The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Her heart stuttered and, without thinking, he leaned down, ran his tongue over the gaping holes. The bleeding stopped. He gathered her into his arms and rocked her. He was astounded he could use his will force - that it still existed. He’d never been able to defy his master before. But it didn’t matter. Grace had lost so much blood he couldn’t see how she’d survive. He couldn’t give her any of his because he refused to condemn her to his miserable existence.

  As her heartbeat faltered, he cried. In his pain and frustration, he began keening and wailing, which started out ragged and broken, but soon grew powerful. As he reached the depths of his despair, all the sorrow of the last forty years poured out. The sound began to flow. He heard the sweet tone of his voice echoing through the sound chamber and he hugged her flaccid body tighter.

  He would give anything to save her.

  Mindless with grief, he felt the sound vibrations crash through him like a great ocean, reshaping his inner landscape, flooding his body with alien sensations. Waves of intense, unfamiliar emotions pounded his lifeless heart.

  After his death, he’d shut down most of his human feelings. All that mattered was feeding and surviving. Existing. The undead have no use for sadness and regret, so why was he overwhelmed by those feelings now?

  He shuddered as his body struggled to contain the onslaught, and was startled by the awareness of tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Tears? Vampires can’t cry. It’s impossible. I must be dying.

  In the midst of a soul-wrenching cry, the sound simply stopped. Without thought, his throat tightened and his mouth closed. He looked down to find Grace staring up at him, her heartbeat strong. The wounds on her neck had closed and were already healing.

  “Grace! How . . . That’s impossible. Your heart stopped.” Stunned, his voice cracked. Needing to assure himself that she was really alive, he leaned down and brushed her lips with his.

  “You saved me. Thank you,” Grace whispered.

  He shook his head, his tone knife-edged. “Don’t thank me. It’s my fault you were attacked. I should never have come here. I didn’t mean to involve you in my horrible world. Aren’t you afraid of me?”

  “Afraid? That’s the last thing I feel about you. You’ve healed more than my body.”

  “But . . . you know what I am.”

  “Yes, I do know.” She stroked her hand down the side of his face and met his eyes. “You’re my angel.”

  He gave a disgusted laugh. “No chance of that.”

  “Then, what are you?”

  “I’m a ...” He stopped and stared off into the distance, his head spinning. What was he exactly? He’d almost said he was a vampire, but he’d been acting weird - like a mortal — ever since his encounter with Grace the night before. Until then, his world had been narrow and constricted, the rules clear. He drank blood. His master controlled him. He died when the sun came up. Now, nothing made sense. She’d changed him with her voice, her very being. But what did that mean? Changed him how? “It’s impossible, but I don’t know any more. I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

  “There’s a legend,” she said, drawing his attention back to her.

  He frowned. “A legend? About what?”

  She smiled and snuggled closer. “Sound healing has existed for millennia. For most of that time it was also used to raise the dead - to restore the spark of life. Or so the story goes. History tells of an actual sound ceremony used to reclaim the souls of people possessed by demons.”

  “You’re kidding, right? That’s impossible.” He laughed and leaned back so he could see her face. “But, on the other hand, I’ve said the word ‘impossible’ more times than I ever have before, and I haven’t been right yet.”

  She nodded. “Something is only impossible until we know better.”

  Wait. Did she just say something about raising the dead and being possessed by demons? What’s she trying to tell me? How could she know?

  “So, what’s that legend got to do with me? What are you saying?”

  She gazed at him, her eyes soft and compassionate. “When I sang with you, I became a part of you. I sensed your mind — your soul. And now you’re different - more. A mystical transformation occurred. But you had to desire the change before it could happen. You literally intended yourself into a new existence.”

  He shook his head. “That sounds crazy, Grace. That’s imposs—”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “Impossible? Apparently not. And I was never afraid of you because I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “What?”

  She grinned, then put on Roz’s fake gypsy-fortune-teller accent. “You see, there’s an ancient prediction, passed down by the gypsy women in my friend’s family. It is foretold that I will meet an extraordinary man who will be reborn, and together we will do the impossible.” She pressed her lips to his. “I think we’ve already begun.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s possible. Tell me more about that extraordinary man ...”

