by Kahlen Aymes
“Fenrir, enough!” Ivar’s voice boomed through the small space and the hound instantly ran to his side and sat down. Ivar’s gaze fell on each of us, finally settling on the cuts inflicted by his other hound. “You’ve been bit.”
He didn’t ask and Gallus took that as a challenge. He immediately jumped to his feet and bounded toward Ivar. But with one flick of his hand, Ivar directed Fenrir to intercept. “I will kill him too,” Gallus roared.
“You can’t kill a Hell Hound,” Ivar spat, looking over to where the other creature still lay unmoving on the ground. “Although it looks like you came pretty close.”
“He bit her. For no reason!”
I didn’t like the panicked tone in Gallus’ voice. What would happen to me?
“You broke into my library,” Ivar said coolly.
“Library?” George asked.
Ivar smiled at the ghost like he was a child. “Yes, my library of contracts.” He pointed toward the scroll in George’s semi-transparent hand. “Looks like you found what you were looking for. May I ask, which soul?”
No one said anything at first. But when Gallus knelt beside me and examined my arm again, he sighed and answered. “Jerry.”
“Ah, yes. Jerry the Representative.” Ivar nodded toward the scroll again. “He asked for quite a bit.”
The pain in my arm suddenly grew into a raging fire of agony. Heat crept up my arm and into my neck, the burning worse than any pain I’d ever felt before. I looked down to see the wound turning black and dripping something darker than blood. “What’s happening to me?”
Ivar shrugged. “You’re dying.”
“No!” Gallus shouted, holding my head as the room started to spin. “There has to be a way to fix this!”
“Do you want that contract?” Ivar asked, slinking further into the room.
“I want Elise to live!”
“Me too,” George whispered. I tried to smile at that but my face muscles wouldn’t work any more.
“I can give you both if you want,” Ivar teased.
“Stop fucking around!” Gallus growled. “Tell me what I need to do.”
“It’s simple,” Ivar said. “Give her your blood.”
George sucked in a breath and Gallus jumped away from me like he’d been stung. “No,” he whispered.
“Give her your blood and you will walk away with the contract and the girl.” Ivar’s tone pierced my skin, but I was too weak to give him any snark.
“You know I can’t do that,” Gallus said.
“Why not?” George cried. “Save her, you stupid vamp!”
Ivar laughed and walked over to his still quiet hound. “The ghost is correct.”
Gallus glared at George before returning his concerned gaze to me. “Elise, I can’t. You don’t understand—”
“It’s okay,” I breathed. And whether I meant that it was okay for him to let me die or okay for him to give me his blood, I didn’t know. I didn’t fully understand the significance of sharing blood with a vampire, and right now, my mind wouldn’t have been able to comprehend any kind of reasoning.
I started to cough, dark liquid falling out of my mouth and onto my beautiful costume. Gallus held me tight, saying something to me in a language I didn’t know. George floated back and forth behind Gallus, screaming at him. Ivar sat in the corner and laughed. It all echoed in my ears as my vision started to tunnel. The black spaces around the edges felt calm and inviting, and I was very tempted to succumb.
“You’re losing her,” Ivan cooed.
Gallus looked at me with wide eyes brimming with tears. “Elise, I’m so sorry.” And just when I thought I was on my last breath, I felt Gallus shove something into my mouth. “Drink it, Elise. Please, drink it.”
“Come on, Elise. I don’t want to have to find a new medium.” Leave it up to George to take the sentimental route.
The liquid gushing into my throat was cold and thick and tasted like metal mixed with something else—almonds? No, why would Gallus have blood that tasted like almonds. I was being silly.
“How much?” Gallus growled over his shoulder to Ivar.
“That should probably do it.”
Gallus removed his wrist from my mouth and lifted me off the ground. I instantly started to feel better, as though his blood was chasing away the poison of the hound. My heart beat stronger, my vision started to clear, and my arm stopped burning. “Wow,” I said to no one.
Gallus walked us toward the door, George following closely behind. “Why, Ivar? Why?”
