Shifters After Dark Box Set

by S M Reine et al.

  How she wanted to just succumb to the darkness and make all of this stop. But there was a voice inside her. This time, though, it reminded her that her existence was not for someone else to take.

  She saw Lars go down, heard his sword clang to the floor as his head struck the flagstones. But then she heard a snarling pant. Finn was there to take up the battle with Lord Arnkell where Lars left off. The wolf knocked Lord Arnkell over. Arnkell stretched for the silver harness to use against him. Poor Lars lay silent, unmoving. Aein tried not to think about what that meant.

  Aein grabbed Lars’s discarded sword and held it as best she could. It was too heavy for her one hand. She could not lift the point, but used the sharp edges as a weak shield, trying to aim the edge towards him as Gisla came at her again. The werewolf took the cuts, though. Her thick fur protected her from the worst of the sword.

  From the corner of her eye, Aein was aware that Lord Arnkell gave up on the harness and was fleeing the room with Finn fast behind. But then she heard a yip and then a thud, and she did not hear Finn get up to continue the chase. Only silence and the sound of a man’s booted footsteps pounding down the hall.

  The fact her master was gone did not stop Gisla from her blind attack. Aein knew that she was alone.

  She ran for the door, but tripped on one of the flagstones. She tried to push herself up, but her arm would not obey her command. Suddenly, she felt her leg being ripped apart as Gisla bit into the back of her unprotected calf. Aein kicked and connected her other foot with Gisla’s eyes and nose, but she did not let go. Aein felt herself being dragged back, even as she clawed her way forward.

  Gisla picked her up and shook her like a rag doll. Aein’s head struck the floor and she fought the stars and swelling darkness. How was it possible for her to still be feeling pain? she wondered.

  But Lars was still alive. His eyes opened. He reached out towards her. And in his hand was a small, blue mound. It was the other half of the berry, the one that the boy had given back to her. With her good arm, Aein reached for him. He crawled forward, even as Gisla bit and tore at Aein. She had to get to the berry.

  It fell from Lars’s fingers as he lost consciousness again. Aein took every break in the onslaught to inch towards it. She screamed and cried, not making any pretense of bravery. She fought the darkness which called to her so seductively. She wished the twilight would come so that this nightmare would end. She wrapped her fingers around the berry and thrust her good hand into Gisla’s mouth.

  Gisla stopped. She backed away. She rubbed her snout with her paw as if she had been stung by a bee. She shook her head and heaved, as if the monster inside of her wanted her to rid herself of what she just ate. But suddenly Gisla’s eyes were clear. They were not the eyes of a monster. The changed from yellow to bright blue. They were the eyes of the woman trapped inside the body of a dog.

  Gisla shifted from wolf to human to wolf again. And then to woman, to the princess that Aein had once knew, and stayed. The berry had been just enough to counteract the unnatural shift Lord Arnkell had forced upon her.

  Aein lay with the cool flagstones against her face, watching as the woman realized where she was and what was going on. Aein closed her eyes. Death could take her now, she decided. She had served her purpose.

  And then there was darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The world was pain. Aein opened her eyes, and even that hurt. She was in a small stone room and a woman wearing a white headdress sat beside her bed.

  “She is awake,” the woman said.

  Standing behind the nurse was another woman Aein recognized.

  “Princess Gisla,” Aein croaked. Her lips were so dry. Her voice seemed unfamiliar with speech.

  “You won the day,” said Princess Gisla. She was dressed in a bright, blue tunic like the one her father had been wearing when Aein first met him in the throne room. Her wild, curly hair had been pulled back into a soft bun. There was something more reserved about this warrior princess.

  Aein heaved a sigh. She knew that to win should have meant something, but the pain would not allow her to feel anything more. The only thing that would make it worthwhile was to hear that the man who did this to her was dead. “Lord Arnkell?” she asked.

  “We believe he is dead,” said Princess Gisla. “No one saw him leave the fortress, but we are still identifying bodies.”

