by K.N. Lee
Harry stood and raised his hands above his head. “Blessed be God. Come.”
From his reaction, she could only assume that if a demon was going to claw its way out of her, it would have done so by now.
She rose, her legs wobbling. She was suddenly and completely exhausted as if she’d run a marathon and all her energy had been sucked from her. Her skin stopped tingling and now she was just plain tired.
Harry held out a hand to her. “You must go on with your life with God in your heart.”
She nodded and shuffled over to him, but didn’t take his hand. He didn’t seem to notice and picked up the scroll and camp lantern instead. He led her out a narrow, uneven path into a clearing. They stood in the wooded area behind the entities’ club — or rather where the entities’ club would have been if they were in the other-world — but instead of a Gothic mansion on the rise behind her, there was a city park maintenance shed on top of the natural stone cavern.
The sky was lightening to the east, and the air was cold and heavy, threatening rain. An old blue sedan sat a few feet away. Harry unclasped his cloak and fished his keys from his pocket. They jingled, loud in the still dawn.
Rowan realized she couldn’t even hear the city traffic. She could have screamed to high heaven in the cavern and unless someone had been in the park that night, no one would have heard her.
Harry shuffled to a late-model sedan and unlocked the trunk, leaving his keys in the lock.
“I’m so glad you’re saved, Dr. Hill,” he said with an innocent joy.
“Yeah?” She drew her attention to him. She might have stopped Azkeel, but Harry was the murderer in this world.
“I knew you were blessed the moment I saw you.”
She eased to his side, but he seemed oblivious to her presence, lost in his own little world.
“You weren’t like the other girls, those witches. It was right that they died.” He took off his robe and tossed it into the trunk. “God’s justice.”
She snorted. God’s justice, her ass.
He turned to her, smiling, and she punched him in the face as hard as she could.
He gasped and swayed. She shoved him into the trunk and slammed the lid down, capturing him. Then she took the keys from the lock and leaned against the car to catch her breath.
After fighting demons, humans were a piece of cake.
She reached into her inside coat pocket for her phone. It picked up a signal right away. Now all she had to do was figure out what to tell Brown.
51
Rowan sat in Mabel’s Diner, drumming her fingers on the gray Formica tabletop. Ben was late. With her nose broken and still sore and both eyes blackened, going into public had been the last thing she’d wanted to do. But Ben had begged and well… she owed him. A lot.
The bell over the front door chimed and she glanced up. Ben stood in the doorway. His blond hair, tousled by the wind, made him look boyish and sexy and she smiled in spite of herself.
They hadn’t said much since she’d gotten home that morning. In fact, after arguing with Agent Brown about going after a killer alone — she wasn’t going to make herself look even more incompetent by saying Harry had abducted her — getting her nose set, and not telling Sister Josephine anything as the nun drove her home, the last thing she’d wanted was a deep conversation about the state of her relationship with Ben.
She couldn’t explain the world-walking to anyone — and really, she just wanted to forget about it, and the other-world, and Seth — and her head hurt too much to concentrate on concocting a story, especially to Ben, so she had gone straight to bed and hadn’t woken until seven that evening, hoping that not talking to him wouldn’t damage their relationship any more than it already was.
Ben slid into the booth across from her and placed his hands on the table.
Her heart stuttered. God, she loved this man. He didn’t stir electric passion like Seth did, but he still stirred a solid warmth, one worthy of building a real marriage on.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. She couldn’t keep it in any longer, and it had to be said. She needed to say it.
“So am I.” His gaze dipped to the tabletop between them.
“But I’m still not quitting my contract with the FBI.” She also needed to say that, as well.
“I know.”
“You know?” Of course he knew. The real question was, what would he do about it?
“You were right when you said marriage is about trust and compromise.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small velvet jewelry box, and slid it across the table to her.
“What’s this?”
“Happy birthday.”
She ran her thumb over the lid, afraid of what was inside. He’d already given her his grandmother’s engagement ring, so it didn’t make sense to be afraid. It had to be earrings or a pendant or something. So why was she afraid?
“Well, open it.”
She bit the inside of her cheek and cracked it open. Inside was a plain gold band.
“Before you argue,” he said, “this is not a wedding ring.”
It sure looked like one.
She raised an eyebrow and gave him the driest look she could muster with a broken nose and two black eyes. She hadn’t wanted to set a date for their wedding because she didn’t know when her post-doctorate fellowship would be done — and a part of her hadn’t wanted to move to the next stage of their plan, returning back home and starting a family.
“I know things are up in the air for you right now. This is not my way of pressuring you to end your studies or your contract with the FBI. It’s my way of telling you I’m committed. To you, to us, for whenever you’re ready.” He smiled his disarming boy-next-door smile, the one she’d fallen in love with, and all his love and concern for her filled his gaze. “It’s a second engagement ring, one that isn’t a family heirloom and one you can wear out in the field. Or better suited for a contractor with the FBI who does fieldwork.”
