Beatrix sent word to all the cities and even to Mirso Monastery itself. They will come. Some to Tripoli, Algiers, and here. We must hold out until they get here."

"Then I hope they arrive soon."

"I'm more worried about Tripoli."

Ahhh. He was worried about his wife. Davie couldn't imagine having the woman you loved in a situation like this. He looked away, remembering Emma. He saw her in the breakfast room in the Grosvenor Square house. The room was light with gentle English sun. Her skin was clean and pink. He would never see her again.

"Miss Fairfield?"

Davie stared at him. The man could read minds!

"No," Rufford said, a small smile touching one corner of his mouth. "But your thoughts aren't hard to guess. I'm sorry I made you leave someone you love behind."

"How did you know it was Miss Fairfield?"

"It was written all over you two the day I married Beth. Did you tell her?"

Davie shook his head. "I was on my way to propose when Whitehall called."

"You didn't go through with it?"

Davie shook his head. "Couldn't make her feel… obligated, under the circumstances."

"Probably wise. Spunky, that girl. Stood up for Beth when no one else would."

Davie smiled. No one could help liking Emma. He looked away, lest Rufford see his weakness. "She was my best hope for a… normal life. After… you know. After… her."

"I like Englishmen," she said. They were in the chambers of the former ambassador in the English compound in El Golea. She lay across the huge bed of English walnut carved and inlaid with rococo magnificence, her body draped with strips of almost transparent cloth. A spill of heavy black hair splayed out over the rich cut-velvet spread. Her nails and lips were painted gold. Her nipples were dusted with it. Kohl lined her eyes. She wore a wide necklace of interlaced gold links to which had been attached hundreds of tiny gold disks, each set with a tinier jewel. Her wrist had a bracelet of the same. They tinkled when she moved.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he had never been more frightened of anyone. He knelt on the cool tile beside the bed, head bowed. He was naked, as always, knees wide, his most private parts vulnerable to her. She did not allow him even a scrap of cloth to cover his loins. He was full, if not fully erect. Two round marks punctured his flesh over the big arteries that ran down into each thigh from his groin. That was one of her favorite places to feed. She had him shaved and bathed daily and whipped almost as often with wide leather straps. She liked fresh welts but didn't want them bloody. If he was too injured, he would lose the strength to service her. He had become dulled to the horror of compulsion. Revulsion at her habits was a luxury not allowed a slave. The time when he had been Major Vernon Davis Ware, attaché to Lord Wembertin, was a distant dream.

"Come, Englishman," she whispered, beckoning with one long golden nail. Her eyes went red. He felt the familiar tightening in his balls, the throbbing in his cock that signaled a full erection. She could keep him hard all night, and she would. He crawled up onto the bed and lay beside her, his cock stiff now. He thumbed her nipple because that was what she wanted. She commanded, though she didn't speak. He obeyed. He kissed the top of her breast. She ran those long-nailed hands through his hair, over the welts on his back and buttocks. Then she lifted his chin with one finger even as she grasped his cock with the other. His throat was bared to her. He saw the glint of her canines in the darkness, felt the sharp pain. She sucked only lightly, a prelude to excite her as she writhed against him and pulled at his cock. The sensation cycled up to excruciating, but he wouldn't come. She hardly ever let him ejaculate. She liked to keep him raw and needing. With a jerk she pulled her teeth from his neck and lay back on the pillows. She wanted him to lick her.

She spread her legs and he knelt between them. She tilted her hips up. He parted her fur with his tongue and tasted her musk as he slid his tongue up and down to her point of pleasure, teasing her toward her release. As her excitement grew, she held his head to her pelvis and ground against him, moaning. Then her hips began to jerk and he sucked on her small nub, harder and harder, drawing out the sensation for her. When at last she could stand no more, she cried out and fell back. Her eyes faded from red to jet-black.

"I like you, Englishman," she said. She could speak many languages and did, seeming to choose them at random. He understood her when she spoke French or Arabic, Latin or Greek, but lost her when she started speaking the guttural one that sounded a little like German or Russian but wasn't. "But I find you have been keeping secrets from me."

Fear cycled up through Davie. What secrets could an attaché to an incompetent ambassador in a godforsaken place like El Golea have that she could want? He crawled to her side again. Should he beg forgiveness? Should he speak at all?

She arched. He had been well trained. He bent to suckle her nipple. The gold dust tasted bitter and metallic in his mouth. "I am told, slave, that an Englishman crawled in off the desert here some months ago. He had the marks on his body." She fingered the twin wounds at the inside of Davie's elbow. "Do you remember this man, slave?"

"Yes, Goddess," he said, around her nipple, which had tightened. She would be ready for his cock soon. She meant Rufford. He knew now how Rufford got those wounds. He understood the pain that drenched the man's eyes, why he said he had turned into his own worst nightmare.

"Where is he now, slave?" she whispered. Poor sod. Hadn't Rufford suffered enough?

"He's gone." There. He could give her that. That couldn't hurt Rufford.

Compulsion slammed into him. His cock grew painfully hard. "I know that!" she barked. "Where?"

Davie let out a moan. His balls were swollen almost to bursting. A molten core of fire was trying to get out through his cock and couldn't. "England." She couldn't reach Rufford there. How he longed to be in England with Rujford! He bent to kiss her. That was what she wanted. Her lips were soft, but he knew they covered fangs that would bite and suck yet tonight. She thrust her tongue into his mouth and lifted her hips again. He tore himself away and lay between her thighs, his cock aching as it trembled at her entry.

"Where in England?" she hissed.

He held up her hips and thrust inside her, hard, ramming his cock home. It was excruciating for him. She wanted it harder yet. She wasn't pleased. He slid in and out. Where? She wanted to know where. He couldn't tell her. He'd pretend he didn't know, even to himself, and then he wouldn't tell her. His cock screamed for release.

"Where?" Her eyes were full red now.

Stanbridge. Rufford said he was going home to Stanbridge. He couldn't help the thought. No! He should never have remembered it. He pumped inside her. She bucked in counterpoint. He bit his lip until it bled, trying not to say the word. He leaned down into her. She licked the blood from his lip. That brought out her canines. They pierced his carotid on the other side. She clung to him and sucked as he rammed his cock home. He felt her womb contract around him with her orgasm. His own cock was beyond pleasure and well into pain.

At last she lay back on the bed, panting, and allowed him to withdraw. His cock was raw, still throbbing with sensation.

"I was distracted," she said conversationally. "Now, where were we?"

Her eyes went from burgundy into carmine.

He panted against the word that thundered in his brain, pressing to be uttered. He twisted away, but she grabbed him by the nape of the neck and with incredible strength brought him round to face her. "I know you know," she whispered, almost inside his brain.

"Stanbridge!" he cried, and collapsed beside her. Betrayer! His eyes filled.

"That's better," Asharti soothed, stroking his head. "I'm surprised you had so much resistance left in you. You'll leave tomorrow for England, with a letter."

He raised his head. Leave? He shut down the hope that might just show in his eyes. Leave her? His betrayal had earned him freedom. Guilt washed over him.

"But first, tonight, you must be punished for your resistance."

Davie strode through the dusty streets of Casablanca wearing leather boots, a vest over his bare chest, and the loose pants identified with Berbers. Not that anyone would mistake him for one. His pale skin had tanned and his light hair was concealed by a head cloth, but his light eyes betrayed him. The saber hanging from his belt clanked against his thigh. The city would be unbearably hot if not for a hint of the sea in the air. The sun beat down remorselessly even in April. Behind him two bearers he had hired only this morning carried a large wooden box of sabers and a huge pack filled with food, leather pouches of blood, and clean clothing. They had no idea what they carried, and he was careful never to use the same ones twice. He chose only those sitting full in the sun to be sure they weren't vampire, just in case the scent of cinnamon was masked by the aroma of spices or the smell of camel dung.

How long had he been doing this? Forever. It must seem longer to Rufford and Fedeyah. Now Davie stayed each dawn until they arrived to be sure they could get the blood they needed to heal. The toll their campaign took on them was horrible to behold. There was no question of retreat, though. If humans were raised for their blood and vampires multiplied indiscriminately, both races would die out entirely.

He fingered the message from Admiral Groton demanding a full report on the status of Casablanca and Rufford's plans for coordinating the effort against Asharti's army. Davie didn't think he wanted Whitehall interfering with Rufford, now or in the future. Rufford was a moral man. Davie smiled to himself. He had never thought to say that about a monster. But it was more than he could say of Whitehall on occasion. He trusted the future of the human race more to Rufford than the Admiral and the Lord High Chancellor.

Davie directed the bearers into a side alley and up the stairs into a small apartment that would be their shelter tomorrow. He would sleep here tonight to ensure that no one but him was waiting for Rufford and Fedeyah.

Cinnamon! Davie jerked around, scanning the tiny winding street lined with bright fabrics drying in the sun and filled with children laughing as they darted over the cobblestones. He could see no one suspicious. Lord! He was getting jumpy. He dismissed the bearers, unpacked his supplies, then ventured out to scour the city for tomorrow's safe retreat. Finally, his work done, he returned to the house he had left at dawn to check on the vampire warriors as they slept the day away and tried to regain their strength.

He slipped into the darkened house. Lately they were so exhausted they had been sleeping like the dead. He grimaced at the image. They weren't dead, though. Vampires were very much alive. He moved quietly through the front room, the table still strewn with the remains of their repast, and into the dim sleeping quarters.

There was no reason he should sense trouble. The cinnamon scent could have belonged to Rufford and Fedeyah. The presence he felt could have been theirs. But it wasn't.

There! The wind flapped the dark fabric at the window and let in enough light to gleam against metal. Davie didn't stop to think. His sword slithered from its scabbard. The shadow, a deeper black in the dark, whirled to face him. His two charges stirred from their sleep. He raised his sword, not quite sure of his target. Metal bit into his side. He grunted with the shock of pain. Rufford rose. The sword in Davie's side was pulled out. The shadow was moving left, toward Rufford, sword up. Rufford's neck! Davie lunged forward, swinging the saber with both hands. It struck and stuck. He felt a warm splash across his face and chest. He pulled his sword away and tried to find an opening to strike again. Rufford struggled with the intruder. He couldn't risk wounding Rufford. Something thumped onto the floor. The vampire's sword clattered away. Fedeyah crouched, fighting another attacker. Davie turned to Fedeyah's foe, but Rufford, moving too swiftly for Davie's senses, was there before him. Did Rufford grab the intruder's head with both hands and simply wrench? Davie must have been mistaken. He was feeling dizzy now. It was dark. He sank to his knees.

Rufford turned from the shadowy figures lying on the packed-earth floor, and dragged Davie into the front room. Fedeyah lit a candle. Davie looked down and saw that his flowing pants were soaked with blood that was oozing from a wound in his side. Blood was splattered across his chest and leather vest, too.

"Got you good," Rufford muttered, sitting him forcibly in a chair. Davie craned to see into the room beyond, now dimly lit by the glow of the candle beside them. A body was clearly visible. It didn't have a head that he could see. "You almost got his head off." Rufford knelt beside Davie to examine the wound. "Saved my neck."

"It's hard to decapitate with a sword," Fedeyah observed as he ripped a clean burnoose into strips. "You have strength."

"Rufford had to finish the job," Davie said through teeth clenched against pain.

Fedeyah examined the wound. "Thrust clean through. Nothing vital touched."

