by Roh Morgon
Shaking her head, Katarina waved her hand toward the other room.
“He’s all yours.” Her veins pulsated with his anticipation, and she braced herself for the next several hours of his frenzy.
That should keep you out of my hair for a while so can I straighten out the warehouse mess.
She watched Gilles walk past her into the room and shut the door. As she turned to leave, Katarina paused to check the shelf above the doorway. It now contained not one, but two empty jars. Her eyes narrowed as she read the brass plates below the jars.
Nicolas Corvinus. Sunny Martin.
Katarina snarled.
Someday, Nicolas. Someday you will be mine.
WEDNESDAY
~ Chapter 7 ~
The limousine pulled up the long circular driveway and a sprawling Tudor mansion came into view. Colin lowered the car window, inhaling the crisp Colorado evening air, and finally allowed relief to wash through him.
I feared I’d never see this house again.
As they passed the huge topiary statues in the central garden, his gaze locked onto a slender figure standing at the top of the stone stairway in front of the house.
Jeanette.
He bolted through the door before the car came to a stop. Two bounds up the steps and she was in his arms.
“Oh, Colin . . .”
He wrapped his arms around her as tightly as he dared and buried his nose in her hair as she snuggled against him.
“I thought I’d never see you again.” Her musical French voice aroused him and his mouth ached to taste her soft skin.
A cough behind Jeanette broke Colin’s focus. Nicolas stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, appearing as though he’d just stepped off the cover of Forbes magazine. The Chosen’s emerald eyes shone with satisfaction. Colin grinned at him.
Something’s different about him. He looks . . . happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen him.
“I have taken the liberty of reserving a suite for you at The Broadmoor Hotel. It is yours for as long as you like.” A stray breeze ruffled Nicolas’s black hair, worn longer than Colin remembered.
Colin nodded.
“Perhaps Miss Marceau would like to wait at the hotel? I have several items of business to discuss with you, and then your time is your own. Meet me in the library when you have seen her off.” Nicolas disappeared inside.
Colin embraced Jeanette again.
“How I’ve missed you.” He traced a finger down her cheek and across those full lips he loved to kiss. He wanted to kiss them now, but decided to wait until he could do so more slowly.
“I was so worried for you, Colin.”
“Well, I’m home, safe and sound. No more worries.” He gave her a final hug before guiding her down the steps to the car. Colin helped her inside, then reached in and caressed her face.
“I’ll see you at the hotel.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.” The words were in her bedroom voice. Colin stopped breathing and forced himself to close the door. He watched as the limo drove off.
God, I hope I can keep myself from accidently killing her.
He turned and strode up the stairs. When he knocked at the ornate front door engraved with a raven crest, it was opened by a human, a slender blonde woman he’d known for many years.
“Marie!”
“Good evening, Monsieur. It is so good to see you.” She bowed and moved back to admit him.
“You’re as lovely as ever. How have you been?” He walked inside.
She hasn’t aged a day in eighteen years. The benefits of Chosen blood seem endless.
“I’m well. Your mademoiselle has been delightful. She has been very concerned about you.”
Colin chuckled.
I can only imagine them chirping away like two little French birds. I’m glad she’s still here. It might make Jeanette’s transition to whatever life she Chooses a bit easier.
“Mr. Ambrus is waiting for you in the library.”
He smiled at her use of Nicolas’s modern surname. To Colin, it would always be Corvinus.
“Thank you, Marie.”
She knocked on the library door, opened it, and he stepped inside. The door closed behind him. Nicolas stood by the round table next to the room-length window. A carafe of bloodwine and two filled glasses occupied the table’s center. The wine’s delicate fragrance, with just a hint of copper beneath the scent of Nicolas’s special herbs, stirred Colin’s hunger.
He stopped in front of Nicolas and saluted, then dropped to one knee and pushed back his sleeve. With his head bowed, he offered the underside of his wrist.
“Not necessary, Colin.” Nicolas rested his hand on Colin’s shoulder. “There is plenty of time for that later. I am in no hurry to re-establish the Maker bond. You have more than proved your loyalty and are free to remain unbound as long as you wish.”
Colin nodded and rose.
“Thank you, sir.”
“It is I who must thank you. Without you and your tireless efforts, we would not be celebrating today.”
“Then I, we, were successful?”
Nicolas laughed. He picked up a wineglass and handed it to Colin.
Colin nearly choked. He never serves anyone. Not anyone. He’s the Maker.
Nicolas picked up the other glass.
“All four operations were shut down in their respective cities by Interpol. In addition, several human trafficking rings were exposed, resulting in a large number of arrests. The refugees are in protected camps and every effort is being made to reunite them with their families. Many humans, and sympathetic Chosen, owe you their lives.”
Colin, still in shock from his Maker’s deference, nodded.
“And the children?” he asked, remembering their faces.
“Safe.”
The last fragment of Colin’s tension drained from him. Recalling the data buried in his thigh, he grinned. “I’ve brought information on their other activities as well. It’s enough to cause havoc in their operations for some time.”
