Eternal Beauty: Mark of the Vampire (A Penguin Special from Signet Eclipse)

by Wright, Laura

  But what? What the hell was it?

  His blood pounded in his veins, every muscle inside him tense and ready.

  Then he saw it fully, saw them fully—two horses, pale as paper with see-through skin emerging from the ground. They were snorting and sighing as they pulled something, their hooves scrabbling for purchase on the crumbling rockface.

  Steeled and ready for a fight, Erion stared, unblinking at the scene before him, nearly thinking himself mad as a gleaming, bride-white, pumpkin-shaped carriage crawled out of the hole in the earth, legs moving like a gigantic white spider.

  Erion’s mind squeezed.

  No.

  Impossible. Perhaps even insane. This couldn’t be Cruen’s bride. Inside this Cinderella’s carriage from hell?

  As the ghostly team cleared the split in the earth and found solid ground, the carriage came to a halt. One of the horses turned its head and eyed Erion. Its nostrils flared in warning as it pawed the ground.

  Erion’s hand tightened around his blade, and in that moment he remembered what he was doing there.

  Who he came to steal—and why.

  As if they sensed it too, the transparent beasts shifted their gazes and took off, bolting into the now still woods, dirt kicking up around them.

  Erion exploded forward, his blood fueling his pace. This female, whatever she was, belonged to him. She was his bargaining chip—the ransom he would keep at his side until Ladd was returned. Returned to the ones who knew how to love.

  He ran through the black, cool woods, keeping pace with the carriage until it burst forth into an open field. Moonlight poured down overhead, spreading its ethereal shards out over the overgrown expanse.

  No farther, my lady.

  In a burst of speed, Erion shot forward, made a quick right and stopped dead in front of the horses. The beasts screamed as they came to a halt, rearing up, nearly braining him with their massive hooves. The demon inside of Erion pulsed to get out, tame what was snorting and hissing in front of him—muzzle what was letting loose a cacophony of terrified screams inside the bride-white carriage.

  He smiled grimly. The terror was only beginning for his parcel.

  He leaped onto the footrest near the carriage door and gripped the handle. A flexible wall of dark magic pushed at him, tried to buck him off, tried to convince his mind that he was seeing a mirage, but Erion mentally shoved back at the sensation and yanked at the door.

  It wouldn’t budge.

  Not a problem. He enjoyed tearing off the gift wrap on a parcel.

  Reaching up, he grabbed the metal bar on the roof of the carriage, swung back and crashed his feet into the door. It went down with a thud. Another feminine scream pierced the night air, and the horses panicked and took off again, barreling across the field. Erion’s gaze was razor sharp now, but all he saw was a red blur with electric green eyes before he was hit in the chest and thrown backwards.

  He landed on the ground with a teeth-shattering slam, something fierce, and flooded with layers of skirt on top of him. He heard the horses scream and snort, saw out of his peripheral vision the coach clattering past, abandoning the meadow for the dark woods beyond.

  “Before I kill you, I want to know just who the hell you are!”

  The Layers of Skirt spoke.

  Wet grass and cold earth at his back, Erion’s brows descended over his narrowed gaze. The female sat astride him, had his arms pinned to his sides as though she were under the impression she had some kind of control in the situation. In truth, he could not only flick her off like a bothersome fly, but stretch her arms over her head and slit her throat with one fang all in under a breath. But then he wouldn’t be able to feel her weight atop him. So, for a moment, he let her remain where she was.

  Miles and miles of pale red hair, illuminated by the moon overhead, draped either side of his shoulders, and those inhuman eyes the color of emeralds in the brightest sunlight gazed down at him with equal parts scorn and I-want-to-rip-your-head-off.

  This female, Erion mused, the organ between his legs pulsing with curiosity, may be sixty-five inches of soft, round, sexual pleasure wrapped up in a hundred irritating layers of creamy white wedding costume, but she was clearly one fierce bitch.

  He had no doubt that she would kill him if he gave her the chance.

  If he gave her even an inch.

  With one smooth, swift roll, Erion reversed their positions. On her back, her arms pinned above her head by one of his hands, her hair splayed like a sunrise around her face, and her eyes flashing in the moon’s light, she hissed at him—struggled against him like a caged animal.

  “You have made a grave mistake, Male,” she said, her voice as deathly as her gaze.

  “We shall see,” Erion answered, his tone smooth and resolute as he slipped the other hand around her waist.

  She kicked at him, tried to get her knee up between his legs. “I am to be mated this night, you fool!”

  Erion chuckled softly. “It may need to be postponed.”

  “My betrothed will not look kindly on having his bride accosted,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “I am counting on it,” Erion said, releasing her pinned arms and yanking her closer to his body. His gaze traversed the moonlit landscape one last time. “Let us hope that Cruen cares enough to come after you. For if he does not . . . well, we are both doomed to a fate worse than death.”

  And from the cold, moonlit ground, Erion flashed away, his parcel still struggling like a feral cat at his side.