After Twilight

by Amanda Ashley

  Sara sat perfectly still and watched him come to her. The vampire bent his tall frame, extending his dagger-tipped bony fingers toward her. Sara exploded into action, only it was Falcon’s fist slamming hard into the chest cavity of the undead, as he returned to his true form. As Falcon did so, the vampire, with a look of sheer disbelief, stumbled back so that the fist barely penetrated his chest plate. Overhead, Jacques, in the shape of the owl, launched himself from the branches and flew straight at the undead, talons outstretched. The small fox grew in stature, shape-shifting into the tall, elegant frame of a male hunter, and Mikhail’s hands were already weaving a binding spell to prevent the vampire from shifting or vanishing.

  Pressed from the air, caught between the hunters and unable to flee, the vampire launched his own attack, risking everything in the hopes of defeating the one Carpathian whose death might force the other two to pause. Calling on every ounce of power and knowledge he possessed, he slammed his fist into Falcon’s elbow, shattering bone. Then he whirled away, his body replicating itself over and over until there were a hundred clones of the undead. Half the clones initiated attacks using stakes or sharp-pointed spears; the others fled in various directions.

  Jacques, in the owl form, drove talons straight through the head of a clone, going through empty air so that he was forced to pull up swiftly before hitting the ground. The air vibrated with power, with violence and hatred.

  Each of the clones on the attack was weaving a different spell, and sprays of blood washed the surrounding air a toxic crimson. Falcon’s mind shut off the pain of his shattered elbow as he assessed the situation in that one heartbeat of time. It was all he had. All he would ever have. In that blink of an eye the centuries of his life passed, bleak and barren, stretching endlessly until Sara. This is my gift to you. She was his life. His soul. His future. But there was honor. There was what and who he was, what he stood for. He was guardian of his people.

  She was there with him. His Sara. She understood that he had no other choice. It was everything he was. Without regret, Falcon flung his body between his Prince and the vampire moving in for the kill. A multitude of razor-sharp spears pierced Falcon’s body, taking his breath, spilling his life force onto the ground in dark rivers. As he toppled to earth, he reached out, slamming both open hands into the scarlet fountain on the vampire’s chest, leaving his prints like a neon sign for the other hunters to target.

  Sara, sharing Falcon’s mind, reacted calmly, already knowing what to do. She had made good use of Falcon’s knowledge and she shut down his heart and lungs instantly, so that he lay as still as death on the battlefield. She concentrated, holding him to her, a flickering, dim light that wanted to retreat from pain.

  She had no time for sorrow. No time for emotion. She held him to her with the same fierce determination of the Carpathian people’s finest warrior as the battle raged on around him.

  Mikhail saw the ancient warrior fall, his body riddled with holes. The Prince was already in motion, snapping the spears like matchsticks as he drove forward, directing Jacques with his mind. The clones tried to regroup to throw the hunters off the scent, but it was too late. The vampire had revealed himself in his attack, and Mikhail locked onto Falcon’s marks, as certain as fingerprints.

  The undead snarled his hatred, shrieked his fury, but the holding spell bound him. He could not shift his shape and it was already too late. The Prince buried his fist deep, following the twisted path the ancient warrior had mapped out. Jacques took the head, slicing cleanly, a delaying tactic to give his brother time to extract the black, pulsating heart. The sky rained insects, great stinging bugs, and pellets of ice and rain.

  Mikhail calmly built the charge of energy in the roiling clouds. All the while, the black heart jumped and crawled blindly, seeking its master. Blisters rose on the ground and on their arms as the scarlet spray embedded itself in their skin. The fury of the wind whipped them, moaning and hissing a dark promise of retaliation. Mikhail grimly continued, calling upon nature, directing a fiery orange ball from the sky to the pulsing heart. The thing was incinerated with a noxious odor and a cloud of black smoke.

  The body of the vampire jerked, the head rolled, the eyes staring at Falcon’s still form with a hatred beyond anything the hunters had ever witnessed. A hand moved, the dagger-tipped claws reaching for the fallen warrior as if to take him along on the path to death. The orange ball of energy slammed into the body, incinerating it immediately, then leaping to the head to reduce it to a fine powder of ashes.

