Peter W. Dawes's Blog: The Man Behind the Curtain

As some of you might have noticed, I’ve been making a more concerted effort to include more queer representation in my dark fantasy books lately. It’s not a new thing, per se — Robin O’Shane’s been bisexual since I first created him — but a lot of things stood in the way of me being more overt about it until recent years. (This is why it takes until Divided By Night for you to meet his boyfriend, Patrick.)

Caution has especially been thrown out the window with the bisexual main character of the Deathspell series, but now, I’ve upped the ante even further.

Ladies, Gents, and NB Folks, I present… Follow Him Home, now available for pre-order!

[image error]Cover by: Lyssa Dering
Is That a New Pseudonym?

Sure is! My Crimson Melodies partner-in-crime, J. R. Wesley, and I have teamed up as the driving force behind P. W. Davies. While this is my first novel for the P. W. Davies bibliography, we’ll both be releasing works under this pen name. (P = Peter; W = Wesley.) We wanted a home for our overtly romantic titles and decided, for our inaugural entry, to be a little saucy.

So, we created a little something called Alternate Worlds.

Alternate Worlds, You Say?

The characters in Follow Him Home are going to look really familiar if you read my books. That’s because Christian and Peter are characters from Deathspell and The Vampire Flynn, respectively. You haven’t met Victor yet. (He’s J.R.’s creation and will be in the sixth Flynn book, Reforged By Death.) But all three of them are getting a canonical makeover and being thrown into an alternate universe.

That’ll be the whole point of Alternate Worlds. It’s a place for us to take our existing characters and have a little fun with them. Each book will be a standalone novel and while some might have character overlap, each book will focus on a different series of relationships. Some of the characters, you haven’t met yet. What can we say, we got tired of sitting on all of these unique creations and wanted a new way of sharing them with you.

So What’s the Premise of Follow Him Home?

When a mysterious man walks into the emergency room, Dr. Peter Dawes could have never expected the turn his life was about to take. Drawn to the enigmatic Christian, he agrees to one date, but the more his former patient reveals about himself, the more Peter wonders if he should take a step away. When he’s introduced to Christian’s other lover, though – the more refined Victor – the charming man provides a counter-balance to Christian’s emotive intensity and adds another incentive to stay.

Secrets shroud the would-be lovers, but so does the potential of romance with not just one, but two men. Before long, Peter finds himself immersed within an unfamiliar world.

The kind a hitman might call home.

You Mentioned Pre-Ordering…

Look no further than THIS HANDY-DANDY LINK. (If for some reason, it doesn’t work, and you want to go directly to the Amazon US store, HERE’S ANOTHER HANDY-DANDY LINK.) This is definitely an 18+ book, has a happily-ever-after ending, and is a full-fledged M/M/M romantic suspense. There will be other P. W. Davies books penned by me in the coming year, but for now…

I have a sixth Flynn book to write.

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If you follow me on social media, you’ve seen me refer several times to both a secret project and a 10th Anniversary edition of the first Vampire Flynn book. I’ve referred to it this way, in part, because with the announcement comes a whole truckload of news with regard to the series.

[image error]Namely, the original trilogy is getting a facelift.

The first book will no longer be titled Eyes of the Seer, and neither will Rebirth or Fate of the Seer keep their original titles. In their places are Dark as the Grave, The Silence of Ashes, and Blade of the Slayer. And the beautiful artwork by Christine Griffin is being retired and replaced by new covers by artist Leah Keeler. We’re doing this, in part, to update what was my first series, with all of its rookie mistakes, and elevate it to the quality of work we feel its more recent stories have reflected.

We’re also hoping to reach new readers. With that, though, comes both an offer and an earnest request from me to you.

I Want to Give You Book One for Free

You heard me, for free. No cost whatsoever. We’ll have our final draft of Dark as the Grave finished in about two weeks, and at that time, I want to send it as far and wide as it’ll reach, giving it to anyone who wants it. Whether you’ve read Eyes of the Seer or not, you can have an e-copy of its new incarnation totally gratis.

I’ve created a special mailing list explicitly for sending you all Book One when it’s ready. You can sign up for it below. (And don’t worry, this isn’t my normal marketing list. You’ll be given a choice to sign up for that later.)

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Why Change Everything Around Now?

Beyond the fact that the books are now a decade old, and any other marketing and branding reasons I could give to you, there are several other reasons why we bit the bullet and decided to give the series a facelift. I first wrote the books while a much different person and while the quality of my writing has improved, so has several other things about me.

The first book especially has a lot of internalized misogyny and featured moments of slut-shaming. That bugged me on a fundamental level, regardless of how excusable that used to be. I’m not the kind of person who feels comfortable advocating that any longer.
When I first wrote the books, I still felt a strong attachment to my previous religious community, which flavored a lot of my decisions in the first book’s plot. In the effort to be more devoted to accurate worldbuilding, I wanted to let the book’s mythology inform its spirituality, rather than inserting my own since the two were slightly at odds.
I know these characters so much better. I did everything in my power to avoid anachronisms, but I’ve learned so much more about their thoughts and feelings as individuals at this point in their timeline. I thought they should have a better chance to shine.

The core plot has remained intact, for anyone who has read the books. The greatest changes took place toward the end, especially, including an entirely new chapter which helps flesh out the finale better. But if you read Eyes of the Seer, then you can comfortably skip Dark as the Grave and move onto book two without getting lost. Beyond adding a chapter, I also smoothed out the prose and some of the book’s pacing. One of the consistent complaints I received in the past was that the plot slows down considerably at a point. I wanted to fix that.

Don’t worry, this is the last time I intend to make such drastic changes to The Vampire Flynn Series. Like any child, though, it’s grown up, and I wanted to celebrate its birthday in style.

It’s my sincere hope that you enjoy. Thank you for reading my books.

Next on the Itinerary

… is working on the sixth book, Reforged by Death, before moving onto a Victorian Murder-Mystery Romance (say that three times fast), and the third book of the Deathspell Series. So, stay tuned. (And if you want to sign up for my normal mailing list, I’ll keep you updated on those projects and more.)

Your Friendly Neighborhood Word-Slinger,

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It’s been a while since I’ve updated, which is par for the course for me, but it’s been for a good cause. I’ve worked on the design of the site when time allows and even though there’s still a few kinks (ohhh myyy) in the system, it’s ready for me to resume posting.

WELCOME TO THE LAND OF PURE IMAGINATION.

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Here’s what I’ve been up to.

Convention Schedules

April was a busy month for me. I started the month off at Camden Comic Con, then at the Comic Fest in Norristown, and wrapped things up at Zenkaikon in Lancaster, PA. All of these were amazing venues with awesome people who attended. I enjoyed speaking to you all. If you happen upon this post, please feel free to say hello!

Coming up, I have Wizard World Philly in June, and J-1 Con at the end of August. I’m still wrapping up the rest of my convention schedule but will keep you posted as events are added.

Works in Progress

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In case you missed it, we released the fifth book in the Vampire Flynn Series earlier this year, entitled Undone by Blood. If you did miss it, it’s available on Amazon and will shortly be made available in dead tree format and on other online retailers. There’s a secret project in the works, which I will provide an update on when we’re ready to reveal it. In the meantime, though, here’s what the rest of my production schedule looks like.

Up Next: The Vampire Flynn, Pt. 6 – Reforged by Death.

When sent to San Francisco, both by the Supernatural Order, and by his vampire brother, Robin, Peter will face a tough decision as to which side he must take – the side of the vampires, protecting an important secret from the wrong people, or the side of his human employers who are dangling his children in front of him to keep him subservient.

Projected release: Sometime later in 2017.

After That: NaNo Project 2017 – The Victorian Supernatural Mystery

An Oxford professor gets caught up in the unusual world of fae politics when he witnesses a murder of one of their own. The secret society charged with solving these crimes pulls our professor along for a ride through the streets of Victorian London, into the underground no ordinary human has ever seen before, with as much dark intrigue as the city in which it calls home.

Projected release: Who knows? It’s NaNo!

And Finally: Deathspell, Pt 3. (Title Pending)

As the path left by the Luminaries takes Christian to Renaissance Italy, he reconnects with a familiar friend, charged with the protection of a sacred grimoire that the Luminaries would love to get their hands on. When the two paths cross, the ultimate prize the Luminaries seek becomes more apparent to Christian, surprising him when he learns that their pearl of great price isn’t an object, but a person.

Projected release: Spring, 2018

Other Projects

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about my romantically-themed trio, The Nightingale Effect, In the Den of Sirens, and Good Charlotte Walker. I’ll be working on them as time permits, hopefully, to see the release of one before the year is out.

That’s all for now, folks. Thanks for coming along with me on this crazy trip.

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If you’re visiting my page today, this means you’re either one of my long-time fans, or you’re familiar with something called the Virtual Book Fair. For those of you not versed with the latter, make sure you visit their Facebook event page. There are prizes to be won and other authors to scope out!

That being said, without further ado…

 

Welcome, all, and thank you for visiting my humble abode on the web. My name is Peter Dawes and I’m the author behind Deathspell, a historical fantasy series which takes place during the Wars of the Roses. To introduce myself to you, I am a USA Today bestselling author, lover of coffee, occasional poet, and in my normal life, I volunteer with National Novel Writing Month as a Philly regional municipal liaison.

Deathspell, as I said, starts during a tumultuous time in England’s history, when two warring families – the Lancasters and Yorks – competed for the throne. While Christian Richardson isn’t directly affected by this, the conflicts still help to fill the purse of a mercenary. Especially one who’s particularly good at killing people, and comes equipped with a thief for a best friend. If only Christian’s aspirations ended with living the good life.

No, sadly, Christian also witnessed the death of his father when he was a much younger man. Set on the path of vengeance, Christian will discover the people behind Richard Hardi’s demise. When he does, however, it could cost him everything.

Both books in the Deathspell Series are only $2.99/each. You can find them on most major online retailers (check my Published Works page for those links), but if you’re especially fond of Kindles, here are their direct Amazon links:

Deathspell on Amazon.com
Shadowcast on Amazon.com

And if you want to find me on social media, here’s my usual haunts:

Like Deathspell on Facebook
Peter Dawes on Twitter
Peter Dawes, author page on Facebook
poeticimmortal on Instagram
Peter Dawes, author listing on Goodreads
Sign Up for My Mailing List

Hey, Look! It’s a Character Interview!