Rufford touched the blood sprayed across Davie's torso. He looked up, shock in his eyes. "Some of this blood isn't yours." He pulled Davie's vest away. Davie looked down. The splatter of blood crossed his chest diagonally and splashed across the wound gaping in his side.

"Must be his…" Davie stared up at Rufford as the implications washed over him. Vampire blood. In his wound. "My God…" He looked around wildly. "Water! Flush it out."

Rufford straightened and put a hand on his shoulder to hold him in the chair. "Too late."

Davie slumped. He was a dead man.

In that moment all he could think about was Emma. He realized that somewhere inside he had held out hope he would survive this nightmare and return to Emma. Now, she would never know why he had left or how very much he loved her. He remembered her sweet face, anxious with concern for him, trying to tell him in every way allowed how much she wanted him. A vision of her as a tomboy, holding up her skirts to wade through his lily pond after frogs, slipped through him. At seventeen to her nine years, he had seemed so much older and wiser than she was. He felt a smile tremble on his lips. He had known nothing about her then, and now that he knew, he would never get to tell her just how wonderful she was.

"Guess we'll have to find you another procurer," he managed.

Rufford stared at him, brows knit. Suddenly Rufford jerked away and began to pace furiously, hands clasped behind his back. His knuckles were white. A burning started in Davie's side. He blinked several times, trying to master it, but it seemed to creep into his veins. Fedeyah stood over him, sympathy in his eyes. "How… how long?" Davie asked.

"Several days. A week. Not a pleasant death," Fedeyah remarked. He glanced to Rufford.

"You'd… you'd better leave me, then." Davie was having trouble getting his breath. "I'll draw a map… to your next… safe house."

Rufford ran his hands through his hair. That loosened the ribbon that bound it, and it cascaded over the shoulders of his burnoose. "Damn it, Fedeyah, we can't serve him thus!"

Fedeyah nodded, thoughtful. "I remember thinking the same of you once."

Rufford came to stand over Davie. His face was grim. "I have the blood of an Old One in my veins. My blood can give you immunity to the Companion and it will do its work quickly."

Davie cast about for meaning. "Make me… vampire?"

Rufford nodded. A muscle jumped in his jaw where he clenched his teeth.

"I thought the point… was to eradicate… made vampires." Davie wondered if the smile he managed was wry.

"You've got it wrong." Rufford's eyes were hard. "Fedeyah and I are both made vampires. The point is to stop those who would upset the balance of the world."

"I don't want… to be a monster." What had happened to his brave words to the Lord High Chancellor about vampires being victims, not monsters? They seemed naive. No, with reality staring him in the face, he realized he'd rather be dead than one who drank human blood.

Rufford nodded. "I know. I felt the same. But it doesn't have to be like that. You don't know the… joy of being one with your Companion. It can be… good. In all senses of the word."

"Doesn't look… very good… from here." The burning was consuming his vision. He felt light-headed, whether from loss of blood or the infection he didn't know. "Think I'll decline."

"I could force you," Rufford's voice grated out.

"You won't." He counted on Rufford's moral compass.

Rufford frowned and Davie knew he was right about him.

"You could use the Companion to do good in the world. If I made you, you'd be strong. We could use the help."

Ahhh. Playing on his sense of duty. Smart man, Rufford. Did Davie owe the world even becoming a monster? And what if they won through, unlikely as it seemed at the moment? He was left with eternal life and drinking human blood.

And yet… would he leave Rufford and Fedeyah to pay the price while he escaped with a few days of pain into death? His thoughts were getting muddled. Suddenly he seemed like the defector, betraying Rufford yet again. "I… don't know." Rufford seemed to be looking down at him from the end of a long tunnel. Could he abandon them just when things were darkest? "Give me your word you'll kill me if we prevail."

"If you still want it, I'll kill you. I give you my word."

He blinked. Was Rufford sincere? When had he not been? "Do it." He was about to become a monster.

Then the tunnel closed, and he saw nothing.

Emma sat, quiet for the first time in days, and looked out on the night from her small balcony. It wasn't that she wasn't frightened. She was. But there was nothing more to be done. She had posted her signs all over the city this afternoon even as the teeming hordes left town. The harbor was empty. The last ship had sailed on the evening tide. From where she sat she could see several fires burning in the town, but the looting now seemed sporadic. She had gathered lamps from several other rooms to be sure she had enough oil, and locked her door. She was going to sit here day and night with a light burning like a beacon until Davie came for her. She wouldn't let herself think of how angry he would be that she was here or that he might not even be in the city to see her signs. Every piece of common sense said this would work out badly. So she resolved not to listen to her common sense.

The hotel was quiet behind her. The shouting in the streets had grown distant. So she clearly heard the pounding of boot heels taking the stairs up from the lobby two at a time. Her heart leaped into her throat. She would be raped and killed in the next minutes, or…

She looked to the door. He burst through it as though it were made of paper, lock and all. "Davie!" She ran to him without thinking, relief flooding her. The door twisted into the room on broken hinges. He took her in an embrace that was like to break her ribs. She didn't care.

"Emma!" he said into her hair. "Emma, what are you doing here? This is no place for a woman." But the chastising nature of the words was lost in his lips moving through her hair, his breath warm. He was wearing only a shirt open at the collar and trousers and boots. He hadn't shaved in several days, but that didn't make him seem unkempt, only rugged and more male than she remembered. She had never seen him without a coat and waistcoat. The hardness of his body beneath his shirt and the exotic scent of cinnamon he wore combined to assault her senses.

But he'd asked a question. What was she doing here? And she'd never really thought what she would tell him. He held her away from his body and looked at her with hungry eyes. His gaze roved over her and stopped at her hair. "Oh," she said apologetically, shaking her head, now full of unruly blonde curls. "I cut off all my hair to make the signs."

Davie gave a lopsided smile. "I like it." Then his grin collapsed. "Oh, Emma, it's too dangerous here. You shouldn't have come!"

She couldn't avoid this. "I… I couldn't sit at home and let you face… whatever it was you were facing. And don't you dare tell me I'm only a woman and I couldn't help." She felt a strange anger rising in her breast. What was she angry at? That he put himself in danger? That he hadn't offered for her? That he hadn't had the courage of his convictions…

She gathered herself. "If you don't love me, Major Vernon Davis Ware, tell me straight out and I'll go home. But if you do… then we belong together, no matter the circumstance. I'll not be a burden on you. And I'll stay out of the way. But I can help you; I know I can."

He looked at her with such intensity in his eyes it made her feel faint. He seemed so… alive. He was magnetic, hypnotic even. Had he been this attractive when she'd last seen him? It must be the air of danger that made him seem to vibrate with energy. "This isn't a diplomatic mission, Emma. It's a war."

"Plenty of women follow the drum." She swallowed. "I'll work in the hospital with your wounded. I've volunteered in the hospital in London, you know. Or I'll cook, or I'll wash for your men. I'm not proud, Davie, and I'm not delicate."

He was running his hands up and down her arms from shoulders to elbows, apparently unaware that he did so. His gaze roamed the room. "Emma, Emma, you don't understand."

She grew surer of herself. "You must tell me you don't love me if you want me to leave."

"You know I love you," he almost snapped. "Or you wouldn't have come here…" He seemed to recollect himself. "Your reputation… did you have a companion? Your brother?"

"I hired two females and a retired officer as escort." He looked relieved. Well, he'd better know the worst. "I dismissed them in Gibraltar. How could I bring them here with all the rumors of blood in the streets?" Now distress furrowed his brow. "I don't care a jot for my reputation, Davie. I love you. I'll bind your wounds, and barter my jewels for chickens for your stew. I can't stay at home going to parties where the worst thing anyone can imagine is that Lady Jersey is with someone else's child again. And don't think I'll ever love anybody but you. You were talking nonsense that day in Grosvenor Square. If you won't have me, I'll go to Paris or Vienna and set up on my own and I'll die without knowing the joys of marriage. I won't settle for some loveless union with a duke or a poet."

He smiled ruefully and sighed. Then he touched her cheek with the back of his index finger and stroked gently. "My brave, rebellious Emma. You always did have more courage than any ten girls put together."

She wished he would take her in his arms again. As a matter of fact, she wished he would do more. She wanted to cross some line from which she couldn't retreat. In spite of her brave words, she needed to put England and home and small social concerns beyond her reach, to remove any risk that she might just run home with her tail between her legs if the going got rough. Today in Casablanca she had realized that the going might get very rough. She wanted to leave who she was behind entirely. She slid her hand up behind his neck and pulled him down to her. He looked… well, frightened. She brushed her lips across his, not quite believing she could be this bold. She really was a rebel!

"Emma," he breathed into her mouth. "You don't know… what I might… do."

"Yes, I do, Davie," she said with more confidence than she felt inside. "At least I know what I'm hoping you'll do." To punctuate her statement, she slid her hand underneath the open collar of his shirt. The skin at the nape of his neck was damp in the heat of Casablanca. "We love each other. You're going to show me how to love you." She was going to give up her virgin state in order to cross her line. All she had to do was convince him.

"You must save that for your marriage bed." He was breathing hard. She sidled into him and felt the shocking hardness under his trousers roll against her hip. He wanted her!

"That can be my marriage bed," she breathed, pointing to the bed in the other room of the suite. "When we can find someone to perform a ceremony, we will make it official." She saw the conflict churning behind his eyes. How dear that he was so concerned for her he would try to suppress his physical desires. But she wasn't going to let him do that. "If you want me, take me," she challenged. "But know I don't give myself lightly. It will be our troth."

How dare he?! Emma thought as she rattled the door-knob. He's locked me in!

She whirled and put her back against the door. She'd moved into the adjacent room at his insistence, because of the broken lock. Here she was, dressed in serviceable clothes and sensible half-boots, ready to go down and help him and his friends, and now he was trying to protect her from the ugliness of his life. She wouldn't have it.

She pushed off the door and went out onto the balcony. The sun was rising behind the city, for it created an answering glow out over the harbor, now empty of ships. We'll just see about that. She climbed up on the wooden chair and from there to the sidewall of the balcony. Don't look down. The gap isn't more than four feet. Hardly more than a step.

She held her breath and jumped, teetering on the wall of the balcony to her original room until she could grasp the striped awning and lower herself down. She dashed out through the broken door. Now to find her quarry. Where in the hotel would she be if she had just come in from battle? There were probably forty rooms here. No, not in a room. She'd be in the kitchens.

She went cautiously down the great staircase, then wended her way to the back from the lobby. She heard them before she saw them.

"Lord, Rufford, if reinforcements don't come soon…" Davie, sounding shocked.

"They'll come…" A weary baritone she recognized. She had stood up at his wedding to Beth Rochewell. Ian Rufford was here with Davie?

"Fedeyah, sit down. Drink this." Davie in his most commanding Major's voice.

"Enough! There is so little." An Arab accent. "Save some for Rufford and yourself."

She slid quietly toward an open doorway from which the voices came.

"I'll find more." This from Davie, but he wasn't sure. She could hear it in his voice.

"You can't go out in daylight." Mr. Rufford gasped for breath. "You'll fry."

"The city is deserted, except for them," the Arab muttered. "Unless Allah provides, we must do without."