“What are you talking about, gladiator?”
“Why did you make me do that?”
I saw Ivar tilt his head and smile at me in a way that set my creep-factor on alert. “Because I’m old and I’m bored. Now you’ll never be alone.”
“What does he mean?” I asked as we walked out of the cellar. Ivar didn’t follow, but George stayed super close to both me and Gallus. “Will you please explain?” I asked the giant man carrying me to safety.
“Not now,” he growled.
If not now, when? I wanted to ask him, but as we reached the kitchen and started to make our way outside, I suddenly felt sleepy. In fact, it hit me so fast, I wondered if Gallus had somehow commanded me to close my eyes, because the last thing I remembered was the sound of the violins playing Greensleeves as we exited into the night.
December 25th
I didn’t know how long I’d been out, but when I woke in my bed next to Gallus, I had a mini panic attack. Not that I didn’t want to sleep next to him, but I didn’t remember exactly how we got into this position. And that wasn’t something I usually did.
“What happened? What time is it?” I asked, feeling pretty great. No pain. No soreness. I just had to clear my head.
“How much do you know about vampires?” he asked. He sat on the edge of the bed, fully clothed and back facing away from me.
“Not too much actually. Why?”
“Because what Ivar made me do,” he cracked his neck before continuing, still refusing to look at me. “It bonded us together.”
“How?” If I was being truthful with myself, I didn’t mind the idea so much.
“Blood sharing. It’s not taken lightly in our culture.”
“Okay...,” I didn’t like the way he sounded full of regret.
“It means I will need to be close to you.”
“For how long?”
He finally turned to look at me and I didn’t like the way his handsome face seemed tired and sad. “Forever.”
I swallowed. Okay. Forever. I could handle that, right? “How close?” I whispered.
He tried for a smile, but it didn’t really work. “Close.”
I scooted up so that I was sitting and looked out the window. Snow was falling hard and I couldn’t stop my giggle. “It’s a white Christmas,” I said.
“Elise, do you understand what I’m telling you?” Gallus shifted a little closer and rested his hand on my knee. The comforter blocked our skin from touching, but I could still feel the electricity shooting between us.
“Is this real?” I asked.
“What?”
“My feelings for you? Or is it the blood?”
His crooked grin melted my heart. “It’s not the blood. That connection is only one way.”
I blushed, embarrassed by what I’d just confessed. “Oh.”
“Look, we’ll figure this out. I’ll find a place nearby and we can—”
“Why don’t you just stay in the guest room for now?” When I saw his reaction, I immediately tried to pull back my offer. “I mean, tonight. It’s snowing.”
He chuckled and wrapped his arm over my shoulder. “One step at a time, right?”
“Yes.”
Leaning forward, Gallus pressed his lips gently against mine. I quickly responded and wondered if it was his blood driving me crazy or if it was just him. I liked the idea of him being close by my side for the next fifty or sixty years. I mean, I’d be crazy to pass up an offer like th
is. When I pulled back from the kiss, I gazed up at him. “Do you only like me because of the blood?”
He smiled and kissed my nose. “No, Elise. I liked you the minute I stepped into your house. I told you, you’re different. Not boring.”
“Huh. Well, we’ll see what you think in a year.”
“In a year?” he teased.
“You’re stuck with me now, buddy. And I confess, I’m not really that interesting.”
He glanced at the bedroom door where Caroline and George hovered close by, arguing about something. She must have enjoyed her time with the troll if the smile on her face was any indication. George had his arms crossed and rolled his eyes at everything she said.
Gallus laughed and pulled me closer. “I think you are the most interesting person I know.”
I snuggled against him, wondering exactly how this was all going to work out. We were bonded. Or at least he was bonded to me. But I liked him. A lot. And I didn’t want him to leave my side. So, as I stared out the window and watched the snow fall, I resolved myself to this new energy Gallus had awoken in me. He was mine and I was his.
And that was the best Christmas present ever.
