Luciens Khamsin

# LUCIEN’S KHAMSIN An Ellora’s Cave Publication, July 2005

Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc. 1056 Home Ave. Akron, OH 44310

ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0166-4 Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned): Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

LUCIEN’S KHAMSIN Copyright © 2005 CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Edited byMary Moran. Cover art bySyneca. Warning:

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers.Lucien’s Khamsin has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

S-ensuouslove scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E-roticlove scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-ratedtitles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

X-tremetitles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storylineexecution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart. Lucien’s Khamsin Charlotte Boyett-Compo Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Queen Mary 2: Cunard Line Limited Corporation Mack Truck: Mack Trucks, Inc.

Prologue 13thCentury Hungary

Lucien Korvina’s dreams were crimson-filled—the color streaking down walls, splashing upon doors and windows and floors, pooling upon the cobblestones, seeping into the earth. Scenes from the village where he had been born and had lived the first thirty-two years of his life passed before him in a collage of painful memories—the bell in the church tower slowly ringing soundlessly for Sunday Mass, a kindly priest leading a quartet of alb-clad altar boys, little girls in white dresses and veils marching behind little boys dressed in ties and suits handed down from older brothers, parishioners silently laughing as they brought up the rear of the procession. In his dreams he relived the entire Mass in which First Communion had been bestowed upon his daughter Lilly, his only child. He attended once more the all-day parties held at the homes of his cousins, his friends, his fellow workers whose children had partaken of the Holy Bread and Wine for the first time in their young lives. And into the early evening, he rejoiced once more with his wife Magdalena as they stood over Lilly’s bed and watched the pretty one sleep. But then sound had returned with a roar of wind, a shriek of lightning, the thundering of horse hooves in the night. The ground trembled and the sound of breaking glass filled the night. His dreams became prolonged with sound—a piercing scream here, a gurgling moan there, somewhere a pitiful cry of horror cut off in mid-vibrato, a frightened child’s whimper as her life was taken.

With hands arched into claws, Lucien grasped the blanket covering him and rent the fabric as his hateful dreams continued on unabated. It wasn’t until his own scream reverberated through the stone chamber that he woke with eyes flared, nostrils distended and mouth opened wide as he fought for breath, sucking in gasps that were loud and fluid-filled. Throwing aside the blanket, Lucien rose and went to the window where thick drapes covered the small opening. He put trembling hands upon the fabric with the intention of throwing the panels aside, but a violent tremor overtook him so that all he could do was fall to his knees, the draperies closed tightly in his fists. “Why won’t you let me die?” he whispered. “Why must I relive the horror every day?” Off in the distance the angelus bell began to chime. The old priest would be up in his tower bidding what was left of his flock to repeat the trio of Hail Marys that would hopefully help to save their souls. The only trouble was there were no parishioners left in the village and certainly none in the mountain abode where Lucien resided. They were all long gone with only the feeble old priest to genuflect before the altar on arthritic knee, his mournful entreaties to his god unheard by any human ear save his own. Lucien hated the sound of the bell and slapped his hands over his ears to block out the lonesome tolling. Three times a day the angelus rang—at six of the morning, at noon and at six of the evening. Though Lucien never heard the morning and midday tolling, his body—and what was left of his soul—absorbed it where he lay and the pain was nearly unbearable. “Stop!” he shouted and bloody tears filled his eyes. Sinking to the floor in a fetal position, he writhed in agony until the last echo of the silver bell stilled over the valley. Sunset was yet an hour away but already many of the inhabitants of Modartha Keep were rousing from their day-enforced slumber. The encroaching night beckoned like a sultry lover as the wind died down and nocturnal creatures ventured from their dens to scrounge. Soon, the thick draperies that covered the keep’s small windows would be thrown aside and the night air breathed in deeply. And death on black-clad wings would streak across the land once more. ***** 21stCentury America

The missiles hit New York City on June 21, 2045 decimating the entire city and the entire eastern seaboard from Maine to South Carolina. Simultaneously, bombs exploded all over Europe, completely destroying England, France, Germany and Spain before the first retaliatory strike was launched into the Middle East from whence the destruction had rained. Within a matter of hours, the world as it was known at that time was no more. Millions of people lay dead or dying, wondrous landmarks lay toppled in ruins or had been disintegrated upon impact. Rivers and reservoirs were contaminated with bodies and chemicals. Power stations had simply vanished with a push of a button. Those lucky people aboard airplanes or taking their ease upon cruise ships were spared the first wave of terror only to land at their destination and find their world destroyed by power-hungry men with no thought to the future. Left homeless, the remains of humanity wandered from seaport to seaport, town to town in search of

uncontaminated water and food. Many starved, many committed suicide for they could not endure the hardships facing them, and many simply vanished never to be seen again. Disease was rampant and one horrible, deadly virus sprang up to infect a third of the world’s remaining population. Simply called the plague, the disease spread from continent to continent and in its wake, bodies were left to rot where they fell. There were amid the chaos of wandering survivors, those who had hidden for centuries—keeping to themselves lest their own sub-world be discovered and destroyed. They came slowly from their hiding places and ventured out to eke out their own existence. Among those who made themselves known after the world had been thrust into nuclear winter and worse were the Revenants, a race of people who needed to consume blood to survive. Unlike their vicious counterpart—the vampires—the Revenants looked after their human herds, keeping them safe, taking only enough blood to keep themselves alive, providing food and shelter and food so the humans would—if not thrive—at least go on. Chapter One

“We had a new shipment come in tonight,” Lord Petros Demakis informed Lucien. He consulted his clipboard. “Nine women and four men.” When his friend did not answer, Petros looked up. Lucien was leaning against the window frame, staring out at the moonless night. His arms were folded across bulging pectoral muscles that strained his fine white shirt. Midnight black hair fell in waves to well below his shoulders and shown thickly from the deep V of the shirt. Though the pale green eyes could not be seen, Petros knew they would be cold as ice and filled with a bitterness nothing seemed to be able to alleviate. “Do you want one of the women?” Petros asked. A vicious snort began Lucien’s answer. “Do I ever want one of them?” he snapped. “It has been many years, my friend,” Petros said quietly. “Surely you…” Lucien turned his face toward Petros and the fury that tightened his handsome features flashed in the depths of his verdant eyes and in the white teeth that shown from behind lips pulled back in a snarl. Petros bowed his head. “Your pardon, my Prince. Sometimes I forget myself,” he said. Lucien rolled his eyes then returned his attention to the window. “What news of Stavros?” he asked. “There is nothing to report at this time. They have been quiet of late. Nikos’ last raid depleted their herd so they’ve been required to go hunting for strays in the hills.” “If he finds one stray, he’ll be doing good,” Lucien stated. “Oh, yes. One of the new arrivals tested positive for the antibody,” Petros informed Lucien. “Male or female?” “Female.”

“Has it been cut apart from the others?” “Aye, it has. Christina is very careful with her lab specimens.” Lucien pushed away from the window and walked to his desk. “Any word from Sibylline?” he asked in a casual tone that belied the muscle grinding in his lean cheek. “None.” “She’s still pissed at me,” Lucien said then shrugged. “She can hold a grudge longer than any Volakisian bitch I’ve ever met.” Petros smiled. Lucien and Sibylline had once been lovers but that had been nearly a hundred years in the past. Today, they were friends but it had taken decades to reach a calm plateau between them. In the past, their relationship had been a feast of unbridled sex as Lucien tried to bury his painful memories in the willing body of beautiful Sibylline. When the memories persisted and grew even more agonizing, the Prince of Modartha turned completely away from his mistress and withdrew into a strict state of abstinence. “That is unnatural, Korvina!” Sibylline had shouted. “You need the release sex can give you.” “You need the release, Pretty One,” Lucien had replied. “I don’t.” Furious that her lover would deny her the use of his powerful body, Sibylline had withdrawn from Mordatha and had not been seen in many years. Sitting down behind his desk, Lucien reached up to rub at the headache that had been plaguing him for several days. “The pain is no better?” Petros asked. “Worse if anything,” Lucien replied. “It wouldn’t surprise me if it was Sibylline hexing me again.” He frowned. “That’s something she would take great delight in doing.” “Have you consulted with Christina?” Lucien flung out a negligent hand. “She’d just tell me to get laid,” he complained. “Isn’t that what cured the last bout of migraines?” Petros inquired. Lucien’s frown deepened. “Aye, but I’ll be damned if I’ll give into that bitch’s punishment this time. I’ll endure it despite her.” Petros had been lifelong friends with Lucien, having been the only other survivor of the massacre in the valley centuries earlier. Though they had played together as children, loved the same woman as young boys, and gone through the same torment as grown men, there was always the dividing line between he who had become a prince and the son of a lowly shepherd to stay Petros’ tongue. But the terrible pain reflected in Lucien’s eyes emboldened Petros for he hated to see his friend suffer. “And if you can’t?”

Lucien drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. The pain had intensified as they spoke. It was almost as though he could feel Sibylline’s wicked hand twisting the blade into his skull just above the right eye. Soon, the brutal nausea would begin and he would be forced to take to his bed. Such weakness infuriated him. “Better to have Petros send you one of the new arrivals now and get it over with,” Christina said from the door. The men looked over at the dark-skinned healer, each feeling the tightening in his groin as he took in her sultry beauty. Both looked away, ashamed of their physical reaction for Christina embraced only women in her pursuit of relationships. “Do you have a suggestion?” Lucien growled, knowing she did. “The one who has the antibody is a quite lovely specimen. Intelligent, too, from what Marcus said.” “I hear she is very pretty,” Petros agreed. “And very spirited,” Christina said. Lucien leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “That might prove interesting.” “This one will give you a run for your money, Luc,” Christina laughed. “If you don’t want her, I’ll take her,” Petros suggested. “Sight unseen.” Slowly switching his gaze to Petros, Lucien smiled nastily. “Is that a challenge, Demakis?” Petros cocked a shoulder. “You can take it as such if you like, my Prince.” “Oh, ho!” Christina said with a chortle. “When he calls you that he has thrown down the gauntlet, Lucien!” “Aye and he’s done it twice in one night,” Lucien complained. “Oooh, how interesting! So what’s it to be?” Christina asked. “Will you accept his challenge or take to your bed until you realize you can no longer endure the pain?” “I am surrounded by peasants aching to know the kiss of the cat,” Lucien grumbled. “As though you’d order it,” Christina scoffed. “I might surprise you one day, Healer.” “She has blonde hair,” Christina told him. “And blue eyes.” Lucien sighed. “All right.” “A tiny waist and large tits. Long legs and…”