Emma peered around the door frame. At first she couldn't quite take in what she was seeing. Davie stood over Mr. Rufford, who was laid out on one of the long wooden tables in the center of the kitchen. He cradled Mr. Rufford's head in one arm and was helping him to drink from a cup. Mr. Rufford's mouth was stained red, along with everything else. Blood was everywhere. Terrible wounds were revealed by the shredded clothing still clinging to Mr. Rufford. On the hearth of the great fireplace filled with spits and pots sat an Arab man with sad eyes, also wounded. The whole place smelled of blood. Shock and revulsion cascaded over her.

"I should never have left you to face them," Davie said, his voice soaked in guilt.

Mr. Rufford put up a hand and looked around. How was he still breathing? "Come in, my dear Miss Fairfield," he said hoarsely.

Davie swung round. The Arab looked up. She sighed and stepped out into the doorway.

"Miss Fairfield! Get back to your room!" Davie cried, laying Rufford back onto the table. He strode across to her and took her shoulders.

"Miss Fairfield"? "Get back to your room"? "As you recall, Major Ware, as soon as you can find a minister, it will be Emma Ware. And I told you when I accepted your proposal to share your life last night that I share it all, whether you like it or not." She looked to the other men. She was about to ask how she could help when a cut across Mr. Rufford's forehead sealed itself before her very eyes. She gasped. What is going on here ? Davie tried to turn her about and hustle her from the room, but she pulled out of his grasp. She glanced across to the Arab. The pink weal of a scar slowly disappeared from his cheek.

"What are you?" she whispered to Mr. Rufford, ignoring Davie's sputtering protests.

"Don't tell her," Davie warned.

"We are not like you, Miss Fairfield," Mr. Rufford said, getting up to one elbow. "Not anymore." A sword wound on his chest began to close.

She swallowed and tried to breathe. "I see that." She turned to Davie. "You might as well tell me."

He looked away, ashamed.

"Perhaps it would be easier if I tell you, Miss Fairfield. I'll be stronger in a bit." Mr. Rufford lay back, obviously exhausted.

She wanted to know now. Davie was leaning against the window frame as though defeated. She turned to the Arab. "You tell me."

The Arab glanced to Davie. "We have a thing in our blood, miss. It changes us."

"How?" She crossed the room to him, slowly. "How does it change you?"

"We are strong. We heal and live long. Sunlight is painful. We can move unseen."

Davie turned from the window, his expression fierce. "I don't think you're doing it justice, Fedeyah. It's a disease, Emma. We're vampire. We're immortal unless we're decapitated, and we drink human blood. No way around that. And Fedeyah forgot to mention the fact that we can compel weaker minds. We can make people do things they don't want to do."

They were vampire? The word echoed in her mind with horrible reverberations.

"God in heaven," Davie continued, rolling his head, "we can't even commit suicide! Rufford knows; he tried often enough. We're monsters, Emma, once we're infected. Monsters." This last was said on a note of such despair, her heart went out to him.

She stood, blinking stupidly, wondering what to do, what to think. Vampire, human blood, immortality. And Davie, her Davie, was condemned to this? She glanced to Rufford, who seemed only half-sensible, his wounds slowly resolving themselves. The red trickling from the corner of his mouth was human blood. How could she think that so calmly?

"Who did you kill tonight?" It was as though someone else asked the question.

"Others of our kind, made by an evil woman. Not pretty." Davie's mouth was grim.

Decapitation. She would wager it wasn't pretty.

"They want to rule the world," the Arab said. His voice grew incredibly sad. "They make more vampires. It would destroy the balance. We make jihad against them."

"Balance? What balance?"

"We do not kill humans for our blood," Fedeyah explained. "We don't make others of our kind. There are Rules. Rules they do not obey."

"And these Rules wouldn't condone marriage to a woman who isn't like you, would they?" She turned to Davie. Anger boiled up out of her belly uncontrolled. Davie drank human blood and was going to live forever unless he was killed in some horrible way fighting a war against monsters like him. "You knew that last night. And you let me think we could be happy together." Tears sprang from nowhere.

"Go back to your room, Miss Fairfield," Davie said. His voice was distant. He turned back to the window.

She whirled and ran down the corridor and up to her room. The damned door was locked, so she went into her original room and pushed the door back into its frame, no matter how silly that was. She couldn't lock out the creatures downstairs. With their strength they would just push through an unlocked door or a locked one. She remembered how Davie had burst into the room. She threw herself on the bed, sobbing, because all her innocence was lost and all her future, and the world held monsters and one of them was Davie.

With love to Joanie, Teresa and Cheryl. We've had some great laughs together, girlfriends! Oh, and what the heck, to Gerry, too, who brought us all together.

Blackthorn Manor, England, 1821

It was early the next morning when Anne met him. Her eyes felt swollen from lack of sleep. She'd lain awake much too long thinking of him once she'd reached the safety of her bed. Her lips were swollen, as well, and she knew what that was from. Lost in thought, she sat quietly dining upon breakfast with her aunt and uncle when a stranger entered the room. Anne had never seen the man, but she knew him instantly.

Her nostrils flared, her heart skipped a beat, and the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. The man didn't look her way but strode past her straight to her uncle.

"You sent for me, my lord?"

Her uncle dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Yes. I thought you should meet my niece. She frequents the stable much more than the Countess and I find agreeable, but because she does, I will provide an introduction. You should know who she is and how she is to be treated when she visits the stable to ride."

The new stable master inclined his head. It was a dark head. His hair was as black as a moonless night. It hung to his shoulders, was thick and curled around his collar. His lashes were just as dark, just as thick, shielding his eyes from her until he glanced up and in her direction. Anne forgot to breathe. He pinned her with ice blue eyes and she couldn't seem to form a simple thought. He stared, and she stared helplessly back.

Slowly, the rest of his features came into focus. High cheekbones, chiseled jawline, indentations along the sides of his mouth… a mouth shaped with a gentle hand when nothing else about him hinted at any tenderness. He was big, and broad, and beautiful. And for a moment, she thought she had seen him somewhere before, but she knew she could not have.

"My niece, Lady Anne Baldwin," her uncle's voice managed to penetrate the fog in her head. "Lady Anne, this is our new stable master, Merrick."

"Lady," the stable master said softly.

Anne knew she had to respond. She couldn't say his name. It was too intimate. "Mister… ?" She let her voice trail.

His eyes never left her. "Just Merrick. I've no last name. Born on the wrong side of the blanket. You may call me by my given name."

She simply nodded but refused to do so.

"I'll tell you what I tell the rest of those who work for me," her uncle interrupted. "You are to treat my niece with the utmost respect. She spends far too much time riding her horse and lurking about the stable when she knows her aunt and I do not necessarily approve of her fondness for such things. We indulge her here in the country where it makes little difference. But being in charge, I expect for you to watch out for her, and of course with as much distance as possible between the two of you while you do."

"Uncle!" Anne was embarrassed by his instructions and by his bluntness in her company.

He held up a hand. "A man must know his place, Anne. Sometimes a man must be told his place so that he doesn't forget."

"Really, my dear," Aunt Claire fussed. "Must you embarrass the girl so early in the morning? I'm certain our new man knows good and well his place, don't you, Merrick?"

As if reluctantly, the stable master's intense gaze swung from Anne toward her aunt. "I've been put in it enough times to know it, my lady," he said.

"Interesting." Aunt Claire's gaze slowly swept over him. "That you have an English name and a Scottish accent."

"My mother was Scottish," he explained. "Grew up listening to her, so naturally I would speak as she spoke. Whoever my father was, he asked her to give me an English name. Not his name, mind you, whatever it was, but an English Christian name."

"That will be all, Merrick " Anne's uncle piped up, dismissing the man. "My niece rides every morning at ten o'clock sharp. Her horse is the bay mare in stall five. Be sure that the horse is ready for Lady Anne."

Anne couldn't ride this morning. It was out of the question. She needed time to gather herself. "I will not ride today," she blurted. "I-I don't feel well," she explained to her aunt and uncle, who both looked surprised by her statement.

"I would have a word with your maid."

Anne's eyes snapped toward the new stable master. "What?"

"Your maid," he repeated. "I would like a word with her."

"Old Bertha?" Aunt Claire's brow furrowed. "Why on earth would you need to speak to her? Not that she could probably hear half of what you say. She's going quite deaf in her old age."

The new stable master didn't look surprised. He knew. Anne suspected he'd known all along. But how could he? He couldn't have seen her last night. She couldn't see him in the darkness.

"Never mind then," he said. "I assumed the lady might take her maid to ride along with her and I meant to question the woman regarding which horse she would use, but if the woman is old…"

"You will ride with my niece," her uncle instructed. "At least until I can decide upon a suitable groom. Her old groom is no longer with us. Ride with Lady Anne, but a proper distance behind her, of course."

"Of course," he said, and Anne detected a hint of sarcasm behind his cool expression. He was of the serving class. But he did not like it. Not one bit.

"Is that all, my lord?" he asked her uncle.

"You are dismissed," Uncle Theodore answered, returning to his breakfast. "Don't forget my instructions regarding the gray filly."

The stable master turned to leave. Anne was curious about all that went on in the stable. The gray filly was a particular favorite of hers, although the horse belonged to her uncle. "What about the gray filly?"

Merrick, as he would have her call him, hesitated, glancing toward her uncle. " 'Tis none of her affair," he said to the man. "Go on now about your business, or rather my business," her uncle added with a chuckle.

Uncle Theodore's good humor failed to make Merrick smile, and Anne found herself wondering what he might look like if he did. Would it soften the hard lines of his face? Merrick left the room and she stared after him until she felt her aunt's regard. Anne blushed and quickly turned her attention back to breakfast.

"He's very handsome, your new stable master, dear," Aunt Claire commented. "I am not certain he was a wise choice when we still have a young, beautiful woman beneath our roof. Rather like putting a fox in charge of the henhouse."

It bothered Anne somewhat that her aunt had referred to Blackthorn Manor as belonging to Anne's guardians. The house had belonged to Anne's mother and Blackthorn Manor, along with a large inheritance from her mother's lineage, would become Anne's when she turned twenty-one. Still, she said nothing. Anne felt certain it was an oversight.

Uncle Theodore had inherited Anne's father's title, but her father had been a "naked" earl, in that he had no property that went with his earldom. It had been Anne's mother who had married beneath her. A love match. Because she had no brothers or male relatives left living on her mother's side, Anne's son, if she had one, would someday become a Marquess.

Uncle Theodore waved a hand. "As long as the hens mind themselves, so will the fox." He glanced up, sharing a peculiar look with his wife that Anne had trouble reading. A warning?

Uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Anne was still curious about the filly and thought her uncle might be more talkative now that the stable master had left. "What are your plans for the filly?" she ventured again.

"Unsuitable conversation for a young lady," he said, frowning at her. "It is not your concern, Niece."

"Yes, Uncle," Anne replied dutifully, although his refusal to discuss the matter only made her more curious. Maybe she'd been too hasty in her decision to stay indoors this morning. The stable master knew what plans her uncle had for the gray filly. If she asked, he'd have to tell her, wouldn't he?

"May I be excused?" she asked. "Perhaps a short rest this morning will see me feeling more myself."

"Yes, by all means go and lie down for a while," her aunt said, patting Anne's hand absently, a required response rather than a heartfelt one. She tried not to be resentful. Her aunt and uncle had become her guardians when her parents had contacted a fever abroad and both died, leaving her orphaned at the age of ten. But she'd never felt truly loved again, not as her parents had loved her. Her aunt and uncle had been staying with her at Blackthorn Manor when the news of Anne's parents' deaths reached them. They had simply never left.

