by Annie Bellet
Victoria lifted her chin, infuriated despite the fact that she had already bemoaned the fact herself. “I don’t see any vampires about, so apparently I managed the task just fine.”
“You very nearly didn’t. That one nearly had you over the chair.”
“But I did. No thanks to you,” she added, realizing that he must have been standing there, watching, as she and her skirts battled three undead on her own. Blasted arrogant man.
Victoria suddenly realized Phillip must have long been waiting for her, and she shoved the stake back into its little hiding place. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, starting toward the doorway blocked by Max.
“Ah, yes, waltzes and walks in the moonlight await. I do hope you enjoy your evening,” he said. He stepped back to allow her to brush past, her gown catching for a moment before she made it through. “And, for the sake of the guests here, that no other undead manages to breach the party.”
“Good night.” Her teeth gritted so hard her jaw hurt as she hurried along the corridor back to the foyer.
When she arrived, there was Phillip, waiting for her, holding a much-needed cup of lemonade.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, his attention scoring over her in a way that made her face heat up. “Whatever happened to your mask?”
She looked up at him. “It’s nearly midnight. And,” she added, sweeping her lashes down demurely, “I thought it might get in the way.”
Phillip pulled off his mask, then slipped his arm through hers, lining her next to his tall body. “Indeed it might,” he said. Then, pausing, he reached out to brush something from her shoulder. “Wherever did you get so dusty all of a sudden?”
Victoria smelled the mustiness of undead ash and looked up at him. “I stumbled into the wrong chamber, and stirred up a bit of dust,” she explained, smiling up in delight at the expression on his face.
“Indeed?” he replied, his hooded eyes dark and seductive. “Well, I certainly hope that stirring up dust doesn’t become too much of a habit.”
Victoria merely smiled. Little did he know.
Read more about Victoria Gardella and her adventures in the international bestselling Gardella Vampire Hunters series by Colleen Gleason.
“Sophisticated, sexy, surprising!” –J. R. Ward
First book now free from online retailers:
The Rest Falls Away:Victoria Book One
by Colleen Gleason
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Highland Magic
Helen Harper
The Veil has kept the Highlands of Scotland free from demons for centuries, and ensured relative peace for the twenty-five remaining Sidhe Clans. However, a strange encounter on a dark, heather-strewn hillside might mean all that is about to change.
1983
If it hadn’t been for the cloud of midges round his head which was keeping him awake, Gale would probably have ended up sliced and diced into a bloody puddle. As it was, when the heavy swipe came and his eyes flickered open just in time, he could do no more than roll out of its way. That’s what happens when you use a sleeping bag instead of simply the mossy heather and the open air.
His attacker grunted and tried again, lumbering after him and continuing to swing the damned axe. Trussed up like a caterpillar, Gale fumbled with the zip. It was caught on the edge of the fabric, however, so he was forced to try and squirm his way out instead. He writhed and kicked but the sleeping bag was determined not to let him go. Unfortunately his would-be killer felt the same.
Whoever had decided to interrupt his attempts at slumber had focused solely on the element of surprise for success. It was clear that the axe they were wielding was far too cumbersome for their slight frame. All the same, still entangled in the sleeping bag, Gale remained in danger. Giving up on extricating himself for now, he focused on getting as far away as possible.
He spun to his right, rolling over again and again and ducking his head to avoid any encounters with sharp rocks jutting out of the ground. When he reached the slope, he picked up momentum. There was a frustrated curse from behind as he tumbled away.
Scratched and bruised, Gale came to a halt in a natural dip. He struggled to stand up, almost tripping over the smothering sleeping bag that was still wrapped around most of his body. He yanked it down over his hips and legs and finally managed to kick it away. Now he was ready to face his enemy.
Far away from any city lights, the night here was dark and smothering. He could make out little more than a dark shape flying towards him. He noted again the slim shape: this was no Wild Man or troll. Eyes narrowing slightly, he braced himself for the next onslaught.