  The Princess and the Peas

  Alyssa Day

  Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there lived a princess in a tiny kingdom known as Elvania. The kingdom’s exact location is long lost in the mists of time; some say it became part of France, while others claim it for Switzerland. The Swiss claim has more merit, perhaps, as the precedent of impartial and wintry-cold neutrality has sometimes been a guiding tenet of that people. All agree that the princess claimed a lovely view of the waters of what is now called Lake Geneva from her turret bedroom.

  Not that she cared much for views. Or lakes. Or anything at all, in fact, other than her single-minded, unswerving quest for the perfect husband.

  This is her story. (Except where it isn’t.)

  “Lucinda!” The dulcet shrieks of Her-Royal-Pain-In-The-Nether-Regions rang through Lucy’s skull like a trumpet blown by a particularly incompetent musician. She shot up out of her narrow bed, clutching the threadbare quilt to her chest, blinking stupidly, wondering what was on fire.

  With any luck, she was. She being Princess Margarita Glori-ana Dolores Tresor Montague. “Glory” to her friends - not that she had any. Lady, mistress and personal hell to Lucinda since the two of them had been ten years old.

  When the cry didn’t repeat itself, Lucy closed her eyes and started to sink back into her lumpy mattress, hoping that it had been a nightmare. Maybe she could fall back into that inexplicably tingly dream, although it was curious that Ian, his dark eyes flashing, had been riding his horse through the main hall, coming to get her. Since when did she dream of Ian?

  More to the point, since when did any dream leave her feeling quite so ... breathless?

  She repressed that line of enquiry and opened a single eye. The glimmers of pink light edging through her narrow window told her that it could be no more than an hour since the princess had finally (finally!) pronounced herself pleased enough with the preparations so that Lucy could crawl off to her room - the tiny chamber adjacent to Glory’s own - and catch at least a few short hours of sleep before the guests arrived.

  More stinking royalty.

  If Lucy lived through the week, it would be a miracle. Why couldn’t she be a cook or a scullery maid or even a laundress? Surely slaving away in the hot kitchens or over the clothes boiling away in the pots must be a stroll in the gardens compared to dancing attendance on the spoiled brat of a princess.

  Never mind. It didn’t matter. Sleep. Lovely, blessed sleep. Just a few hours, and then a strong mug or three of hot tea, and—

  “Lucinda! Get in here right this minute, you lazy girl! We forgot the peas!”

  Lucy startled awake with a jerk and slammed her head so hard into the stone wall that she was sure to have a goose egg on her skull in a matter of hours. Not to mention the headache. She gritted her teeth, threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, swaying a little with dizziness from the pain in her head.

  “I. Am. Coming. You. Horrible. Monster,” she gritted out under her breath.
Then, louder: “Coming, my lady.”

  She didn’t bother to put a sprightly tone in her voice. Glory wouldn’t have believed it anyway. The last time Lucy had sounded sprightly was the day she’d left a very wet and slimy toad in Glory’s bed. She grinned at the memory but then sighed.

  It was sad to live on the memory of a childish rebellion that had happened nearly eleven years ago.

  Lucy stumbled into Glory’s room, taken aback as always at the virulent pinkness of it. Wall hangings, rugs, bed coverlets, and even Glory herself, were all a vision in nauseating pink. And rose. And red-tinged violet. It was like walking into the inside of a sow’s stomach.

  She rubbed her eyes again, hoping it would go away. It didn’t. It never did.

  “What are you talking about, Glory? What peas?”

  “That’s ‘your Highness’,” Glory snapped. “Or ‘milady’. At least while our guests are here. I can’t have it thought that I allow the serving wenches to address me with such familiarity.”