  Jacques took over the cleansing of the earth, and then their own skin, erasing the evidence of the foul creature which had gone against nature itself.

  Raven met her lifemate at the door, touching his arm, sharing his deep sorrow, offering him comfort and warmth. “Shea has gone ahead to the cave of healing, opening the earth and taking the candles we will need. Jacques has brought Falcon there. The soil is rich and will aid her work. I have summoned our people to join with us in the healing chant.” She turned to look at Sara.

  Sara stood up slowly. She could see compassion, even sorrow, on Raven’s face. Tears streaked Raven’s cheeks and she held out both hands. “Sara, they have brought him to the best place possible, a place of power. Shea says…” She choked back a sob and pressed a fist to her mouth even as she caught Sara’s hand in hers. “You must come with us quickly to the cave of healing.”

  Mikhail stepped back, avoided her eyes, his features a mask of granite, but Sara knew what he was thinking. She touched his arm briefly to gain his attention. “I was sharing his mind when he made the decision. It was a conscious decision, one he didn’t hesitate to make. Don’t lessen his sacrifice by feeling guilty. Falcon believes you’re a great man, that the loss of your life would be intolerable to him, to your people. He knew exactly what he was doing and what the cost might be. I am proud of him, proud of who he is. He is an honorable man and always has been. I completely supported his decision.”

  Mikhail nodded. “You are a fitting lifemate for an ancient as honorable as Falcon. Thank you for your kindness in such a bleak hour, Sara. It is a privilege to count you among our people. We must go to him rapidly. You have not had time to become used to our ways, so I ask that you allow me to take your blood. Falcon’s blood runs in my veins. I must aid you in shape-shifting to get to this place of healing.”

  She met his black gaze steadily. “You honor me, sir.”

  Raven’s fingers tightened around Sara’s as if holding her close, but Sara could barely feel the contact. Her mind was firmly entrenched in Falcon’s, holding him to her, refusing to allow him to slip away despite the gravity of his injuries. She felt the prick of Mikhail’s teeth on her wrist, felt the reassuring squeeze of Raven’s hand. Nothing mattered to Sara but that flickering light so dim and far away.

  Mikhail placed the image of an owl in her mind, and she actually felt the wrenching of her bones, the contorting of her body, and the sudden rush of air as she took flight. But there was only Falcon, and she didn’t dare let go of that fading light to look at the world falling away from her as she winged her way to the cave of healing.

  Deep beneath the earth, the air was heavy and thick with the aroma of hundreds of scented candles. Sara went to Falcon, shocked at the terrible wounds in his body, at his white, nearly translucent skin. Shea’s body was an empty shell. Sara was vividly aware of her in Falcon’s body, valiantly repairing the extensive damage. The sound of chanting—ancient, beautiful words in a language she recognized yet didn’t know—filled the chamber. The ancient language of the Carpathians. Those not present were there nonetheless, joined mind to mind, sending their powers of healing, their energy, to their fallen warrior.

  Sara watched the Prince giving his blood, far more than he could afford, yet he waved the others off and gave until he was weak and pale, until his own brother forced him to replenish what he had given. She watched each of the Carpathians, strangers to her, giving generously to her lifemate, reverently, paying a kind of homage
to him. Sara took Falcon’s hand in hers and watched as Shea returned to her own body.

  Shea, swaying with weariness, signaled to the others to pack Falcon’s terrible wounds with saliva and the deep rich earth. She fed briefly from her lifemate and returned to the monumental task of closing and repairing the wounds.

  It took hours. Outside the cave the sun was climbing, but not one of the people faltered in their task. Sara held Falcon to her through sheer will, and when Shea emerged, they stared at one another across his body, both weary, both with tears shimmering in their eyes.

  “We must put him to ground and hope that the earth works its magic. I have done all I can do,” Shea said softly. “It’s up to you now, Sara.”

