by Sharon Page
Her brother’s coachman looked mortally embarrassed as he helped her scramble through the door opening. He was a handsome man with coal black hair and flashing eyes, but he was not supposed to be clasping arms around a lady’s waist to set her on the ground.
“Thank you,” she breathed, to let him know that she didn’t care one whit about propriety in the situation.
She and the coachman shared an awkward moment while he gruffly acknowledged her appreciation. The sunlight promised a beautiful day, but the air she sucked in was crisp with the newness of spring, and her shoes were sinking into the muddy road. Fading gold light picked out a scene of madness: of the poor horses, one was on its side and screaming, and the other was fighting the constraint of the traces. Outriders were struggling to free them. The carriage was a battered wreck.
She was lucky to have survived.
That made her more determined to know what had happened. “If it wasn’t a wolf or a dog, what was it?”
“It was a massive beast with fangs,” the coachman said at the same instant one of the outriders shouted, “It was a vampire!”
“Oh, surely not,” she discounted. Had the servants been drinking? She hoped not. And they had not stopped long enough at an inn for the men to have a drink.
It would be expected that she would say such a thing was a foolish superstition. But she knew there really were creatures with fangs that drank human blood and who hunted the English countryside. When she had been very little and Aunt Eugenia told her vampire stories, she had not believed such monsters were real. She’d loved Aunt Eugenia but always had thought her eccentric. She’d thought her aunt just liked to scare her.
Now she knew monsters and demons existed.
“It was a man,” one of the outriders insisted. “A giant of a man, with fangs.”
“Blow it,” growled the coachman. “I doubt we can set this thing to rights. What are we to do?”
Miranda wrapped her arms around herself. A cold wind cut through her pelisse, and she still throbbed with pain all over.
“The village of Little Darkling is yonder.” Her coachman pointed. Through the budding trees of a small forest she could see muddy fields, a few stone farmhouses and stables, then a huddle of buildings. Sunlight glinted on paned windows and smoke curled from chimneys—the little cottages looked rather enticing.
“Let us walk, then,” she suggested. It would be a slog in the mud and would take hours. Clouds rolled swiftly over the sun. A few snowflakes wafted down, and the dampness seemed to rush through her skin. Her beautiful day was vanishing. But what choice did the have?
Before any of the men could answer, a low growl rolled out of the stretch of dark woods that separated them from the warm, inviting homes. Branches cracked, leaves twitched, but Miranda could not see a thing. Snowflakes thickened and swirled in wild spirals. Miranda gasped as the coachman drew out his pistol. “Get back, my lady,” he cried.
A silvery shape exploded out of the shadows—a wolf with dark fur and long legs that swallowed up the ground as he tore toward them. The animal’s jaws parted. Arm rock steady, the coachman took aim, but Miranda cried, “No!”
Like a streak of lightning, the wolf shot past.
“Heavens,” she gasped. “Something frightened it. It was not running to attack us, it was running for its life!”
The coachman looked at her as though she was mad. But she ignored that; it was not uncommon for a man to roll his eyes at any woman who voiced an opinion.
But what had spooked the wolf?
Her outriders, two staunch men who had served her family for years, crossed themselves. “I told yer,” said one, who held the horses by the reins, “I’m not going that way. Not through those woods.”
But the other, holding a pistol of his own, had crept ahead a few yards along the narrow road. “It’s likely another wolf. A bigger one,” he shouted back.
“It makes no sense,” Miranda muttered. “Wolves are nocturnal.” Aunt Eugenia had told her of the eerie sounds of them in the Carpathians, and she knew their howls from her family’s country home.
Before her eyes, the dark shadows of the forest seemed to surge out of the trees and rush down the road. Thick blackness swarmed around the man and he turned to run. He howled in sheer terror. It was as though the gloom of the forest had swallowed him whole. Miranda cried out, and the men stood transfixed in shock. A shot exploded. Her coachman had fired, and the flare of powder blinded her.