“I said all right!” Lucien growled. “Don’t belabor the point, Tina!” Christina and Petros exchanged a triumphant look. “If you high-five him, I’ll have you flayed, Liatos! I swear I will,” he warned the healer. “Promises, promises.” Christina laughed as she headed for the door. “I’ll even make sure the little bitch is bathed, shaved and perfumed for you, sweet Prince. How’s that for service?” “You’re becoming a regular procurer, Tina,” Petros joked. “Better a procurer than a horny Revenant who hasn’t sunk his cock into a female in the gods know when,” she responded. Petros started to chuckle but broke off into a pretend cough when he saw the murderous glower shooting from Lucien’s eyes. He put his fist to his lips though his hazel eyes were snapping with humor. Christina wagged her lush gray eyebrows and exited the room, laughing as she went. She had no compunction about showing disrespect to her prince. “One of these days I’m going to hammer a stake through that witch’s black heart,” Lucien swore, rubbing at his temple. “Why don’t you take a cold shower instead?” Petros asked. “Doesn’t that usually help?” “I don’t think it will tonight,” Lucien answered. “I’m starting to see that damned aura thing.” “Then go lie down,” Petros admonished. “I’ll go find this new one and bring her to you.” Lucien didn’t reply to the light command. He simply turned and went into his bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind him. That he didn’t slam the portal was a good indication the man was in acute pain. Petros gave orders to the guards outside Lucien’s door that the prince was not to be bothered again that evening. Making sure the men were well-armed—their pikes as sharp as a needle—he left in search of the new addition to the herd.

The pens were on the lowest level of the keep, enclosed within the inner bailey. The compound smelled rank. As Petros passed through the main gate into the women’s corral, he wrinkled his nose for the scent of unwashed bodies and the tart odor of menstrual fluids made his belly turn. He’d never noticed a smell before and grew a bit concerned. “How many are having their flow?” he asked one of the herders. The man looked at a list hanging upon the wall of the guard hut. “Five are just starting, eight are in the middle of their cycle, and two are on their last day if all goes well.” “What of the new ones? Any of them bleeding?” “No, milord. Of the nine, two have had their female organs removed and five are nearing their cessation time. The others are of childbearing age but are supposedly weeks from their cycle.”

“Five nearing cessation,” Petros said, shaking his head. “We harvest what we can find, milord,” the herder apologized. “Aye, well, blood is sustenance and we take what we can while we can, eh? How many are in the herd now?” “Fifty-nine, milord. That includes the ten we were able to rescue from Prince Stavros.” Petros waited for the herder to open the gate to the pen, casting a practiced eye about him at the females huddled along the high barbed wire fence. Most turned away, hiding their faces from him, but two glared back at him with impotent, undisguised rage. Neither of the angry women had blonde hair. “Where is the blonde woman just brought in tonight?” Petros asked. “Lord Nikos is questioning her,” the herder replied. Petros frowned sharply. “Where?” “In the exam room.” A violent curse exploded from Petros’ lips and he hurried toward the door that led into the exam room. Not bothering to knock, he pushed the door open and entered, his lips pulled back from his teeth. But what he had expected to find, he did not. Instead of a quivering woman being raped by a man Lucien had nicknamed the Dog Lord, Nikos Carrus was plastered against the wall, his eyes wide in terror. The woman with her back to Petros was slowly advancing on the quivering Dog Lord. “She is contaminated!” Nikos blurted, pointing with a trembling finger. “She has the sickness!” Knowing Christina would never have allowed a human into the compound who was infected with the plague, Petros stood where he was and advised Nikos he had better leave while he still could. “Quickly, Carrus. I will deal with this one,” Petros stated. Tearing from the room as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels, Nikos rushed by Petros, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. “Foaming at the mouth are you?” Petros asked quietly. The woman turned, and indeed, she was foaming at the mouth. But it was not the soapy residue on her lips that made Petros take a step back. “By the demons,” he whispered, his normally pale face turning even paler. “I will infect you if you don’t leave me be, Revenant!” the woman shouted and her voice made Petros stagger back again, slamming into the wall as he stared at her. “I mean it!” She came closer, but not close enough for him to be able to smell the soap on her breath. “Who are you?” Petros whispered, his gaze roaming over her face as though he was a starving man

seated before a table laden with bowls of sustenance. She took another step closer, her chest heaving then turned and vomited. At any other time, Petros would have been amused at the woman’s attempt to place herself off-limits to the Coven. Her ingenuity was to be applauded but under the circumstances, his sense of humor had fled and been replaced with a black scowl that boded ill for the one who had brought about the expression. “I imagine the soap doesn’t taste too well bubbling around in your belly, eh?” he growled. “I imagine it’s swishing around and causing you great discomfort.” Retching even harder, the woman was bent over, holding her belly. Petros spat out a filthy word in his native tongue then turned around and went to the door, yelling for a passing herder to bring the healer. He took a seat, dropped his elbows to his spread knees, clasped his hands and stared across the room at the sick woman who had sank to her knees as she retched. “Damn it, Petros, I haven’t had time to finish processing her,” Christina grumbled as she came into the room. She stopped, took a look at the woman, and then turned a raised brow to Petros. “What the hell did you do to her?” “This woman won’t do,” Petros announced, continuing to stare at the woman. “And may I ask why not?” “Do you have another blonde?” Christina threw her hands into the air. “Hell, no, I don’t! What’s going on here? Why don’t you want this one? Isn’t she pretty enough? I haven’t personally examined her but I’m told she’s comely.” The ill woman turned so she was looking at Petros. She was panting heavily, obviously frightened, but her beautiful face was filled with pleading. “I don’t care if she is prettiest woman alive,” Petros snapped. “She won’t do.” “Why the hell not?” Christina demanded. “Look at her! She could be a carbon copy of his wife!” Petros stated. Christina whistled as she turned to survey the woman. “By the gods I can see the problem. Oh, well, that isn’t good, now is it? I see your dilemma.” “Then find me another one who…” Petros began but a guard entered the exam room, bowed his head and asked to speak. “What?” “Begging your pardon, milord, but His Majesty asked me to find out what was taking you so long,” the guard said, wincing. Christina whistled again and turned her eyes to the ceiling. “I think we fucked up, Pet,” she mumbled. Petros hung his head, shook it, and then wearily pushed himself up as though the weight of the world

was bearing down on him. “I’ll have to tell him the woman is ill. Just find another, Tina.” “Why is she ill?” Christina asked and walked over to the woman. When she got a whiff of the soapy smell, she began to laugh. “By the goddess, did she ingest soap? Well, at least her pretty little mouth is clean! Oh, this is too much!” She looked around at Petros. “Didn’t I tell you she was intelligent?” “We’d best move her to Diamhair Keep,” Petros said as he reached the door. “All we need is for him to see her.” Christina sobered. “Aye, you may be right. I’ll have her sent there first thing tomorrow night.” “Keep her out of sight until then,” Petros advised. He shook his head in disgust. “He’s going to have my hide for this.” “I don’t envy you, Pet,” Christina said as Petros left the hut. Taking the stairs to Lucien’s chamber, Petros used every vulgar word in five languages he could ever remember hearing. His shoulders were hunched and his eyebrows one thick diagonal pointing toward his hawk-like nose. Lucien was stripping off his shirt as Petros knocked at his door. He called out his permission for Petros to enter. He glanced up as he unbuttoned the fly of his britches. “Where’s the woman?” he asked. Petros licked his lips. “There’s a slight problem.” “What kind of problem?” “She’s sick.” “Sick how?” Lucien demanded. If one of the herds had something contagious, they could all succumb. Staring at the prince’s naked, broad chest with its wide swath of scar tissue that bisected the thick pelt of hair over his pectorals in five slashing lines, Petros winced. Lucien sighed loudly. “You do that every damned time you see the scars, Petros. Would you please stop reliving that night?” he grated. “It’s bad enough I have to.” “If I had only been quicker,” Petros said. “If I had…” “What is the woman sick from?” Lucien asked, his eyes flashing a warning that no more would be said of what had caused the brutal scarring on his chest. Petros had never lied to his friend and prince. “She ate soap so she’d foam at the mouth. It made her ill.” Lucien’s eyebrow crooked. “And she did this because?” Petros’ lips twitched. “The Dog Lord went sniffing and sent for her. It was her way of scaring him off.” “Did it work?” Lucien growled. “Indeed, it did. Old Bark-at-the-Moon ran out of there like his tail was on fire.”

Lucien studied Petros for a moment then reached up to rub at the pain still throbbing over his right eye. “What aren’t you telling me?” “Lucien, just forget about this one. She…” “What aren’t you telling me?” Lucien repeated. Petros tucked his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment then blew a heavy breath through his nostrils. “She looks like Magdelena. Except for the blonde hair, they could be twins.” Lucien went perfectly still. He stared at his old friend, passing his psychic ability gently over Petros’ mind and gleaning the impressions and unspoken thoughts that roiled inside the other man. What he saw with his sixth sense made the pain in his head intensify. “Let me send her on to Diamhair Keep, Lucien,” Petros offered. “There’s no need for you to ever have to see her. It would bring back…” “Bring her to me,” Lucien said, making his way to the bed. The pain was so severe he could barely walk and didn’t have the strength to remove his britches. “Lucien, I don’t think…” “No, you shouldn’t think,” Lucien snapped as he flung himself on the bed and turned to his side, dragging the pillow over his face. “You should just do, Petros.” Petros saw his prince begin to tremble and knew the pain had reached a height that had to be excruciating. There would be no arguing with Lucien now so he turned and walked out of the room as fast as he could. The woman had been taken to a holding room off the main pen. When the door was opened, she threw up an arm to shield her eyes from the bright flare of the lantern for the room was in total darkness. “She hasn’t been cleaned up yet, Petros,” Christina argued. Petros spun around and fixed the healer with a nasty look. “He is in agony.” “Aye, but another five minutes won’t matter. She stinks.” True enough, there was a ripe smell coming from the woman. Part sour sweat from her obvious fear and part musky unpleasantness from the vomiting, the stench was enough to make Petros cover his nose and mouth with his hand. “Hurry up, then,” Petros warned Christina. The woman balked at being manhandled out of the room by two burly guards. She shrieked and tried to claw them as they ripped her already torn and filthy gown away, leaving her naked as they dragged her to a cattle trough. “Quite the hellion, isn’t she?” Christina asked as she and Petros watched the guards battling with the woman, pushing her beneath the water, one holding her arms behind her as the other took obvious