The warmth in her heart spread across her chest and she smiled back. He got her. He’d listened to what she’d had to say about her career and he supported her. Sure, they had some issues to work out. What couple didn’t? Compromise and partnership were the foundations of a good marriage, right? But he’d just proven he was willing to do both. And so was she.
“This coming summer, second Saturday in July,” she said.
His expression turned puzzled.
“Back home, in the Gorge. The park’s a perfect place for a summer wedding, and July is right in the middle of semesters, so I’ll be done with the end of winter semester paperwork and not about to start the fall semester paperwork.”
His glorious smile brightened even more and she knew, in the very core of her being, that this was the man she belonged with and this was the world she belonged in.
~The End~
About the Author
C.I. Black has always lived in a world of imagination. When she’s not daydreaming, she puts her flights of fancy down on paper writing urban fantasy, paranormal romance, and romantic suspense books.
She’s the author of The Dragon Spirit series and The Medusa Files series. You can find a complete list of C.I.’s books at www.ciblack.com.
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Also By C.I. Black
THE DRAGON SPIRIT SERIES
Immortal Coil, Book 1
Shattered Spirits, Book 2
Hoarding Secrets, Book 3
Pursing Flight, Book 4
Splintered Souls, Book 5
Broken Scales, Book 6
Enduring Essence, Book 7
THE MEDUSA FILES
Case 1: Written in Stone
Case 2: Heart of Stone
Case 3: Escaped From Stone
Case 4: Carved From Stone
Case 5: Cold as Stone
Case 6: Broken Ston
e
Case 7: Set in Stone
Case 8: Cut From Stone
Case 9: Shattered Stone
Case 10: Shards of Stone
Case 11: Fallen Stone
Case 12: Trapped in Stone
Case 13: Hard as Stone
GRAVENHILL ROMANTIC SUSPENSES
Compulsion
Burn Bright
Bec McMaster
When a prince arrives in Neva's village, hunting for the mythical firebird, Neva is forced to be his guide. Torn between the prince and his wolf shifter huntsman, Neva must make a difficult decision when she discovers the firebird's secrets.
1
Don't go into the Gravenwold Woods, they say in my village. Or if you do, then don't expect to return.
The woods are old and hungry, and no man ventures into the heart of the forest for fear they'll never return. Something lurks deep in the core, and you can hear strange noises if you venture too close to it. It's difficult enough to enter the edges, which are overgrown and wild, though you can make a living if you're bold.
The men of Densby earn their living from the lumber, and if they're not quite content to live within the shadow of Gravenwold, then they make good use of it.
My father wasn't a lumberjack like the rest of them. He spent his days hunting beneath the heavy boughs, selling furs in the nearby town of Marietta. He taught his craft to me, along with the Old Ways he claimed kept him safe from the dangers to be found in the forest.
But with danger came opportunity.
And sometimes, the need was great enough to counter the risk.
Ten days after Frost Night, I clutched my bow and swung my quiver over my shoulder, trying not to think of how empty the larder was. Winter this year brought with it a killing chill, and we'd lost three calves to something that came out of the woods.
The choices were growing narrower by the day. Densby wasn't the sort of village you could expect to find charity within, especially when your last name was Bane. Everyone here in the Borderlands scraped by, and the only items of value my two sisters and I had were things I didn't wish to trade. Just the other day I'd seen Master Vasham eyeing my sister, Eloya, like a prize mare the widower was considering. He had three children who needed a mother, but the very thought set my teeth on edge, for Eloya was only six years older than his eldest.
We needed food.
And I would prefer to risk the woods, than to pay any other sort of price.
"Be careful, Neva," Eloya told me, handing me a small wrapped package; bread and cheese wrapped carefully in waxed paper. "Goodwife Amiss told me the woods took another huntsman the other day. It's hungry too."
My youngest sister's skin was slightly darker than mine, though she shared the same brown eyes. Hers were kinder though, and there was a softness about her face that hadn't been sloughed off in the past three years, when father began to take ill.
"I heard that as well," I muttered, taking the bread and cheese, and secreting them in the pouch around my waist. "Though there's equal chance Bennett Hapslow simply drank himself stupid, then fell into a river and drowned."
It wouldn't surprise me. Hapslow was renowned for liking a good drink. Or ten.
Eloya bit her lip as I fetched my fur cloak. "Equal chance," she conceded, "but it doesn't set my mind at ease one whit. They say you can hear the wolves howling in there."
"If there are wolves in Gravenwold, then there are deer or smaller prey." I headed for the door. "And I'll bring something back, I promise. Besides... father made a deal with the woods. No Bane can fall to their touch, as long as we keep to the pact."
Father's cough barked through the house. We both looked up. The sound of that cough was like an arrow straight to the heart. He wasn't getting any better.
"I'll keep an eye on him." Eloya squeezed my hand, clearly recognizing the worry on my face. "Don't be too late."
"I'll be back before dark."
To stray outside any longer was too dangerous.
My other sister, Averill, was nailing boards to the back of the chicken coop as I left our small homestead. I nodded toward her, but we were both caught up in our own worlds; trying to put one foot in front of the other every moment, every day, in this quest for survival.