Blinking, she focused again on the road.
It was empty. The man had vanished.
“No, that’s not possible.” She swung around on the coachman. “We must find him. He must have been dragged off the road—”
“We can’t kill a vampire with a pistol shot.”
“It’s not a vampire. This is daylight, for heaven’s sake! Vampires cannot come out in sunlight.” Or so Aunt Eugenia had told her.
The horses reared, tossed their heads, and hooves flailed. The other outrider had to release the reins; the horses were almost berserk. Then, hooves pounding and throwing up muck, the animals ran.
“They sense it!” The coachman grabbed her arm and pushed her ahead of him. “Run, miss!”
Run? If it was a wolf or a wild dog, she couldn’t outrun an animal like that. And an animal would scent her…
A growl sounded right behind her. Behind her, in the grass, when she had seen nothing go past. Miranda hauled up her hems and stumbled through the mud, away from the forest.
Wasn’t running the worst possible thing to do? Wasn’t it madness to run?
Wind rushed in her ears, but she didn’t think it really was the wind—it was her fear, the race of her blood. She knew something was running behind her. She just…knew.
Was it her coachman with his weapon, or something else?
Black clouds slid across the sun like fingers clutching at the light, and then she was plunged into complete darkness. All light had been extinguished like a candle blown out with a puff of air. There was no sunlight at all—in the middle of the day.
She stopped, stunned, her chest heaving.
All her landmarks were gone. The line of trees, the dip of the fields, the waving heather—it was all just a sea of formless shadow.
Miranda turned in a helpless circle, afraid to take a step.
The ground crunched, and she knew that whatever was chasing her had made the sound deliberately. It was playing with her.
And it was working. She was paralyzed with terror as she heard a soft crack, then the relentless thud of footsteps. She spun around but could see nothing but shadowed trees and rippling grass.
There had to be a way out, or some weapon she could use. Even her reticule would be something, but it lay in the overturned carriage.
Where were her coachman and the other outrider? Had they fled for their lives and left her? When the coachman had pushed her to run, he looked as if the very devil himself was about the drag them to a fiery hell.
Another growl, closer now.
She didn’t understand why the animal didn’t spring. It could take her to the ground and tear her apart. Why did it wait? She wished she had food in her hand, something to throw as far away from her as she could.
“But that would not help, my love,” a deep masculine voice growled. “For you are the only delectable treat that tempts me.”
A man! Where? But not a savior. She knew that from the hungry, predatory sound of his voice, from the words he’d chosen. Had he been the thing chasing her?
Realization froze her to the spot. She had not spoken aloud. He had answered words she’d uttered only in her head.
The shadows stirred and he stepped forward; her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, so she could see him.
He was huge. He stood far taller than her—far, far taller—and he was surrounded by a dark cape that whipped in the wind. She realized that his hair was waist length and it danced around his chiseled face. Something white glinted at her—
Long, evil-lookin
g fangs, just like in her dream.
Suddenly, strong hands wrapped around her wrists. A guttural laugh echoed by her ear.
He’d been several feet away from her and now he was gripping her, and she hadn’t seen him move.
Any sensible woman would faint. Why go to death conscious? But Miranda realized she couldn’t let herself take that way out.
Powerful arms swept her up, and she kicked and scratched and screamed. A scent enveloped her along with the strong arms. Sweet and rich, as alluring as chocolate. Primal and musky and unbearably mesmerizing too. Somehow the man’s smell made her relax and tense at the same time.
“Quiet. I won’t hurt you. In fact, it’s my need, pretty little lass, to do the opposite.” His husky, baritone voice spoke English in a sensual accent.
He pulled her closer to him, squashing her breasts against his wide, hard chest. She’d never been so close to a man, except in her dream world. She’d never been held like this. A bit of cloud slid away from the sun and light slanted over his face.
His cheek glowed as though it had caught fire. Smoke spiraled off his skin.