Now, if you’ve read this far, I’d like to pull up a chair and welcome Christian himself to the blog. Considering I talk all of the time about how much trouble the voices give me – being loud, ordering my drinks at Starbucks and all – I thought I would give one of them the chance to be interviewed. What do you think, Christian?

Christian: Well, I think regardless of my desire to be here, you’d find a way to drag me here anyway.

You’re so cooperative. I’m sure Paolo would agree. That being said… *reads from a list of questions* Alright, for starters, please tell us more about yourself.

Christian: Well, I am devastatingly handsome, cunning, and my services are far too expensive for you to afford.

I doubt my readers are going to need to hire a mercenary.

Christian: Who said anything about my services as a mercenary?

Good point. Could you maybe tell us something a little… well… less shallow about yourself?

Christian: Fine. I work with a group of rogues named the Brotherhood of the Black Rose, primarily as an assassin and occasional thief. (My dear friend, Paolo, handles the bulk of the thievery between us.) Beyond what hours work steals from me, one could say I have other pet projects.

Can you tell us more about them?

Christian: This is where you all in the modern era say, ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ I’ll be nice and play along. When I was a youth, my father was killed violently in front of me. I have been in search of his killers ever since.

How has that gone for you?

Christian: It’s led to some interesting discoveries and challenges. And new reasons for the Church to potentially want my head on a pike. If you thought they were sore about men who have no compunction against bedding other men, you should see what they think about sorcerers.

These are interesting times you live in. Can you tell us more about them, and how they affect you?

Christian: Oh, you mean that little row over the crown? Honestly, it’s suited me just fine. Let the Lancasters and Yorks have their battles and hire people like me to do their dirty work. I don’t mind filling my purse with coin from either side.

How pragmatic of you. Well, thank you, Christian. If my readers want to learn more about you and the – shall I say unique messes you get yourself into? – I hope they enjoy reading Deathspell. Any parting words?

Christian: Yes. Always be kind to the brothel maidens. They make it worth your while when you pay well.

You’re incorrigible.

And you, kind visitor, thank you for stopping by. We hope you enjoy the rest of the Book Fair!

The post Virtual Book Fair Booth – Deathspell by Peter Dawes appeared first on The Man Behind the Curtain.

And so, we say goodbye to summer, ushering in the days of pumpkin spice before the long winter ahead. As Ned Stark taught us before a blade separated his head from his shoulders, we prepare for the season of snow and ice with solemn sobriety.

Because, holy fuck, NaNoWriMo is coming.

Summerpalooza Wrap Up!

Thanks to all of you who read through my half-formed brain drippings to help me figure out which monstrosity to breathe life into. (On a related note, for those of you with unfinished projects, I recommend reading this post by Chuck Wendig. Especially you fine folks about to undertake the ritual November rite of masochistic novel penning.) If you didn’t get a chance and want to read them for yourselves, you still can. I don’t intend to take down any of the chapters until I finish its corresponding book.

What I need now, is some help determining which is more worthy of being completed. Even if you haven’t read the Summerpalooza projects, there’s still a couple of questions you can answer on this Handy Dandy Survey of Doom.

If you do, though, here’s where to start:

Good Charlotte Walker
The Shadow Fox Chronicles
In the Den of Sirens
Hand of Fate

The winner gets to be one of my two NaNoWriMo projects.

What the Hell is NaNoWriMo?

So, beyond beating my head into a keyboard and making words appear for a living, I also volunteer for a project called National Novel Writing Month, which takes place every November. Because that’s the best month of the year to attempt writing a 50,000 word novel, right? *hesitant laugh*

Anyway, if you’ve never heard of it before, or if you did it a long time ago in a caffeine-fueled fit of insanity, consider giving it a go this year. I’ll be posting more on my blog in the coming months, with little tools and tricks and whatever prattling my fugue state develops.

If you happen to live in the Philadelphia area, though, there’s a lot going on during both October and November. As one of the regional municipal liaisons, I’ll be joined by my partner-in-crime, J.R. Wesley, and the amazing Elayna Mae Darcy for workshops, hijinks, and EPIC WRITING SESSIONS. (Featuring me with a stopwatch yelling, “LET’S WRITE, BITCHES.”)

Make sure you’re following PhillyWriMos on both Facebook and Twitter to keep up with the frivolity.

And So, in Closing…

Some news soon on the next book of the Flynn series. STAY TUNED.

Much more posting here in the weeks to come.

COFFEE FOR EVERYONE. THE WORDS MUST FLOW.

The post The Winds of November Doth Approach appeared first on The Man Behind the Curtain.

Chapter Five

Rachel Connors

The blinking cursor on the screen in front of her mocked her, reminding her that she had a stack of work still to wade through and not enough caffeine in her system to do it. A yawn chose that moment to escape her lips, playing its part in the conspiracy until she finally pulled her glasses off and rubbed at her eyes. “That’s it,” she announced to no one other than herself. “No more work without at least another shot or two of espresso.”

Work could wait for a little while. It wasn’t going anywhere, after all.

She slid from her chair and stretched once her heels clacked on the tile floor beneath her, a hand instinctively reaching for her purse before she started off toward the exit. One foot moved in front of the other past lab tables and microscopes, Rachel only giving them and her co-workers a glance and even then, ignoring the hiss of one of the doors as it swung open in front of her. Two figures emerged from the other side, both just as bent to ignore her as she was them.

“Well, we’re going to have to delay our one test now,” said the one on the left. Rachel recognized his voice despite the obstruction of the biohazard mask he wore; Dr. James McIntire, her boss and their project coordinator. He pulled it off, revealing a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his face.

The man on the left was only five years her senior. She stepped around him without making eye contact, but even then she could have etched his face in her sleep. Deep, brown-colored hair that bordered on black. A smaller stature and a perpetual scowl as his expression. Joseph Ito sighed in response to McIntire. “This is going to set back the last phase of testing,” he noted.

“Granted. Let’s hope that’s the least of our problems.” Rachel had made it to the stairs and ascended the first two when she felt the weight of someone’s stare settle on her back. “Miss Connors? Taking an early lunch.”

She winced and stopped in her tracks. Turning, she made eye contact with Dr. McIntire as he plucked his glasses from his face and unzipped the bright orange suit he wore. He produced a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, but remained silent while waiting for her response.

Rachel cocked a thumb toward the top of the stairs. “Just running out for a coffee,” she said. A small fidget threatened to disrupt the spark of confidence she had managed to summon. “Promise I’m back to the grindstone when I return. I’ll even pick up a sandwich so I don’t have to leave again.”

McIntire raised an eyebrow, following the action with a sigh and a glance at Ito. The latter seemed less-than-impressed. “I don’t think I need to stress how important it is that we have minimal interruptions to our work,” McIntire finally said. He slid his glasses back into place. “I need the data I gave you to compile by mid-afternoon.”

“It’ll be done, sir.” She flashed an agreeable smile and turned her back, taking the first few steps cautiously and finally picking up the pace to the top. A short corridor led to a set of sealed double doors and as she reached in her pocket for her security card, she finally sighed with relief. Nobody stopped her as she swiped the card and nobody said anything to her as she entered the main vestibule and headed to the door. Rachel waved timidly at the security guard stationed by the entrance, but didn’t pause to see if he waved back.

Instead, she righted her shoulders and straightened her back, blinders put on firmly to avoid her noticing the state of the neighborhood surrounding the research facility. Mercifully, she didn’t fumble her keys as she took them out of her purse and once inside the confines of her car, she switched on the automatic locks and took a deep breath. “Sometimes, I really miss Scranton,” she murmured to herself as she started the ignition. Her windshield wipers flickered on and her radio sprang to life and for a few minutes, she felt a lot more at peace with the world.

Not even the hustle and bustle could interrupt that mood once it had the chance to blossom into life. The closest café made her favorite drink and convinced her to upsize it to a large, because there was still a lot of work left to be done. She hummed the song that had been playing on the radio and swung her hips while glancing around at the newspapers on sale, finally putting down a copy of the Inquirer when the story about a washed up dead body made her wrinkle her nose.

“Large latte, two extra shots?” the barista called out toward her.

“Yep, that’s me,” she said, making up the difference between them and taking the cup in hand. Rachel nodded at the college-age kid, her smile brightening when he mirrored it and a small blush crossing the tops of her cheeks, thoughts of him distracting her all the way back to the car. An extra spring settled into her step and when the trek back to her desk was devoid of any further confrontations with McIntire, she felt the tension from earlier melt away. Placing both the coffee and a sandwich acquired at a nearby shop next to her computer, Rachel settled into work.

Lab reports after lab reports filled the next few hours of her life. She sighed and spread them out across her desk, entering data and allowing the computer to do its work while she stole a bite of food here and a sip of coffee there. The sandwich had been fully consumed before she donned a biosuit of her own and another sheet of statistics had been placed into her hands as she left the room full of lab mice. Only a quick glance stolen at a door on the opposite side of the room managed to break her stride just for a few moments.

Rachel frowned and turned her back to it in favor of wandering back out into the main research area.

Her computer blinked to life when she jostled the mouse. The sheets in her hands were placed atop their corresponding stacks and Rachel flipped back to the empty document that had been taunting her before she left. Dr. McIntire had asked for a report and she knew she was cutting that deadline close, but as she glanced around to find the other people hard at work, she rolled her shoulders and nodded to herself.

Both hands settled on her keyboard and she began to write.

Date: November 12, 2014; Time: 1:13 PM.

I just collected the data on the mice I’ve been assigned to watch and the findings are amazing. As of right now, this grouping is doing much better than peers who have only received the MB-003 and MB-012 inoculations and I think we might be onto something with pairing them up for increased efficacy. As it stands, their dosage levels aren’t high enough to cause permanent effects, but the temporary boosts from each one provide definite results. Once the report for MB-003 is filed for Dr. McIntire, I intend to attempt the combination 003, 012, and 008 booster shot, to see what effect that has in extending the life of the physiological enhancements.

