by Renee Peters
“Je vous en prie, Seigneur Lian. I… wish to leave.”
“I know.”
Tilting his head, Lian Redmond caught her with his eyes again, sweeping her away into their depths.
She felt like sand beneath warm waters, pulled into his hold as he nosed his lips to her throat, and she melted against him. Lian hesitated and lowered the touch of his mouth beneath her ribbon before his lips parted.
His bite burned like fire.
He took her into himself, drinking her down to her last drops, and somewhere in the distant fog, she thought she heard Marjolaine.
But the girl’s cry was quiet, lost beneath the growing sound of music that flowed through her empty veins.
Then he guided her face against his chest, where something hot and metallic streamed freely from an open gash, filling her mouth.
Blood.
For days, he stayed with her, keeping vigil in a chair by her bed, feeding her from his wrist as if she were a suckling infant. He let no one approach them, save for Celia, who had visited twice to brush her fingers across Joanna’s brow.
The French woman spent the hours flung between being too hot and too cold, and her body ached as if sickness overtook it. The music was endless, almost chaotic as it played through her blood. Her teeth grew sharper, and there were moments when a wild spirit possessed her and struck out at Lian. The thirst that cracked her throat could only be sated by the blood. His blood.
In time, he left her, and alone in the shadows of her room, Joanna began to settle into the strangeness that was her Immortal body — and the newness of her Immortal life.
Epilogue
Ancaslon Tower, England 1650
In the two years since Joanna had been turned, little had changed.
She was alone, as Angelica had promised. The song that sang through her blood with her rebirth had infected the rest of the coven like a plague. For months, there had been an upheaval of emotions, with her new family’s songs twisting and tangling as if the past that haunted them was trying to uproot itself through their symphony.
Some of her siblings were kind, or at least polite enough to be kind when the French woman emerged from the sanctuary she had made of her room. But they knew, as much as she knew, that their music betrayed their hearts. For every word she spoke, or moment spent out of her shadows and in the presence of a sister or brother, their music darkened and flared with hints of anger or guilt or sorrow.
“It isn’t your fault,” one of her sisters had told her. “Lian just perhaps should not have made you.”
But he had, and there were no dividends to be found in the truth that she was unwanted by the family.
Joanna did them the favor of staying away, instead occupying the days of her forever with teaching herself to read and write in English. There was a peace in words and in the poetry books she had gathered for her horde, and she wished she had been able to teach Marjolaine.
She found herself wishing many things.
One of them, surprisingly, was for Lian’s return. She had come to discover that her sire had a life among mortals as the Earle of Rosse, and a private residence in town where he often retreated to conduct the business of the Earle — and his Sovereignty.
The days and weeks had begun to stretch longer between his appearances at Ancaslon, and threading through her veins was the ache of a child missing a parent. Even Celia’s song, the most resolute of them all, had taken a darker turn in his increasing absences.
The Queen had promised prosperity, but it seemed to Joanna as if the shadows Angelica had predicted had only just begun; for her, and for the eternity that stretched before Anowen Coven.
Thank you!
End of Claiming Joanna
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Claiming Joanna: The Refugee’s Song
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More from the Aegean Immortals Series
Best enjoyed in the order listed
Rise of Anowen
The Refugee’s Song
Songs of Blood
Medley of Souls
Rhythm of Hearts
Fall of Eternity
Symphony of War
Free Excerpt: Songs of Blood
The Aegean Immortals Series Book One
Please enjoy this free excerpt of our upcoming Aegean Immortals Book, Songs of Blood
Easthaven, England, Autumn 1805
The misting rains of autumn had conjured a fog that quivered beneath the light of a lamppost. Drifting through the shadows, just beyond the reach of its gas-lit glow, were the night beasts.
Two men left a trail of alcohol stench in their wake. They leaned into each other for support, breathing hot laughter into one another’s ears. Ahead of them, the diaphanous material of a noblewoman’s gown fluttered through the mist like a banner.
The woman posed a tall figure, slender as a willow, with ivory skin dappled with rainwater. A parasol rested against her shoulder, and just beneath the fabric of her cover, curls as silver as the stars bounced lightly across the smoothness of her back. For the moment, she seemed not to have noticed her followers.
Together, the three disappeared around the corner and out of sight.
The sole witness to the scene stood at some distance from the lamppost. Between a height that surpassed that of most men of the age, the black fabric of his suit, and the umbrella that masked his face in shadows, the man gave the impression of a spirit of death. The only contrast he offered to the surrounding darkness was the paleness of his features and the golden blond of the waves that framed them. He stood still as the rain increased in intensity around him. Finally, with a slight curl of a full lip, the Lord stirred himself from his vigil.