She almost gagged on the smell of burning flesh.
A man with fangs, one who burned in sunlight. A vampire.
His full, seductive mouth curved into a grimace of pain, then the faint bit of light disappeared.
“What are you?” she managed. But her traitorous body did not want to struggle in his arms. His scent made her…weak. Her skin felt warm, and her head felt too dizzy. But she had to break free, and she forced her legs to thrash wildly.
“Stop. I am Zayan,” he growled by her ear. That rumble of sound was not like an animal, but like the way she’d heard her brother Simon growl to his new wife, Caroline. Lustful. Hot. Aroused.
She should be afraid. But her nipples hardened, and her breasts lifted against the soft brush of her chemise. Between her thighs, she ached and got hot and sticky, the way she did when she had her dreams.
She must be going mad. Or she was trapped in another dream. In the last dream, she’d been dying!
She would break free of this nightmare. This was enough. Miranda lashed out. Her boot flailed wildly and made contact with his hip with a thud that she felt through her shin. She hammered her fists against his arms, writhed, and twisted against his grip.
And nothing worked. He gazed down at her with amusement, those terrifying fangs exposed by his smile. His eyes were the dark silvery gray of the snowy sky. They held her like a hypnotist’s twirling silver watch.
A thunderous roar exploded from the woods, and a brilliant red light exploded outward from inside it. The light scattered into winking stars and disappeared, but out of its core, another man appeared. As large as the one who still held her. His hair was as long and black but bore a brilliant silvery white streak within it. He, too, had fangs.
“Bloody hell, it’s daylight.” This man’s hands were bare, and smoke plumed from the backs of them. “Your brilliant plan was to escape our prison into the bloody middle of the day?”
Wake up. Wake up, Miranda! But she was awake.
“I’ve cast darkness around the sun, but it will fade soon—” Zayan broke off and muttered a curse. A particularly coarse one.
Clamped to his body, Miranda twisted to look.
A mass of snowflakes swirled over the grass to the side, and they looked as red as blood. Then the fluttering flakes joined, forming a shape. It grew legs, a thick body, a long neck, and a giant head. A dragon.
Impossible.
Whatever it was, it ran toward her and the…the vampires.
Stay.
She heard Zayan’s voice in her head, and though she tried to force her limbs to move, they would not.
The ground shook as the red dragon charged at them, and though she blinked a dozen times, the monster did not vanish. Wide blood-red wings seemed to hang in the air. Giant legs swallowed up the ground as it half-ran, half-flew at them. An enormous, serpent-like head leaned forward, leading the massive body.
Flames tore out of the dragon’s mouth. Bracken caught fire, flared, and became instant ash. Miranda meant to scream, but it caught in her throat, choking her.
The other vampire muttered, “Bloody Christ Jesus.” He stalked toward the beast and held up his hand. Flames launched from the slavering jaws and hit the vampire’s hand. Then disappeared.
The dragon gave an unearthly shriek and it sounded like a cry of frustration. Calmly, wearing a glare of impatience, the vampire formed a ball of pale blue light between his hands.
That was most definitely not possible. But Miranda was watching it happen.
The vampire shot his whirling ball of blue light at the snowflake dragon. An explosion shook the ground and the dragon fell. The beast’s body disappeared as it hit the waving fronds of heather.
It was gone.
That, she heard Zayan say, proved far too easy.
Too easy?
We must return to your carriage. And with that, he released her.
“How ridiculous.” Suddenly, her arms were free and she waved them in fury. For anger was better than giving in to shock and fainting dead away in the road. “I am not taking you within my carriage. And I cannot—it’s lying broken on the road and the horses are gone.”
Intriguing. You are not begging for your life. You are not crying or quivering in fear.
Could Zayan not hear the fevered beat of her heart? Aunt Eugenia said vampires could hear heartbeats. And could smell blood. “I doubt either would do me any good,” she exclaimed. “You’d laugh if I begged and hurt me even if I cried.”