pleasure in lathering her with soap. “Even bedraggled like that,” Petros said quietly, “she bears such a strong resemblance to Magdalena it is uncanny.” “The herders weren’t going to enter into the Fifth Zone last evening,” Christina observed. “They swept through there only because the trail boss had afeeling .” She looked over at Petros. “You think Sibylline put that feeling in his head?” “This smacks of her nastiness,” Petros replied and flinched as the woman managed to free an arm and slam her fist into one of the guard’s eyes. “That’s going to make quite a shiner.” “Stop being so careless, Ari!” Christina warned the guard who had slapped a hand over his wounded eye. Screaming and cursing her captors, the woman was dragged from the water and wrapped up in a large fleece towel. Another set of guards laid hands to her to roughly dry her hair and tightly braid the waist-length mass. There were tears of anger and pain in the woman’s eyes as still another set of guards shoved her and jerked a clean gown over her head. Her flesh—still wet in places—stuck to the thin cotton so that her breasts and nipples stood out against the fabric. “Lovely,” Christina said with a sigh. “Wish I’d already staked claim to her before we suggested her to Lucien.” “I wish she’d never been brought here in the first place,” Petros grumbled. “Let’s go, men!” Kicking and twisting against the hands that held her, the woman was dragged along by the guards as they followed behind Petros. She stumbled up the stairs, not given any time to lift one foot after the other as the guards propelled her upward. By the time they reached the prince’s door, the woman’s shins were scraped and bleeding in places. Petros sniffed, sniffed again, and then turned around to lift the hem of the woman’s skirt. When he saw the abrasions, his jaw tightened but he made no comment. He narrowed his eyes at the taller of the two guards then looked away. Lucien’s personal guards opened the prince’s door at Petros nod and stepped aside. Neither even glanced at the woman being dragged into the room. Petros walked up to the bed. “My Prince,” he said softly. “The woman is here.” Lucien was trembling even worse than when Petros had left him and it was all he could do to peel the pillow from his face. Even as low as the candlelight was in the room, the glare hurt him and he was forced to squint. “Closer,” he ordered, his teeth clicking together. Petros turned and motioned the guards to bring the woman closer. The woman snarled, bucking in the guards’ tight grasp and her screech of denial was so piercing Petros

spun around, reached out to snag her hair, and jerked her head back. “One more shriek like that and I will relieve you of the ability to make a sound! Do you hear me?” he hissed. “Your prince is in pain and your screeching doesn’t help!” Trembling almost as violently as Lucien, the woman kicked out with her bare foot, catching Petros on the shin and as he bent over with the unexpected pain, she lifted her knee and tried to drive it under his chin. She would have succeeded if the prince’s hand had not shot out to shove Petros away. “You conniving little bitch!” Petros snarled and threw his hand over his shoulder, his intent obvious to everyone in the room. “No!” Lucien ordered and the backhand that might well have broken the woman’s neck had it connected with her face froze in mid-swing. Petros lowered his hand. “This one is nothing but trouble, my Prince. Let me get rid of her. I…” Lucien pushed himself up in the bed and stared at the woman struggling between the guards. Her long braid whipped back and forth as she twisted in their grip. Her lips were skinned back from her teeth. Although her hysterical crying sent daggers of agony through his forehead, he was mesmerized by her face. There was a feral light to it that caught and held his attention even more than her eerie resemblance to his dead wife. “Who are you?” Lucien asked in much the same tone Petros had used when first he’d laid eyes on the woman. “I am diseased!” the woman shouted. “I have the plague! I have the plague!” Petros looked quickly at his friend. The loud shout had caused Lucien to squeeze his eyes shut to the volume, but when Petros started to reach out to the woman to silence her babbling, Lucien shook his head. It was that motion, which sent the prince into convulsions and turned his body rigid as he fell back to the bed, his entire body in spasm. “Get the healer!” Petros yelled. He quickly unsnapped the leather gauntlet on his left wrist, rolled it into a tube, and put his knee on the mattress in one motion. Bending over Lucien, he pried the prince’s jaws apart and dragged the leather between his teeth, making sure Lucien’s tongue was pressed down to keep him from swallowing it. The woman was dragged back and out of the way. Her eyes widened as men poured into the room and fanned out—two to each side of the bed as they climbed upon the mattress to hold down the bucking man’s limbs. “What happened?” Christina snapped as she came running in. “Seizure,” Petros said unnecessarily for the entire bed was trembling beneath the force of the prince’s convulsions. “We need help here!” the healer ordered and the two guards holding the woman reluctantly let go of her and hurried to the bed.

The woman stood where she was for a second or two, watching one of the guards who had been holding her so brutally take the struggling man’s head and turn it to the side as the healer bent over him with a syringe. No one was watching her as she slid sideways toward the opened door, her watchfulness never leaving those gathered around the bed. From the corner of his eye, Petros saw the woman slip like a shadow through the door. He pushed one of the guards with his crooked elbow. “Get that bitch,” he ordered. Hearing the running footsteps rushing toward her, the woman grabbed the hem of her skirt and tried to outdistance her pursuer, but the guard was quicker, better fed and longer of limb than she, and before she could gain the stairs, she was grabbed from behind and crushed against a rock-hard solid chest. When she tried to struggle, fingers clamped onto her neck and the lights faded out in the space of a breath. Chapter Two

When Lucien woke, he was flat on his back, a cool cloth plastered across his forehead. His neck stung from the potent narcotic Christina had administered and his head—though still filled with terrible pain—felt filled with cotton. He reached up a heavy-feeling hand to drag away the cloth, sliding it down his cheek and onto his bare chest. “Thirsty?” Petros asked softly. “Aye.” There was the squeak of the old rocking chair as Petros got up followed by the shuffle of his feet across the carpet. Every sound was magnified a hundredfold in Lucien’s brain, especially the trickling of water from the carafe into a goblet. Petros gently slid his hand under Lucien’s hot neck and lifted his head. He said nothing as he brought the rim of the goblet to Lucien’s lips and tipped it. When Lucien had taken his fill, he carefully lowered the hurting man’s head to the pillow and withdrew his hand. “Where is the woman?” Lucien asked, his voice weak. “At the foot of your bed,” Petros replied. “Chained like the bitch she is.” Slowly, Lucien turned his head but he could see nothing save the bulk of the mattress upon which he lay. “Did you hurt her?” “I wanted to,” Petros answered. “But no. Ari did that nerve compression thing on her neck and she went out like a light. She’s still out.” Lucien frowned. “Is she all right?” Petros craned his head around and looked down at the woman curled on her side, her left leg shackled to the footboard. “Aye. She’s breathing normally. Want me to wake her?”

“No. I couldn’t fuck her if my life depended on it,” Lucien said with a sigh. “Leave her be.” “You’ve slept a long time, Lucien,” Petros said. “Dawn is less than an hour away.” “Go to your room,” Lucien ordered. “I’ll be back to sleep before you lay your head to the pillow.” Petros glanced slowly at the window where he had already pulled the thick draperies close together. “What of the girl?” he asked. “The guards will see to her,” Lucien said and already his voice was thick with the lethargy radiating from the imminent rise of the sun. Petros’ steps were slow, as though his feet were mired in thick mud as he headed for the door. He spoke quietly to the guards, warning them to watch the woman carefully. “Petros?” Lucien called out. “Aye, my Prince?” “What is her name?” Petros shrugged. “We don’t know. I’ve been calling her Alecto for it seems to fit her sweet and gentle personality.” Lucien smiled grimly as sleep overcame him once more. Petros footsteps lagged as he dragged himself over the short distance between his room and his friend’s. As the Lord of Security, he was always close at hand, never more than a hundred feet from Prince Lucien at any given time. Not only the prince’s friend but his personal bodyguard, Petros was in charge of his leader’s safety. “Alecto, the worst of the Furies, the unrelenting,” he mumbled as he tiredly pushed open his door and staggered to the bed. Already, the rays of the sun were reaching like fiery fingers upward from the eastern horizon and Petros’ world was slowly shutting down. Dragging the covers over his chilled limbs, Petros wrapped himself up in the cocoon of his blanket and huddled down so that no stray emission of daylight could find him. “One of the damned Furies she is,” Petros mumbled. “Are you just going to turn over and go to sleep, Petros?” Despite his weariness and the encroaching lethargy caused by the rising of the sun, Petros opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. His companion of seventeen years glared back at him and he sighed. “Do you know what time it is, Alexa?” he asked, his lethargy cocking a tiny little head to pay attention. “Time for you to service your woman,” she said and snaked out a hand to grasp his cock. Sighing again, Petros turned to face his lady. Her fingers were squeezing his cock, her fingernails grazing his balls.

“Alexa…” The lethargy was definitely paying close heed to the fingers plying his tool. She was up and over him, pushing him flat to his back, her shapely legs straddling his. He was stiff in her hand as she settled her cunt along his hard length, stuffing him inside her like sausage into a casing. Withdrawing her hand from between them—took hold of both his nipples and twisted lightly. “Ah…” Petros said and flung his arms out wide as though being sacrificed to Alexa’s need. His lethargy raised its little hands in surrender, an itty-bitty little tongue began to waggle with interest. “Who were you talking about?” she asked as she began rotating her hips. “Hmm.” Petros was fast losing himself in the velvety warmth of her moistness. “Who were you calling Alecto?” she demanded as she stretched out atop him and flicked her devilish tongue into his ear. Petros shuddered. “We found a woman for Luc,” he said and wrapped Alexa in his brawny arms. “Oh,” she said then slid her tongue from his ear to his lips. She claimed his mouth, thrusting her tongue between his teeth. Alexa’s cunt was as tight as a virgin’s, and had been all the time Petros had known her. She wielded it as a warrior would his finest weapon and with an expertise that brought a shiver to her lover. Petros had often commented to Lucien that it was like having another set of lips nibbling at his rod as she rode him. Petros reached down to grip her curvaceous bottom and helped her to rise and lower herself upon his staff. Their tongues were dueling, their teeth nibbling at vulnerable bottom lips, licking at the sensitive corners. With a chuckle, he slipped his thumb in her ass and wiggled it. “Oooh!” Alexa shrieked. “You like that?” Petros challenged. His lethargy was jumping up and down now. Alexa sat up, dislodging his thumb from her anus, then took her lover’s hands and pressed them tightly to her lush breasts, throwing her head back as Petros’ thumbs circled her hard nipples. “Is she pretty?” Petros groaned. He did not want to think about the woman in Lucien’s bedroom because to do so would be to remember Magdalena and he tried hard not to do that when he was with Alexa. “Is she pretty?” Alexa repeated, squeezing Petros’ hands hard against her bosom, swirling his palms over her nipples. “Aye,” he mumbled then flipped over so his lady was squirming beneath him, his cock seated as far inside her as it would go. “Now, shut the fuck up!” He drove into her as hard as he could for he knew the way Alexa liked to be taken. He was long and thick—though not as well-hung as Lucien—and knew how to wield his own weapon effectively.