As it stands, though, I don’t think we’re anywhere near ready to increase the dosage. One attempt at trying to bump from .03 ml to .06 ml caused near-fatal side effects in each batch of mice we tried this on. This includes the entire 000-020 series. The mice developed high fevers, chills, and convulsions and an eventual loss of two dozen units when they failed to make a full recovery from the trauma. I have four or five of this collection set aside for testing the counteractive booster shot, but until we have that stabilized, we’ve been advised not to increase the dosage any more than in .01 increments. All findings suggest that should be the case.

But the good news is we received a fresh shipment of livers last week! That seems to be the crux to graduating our research from lab mice to eventual human trials. Our partnership with Jefferson Hospital and the University of Penn medical school has given us a lot better access to tissue samples, or at least ones that have been better preserved from decomposition. The reaction timing in this last batch especially produced near-live results, according to the data, and I think I might be able to free a few to start experimentation of the EM-776 counteractive booster on human tissue. Dr. McIntire doesn’t seem as sure of the viability of EM-776, but hasn’t told me to discontinue testing yet either.

I might be a sucker for the mice, but if there’s some way to ease their suffering when our doses don’t measure out, then maybe it’ll have some use if we run into a pickle during human trials. Until then, the furry little guys and our new batch of livers will be giving themselves to a good cause.

– End of Report for 11/12/14

***

Dr. McIntire was tied up on the phone when Rachel handed him the much less personal, much more data-centric version of her report. He waved her away for the night without any further discussion, and as he addressed the person on the other line, his tone of voice seemed to say it all. Headquarters. Rachel winced and snuck out of his office, only barely able to imagine the sort of pressure they were resting on his shoulders for deadlines that struck her as arbitrary. ‘Well, if it gets me home before dark, then oh well,’ she thought as she strode to her car and began the drive toward the small apartment she occupied on the west side of Philadelphia.

Rachel locked the door behind her and kicked off her shoes. A cat wandered over to her feet, rubbing at her ankles and spurring her to heft it up and laugh as she settled him into her arms. “You are getting very heavy, Mr. Tumnus,” she said, stroking the tabby’s head and scratching his ears while wandering further inside. She placed him down on her couch and soon joined him, once she had changed from her work clothes into yoga pants and a t-shirt.

Nobody on the news was discussing the dead body by the Schuylkill. The lead story involved the vampire monarch meeting with the Governor-Elect and beginning talks after the latter’s gubernatorial victory. Rachel scrunched her nose and reached for her phone, dialing the pizzeria’s number from memory and hesitating before hitting send. Mr. Tumnus sauntered onto her lap, and the sight of the vampire on the television screen made her sigh and resume stroking her cat.

“You see that?” she asked. “Complete biological anomalies… I mean, how do you walk around as a reanimated corpse that drinks people’s blood and think you’re still people, too?” The cat mewed and she nodded at him, leaning close and giving his furry head a quick peck before bringing the phone back to her ear. “That’s right, Mr. Tumnus. They aren’t,” she added, and said no more as he curled on her lap. The accusation levied by her rang in her thoughts while she waited for someone to answer on the other line.

Biological anomalies. Who couldn’t eat or drink real food or even walk around in the sunlight like everyone else could. The more she thought about it, the more she began to wonder about what sort of draw that life had held for the people who allowed themselves to be turned into one themselves.

Who would trade being human for turning into a monster like that?

Chapter Three

Corbyn grunted as he searched for a foothold, cradling me in his arms while trying to navigate the steep incline of the hill. I could feel the way he lifted up onto the next rock step as if my legs were the ones forced to support our weight, my eyes not knowing where to focus when I caught a trickle of sweat running along the side of his face. “You could let me down now,” I offered. “I feel good enough to go the rest of the way on my own.”

“Non, ma petite,” Corbyn said, “If this looks difficult for me, it’d be impossible for you.”

“Is that some sort of insult?”

“Not meant to be. I’m sorry.” He clenched his teeth, straining for the next step and pausing to catch his breath after claiming it. “I meant… Even if you feel better, you would exert yourself again.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Something about the pained expression on his face made me frown. Regardless of the circumstances, I couldn’t help but feel a moment of compassion. “Why didn’t you masochistic people create a better way up here?”

“Because, we don’t usually climb the path in this form.”

Corbyn offered me a tired half-smile to underscore the point. No sooner did it fade away, though, then he continued up the hill, digging deep for whatever it took to ascend the last few feet of incline. When we reached the top, he finally lowered me onto the ground, not letting go of me in case I couldn’t manage my own stability, but finally giving me the autonomy I’d asked for. We walked from the stone steps toward an earthen pathway until we reached the side of what looked like a vacation home.

Large, picturesque windows broke up the pristine white exterior, framed with light-colored wood that matched the front door. Resisting the urge to ask Corbyn where they kept the doggie flap, I still winced when karma sent a shot of agony through my shoulder. ‘Right,’ I thought in a mauldlin sort of way, ‘That’ll be me in a month.’ In an effort not to think about it, I glanced around at the rest of the property. The same thick border of forest I had seen at the bottom of the hill lined the top as well. In the distance, I saw something odd; flickering lights that would have resembled fireflies had it been closer to summer. Glancing away from them, I saw a deck on the back side of the property, facing a scenic overlook.

Corbyn brought me toward the front door, passing a large generator and the outcropping that formed the back side of a chimney. As I glanced up at the shorter second floor, I imagined a loft or an attic. Either way, though, the house didn’t resemble a place where modest people lived. “Almost there,” he said, ensuring I had a tight hold on him before we ascended a short set of stairs leading up to a porch.

The large space that flanked both sides of the door looked lonely for something, either a rocking chair or a swing where you could curl up and read a book. The part of me still touched by magic envisioned sitting beside Corbyn, as if I’d forgotten being mad at him, or could sink back into whatever spell had brought me to this point. On the other side of midnight, though, all I could feel was sick and in a lot of pain. So, I abandoned the mental image and walked inside the house with Corbyn still supporting me.

The front door opened up to a spacious living room, with high, vaulted ceilings and richly-colored rugs which had been arranged on top of a hardwood floor. Handknitted blankets had been draped across the backs of plush couches and highback leather chairs, giving the barely-lived-in house a warmer, more inviting feel. “Nice,” I said, spitting out the word before I could stop myself, my eyes settling on the cold hearth right as a chill settled into my bones. I suddenly wanted a fire to lie in front of, so I could sleep off the rest of the wooziness still affecting me.

Right after I took a shower, that was.

Corbyn smiled when I glanced at him again, tossing his damp shirt near the front door and setting his coat on top of one of those blankets. “It is nice,” he said. “I haven’t been here in years. My parents forced me to stay home after I ran away. Before that, though, I came here with them whenever they had meetings. Sometimes, we hosted other shifters from this realm. Sometimes, members of other packs. It’s always been a neutral place, no matter who came to visit.”

“It’s funny, you talk about this place like you grew up here, but you don’t sound like you’re from this part of the world,” I noted, letting my eyes wander around the living room again.

“I’m not. My family are French. My grandparents were human aristocrats before the French Revolution. Fate smiled on them and turned them wolfen before they risked facing the guillotine. Our estate remained intact and the money was used to better our people and their way of life.”

I looked back at Corbyn and blinked. “The French Revolution?” I asked. As he smiled, I squinted at him from across the distance separating us. “How old did you say you were again?”

“Older than I look and younger than I feel, chérie,” he quipped. Sobering, he strode further into the house, acting like he hadn’t just stripped down to half naked; like there was something about the state that felt comfortable to him. I felt compelled to follow him, making sure to take it slow. Fortunately, Corbyn didn’t seem to be in a hurry. “If it helps, to my people I would be considered a young adult.”

“I guess it’s better than nothing.” When we bypassed the large, living area, we wandered closer to a spiral staircase, leading up to the loft I’d recognized from the outside. A narrow hallway fed into a dining room, but it was as we walked past a bathroom that I thought of that shower again and mourned the fact that there probably wasn’t any hot water. Corbyn led me into the kitchen, where I lost myself admiring the rustic, almost European quality everything seemed to have. Pots and pans hung from a wire rack and stools had been arranged in front of a center island with everything a mixture of grays and blacks and chestnut-colored wood. I raised an eyebrow at the fruit that had been arranged in a bowl, almost like Corbyn expected me to paint a still-life.

“Has anyone been here recently?” I asked.

“Only me. I bought a few things so I could stay here for a day or two,” he said.

“Aren’t you afraid of someone finding you here?”

“This isn’t the first place they’ll look. I have other places where I usually hide from them and it’ll take a while for them to search those first.” Something about the look in his eyes turned melancholy. I didn’t have a chance to figure out what before he painted on a smile again and pointed at the refrigerator. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I should say yes, but my stomach doesn’t feel up to it yet.” Glancing back toward the bathroom again, I frowned, something inside of me longing to be clean and burried in blankets. The humming coming from the refrigerator had given me a spark of hope, and if Corbyn had been here for a short while, maybe that meant a hot shower wasn’t as much of a pipe dream as I’d hoped.

“Can I clean up?” I asked, looking back at him. “I mean, you can tell me if I’d encounter the wrath of ice crystals, but I think I’m more concerned about a shower and a nap right now.”

He smiled warmly. “Let me show you the bedroom, chérie,” he said, walking past me and leaving the implied direction for me to follow. I did, without questioning, not hearing any double entendres and grateful we’d brushed past the topic of the night before, at least for now. At least until I could figure out how I really wanted to feel about all of this.

When we reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, he extended a hand toward it. “There’s another bedroom, if the stairs bother you, but this is the larger one. It has a bathroom attached to it if you want to take a shower.” He clutched onto the railing as I started to ascend, looking up at me as if nervous that I might hurt myself. When I glanced back down at him, I almost felt like reassuring him. ‘Yeah, if only you weren’t the person who put me in this spot to begin with,’ I thought, though, as if I needed to remind myself this was almost an abduction.

“I think I’ll do fine,” I said, flashing a small smile that lasted only as long as it took for me to look back up the stairs and continue climbing. Corbyn called after me, telling me there were towels and spare clothes and that I should feel free to make myself at home. Despite the momentary dizziness, I made it to the top and sat on the bed to regroup. Within a few minutes, I’d gathered enough steam to stumble my way into the bathroom.