  “Serving wenches? Serving wenches? Whose shoulder have you cried on more times than either of us can count? Whose bed did you climb into for safety and comfort whenever there was a thunderstorm - and that up until you were fifteen years old?” Lucy asked with what she thought was admirable calm. “Mayhap you should rethink that term, or I’ll find out if Magda can come help you this week.”

  Glory gasped at the idea of the pig keeper as her personal servant. “Magda? She hasn’t bathed in months. You must be joking. Don’t forget that you owe me—”

  “I owe you nothing,” Lucy said flatly. “I’ve spent the past eleven years working far and above the value of my keep, in spite of the promise your mother made to mine. I turn twenty-one in three days and am only staying this week as a favour to the Glory I once loved as a sister.”

  Glory had the grace to look abashed, but only for a span of seconds. “You know you cannot leave me, twenty-one or no. There is no place for you to go.”

  “There is the world, Glory. There is the world. Or do you forget?” Lucy waved her arm and the scattered pillows, clothes and assorted frippery covering every inch of Glory’s floor flew gracefully to their assigned places in trunks and the wardrobe.

  “Now. What peas?”

  “Oh, sure. You had to ask. ‘What peas?’ Addle-pated twit,” Lucy muttered sourly as she slammed the final mattress down onto its gilded wooden frame with a thump. For the past hour and a half, she’d stomped up and down the corridor, crawling under mattresses in the guest chambers to deposit a single pea-sized iron pellet underneath each one. Finally she’d come to the royal chamber, kept free for visiting princes or Fae lords, and deposited the last pea. Now she was done.

  Of course it had to be iron. Her magic didn’t work on iron or the chore would have been done in a matter of moments. That was why she was here in the first place, according to Glory. To hide the tiny bits of iron that would block the Fae from working magic in their rooms during the treaty negotiations.

  Fae magic did not work well in the presence of iron either. Still, something about Glory’s reasoning seemed unsound to Lucy’s exhausted mind. After all, iron’s properties or no, Lucy knew there was no chance that she was even the slightest bit Fae. She repressed the desire to touch the very round, very non-pointed tip of her ear for reassurance. She claimed a bit of the old forest magic, mayhap, but never Fae.

  She turned towards the door, longing for her bed more than ever, and attempted to brush some of the under-bed dust from her night shift. She needed to speak to the housekeeper about the lack of cleaning. No. It was no longer her concern.

  “Like any of the elvish slugs are going to notice, anyway,” she said to the empty room. “This is the stupidest idea—”

  “Elvish slugs, hmm? I was unaware my race boasted that particular member.” The voice was sensuality turned to music, teasing, hypnotic, and pitched exactly right to make Lucy feel warm in places a man’s voice had no business warming.

  Fortunately, such tricks had no effect on her.

  She gave a slight effort to wiping the scowl from her face before she looked up, but the sight of him brought her scowl back in full measure. The Fae lord was beautiful, of course. They all were. A few inches taller than most human men. Silvery hair shimmering in a fall of moon-kissed silk to his waist. Long, lean muscles. Eyes the blue of the sky reflected in ice.

  Ice to Ian’s fire. Wait. What? Ian? She narrowed her eyes at the thought of the man who seemed to be popping into her mind with a growing frequency, and returned her attention to the man who was actually in the room with her.

  Yep. He was an elf. She couldn’t bear the sight of them. Pompous Fae with their overblown sense of importance. This one would be worse than most, since he wore the green and gold of the High House of the Seelie Court.

  “Rugs. I said, ‘Too bad we don’t have any elvish rugs,’ “ she said quickly, although she didn’t exactly add the “milord”. It would be bad form to start a fight with one of the visiting princes on the very first day of the treaty renewal meetings, but truly a girl could only put up with so much.

  He leaned against the doorway, effectively blocking her escape, and folded his arms across his chest. “Yes,” he drawled, sweeping a leisurely glance from her head to her toes. “We of the Seelie Court are known for our . . . rugs.”

  “Are you a gift to me? If so, I know not whether to be honoured by my host’s graciousness at giving me such a beauty or insulted that he would send such a filthy hoyden to my bed.”