Alexa reached up to grasp the iron headboard of their bed and held on as her lover pummeled her with his love stick. She threw her legs around his waist and gripped him so tightly he grunted from the force. “You getting tired, little man?” she encouraged, tightening her grip on his waist even more. “Is that all you’ve got?” Grinning at the taunt, Petros increased the force and the depth of his thrust, working himself like a piston inside her slick, hot box. The slap of their bodies as they met was loud in the dark room. “Ah, come on, little man!” Alexa laughed. “Great-grandpa Nicholas could do better than that and he has only one ball!” She grunted as her lover slammed into her with such force she slid up in the bed. The top of her head hit the iron railing just about hard enough to split the flesh of her scalp. “That’s better!” she said. Petros thrust into her one last time and held himself there for he had felt the first spasm of her release starting deep within her cunt. He waited for her to come, to feel the pulses of pleasure gripping his staff, before he released his tainted seed, roaring as the cum shot from him in a thick spurt. Alexa collapsed atop him then slid off, nestling herself in the crook of his arm, her head on his sweaty shoulder. “Did he fuck her?” Petros sighed loudly. “I’m sure he will but I didn’t stay around to watch.” Snuggling against her lover, Alexa threw her leg over his. “Are you going to fuck her?” “Not if he claims her,” Petros answered. “That would be suicide.” “What if he offers her to you?” she asked, yawning. Petros yawned, too. “I don’t believe he will and even if he did, I’d politely decline.” “I have told you,” she said, her words slurred, “that you can screw other women.” “And I’ve told you,” he replied as sleep reached up to draw him into her arms, “that you are more woman than I can handle so why do I need another?” Alexa smiled as sleep claimed her. ***** Waking to find her body cramped and sore, her head pressed hard against a musky-smelling carpet, the woman to whom Petros had assigned such a wicked appellation groaned. Squinting against the bright flare of an errant sunbeam shining in her eye, she held up a hand to block the light. Her head ached terribly and that one beam of light that slithered from the very top of the thick drapery caused a bout of nausea to return to the woman. Gingerly, she sat up and put a hand to the base of her neck. The flesh felt bruised and the muscles strained. It wasn’t the coldness she suddenly began to feel wrapped tightly around her ankle that made the woman remember where she was and what had happened to her. The memory of the guard’s fingers

closing around the back of her neck—pinching off consciousness—hit her like a sledgehammer at the same moment the groans coming from above her broke into her awareness. Jerking with fear, she shot to her feet and tried to run only to be yanked to an abrupt halt that made her lose her balance and go crashing to the floor as the tether of her captivity played out. Slamming onto the carpet hard, the woman gasped and tried to scramble as far from the bed as the heavy steel chain would allow. Grabbing the thick links with her hands as she strove to bring air into her lungs, she pulled as savagely as she could but knew in her heart she was well and truly trapped. “No,” she hissed, pulling on the chain and twisting it. “No!” The groans were louder and made the hair stand up on her arms. Someone was in agony—being tortured brutally—and that person was lying atop the bed, thrashing about in what she thought must be his death throes. Tears gathered in the woman’s eyes as she jerked at the chain, fumbled with the shackle that fit close around her ankle, trying her damnedest to pull the clasp apart. But the metal held—as did the chain—and she moaned almost as loudly as the person upon the bed. “Magdalena!” The shout was filled with anguish. It took the woman but a moment longer to realize the person on the bed had to be the creature to which the bastard Petros had brought her. The woman knew she would suffer in the pens of Modartha Keep. Every human this side of the Divide knew the Revenants kept corrals of humans upon whom they fed. It was rumored only a few ever survived the pens and those who did were consideredspecial . Special in what way, the woman had no idea but it was whispered that those the Revenants kept alive and did not turn were treated well enough, if never knowing freedom again. Believing there was nothing special about her that the Revenants would need or desire, the woman had known her fate the moment the herders had run her small group of hiders to ground and captured them. Knowing she was going to die wasn’t so bad, she thought as she sat there on the floor shivering. Hunger and sickness had run rampant through those who tried in vain to hide from the Revenant covens. Not once in over three years had she gone to bed without an empty stomach to remind her of all humankind had lost. Death would be preferable to the not knowing, the looking over one’s shoulder, the fear and constant running. It was said the Revenant’s bite wasn’t painful for there was some kind of potent narcotic venom within in those wicked fangs. “Once they bite you, you just drift away,” an old one had told her. “It’s better than dying slowly of hunger.” So death, she thought as she wiped away the tears cascading down her cheeks, wouldn’t be such a bad thing though she would fight it with her last breath. “Some Revenants keep women for their beastly pleasure,” the old one had warned. “Best you avoid that if you can. Make them think you are plagued for then they will leave you alone.”

To be the plaything of a Revenant, to have his filthy dead hands pawing over her body—his ice-cold cock shoved deep inside her, to endure his loathsome breath, to taste it, upon her mouth—such things made her belly churn once more and she bent over to gag though nothing save dry heaves convulsed her belly. The groans were loud enough now to bring the guards from outside the door. One came in and cast the woman a hateful look before going to the bed to check on his charge. He stood there for a moment, listening, and then backed away, once more throwing a disdainful glance toward the woman before closing the door quietly behind him. Her shoulders sagging, the woman drew her legs up and laid her head upon her knees. There was nothing she could do, no avenue of escape. Her only option was to try to make the Revenant so furious with her he would bite her before he had his disgusting way with her. If he took her blood, she would not care and his repugnant touch would not matter. Staring down at the carpet beneath her crooked knees, she realized she was looking at the stray beam of light that was peering in from the top of the dark draperies. She studied it for a moment then slowly raised her head and turned to look up at that bright shaft. “Sunlight will kill them,” the old had said. “Sunlight will turn them to ashes if they’re caught out in it. You want to kill one of those creatures, push it into the sunlight!” The room was dark save for the feeble glow of a lantern that had been left aflame on the table beside the Revenant’s bed. The thick dark drapes covered a single small window so the day’s brightness would not harm the vile creature. She turned her head toward the bed and the body that thrashed there. The Revenant was lost in some acute torment, for his moans and groans were almost pitiful to hear. Had he been a human, she would have gone to comfort him, to try to bring him out of his nightmarish world, but she could not have cared less that the creature was in mental agony as he lay there. Twisting around, she got to her knees then quietly stood. Gauging the distance between her and the window then mentally measuring the chain’s length, she knew she could reach the draperies easily. Her one thought—to push those draperies far apart and hope the bright shaft of light would fall upon the bed and incinerate the creature lying there. She slowly and stealthily dragged her feet across the carpet, careful not to make any sound the guards would hear until it was too late. Very quietly, she approached the window—glancing back now and again to make sure the creature on the bed was lost in his nightmares. As her fingers touched the heavy fabric and wrapped around the coarse material, she drew in a breath and held it. ***** Lucien was in agony. Once more he was—as he had ever since the barbaric night he had lost everything he held dear—reliving the attack on his village. His groans were filled with soul-shattering desperation as he battled with the nightmarish beasts that walked his dreams. Tossing his head back and forth on the pillow, his face and upper body was drenched with sour sweat. It pebbled his flesh in a fine mist and ran in thin rivulets to the damp sheets beneath him.

“Magdalena!” he called out again. “Run, Beloved. Run!” And once more hell opened and drew Lucien Korvina into its fiery depths.

The Sagittary thundered into the village as an advance guard of their Masters. With bows drawn, arrows nocked to quash any human resistance—the beasts dealt death with accuracy. The hooves of their mounts striking sparks against the cobblestones. The invaders crashed through doors, shattered windows and chased down those who attempted to flee. Men died in great pools of blood as they helplessly watched their womenfolk and children being raped and torn asunder by the creatures who fell upon them in drunken glee. But not even the dead escaped the horror of that night. On the piercing blare of myriad trumpets, the Sagittary’s Masters galloped behind them into the village. Gray eyes flashing, razor-sharp teeth gnashing, swinging their weapons of spiked balls on the end of a thick chain, the Manticores descended upon the villagers in a hellish hoard. Devouring the flesh of their victims, the evil one grinned manically. In its haste to feed, to lap even the smallest drop of blood from the trampled ground, growls filled the night air amidst the skirl of the Manticores’ trumpeters. Lucien took up his sword and entered the fray in a futile attempt to protect his wife and child. All around him, the village was burning as the Sagittary torched the thatched roofs. In the wavering glare of the soaring flames, Lucien was the only villager to draw blood from his enemies. He managed to gut two of the Sagittary and lop the head from a Manticore. His face was streaked with ash, his shirt torn and bloody from the innards of the beasts splashed upon him. He whacked and cut a swathe through a circle of beasts—taking a hand here, a paw there—until he heard Magdalena scream. “Magdalena! Run, Beloved, run!” he yelled as something hard hit him in the small of the back and he went to his knees. Before he could gain his feet, the creatures were upon him. Hooves pressed against his upper arms, shattering bones, dislocating both shoulders. A thick rope was looped around each ankle, his legs pulled savagely apart, and he was staked to the ground in spread-eagled agony. “See what comes of killing one of us?” a Sagittary brayed. Lilly—his sweet and precious child of eight summers—was carried from Lucien’s home in the arms of a Sagittary. Screaming and kicking, his little girl had been tossed from one set of vile hands to another, flying through the night air like a butterfly in her pale yellow gown. Magdalena was dragged from their home, her gown ripped from her body as vicious, grasping fingers pawed at her breasts, staining the lovely white skin dark with brutal bruises. Bloody streaks appeared on her chest and as they did, Lucien’s beautiful wife of ten years screamed in agony. Just as the rest of the menfolk of his village had been forced to do, Lucien was made to watch his wife raped and savaged by the centaurs, her flesh torn away in great strips as the Manticores’ fed. She died in agony, her lovely blue eyes wide and staring at the horror of her only child being torn apart. Lucien went mad as Lilly’s little arms and legs were pulled from her body like petals from a rose. Her tender flesh was no match for the needle-like teeth that stripped it from the bone or the serpent tongues