While the process of getting undressed hurt worse than it had first throwing on my clothes, the shower made it worth it. As warm water trickled over the wounds on my shoulder, washing off more of the blood, the temperature soothed the kinks out of my limbs, easing any aches that still lingered after a night on the forest floor. I shampooed my hair and scrubbed down as gently as possible, turning off the stream only when I felt satisfied enough to stumble back into the bedroom.

A towel wrapped around my body, I left the dirty clothing I’d shed on the floor of the meticulously clean bathroom, apathetic toward whatever effort Mother Marchand had probably put into keeping it that way. Sitting on the bed again, however, called my attention back to the aesthetics – an old habit from being an artist, I told myself. Especially one who got herself in trouble more times than she could count analyzing people on the basis of the stuff they owned. At the same time, even as I scanned the collection of fine art and dark, patternless fabrics against the backdrop of a more neutral palate, I noticed one thing missing.

If this was where the Marchands slept, where were the pictures of their kids?

Maybe it was a ‘human’ custom, and while I kept that in mind, I also thought about the embarrassing collection of photos my parents kept of me and my sisters and couldn’t help but to frown. The Walkers of Lancaster might not be werewolf nobility, I asserted, and not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but they cared about us. Sometimes, despite ourselves. Whether or not the Marchands of France had ever been a guest inside Versailles, they seemed not to know they had a son.

“You’re being judgmental again, Charlotte,” I muttered to myself, pausing to study the wounds on my shoulder and standing only when I was satisfied they hadn’t started bleeding again. A walk-in closet at the far side of the loft contained racks upon racks of clothes, neatly arranged on hangers with every accessory known to mankind. I plucked an outfit that looked way more conservative than I preferred dressing before smirking to myself and looking at the opposite side of the closet. By the time I emerged, I’d stolen a pair of Mommy Marchand’s dark brown slacks with a white Oxford straight out of Papa Marchand’s collection.

My petite body drowned in baggy clothing, but something felt comforting about it. So much so that I collapsed into bed without questioning it any further. I was tired. I felt like I’d been run through the wringer and spat out the other side; trampled down by whatever metaphysical entity thought it was funny to give a college girl a supernatural STD. I burrowed underneath the blankets and smiled as I finally found that pocket of warmth I’d been looking for.

Maybe Corbyn was right – that I needed to rest and at least figure out what was happening to me first. All I knew was that I lacked the ability to make sound decisions and probably wouldn’t gain it back until I’d at least kicked this nasty dizzy spell. I didn’t fight it this time when the urge to sleep came over me and as I heard the faint crackle of the fire, I actually smiled with something vaguely resembling contentment.

He had a long way to go before selling me on the prospect of being with him.

A little of the magic which led us together had begun creeping back to me, though, filling my dreams with the thought of him.

***

My dreams had never been very lucid in the past, just disjointed images thrown on the walls of my subconscious like a child with fingerpaint. Usually speaking, when I did find myself in some sort of dream world, something about the experience made me aware I’d tripped into Wonderland, with the laws of gravity up for grabs and the piece-de-resistance resulting in me entering a crowded room naked. What I entered when I fell asleep, however, seemed much more rooted in reality, evoking all of my senses the moment I opened my eyes.

In some senses, I wondered if it was even a dream at all.

It wasn’t a picture that greeted me first. I felt a breeze lull past me, warm and coaxing me to wade further in. As I drew a deep breath inward, I took in a scent that struck me as familiar and exotic at the same time. Without even needing to be told, I knew it belonged to him. And I couldn’t stop myself from breathing it in again.

He smelled like autumn; like the smell of leaves falling and crackling hearths and apple cider. A subtle aristocracy danced around something reckless and impulsive, becoming intertwined in a way that affected me from head to toe the more I took it in. As I looked around, I noticed I was outside again, looking upward at a sky littered with sunlight, that same gentle breeze causing the branches to sway and the shadows to shift around us. For some reason, it made me smile.

“Tu es belle, chérie,” he said, prompting me to turn my head and look at him. As our eyes met, a smile traced across his lips, expanding until it reached his eyes. Lying on his side, with his elbow resting on the ground, he wore the same outfit he’d worn when we first met and seemed stuck admiring me until I rolled to mirror his position. At that point, he inched closer, stopping once he could reach out and brush my fingers with his.

“If you keep insisting on speaking French to me, I’m going to keep assuming you’re insulting me and just want it to sound pretty,” I said, not really meaning it. His hand on mine felt inviting and a soul-deep, primal part of me wanted desperately to enjoy the sensations he created. As I looked down at our hands, though, I couldn’t help the way my smile disappeared. My thoughts scattered in different directions, not knowing where to settle first.

“Ma petite?”

I glanced up at him quickly, flashing a smile for as long as the exchanged look lasted. “I don’t know how to sort through all of this yet. Or even what to think about you, Corbyn. I swear, if you would’ve told me yesterday that I’d be in a strange house with a strange man worried about something other than my grades for next semester, I would’ve laughed in your face. Date with destiny or not.”

“Adventures are scary sometimes, aren’t they?”

“Is that what we’re calling this? An adventure?”

He laughed lightly, causing me to look back up at him. Corbyn looked past me, sorting his thoughts before meeting my eyes again and offering a much more chagrined smile. “All of the ones I’ve ever taken have been at first. Leaving home a second time after being punished so severely the first time was frightening. I didn’t know I’d find you here when I left.”

“You’re going to tell me you’re just as scared as I am?” My lips quirked.

“Maybe not as much.” His grin spread again, hand lifting from mine to settle on my shoulder. “Only saying I’ve probably look a lot calmer than I really am.”

“Leaving everything you know, getting mixed up with some girl who’s just as lost in whatever this as as you are, and realizing that if your family catches you, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble? That sort of thing?”

“Yes, that sort of thing exactly,” Corbyn said with a laugh.

I sighed and surrendered to the urge to inch closer to him. “I didn’t believe any of this existed yesterday.”

“Imagine what you might discover exists tomorrow.” He gathered me against him. I didn’t fight him; in fact, I nestled myself close to him and shut my eyes while smelling autumn again. I couldn’t explain what made me feel so close to him, whether it was the magic that had us glued together or the bite he claimed bound us, in his world. It still felt in a lot of ways like this was something happening to somebody else and I didn’t know how long it would take to feel some other way.

“I love you,” Corbyn whispered.

“You don’t even know me,” I said. “I don’t even know you.”

“This won’t make any sense to you yet, but I’ve known you all of these years. I searched every face and every soul for yours and almost lost hope that you existed.” Corbyn backed away from me slowly and while I didn’t know what to expect, it still surprised me when he pressed his lips against mine, the gesture both gentle and forceful at the same time. I got the impression of him wanting to convince me, to help me feel what he felt, and as I kissed him back, the moment swept me under for as long as it lasted, stealing my breath when the kiss ended. A tingle raced up my spine and the marks on my shoulder itched, like the universe knew I still needed convincing and wanted to weigh in.

I had to admit, in that moment, both he and the universe offered a strong argument.

He opened his eyes as I opened mine, both of us looking into each other’s eyes while the ethereal glow from his soul wrapped itself around me again. “How do you know this is real?” I whispered.

“You’ll understand soon, chérie,” he said. “It’s too soon for you to see the world the same way I do, but when you’re able to, you’ll understand. Until then…” Corbyn reached up, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Get to know me, ma chère. As you said, we’re both lost in whatever this is. Maybe we could learn how to face it together.”

Before I could respond, Corbyn leaned forward, his lips touching mine in a much more chaste kiss. “Rest,” he whispered afterward. “You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

I nodded, suddenly tired again and eager to slip into dreamless sleep. With gentle touches, he coaxed me onto my back again and with feather brushes of his lips on my cheek, Corbyn faded from my dream. I watched the leaves descend from the trees above me, as if to form a blanket and tuck me in. It felt pleasant. Calm. Bringing out some inner form of happiness; the carefree spirit I’d had when I was a little girl coming out for the first time in years. I closed my eyes and didn’t notice when I’d drifted to sleep again.

When I woke, I entered reality again. Or at least, the new world I’d been brought into.

Story Beginning | Next Chapter Coming Soon

Chapter Four

Once I reached the neighborhood, the scene of the discovery wasn’t hard to find. Police tape cordoned off the area and news trucks had been parked by the edge of the block while curious onlookers formed a wall of people I had to muscle my way through in order to get where I wanted to be. Lifting my press badge for the officer standing guard, he gave me a wary look in return and shook his head. “Sorry kid, it’s not happening,” he said. “Forensics doesn’t want press poking around here just yet.”

“I was told to ask for Luis Alejandro,” I said, summoning some inner gumption in the process. Somehow, the directive came out sounding a lot surer than even I thought myself capable. “Tell him John Fitzpatrick sent me.”

The officer narrowed his eyes, but he nodded, walking away from the tape and leaving me alone.

Part of me wanted to walk underneath it anyway. Him abandoning his post seemed to be clearance enough, but self-preservation won out and I remained standing there until he found a man clad like Columbo, beige trench coat, disheveled appearance and all. Detective Alejandro looked up as the man said his name, and although I couldn’t hear their exchange, I knew enough when I was evoked as the officer cocked a thumb in my direction and the detective shot a glance at me.

Somehow, I resisted the urge to lift a hand and wave. Though not from a lack of desire.

He sighed and nodded at the officer, prompting him to wave me through. I nodded, and lifted the crime scene tape enough to duck underneath it, headed over to the detective and paying little mind to the officer as we crossed paths. “Fitzy sent you?” He posed the question before I was even in earshot, though I thanked whatever gods were listening that I had still managed to hear it.

I raced to make up the difference and stopped two feet shy of where he was crouched. “Yes, he did,” I said. “Andy Lane. I’m one of his reporters.”

“Well, I’m glad he sent a reporter and not the tooth fairy.” The comment came out sounding tired, though whether or not it was intended as snide remained a mystery. Dusting off his hands, he rose to his feet and revealed himself to be only a couple of inches shorter than me. Off in the distance, a gurney toted off a black body bag and loaded it into a forensics truck. My gaze shot back to the detective as he issued forth another sigh. “I called Fitzy myself because we’re about to have a media shitstorm and I’d rather control some of the fallout. Fitzy and I have done each other favors in the past.”

I nodded. “Well, either way, I’m fairly levelheaded and not in a hurry to piss off my editor.”

