by Nicole Grane
*Aidric: Leader of werewolves
year of birth estimated around 30 BC
A Glimpse into Book 2
Prologue
Marcus
The sun had rose and set three times now. Phoebe remained motionless. Her heart, still and quiet. Her lungs had not taken in any air . . . although, if she were indeed like him now, there would be no need for it.
Marcus had laid her in bed. Not her own, but another, in a more remote wing of the castle, where no one would happen upon her. He sat quietly. Grieving. Praying. He touched her cheeks with the back of his hand. Strange. Her skin felt almost flushed. Not cold like he’d imagined it would be. The wounds that once covered her ravaged body were gone. His bite had mended them. Or perhaps it was indeed her ‘super healing powers’ as she had referred to them on many occasions that had healed her. He smiled down at her affectionately.
“Aidric will pay for this,” he vowed, his teeth grinding together. He’d rip out his throat personally. He’d lost her twice now. His heart ached more with each passing hour.
Richard had come several times, wishing to take her—but Marcus would not let her go. No one would touch her but him. She was his after all: his to love, his to protect. And he would protect her, now and always. No one would ever harm her again. The very thought consumed him with such rage. He bit down on the inside of his mouth, drawing blood. The taste, warm and necessary, gave him release.
He laughed to himself. She’d thought him over-protective before. When she awoke, she’d find him more so. He wouldn’t care. He’d rather her complaining than this . . . this never-ending slumber.
Marcus smoothed Phoebe’s hair from her forehead. She looked so lovely lying there, so peaceful. An angel sent down from the heavens: His angel. She’d ended his centuries of torment and despair. He’d loved her more than anything in the world. So much so, that he’d never given himself to another woman. Not in the seven hundred and ten years he’d thought her dead. There was no replacement for her then . . . there would be no replacement for her now.
They’d only had a short time together. He’d found her in London four months ago, laying on the ground after Damen, a werewolf and the reason for her death so many centuries ago, had bitten her. Marcus had followed her back to the states. He had to know the extent of her infection. He’d resolved that even if Damen had turned her completely, he would not leave her. He could not bear to stray from her side. Not now, after finding her again. He would have Phoebe, no matter what she’d become. He would awaken their love. Somehow, she would remember him.
By a miracle of God, yes . . . he believed there was a God now. For only a God could return his beloved Phoebe to him and bless him with her love once more. Despite the horror of finding out that he was a vampire, she’d fallen in love with him. She’d remembered through her dreams that they had shared a life together: An immortal life as husband and wife. She’d accepted that she had once been a vampire herself and that although Damen had bitten her, by the grace of that God, she would not turn into the monster she feared.
He could taste the venom in his mouth. He’d brought her here, into his world to protect her; and he’d failed!
He growled as he recalled her desperately asking that if the time ever came, if she were dying, for him to bite her. He’d protested vigorously. His venom was so lethal to a werewolf . . . and her, still partly human . . . the outcome was unimaginable. She’d pleaded, begged that he would find some way to keep them together; even if that meant turning her into the unimaginable, a half werewolf, half vampire. “An abomination.”
He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He would not regret what he’d done. Phoebe couldn’t stand to be away from him anymore than he could bear to be away from her, and in the end he’d agreed. He could deny her nothing. Yet . . . he’d hesitated . . . he’d waited too long. Damn. She should have awakened by now, he thought.
He placed his ear over her stomach, listening . . . silently begging. There was no heartbeat. The child he’d longed for . . . the child Phoebe had tried to protect . . . Aidric had taken that too.
Revenge would be his . . . but it would not be sweet. No. This kind of revenge was selfish, greedy; hateful. He would most certainly suffer the tortures of Hell for what he brutally planned. Marcus would gladly accept his fate, if only she might be spared. He bit the inside of his cheek again, savoring the taste . . .
“Aidric will be the one to bleed next, my love. On my life, I vow this to you.” He bowed his head, resting it on the edge of the bed.
“Sir,” a quiet voice spoke from behind him.
“What is it Richard?”
“Sir,” Richard’s voice cracked. “It’s been three days now. You must let her go.”
Marcus lifted his head and stared at a peaceful looking Phoebe. “Isn’t she beautiful, Richard?” There was awe in his words. “I changed her clothes this morning. I think she’ll like them when she wakes up.”
Richard shifted uneasily. His heart was breaking. He’d grown to love Phoebe too. Not romantically, but as a sister. She’d accepted him so freely, so lovingly into her heart. He would do anything for her—had done anything before her! He’d taken her to the battlefield as she’d wished. He’d protected her as best he could. But in the end, he’d failed her as well. He stared down at her loveliness, tears escaping his eyes. “Yes sir. She is beautiful.”
Richard watched as Marcus hugged her middle. He held her so tightly, quietly sobbing . . . although for Marcus there would be no tears . . . vampires could not cry.
Richard swallowed the lump in his throat. “Sir, Mr. Raymose is outside.”
Marcus spun around, a hiss escaping his lips. “He will not take her!”
Richard extended his hands, assuring his friend. “He is not here to take her. He only wishes to see her, to bid her well.” This was true. Although Richard had already said his goodbyes to Phoebe and Raymose wished to do the same.
Richard had phoned Raymose this morning with his concerns for Marcus. Marcus had remained in Phoebe’s room since he’d brought her home, brushing her hair, cleaning her wounds, changing her clothes and bedding. He wanted her body comfortable. Marcus would not accept that she was gone—and this worried Raymose.