that sucked out the marrow when those small bones were broken in twain. Howling in his demented state, Lucien barely noticed the Manticore who came to stand astraddle of him. In his agony, he did not see the brutal smile on that humanlike face. Nor did he feel the swipe of the weapon called a scorpion tail as it raked across his bare chest to leave behind a stinging bloody quintet of cuts. “Remember this day, peasant,” the Manticore ordered. “If you survive the blood loss!” Staring up into the night sky where sparks from the burning village sailed, Lucien was beyond sight, or sound or feeling. His mind had shut down and he was simply there. He did not hear the galloping hoofbeats as the Sagittary careened on their drunken way—satiated and ready to sleep. He did not hear the argument among the Manticores who demanded his flesh as dessert for the evening’s meal nor hear the vile laughter of their leader whose weapon had done such lethal damage to Lucien’s chest. “Let him bleed to death as he thinks on the slaughter of his loved ones,” the leader guffawed. “This is one peasant who will not challenge us again! We’ll draw cards to see who will come back for his carcass tomorrow!” Blood was cascading down Lucien’s chest from the five deep gashes. He felt nothing as his life force seeped away. Lying with his ankles still anchored to the ground and his useless, broken arms stretched out to either side of his head, he stared wide-eyed into the dark sky. Though his mind had gone where the savagery and pain could not reach it, tears fell down the dirty cheeks of Lucien Korvina, and a low keening moan shuddered from his throat. ***** The woman heard that pitiful moan and it touched her heart. She turned her head—her hands still upon the drapes—and looked toward the bed. When she heard sobbing, her shoulders sagged and she lowered her hands. Turning, she padded slowly to the bed, never taking her eyes from the one lying there. Lucien flipped over in his tormented state so he was facing toward the woman. The candlelight fell on his shadowy features, illuminating the tears. “Oh,” the woman whined. Manly tears had always touched her in a strange way and even if those tears came from a creature she feared, she could not help reaching out to place a hand on his tousled hair. Almost instantly, the moaning stopped and the creature turned so his cheek was resting in her hand. “Magdalena,” he sighed. His lips moved over the woman’s palm in a soft kiss and before she could pull her hand away, he had captured it and pressed it over his heart. Feeling the dampness of his sweat beneath the crisp dark hair on his chest, the woman’s heart skipped a beat. It was as though she was touching a live wire for a gentle electric current traveled from her palm to her breast. The tingling journeyed lower until it settled in the lower part of her belly, causing her to suck in a quivering breath. “Get away from him, whore!”

The woman’s head jerked up as the guard came striding purposefully toward her. His face was ugly, his hand out like a claw as he reached for her. She snatched her hand from the creature and stumbled back, crossing her arms over her face for fear the guard would beat her. Snarling a curse, the guard grabbed the woman and shook her. “If you have hurt my prince…” “No!” she said. “I did nothing to him!” The second guard was bending over the man on the bed and told his partner the prince was sleeping quietly, that he was all right. “Bring me that chair!” the first guard hissed in a low voice. He unbuckled his belt and demanded his partner do the same. They lashed her to the chair with the belts—arms behind her, ankles to the chair legs—then gagged her with a handkerchief belonging to the second guard. They made sure her arms were pulled tight behind the chair back. She whimpered with pain as the buckle cut into her wrist. “If you had hurt Prince Lucien, Lord Petros would have flayed you alive, bitch,” the first guard snapped, spittle spraying from his mouth. They left the room but did not shut the door this time. The woman felt tears gathering in her eyes but refused to allow them to escape. She had been in worse situations than this since the Great War had destroyed the world as she knew—and understood—it. What was one more night of discomfort? Chapter Three

Sunset came to Modartha Keep at a little past six of the clock. Outside the fierce wind that had swept the planet since the Great War ended howled and battered the windowpanes with violent gusts. In the pens, the herd shivered in their worn and tattered clothing and huddled together for warmth. Lucien’s eyes snapped wide open at the exact moment the sun slipped behind the crest of Mount Duáilce. He lay there for a moment staring at the ceiling, hearing—and smelling—a strange presence in his bedchamber. Although he had been engulfed in acute pain when the woman had been brought to him, he knew who it was that touched his senses. He remembered as well what Petros had told him about her. Slowly sitting up—dreading what he would see—he looked to the foot of the bed and frowned. Following the heavy chain that was hooked to the bedpost, he blinked when he saw the woman slumped in a chair, her head lowered to her chest. Realizing she was bound to the chair, Lucien snarled and flung the covers from his legs. He had just put his bare feet to the floor when a knock came at the door. “Come!” he bellowed. The thunderous shout woke the woman and her head jerked up. Behind the gag she shrieked, her eyes wide as she stared at the man coming toward her. Lucien came to a stop and roared with fury. The sight of the woman—helpless and gagged—offended him so greatly he cursed a blue streak. Stomping to the chair, he reached down, took hold of the chain,

and pulled it apart, flinging the broken links against the footboard so savagely, the metal took a chunk out of the eight-inch thick wood. “Briton!” Petros shouted for the guard as he came into Lucien’s room. “Get your ass in here. Now!” Straining as far aback in the chair as her bonds would allow, the woman was breathing heavily as the man from the bed bent over and snapped the belt holding her ankles to the chair leg as though it were paper. Likewise, the thick shackle that encircled her ankle was pulled apart and thrown viciously across the room. “What the hell is the meaning of this?” Petros asked as the guard came into the chamber. He was quickly untying the handkerchief rolled between the woman’s jaws. “Milord, the woman…” “I want this man flogged!” the prince ordered. “No!” the woman grated, shaking her head. “He was only doing his duty.” Petros bent over to unbuckle the belt binding the woman’s wrists and winced as he saw the livid bruises on the fair skin. Lucien glared down at the tiny blonde woman looking back at him with fear rampant in her pale blue eyes. She was shivering, her teeth clicking together, yet she shook her head again. “Please don’t punish him,” she said hoarsely. Her gaze fell upon the wicked scars striped across Lucien’s chest then quickly looked away. “I thought she was trying to hurt you, milord!” Briton offered. Lucien flung his hand out to indicate both his displeasure and his command for the guard to leave. He hunkered down at the woman’s feet and reached out to touch the dark bruises on the tops of her ankles. The flesh was abraded and she flinched as he put a hand on her instep. “Send for Christina,” Lucien said. “I will be fine,” the woman said and tried to swallow. Her hand trembled as she rubbed at her throat. “Get her some water!” Lucien ordered. Petros ran to Lucien’s bedside table and grabbed up the carafe and goblet, pouring as he hurried back and squatted down to offer the tepid water. Watching the woman drink greedily, Lucien cursed again. He was so angry he was grinding his teeth, the sharp points of his canines cutting into his bottom lip. “Too much will cramp your belly,” he said, grabbing the goblet from her. “When was the last time you had something to drink?” The woman reached up a trembling hand to wipe at her lips. “A day. Two. I don’t remember.” Lucien’s eyes widened. “When did you last eat?”

“We found some rats on Monday,” she answered. “What is today?” Lucien looked at Petros. “That was four days ago!” “I’m on it,” Petros said and hopped up to run from the room. “Wench, I offer you my sincerest apologies,” Lucien said. “We treat our herds better than this.” The woman’s chin lifted. “I am sorry, milord, but that has not been my experience with your herders.” Lucien blinked. Few women had ever dared talk back to him and he was shocked that one from amongst the herd would have such courage. “In what manner were you mistreated by the herders?” he demanded and cast his gaze downward as she lifted the hem of her gown for him to see the scrapes on her shins. “That they did in bringing me to you,” she said. “You fought them,” he accused. “You brought that on yourself.” “Don’t you know how badly the herds are treated?” she asked. “Explain,” he snapped. The woman’s face puckered for a moment but she rushed on. “It is freezing cold outside, milord, yet we humans are ill-clothed and poorly fed at best. Our rations are leftovers the guards either don’t want or of which they’ve had their fill. The huts are riddled with holes and the cold air flows in unchecked. We…” Lucien held his hand up. “All things I will address as soon as Lord Petros gets his sorry ass back here,” he mumbled. “Have you seen the guards harm a human?” She held up her arms where the bruises shown dark against her pale flesh. “These are love taps compared to the things I have seen in the last few days. We started out with seventeen people. Only thirteen of us made it here alive. The others died of their mistreatment.” The prince’s eyes narrowed. “You swear that to be true, wench?” “Why would I lie?” she countered. “You have but to check, milord.” Lucien delved quickly into her mind and what he read there stiffened his spine and brought a thunderous look to his features. Petros took that precise moment to come hurrying in with a tray of food. He glanced at Lucien then went to the small table by the fireplace and set down the tray. He noticed Lucien’s deep scowl and asked if something was wrong. “Nothing gets past you does it, Petros?” Lucien snapped. A frown mirroring Lucien’s, Petros looked to the woman. “What lies have you been telling him, wench?” “She says the food is inadequate to sustain them, the living quarters are cold and draughty, and their

clothing is little more than rags,” Lucien answered for the woman. “What do you have to say about that?” Petros shrugged. “If any of it is true, I was not aware of it, but I will certainly check.” He cast the woman an annoyed look. “That gown she has on is clean. I can vouch for that for I saw them put it on her.” Thunderclouds started to build in Lucien’s green eyes. “Yousaw them put it on her?” he queried. “Well, aye,” Petros replied, digging his toe into the carpet like a small boy. “And how—pray tell—was she dressed prior to having that gown put on her, Petros?” Petros flinched. “Not very well as I recall.” “See!” the woman said. Her eyes slid to the tray of food and she licked her lips. “Eat,” Lucien commanded and his brows shot up as she flung herself at the tray and started gobbling food, shoving it into her mouth, cramming it in, and grunting as she consumed it. Petros sighed deeply. “I’m on it,” he said, not waiting for Lucien to say anything. “And how about sending me something?” Lucien shouted after his friend, jumping up, and going out into the hall. “Petros?” Petros turned. “What is her name?” Lucien asked. Petros shrugged. “She hasn’t said.” Lucien went back in his chamber and sat down on the foot of his mussed bed. He watched the woman snatch at a loaf of bread, tear off a hunk and stuff it into her mouth, chewing nosily. He was amazed at how much like an animal she looked and the observation drove deep. “You don’t have to wolf it down, wench,” he said quietly. “No one is going to take it from you.” The woman stopped with her mouth full, cheeks distended and blushed. Very slowly—with her eyes cast down—she masticated for what seemed an inordinately long time then swallowed hard. Very primly, she took the napkin some thoughtful soul had added to the tray and daintily wiped her greasy lips then her fingers. With graceful movement, she took up the goblet on the tray, looked down at it, sniffed, and then took a small sip. Lucien almost smiled as he saw the woman close her eyes as though having a religious experience. She drew in a deep breath then exhaled slowly, her eyes still closed. “What was in the goblet?” he asked curiously. “Ice-cold milk,” she whispered. “Sweet, ice-cold milk.” The prince snorted softly.