“You’re barely out of the bullpen, kid.” He reached to touch my shoulder and used the brief moment of contact to pull me in the opposite direction of the crowd. I followed, obediently, casting only one quick glance over my shoulder and frowning as I focused my eyes straight ahead again. “We’re taking a walk,” he explained. “Too many microphones and cell phone cameras these days. Plus, I’m dying for a cigarette.”

“A cigarette sounds really good,” I responded. Granted, I hadn’t smoked since I was a college sophomore, but the way my stomach turned gave me warning I might need at least one to get me through whatever was about to happen.

“I’ll give you a smoke. You run and get me a coffee when we’re done talking, and I’ll consider us even.” He nodded, the matter resolved, and fell silent as we continued walking, past the forensics truck and a slew of other people all talking among themselves.

Before us lay the Schuylkill River, the boundary separating West Philadelphia from the rest of the city. The temperature had dropped and given a chill to the air as the sun threatened to dip in the horizon at an obscenely early hour. I dug my hands in my coat pockets, feeling for my notepad and pencil, but also using the opportunity to warm my hands as we got closer to the water. One of the bridges spanning the river ran over us, with cars zipping past and the Interstate running parallel in the distance. As we paused by a drainage area, we stopped shy of where the water lapped up against the shore.

I frowned, freeing a hand to point at the spot. “Is this where the body was discovered?” I asked.

Detective Alejandro nodded. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tapped two out, handing one over to me and popping the second one between his lips. The flame from his Zippo lighter bent and twisted with the wind, but held steady long enough for us to both light the ends. He pocketed it first before he responded with words. “Yeah, discovered by one of the joggers who run along Kelly Drive. Their dog was apparently barking up a storm and ran free of their leash. Led them up here.”

We lingered in silence and I tried hard not to choke as I pulled from the cigarette and inhaled. Smoke sputtered past my lips when I exhaled, the action not seamless, but concealed enough for the detective not to issue commentary. “So a dog found a dead body? What about that is going to cause a media shitstorm? Was it anyone important?”

“Not unless they fell on hard times and wound up on the street. The body had suffered some decomposition, but it was still pretty obvious what side of the tracks he was from.” The detective shook his head mournfully. He drew from his cigarette and flicked ash from the end. “No, I’ve got two problems on my hand. For one, the media have been foaming at the mouth for a story like this, but secondly, my people are only so reliable when it comes to keeping their mouths shut.”

He followed another brief silence with a glance in my direction. “We might have our first confirmed vampire kill,” he finally confessed.

I brought the cigarette back to my mouth, but paused with it at my lips. Raising an eyebrow, I studied the detective, weighing him for a moment before I finally drew inward and exhaled. This time, the action was more seamless. “How do you know for sure it was a vampire kill?” I asked.

Alejandro cleared his throat. His unencumbered hand lifted, motioning at his neck. “Large pinpricks right there. The coroner is going to do an autopsy, but he was pretty sure the body had suffered partial exsanguination. Not enough lividity with the blood or something like that. Honestly what it looked like is our guy got cornered by a vampire, bitten, and decided a swim beat certain death.” He pointed upward, prompting me to turn and crane my neck in the direction of the bridge.

“Except the fall probably did him in anyway,” I said, frowning as I studied it. My gaze remained fixed on it for another moment, imagining the picture the detective was painting in my mind and scrutinizing it as I did. I furrowed my brow at the traffic, subconsciously smoking my cigarette while doing so. “Would have had to be in the middle of the night, though. Were there any witnesses?”

“None that have come forward, but here’s the catch-22,” he said. “For us to get any to, we need to publicize this.”

“Network news is going to blow it out of proportion.”

“I’m trying to find the best way of painting it that doesn’t send the public into a fit. I mean –” I looked back in time to see him shake his head. “I know vampires feed on people. You know it; the Pope knows it. Everyone knows it, but as long as it’s not staring us in the eyes, we about our day-to-day lives and recognize that if they really do kill people, they clean up after themselves pretty well.”

My other hand scratched at my neck, over the raised scars near my throat. “We have a court system in place especially geared toward prosecuting rogue vampires.”

“The ones who get caught. It’s a good enough system. I’m sorry, but at my age, you learn to read the shades of gray in the way the world works. We’ve been turning blind eyes since the days of the mob.” He shook his head. “This is right in the open and at the best, it’s going to be a public relations nightmare.”

“At the worst, a lit match near a powderkeg.” A frown tugged at the corners of my mouth as I cast another glance up at the bridge. What the hell was Fitzy thinking sending me out here? “So, you need people to come forward and yet, if you had your say, you would be letting the courts handle this privately?”

Detective Alejandro snorted. “Are you writing an article or my Christmas list for Santa?”

“A little of both, or so I hope.” I squinted up at the bridge, wondering why my sixth sense had begun to tingle. “There’ll be a story on the website by tomorrow, at the latest. It might take another day before it’s in the paper. That’ll get you the Inquirer, but not Action News.”

“I’ll put off Action News as much as I can. Details of the investigation pending and all that, but this is going to attract the wrong sort of attention at some point or another eventually.”

“If a vampire actually did it.” I drew from the cigarette one last time before deciding I had abused my lungs enough for one day. Flicking away the remnant, I brushed my hands off on my pants and dug in my pockets for my pencil and notepad. “How do you take your coffee, Detective?” I asked while I began jotting down notes.

“Two creams, three sugars,” he said. “A shot of whiskey optional.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Glancing up from the notepad, I flashed him a quick smile before copying down a few extra details. He huffed a chuckle at me and turned to walk away, leaving me alone to my thoughts until I had penned everything that stuck out at me from the river bank. He had his coffee delivered and my business card in his pocket before he had to address the public. I didn’t bother answering him when he asked where I had gotten the whiskey.

Something inside of me felt compelled to return home, to work on the first draft of the article, but as I took out my cell phone, I stopped in my tracks. I pivoted to face the bridge once more and as I found myself staring at it, I saw the movie playing out in my mind again, what Luis Alejandro had posited happened to the victim.

My wandering led me up to the pedestrian walkway running alongside the overpass before I could stop myself.

I had not asked Detective Alejandro for the victim’s race or age, and the lack of name provided meant that the transient man didn’t carry any identification on him. As such, the role my imagination filled in bore the appearance of a Caucasian man, perhaps in his late forties and maybe even the stereotypical image of a war veteran who had fallen on hard times. As I stood on the bridge, wind kicking around the bottom of my coat, I squinted to see darkness. To see a vampire approaching him as he stumbled his way from one side to the other.

My hand found the side of my neck as I did so.

I might have had the memory of my encounter stripped from me, but I always saw the vampire who attacked me as being a cleverer, more calculating sort of predator. The type who undoubtedly lured me somewhere on the basis of my curiosity and left me go confused. Any vampire who would risk feeding in the middle of such an open area, with so many vantage points where they could be observed, wouldn’t hold up in this brave new world of openness and they had to know it as a collective. Allen Hughes’s behavior the day before only led credence to the level of caution being asked of them now.

Granted, he could’ve been a rogue vampire. Maybe one without complete control of their senses. I couldn’t rule that out and I tried not to let my prejudices influence me as I continued with the mental movie. Fangs in the dirty, smelly homeless man’s neck – because hell, who would miss one of those? – and him still having some fight in him. Bucking against it. Pushing the vampire away just long enough to vault over the side of the bridge and into the frigid water below.

Stepping closer to the edge, I peered over and gaged the distance down to the water. The chances of him making it bore odds even I couldn’t fathom and neither would I be able to without a lot more than my intuition leading me. Still, he might have been able to swim to the shore. Maybe he got knocked unconscious by something down below. “Not enough information,” I murmured, but I pulled out my notepad and scrawled the rest of my thoughts in it before tucking it away. The hour was getting late and my stomach gnawing at me, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten enough that day.

Finally dialing numbers, I placed my first call to Fitzy, letting him know to check his email in a couple of hours. To him, I promised I would be in the office first thing in the morning.

To Scott, I left an entirely different message.

‘Sorry to cancel the date. I think I might have landed on something big, though. I’ll tell you more later.’

Chapter Three

The office building loomed over him and, standing at its doors, he could finally read the placard.

Daniel Jackson and Associates – Private Consultants

Julian raised an eyebrow. The presence of English signs or American-sounding names had stopped being a peculiar thing after the Second World War, but considering what ‘Daniel Jackson’ had his sister do, he saw the cover for the transparent lie that it was. Birgit pulled the glass door open before he could question it any further and motioned for him to step forward. He cast a glance at her and nodded while advancing toward a flight of stairs.

His stomach sank into his shoes. Pictures lined the stairwell, but looking at a few of them made him uneasy for no apparent reason. The silence which had become pervasive continued being an uncomfortable companion, reminding Julian of his sister’s refusal to speak to him in the car ride over. She broke her mute vigil only once, to bark, “No,” at him when he lifted a hand to flip down the sun visor. It didn’t help any when he informed her he only wished to look into the mirror. In fact, it prompted her to add a plaintive, “Please don’t.”

He’d honored the request, but now waited for whatever explanation was forthcoming from his sister and ‘Daniel Jackson’.  The door at the top of the stairs was locked, but before Julian could open his mouth to acknowledge it, his sister reached forward and issued five knocks in a very particular sequence. A click preceded a nudge from Birgit and this time, the door swung open when Julian tested the knob. A flurry of activity on the other side greeted them both, which all came to a standstill when the people took one look at Julian. He froze near the entrance. The door clicked shut behind them.

“Somebody fetch Mr. Williams,” a lady still leaning beside one of the desks called out toward the back.

A man standing near a corridor turned without saying a word and dashed out of sight. The butterflies fluttering in Julian’s stomach stirred to an uproar, his eyes shifting from one person to the next as they all stared back at him. Him. Not Birgit. Men and women at desks. Aides standing, file folders still cradled in their arms. One man held a phone receiver as though he’d forgotten he lifted it in the first place. He cleared his throat when Julian glanced at him and slowly settled it back into its cradle.

Julian looked at Birgit, certain by now that his face read of panic. She frowned, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. When a man called out, “What is the meaning of all this?” her attention shifted to the source of the voice, prompting Julian to do the same. The worker who’d disappeared had returned, this time with horn-rimmed glasses man in tow.