Her father and uncle were brothers. There was no one else to take Anne in, and perhaps had there been, she would at least have the knowledge that her aunt and uncle chose to raise her because they wanted to, not because they had to. Anne excused herself, rose from the table, and went upstairs. Old Bertha had nodded off in a chair and snored softly. Anne's riding habit had been laid out. She couldn't avoid the new stable master forever. Besides, she wanted to ask him about the filly and her uncle's plans for the horse.

Trying to concentrate on the ride and forget her escort, Anne took a familiar path through the fields along the north side of the manor house. The smell of rich dirt and clean air always made her feel better. Anne was a country girl at heart, if she could get on well enough in the city.

"What are my uncle's plans for the filly?" she called over her shoulder, expecting Merrick to be following at a discreet distance as he'd been told to do.

"I recall hearing your uncle say it wasn't your business."

She turned to find Merrick beside her. It didn't surprise her that he hadn't followed her uncle's instructions. Anne suspected Merrick seldom followed anyone's rules but his own.

"As my uncle said, I have a fondness for horses and the stable. The gray filly has excellent lines. He isn't going to sell her, is he?"

Merrick's lips suddenly curled slightly at the corners. "No," he answered. "She's in season. He wants to breed her."

Anne realized why her uncle had refused to discuss the issue with her. Such things were not discussed in the presence of ladies. She was always told to stay away from the stable when the breeding took place. The new stable master seemed to take delight in saying something so shocking in her company. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of making her blush again.

"To which stallion?" she asked. "I hope not Ascot, the large sorrel. He's too big boned. A colt produced by him would likely be too large for the filly to deliver. I'd personally choose Shadow, the charcoal stallion. He's smaller, and the coloring would suit, I'd think."

When Merrick didn't respond, she glanced toward him. His lips were still curled in that disturbing way that drew her gaze to them, but in his eyes shone a glimmer of respect.

"My thoughts exactly," he said. "Your uncle doesn't strike me as the type of man to appreciate my advice, however, so I'll not be giving it."

"It is your right, isn't it?" Anne asked. "To advise him on such matters? I thought that was the reason he hired you to run his stable."

He laughed and she saw the flash of his white teeth again. "He hired me to say he got the best. He likes the best, your uncle. Your aunt, too, I'm thinking."

Now he had overstepped his boundaries. Anne bristled. Her aunt and uncle did always require the best of everything, but that was beside the point.

"That is not a subject you are familiar with and you should refrain from pretending that you are," she scolded. "And aren't you supposed to be riding a proper distance behind me?"

The smile faded from his lips. "When I become familiar with the path, then I will ride discreetly behind you, my lady. If that is your wish," he added, as if the matter might be in question.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Anne asked defensively.

"I never said it was," he countered.

"You hinted at as much," she huffed. "You mustn't assume to know me or what I would or would not prefer simply because you made a mistake last night."

He lifted a dark brow. "Are you saying you didn't make one? Maybe you didn't mind giving me the wrong idea so much."

His easy ability to fluster her had Anne feeling a temper that was usually nonexistent in her. Instead of arguing with him, she turned her attention to the path, kicked her heels into Storm's sides, and took off. Anne let Storm have her head, both of them familiar with the path. Merrick pulled up next to her a moment later.

Storm was fast, but Anne doubted that she could outrun the black. The stallion was bigger and stronger. Anne, however, sat lighter in the saddle. She was feeling a rebellious streak again and urged Storm into a faster gait. Ahead the path narrowed, leaving the open fields and winding through wooded ground.

Anne supposed it wasn't a considerate thing to do, forcing the man to follow her in a dead run across a path he was not familiar with, but she suspected she could leave him behind easily enough. He should be put in his place… although she was never one to really think of "places" and "putting people in them" before.

Maybe she only wanted to show off. Anne seldom had an opportunity to display her riding skills. The paths in London, Rotten Row and the like, were tame for her talents. A log had fallen across the path ahead and she and the mare took the jump easily. Deeper Anne wound her way along the path into the woods, always aware that the stable master and the stallion were nearly on Storm's rump.

When the path widened, Merrick was suddenly beside her. Ahead, the path narrowed again and she couldn't let him get out in front of her. Then it would be a case of him leading and her following. Anne urged Storm on.

Merrick swore, then loosened the reins to give the stallion more freedom. The animal lunged ahead so swiftly that Anne felt a sinking sensation. Her mare couldn't match the stallion's speed. Just as Anne had wanted to avoid, Merrick pulled ahead when the path narrowed and she was forced to follow instead of lead.

The path widened again and they were in a meadow. He slowed his horse, and when she pulled up beside him Merrick reached across and snatched Anne from the saddle. She was so startled by the move she immediately struggled and almost toppled to the ground. A strong arm settled around her waist and he easily brought the headstrong stallion to a halt. Merrick let Anne slide to the ground and quickly dismounted.

"What do you think you are doing?" she demanded, for the second time in the space of a few hours after being in his company.

He dropped the reins to the stallion's bridle and pulled her a short distance from the excited animal. "I'm doing my job," Merrick shot back. "Making sure you don't break your pretty neck while trying to show me up and put me in my place."

"I am a very accomplished rider," Anne defended. "I thought you would have noticed that."

Merrick stared down at her. For just a moment, his blue eyes softened upon her. "I did notice," he said. "But I won't have you getting hurt my first day on the job because you wanted to impress me."

Since she'd just more or less admitted she was trying to impress him, Anne saw no reason to deny it. "Did I impress you?" she asked instead.

A smile tugged at the corner of his sensuous mouth. "You're a skilled rider," he admitted. "You have lovely form. You might have given me more of a race if not for the sidesaddle. It weighs more."

Anne glanced at her horse, the mare having come to a halt as soon as her rider was no longer at the reins to guide her. "I hate the saddle," Anne admitted, then bravely announced, "I'd like to ride astride, like a man."

She expected her declaration to shock him. Even old Barton had been shocked when she'd announced the same thing at the age of twelve. Merrick simply shrugged. "Then why don't you?"

Of course he wouldn't understand. Anne would enlighten him upon the subject. "It isn't considered proper for a lady to… to ride that way," she informed him. "My aunt and uncle would never allow it."

Merrick glanced about the clearing. "I don't see your aunt and uncle."

Anne came dangerously close to smiling. How simple his life must be compared to hers. She envied him in that moment. Anne had spent the good portion of her life heeding all the rules of society in order to please her aunt and uncle. In order to win their love.

"My old groom, Barton, nearly died of shock when I suggested it at the age of twelve." Recalling Barton brought tears to her eyes. Anne had been very fond of him. "He passed on just last month. I miss him."

Merrick placed his finger beneath her chin and forced her to look up at him. In his eyes was an expression so soft it melted her heart. It took her off guard—reminded her of the power he'd held over her the night before. Anne pulled away and blinked back her tears.

"You must think I'm silly," she said, walking toward Storm to gather the mare's drooping reins.

"I don't know what I think," she heard him say to her back. "And I usually know right away."

Anne decided then and there she must squash her unruly feelings for a man she hardly knew. It would be much better if they were simply friends. She took a deep breath and turned to face Merrick.

"Can we start over?" she asked. "I feel as if we've gotten off on the wrong foot with one another."

For some reason, her suggestion made him smile. Not a genuine one but more of a smirk. "Do you think you can geld me with an offer of friendship? Do you think that will make me forget what you feel like, and smell like, and taste like?"

Heat exploded in her cheeks and shot through her body. Anne had never met a man she couldn't tame with a show of good manners and an offer of friendship. But she sensed that this was a man unlike any she had met before. "I believe you have the wrong impression of me."

He sauntered toward her. "Now that's where you're wrong, lass. I think I might know you better than you know yourself."

When Anne looked up at him, she tried to appear as calm as he usually did in her presence. "What does that mean?"

The softness returned to his eyes and Anne thought that expression alone might be more dangerous than the scent he'd put off last night in the stable.

"You long to be something that you're not. I understand that well enough. You want things you cannot have. I understand that, too. You want to ride your horse astride like a man, at midnight, in nothing but your undergarments. What are you running from, Lady Anne? Or are you running in hopes you'll find whatever is missing in your life?"

The man had no right to ask her such personal questions. He had no right to assume so much about her. And damn him, he had no right to know her better than she knew herself, just as he claimed. This intimacy between them had to stop.

"I wish to return now," she said stiffly. Anne turned to mount her horse. Merrick was at her back in an instant. His hands closed around her waist.

"Not yet," he said. "Not until at least one of us gets something we want."

Anne wheeled to face him, nearly colliding with him, he stood so close. Her eyes made it past the dark hair teasing her from the open collar of his shirt, up across his broad shoulders, the dark whiskers on his chin and cheeks, to his icy eyes, but no, they were not cold. The heat was back in them. His gaze lowered to her lips and they parted as if he'd commanded them to do so. Would he kiss her again? Was that the something he wanted? And did it matter what she wanted? Or did she want the same thing?

He lifted a hand, almost touched her hair, then quickly withdrew it. "You wanted to ride astride like a man, and today you will."

Merrick turned from her and walked to the stallion. He unsaddled the horse in short order while she stood reeling from the onslaught of his nearness, her lips tingling in anticipation of a kiss that had not come.

"You are going to do it this time, aren't you?" he asked while carrying the saddle to her mount and laying it on the ground. "I'd hate to go through this trouble only to see you bolt and run away like you did last night."

A teasing light had entered his eyes, but Anne did not find him amusing. Staying last night had been out of the question. No telling what might have happened had she not regained her senses and fled to the safety of the house. And no telling how often she would wonder exactly what would have transpired between them if she hadn't escaped when she did.

"I will ride astride," she assured him.

He didn't comment but unsaddled Storm, then saddled the mare with the lightweight English saddle he'd used on the stallion. Merrick adjusted the stirrups, then turned to her.

"Up you go."

Anne glanced down at her skirt. "I wish I owned a pair of men's trousers. And tall boots like you are wearing."

He placed a hand against his heart. "I might not survive such a sight. You have lovely legs, lass."

She fought down another blush. Had Merrick seen her legs? And how had he seen anything at all when she hadn't been able to make out so much as his silhouette in the darkness? He couldn't have, she assured herself.

"I'm not sure how to proceed," Anne tried to change the subject. Only she had to bring it back around when she glanced meaningfully at the skirt of her riding habit.

Merrick motioned her closer with a jerk of his head. "Come on, I'll help you up, then you'll have to figure out the rest."

"And you won't say anything to my aunt or uncle about this?" She wanted reassurance.

"You have my word."

For some reason, Anne believed him—felt certain she could count on his word. Why, she had no idea. Maybe the man really had cast a spell over her. She allowed him to give her a leg up. In order to sit the saddle astride, she had to bunch her skirt up around her knees. It left her stocking-clad calves bare to his eyes, but she hoped he wouldn't look. He did.

"Very nice," he said. "Just like I remember."

Ignoring him, Anne urged Storm forward, awkward at first with her position astride the horse. It took Anne only a few paces to become braver and urge the bay into a trot. The sensation was strange, to say the least. Anne decided a gallop might prove less disturbing and soon she was on the path, racing along astride and realizing how cruel it was to make women ride sidesaddle.

She laughed out loud with the sheer freedom she felt, glanced behind her, and saw Merrick riding bareback behind her. He looked like a barbarian and her heart made a funny lurch inside of her chest.

"So what do you think?" Merrick called, quickly catching up to her.