When she was finished with every morsel of food on the tray and every drop of milk had been drank, she sat back in the chair and turned grateful eyes to Lucien. “Thank you, milord,” she said quietly. Lucien nodded. While she had been so engrossed in devouring her meal, a guard had brought the prince a large goblet. As he watched her, he sipped from the goblet, relishing its contents as greatly as she did her vittles. “What’s your name, wench?” he asked, tilting the goblet to drain it. She looked away for there was little doubt what the goblet held. “Khamsin,” she said. “That is Arabic, is it not?” he inquired, setting aside the goblet. She cocked one shoulder. “I don’t know. The people at the orphanage gave it to me.” “And where was this?” “Aboard an old cruise ship,” she said. “It was docked a mile off the shore of what used to be Florida.” “Ah,” he said. “I know the one you mean—theQueen Mary II . How long were you there?” She glanced down at her dirty fingernails, winced, and then tucked her hands under her thighs to hide them. “I have no memories of any other place so I must have been very young when I was taken there. I could have been born there for all I know.” “I would put your age at—what?—thirty-two, thirty-three?” At her shrug, he said, “The Great War was over thirty years ago. Perhaps you were taken there then.” She nodded. “I have often thought so but no one could say for sure.” “When did you leave?” “Six years ago,” she told him. “I hid in a supply ship under a tarpaulin. Now, I wish I’d stayed.” “Things weren’t as bad on the ship as what you found on land,” he said. “We couldn’t weigh anchor and they had lost all reserve power long before I was old enough to know what that meant. But two of the swimming pools had been turned into hydroponics gardens so we had fresh vegetables almost year round. Another pool had been turned into a chicken coop so we had eggs and the occasional chicken stew when one of the birds died. Soup and bread was the main fare but it wasn’t bad. The crews from the supply ships ventured all along the eastern seaboard and brought back what they found—clothing, canned and boxed goods, water—anything that hadn’t been contaminated. They made runs nearly every day.” “The supply ships were sailing vessels?” he asked, curious. “There wasn’t any fuel for motorboats,” she replied. “They were brave men and sometimes we lost a few to the Revenants.” She glanced up at him then away. “And now you are here.”

She lowered her head again. “Aye, now I’m here.” There was a long moment of silence then the prince stood, drawing Khamsin’s gaze to him. “Well, what will it be? Would you prefer marinade or would a plain white sauce do?” he inquired, his head cocked to one side. She frowned. “I don’t understand.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her sternly. “We can’t just spit you over the fire without something to tenderize your flesh, wench,” he said. “Personally, I prefer marinade but Petros is partial to white sauce. Oh, and do you have a preference of how we should carve you up? We do that while you are alive so…” Khamsin’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She began shivering uncontrollably and when he started toward her, her eyes rolled up in her head and she pitched sideways, unconscious. Chapter Four

Petros came through the opened door in time to see the blur of his friend flowing toward the woman. Before she could hit the floor, she was in Lucien’s arms. “Too much food?” Petros asked. “Too much tomfoolery,” Lucien snapped as he swung Khamsin up against his chest. “Make yourself useful and straighten the damned sheets.” “They stink,” Petros said, wrinkling his nose. Lucien narrowed his eyes. “Then strip them, fool! I can’t stand here all night with her in my arms.” “She couldn’t weigh much,” Petros commented. He glanced around at his friend. “She was right about the conditions in the pens. I detected a rank odor when I went to fetch her but paid little attention to it. That was a mistake, Lucien, and I apologize for my lack of consideration for the herd. We’re minus a couple of guards, by the way.” Lucien grunted. “What are you doing about the conditions?” “I’ve set some of the human men to patching the holes in the women’s huts. They can do theirs tomorrow. As for the food, I’ve had the cooks sent back to the kitchens and they are preparing edible repasts. Clothing? Well, that’s something we’ll have to look into. I learned two of the women can hand sew.” “If the conditions were that bad, how come you ignored it, Petros?” “It won’t happen again,” Petros said, knowing no excuses would be good enough to wipe the anger from Lucien’s face. “It had better not,” Lucien said, shifting Khamsin’s weight against him.

“I don’t know what to do about the lice.” Lucien’s lips parted. “Lice? They have lice?” He looked down at the woman and frowned. “She doesn’t have them but as for the others, they have head lice, crabs, and unless I miss my guess, fleas, too.” Before Lucien could explode, Petros promised he would “see to it”. The sheets were off the bed and bundled. Petros went to the door and handed them to the guard. He looked around. “Where are your clean ones?” “How the hell would I know?” Lucien snapped. Once more, he shifted Khamsin against him. “By the Abyss but for a small woman, she’s damned heavy!” Realizing no comment was needed Petros left the room, went across the hall and stripped the covers from a guest room bed. He brought them back and began making the bed more efficiently than Lucien would have imagined him capable. “You’ll make someone a good househusband one day, old friend,” Lucien teased. Petros sniffed but remained silent as he stuffed the plump pillows into their cases. “You can lay her down now,” he said, not looking around. “Unless you’ve grown fond of cradling her as though she was a china doll.” Lucien grinned. “I intend to cuddle with her, that’s for a certainty.” As the prince laid Khamsin down gently, he sat beside her and pushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. “She looks so much like Magdalena,” Petros said. Lucien looked up at him. “There is a resemblance, aye, but not so much that it bothers me as much as it seems to bother you.” Petros stiffened. “We made a vow not to speak of my…” “It’s all right, Pet,” Lucien said. “We both loved her. We both lost her. Now, we have only one another.” Khamsin groaned lightly and reached up a hand to press at her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open and when she saw the two men hovering over her, her face turned chalk-white. “We really don’t eat humans, wench,” Lucien said quickly. “I was trying to be silly, to put you at ease, but I guess I made matters worse.” “You told her we eat humans?” Petros gasped, his eyes flared wide. “What if that gets out, Lucien? They won’t come meekly to the abattoir if that happens! We’ll have to drag them there and you know how messy that can get!” Khamsin saw the merry twinkle in Petros eyes and knew he was teasing her, too. She gave him a tremulous smile but flinched as Lucien’s hand covered hers.

“Despite the impression you have of Modartha Keep, this is not the way it will remain. We do not hurt the humans from whom we take blood,” Lucien told her. “We use modern medical equipment no different from the blood banks before the Great War.” “A needle in a forearm vein isn’t as much fun as slurping it from the jugular, but one does what one must,” Petros said with a sigh. “And we don’t eat humans.” “Nor does my coven drain dry any of the herd,” Lucien stated. “We need you to survive. Killing you would defeat the purpose, don’t you agree?” Relaxing despite the uncertainty that lurked in her breast, Khamsin put up a hand to clutch the bodice of her gown. The Revenants were staring her, looking down at her so intently she could almost feel their gazes touching her. She felt defenseless lying there like a dish on a serving table. “I can see she has all kinds of strange notions about us, my Prince,” Petros said. “Why don’t I leave so you can tell her the truth of the matter?” Lucien nodded. His head no longer throbbed with agony, but there was pain still clustered over his right eye. Absently, he put his fingers there to rub in a small circle. “You have migraines?” Khamsin asked. She flicked her eyes to the door where Lord Petros had exited, quietly shutting the portal behind him. “For the last several hundred years or so,” Lucien replied. “I have them, too,” she admitted. “They can be a bitch, aye?” She smiled slightly. “Aye, they can.” “Okay,” he said, crooking his knee so he could turn to face her. “Tell me what you think you know of Revenants.” Khamsin could feel the heat of his body close to her thigh and wanted to move further away. Almost as soon as the thought entered her mind, she frowned. “No,” he said, reading her mind. “We are not cold-blooded creatures. We have warm blood coursing through our veins. We breathe air. Hell, we can even fart and Petros is known for his stinkers.” “But you are undead,” she protested. Lucien shrugged. “True, but there are varying degrees of undead, wench.” “But vampires are…” “Ah, yes, the legendary vampire,” Lucien said with a sigh. “Those evil bloodsuckers who lie in their coffins during the day and prowl the night in search of victims.” He laughed. “The only things Revenants have in common with the stereotypical vampire are that we drink blood, sleep during the daylight hours since the sun tends to make us lethargic, and we, too, can shape shift. We don’t burn to a cinder if sunlight touches us but we don’t like the stuff. And Revenants have been around longer than the legends

of vampires have existed. I imagine it was a Revenant in a foul mood who began the tale of the vampire. Sometimes a wicked humor can get us into trouble as you discovered a bit ago.” “But you are undead,” she said again. “You aren’t human.” “I was human long ago. Do you want to know how I came to be a Revenant?” he countered. Khamsin nodded slowly. “A beautiful woman Revenant took my blood and made me one of her kind. I was near death anyway so it was a blessing to some extent, although I’ve often cursed her for having saved me.” “You can make other Revenants? That part is true then?” she asked and envisioned an eternal lifetime of swilling blood. She nearly gagged at the thought. “I can, but I have done so only once,” he answered. “I doubt I ever will again. Aye, that part is true.” She nervously twisted at the fabric clutched in her fist. “You weren’t going to turn me?” Lucien cocked a dark brow. “Wench, I was going to fuck you and I would have had I been up to it.” Khamsin blushed. Her heart had yet to cease pounding violently in her chest. “You were going to rape me,” she said, her chin trembling. “No,” he denied. “It wouldn’t have been rape.” She met his look defiantly. “Taking a woman against her will is rape,” she said. He smiled. “Who said it would have been against your will?” Anger twisted Khamsin’s pretty lips. “If a woman doesn’t want you to lay hands to her it is rape. You might have mesmerized me into lying acquiescent but it would still have been against my wishes!” “Mesmerized,” he repeated. “Aye, I could have done that, but I wouldn’t have needed to. All I needed to do is this.” Before she could move away, he laid his hand against her cheek and held it there. Khamsin felt the tingle of his palm against her flesh. Almost instantly, she felt a leap in her lower belly and the area between her legs grew heavy and wet. “Stop it! You are hypnotizing me,” she accused, but seemed incapable of pulling away. Lucien shook his head. “I am doing nothing. It is my touch that is increasing the testosterone levels within your body. You are absorbing a heavy dose of it through your flesh.” “Then don’t do it,” she pleaded, her eyes filling with tears for she was experiencing a wild desire to have this man touch her in ways no man ever had. “I have no control over it, wench,” he told her. “It is part of what I became when I was turned hundreds of years ago.”