  Lucy gasped at his effrontery. “You insufferable . . . You . . . You . . . insufferable ...”

  “Yes, insufferable. I believe we’ve established that,” he said dryly. “Or do you expect me to believe you have framed yourself before the fire in such a manner that your gown is nearly transparent merely by accident?”

  Her face flushed so hot that she knew it must have turned bright red, which contrasted hideously with her dark red hair. Not that she cared what this pompous ass thought of her. She took a deep breath, twirled her hand in a semicircle, and the room was plunged into darkness as the fire extinguished itself.

  “There. Now you can see nothing.”

  “Oh, so you wish to be alone in the dark with me?” Amusement shimmered in his voice as he took a step towards her.

  “In your dreams, Milord Pointy Ears,” she snapped. “Get out of my way or I’ll make those flames spark to life again, but this time in your trousers.”

  He paused for a beat, probably thinking of ways to order her tortured in the palace dungeons, but he surprised her: he threw back his head and laughed. Still laughing, he bowed and moved away from the doorway. “As you wish, milady, in spite of your obvious fascination with my . . . trousers. But you will at least surrender your name to me for my trouble.”

  She raced past him, pausing only once she’d reached the safety of the corridor. “Of course. My name is Magda.”

  Rhys na Garanwyn, High Prince of the High House of the Seelie Court, stood staring after the lass as she raced down the corridor away from him. Human, surely. Perhaps with a touch of simple magic. But he’d sensed nothing in her that should have allowed her to resist him so defiantly. Humans were drawn to the Fae like dragons to jewels, irresistibly and inexorably.

  Yet this one had scorned his attention, even when he’d opened his senses to her and infused his voice with a bit of enchantment. She should have been on her knees, begging for his touch. The idea, oddly, held a slight repugnance. She was beautiful and she’d been half-undressed, but there was no sexual appeal for him there. More an inexplicable fondness, which made him wonder if some previously unencountered spellcraft were involved.

  The sound of tramping feet interrupted his mental wanderings and he took a deep breath, banishing all thoughts of the impudent Magda. He’d find her tomorrow perhaps. Or request her company as a guest-gift from his host. Entering his chamber and pushing the door closed behind him, he smiled.

  This treaty renewal might prove to be far more f
ascinating than any in the past 600 years.

  Evening, the next day.

  Lucy trailed down the staircase behind Glory, muttering dire and mostly impotent threats under her breath as she tried not to trip over the gown she hadn’t wanted to wear. Glory had decided that she needed a lady to serve her personally at all banquets during the week, since she’d heard that the elven ladies indulged themselves in such a manner. Of course, only Lucy would do.

  She’d won the battle against the pink dress at least. After a long and painful argument (which had included much brush-hurling and foot-stomping on Glory’s part), Lucy had come up with one perfect, irrefutable point: if she, Lucy, wore pink, it would take some of the focus away from Glory’s own marvellously beautiful pink-clad self.

  Glory’s anger had transformed magically into an expression of thoughtful consideration. Then she’d turned towards her wardrobe, bent to yank something from the floor in the back, and pulled out one of the most beautiful gowns Lucy had ever seen. The emerald silk of the bodice and skirt draped richly over an underskirt of sheerest gold. Delicate golden beads — which appeared to be formed of actual gold - shimmered at the neckline and sleeves.

  Lucy had caught her breath at the wave of utter longing that swept through her at the sight of it. Then she’d flatly refused to wear it.

  “No. Not a chance. Those are the High House colours, so the gown must have been a gift. You know how political those elves are. If I wear it, it will send a very insulting message, and they probably invented the phrase ‘kill the messenger’. No. Absolutely not.”

  Well. That had gone well. Now here she was, wearing the gown that would be the death of her, her hair done up in a ridiculous tangle of curls, and her mother’s silver ring on a chain around her neck. Add in the oversized embroidered slippers (Glory’s cast-offs) and she looked exactly like a child playing dress-up. She yanked the skirt up from around her toes and wondered how many bones she’d break when she went tumbling down the stairs, head over heels.