  Aein shifted into a sitting position. White, hot fire from her broken bones shot up her arm. She swore, “We shall find him.”

  “There are some others who wish to see you,” said Princess Gisla, opening up the door.

  The nurse stopped her. “They cannot all fit in this room.”

  “Then you should leave so that we can fit one more,” commanded the princess.

  Aein could not help but smile. There was the spirit which made this woman so wonderful.

  The nurse bowed and left without another word, making way for Aein’s visitors. And there were not two people on the earth she would rather see, she thought, as Finn and Lars walked in. Finn was still in canine form, his silvery scar traveling across his face and down his chest. Lars was still in human form, although his armor had been discarded and he looked so healthy, Aein knew that some time must have passed. Lars sat gently on the stool beside her, but Finn leapt right up onto the bed and settled in protectively by her other side.

  “You’re alive,” she said, looking at both of them. The wave of relief which washed over her was so huge, it cut through the pain. She clenched her teeth as a tightness filled her chest, she pushed back the tears which wanted to spring from her eyes.

  Lars bent down and kissed her forehead, ruffling her hair. “Of course. How could we die on you after all of this?” Finn crawled closer and gently licked her hand.

  They all survived.

  “We have a problem,” said Princess Gisla, breaking in on their reunion.

  “What is it?” asked Aein. With Finn and Lars alive, she couldn’t believe there was any problem out there that couldn’t be solved.

  “I continue to shift from woman to wolf at sunset,” said Princess Gisla.

  Aein smiled. It was weak, but it was a smile. “It shall not always be that way,” she said. “I have found the cure. And like how the excess of mushrooms caused you to be able to shift no matter what the time of day, I hope that when the bush blossoms and fruits, enough of the berries will keep you from shifting ever again.”

  “But that is still three seasons away,” pushed Princess Gisla. “My father…” Aein realized what had happened to King Haidra and why Princess Gisla… no… not princess… now Queen Gisla… was dressed in the formal robes of the court. “I have a castle now to keep and subjects who look to me. But we also have an army of werewolves, those who followed you and those who followed Lord Arnkell, and they are looking for a leader.”

  Unwilling comprehension was beginning to dawn upon Aein.

  “You were the alpha of your pack,” Princess Gisla continued. “You are the only one that could control them.”

  “I was only alpha because these two were willing to fight for my place,” said Aein, motioning to Finn and Lars.

  “And so shall they continue to keep the pack order.”

  “I cannot…” whispered Aein in protest.

  Queen Gisla looked down at her with all the cold power of her royal blood. “When I wed Lord Arnkell, I became the sovereign ruler of his people and lands. And so, I say as your liege, that your services are commanded until the summertime when the berries come again and you can gather the cure.”

  “But I was the great betrayer,” said Aein. “I was the one who brought all of this terror to you.”

  “And you were the one who discovered the cure. As Lord Arnkell said, this curse might also be power, and I wish to have someone I can trust wielding this weapon.”

  Lars squeezed Aein’s forearm and nodded that she should do it. She knew how much this cost him. Finn looked up at her with the pleading eyes of a puppy begging at t
he table, as if he could not wait for her to stay forever.

  Aein stared at the ceiling and began to laugh. It was not a laugh filled with joy, but one that saw the world for what it was and the grand joke which life itself is. From a shunned guardsman and great betrayer to the acting general of a werewolf army whenever the dark of twilight came. Here she was.

  “Of course,” she replied, looking from Finn to Lars and back to Finn again. “I will not abandon my pack.”

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  About The Author

  USA Today Bestselling author Kate Danley's debut novel The Woodcutter (47North) was honored with the Garcia Award for the Best Fiction Book of the Year, the 1st Place Fantasy Book in the Reader Views Literary Awards, and was the 1st place winner of the Sci-Fi/Fantasy category in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards. Her book Queen Mab was honored with the McDougall Previews Award for Best Fantasy Book. Her Maggie MacKay: Magical Tracker series has been optioned for film and television.