"It's wonderful," she called back. "It's the way a horse was meant to be ridden. I shall never want to ride sidesaddle again."

"And what about riding in your underwear, bareback, at midnight across the moors? Are you still brave enough to do that?"

Anne slowed her mount. Was Merrick teasing her? "Not with an escort," she assured him.

He smiled in answer. Just at breakfast Anne had wondered what it would be like to see him smile. She decided she was better off not knowing. He had a smile that could melt winter.

"Would you do it if you had a pair of men's trousers and boots?"

She cocked a brow. "And where would I get those?"

He shrugged. "I could get them for you. The lad who sweeps out the stalls, Brennan, he's not much bigger than you."

What Merrick said was true. The stable boy was only ten but tall for his age. And Anne supposed his feet were still small. Did she dare? She had wanted to dare last night. But last night had proven a mistake, and she had a feeling meeting the new stable master in the dead of night for a midnight ride again would be another one.

"May I go alone?"

He shook his dark head. "I cannot allow that. You can go if you let me go with you, to watch after you."

His suggestion annoyed her. If her aunt and uncle were not particularly affectionate people toward her, they had made certain Anne had been well chaperoned all of her life. She wanted the freedom of riding alone.

"I don't need looking after," she said. "I'm a grown woman and, as you said yourself, a skilled rider."

Merrick leaned forward in the saddle and scratched his chin. "Have you ridden bareback before, then?"

Anne frowned. "Well, no, but—"

"When I feel you know what you are doing, then you can go alone and I'll keep your secrets."

Anne wasn't a mistrustful person by nature. But she wasn't as innocent as she'd been just the day before. "Why would you do that?" she asked.

He glanced at her and winked. "To see you in the trousers of course."

She had no idea if he was teasing her. Considering what had happened between them the night before, she thought she should ask, "You won't try anything like you did last night, will you?"

Merrick shrugged. "Probably. It's in my nature to ravish any young woman who stumbles across my path in the night." His expression was perfectly serious.

"Then I must decline."

The serious expression he wore disappeared and he surprised her by laughing out loud. Anne didn't care to be laughed at.

"What is so funny?" she asked stiffly.

He pulled up and stopped his horse. Anne did likewise. "Last night I didn't know who you were. Today I do. That changes everything, lass."

Anne ignored the slight sting she felt to her ego. "You said you would not forget," she reminded him.

Heat flared to life in his eyes as he stared at her. "Oh, to be sure, I won't. But a maid looking for sport with her lover, and a lady only wanting a midnight ride on her horse are two different things. You're safe with me… I think."

It was his afterthought that made Anne nervous. But that trepidation was easily outweighed by a chance to do something she'd wanted to do for a long time. It was a chance that might never come her way again.

"All right," she said. "Meet me at midnight in the stable. Have the clothes with you."

It was a question Merrick had asked himself many times in the past. Who or what? He knew he was different from other men. He did not understand why. He'd been able to read the wolves' thoughts or, rather, sense what they were feeling. He had warned them off and they had gone, no doubt as frightened of the strange human as humans would be if they knew the whole truth about him.

"I'm just a man like any other," he lied. "I simply have some rather odd abilities."

One of those abilities allowed him to see her expression in the darkness. For a moment she had been frightened of him; now her brow wrinkled and natural curiosity took over.

"What sort of abilities?"

The path Merrick walked was a dangerous one. He shouldn't have told her as much as he had. And yet he wanted to tell her. Why would he? It was bad enough that so much already stood between them. Their stations in life. Why would he want to broaden the gap? Maybe to put distance between them. Maybe to simply see her reaction.

"I can see in the dark," he answered. "I see your face. Last night in the stable, I saw you as clearly as if it were daylight, standing in your underwear, rolling your stockings down your shapely legs. Your chemise had a red silk rose sewed to the front of it."

Her eyes widened. She took an unconscious step back from him, and Merrick tried to ignore how much that affected him. "How could you know that?" she asked. "How could you see that clearly in the darkness? It is impossible."

He wished it were impossible. Merrick felt her withdrawing from him. Even if her mind told her it was impossible, her conscience had begun to fear him. It was what he'd wanted, to put distance between them. But it didn't feel like what he wanted at all. No, if he was honest with himself, he'd admit he wanted her back in his arms. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do more than kiss her.

Perhaps it was an unconscious act on his part, but he knew by the slight flare of her nostrils, the way her eyes suddenly became heavy lidded, that he put off the scent. The one that attracted women to him. Merrick knew that wasn't right. He knew, but whatever instinct inside of him wanted to seduce Lady Anne Baldwin took over. He wanted her to desire him as much as he desired her. He wanted to forget about his strange gifts and the gap that separated him and Anne. He wanted her to forget, too.

Slowly, he leaned down and captured her parted lips. They were as sweet as he remembered and more responsive than they'd been in the stable. He was no longer a stranger to her, which seemed to be working to his advantage. She moaned softly when he traced her full lower lip with his tongue. She opened wider to him and he slanted his mouth against hers, exploring her, tasting her, seducing her.

Anne pressed against him and he pulled her closer, molding her soft curves against him. He cupped her breast, his blood heating in his veins when she did not pull away. She gasped softly when he brushed her nipple with his thumb through the fabric of her shirt. He wanted her naked. He wanted to touch her skin.

Merrick backed her against the trunk of a thick tree. He kissed her neck, worked the laces at the front of her shirt loose until the material gaped open and he could slide his hand inside. Conscience whispered that this wasn't the same as the night in the stable. He knew who she was now. He knew she was innocent. Still, he could not stop himself.

Anne laughed out loud from the sheer joy of racing across the moors in the moonlight, the wind in her hair, Merrick at her back, his arms around her holding her securely in front of him. He was right. She'd never been on a horse as fast as the stallion. Sin's hooves thundered along the cracked ground, throwing clots up in their wake.

"Want to go faster?" he leaned in close to ask.

"Oh yes," she breathed; then they both leaned in together and the stallion shot ahead.

Her blood sang in her veins. Anne closed her eyes and simply lived in the moment—felt the horse powerful and surefooted beneath her, felt the wind dance across her face and a man's strong heartbeat against her back. She never wanted it to end, but of course it had to.

Merrick slowed the stallion. Sin's breath fogged on the air as he snorted a protest. Merrick knew the horse well. The stallion loved to run.

"There's a fair in the shire not far from Blackthorn Manor next week," she told Merrick. "You should race Sin there."

"And will you come to watch us run?"

Anne loved country fairs, if her aunt and uncle found them boring at best. "If my aunt and uncle will bring me," she answered. "They don't usually care for such things. My aunt would rather attend a grand ball in London."

"And what about you, Anne? What do you prefer?"

He'd brought the stallion to a halt. The moonlight bathed the land around them in soft light, again making her marvel that such a harsh landscape could be beautiful.

"I prefer the fair," she answered honestly. "Although my aunt would count it as time spent wastefully. There are no fine gentlemen at the fair for me to attract. There is no agenda there that she would approve of. No marriage mart."

Merrick pulled Anne's now tangled hair over one shoulder. The brush of his fingers against her neck made her shiver. "Why are you not wed already, Anne? Are the gentlemen in London all blind or daft?"

She could only be honest with him. "I am boring."

When he laughed, his warm breath caressed her ear. "You, boring? A woman who sneaks out of the house in the night and strips down to her underthings so she can ride her horse across the moors? A woman who ventures into the woods alone to confront wolves? A woman—"

"I don't usually do those things," Anne interrupted, turning so that she could see him. "I'm having a rebellion. I'm quite certain it will pass."

"Will it?"

His mouth was suddenly only a whisper from hers. Had he brought her out here to finish the seduction? Something wicked inside of her said if so, that might not be a bad thing. The ride had fired her blood. The ride and Merrick wrapped around her. Tonight might be all they had together. Anne knew her rebellion couldn't last. At some point she must regain her senses and return to her boring and predictable life… but perhaps not just yet.

It was none of his business, Merrick tried to assure himself for the hundredth time since he'd returned to the manor house. He was a servant, nothing more. It wasn't his place to interfere in Anne's life. Still, the conversation he'd overheard between Lord and Lady Baldwin bothered him. Should he tell Anne what he'd overheard, and would she believe him if he did?

Merrick paced the dark confines of the stable, plagued by indecision. He'd never gotten involved in such matters before. But then, he already was involved, whether he wanted to be or not. Damn his abnormal hearing and everything odd about him. It was a curse at times.

But Anne needed to be warned. He cared about her too much to see her cuckolded. She'd stayed away from the stable now for a week. It was just as well, since he'd been breeding the gray filly and knew Anne's uncle would not have wished her to be a witness to the breeding. Still, it had eaten at Merrick not to see her. It had also made him realize just how enamored of her he was. Which did him little good.

Even though it was late in the evening, Merrick thought it best to speak to Anne immediately. He knew which room upstairs belonged to her. He'd seen her standing at the window gazing out a time or two during the past week. Merrick would throw a rock to get her attention. He nearly ran into her on his way out of the stable.

"Good Lord," she gasped. "You scared me half to death. What are you doing slinking around this time of night?"

She'd given him a start, as well. "What are you doing slinking around this time of night?" he shot back.

"I need to talk to you," she answered. "Privately, so I thought it best to wait until everyone had gone to bed."

Although he was curious as to why Anne had sought him out, his concerns over what he'd heard earlier were uppermost on Merrick's mind. "I need to talk to you, too. I heard something today I thought you should know about."

"Heard something?" Her brow furrowed. "That concerns me?"

They stood at the entrance to the stable, in plain sight if anyone cared to look or was up at this late hour. Merrick took her arm and pulled her inside.

"I overheard your aunt and uncle arguing at the fair."

Anne eyed him oddly. "How could you have heard them? From what I saw, you were never within speaking or hearing distance of my aunt and uncle this afternoon."

He wouldn't go into detail about his abnormal hearing abilities. He'd already told her too much about his strange gifts. "I heard them," he insisted. "And they were arguing about you."

Although she was clearly confused as to how he could have heard a conversation take place between her aunt and uncle, a light of interest flickered within her lovely eyes. "Arguing about me?"

"Yes," he answered. "Your aunt was worried about the two of us. About the way we looked at one another. She said they'd done their best to make certain you didn't find a man to marry who was acceptable and she wouldn't let you make a mistake with one who wasn't."

"What?" Anne shook her head. "That makes no sense. It isn't as if they don't want me to marry, simply that no one suitable has offered for me."

"Anne." Merrick took her shoulders between his hands. "I imagine more have asked than you are aware of. You're lovely. And sweet. They don't want you to marry because if you aren't by the time you turn twenty-one, your inheritance is to fall under their control. They want your fortune, Anne."

She took a step back from him as if he'd delivered a blow. "That is not true. I am to gain my inheritance when I turn twenty-one. It's been understood for some time."

Merrick had to make her understand. "Only if you are married, Anne. I heard them say so. Otherwise, they are to take control of your inheritance until you turn twenty-five, at which time I imagine it will become yours whether you are married or not. I'm betting they'll have it spent by then, or tied up so you can't get it."

She looked stunned. "But it's my inheritance," she insisted. "I never knew there was a stipulation of marriage involved."

Anne didn't want to believe him, Merrick realized. She still clung to the hope that her aunt and uncle cared more for her than their actions showed. "They didn't want you to know. They are heavily indebted. I heard your aunt say so when she argued with your uncle about it, though they kept their voices low. Even the roof over their heads will someday pass to your husband. They stand to lose everything if you marry, Anne."