The attacker leapt at him, yelling. The axe was raised in the air but there was a definite wobble to the arm holding it aloft. Gale side-stepped left in the split second before the axe crashed down on his head and pivoted round, grabbing his assailant’s wrist. There was a sharp, almost boyish cry and the axe fell to the ground with a dull thump.
Wasting no further time, Gale wrenched the outstretched arm. When there was another high-pitched yell of pain, he reached up with his free hand and yanked down the hood covering his enemy’s face. Then he blinked.
Tousled hair framed a heart-shaped face with a dusting of light freckles across a delicate nose. A pair of almond-shaped eyes glared at him. Sidhe. And not just any Sidhe either – a remarkably pretty one.
‘Let me go!’ she spat.
He rocked back slightly on his heels and regarded her. ‘Not until you tell me why you were trying to murder me in my sleep.’
She threw back her head. ‘You’re intruding on our lands.’
‘No,’ Gale replied calmly. ‘I’m not. In fact, I’m here with full permission of the Chieftain.’
The flash of disgust in her eyes told him everything he needed to know. Whoever this girl was, she had little time for the Ochterlony lord.
She struggled against his grip but he held her fast. ‘He didn’t say anything.’
A smile tugged at his lips. ‘Maybe he had better things to do than explain himself to every low level Clan-ling.’
His amusement only served to make her more angry. ‘You stuck-up wanker!’
Gale winced. ‘There’s no need for such language.’
His assailant launched a sharp kick at his shin but he kept her at arm’s length so she could do little more than scuff his leg.
‘Explain why you felt the need to attack first and ask questions later,’ he demanded.
‘Tell me who you are first.’
‘Gale Adair. At your service, mademoiselle.’
She jerked. ‘Adair?’ She gazed at the hat covering his head. To satisfy her curiosity, he whipped it off, revealing the snow-white hair underneath. She sucked in a breath.
His smile widened. ‘Yes. Chieftain Eoin invited me here to investigate reports of troublesome Baugans sneaking onto his land and stealing his sheep. Who are you?’
Her nose wrinkled. ‘They’re not Baugans. He wouldn’t know a Baugan if it jumped and slammed into his thick skull.’
‘Then what are they?’
She looked away. ‘You wouldn’t believe me,’ she muttered.
He ran his eyes across her. She was quivering from head to toe but it was more from rage than from fear. ‘Try me,’ he said softly.
‘Fomori demons.’
Gale was so taken aback that he dropped her wrist. She pulled away and rubbed it, still glaring. ‘Told you.’
‘All the Fomori demons are behind the Veil. No one outside of the Lowlands has seen one since 1745.’
Her chin jutted out. ‘No one except me.’
‘Let’s say I do believe you,’ he said, not for a second giving her wild allegations any credence. ‘Why would Fomori demons be involved with sheep rustling?’
‘They don’t want the damned sheep.’
He cocked his head. ‘Then what do they want?’
She sighed and pushed her fringe out of her eyes. ‘Me.’
B
efore he could ask her to elaborate, she spun away, running back up the hill and away. He was tempted to go after her but she had a lightness of foot that suggested he’d just end up falling far behind and embarrassing himself if he tried. Instead he watched her disappear over the crest; she didn’t give so much as a single glance back at him.
***
‘It’s Kincaid’s fault,’ Aifric told him three days later at the Cruaich, the main Sidhe stronghold which represented all of the Clans. ‘She’s engaged to the Bull so William Kincaid used his Gift at her behest to see what kind of future they were going to have. You’d know all this if you spent more time in company instead of roaming around the Highlands looking for trouble.’
‘Precognition?’ Gale asked, trying to ignore the strange dip in his stomach at the knowledge that the girl was already spoken for. He tried and failed to imagine her with the thuggish Bull. He hoped she knew what she was getting herself into.