  Her plays have been produced in New York, Los Angeles, and DC Metro area. She has over 300+ film, television, and theatre credits to her name, specializing in sketch, improv, and Shakespeare. She trained in on-camera puppetry with Mr. Snuffleupagus and played the head of a 20-foot dinosaur on an NBC pilot.

  She lost on Hollywood Squares.

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  Other Books by Kate Danley

  The Woodcutter

  Queen Mab

  O'Hare House Mysteries

  A Spirited Manor

  Spirit of Denial

  Distilled Spirits

  Maggie MacKay: Magical Tracker

  Maggie for Hire

  Maggie Get Your Gun

  Maggie on the Bounty

  M&K Tracking

  Visit www.katedanley.com for the full list!

  Acknowledgements

  This story was based upon a nightmare I had as a kid which stayed with me all these years. When I first started writing The Dark of Twilight, I was very clever. It was a post-apocalyptic dystopian sci-fi. There were lots of messages about consumerism and people’s irrational fear of science and how illiteracy among the masses will destroy us all. But the story kept whispering in my ear, “That’s not how the dream went…” And so I found myself half-way through stripping everything bare and going back to the images which woke me up that night. I hope I made the right decision. Just in case I didn’t, though: value what you have; don’t be scared of science; and I’m glad you’re reading. Whew!

  Many thanks to my beta readers of awesome: Kay Bratt and Karen McQuestion. Also to the gals who put together the Magic After Dark and Shifters After Dark boxed sets: Deanna Chase, SM Reine, Dannika Dark, Marie Hall, Phoenix Sullivan, and Melissa F. Olson. I would not have written this if it wasn’t for a simple business venture which turned into wonderful friendships and a desire to keep the party going.

  And most of all, thank you to my family and friends, those that have left us and those that remain.

  HEARTSONG:

  An Arthurian Paranormal Romance

  PHOENIX SULLIVAN

  Copyright © 2014 by Phoenix Sullivan

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without the written permission of publisher or author, except where permitted by law.

  1. Alain

  It could have been the frantic clamor of the hounds belling to the east that jerked me awake. Or the thunder growling to the west.

  But it was neither. It was Pellinore crying out from one of his nightmare visions. I draped a cloth over my brother’s forehead and dribbled cool water on it while I listened to the baying of the dogs.

  “What fool hunts on a night like this?” I muttered.

  The bit of canvas we’d stretched above promised scant protection against the coming storm. Even the horses seemed resigned to a miserable night, their backs turned to the wind, their heads hanging low.

  A crack of thunder shook the sky, echoed by the staccato cries of a horn sounding the progress of the hunt. Blowing away the notes wailed—the huntsman had found his prey.

  Pel shifted on his blanket, coming awake. Firelight caught the faint sheen of sweat that glistened on his bare chest. I ran the cloth over his ribs, and the breeze that followed my hand goosed his flesh and brought the hairs to attention.

  “Same dream?” I asked.

  He nodded, though I could see he immediately regretted the hasty action. “Only this time I could hear The Beast as well.” He went still under my hand. “Alain,” he whispered, “do you hear it?”

  “Hear what? Someone is out with their hounds nearby is all. That’s your beast.”

  By the way he levered himself to his elbow, I could tell a new thought had taken him. “Who would be hunting now?”

  I knew he didn’t ask because of the storm as I had. He asked because it was Beltane Night. I shrugged. “Someone who doesn’t see the need to continue living in the past, maybe?”

  As soon as I said it I was sorry. I was one of those ready to put old customs behind and move on. If there was one thing the Romans had brought to Britain it was enlightenment. Spirits weren’t responsible for fertile crops and the fae didn’t leave changelings in the dark.