Doubt still clouded her eyes. It was hard for her to trust a stranger's word over what she wanted to believe about her aunt and uncle. "I have no wish to hurt you, Anne," he said. "If you don't want to believe me, then don't. At least I told you what I heard and my conscience is clear."

His duty done, he thought he'd turn from her and go back to the loft where he slept before he gave into temptation and pulled her into his arms. Merrick remembered she'd come to tell him something. "What was it you wanted to tell me?"

Still wearing a dazed expression, she chewed her full lower lip. "I… it was nothing. It was none of my business, just as this is none of yours. Never mind."

He'd hurt her whether he wanted to or not. Even if Anne had long suspected her aunt and uncle did not love her, hearing they only thought of her as a means to an end, fulfilling their own selfish desires, had hurt her deeply.

Merrick understood the pain of not being wanted. Still, maybe she needed to sleep on what he'd told her before it could penetrate—before she accepted that he had no reason to lie to her. He started to turn away from her again when his sharp ears caught the slight snap of a twig underfoot. The scuffle of slippers against the pebbles that made a path to the stable from the house.

"Someone's coming," he said. "Better hide until we see who it is and what they want."

Anne seemed to mentally shake herself. She glanced around. "I don't hear anything."

"Quiet," Merrick warned again. He took her arm and led her toward an empty stall. "Go in there and don't come out until whoever it is has left."

"But," she started to protest. Merrick didn't allow her. He gently pushed her inside the stall and hoped she'd stay put. He didn't need to be found with her alone this time of night.

A figure appeared at the stable entrance a moment later. Merrick wasn't surprised by her visit. It was Anne's aunt. The woman had been ogling him since the morning he was introduced to her. He was used to such visits from his previous employers' wives. Merrick was usually amused by their interest, but not tonight, and not this particular woman.

"Can I be of assistance to you, Lady?" he asked.

She sashayed toward him. "I hope so. I noticed something that distressed me today and thought we should clear the matter up. I didn't see call to involve my husband."

"I don't imagine so," Merrick said drily.

"It concerns Lady Anne," the woman forged ahead. "I fear she may be smitten with you. And that you might take advantage of her innocence."

"Do you now?"

The woman stepped closer. Anne's aunt wasn't an unattractive woman, but she was nearly old enough to be Merrick's mother and the scowl she usually wore had deepened the lines in her forehead and around her mouth. "I've seen the way you look at her… and the way she looks at you. Anne is a beautiful young woman and I don't doubt you find her to your liking, but I won't have you making sport of her."

Merrick leaned casually back against the stall where Anne hid. "It's honorable that you want to protect her."

She shrugged. "I suppose even a sensible girl like Anne's head can be turned by a handsome face. And I am sure that you are well used to women throwing themselves at you, Merrick. There is no need, however, to go sniffing around her skirts when another option is open to you."

Although he knew what her answer would be, Merrick asked, "What option is that?"

Her hand shot out and her fingers traced a lazy path up the front of his chest. "Me, of course," she answered. "Despoiling an innocent is one thing. Having a dalliance with an experienced woman is another. My husband bores me and has since a week into our marriage."

Merrick didn't want the woman touching him, but Anne needed to be convinced that her aunt and uncle did not have her best interests at heart, no matter if she wanted to believe otherwise. "Are you worried that I'll ruin Lady Anne before you can marry her off?"

"Don't be silly," the woman snapped. "To be honest, I was simply feeling a bit like she'd intruded upon my territory. I consider everything on this property mine… you included." The woman cocked her head to one side. "Now that you mention that, however, it is not a bad idea. You see, I would prefer that Anne not marry. It would be to my benefit if she does not."

Merrick knew every word from the woman's mouth shattered Anne, but maybe Anne was too innocent for her own good. "So now you're asking me to ruin her so she won't be a fit wife for a gentleman of her own station?"

"It is a possibility," the woman answered. "But first, I want my fill of you. Do we have an understanding?"

He stopped the woman's hand from traveling farther up his chest. "No. We do not. I am not yours to command. You don't own me like I am a horse in your husband's stable. I have no wish to bed you, Lady."

Her face, maybe once pretty but now only bitter, suffused with color. "Are you refusing me?"

"I don't have many rights, but I imagine deciding who I pleasure and who I don't is one of them," he assured her. "Go back to the house and get what you need from your husband."

The woman's mouth fell open. "It's Anne, isn't it? You only want her."

Merrick thought about his answer. "I care for Anne. I would not demean her in the manner you want me to, and certainly not for your own gain."

"How do you know it would be to my gain?" The woman's eyes narrowed upon him. "And why would you care as long as you got what you want… unless." She suddenly laughed. "Oh dear, you're in love with her."

Was he? Merrick had never been in love before. He only knew he wanted to protect Anne. He wanted her to be happy. "You should go," he said to the woman. Anne had heard all she needed to hear.

"Poor fool." The woman clucked. "Even Anne knows her place in life, and yours. Don't think you're the first to be smitten. We've had to beat the suitors back with a stick, although Anne is not aware of that. I'd prefer she stay in the dark. Let her think she is not interesting enough to capture a man's attention. At least for a while longer."

"I can tell her what you've said to me," Merrick said.

The lady lifted a brow. "You wouldn't dare. And she wouldn't believe you anyway. Anne sees the best in us and always has. She is cursed that way, I suppose. Poor thing, so hungry for love."

Anger for Anne churned his gut. "How can you not love her?" He hadn't meant to speak the thought out loud.

Lady Baldwin drew herself up straighter. "I have done my duty by Anne. I didn't want children. I don't even like them, but my husband convinced me there would be rewards by taking Anne in and raising her. I will not see my just rewards stripped from me. And I think your time here has come to an end. You won't cooperate and I will therefore see you dismissed. I'll simply tell my husband you are not only trying to get Anne into your loft, but you have propositioned me, as well. Pack your things; you'll be gone come morning."

With that warning, Lady Baldwin turned and stormed from the stable. Merrick waited a moment to make certain she had gone. He opened the stall behind him and went inside. He found Anne huddled on the straw-covered floor. Her hands covered her face and her shoulders shook. His heart broke for her. He bent beside her and gently touched her.

Anne glanced up, tears streaming down her face. "I didn't want to believe you. I'm so blinded by my own hopes at times. I feel like a fool. Does that make you happy?"

At one time, Merrick supposed it would have brought him some sense of pleasure to expose her aunt's deception, to tear a family apart, one of the upper classes anyway. Merrick felt no pleasure in seeing Anne's tears. They tugged at his heart. "I'm sorry," was all he could think to say.

In her pain, he expected her to lash out at him, and he would understand, but instead she only covered her face with her hands and leaned into his body. "What am I going to do?"

Merrick took her shoulders and forced her to sit. "Look at me, Anne. You need to get married. And the sooner the better."

She blinked up at him. "Married? To whom?"

"To whomever," Merrick insisted. "The two of you can slip away to Gretna Green. You can marry before your aunt and uncle can stop you."

Anne ran a shaky hand through her hair. "It's impossible. First I'd have to go to London to find someone, then talk him into marrying me. My aunt and uncle would never let me go without them. I can't go alone. Not all that way without some type of protection. There are thieves on the roads. It wouldn't be safe."

Merrick would be dismissed tomorrow anyway. "I can take you to London, Anne. Now, tonight. I can protect you."

Her large doelike eyes lifted to him. She reached out and gently touched his cheek. "Why would you? Why do you care, Merrick?"

Why indeed? He'd never stuck his nose in matters that weren't his business before. But Anne felt like his business. "I know what it's like to feel as if you mean nothing to someone. But you aren't nothing, Anne. I won't have them making you feel that way."

Merrick and Anne were camped not a day's ride from Gretna Green. Anne had changed into the stable boy's trousers and boots before they stole from the stable. Merrick had proven unsurprisingly useful on the journey. He knew when to take to the woods and when to use the road. Where to find fresh game. He knew too many things for a mere mortal man. Tonight he'd said they could have a fire.

They sat before it now, eating a roasted rabbit he'd caught and skinned earlier. Merrick sat across from her. His eyes glittered in the darkness. Anne tried to tell herself it was due to the flickering firelight… but she'd seen them gleam before when there was no fire.

She hadn't told him about her suspicions regarding his father. Their flight from Blackthorn Manor hadn't given her time to think about anything but getting away. But now she had to tell Merrick. He deserved to know.

"I've been meaning to tell you something," she said.

"What's that?"

For a moment Anne was mesmerized by the sight of Merrick licking grease from his long, slender fingers. The meat was somewhat messy and it wasn't as if they were afforded the luxuries of home.

"Anne?" he asked.

She tried to regain her thoughts. "I believe I know who your father was."

His strange eyes pinned her in the darkness. "How could you possibly know that? I don't even know."

Anne used the coarse britches she wore to wipe her own greasy hands. "When I first saw you, I mean in the light of day, I had the strangest notion I had met you before. The day of the race, I realized it was because you are the spitting image of Lord Jackson Wulf. The reason it didn't immediately dawn upon me is because you have dark hair and light eyes and with him it is the opposite."

Merrick's brow furrowed. "Wulf? I've heard of them. Any man who knows anything about horses has heard of them. Never seen them. They don't spend a good deal of time in London to my knowledge."

"No," she agreed. "They prefer the country estate for the most part. They… well, there is talk about them."

His eyes met hers again. "Cursed," he said softly. "It is said they are cursed by insanity."

Anne waved a hand in dismissal. "I don't believe they are cursed. Lord Jackson is really quite nice if one takes the time to get to know him and as sane as the next man. I am not familiar with the other brothers but assume they are also as well mannered when the mood suits them. Lord Jackson and I are friends."

Merrick lifted a brow. "Friends?"

She might be fooling herself again, but Anne thought she caught a note of possessiveness in his voice. "He's married," she blurted. "I mean, he wasn't when I first met him abroad, but he is now."

Merrick continued to study her, as if trying to decide if her friendship with Lord Jackson might have been more than innocent. Finally, he asked, "And I look like him?"

She nodded. "More than a little. Too much for it be coincidence."

Lifting a water skin, Merrick took a drink. "The father is dead, if I recall."

"Yes," Anne responded. "A little more than ten years ago. He… he killed himself. They say he was mad when he did, and his wife insane, as well, when she went shortly after. It caused a scandal."

He was silent, as if mulling over what she'd told him. "What you say may be true, Anne, but I don't suppose it makes any difference now."

His response surprised her. Anne rose from the fallen log she sat upon. "No difference? To know you are a Wulf? To learn that you have half brothers? That makes no difference to you?"

Merrick shrugged. "It doesn't change anything for me, Anne." He stood as well. "I'm still a bastard. A secret my father wanted to keep hidden from the rest of the world. His dirty deed. I doubt the brothers would welcome me into the family with open arms, would be willing to share their lives and their wealth with me. I've still got nothing. No name, and now, no position."

Anne walked around the fire to join him. "Tomorrow, that will all change," she reminded him. "Tomorrow, you will have all that I have. More important, you will have your revenge."

His glittering gaze bored into hers. "And you will have yours. Right, Anne?"

She had to look away from him. For her, the marriage was not simply a matter of revenge. But Merrick need not know that. "Yes," she answered. "I will have my revenge."

The touch of his fingers upon her chin was gentle. He forced her to look at him again. "You should want more than that, Anne. Me, I cut my teeth on a need for revenge. But you're not like me. You're different."