His old friend nodded. ‘Yes. Instead of a happy future with chubby-cheeked children, however, he saw a lot of blood.’
Gale felt a chill. ‘And Fomori demons?’
Aifric rolled his eyes. ‘No. Just a dark shape. Coira took that to mean Fomori. She’s jumping at shadows.’
Coira. So that was her name. It rolled around in his head. It suited her. ‘How do you know it’s not real?’ he asked. ‘If there really are Fomori demons out and about…’
Aifric clapped his hand on Gale’s shoulder. ‘You know how unreliable precognition is. Do you remember what he foretold for you right after he got his Gift?’
Gale shifted uncomfortably. ‘He was only fourteen then.’
‘A fourteen year old who had no business telling a kid who’d not even reached double digits that his Clan was going to be responsible for saving the world.’ Aifric’s eyes glinted. ‘Saving nutty damsels in distress, perhaps, but not the world.’
Gale gave him a rueful grin. He was right. Every Sidhe was given at least one Gift when they hit thirteen years old and made the journey to their Clan groves to receive their true names. Some gifts were more useful than others. Precognition, in particular, was more shadow than substance. Futures were shifting, nebulous clouds that could never be counted on; William Kincaid had foretold many things and few of them had come to pass. Precognition, like fine wine, tended to improve with age ‒ and Kincaid was still very young by Sidhe standards.
Changing the subject, Gale focused on their reasons for being at the main Sidhe stronghold. ‘So,’ he said conversationally, ‘who do you think the next Steward will be?’
Aifric shot him a look. ‘Are you angling for my vote?’
Gale started. ‘What?’ Where had that come from? ‘No way!’
‘Why not?’
He gave his friend an incredulous look. ‘I’ve got better things to do than sit around here giving inane orders to Clans that don’t want to follow them.’
‘You mean better things like helping the Clan-less and improving the lot of the lower-level Sidhe?’
‘They have a shitty time,’ Gale said pointedly. ‘Someone has to do something. As soon as we’re finished here, I’m heading up to Aberdeen.’
Aifric shook his head. ‘You’re wasting your time. They don’t want to be helped.’
‘Yes, they do.’ He met Aifric’s eyes. ‘Come with me. You’ll see what things are really like for those less fortunate than ourselves.’
Aifric allowed himself a tiny smile. ‘There are other ways to change the world, my friend.’
***
The Cruaich was located on top of a densely wooded hill. When the sun shone, glinting off the sandstone parapets, it could be considered pretty. Right now, with the sky the colour of an old crone’s dirty toenails, it just looked depressing. Inside, however, was an entirely different matter. Every corner gleamed with opulence and wealth. The most ostentatious room of all was at the centre of the Cruaich – a vast six-sided space used for the sole purpose of the council.
The assembled Sidhe took their seats around the vast oak table. There was an excited buzz that Gale felt in particular. Since taking over as Chieftain of the Adair Clan, he’d not had opportunity to participate in the formal election of a new Steward. That only happened every five years.
He gazed round the room. One of these twenty-five Chieftains would become the de facto leader of the Sidhe for the next five years. Gale considered himself far too young to be a contender this time around and it was an honour which he hoped to avoid, regardless of what happened in the future. Concentrating on his own Clan – not to mention helping others such as the Ochterlochtys and the Clan-less – took up enough of his time.
The various Chieftains took advantage of the wait to renew old alliances. The Clan hierarchy was a complicated one. Approached by several other leaders, Gale merely bowed his head and smiled. He had no time for the intricacies of Sidhe politics. He watched the others with some interest, however. Calder, Haldane and Polwarth appeared to have put their previous scrap about land boundaries behind them and were seated together, conferring quietly. Blair and Jardine were frowning at each other, shoulders tense. Aifric, representing the Moncrieffes as their Chieftain, was in deep conversation with Alistair Kincaid.