You can read more about Elise and Gallus in Touching Evil, the first book of The Leila Marx Novels. Gallus also makes an appearance in the companion novella SCORCHED, which features a main character from Leila’s world.
About the Author
Amber Garr spends her days as a scientist and nights writing about other worlds. Her childhood imaginary friend was a witch, Halloween is sacred, and she is certain she has a supernatural sense of smell. Amber is a multiple Royal Palm Literary Award winner, author of the bestselling The Syrenka Series, The Leila Marx Novels, the award-winning The Water Crisis Chronicles, and The Georgia Girls Series. When not obsessing over the unknown, she can be found dancing, reading, or enjoying a good movie.
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To read other titles by Amber Garr and to learn about upcoming releases, please visit her website.
Do You Mind?
by Freya Barker
Chapter 1
"Do you mind?”
I look up to find a pair of brown eyes, surrounded by a very appealing collection of laugh lines, staring back at me. The owner of the deep, gravelly voice is so tall, I have to tilt my head back to reach his face. Everything else I encounter on the way is worthy of at least another look, but I don't want to be ogling a stranger in the middle of the food court at the Atlanta airport.
I must appear as perplexed as I feel, looking around me to see if he may have made a mistake, because he emits this raspy chuckle that is more air than sound. Something my ears pick up and quickly convert into shivers down my spine.
Oh my.
He looks like he's just walked off a cattle drive or off the back of a bucking bronco, with jeans that have definitely seen better days, old scuffed up boots, and a thread-worn shirt hanging unbuttoned over a plain white T-shirt. Not to mention the backpack carelessly slung over a shoulder.
"Do you mind if I join you for lunch?"
I can't stop myself from throwing a quick glance around me. The food court is busy enough, but there are still some vacant spots. Yet he seems to have picked the one stool across from the one I've hoisted myself onto just minutes ago. I liked the idea of sitting at the long, two-sided bar instead of one of the small little tables. Being a little challenged in the height department, sitting high affords me a better view. I just never saw this coming.
When my eyes return to him, he's still waiting with a tray in his hand. Oh God, I'm such a dweeb.
"Of course!" My voice sounds shrill and alien. I quickly clear my throat and try again. "I'm sorry I'm a little out of it. Please, do sit down." I try for a smile and hope it doesn't look too deranged. It always does in pictures, and why I hate having them taken. Hate it.
I watch as he slips his tray on the table, but stays standing. I don't realize that my eyes have started doing inventory on him again until I see his proffered hand. My eyes shoot up to his face and find him smiling. Or is it smirking? Quite possibly the latter. I immediately stick my hand out, forgetting for a moment I was still clutching a fork, which loudly clatters to the floor. I don't think I'm capable of deciding whether to dive after my cutlery or shake his hand first. I'm flustered—to put it mildly. Mr. Tall and Handsome decides for me, swallowing my hand in his ginormous fist, sending an electrical charge up through my arm.
"Name's Jack," he introduces himself. "Don't like to eat lunch alone."
I hesitate. This is going to be awkward. "I'm Bernie. Short for Bernice. Thank God, because seriously, who names their little girl Bernice? And you should hear my middle name—I swear my parents were drinking—or maybe high." I'm rattling on like the idiot that I am, while Jack hangs his backpack off the stool before ducking down to retrieve my fork, wiping it neatly with a napkin, and placing it on my tray. When he sits down on his side, elbows on the counter and props his chin on his folded hands, I snap my mouth shut.
"Nice to meet you, Bernie," he says, amusement glinting in his eyes. "And for the record, I think Bernice is a lovely name."
That shut me up. For damn sure no one's ever said that before. Lovely. I realize I'm smiling when I see his mouth pull into a smile. Straight, strong white teeth peek out between his generous lips. I know I won't be able to eat another bite.
I sit there like a bump on a log, while Jack unwraps his burger, my fingers toying with the fork. My salad long forgotten.
"So what brings you to Atlanta, Bernie? Business or pleasure?" he asks between bites.