Nicolas smiled and raised his glass.
“A toast, then. To the Blood.”
“To the Blood,” Colin echoed and raised his.
“And to The Game.”
“To The Game.”
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Monsters of the human variety are woven throughout our history, so when my search for one from the annals of time produced Gilles de Rais, I was not disappointed; in fact, I was appalled by the sheer evil of the man.
French nobleman Gilles de Rais (1404-1440), at the height of his career, was the Marshall of the French army and primary advisor to Joan of Arc. But after her imprisonment and execution, de Rais retired to western France, where he unleashed a penchant for violence and depravity against local village children. He was eventually hanged for his crimes. The character bearing his name in this story needed little fictionalization.
The Games Monsters Play originally appeared in High Stakes: A Vampire Anthology as one of ten stories that explore the world of the undead and the twisted games they play—both with their prey and with each other. Published in 2013 by Evil Jester Press, High Stakes includes works from award-winning authors Linda Addison, Jonathon Mayberry, Joe McKinney and others, as well as an introduction by Dacre Stoker.
I’m deeply grateful to editor Gabrielle Faust for giving me the opportunity to participate in High Stakes. It was in the writing of Games for the anthology that I discovered a character who ended up with a much larger role in The Chosen series than I could have ever anticipated. Colin’s infiltration into this story, originally about Katarina (whom we met in Watcher: Book I of The Chosen), replicated itself during the writing of Runner: Book II of The Chosen, and he has become a key figure in the series. Thank you, Gabrielle, for opening the door that allowed him to enter the Chosen world.
Many thanks as well to my beta readers and editors who helped me with this story: Eric Guignard, Joshua Essoe, Darryl Miller, Amy Jarecki, and of course, the ever f
aithful Mellie Smith.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Roh Morgon discovered the magic in stories at an early age—those in books as well as the ones she made up in her head. . Her fascination with other worlds led to an interest in costuming and renaissance faires, where she learned how to handle swords, knives, and bows. She now writes fantasy and horror for middle grade, young adult, and adult readers.
Roh currently shares her home in California’s Sierra Nevada foothills with three mustang horses, two crazy herding dogs, and a very patient husband who frequently reminds her of the need to eat and sleep.
You can find Roh online on her website, www.rohmorgon.com, her blog musings of a moonlight writer, and on Facebook, Goodreads, and Amazon.
ALSO BY ROH MORGON
THE CHOSEN SERIES
WATCHER
Book I of The Chosen
Sunny Martin’s been a monster - or so she thinks - since the night she was drained of her blood and left for dead, but when she falls in love with Nicolas, the mysterious leader of The Chosen, she discovers a startling truth behind her savage nature which may force her to choose between her heart and the last remnant of her human soul.
RUNNER
Book II of The Chosen
(2017)
Sunny Martin faces her worst fears when her choice between two worlds could mean the death of someone she loves in this sequel to Watcher.
THE LAST TRACE
a novella of The Chosen
Trace Pierre Tasman’s simple life as a mountain man in 1842 Montana turns into a living nightmare when a beautiful but vicious she-demon begins stalking him.
WITHOUT A TRACE
a novella of The Chosen
(coming soon)
In the sequel to The Last Trace, Trace Tasman’s violent life as companion to his bewitching ‘she-demon’ takes a harrowing turn when the pair come face-to-face with another Chosen on the battlefields of the American Civil War.
MONSTERS IN THE MACHINES
Short Story Collection
THE SEDUCTION
The first time Erica saw the black, low-slung sports car, she felt its sensual pull deep within her soul—but when she began succumbing to its whispered promises, she didn’t suspect she might be losing much more than her mind.
THE MONSTER’S GROWL
The stakes of the game in the small-town bar are higher than Carly and her friends realize when a mysterious biker puts his quarter on their pool table.
HELLBOUND TRAIN
(coming soon)
A gambler’s winning hand in a high-stakes game may cost him more than he’s willing to pay.
dark dreams publishing
www.darkdreamspublishing.com
Predator. Killer. Monster.
The words echo in Sunny Martin’s head each time she looks into the mirror. Since the night she was torn from her car and drained of her blood, only one fear rivals that of the hungry beast within her—the fear of exposure.
Her lonely struggle to survive on the edge of the human world leads Sunny to the mountain peaks of Colorado where she meets Nicolas, the enigmatic leader of a hidden society.
Their passion, tainted by betrayal, violence, and murder, reveals a shocking truth behind Sunny’s savage nature and drives her toward an agonizing choice between her heart and the last remnant of her human soul.
WATCHER EXCERPT:
PROLOGUE
I watch my daughter, the sunlight dancing across her long, dark hair, cradle her swollen belly as she kneels to place the flowers on my empty grave. Pink carnations this time . . . last year was red roses; the year before, golden mums.
Her shoulders quake with her sobs and, swallowing, I fight to stifle my own. Her lips move as she whispers to the flower-strewn ground, but I’m too far away to hear her precious words. Throat tight, I struggle to remain still, hidden by the large eucalyptus at the other end of the cemetery.