Tears burned her eyes. Anne blinked them back. He was wrong. She was bitter. "I've wasted my life trying to be the person I thought my aunt and uncle wanted me to be. I've wasted my life trying to make them love me. That's all I wanted, to be loved again."

His fingers brushed a stray tear from her cheek. His eyes were soft as he gazed down at her. "And you deserve to be… loved. I'm thinking I cannot do this, Anne. Marry you. Not even for revenge."

Would Merrick reject her, as well? This possibility had not occurred to Anne when she'd ridden off into the night with him. "You don't want me, either," she whispered.

His eyes closed for a moment, as if her accusation hurt him. "I wanted you from the first moment I saw you. There are things I don't even understand about myself, Anne. You are good and kind and innocent, and you deserve better than this. An arrangement."

She'd believed if she hardened her heart against the world, it might spare her from ever feeling pain again. But now Anne understood that she was all that she had aspired to become while growing up. Her heart was soft, and it was soft for this man. She reached up and touched his cheek in turn.

"You are a better man than you give yourself credit for being. No man has ever made me feel the things that you make me feel."

Merrick suddenly pulled away from her and turned his back. "I make all women feel things," he said, his tone harsh. "It is one of my 'gifts.'"

Anne wasn't certain what he meant. She supposed she could count the way he looked as being a gift. His voice, low and lilting, that flowed over her like sweet honey syrup she imagined could be counted as a gift, too. But Anne knew her attraction toward him went beyond his outer beauty. His scent, even though it attracted her, could not make her feel something she didn't honestly feel inside.

Whether he wanted to have them or not, Merrick had morals. She strongly suspected that he would not take her innocence tonight without wedding her on the morrow. Which left Anne no choice but to seduce him. She couldn't turn back now. She didn't want to turn back.

Anne closed the distance between them and touched his shoulder. He turned to look at her. Lifting herself on tiptoes, she pressed her mouth against his. Although inexperienced in the art of seduction, Anne sensed that she must rid herself of all inhibitions—simply act upon her emotions and let them carry her away, and him with her, she hoped.

Merrick's lips were warm, firm, and, unfortunately, unresponsive. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. His eyes were open. She ended the contact.

"Tell me you want me, Anne."

Surely he knew that she did. Surely he had the experience to know. "You know that I do."

Merrick shook his dark head. "No, I don't know. Is it the scent on me that makes you want me? Does the reason have anything to do with me at all? Tell me you want me, Anne. Only me."

He reached out and pulled her closer. His scent was in the air now and Anne had to admit it was a strong aphrodisiac. But it was the man she wanted. The man who had taught her to ride a horse bareback, who had taken her racing across the moors in the moonlight. The man who had saved her from wolves. The man who cared enough about her to warn her of her aunt and uncle's deception. The man who would turn his back on a fortune because he thought she deserved more than a bargain for the sake of revenge.

All of her life, Anne had been waiting to be loved again.

Longing to be loved again. In that moment, she realized that Merrick did love her. Perhaps he did not even know it, but she knew it, and for the moment, that was all that mattered.

"It's the man I want, Merrick," she answered. "It's the man I love."

His eyes flared in the darkness. "Do you love me? A bastard? A man with strange gifts he cannot understand and a heart bitter against a world that has no proper place for him?"

Her arms went around his neck. "Your place is with me. Destiny brought us together. I need your strength and you need my softness."

Slowly, he lowered his head. His lips brushed softly across hers. "You have strength enough on your own, Anne," he said.

"Make love to me," she whispered. "Share all that you are with me. And I will share all that I am, or have, with you."

Merrick made a low sound in his throat, nearly a growl. His eyes flashed blue fire in the night. "Don't tempt me, Anne. You know I want you."

She lifted her chin. "Then take me, Merrick."

He smiled at her daring. "You would trap me into taking your innocence so that I am honor bound to say the vows tomorrow. Very clever, Anne."

Although what he said was true, he needn't make it sound as if that were Anne's only reason for wanting him. Who better than him? A man who understood her love of horses and riding? A man who would let her have her independence and who wouldn't mind so much if she wanted to be bad on occasion, perhaps as long as it was only with him? There was no wrong in tricking him into making love to her. Anne loved him. He might not say the words, but he loved her, as well. Or she thought he did. Was she fooling herself again?

"Do you love me, Merrick?"

He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "You're a hard woman not to love."

It wasn't an answer. Not really. "Do you love me?" she repeated.

He looked away from her. She thought he wouldn't answer; then he glanced back into her eyes. "You know I do."

Her heart pounded in her chest. Joy rose inside of her, because she knew he wasn't lying to her. He wasn't trying to deceive her. At long last, she had what she wanted. Bravely, Anne reached down and pulled her shirt and chemise over her head. She stood before him bare to the waist.

"Show me you love me," she said.

The fire in his eyes flared. His gaze roamed her naked flesh. Everywhere he looked, her skin heated. Her nipples puckered in the cool night air.

"Jesus, lass," he whispered, his voice low and raw sounding. "You're beautiful. Your skin is like fine porcelain—so pale and smooth I wonder if you'll break if I touch you."

"I will not break," she assured him, her own voice breathless. "Touch me and see."

Merrick's eyes locked with hers. He reached out and touched her cheek, caressing her gently before lowering his hand to her breast. She fit into his hand as if she were fashioned for him alone.

She gasped softly when his thumb brushed across her sensitive nipple. He bent forward, kissed her neck, then moved lower until his tongue performed the same tantalizing dance that his thumb had a moment earlier. Anne twisted her fingers in his thick hair. Her knees nearly buckled when he took the straining peak into his warm mouth and sucked. He straightened, gazed into her eyes, then picked her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing.

Their blankets were spread for the night and he took her to his, lowered her gently, and knelt beside her. "What do you know of matters between men and women, Anne?"

"Nothing much," she answered. "My aunt didn't speak to me of such things. My maid told me there would be pain my first time with a man."

Merrick ran a finger down her arm. "I don't know about being with a woman her first time. But I know there can be pleasure between us. Are you willing to go through the pain first?"

He offered her one last time to regain her senses. Anne didn't want to regain them. She did trust him. She had to trust him. There could not be love without trust.

"Yes," she answered. "I trust you, Merrick."

Slowly, he pulled his shirt over his head. Anne hadn't seen him without a shirt, and she quickly surmised it was something she wanted to do often in the future. His skin gleamed in the moonlight.

A smattering of dark hair covered his chest, tapering down into a thin line that traced a path down his corded stomach to disappear into the top of his trousers. She wanted to touch him. Wanted it badly enough to reach out and run her fingers down his chest. He was warm to the touch, as she knew he would be. She didn't know that a man could look soft and feel hard. There was no excess to be found on him. Only steely muscle and glorious tawny-colored skin.

"You are beautiful," she whispered.

"Come into my arms," he commanded. "Feel my skin against yours. Feel the differences between us."

She went willingly. The touch of her skin against his was like nothing she had experienced before. He tangled his hands in her hair and pulled her head back. Then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.

They sank into a kiss where mouths were fused, tongues clashed, and gentleness slipped away on the night breeze. The soft down on his chest teased her nipples and sent heat coursing to the place between her legs. He lowered her to the blanket, mouths still joined, skin against skin. Only when her head touched the ground, cradled by his hand, did he end the kiss. Merrick stared down at her, hypnotizing her with his strange night eyes; then he bent to kiss her neck.

Lower he traveled, finding her nipple and drawing it so deep into his mouth that her nails dug into his shoulders. Her hips arched upward as if by some uncontrollable force. Between her legs, she began to throb. Slowly his hand traveled down her body. He came to the tie on her trousers and loosened it, then pulled the trousers down her hips and legs.

Anne was a modest person by nature. It wasn't so easy to leave the past behind in one night. But when Merrick kissed her again, she began to relax. While he distracted her with the skill of his mouth, he introduced her to the skill of his fingers.

The first touch made her jump, to have his hand there, where no man had been before. He did not soothe her with soft words but continued to kiss her, doing nothing more than stroking the curls that shielded her mound. It wasn't so awkward, Anne decided, more distracted by his tongue delving into her mouth than what purpose his hand might hold.

When she didn't resist, he became bolder. Gently, he slid his finger into her cleft and rubbed a place where all her sensation must surely lie. Anne gasped and tried to close her legs.

"Don't," he said softly. "Don't shut me out. Let me bring you pleasure before I bring you pain."

Her face flamed with embarrassment. "I—I'm wet there for some reason."

He smiled and gave her a soft, quick kiss. "If you weren't, I wouldn't be doing my job. You're wet there so our bodies can join. It's to welcome me in, so don't shut me out."

Anne willed her body to relax. She'd never imagined what all intimacy with a man entailed, but she rather thought it would be a quick affair, both only exposing the necessary parts to complete the act, then quickly righting their clothing and going to sleep. Necessary parts stuck in her head.

"Am I allowed to touch you, as well?" she asked. "I mean, wherever I wish?"

He lifted a brow. "Curious?"

"Yes," she answered.

He bent and kissed her again. "My body is yours tonight." He suddenly stood, slipped off his boots, then reached for the ties of his Cossacks. Ann turned on her side, placed a hand under her head, and watched him. She thought he took an abnormally long time to untie the fastening of his trousers. She might have even thought he was stalling, that he might be more modest than he pretended to be, but then she realized she was holding her breath, her eyes glued to the ties as his fingers leisurely undid them, and what he did he did for her pleasure.

Finally the ties were loosened and he slid his trousers down his hips, past his legs, and stepped from them. He straightened and stood before her naked. She supposed her eyes widened—resembled two twin moons. Whispered words from the ladies at the fair like "stallion" came to mind, and with good reason.

"Do you like what you see, Anne?"

She glanced up at his face. Shadows hid his features, but his eyes still glowed blue. Slowly, her gaze ran the length of him again. Past his broad shoulders, his muscled chest and flat abdomen, to the member jutting proudly, and rather impressively, away from his body. His hips were slim, his flanks smooth; his muscled legs were long and dusted by dark hair.

"Yes," she whispered. "Whatever your bloodline, you are a fine specimen of a man."

He came to her, bent beside her. Even though his eyes were on fire, his touch was gentle. He kissed her softly—teased her lips until her arms slid up around his neck and her fingers twisted in his hair. He lay beside her and pulled her into his arms and the contact of flesh against flesh, male against female, warmed her body and crashed through any defenses still standing. Slowly, he traced a finger down her body from neck to navel, and then lower.

"I want to touch you, and taste you, and make you mine… forever."

She wanted that, too. To be claimed by him, to claim him in turn. Bravely, she reached out and touched him, let her fingers slide down his broad chest, his flat stomach, to wrap around his sex. He jerked slightly and Anne quickly snatched her hand away.

"Did I hurt you?" she whispered.

"No," he assured her. "Just took me a bit by surprise."

Again she reached out and touched him. "Is it always so… so…?"

"No," he assured her again. "Although around you, yes, most of the time."

She wanted to ask him more, but he bent toward her and kissed her again. Anne was innocent, but not so innocent that she didn't understand that he was finished talking. He moved lower and kissed her neck, then lower. While he teased her nipples with his teeth and tongue, his hand slid down again to her woman's mound, and she did not shut him out. He stroked her there as he had done before, stroked her until she bit her lip and moved with and against the pressure of his fingers. A force built inside of her—a desperate need—a hunger she had never felt before.