“I don’t want you to touch me!” she cried. Lucien removed his hand. The sight of her tears hurt him and he looked away. “It wouldn’t have been rape,” he said. Khamsin wanted to argue with him but she kept her mouth shut. She knew men who overpowered women through whatever means at their disposal always justified their actions to themselves—even when those actions were vile and dehumanizing to the woman. “I would not have hurt you or degraded you,” Lucien defended. “Rape is rape,” she said. Lucien was silent for a long time. He was staring at the dark wood of the armoire across the room and remembering when he had built it. “I was a carpenter,” he said at last. “One of the best craftsmen in the whole of our state. Rich men from all over our country came to commission furniture pieces from me.” “I thought you were a prince,” she said. Lucien shook his head. “A prince of the Revenants, aye, but I was not born royal if that is what you thought, wench.” He looked across the room. “I prefer to think of myself as a master craftsman rather than what I was made.” Khamsin looked to where he was staring. “Did you make that?” “Aye,” he said. “It was a wedding present for Magdalena.” “Your wife?” “My life,” he said and his eyes narrowed in what she recognized as grief. “When she was taken from me, my life ended in more ways than one.” Understanding settled like a heavy weight on Khamsin’s shoulders. “She was raped,” she said quietly. “As I watched,” he whispered. “Unable to help her.” She felt a deep need to put her hand on his arm where it rested upon his bent knee, to comfort him, and it was all she could do to refrain from doing so. She could not be sure he was not mentally coercing her into the response. “She died during the rape,” he said. “Our daughter was killed, too.” “The men who hurt your wife and child tried to kill you?” “That was their intent, aye,” he replied with a snort. “I was drawing my last breath when Sibylline found me.” “Sibylline?”

“Let me tell you the whole of it and then you will know,” he said softly and began his tale. “Every myth has a basis in fact—the creation myth, the Great Flood, the explanation of seasons. Even the beasts who walked the imagination of humankind bear some resemblance to real beings. Much of the time those creatures of myth were taken from something that actually existed and sometimes the real things twist themselves to fit the myth. “We were a peaceful people who tended our fields and flocks, who lived our entire lives beneath the shadow of Mount Duáilce. There was no reason for our young to leave the village. Sons went to work for their fathers. Daughters married neighbor sons and were content to live in their mother-in-law’s home. Few of us ever ventured off, and those who did always came home. We were comfortable, and happy and unafraid. “But evil lived just over the crest of Mount Duáilce. There—in the caves—was a tribe of cannibals. They had never invaded us until that night for we were well-guarded by our own soldiers and watch kept very closely over our lands. But there had been a disease that had run rampant through the animals, killing nearly every beast we owned. So the soldiers—led by Petros—had ventured far from our lands to hunt for wild animals to fill our bellies for the winter. In our complacency, we had forgotten the threat of the Manticore clan and their warrior kin, the Sagittary. “They descended upon us in the dead of night and took every life save mine. They gorged themselves on every living thing within the village, leaving behind nothing but bone and hair. Because I had dared lift a weapon to them, I was left bleeding and broken upon the cobblestones, my sanity gone and no will within me to live. “Myths had been written about the Manticore, turning them into cat-like beasts with triple rows of spiked teeth and the barbed tail of a scorpion. The only thing real about the myth was the grinning human face. Likewise, the Sagittary were morphed into the image of the drunken centaur with its torso of a man and the hindquarters of a horse. “The cat-like image came from the pelts of mountain lions the Manticore clan wore draped over their heads and shoulders. The razor-sharp teeth were true enough for the clan had filed down their teeth to better rend the flesh of their victims. They had a weapon forged of metal with spikes on a heavy ball. It swung from their wrists on a chain. “As for the Sagittary, they were great horsemen, handling their beasts as though they were a part of the animal. They could control their beasts with great skill. They were known also for their drunken revels and were hardly ever sober. So in harmony with their horses, they fashioned britches of horsehair and wore those always, giving the impression of having horse legs themselves. Rarely did they wear clothing on their upper bodies and never when they went to hunt, reveling in the feel of blood splattered on their bare flesh.” “I remember a bit of the mythology the teachers on the ship taught us. Did your invaders pattern themselves after the myths of manticore and centaur or was the myth patterned after them?” she asked. “A little of both, I think. The Manticore was an old family, driven from their village long before the time of Christ because they had developed a taste for human flesh. Even before Christian morals came into being, the notion of eating human flesh was taboo amongst most of the tribes. The Sagittary were shunned for their drunken rape of any woman who crossed their path and wound up fleeing for their lives. It was inevitable they should join forces with the Manticore—both outcasts, hated and feared.”

“When was this?” she asked. “When did all this happen to you?” “The year was 1240 A.D.,” he answered. “Over eight hundred years ago!” she exclaimed. “That is so unreal.” “That night myth became real for me for there was one legend that truly existed beyond reality and I came face to face with it as I lay dying.” Khamsin felt the hair stirring on her arms. “Sibylline was a Revenant,” she said. Lucien rubbed at the pain over his right eye. “Not just a Revenant, wench, but the queen of them. She lived on the isle of Santorini, up in the mountains from which she could take flight and soar over the waters she could not physically cross. It was the violence that had attracted her and caused her to come investigate. It was the scent of my blood that drew her to the place where I lay and it was my face—as she has told me a thousand times—that made her sink her fangs into my neck and turn me into a Revenant.” Khamsin studied Lucien’s profile and could see why the Revenant queen had been so taken by his face. He was more than handsome. He was beautifully male with a body that stirred the libido. “And I obviously stirred hers,” he said, reading her thoughts and causing Khamsin to blush. “Did she take you back to Santorini?” Khamsin asked, feeling the heat in her cheeks. “No, she left me here because she had no way to carry me to Santorini. As I said, she cannot cross water by normal means and as a flying creature, she is but the size of a large raven. I’ve never known her to shift into anything larger.” “What of the men who had gone hunting? When did they return?” “Petros stumbled into the village four days later—wounded from a Sagittary arrow, barely alive. He was the only one of the hunting party to survive for they had run into the Manticore on the way back. He blames himself for not being there that night. If he and the other soldiers had been on guard, he doesn’t think the Manticore would have dared attack us.” “The chances are they would have sooner or later. Don’t you think?” “Aye,” Lucien agreed. “It was but a matter of time before they did. They had wiped out nearly every village save ours.” Khamsin looked to the window that was open to the night air. “Are they still up in these mountains?” Lucien did not answer and when Khamsin looked around, she flinched at the awful smile that stretched his full lips. His eyes were as cold as ice. “You killed them?” she asked in a near whisper. He nodded.

“All of them? Manticore and Sagittary?” He nodded again. “I had regained my strength by the time Petros returned. Regained that strength and become endowed with a might far greater than any human alive. I knew what I was and I reveled in that knowing.” “You said you had only turned one human,” she remembered. “That was Petros, wasn’t it?” “He wasn’t happy that I gave him unlife,” Lucien explained. “He would have preferred to die, but I was greedy and did not want to live here all alone. Once he accepted what I had done to him, it was he who suggested we avenge our village.” “You went up into the mountains.” “With no weapon save our hatred. We fell upon the Sagittary like locusts and drained them until they were nothing more than empty husks. The Manticores were sleeping when we entered their cave. When we were finished, we piled them one atop the other and set fire to their shriveled bodies.” “You drained them,” she said, staring at him. “With your teeth.” “No, with a giant syringe,” he said then laughed at her confused look. “Aye, wench, with our teeth. He peeled back his lips. “These teeth.” As Khamsin watched, his two lateral incisors slowly descended from either side of the larger central incisors. They curbed wickedly and had sharp, glistening points from which twin drops of a milky substance sprang. “Venom,” he said, licking the drops from his fangs. “Harmless to me, life-giving to those into whom I inject it.” “Not poisonous like a viper’s,” she said, her voice filled with awe, her eyes wide. “Not poisonous,” he agreed. He retracted the teeth until they were no more than the shiny white teeth he had before the exhibition. Khamsin shook her head as though ridding it of the image of those dangerous fangs. “You drink blood,” she said, shuddering. “Not from my fangs, I don’t,” he told her. “Then why do you have them?” He shrugged. “To bite with, wench, why else? I just don’t drink blood from them. The blood I need to consume—and about a pint a day will suffice me—comes from the phlebotomy set up for just that purpose. Did anyone sink their teeth into you?” She cocked her head. “No, they used a needle.” “They used a needle to draw your blood for two reasons,” he said. “One is that it is safer for you and us. Had you been carrying the plague, we certainly would not have wanted you around the other members of

the herd to infect them. The second reason is that it is a lot easier on the donors. They aren’t as frightened as they’d be if a Revenant pounced on them and sunk his fangs into them.” “Donors,” she said, trying out the word. “That’s a congenial way to describe us. Unwilling donors but donors nevertheless.” “So to answer an unasked question brewing in your head, no, I do not drink blood from my victims’ necks. I take it from a glass and so do the others.” “There were only the two of you left from your village.” “There was one other,” he said. “Christina.” “How was it she survived?” Lucien shrugged. “Christina had been asked to leave our village a few weeks before the attack and had gone to a village near the seacoast. When she heard that her village had been attacked and there were no survivors, Christina rushed back, hoping the rumor was not true.” “She’s gay,” Khamsin said. “A homosexual, I think it’s called.” “And quite content to be that way,” Lucien said. “But you can imagine how the people of our village felt about her back then.” “Also an outcast, hated and feared,” Khamsin observed. “Petros and I saw her coming and warned her away but she ignored us. She later said that if the two of us had survived perhaps some of her family had. After she learned the how of us being alive, she asked to be turned. I refused.” “Petros didn’t.” “I love him like a brother, but sometimes the man can be an idiot. He’s made more than his share of fledglings, I’m afraid,” Lucien said with a sigh. “Although, I am glad he turned Christina, for she has been a good friend. Over the years, she has tended the herds for us.” “Not very well, though,” Khamsin reminded. Lucien frowned. “Apparently not. I am inclined to think her research has been more important than her doctoring.” “Research?” Lucien got up from the bed and walked to the window. He leaned his forearm against the casing and pressed his throbbing head to his wrist as he looked out over the mountain valley. “There really is a plague, you know,” he said. “Aye, I’ve seen it.” He looked around. “Where?”