Zayan grinned at the other vampire. A courageous woman. I have met so few truly brave women. Most will fight for their lives with every weapon they possess. Then he looked her over in the most…lecherous, scandalous, audacious way.
She did not want to hear his voice in her head. “Speak in words! Speak out loud! I do not even think you really exist. I’m dreaming!”
Hold out your arm, Zayan commanded. Her arm, entirely against her will, extended at his wish. The other vampire cocked his head, as though laughing at her. Zayan bent over her wrist.
He licked her.
Flicked his tongue along her skin.
He bit her.
She wrenched her arm, fearing that his teeth would rip her skin open, but he let her go.
Dreams might bite, angel, but that little jolt of pain would awaken a dreamer. Now, my dear, we need refuge or the sunlight will burn us to ash.
“Then take the carriage, for all the good it will do you.” She pointed toward where her carriage was. She could see the wounds on her wrist. Two puncture marks showed just below her veins. A vampire’s bite, exactly as Eugenia had described.
“And what do you intend to do, angel?” The other vampire asked.
She wouldn’t answer that.
“Ah, you plan to walk to the village.” Zayan tilted his head and the wind threw his hair behind him. Long, wavy, it looked like the style of the rakish and handsome Charles II. “I would not advise it. There are wolves out, and they are excited by the scent of magic in the air.”
The scent of magic? But she shivered—he was correct. She smelled something in the air—an exotic richness, a breathtaking scent that was alluring and indescribable.
The other vampire, the one with the streak of silver in his hair, strode forward. “You are to come with us, sweeting.”
“I won’t.”
“I can force you to come with me. I can control your mind, and you will obediently place one foot before the other and follow me.”
“Then do that,” she snapped, “because I won’t go willingly.”
“I am glad, fair lady, that yours is the first carriage we’ve encountered. But I have not the time to do battles with words.”
This vampire also wore a cape, one of black velvet, trimmed in a thick, luxurious fur of gray and white. Wolf fur. A jeweled clasp held it.
He tossed her over his shoulder, his hand clamped on her bottom to h
old her in place. He squeezed her rump through her skirts.
“Put me down!”
“Let us take a look at your carriage first.”
They strode over, and though she kicked and struggled, she could not break free. She could not even see the wreck of the carriage, though she felt a perverse sense of satisfaction when the vampires paused, and the one holding her groaned.
She remembered what it had looked like. Jagged shards of once gleaming wood had jutted up into the air. The door had been hanging off. Bits of one wheel were strewn about.
She could also smell the vampires’ burning skin.
The vampire who held her snapped his fingers. At once, she heard the horses neigh, then the sloppy sound of hooves fighting through the mud. Within moments, the horses had returned, tossing their heads.
“Gentle,” the vampire murmured, holding up his hand. Manes waved in the snow-laden air, but the animals stopped prancing and fussing, then lowered their heads.
Docile fools, she thought.
Zayan waved his hand in a graceful circle. He conjured a vivid purple light that twined around his arm like a snake.
The light spun through the air and hit the carriage, where it seemed to rain down like soft rose petals. All she could see was a lovely violet glow.
As in the fairy tale Cinderella, a carriage materialized before her eyes—but not from a pumpkin and mice, from the wreckage of Simon’s best traveling coach. She blinked hard. As her lids lifted, she discovered the horses in their traces.
She twisted in the grasp of the vampire in the wolf’s cloak. “What did you do?”
“It would be much better for you to travel in comfort,” Zayan answered.
“That’s not what I mean. You can’t just wave your hand and have a broken carriage leap back onto its wheels, fixed and perfect! It’s not possible.”
“That is the power of magic.”
The vampire holding her began to stride to the magically repaired carriage. “Enough talk. We need refuge from the light.” The hand massaged her derriere in the most scandalous way. Unwanted heat rushed through her.