Her breath now came in ragged gasps. Her nails dug into his back, and beneath him she bucked as if she had no control over her body. He increased the pressure, and when he slipped one finger inside of her she nearly came up off the blanket.

"Easy," he said against her lips, and Anne thought it was the same tone he used to calm skittish horses. The pressure stopped and she wanted to whimper—to beg—but for what she still wasn't certain. Gently, he spread her legs with his knees, then settled between them. Instinctively, Anne tensed beneath him, but he kissed her, distracting her sudden trepidation, and when he made no further move, she began to relax, to savor the feel of his mouth moving over hers, his tongue delving into her mouth in a rhythm her hips wanted to match for some odd reason.

His hand slid between them again and he took up the torture. He'd told her she was supposed to be wet there, and Anne was glad of it or she would have been terribly embarrassed. He used that wetness, rubbing her sensitive nub until she thought something inside of her would burst. Then she felt him poised at the entrance to her woman's passage.

He was big there, just like the rest of him was big, and she felt him stretching her with the tip of his member. He moved a little ways inside of her and she gasped with the pressure. He gasped, too, but it was a different sort of distress, she thought.

"Damn," he whispered. "You shouldn't feel this good. I'm trying to go slow with you, Anne. It's damn hard to do when you feel like this."

And having said as much, he thrust in deeper. The pain was sharp and stabbing and caught her by surprise. She didn't scream, although the gasp that emerged from her lips was more forceful than the last. Tears stung her eyes, and for a moment she wondered how he'd managed to seduce her into this position. He moved in deeper and she steeled herself for more pain. It didn't come. Not that she wasn't very aware of him, his size filling her, stretching her, but there wasn't pain, only pressure.

"Now that the pain is over, I can please you," he said. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. He kissed her deeply, while below he slowly but steadily invaded her body. He moved, and he moved in such a way that stimulated her, just as he had done with his fingers earlier. It wasn't unpleasant.

Her hips arched against him. He sucked in his breath and plunged deeper. She sucked in her breath, too, and then her body took over, her instincts, her passion for him, and gentle wooing slipped away. His scent filled her senses and something primitive rose up inside of her. Her nails dug into his back, her teeth nipped at his neck, and he thrust deeper, harder, forcing a moan of pleasure from her. She began to tingle, then to throb where they were joined. Desperation made her move wildly beneath him. He pulled back, twisted his hand in her hair, and stared down at her, his eyes aglow with passion.

That's when she shattered, when the pressure had built to the point it would no longer be contained. Warmth spread over her, and her body continued to buck and convulse against him, and still he moved, still he thrust, only extending the pleasure until she thought she would die from it. Only when she thought she could stand no more did he thrust deep inside of her, groan her name, and hold himself there, still, as if he were poised on the brink of death. Then she felt him shudder. She clung to him, their hearts pounding wildly against each other, bodies coated in sweat, breathing fast and erratic.

She thought it had ended, the storm that raged between them, battered them, spat them out upon the shore to do nothing but lie exhausted, but then Merrick groaned and rolled away from her. He doubled up, clutching his stomach.

Anne struggled to turn on her side. Her limbs felt as if they had no bones. "What is it, Merrick?"

He didn't answer, but his body jerked. Anne wasn't familiar with lovemaking, but she didn't suspect this was part of it. "Merrick," she tried again. "Look at me. Tell me what is wrong!"

He tilted his head back. His eyes glowed blue, which was not something she hadn't seen before, but as he gasped with the pain, the moonlight gleamed off of his teeth, and they did not look like they had a moment earlier. His eyeteeth had lengthened and strongly resembled fangs. She touched his face and he grabbed her wrist. Anne nearly screamed. His fingers were bent, his nails jutting from his fingertips like claws.

Staring down at his hand, as she did, Merrick quickly released her. "What am I?" he whispered, and his voice came out garbled. "What am I?" he shouted, his voice in agony as his body began to convulse and contort.

Anne scrambled away from him. She grabbed her blanket from the ground and wrapped it around her. Trembling, she watched, both helpless and terrified. What she saw taking place before her could not be real. Such things only happened in nightmares. Merrick still lay on the ground, naked, contorting, but as she watched, hair began to cover his body. His limbs shrank, his features changed, and where once a man lay on the blanket it was a beast that rose on all fours and stood staring at her in the darkness.

"Merrick?" she whispered.

The beast did not respond. Instead, it glanced skyward at the full moon. The wolf howled, and in that sound Anne heard all the sorrow and anger of a man betrayed.

The animal lowered its head and stared at Anne. It peeled back its lips, displaying impressive fangs. Loved by him as a man, killed by him as a beast. That thought floated through Anne's mind before the darkness crept deeper into her vision, surrounded her from all sides, swallowed her whole.

The sun peeking through the trees woke Anne. She was curled in a ball, her blanket clutched around her. For a moment she couldn't remember where she was or why. She tried to move and her muscles protested. The ache between her legs brought the night before flooding back. She sat abruptly and glanced around the campsite.

Merrick sat on a log staring at her. He'd donned his trousers and sat with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, shivering. He looked human again… almost. His eyes were haunted.

"What happened to me, Anne?"

She didn't want to think about that. She wanted desperately to pretend last night had never happened… at least up to a certain point. "You turned into a wolf."

He blinked. "What do you mean? I acted like a beast?"

Anne had trouble grasping what had happened last night, much less explaining it, and to the person it happened to. She could only be straightforward. "No, Merrick. A wolf. An animal. You turned into one before my very eyes."

He ran a shaky hand through his hair; then he held his hand in front of him and stared at it. "What you're saying is impossible."

"It is possible," she countered, tugging her blanket tighter around her in the chilly morning air. "I would have never thought so… until last night."

He rose and shrugged from his blanket. "We must have dreamed it," he said, and the look in his eyes begged her to agree with him.

Could Anne pretend? Her whole life had been a pretense up until now. She must be honest with him and with herself. "Your gifts," she said. "Could this be another one of them?"

"Gifts?" he growled. "If what you say happened to me did, it's no gift, Anne. It's a curse."

"What do you recall of last night?" she asked.

His angry features softened for a moment. Merrick joined Anne, bending beside her. "Us," he answered. "Together. As one. Then the pain. The horrible pain. After that, nothing until I woke naked and shivering in the woods this morning."

Anne glanced down at her hands clasped around the blanket. "I thought I was going to die," she confessed, glancing back up at him. "When you stood before me as a wolf, I thought you would kill me."

His eyes misted and he glanced away from her. "I would never hurt you, Anne. I'd take my own life before I'd let myself, in any form, take yours." He glanced back at her. "I've got to go from here."

Today was to be her wedding day. And no, it would not have been a grand affair with flowers and a church and all of society turned out, but whatever it was, it was meant to be hers. Last night, Anne had found all she was looking for in this man. She couldn't let the dream go.

"Maybe it won't happen again." Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Anne wasn't certain she wasn't right. Perhaps last night they were both drugged, drugged on each other, when she thought he'd turned into a wolf.

"What if it does, Anne?"

"What if it doesn't?" she countered.

He stared into her eyes for a long time before he said, "All right. I'll give it one more night. I hope it's not a mistake, Anne."

Anne had dozed off when Merrick woke her. He crawled into her bedroll naked. She had begun to fear he wouldn't return. She'd checked the horses tethered in a nearby meadow often to make sure the stallion still grazed alongside her mare. Anne had eaten, cleaned their camp, done all she could think to do to bide her time; then she'd become sleepy without anything to distract her.

"Anne," he breathed, pulling her close to him. She went willingly, snuggling into his warmth. His hair was damp. He'd obviously found a stream to bathe in, and she longed to do the same. She'd cleaned up as best she could earlier with water from their flasks.

"Do you know your scent travels through the forest and finds me no matter how far away I go?" he asked, nipping gently at her throat. "Your scent will always call me back to you. I cannot resist it."

Her hands traveled over him as if she had no will over them. Could she and Merrick have been dreaming last night? Could two people, joined in body, in soul and heart, share the same nightmare?

More than anything, Anne wanted to believe they could, that they in fact had. Her hands, moving over his warm, muscled flesh, told her he was only a man. He pressed against her and she felt his readiness for her. Her pulses leaped. Anne closed her eyes and refused to think about what had happened last night. Behind closed lids, she wouldn't see if his own eyes were glowing blue in the darkness. "Kiss me," she whispered.

He did, very gently, which nearly broke her heart. His body shook with his need of her, and yet his lips were tender. She knew in that instant that she should never fear him. No matter if they had shared a nightmare or if the nightmare had been real, Merrick did not have it in his heart to hurt her. Whoever he was, whatever he was, she loved him.

Her hands crept into his hair and she slanted her mouth beneath his, opened wider, and invited him to invade. He did. Tenderness burned away beneath the rise of scorching passion. Suddenly he was pulling at her clothes, and she did all she could to aid him. Their breaths grew ragged between kisses. His hands moved over her, everywhere, on her breasts, down her stomach, between her legs.

She was already wet for him by the time his fingers stroked her. He moaned into her mouth and parted her legs with his knees. He'd been gentle upon his entrance last night. Tonight he forged ahead, thrusting deep in one smooth motion that made her gasp.

"Wrap your legs around me, Anne," he commanded.

Without hesitation, she obeyed him. He grasped her hips and thrust deep again, and again, over and over until she tingled, ached with both pleasure and pain, holding on to him as he took them over the edge of sanity. He became primal, biting at her neck, but never hard enough to draw blood, and she in turn used her nails on his back, urged him onward, became as primal as he. The tension coiled inside of her—grew until she exploded. She arched against him and screamed his name.

One deep plunge and she felt him pulsing inside of her, felt him spilling his seed.

She clung to him, both of them gasping for breath, their hearts beating wildly against each other… then the first spasm of pain took him. Merrick jerked away from her.

"The pistol, Anne," he ground out. "Get the pistol!"

She sat, clutching the blanket to her naked breasts, staring down at him. Their eyes met and locked. Slowly, she shook her head. "No, Merrick. I will not."

Pain made him spasm, made him curl into a ball, his knees up against his chest. His eyes glowed blue, but even in the darkness, she saw them fill with tears.

"Please, Anne," he managed. "I would die if I ever hurt you. I love you."

Reaching out, she touched his hair, smoothed it from his face. "I trust you, Merrick. Now you must find the strength to trust yourself."

"Damn you, Anne!" he shouted. "Your trusting heart will get you killed!"

Another spasm, one stronger, took him. Anne scooted away from him. She came up against the tree she had told him she would climb if she felt threatened, but she didn't ready herself to leap into action. The pistol was in a pack she'd placed at the base of the tree. With trembling hands, she reached inside the pack and drew the weapon out.

Before her, on the blanket where they had just made love again, Merrick danced the dance of the wolf. His body twisted and turned. The hair came, then the teeth, the claws, his body shrank, and then he was gone. The wolf came swiftly to its feet.

Despite what she'd told Merrick, her first instinct was to grasp the pistol securely, lift it, and take aim. The animal stared deep into her eyes. They were Merrick's eyes looking at her through the face of a wolf. Anne lowered the pistol.

"You want to kill me, then go ahead," she said softly. "But the man you share your skin with will be very angry."

The wolf cocked its head to one side. A moment later it turned and trotted off into the night. Anne released the breath she'd been holding. She laid the pistol within reach and tugged the blanket up around her. She would wait until morning to see if Merrick had told her the truth. If her scent would always bring him back to her.