  Sara nodded. “Thank you. We owe you so much. Your efforts won’t be wasted. He’ll live. I won’t allow anything else.” She leaned close to her lifemate. “You will not die, do you hear me, Falcon?” Sara demanded, tears running down her face. “You will hold on and you will live for me. For us. For our children. I am demanding this of you.” She said it fiercely, meaning it. She said it with her heart and her mind and her soul.

  Gently she touched his beloved face, traced his worn features. Do you hear me?

  She felt the faintest of stirrings in her mind. A warmth. Soft, weary laughter. Who could not hear you, my love? I can do no other than comply.

  The house was large, a huge, rambling home built of stone and columns. The veranda wrapped around the entire structure on the lower story. A similar balcony wrapped around the upper story. Stained-glass windows greeted the moon, beautiful unique pieces that soothed the soul. Sara loved every single thing about the estate. The overgrown bushes and thick stands of trees. The jumbles of flowers that seemed to spring up everywhere. She would never tire of sitting on the swing on her porch and looking out into the surrounding forest.

  It was still difficult to believe, even after all these months, that the vampire was truly out of her life. She had been firmly in Falcon’s mind when he assumed her shape. Her thoughts and emotions had guided his disguised body. Falcon buried deep, so that the vampire would fail to detect him. The plan had worked, the vampire was destroyed, but it would take a long while before she would wake without being afraid. She could only hope that the book the vampire had been searching for would remain hidden, lost to mortals and immortals alike. The fact that the undead had gone to such lengths to find the book could only mean that its power was tremendous. In the wrong hands, that book could mean disaster for both mortals and immortals.

  Falcon had told Sara he’d known the vampire as a young boy growing up. Vladimir had sent him to Egypt while Falcon had gone to Italy. Somewhere along the way, Falcon had chosen honor, while his boyhood friend had wanted ultimate power. Sara rocked back and forth in the swing, allowing the peace of the evening to push the unpleasant thoughts from her mind.

  She could hear the housekeepers in the kitchen talking quietly together, their voices reassuring. She could hear the children, upstairs in their bedrooms, laughing and murmuring as they began to get ready for bed. Falcon’s voice was gentle as he teased the children. A pillow fight erupted as if often did, almost on a nightly basis.

  You are such a little boy yourself. The words appeared in Falcon’s mind, surrounded by a deep love that always took his breath away. Sara loved him to have fun, to enjoy all the simple things he had missed in his long life. And she was well aware Falcon loved her for that and for the way she enjoyed every moment of their existence, as if each hour were shiny and new.

  They attacked me, the little rascals. Sara could see the image of him laughing, tossing pillows as fast as they were thrown at him.

  Yes, well, when you are finished with your war, your lifemate has other duties for you. Sara leaned back in her swing, tapped her foot impatiently as a small smile tugged at her soft mouth. Deliberately she thought of her latest fantasy. The pool of water she had discovered by the waterfall in the secluded cliffside. Tossing her clothes aside. Standing naked on the boulder stretching her arms up in invitation to the moon. Turning her head to smile at Falcon as he came up to her. Leaning forward to chase a small bead of water across his chest, down his belly, then lower, lower.

  The air shimmered for a moment and he was standing in front of her, his hand out, a grin on his face. Sara stared up at him, taking in his long silken hair and his mesmerizing dark eyes. He looked fit and handsome, yet she knew there were still faint scars on his body. They were etched in her mind more deeply than in his skin. Sara went to him, flowed to him, melted into him, lifting her face for his kiss, knowing he could move the earth for her.

  “I want to check out this pool you have discovered,” he whispered wickedly against her lips. His hands moved over her body gently, possessively.

  She laughed softly. “I had every confidence you would.”

  MIDNIGHT SERENADE

  Ronda Thompson

  Chapter One

  The hunters were close. The wolf caught the scent of their sweat, smelled the liquor on their breath, knew which man had been with a woman the night before, and who had eaten meat for dinner. The crunch of boots against the pebbled ground and the sound of labored breathing made him pause. His strange abilities confused him. How could he identify what should be beyond his animal comprehension? He glanced skyward and understood. A full moon hung suspended over the valley, flanked by rugged mountain peaks. He was trapped. Caught in a time of in-between. Soon, darkness would give way to light. He would stumble from one world into another. His fur would become skin. His paws would become hands and feet. He would rise from the mist as a man, the night fading away into a jumble of blurred images—visions of bloodlust and killing.