In silence, he followed, making little by way of sound as the steady tap of his shoes upon the cobblestone blended with the rhythm of the raindrops. They moved southward, where the stink of fish and river water rolled in on wet winds, briefly masking the stench of liquor and sweat that clung to the men.
The blond stayed a few paces behind them.
The caravan of beasts and their prey marched onward toward the Rookery. There, the grease-stained row houses were packed so tightly against one another that the brickwork bulged with the strain, and the streets between them barely had room for a carriage to pass. Bolted against the buildings were rusty lanterns that created pockets of trembling light.
One of the drunkards finally grew tired of the game and tripped over himself as he stumbled forward. He laughed, reaching out to catch hold of the sheer fabric of the woman’s gown.
No sooner had his fingers brushed the material, than his body careened violently to one side as if plucked up by an invisible hand and thrown. He crashed against the wrought iron fences that bordered the flats. Coughing up a hoarse sound, the man jerked and began to make the effort to untangle himself only to give up with a strangled whimper.
His companion stared dumbly at the place he had landed, and the Lord saw the profile of the drunkard’s mouth tremble open before his head swivele
d toward the woman.
By then, she too had turned around, lifting her parasol away so that the lantern light carved the elegant contours of her face from the shadows. Her attention was not on the drunkard, but over his shoulder, meeting the gaze of her blond watcher.
The gray of her eyes became a swirl of teal — the glow of the beast beneath her skin.
The man who remained standing of the duo let out a curse and a yelp, his foot scuffing backward in a splash of water before he too went flying.
With a cry, he landed upon his friend; and though it was no doubt a softer landing, neither of the men rose.
The silver-haired noblewoman and the blond Lord stood in silence for a few moments before he lifted the crook of his arm in invitation.
As if she had been waiting for just such a signal, the woman began to close the distance between them. She shifted the parasol into her opposite hand and slid the length of a slender arm into the crook that he had offered.
“Almost to the Rookery this time, amato,” she said quietly, her words nearly lost beneath the sound of the rainfall. “There was a time you had less patience for fools.”
Shadows weighted her speech with the echo of loss.
“I am thankful to have gained something in my years,” he answered. “Had I not found patience, I might have found more cause for growing weary of the game instead.” He tilted his head to glance at her. “You could have tended to them more gently without my interference if it was your desire, my Queen.”
For a moment, the rain filled the quiet between them. What he could see of her expression behind the veil of water was gentle, but the muted ripples of music that threaded across the weave between their souls was not.
The Lord spoke softly, turning his focus to the walk ahead, “Despite what I have become, I would not let another touch you or the children. You know this.”
“I do.” Her elbow shifted beneath his to draw him closer before relaxing again. “As much as I know that the touch beyond reach has as much power to hurt as that which intends to harm,” she ended quietly. Her struggle distorted the perfection of her features. “Lian.”
She spoke his name and the withered cast around his soul cracked; a single note of his song escaping on the soft touch of a piano key. It fell as silent as he remained, and only the patter of rain on cobblestone and the cadence of their steps echoed through the darkness.
He led her back to the warmer light of the lamp posts and the open streets where the row houses were well-washed and maintained. When they stopped, he gingerly drew his arm from hers and took her fingers instead.
Lian left a kiss against the coolness of her knuckles and lingered there to breathe in the scent of age like old parchment that wafted on her Immortal skin. “I wish I did not harm you so,” he murmured and turned her hand to press another kiss to her palm. “I will not forgive myself for it.”
Straightening, he released her.
She finally met his eyes, and their shine belied the effort she made at assurance. “There is nothing to forgive, amato.” A smile trembled on her lips and slipped away into the shadows. “I am only weak tonight.” She claimed his fingers and lifted them to salute the blood red-signet that rested there with a kiss. “My Lord,” she murmured.
Lian Redmond, Earl of Rosse and Sovereign of Britain’s Aegean Immortals lowered into a bow befitting the Queen that she was. When he rose again, it was to watch her turn to depart, and he whispered his farewell between the raindrops.
“Be safe on your hunt, Celia.”
Songs of Blood
Available June 26, 2020
Acknowledgments
Creating the World of the Aegeans as we know it today has been a journey that could not have been accomplished without our editors and readers of the Aegean books in all of their various stages.
We would also like to thank our editor, Jennifer Dinsmore, who stuck with us through the beginning and into Joanna’s story, making this book the best that it could be.
Renee and Rae
About the Authors
Renee Peters is a lifelong teacher and writer, Renee is the co-author of the World of the Aegeans historical paranormal series.
Rae Stilwell is a coder, a doodler, and an indie author writing about monsters, magic, and mushy stuff.