Cal MacBrayne, the outgoing Steward, stood up. Many had been unimpressed at his leadership. The MacBraynes were definitely one of the smaller Clans and being elevated to such a high position had put other noses out of joint. There was considerable relief that his time was now up. MacBrayne himself looked somewhat green around the gills. He was probably dreading being forced to return to the more mundane existence as leader of a small Clan whose main remit was basic utilities across the Highlands of Scotland. Sewage and pylons were no match for the heady excitement of the Cruaich.
‘Thank you all for your kind attendance,’ he intoned. ‘It has been a pleasure to serve the Sidhe over the past five years. We will now take nominations for the new Steward.’
There was a cough. ‘Before that happens,’ said the Calder Chieftain, getting awkwardly to his feet, ‘I wish to make a plea.’ The assembly turned in his direction. ‘We all know that our little democracy has appeal and that it is all to the good that any Chieftain can rise to the position of Steward…’
There were several mutters. Gale only just managed to prevent himself from snorting. Some democracy, when only twenty-five people were permitted to stand.
‘…however,’ Calder continued, his voice getting louder to ensure his point was made, ‘it seems only fitting that this time around, the Stewardship is passed to one of the older, more prestigious Clans.’
Gale’s heart sank. His own Clan, the Adairs, would be counted amongst that so-called elite group.
‘Hear, hear!’ Alistair Kincaid boomed. ‘It’s time we had some real leadership in this place.’ Cal MacBrayne stiffened. ‘I do not wish the burden but I believe that Aifric Moncrieffe would be a fine choice.’
Gale spotted more than a few nods of agreement. He started to relax. If Aifric really wanted the Stewardship, then he was welcome to it. For his own part, Aifric looked surprised but pleased. Good on him.
‘And what about Gale Adair?’
Shit. He threw the Ochterlony Chieftain a desperate glance, willing him to see that he had no desire to be Steward. The man continued blithely on, however. ‘Chieftain Adair has not one but two Gifts – psychometry and farsensing. Both of those are perfectly suited to the Stewardship. He has also taken time out from his own work to aid me in a matter of some importance. He didn’t delegate. He did it himself.’
And failed miserably in the effort, Gale thought in exasperation. All he’d found was a beguiling Sidhe girl with a heavy axe.
‘He also won the Games last year, asking for nothing more than a black rose as his reward.’
Aifric’s smile disappeared. So did Alistair Kincaid’s.
Gale awkwardly got to his feet. ‘My success at the Games was a team effort,’ he said, ‘as you all well know. I do not wish to be Steward.’
&n
bsp; The response was mixed. Some looked relieved, others annoyed.
‘If you’re the best person for the job, then it’s your duty to do it.’
Gale glowered. Out of options, he took a deep breath. ‘Aifric should be Steward.’
His friend’s smile returned.
‘Well then,’ MacBrayne demurred, ‘if there are no further nominations, then we should take it to the vote.’
***
Gale did what he could to escape without being harangued by any of the Chieftains who’d tried to vote for him. He was first out of the Cruaich, striding away at a fast pace. His unfriendly posture should have made it clear that he didn’t wish to engage in any post-mortem chats but he could already hear someone calling to him. He chose to ignore the insistent voice. Spotting a familiar face in the waiting crowds out the front, he took advantage of the opportunity to make his getaway.
‘Coira!’ he called.
She turned round, her back stiff and unyielding. When she saw who was seeking her out, her expression didn’t change. ‘Oh,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s you.’
In the brightness of the day, she was even more becoming than she had been before. Her hair was glossy and her eyes the colour of melted chocolate. ‘Is that all you can say?’ he asked. ‘I’d have thought you’d be more pleased to see me.’
‘I’m thrilled.’ She sounded anything but. Then she sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being rude. I’ve not been getting much sleep lately.’
He smiled. ‘I’m not surprised with all your night-time activities.’
Something sharp flickered in her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
He gave her a funny look. ‘Attacking innocent campers and searching for errant Fomori demons. What did you think I meant?’