  God have mercy, he prayed, while the man struggled to emerge from the beast. Ease my suffering. End the nightmare. End it tonight.

  A bullet kicked up dust at his hind legs. The man inside of him tried to slow his pace, wanting the hunters to end his suffering, but the animal’s instinct for survival remained strong. He hated this time the most. When both worlds fought to claim him. When he could think like a man one second, and react like a beast the next.

  Another sound exploded. Pain ripped through his back leg. The wolf tumbled, rolled, then tried to get up. His body would not cooperate. The scent of his blood mingled with the smell of humans, closer now. Very close.

  “Hey, I think we got him!”

  A short, plump man stumbled through the brush. To the wolf, he was merely the enemy. But his human half identified the hunter. The man inside knew all of them, had talked to them in the bright light of day, helped them, been their friend, deceived them.

  “Holy moly, look at the size of him!”

  Another hunter, taller and more solidly built, held his rifle aimed and ready. “Biggest damn wolf I’ve ever seen, Gus.”

  The wolf growled, part of him warning them to stay back, the other part goading them to finish what they had started.

  “Look at those fangs,” the shorter one whispered.

  “Yeah, make a nice necklace and a set of earrings for Rita—”

  “Hell, Gus, Larry, one of you shoot him,” a third man ordered, stepping from the brush. A shiny object the man wore on his shirt caught the moonlight and glittered in the dark. “Go ahead and put him out of his misery.”

  “Darn, Hugh, we want him to suffer,” the short man argued. “He’s part of the pack that’s been killing our sheep, stealing our livelihood.”

  The man wearing the shiny object frowned. “He’s just an animal. He doesn’t know any better. We’ve been chasing him half the night, and my feet hurt. Kill him and get it over with.”

  “Can I have the pelt, Hugh?” the short man asked.

  “We’re not taking souvenirs. We can’t leave any evidence behind, either. We’ll have to bury it.”

  “Crap,” the taller man muttered. “I wanted those teeth.”

  “What you don’t want is the trouble hunting these wolves will cost us,” the shiny man said. “I’ll take care of
it.” He lifted his rifle.

  The wolf bared his fangs, his thoughts focused on survival, until another scent distracted him. A softer scent than that of a man. The crunch of boots he heard was also different. Lighter.

  “Hold it right there!” A figure holding a weapon stepped up behind the men.

  “Who the hell are you?” the short man asked.

  “I’m Stephanie Shane. It’s illegal to hunt wolves in the wild. They’re still an endangered species, and under the protection of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service.”

  “Hell, we know that,” the tall man grumbled. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work for a privately funded wildlife research and rescue organization,” she answered. “We received a report that wolves have migrated to this area. I’m here to verify the rumors, possibly pave the way for a documentary. I just finished setting up my campsite when I heard the shooting.”

  “Documentary?” The man scratched his head. “We don’t know anything about a movie—”

  “A documentary is not the same thing as a movie,” the woman interrupted. “And if you don’t lower your weapons and leave right now, I’ll call in the authorities.”

  Chuckling, the tall man said, “Report away. Hugh here is the sheriff.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. She turned toward the man wearing the shiny object on his shirt. “You’re Hugh Fielding? Didn’t you get my fax a couple of months ago? I told you I’d be coming to the area for research—”

  “I got it,” the man interrupted. “And if you’ll recall, I didn’t send you one back giving you permission to intrude on our area.”

  She straightened. “I don’t need your permission, Sheriff. The fax was merely a courtesy.”

  The wolf tried to rise. Fresh pain stabbed through his back leg. He knew that the change drew nearer—felt a sense of urgency to escape. The animal feared death, but the man inside of him feared a greater danger: exposure.