Horn-rimmed glasses man – or Mr. Williams as Julian was guessing – stopped in place and blinked twice when their eyes met. He regrouped faster than Birgit had, though, shifting his focus to the recalcitrant office workers. “The lot of you still have a job to do,” he said. “I suggest you do it.”

Activity resumed anew. A few people still chanced a peek or two, but the aides moved out of the way and the people at their desks shuffled papers and reached for phones again. Mr. Williams closed the distance between him and the Reichlins, finally looking in Birgit’s direction. “Miss Reichlin, is this who I suspect it is?” he asked.

Julian noted the British intonation in passing, remembering the two men who’d come to collect Birgit all those years ago. Birgit nodded in his periphery. “Yes, sir. This is my brother, Julian.”

“Julian.” Williams nodded once, his gaze shifting back to the younger Reichlin. He smiled in false amiability. “The name is Hugh Williams. I am an associate of your sister’s.”

He extended his hand forward. Julian raised an eyebrow, reaching forward to shake the outstretched hand and suppressing his relief when both hands settled to their sides again. “Associate?” Julian hazarded, suddenly aware of how accented his English sounded in contrast to the man in front of him.

It only seemed to make his smile broaden. “Yes, though I suppose overseer might be more accurate.” Williams pointed in the direction of the corridor. “Please, both of you come into my office. We obviously need to chat.”

Julian nodded, following Williams past the first rows of desks and toward what appeared to be a line of shut doors. The older man opened his mouth to continue, but Julian cut him off. “What do we obviously need to talk about, Herr Williams?”

“The not-so-little matter of you being in this office.” He glanced at Birgit. “I see your sister’s been good and hasn’t told you much.”

“No, I haven’t,” Birgit offered, her voice subdued. Julian looked at her in time to see her posture straighten. “You told me my visits to my family would stop otherwise.”

“Stop?” Julian asked. His attention shifted back to Williams. “Why would they stop?”

Williams sighed. “The delicate nature of our work.” Some of the feigned pleasantries he maintained began to slip. He gestured toward one of the shut doors and nodded when Julian motioned to open it. “I’m sure you can guess by now that we’re more than a school for troubled youth.” They entered the office. Williams shut the door behind them. “In particular, we focus on one form of ‘troubles’ that no one else does. In part because very few people believe they actually exist.”

“I don’t understand,” Julian said, lowering into a chair positioned in front of a mahogany desk. Birgit sat beside him. The window behind Williams’s desk showed the rainy streets of Stuttgart on the other side, headlights from a nearby thoroughfare glistening off the sheen of the asphalt. For a few fleeting seconds, Julian relived the sensation of something being different without knowing entirely what. Giving into a sigh, he turned his attention back to Hugh Williams as he sat in front of them.

Williams folded his hands atop a disheveled stack of papers. “You are familiar with the concept of psychics, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Psychics?” Julian retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. The supernaturally gifted, if you will. People able to read thoughts, manipulate objects, tell the future… Individuals with extra sensory talents.”

Julian laughed. “Granted, Herr Williams, I have just seen a vampire for the first time, but psychics –”

“He saw a vampire?” Williams looked to Birgit. “Is this how it happened?”

Birgit sighed and nodded. “Schmidt got agitated when I tried reasoning with him. I must have been followed by Julian,” she said. Sparing a glance at her brother, the look on her face turned conciliatory for a split second, just long enough for her eyes to stray back to Williams. “He thought he was saving me and almost got himself killed. Schmidt motioned to bite him and that was… well, I think when it happened.”

“He isn’t asking about voices or thoughts.”

“I blocked them off for him.”

“Good girl.”

Standing abruptly, Julian slapped the desk with both fists. Birgit jumped and Williams gazed, wide-eyed, at the figure now looming above him. “Stop talking around me! I haven’t understood a word of any of this ever since we were on the street.” He looked at Birgit, irritation and fear taking turns circling around his demeanor, prodding it toward the edge of insanity. “First you and now him? Voices? Blocking? Why am I even here? Why won’t you just tell me?”

Birgit opened her mouth, attempting to force out what appeared to be an apology. Williams cleared his throat, however, coaxing both of them to look back at him. “Your sister loves you, Julian,” he said, his voice soft. The sincerity wasn’t feigned this time. “And it’s obvious she doesn’t want to tell you what will be a very difficult, hard-to-swallow truth. Try not to be agitated. Your entire life is about to change and Birgit is making her last ditch effort at sheltering you.” The corner of his mouth quirked upward.

Julian furrowed his brow. Williams held his facial expression steady until Julian lowered back into his chair and smoothed out his coat. A brief silence fell among them, Julian pursing his lips in thought and Birgit playing with an idle thread hanging loose from her shirt.  Williams sighed, lifting one arm to rest an elbow on his desk and addressing Birgit when he spoke. “So he killed our informant. Bloody new seers, always with an itchy trigger finger.”

“Seers?” Julian asked, looking at Williams with a furrowed brow.

Williams smirked. “You best get used to the term. You’re going to be hearing it a lot.” He sighed and reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “Want one? I always need one when I give this speech.” Julian shook his head and Williams shrugged as he extracted one and lit the end. “A seer is a vampire hunter. The Fates give them a bag of tricks they use in order to fight vampires, like telepathy, telekinesis…” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “You know these words, right?”

Hesitating, Julian looked to Birgit, who stared back at him impassively. His gaze returned to Williams. “No.”

“Telepathy is reading thoughts. Telekinesis is moving things with your mind.” The lighter still in hand, he placed it upright on his desk and gestured toward it with his hand. “Go on. Take it. But I don’t want you to lay a hand on it.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Summon it.”

Julian’s brow furrowed as he sized Williams up, attempting to figure out if the man had gone mad or not. When Williams added, “Use your mind to make it move,” Julian shrugged and stared at the lighter, disbelief weighing heavy in the background as he caught himself taking the instruction with a grain of seriousness. A small, nagging voice prodded him forward, though, reminding him of that truth. Something had changed. He took a deep breath and extended a hand to catch the lighter.

When it jumped into his palm, he yelped and immediately dropped it onto the floor.

Williams burst into laughter. Even Birgit cracked a smile as Julian stared at the floor, his mouth agape. He glanced up at both of them, a smile bursting forth and a cackle of mirth passing through his lips. He pointed downward. “I made it move?”

Both Birgit and Williams raised their hands in surrender. Tendrils of smoke wafted upward from Williams’s cigarette. “All your doing,” he said. “None of mine.”

“Amazing.” The grin faded, but the amusement took longer to dissipate. Julian shook his head. “I do these magic things so I can hunt vampires?”

“Yes, I suppose ‘magic things’ is one way of putting it. Those magic things and more. A seer doesn’t simply kill vampires. Our friend who just met the hereafter was actually not a threat to the natural order.” Williams raised an eyebrow. “You’ll learn this lesson soon enough. At the very least, they’ll beat it into you in London. But some vampires exist the same way predators do – it doesn’t matter our opinion of them. Others manipulate bad magic – dark magic, if you will – and have the power to upset the balance of nature. Those are the vampires you kill.

“As such, and remember this, Julian, because it’s the most important part of your job.” Williams raised the cigarette to his lips and drew from it. Smoke billowed from his lips as he continued. “All of your power comes from within. How you use it, bend it, and shape it is all inside your heart. A seer does more than read minds or play with objects. He sees the truth behind the motives. You’ll have a lot of times when your beliefs are challenged. You have to look beyond your doubt in those moments.”

Julian furrowed his brow. “What does all of this mean?”

Williams sighed and glanced at Birgit. When she refused to speak, he looked back at Julian and frowned. “Your old way of life is gone. Wherever you were working, or living, that’s all about to change because now, you have a calling. And you’re going to need some training in order to do your job.” He took a final drag of his cigarette and reached forward to snuff it out in a dirty ashtray. With his other hand, he pulled open a desk drawer and once the cigarette was disposed of, he reached for what looked like a ladies’ compact mirror. Williams cradled it in his hand. “Our headquarters is in London. That’s where you are headed after our discussion. And I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

“Why not?” His gaze strayed to the compact in the other man’s hand and lingered there as Williams reached forward to offer it to Julian. When Julian took it in hand, he glanced at Birgit, who nodded, before turning his focus to it again and opening it. At first, he couldn’t see the reasoning behind the gesture – his lips, mouth, and chin bore the same appearance it had the last time he looked at his reflection. It wasn’t until he found his eyes that he produced an involuntary gasp.

The steel blue eyes he once boasted had turned into a bright, emerald green. His mind flashed to the men who took Birgit away. To several of the aides and workers in the main area. To the man seated in front of him, looking at him expectantly while folding his hands atop his desk again. The other tricks being discussed were all invisible talents, but this made it all that much more real to Julian.

All-of-a-sudden, he felt the urge to be violently ill.

Moving objects. Hearing thoughts. The dam of shock burst and the room began a violent spin. Williams was on his feet within moments, rounding the desk and helping Julian up while yelling toward the hallway for the others’ attention. Birgit clamored for the door and threw it open within seconds. Julian became faintly aware of sets of hands taking hold of him and leading him into a room with bright, fluorescent lights and porcelain tiling. When the first bits of food vacated his stomach, he mercifully vomited into a toilet.

***

Birgit and Williams remained in the office, watching the caravan of drones haul the new seer into the bathroom. It took several tense seconds before Birgit drew a deep breath in and broke the silence between them. “What are we going to do about my parents?” she asked.

The question hung as an unwelcome harbinger, stealing the air out of the room until Williams finally cleared his throat. He turned his head to look at Birgit, but she refused to return the gaze. “Birgit, do you truly want me to answer that question?” he asked.

Her eyes shut, shoulders slumping. She fought against the tears welling in her eyes. “They’re going to blame themselves, sir. It doesn’t matter how we try to do this, they’re going to be heartbroken.”

A hand settled on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. As tempted as she was to shrug it off, she held steady, struggling not to picture just how much her reality had changed as well. The picture turned bleaker and bleaker, though, something she had feared facing ever since she was little, like the monster locked in her closet. Suddenly, the monster had become real.

“Make it both of us,” Birgit said opening her eyes. Finally, her head turned, gaze locking on Williams with deliberate authority. “A car accident. His car is parked close to the meeting point. I’ll have him give me his keys and pass them over to you. Better that they deal with both of us at once. They’ve lost us anyway.”