She caresses my name etched into the grey granite, tracing the letters one by one before wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her fingers touch her lips, then the top of the cold hard stone.
My own fingers clamp against my mouth and smother the impulse to cry out to her.
She looks so much like me—the me I used to be. Tall, willowy, she’s become a woman since I disappeared five years ago and soon, to my surprise, will become a mother. The inferno of emotions ignited by her pregnancy threatens to devour me and I do not think I can remain quiet much longer. For once, I hope she will end her visit soon and leave.
She stands and turns toward her car. A breath of summer wind lifts a few dark strands of her hair and they float for a moment, waving goodbye.
Her scent reaches out to me and triggers memories of our brief life together. Seventeen years was not enough—not enough time to share with her, to hold her and teach her and tell her how much I love her. In a flash of anger I curse the evil creature that stole me away, leaving my daughter to finish growing up alone, and leaving me . . . leaving me no longer human.
My chest heaving, I watch her drive away, then step between the markers and cross the lawn to my grave. Once again, I read the inscription on my headstone:
Sunshine Collins
Beloved Mother and Best Friend
October 10, 1969 —
Trembling, I rest my fingers where hers last touched, press them softly against my lips, and whisper, “I love you, Andrea.”
PART I
CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY
~ Chapter 1 ~
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you . . .”
Wincing, I try to block out the song from the party in the back room of the bar and reach down into the cooler for three bottles of Bud. I twist them open, set the beer on Sally’s tray, and collect the money from her.
“Thanks, Sunny!” Sally grins, her blond curls bouncing as she turns and walks away. My thoughts drift while I wait for Lenny to finish with the cash register.
Birthdays.
I hate them. My daughter’s twenty-second was yesterday, and I couldn’t be there to share it with her, anymore than she can share mine with me.
It’s pretty hard to celebrate birthdays with a dead person.
A filthy comment and raucous laughter rise above the club din and my pity party evaporates. I look up in time to see which foul mouth is spewing obscenities—and realize its target once again is Sally.
Oh, hell no. Apparently their earlier warning wasn’t strong enough.
The buzz of voices and clink of ice in glasses fades as I move out from behind the bar and step to the table where Sally is standing, her mouth and eyes wide.
I glare down at the jerks sitting at the table.
“You need to leave.” I wait, but they make no movement. “Now.”
The spike-haired punk, pale eyes shining with an unnatural glint, tips his chair back and makes a show of drinking his beer. His two buddies glance at him and guzzle the last of theirs.
An empty bottle slams down on the table.
Everyone in the bar jumps, turns to look, and a shroud of silence descends over the room. Chair legs thud against the wooden floor as he rocks forward. He wipes his mouth with a tattooed hand, then springs to his feet, knocking the chair over. Pierced lip curled into a sneer, he steps toward me and tenses as though he’s going to swing.
I lean forward, nails ready and low at my side, and stare him directly in the eye. As the pink haze drops over my vision, a growl slips out, just loud enough that only he can hear.
His blue eyes widen as he looks into the faint red of mine and, blanching, he freezes. Fear dances across his face and he slowly lowers his fists. He drops his gaze, shifts back, and lets out his breath. As he glances around at the watching crowd, he scowls and curses, then shoots me an ugly look. But he avoids meeting my eyes. One look at the beast peering out of them must have been enough.
Lenny trips and swears as he comes out from behind his end of the counter. The punk straightens his jacket as he stares past me toward the approac
hing bartender.
“Let’s bounce. This dump is killin’ my buzz.” He leans sideways and spits on the floor.
Chairs scraping, his buddies stand, then follow him as he turns and saunters out the door.
A collective sigh weaves through the room once the doors swing shut. I close my eyes and try to breathe calmness back into my body as the crazed beast within me rages in frustration.
“Oh, Sunny. Girl, I thought he was gonna hit ya,” says Lenny, a few feet behind me.
“It’s a good thing he didn’t.” Relief crawls in as I raise my eyes to cleared vision.
Because if he had tried, it would have been all over. Everything I’ve built here. The stable life, the friendships—all gone in an explosion of red violence.
Shaken, I turn and head back to the bar. Sally stops me as I step behind the counter.
“Thanks, Sunny. I’d had enough of those creeps.” The perky little waitress smiles up at me, her soft brown eyes bright with unshed tears. Her first week here hasn’t been easy.
“You’re welcome. You don’t need to put up with that crap.” I glance at her, flash a quick smile, and force the beast to quiet down and myself to relax. Apparently Sally, who was closest to the table, hadn’t noticed the scarlet that briefly flamed in my eyes, so hopefully neither did anyone else.
Except, of course, the spike-haired punk. A chuckle escapes my lips.
“All right folks, show’s over,” Lenny announces from his end of the bar.
The nightclub resumes its normal clamor as people talk and laugh about the little standoff. Someone feeds the jukebox, and Queen’s We Are the Champions floats through the air.