“Yes, she would like that,” Marcus agreed. “Perhaps his voice will . . .” He looked at Richard with pleading eyes, seeking comfort Richard could not give.
“Yes sir, perhaps . . .” He turned and left the room. He hated to give his friend false hope.
A few minutes later, Raymose entered. His face fell at the sight before him. Marcus was still holding onto a still Phoebe. Her lovely hair, soft and smooth, cascaded across the pillow as if it had just been brushed.
“My friend,” Raymose reached out and squeezed Marcus’s shoulder. He knelt down beside him, hanging his head. His mouth felt too dry to speak. “Has she stirred?”
“No.” Marcus’s voice was barely a whisper.
“May I?” Raymose looked to Marcus who nodded giving permission he could touch her. He reached out and took Phoebe’s hand, holding it gently in his. “She’s warm!”
“Yes, she’s been that way since her wounds healed.” Marcus did not look up, his eyes drinking in as much of Phoebe as they could. If the time did come where Marcus would have to say goodbye, well, he’d have the vision of her burned into his mind to fuel his revenge.
Raymose held her wrist, feeling for any sign of a pulse. He reached out, placing his fingers on her neck. He gasped! He put his hand below her nose. Yes, small whiffs of air met his skin. “She’s breathing!” Raymose said excitedly.
“What?” Marcus jumped to his feet, his fingers desperately searching her neck for a pulse. It was faint. So much so that he still could not hear a heartbeat. Being partly werewolf, her heart should still beat—in theory anyway. As far as he knew, there were no others like her . . . he could not be sure of anything except that she was indeed alive!
“Thank God!” He pressed his lips to her
s, hoping she’d feel his kiss.
“You haven’t fed her, have you?” Raymose asked skeptically.
“I’ve given her a few drops from my glass.” Marcus admitted. He avoided Raymose’s stare. He knew where this conversation was going.
“That’s not what she needs, and you know it,” Raymose warned.
“I will not taint her with our blood,” Marcus hissed. He took Phoebe’s hand and held it to his lips, kissing it softly. Her scent had become a drug to him, deliciously intoxicating. “Wake, my love,” he whispered softly into her ear.
“You have no choice now!” Raymose stood tall above him, his body seething with anger. “If she lives, she will only just survive and you know it! She will never be strong enough without your blood, both of your bloods. She has two creators now Marcus. She must drink from both of you if she is to be whole.”
Marcus tensed at the thought. “Once she tastes it . . . there will be no going back,” he growled over his shoulder. “I will not let her be like him. She didn’t want that.”
“There was no going back once you bit her,” Raymose reminded his friend sharply. “She’ll need . . . his blood. And yours, if she is to be strong.”
“No!” Marcus was on his feet now. His shoulders squared with Raymose’s. There was no way he was going to allow Phoebe to drink from him, or Damen. Marcus knew once she tasted her creator’s blood, she’d be forever bound to their way of life. It was bad enough she would be forced to drink blood from time to time—something she would detest. But to have to transform into a werewolf—unacceptable! And that is exactly what would happen if she ever tasted Damen’s blood. It would be as if Damen had infected her fully with the venom that flows through him. Something the bastard had to know. Marcus would die before he’d ever let that happen. “She doesn’t have to be like us . . . not really.”
“You’re a fool,” Raymose spat.
“The ‘wine’ will sustain her when she needs it,” Marcus insisted. “She doesn’t need anymore than that. She doesn’t need his blood to survive! She doesn’t need to be a monster like him!” He knelt down beside Phoebe, taking her hand in his once more. “Damen will never touch her again.” Marcus’s resolve was unwavering.
Raymose sighed and threw his hands up into the air. “You will shadow her then? Follow her, every step she makes? Fight off every evil that threatens her?” Raymose asked, mockingly. “It can not be done. History has proven that my friend.”
Marcus looked up at Raymose, his eyes seething with anger. “I will protect her with my life . . . she will never need his blood. Or mine,” he assured darkly as Raymose shook his head in exasperation.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “And you my friend?” Marcus asked after a few moments. “Will you not vow the same? Can you stand there and deny her your protection?”
Raymose glowered at Marcus. “You know I would lay my life down for hers. I’ve never kept my feelings for her a secret,” he spat.
Marcus nodded his head in understanding.
“But I am no fool Marcus,” Raymose continued. “Danger will come looking for her. Make no mistake about that. She’ll never be safe here. They’ll want her dead, Aidric . . . and perhaps Luther. There cannot be one strong enough to defeat both. Neither will allow it. Sooner or later, they will come for her.”
Marcus nodded once again and turned his attention back to Phoebe. “And I will kill them when they do. All of them,” he vowed.
He looked down on his beloved and smiled. She was alive, and that is how she’d stay, forever . . .
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BIOGRAPHY
Nicole Grane lives in Tooele, Utah with her husband and their three children. She grew-up in Arcata, California, fifteen minutes away from Trinidad—Phoebe’s stomping ground. When she is not writing or reading, Nicole enjoys collecting cool rocks, oil painting, finding unique pieces of jewelry, and playing on the beach with her family—which she is sad to say is not often.
Nicole has always loved mythology, folklore, and researching unique places. Having been privileged to travel, she can’t wait to incorporate some of her findings into her stories.