Williams nodded, the look in his eyes turning solemn as his hand lifted from Birgit’s shoulder. She felt her breath hitch and looked away, hand instinctually reaching up and swiping away two tears which strayed from her eyes. She sniffed once and punctuated the action with a resolute nod. Practical or not, it was going to take some time for her to actually believe it was for the best.

“Berwick isn’t going to be happy about Schmidt,” Williams finally said, breaking the silence.

“I know.” Birgit shrugged. “There isn’t anything I can do about that. He should be happy he’s getting a new seer out of the deal.”

“You know him. He has a hard time seeing the silver lining in much of anything.”

“That’s his problem. Not mine.”

“Granted.” Williams rested his hip on the corner of his desk, arms folding in front of his chest. His eyes were distant when Birgit glanced at him, his mind straying a thousand miles away for a brief moment. He inhaled deep and exhaled a shaky breath. “We still have no bloody idea what the vampires are up to. I don’t imagine Schmidt felt chatty before your brother sent him to his second death?”

Birgit rolled her eyes. “He said it was too dangerous. That the people we’re dealing with would know somehow he was the one who provided the information.”

“The pockets are aligning themselves. I’ve never heard of dark magicians both gathering in clusters and scattering to the four winds the moment we descend upon them. None of our seers can track them.” Williams shook his head. “I’m beginning to think their leader is a ghost.”

“Maybe he is.” Birgit gazed heavenward, her expression forming a silent prayer. When she looked down, she and Williams made eye contact again. “I had brought my favorite dress home. I’m never getting that back either, am I?”

Williams barked a laugh. Birgit surrendered to a smile. The mood in the room instantaneously lightened. “Your brother’s going to need to acquire a new wardrobe when you get to London. Maybe you can petition for an allowance, too.”

“Wonderful.” She raised an eyebrow. “Leaving tonight, I guess?”

“I’ll check the train schedules.”

“Good, I’ll be glad to get out of here.” Birgit sighed when the male aides who had accompanied Julian into the restroom emerged, giving them a thumbs up. That light air dissipated, bringing with it the weight of the world once more. It fluttered its wings and perched upon Birgit’s shoulders. Shutting her eyes again, she fought herself for several seconds before forcing the words past her lips.

“Goodbye, Stuttgart. It was nice to see you again.”

Story Beginning | Next Chapter Coming Soon

Chapter Two

The sensation of something cold pressing against my skin startled me awake. I jumped, opening my eyes despite the fact that doing so only caused the wooziness to return. A hand came to rest on my good shoulder, settling me back against the large rock where I’d been propped.

“Don’t move for a moment, Charlotte,” Corbyn said as the sight of him became clearer. Crouched beside me, he concerned enough for me to wonder how long I’d been out. “If you get up too quickly, you’ll pass out again.”

I nodded, blinking several times to clear the haze from my vision. Reconnecting with the world around me, I saw the creek behind Corbyn, water trickling the way it had been before everything went dark. From the looks of things, I’d only lost a few minutes and managed to rejoin a surreal show in progress. Before I could relive what’d happened before losing consciousness, the cold compress found its way to my shoulder again, forcing me to inhale sharply against the pain.

“What the hell?” I blurted. My gaze shifted back to Corbyn, noticing for the first time that he’d removed his shirt and now wore his coat, open, exposing his chest. Before I could wonder why he’d chosen now to go topless, I squirmed and glanced over to see where his shirt had gone. The wet and balled-up piece of fabric rested against the wounds on my shoulder, the neck of my shirt stretched out enough for him to get to the damaged skin.  The way he shifted it made me clench my jaw. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to numb the pain,” he said, keeping his focus on caring for my wounds. He shot me a quick glance and frowned before looking away. “There was also some dried blood.”

“Just wonderful.” Resting my head back against the rock, I looked up toward the sky. “Did I hear what I think I heard before I passed out?”

He sighed. “If you think you heard me explain why I bit you, then yes, you heard me correctly.”

“I knew I should’ve stayed in Philly this Thanksgiving.” Groaning, I took a few deep breaths and fought against the urge to be violently ill. For as ridiculous as this all was, something in my bones told me I wouldn’t be waking up from this nightmare, even if I did puke my guts out and lose consciousness again. “I need to get home. My parents are going to call the cops if I stay out much longer.”

“Charlotte, you need to rest.”

“I’ll do that at home.” Before Corbyn could stop me, I placed both hands on the ground and made a valiant attempt to stand. In the effort to shoo away his help, though, I shot upright too quickly and watched as the world spun and flickered black before I could regain my bearings. Corbyn scrambled to his feet, catching me before I could fall and smack my head against the rock. I clung onto him despite myself.

“Okay, so that didn’t go according to plan,” I muttered while trying to focus my eyes again.

Corbyn grunted, the sound laden with frustration, while lowering me into a seated position again. “I warned you not to do that. Right now, you’re in no condition to walk alone back into town, chérie.”

“Well, I can’t stay here.”

“I didn’t have any intention of keeping you here.” Corbyn kissed the top of my head quickly, tossing the wet shirt over his shoulder and freeing both hands to take hold of me. With his assistance, I was able to lift up, much slower and more gingerly than my failed attempt. “I’m not trying to keep you from your parents,” he explained, “Or from any of your friends. You have to understand, first, what is going to happen to you, because unfortunately, no one is going to know how to help you as you change. For better or worse, we’re stuck together for a little while.”

“That’s all well and good, but I can’t just disappear for a month, either,” I countered, gripping onto him and somehow managing to take a few steps without the ground giving out beneath me. “We might have our differences, but they’re going to be worried about me. Werewolf bite or not.”

Corbyn nodded. Sliding his hand behind my back, he wrapped an arm around me and supported my weight as we walked toward a shallower part of the creek. “If you have a phone, you can call them. My parents don’t have one at their house, but if calling them doesn’t work, then I can ask someone to send a message to them.”

“You could let me rest and lead me home.”

“Give me a few days, chérie, to teach you what it means to be wolfen and make sure you’re okay. If you still want to leave, then I will take you back to your parents’ house.”

I grimaced against a jolt of pain when my arm shifted to hold onto Corbyn more securely. He paused to let me catch my breath, the guilt still present in his eyes as he watched me take a deep breath and nod. Behind the contrition on his face, he still wore a glimmer of hope and excitement I almost wished I could share. As it was, I felt like a child wandering through the wardrobe into Narnia. And I couldn’t pretend to be on the same page of this fairytale.

“So, you’re taking me to your parents’ house?” I asked as we started walking again, in part to take my mind off the nausea and agony. “What are Mommy and Daddy Marchand going to think about their boy bringing home a human he mated with?”

“Fortunately, for both of us, they won’t be there,” he said. “They’re not usually at this house unless they take meetings with their people who handle things on the outside.” When I shot him a quizzical look, he explained, “My people don’t like outsiders, but we still depend on them for a few things. While we live much simpler lives than you, there are still goods we trade and technology we borrow in order to make our lives easier. I still hope at some point, we learn to accept electricity, but the elders think it would ruin the forest.”

“Where the hell are you that you can avoid technology?”

“I will explain, but later. Fortunately, the house is much more modern.”

As much as I wanted to nod, or retort back, I lost the ability to. Soldiering forward took enough energy and concentration without trying to add conversation to it. Corbyn continued onward with a careful pace and every time we reached a place where I began to waver, he held onto me tighter and let me stop to rest. What little thought I could manage beyond focusing on pain and blacking out had been directed toward an uncertain future which left me feeling like I’d freefallen into a dream. Thoughts of transforming into something not-quite-human aside, I’d done more than change species, for as difficult as that was to wrap my head around knowing. I’d accomplished the equivalent of drunk eloping in a culture I knew nothing about.

Corbyn had told me we were mates, which left the implication we were supposed to be lovers now. Whatever whimsy I might have had about the thought, it’d been spent the night before, when I let myself run after a strange man in a bar. We continued onward, but I let my mind drift toward remembering the rest of the night.

If just to figure out how I was going to get myself out of the whole situation.

***

The time had been eleven when I handed control of the tavern over to my Dad.

By this point, I’d been separated from ‘Corey’ long enough to form the questions I should’ve asked him when he making eyes with me at the counter. Why did he want me? Had he really just come in for a beer, or did he come looking to pick someone up and was I the first woman who had caught his eye? What did he mean by offering to pull me into his world? I didn’t doubt there was something supernatural about him because he was right, I did sense it. And a very real part of me still wanted to tumble all the way into the rabbit hole with him.

The rational side of me had gotten the chance to re-establish itself by then, though, and asked what the hell I thought I was doing. Ethereal or not, he was a stranger and I was acting like a lovesick fool who threw herself at every guy with a cheesy one-liner to offer. It tried warning me to keep my head on my shoulders, but Corey wasn’t every other guy and remembering that made it hard for me to listen.

Especially when the universe reminded me just what type of being he was.

I had said goodnight to my father with the full intention of heading back to their place and sleeping away the punch-drunk whimsy; maybe even saving Corey for my fantasies when I needed a pleasant thought to settle on. As I walked out of the tavern, however, a chill ran up my spine, forcing me to stop dead in my tracks and turn my head to the side.

My father called my name from near the counter, but I didn’t budge. Not yet, anyway. I recognized the feeling, knowing the magic that had coiled itself around me when Corey had still been sitting at the bar. That same magic called to me like it had earlier and I heard an answer I’d given Corey echo in my head, affirming that I believed in destiny even if I remained a skeptic. “It’s you, isn’t it?” I asked the sensation crawling through me. He’d come for me. Corey was calling.

Immediately, I left the bar.

If my Dad had said anything else to me, I was too deep inside the spell to hear him, let alone answer. Once I’d stepped out onto the quiet streets, I halfway expected a white rabbit to appear out of nowhere and lead me the rest of the way. The door to my parents’ tavern swung shut behind me and the wind that blew past was biting and cold, reminding me it was November. I zipped my coat shut and looked around, peering down the opposite side of the street in time for something strange to catch my eye.