"I guess you could say business. Although it wasn't in Atlanta, it was in Gulfport, really," I manage finally, watching his throat move as he swallows another bite before I meet his eyes and see genuine interest there. "I missed my connecting flight home," I add by way of explanation. “I missed it and freaked out a little when I found out there wasn't going to be a direct flight home. The girl at the counter told me there might be a way to reroute me through Chicago, which would mean another stopover there, or I could wait for a direct flight tomorrow. I hadn't eaten since this morning, which is why I decided to grab a bite, figuring I could probably think better if I had something in my stomach.” Okay, now I’m rambling so I snap my mouth shut.
"And where's home?" He raises an inquisitive eyebrow.
"Toronto," I answer, lowering my eyes to my plate, which is largely uneaten. Technically Toronto is home, but I don't know for how much longer. I'm tired of the rat race, the constant traffic, and the crowds of people everywhere I go. It's gotten to a point where every time I travel to one of these conferences, I dread having to go home again. Home—where I spend most my days cooped up inside, working from the time I get up until I go to bed at night, with only the occasional phone call to break the tedium. I love what I do, don't get me wrong. I'm seeing places I might otherwise never have had a chance to visit and adding more every year. Montana is on my wish list for this coming year. My stories are my saving grace, allowing me to disappear into interesting and exciting places in my mind, instead of the bland reality of my life. These trips though, coming to signings and conferences, talking to readers, and finding out how much of an impact the words I write in the confines of my apartment—the limitations of my life— actually have on others, lift my spirit. They allow me to reach for my dreams—they give me purpose. Something I desperately crave now that the kids are living their own lives.
"Love Canada," Jack says, interrupting my thoughts. "Can't say I've seen much of Toronto, other than the airport, but I know the Muskoka area pretty well. I've done a bit of work up near Algonquin Park over the years."
"Really? What is it you do?" I want to know, my curiosity piqued at the mention of one of my favorite places on earth. Memories of weekends up in Algonquin Park, when the kids were still young, come rushing back. An old van, packed full of camping gear, the kids, the dog, and life vests and paddl
es for the canoe on the roof. It puts a smile on my face.
"I'm a photographer. Wildlife and nature photography mostly." He shrugs, popping the last bite of his hamburger in his mouth before he starts in on his fries.
"Wow. That's pretty neat. So does that mean you travel a lot?" I'm surprised I manage to formulate anything coherent at this point. I'm so mesmerized by the movement of his scruffy jaw and his mouth as he lazily chews his food.
"It does," he says after swallowing. "Mostly North America, but I take occasional jobs overseas."
"So you do this freelance?"
"I have for the past fifteen years. But what about you? What is it that you do that brought you to Gulfport?" He wants to know.
"Actually, it was Biloxi, but Gulfport is the closest airport. I was here for a conference. I'm a writer," I tell him, still not really used to calling myself that. Even though, I published my first book five years ago.
"Like a journalist?"
"I write fiction." I pick up my fork and start playing with my salad. I want to avoid the inevitable question that follows, but it comes anyway.
"That's amazing. What kind of fiction?" His eyes are right there when I raise mine, looking at me with interest. It doesn't help the butterflies in my stomach.
"Romance." I quickly pop the fork in my mouth, looking over his shoulder at nothing in particular.
"Really?"
My eyes snap back and I know I'm glaring at him, I just can't help myself. Too often I've had to deal with idiots, who either think being a romance writer must mean I'm easy and desperate, or who treat it like it's a cute hobby. Like scrapbooking. "Yes, really." I'm none too friendly and he visibly winces.
"Let me guess," he says, dropping his voice another octave, and just like that the butterflies are back. "You haven't had the best reactions in the past to that bit of information. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out. But Bernie? I am just interested—that's all. I always wished I could write, but I can barely scrape a grocery list together. And the only writers I know are journalists, so my fascination is genuine. I'm actually an avid reader." I watch him as he rummages around in his backpack and comes up with a Kindle. "See? I personally prefer paperback, but this little thing has come in handy on my travels."