We needed meat. Blowing steaming air into my gloved hands, I headed for the frozen woods, sinking up to the ankles in soft snow. Another snowfall last night had turned the world into a fairyland, if one didn't look too closely. I could remember better years, when Eloya, Averill and I squealed with laughter and chased each other around the garden in snow like this. My mother would yell at us for getting wet and cold, but she couldn't quite hide her smile as she watched us.
A long time ago now. My mother died when I was thirteen, her warm southern blood finely succumbing to the northern chill. I never did find out what drove her so far north.
I slipped past the hill of sawn-off tree trunks that ringed the forest, where once mighty timbers had stood. A certain sort of silence lingered; almost like the forest itself mourned the loss of those trees, and the fog didn't touch the ruined stumps, as if even it dared not cross the boundaries of the woods.
Then the woods were there, standing thick and solemn before me like sentinels.
"Vashta watch over me," I whispered, reaching for the rabbit I'd killed earlier. I laid its cold carcass on the flat stone my father had shown me when I was ten, and followed him on the hunt, desperately wanting to learn the skills he taught. I'd wrung its neck earlier, and it was short work to slice it open, letting the congealed blood inside it ooze onto the stone. Dipping a finger in the blood, I painted it across my forehead in a symbol of the Trident.
To enter Gravenwold, you have to gift it with a life to safeguard your own. The rabbit would have served as half a meal for our little family, but despite my earlier bravado I didn't dare forgo the sacrifice. My father believed in the Old Ways, and so did I, even as the Bennett Hapslow's of the world laughed at us.
But Bennett Hapslow didn't come back.
Sticky rings of sap congealed on the nearby trunk of an alder, felled before its time, almost like blood had flown here recently. The lumberjacks were creeping closer to Gravenwold, and they'd crossed the forest boundaries. It made me shiver. Was that why the forest was beginning to creep over its own boundaries? Something had stolen our calves, leaving a bloodied trail in the early winter snows. And something killed all of Widow Hashell's chickens a month ago.
If it were a fox, it would have at least eaten one of them.
"Forest, welcome me," I whispered. There was no point in lingering any longer.
The strangest thing occurred when I slipped beneath the boughs of Gravenwold. My lungs opened up as if I could breathe again and I felt the forest in my blood, running hot in my veins.
No one else from Densby could move like I did beneath the forest's shadow. Only my father could, but he was getting worse by the day, his lungs thick with some malevolence he couldn't shake.
I started running, feet tramping the trail buried beneath the fresh litter of snow.
I ran to escape the world behind me, with its empty belly, and the coughing bark of sickness. I ran to fill my lungs with the burning air, knowing instinctively where to put my feet to avoid a hidden pit beneath the snow. Hunger couldn't wear me down. Not here. Nor could it slow me. The forest fed my soul, and I could feel my cheeks stinging with the cold as I raced along old trails I knew like the back of my hand.
They say my father was born beneath the shadow of Gravenwold, and now, with blood surging through my veins, I believed it. How else could his daughter find such enlightenment, when her very soul was heavy? How else could I find the energy to slip over the snow like a wraith, when last night's meal had been more broth than soup?
It had been weeks since I dared venture out, but I knew the regular routes the deer favored. With the last blizzard of the season abating, they wouldn't be moving far, trying to conserve energy during the blistering chill. Pockets of cedar and thickets where
they could hide from the winds would show signs of them.
But the trails I found were old, and all that remained of their presence was the stripped bark on several birch trees. Casting around for signs of smaller game, I laid several snares in likely places before moving on.
A rabbit would be nice, but it wouldn't feed three growing girls for too long. And my father needed meat to give him energy, and help him fight his illness.
Moving slower now, I saw the quick patter of tracks that indicated a fox. A recent passing, for the snow hadn't settled until last night. There was no wind this deep in the woods, and everything lay oddly silent; it looked like a glittering cathedral, where the rasp of my breath sounded oddly sacrilegious. Snowflakes danced through the air, barely enough to be called a snowfall.
And there...
A trail that clearly belonged to the deer I needed to bring down.
A fresh trail.
Darting through the snowdrift like alone wolf, I kept my eyes and ears open. The forest flashed past me, and every time I thought I'd almost lost the trail it would appear again. Taunting me. Drawing me further into the forest.
It wasn't until I ran out of breath that I stopped and bent over, fighting the stitch in my side. Trinity's bells, how far had I run? I didn't recognize—
A pair of bushes rustled.
Even as I drew one of my goose-tipped arrows from its quiver and set it to my lax bow, I noted the thicker brambles in the undergrowth, and the heavy, watchful boughs of conifers. Every other tree stood straight and stark, but the brambles were the first sign of the border between the outskirts of the forest, and the mysterious Heart nobody dared enter. They called the brambles Widow's Thorns, after some long ago Queen who'd poisoned her husband with a tea brewed from them—and inch-by-inch they were slowly choking the forest.