The streetlamp outside a touristy clock store shone with the same glow that had hinted around Corey’s face when he smiled. Without hesitating, I jogged for it, wondering if he might be staying in one of the apartments above the shop. When I reached it, however, another lamp lit up further down the road. I smiled, filled with awe. “Breadcrumbs,” I muttered, not questioning it when I raced to that building, and to the next one down the line, continuing further and further away from home and toward what I assumed would be the world I’d been promised.

Once again, I felt like Alice in Wonderland. More than a few times, I stopped to question my sanity again, but the moments of clarity became fewer and fewer, dwindling down to nothing when the sidewalks disappeared and the residential roads led further out into the countryside. I had no idea how long I had been walking, both feeling the ache in my legs and ignoring it at the same time. Once I reached the border where the forest began, I looked across the road and told myself this was it. This was where I stepped into the storybook and became one of its characters. Hesitation kept me firmly planted in place for the moment, until I saw the last breadcrumb by the edge of the two-lane road separating me from destiny.

Two golden eyes glowed from within the darkness, belonging to an animal I couldn’t make out at first – either a fox or a wolf. They weren’t threatening, however; I drifted toward the other side of the country road and marveled at what I assumed to be a gentle guide who had been called upon to lead me the rest of the way. As those golden eyes pled for me to come closer, I followed their request, and when the animal retreated back into the forest, I laughed.

“Why the hell am I doing this again?” I asked. But still, I stepped into the woods.

A gentle breeze drifted past me while my feet crunched on the first layer of debris. All at once, the answer to my question floated through my mind, telling me I had been searching for something more to this world. Something larger; something more inspiring than pomp and ritual and sacred platitudes delivered by pews full of hypocrites. It wasn’t that I denied a greater force might be at work inside the universe, I just couldn’t bring myself to accepting what my parents had offered. This might be stupid, I thought to myself as I entered the forest, but, damn it, it felt real.

Breaking through tree limbs and underbrush, I found my way to a well-worn path and stopped to catch my breath. My trek through the woods had produced a racket, loud enough to scare anything that called the forest its home. Much to my surprise, though, when I crested a hill and started down the other side, I saw the golden-eyed animal waiting for me on the other side. Moonlight filtered through the branches, revealing the lupine form of my guide. It held its place until I came within a few feet of it.

“Hey there, big fella,” I said, becoming aware when the beast straighted onto its four legs, that I had never seen a wolf so large before. It continued to peer at me, non-threatening, bowing its head even as if to tell me that it had no intention of hurting me. I held out a hand for him to sniff and smiled as he padded closer. “Are you here to take me somewhere?”

It sniffed my hand, then turned to face the opposite direction. Casting one last glance over its shoulder, the wolf lauched into a sprint, leaving the implied instruction for me to follow. I laughed and shook my head, not knowing why I wanted to continue playing this game, but intending to anyway. Despite my aching calve muscles, I chased after him.

Gasping for air, I struggled to keep up. Low-lying branches ripped through my hair and snagged on my clothing, but I ignored them and continued pursuing the swift-moving animal. The tread on my boots softened the blow of stepping over roots and sticks poking up from the ground below, but the wind threatened to blow my coat from me. When a gust caught the fabric onto a tree branch, I slid my arms from the coat and surrendered it to the forest in favor of running onward without it. I only had a light, long-sleeved black shirt on underneath, but I was nearly flushed by the time we broke into a clearing.

I swatted away another thin branch and emerged into the clearing, but was forced to stop when I couldn’t see the wolf any longer. Spinning around a few times, I attempted to find him and sighed when I couldn’t see his golden eyes shining at me again. “Hello?” I called out toward the darkness, sensing I might not be alone. The wolf had left me blind. No other guides and no mystic lights appeared to lead me any further. I stayed in place, though, and folded my arms across my body, sheltering myself from the chill which had finally caught up to me.

The last thing I had expected was to feel a hand touch my shoulder.

I jumped and swung around to face the soundless intruder, surprised when I found Corey standing there. His hair hung free of its ponytail, covering his shoulders, and a smile creased the corners of his lips that made me think of the warm, inviting way he’d looked at me in the bar. The glow of the moon made him look even more otherworldly than he had before and if I had been captivated by him then, this time, I was completely enthralled. No, it wasn’t like me to lose my head, but I was ready to surrender all reason the moment our eyes met.

“Have you found something to believe in yet, Good Charlotte Walker?” he asked, reaching out to touch my face and stepping closer when I didn’t flinch. “Besides destiny, that is?”

I shook my head, but not as a response. “What is all of this?” I asked. “And what are you?”

“Different. You might not believe me if I told you, chérie.”

“I think I’d almost believe anything you told me right now.”

“You think you would.” He stepped closer still, looking down at me as the space between us evaporated. “You don’t know what you’re asking me yet, though. I will show you, I promise. For now, I need you to trust me.”

“No small request there, eh?” I asked. While I could hardly recognize how sheepish the attention made me, I still found myself leaning into his touch, craving more. “Why me?”

“It probably wouldn’t make sense for me to say that you’re special.” His thumb brushed across my cheek, sending tingles up my spine. “I doubt you think that about yourself, but you are. I’ve dreamed of meeting you for years and hoped for you much longer than that.”

“You say that like you’re so old.”

He laughed, the sound light. “I’ve been alive long enough to know how rare somebody like you is. And I’m so glad that I’ve found you at last.”

Something behind his words still struck me as cryptic; a series of half-truths I’d press with anyone else at any other time but this. As our bodies pressed together, ‘Corey’ bent enough to allow his lips to hover near mine. My breath hitched in response while the air turned electric, a current running between us I wanted desperately to connect. My eyes drifted shut when his nose touched mine. “Will you be mine?” he asked. While any other man would’ve gotten a stern look from me, and the retort that nobody owned me, I knew exactly what he meant by that. I sensed a union of souls, aching to consummate it without knowing why.

“Yes,” I murmured. I didn’t know what else to say. ‘Take me into your world, Corey,’ or ‘Sign my name on the dotted line for everything,’ might have matched my mood, and in retrospect, I had gladly given him permission to consume me. When our lips finally met in a soft, tentative kiss, all I could think about was the mystical journey which had brought me to this man. And as our kisses intensified, I lost the ability to even think about that.

My hand lifted and fingers tangled with the long locks of his hair. As he gathered me close, he met the hungrier tenor I’d initiated and seemed just as drunk as I felt. While I expected something supernatural to happen, it seemed more and more like desire would be what carried us along. My feet floated out from underneath me, but it was only him lifting me up and lowering me down onto the ground. I sunk what felt like a pocket of air, but crunched like a pile of leaves. The air turned from cold to warm when he climbed on top of me and when Corey stripped off his coat, it seemed like he felt it, too. Our mouths met and his teeth nipped at my bottom lip, making me moan in response.

I shut my eyes when his attention strayed down my neck, his hand sliding under the fabric of my shirt. “Is Corey your real name?” I asked, as if it had suddenly become so important.

“Corbyn,” he said between breaths, lifting his mouth only far enough to be understood. “Corbyn Marchand is my full name, Charlotte Walker. Corey is only a nickname that I use on the outside.”

“Corbyn Marchand,” I repeated. “I like the way that sounds.” Corbyn wasted no time in resuming his kisses while I drew the name out in my head like I’d reverted to grade school, where little girls drew out their names with the ones belonging to their crush. When I felt his hand straying further up my stomach, it knocked me from the foolish thought and as I felt my shirt being tugged upward, I gladly helped him remove the restrictive piece of clothing. Pawing at the buttons of his shirt, I stripped him to match my half-naked state. When his skin touched mine again, it felt like heaven.

Gasps of pleasure flew from my lips like offerings to the gods the more lurid his attention became. When it wasn’t his hands, but his teeth, teasing at my breasts, I shuddered and arched my back, almost crying out demands for him not to stop. His long, delicate fingers slipped inside my pants and as they teased at me, I swam into euphoria. I hardly recognized the passage of time until I flew into release and only then, did I cobble together enough thought to reach for the button of his pants.

“You, inside of me, now,” I managed. He pulled away long enough for me to remove my shoes and as he tossed his aside, he stood to remove his pants. I didn’t bother getting upright for that. Shimmying out of my jeans, I slipped off my underwear and tossed it in the same general direction I had the rest of my clothing. When he found me again, my hands clutched his shoulders and slid down to his back, my body ready and willing as he slipped inside of me. With one last thrust, he entered me completely I called out with excited eagerness, “Yes, God, please, yes.”

He more than complied. Corbyn took me with both tenderness and hunger, possessiveness and gentleness and while I knew nothing about him, it felt like he’d already memorized me. He knew how to move and when. The rhythm he established worked me closer to a second climax and as I fought against its hasty arrival, he seemed to be clinging onto self-restraint with just as much effort. His native tongue flew past his lips, and the way he growled affected me on a primal, primitive level. I dug my heels into his sides and coaxed him along, hearing my voice like some distant sound being made by somebody else.

I had told him to do anything he wanted to me, granted. And I remembered, with shocking clarity, meaning it when I said anything. As I opened my eyes, though, coming down from the second wave of ecstasy I’d experienced at that man’s hands, I never expected I’d be staring at someone who looked so very human while being so very not. Human fingers still clung onto me, and a human face still hovered close to mine, but the eyes which stared at me looked golden, the light that had led me into the forest burning from his soul and into mine. He bared teeth that somehow looked sharper and when he bit into my shoulder, he administered no small love nip.

Pain shot through me like daggers, causing me to scream.

I remembered him holding on, holding me into place, through interminable moments of agony. When he let go, I almost gathered enough thought to sigh with relief, but couldn’t fight against the onslaught of one hell of a dizzy spell. “Tu et moi, chérie,” a very human voice had declared, but I already felt myself swimming away from consciousness. Before finally passing out, I could have sworn I heard him add, “Je t’aime, Madame Marchand,” but even that seemed like an addendum I was making in my own thoughts.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Either way, the sun now shone on the forest with us walking together, his arm the only thing keeping me upright. I couldn’t figure out what to say to him, but mercy granted me a break from having to decide. We stopped at the foot of a steep hill. A large, modern-styled house lay on the top, with a dense border of forest in front of us. Corbyn lowered me onto one of the stones sticking out of the mound of earth and took a deep breath.

As he lifted me into his arms, he said, “Hold on tight,” and I did.

Even if I still wanted to run away.

Story Beginning | Next Chapter Coming Wed. 8/10