  With Pel, though, things weren’t so simple. Touched by God, some said of him. Touched by demons, those of less-generous heart accused. In truth, I didn’t know whether he was touched or not. I only knew that something of this land called to him with a voice I couldn’t hear. Something far removed from the Roman heritage we shared. Something that clouded his thoughts in the light of day and invaded his dreams at night.

  Still, to be fair, even the Romans celebrated the Beltane. Back home, farmers would be getting drunk on the last of their winter mead and dancing in their fields. Father and his retainers would be holed up in the castle-fort drinking and dancing in the Great Hall. But Northerner or Southerner, Welshman or Roman, no one hunted on Beltane Night. Not with hounds and horse anyway.

  Pellinore lay back down without a word. Glad for the thunder that filled the awkward silence between us, I banked our little fire against the wind. Then I kicked the bones of the hare Pel and I had shared for what passed as our own Beltane feast into the ashes.

  The horn sounded again, a quavering, triumphant note that signaled the kill, swallowed almost at once in the rumble of thunder. The clamoring of the hounds grew more frenzied yet, then abruptly dropped away. The not-there sound of them echoed in our ears before the wind tattered even that away.

  And then the rain began.

  2. Brinn

  The sharp notes of Dinistriwr, Herne’s great hunting horn, thrilled through me. To my side, Edern, my betrothed, flashed his teeth in the dancing moonlight. Streaks of lightning to the west heralded the coming storm, but our attention stayed with The Hunt. The Hunt was all we had.

  Not so very long ago, even by mortal years, men offered up their sons and daughters for sacrifice on this sacred night. The land, as a consequence, grew strong, for blood holds powerful magic, especially when freely spilled and freely given.

  My people grew strong as well.

  The Tylwyth Teg our Welsh cousins called us—the fair folk. Not that they believed us fair. They only named us so from fear, exchanging flattery for our goodwill. In the Old Days, when magic ran like wild heather across the land, it was easy to forget men held the power and that our fate was bound in theirs.

  But cliff by cliff and moor by moor, our land was lost to men who knew us not. Who feared us not. Who shunned the Old Laws that h
eld the balance between fae and mortal worlds alike. The new kings whose fathers’ fathers had been born far to our east demanded their law take rule. Civilized Law, they named it, as if naming a thing made it so. As if naming a thing made it right.

  Some few of the Northern folk who remembered the Old Ways still butchered the odd lamb or calf on May’s First Day and poured a cup of blood on the new-warmed soil in exchange for fertile fields and beasts. But such meager magic no longer could sustain my kind. Already many of our elders—those who remembered when forts first covered these hills and iron came to the land—had retreated into Avalon, far beyond the cares of men.

  A scant score of us were sworn to follow Gwynn ap Nudd, the Bright Son of Night, whom we called Herne, and leader of The Wild Hunt. It fell to us to track the villeins who ravaged the land and trailed scars of sorrow across its furrowed valleys. Of late, we had no lack of work.

  Our quarry this night was the Marquess Dinas le Noir, a march lord who stalked King Pellam’s borders, burning crops and raiding livestock. No better than brigands, the warlord’s small band used the cover of darkness to conceal their deeds.

  Feasting on sheep slaughtered from a nearby field, Dinas and his men had raised a bonfire fed with whitethorn and rowan. My heart ached for the magic in the wood lost to senseless flame and smoke. These were not men who honored the Old Ways, choosing soulless elms or yews for their fires, or spilling a bit of blood from a beast slain with a silver knife to appease the fair folk. Though they kept the vigil and the feast of Beltane, these men made a travesty of its blessing.

  They could not have failed to hear us come. First, there was Herne astride his great, black horse—a magnificent otherworldly beast that once, in the distant past, might have been part fae itself, but now snorted thunder and ate the land in giant strides, the ground quivering beneath hooves the size of Roman bucklers. Herne’s horn, too, of ox and gold blasted through the night, shattering the moonlight with its haunting wail. And the Gabriel Hounds that raced at his side belled clear and high, the pure tones carrying furlong after furlong above the wind.