“Near the coast of Mexico but that was a few years ago,” she replied. “How came you to be there?” “I told you I had stowed away on one of the supply ships?” she asked and at his nod continued. “It was a schooner and they found me eventually. At first they were angry but then they set me to work.” “Did they take you?” he asked. Khamsin shook her head. “They thought I was a boy. I looked like one back then.” “So the supply ship dropped anchor off the coast of Mexico and that is where you saw the plague victims?” “Only one, but the memory of what I saw still haunts me.” “I imagine that was not a pretty sight.” Khamsin shuddered. “It was ghastly. The poor woman had boils all over her. She was howling from the pain and though it seemed cruel, I was glad when they shot her. There was nothing that could be done for her.” “No, there is no cure, but that is something Christina is working on. She helped to find the serum that is now widely used in the herds. Many humans died from the plague before that preventative was found.” “And the serum is as important to your kind as it is to us,” she said. “Without it, the human race would die out and our supply of sustenance would be limited to animal blood,” he remarked with a frown. “That is not a palatable notion. We would survive but the quality of our unlife would be greatly diminished.” “I have never been inoculated,” Khamsin said. “Contracting the disease is something I fear more than Rev…” “More than Revenants,” he finished for her. Khamsin bit her lip. “Aye.” “At any rate,” he said, returning his gaze to the world beyond the keep. “You don’t have to worry about contracting the disease or having a Revenant turn you, wench. You are too valuable.” “Valuable in what way?” she asked. “Marcus took a sample of your blood before you were put in with the herd. Remember?” “Yes.” “You have the antibody within you that is used to make the serum. Your blood is more valuable than the most precious of metals. You are one of the special ones.”

His words hit Khamsin like a slap to the face and her lips parted in surprise. She was safe! Not even the villainous Stavros Constantine would allow her to be harmed. “Oh, he’d harm you, wench,” Lucien said. “He likes sex rougher than Alexa Dimitros and that is saying something.” “Alexa?” she questioned. “Petros’ woman,” he said with a grin. “You have nothing to worry about from her.” “But you wouldn’t allow Petros to take me,” she said. Lucien lowered his arm and turned to face her. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his thickly muscled arms over his naked chest. “No, you belong to me.” Khamsin shuddered. “So you can pretend I am your dead wife?” “You bear a passing resemblance to my wife, but not enough to affect me as it has Petros,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “When I take you, I won’t pretend it is Magdalena.” Khamsin’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. “I have said I do not…” “It isn’t a matter of if I will take you,” he interrupted her. “It is a matter of when I will do so, wench. The decision is mine, not yours.” He pushed away from the wall and came slowly toward the bed. Khamsin’s eyes widened and she twisted her head toward the door, looking for an escape route. “Before your feet could hit the floor, I’d be on you, wench,” he said and smiled nastily as she jerked her head around to stare wide-eyed at him. He stopped, his gaze locked with hers. “Please, I…” she said, her voice trembling. “You’re not a virgin,” he stated, inhaling deeply. “I would know.” “No, but…” “I’ll not hurt you,” he said, taking a step closer. “I will not degrade or humiliate you.” He took another step toward the bed. Khamsin felt trapped—like a cornered animal and she was breathing quickly, shallowly, feeling lightheaded as she did. He took the last step and as he did, his thighs bumped the mattress and Khamsin whimpered. “When I decide it is time, I will woo you, I will not rape you.” She trembled as he climbed into the bed with her and reached for her. Despite her fear, she allowed him

to cradle her in his arms and lay there quivering as he ran his hand over her hair, calming her as though she was a child. “I will even allow you free will, wench,” he said. “And you will come to me of that free will.” “Never,” she said, tears choking her throat. Lucien smiled. “We’ll see.” Chapter Five

Prince Stavros Constantine kicked the dead woman out of his bed and turned over. She had not satisfied him and her shrieks had given him a headache. She hadn’t tasted good either, and he snatched up the sheet to wipe at his lips, scrubbing off the offending odor of her inferior blood. It had been the same for months now and he was restless, his cock as bored as he was by the procession of meager human talent that had been stretched out upon his bed. Not a one of them had given him pleasure and he feared there were none in his present stock that could. “Lucien has the best herd,” he snarled as he flounced the covers. “He has the best female flesh at his beck and call!” It was always Lucien, he thought, as he stared up at the ceiling. Lucien had the best from amongst the remaining humans on the continent. Lucien had the best keep—living in luxury at Modartha—while he, Stavros, had to make do with the miserable castle in Duaric. Lucien had tastier animals and quality breeding stock. “And I’ve got sickly animals and bitches whose wombs are as barren as the cliffs of Mount Duáilce,” Stavros complained. It had always been so and Stavros knew why. Though Sibylline had turned him—on a whim it now seemed—she had chosen Lucien as the heir apparent for when she was finally ready to Go To Ground. She had made Stavros a Prince of the Blood but Stavros felt he, himself, was nothing more than a lackey, a stand-in when she was in the mind to be fucked. And that hadn’t happened in many a year. “She’s screwing that bastard Gideon. I know she is!” he growled and the thought of the Irish imbecile Sibylline had turned into another Prince of the Blood infuriated Stavros to the point of screaming. It was bad enough an outsider had been given such a privilege but an Irishman? And what of the Spaniard? He, too, was a Prince of the Blood. That was even worse than having the Mick as a prince. Flinging aside the covers, Stavros got out of bed, stepping over the woman lying crumpled on the floor. He spat on her—his spittle hitting her squarely between her glazed, staring eyes—then padded over to the window. Putting his hands on the casement, he bellowed his rage, hearing it echo back to him through the canyons. “I hate you, Lucien Korvina!” he shouted and a dozen curses reverberated through the dark night. “If

you hadn’t hurt our queen, she would not have seen fit to make those other two bastards!” Quietly, the door to Stavros’ room opened and his Lord of Security—Petros’ counterpart—slipped hesitantly inside. He stood trembling at the door, ready to flee if his prince came at him. “What news of Korvina?” Stavros demanded, not bothering to turn around. “He received a shipment of humans last eve,” Lord Anchises Banos replied. “One has the antibody.” “Well, of course!” Stavros seethed. “Only the best for sweet Lucien, the turd!” Anchises took a few steps into the room, stopping as his prince turned to glower at him. He held up a hand. “There is something else, my Prince.” “Really? Has he learned to walk on water?” Stavros mimicked. “Do you remember the one called Magdalena, Your Grace?” Stavros growled a warning. “Queen Sibylline spoke of her to you,” Anchises was quick to say. The growl deepened. “She was Prince Lucien’s wife in the before unlife,” Anchises reminded Stavros. The slashing black brows of Stavros Constantine drew together. “His mortal wife? What of her?” “They say this special one could be her double.” Interest sparked in Stavros’ midnight dark eyes and he came away from the window. “And has he claimed her?” “She lies in his bed even as we speak, Your Grace,” Anchises replied. “He has claimed her?” Stavros wanted clarified. Many a woman had lain in Lucien Korvina’s bed, but except for Sibylline, he had slipped no cock into them. “I am told he has.” Stavros drew in a breath. “He has chosen a human as his consort,” he whispered. “One as lovely as his dead wife,” Anchises asserted. Pacing the confines of his bedroom, Stavros was lost deep in thought. He pulled himself out of it long enough to order Anchises to get rid of the dead woman and to bring him a fresh one. “One at least halfway pretty this time and doesn’t smell like shit!” Anchises put his hands up. “There aren’t that many to choose from, Your Grace. None of them are pretty.”

“Well, find one that doesn’t stink!” Stavros screamed. “Can you at least do that?” Anchises assured his prince he would see to it and bowed as he walked backward, not trusting his prince not to physically attack him. When he bumped into the door, he flinched but kept bowing as he shut the door behind his departure. “And make her brush her damned teeth!” Stavros yelled. Continuing his pacing, Stavros dark eyes swung back and forth as plans tripped through his brain. Not only would it be a coup to possess a special one, it would help to replenish a diminishing herd. His healers could extract the antibody from her blood and make more serum for there was precious little of it left in the apothecary. He could send his thralls further out into the world in search of better breeding material—if any was left that Lucien and the stupid Gideon O’Rourke had not culled. The herd could be built up! “And I can have beautiful women beneath me once again!” Stavros mumbled as he put a hand to his throbbing cock, massaging the hard length of it. All such thoughts were pleasant to contemplate and it helped to soothe the raging sexual energy rippling through Stavros’ body. But it was the thought of taking something precious away from Lucien that increased the pressure and the speed of the hand with which he fondled his staff. “To have her stretched out beneath me, her cunt dripping as I ram into her,” Stavros said, stopping to work furiously at his hard on. “To thrust into her ass until she bleeds and fill her to bursting with my cum!” He lifted his hand to his face and spit into his palm then took hold of himself once more. “To jam myself into her mouth and make her swallow my cock, gagging her as I shove it down her pretty little throat,” Stavros said, sighing with the pleasure such a notion created. “No matter how pretty she is, I will mutilate that lovely face,” he swore and his hand was a blur as he jacked his flesh. “I will send it back to him piece by bloody piece!” He dwelled on carving the woman’s flesh, of whittling away a pert nose, an eyelid adorned with long, spiky lashes, a curvaceous, pouting lip. “I’ll send him her clit,” he whispered, closing his eyes to the building release burning at his groin. “I’ll slice off her breasts and make a sandwich of them for him!” Panting as the burning, itching sensation between his legs built to a roaring inferno, he pictured Lucien bent over in agony, keening as he held the peeled scalp of his beloved in his hands. “Yes,” Stavros cried, pulling harder upon his staff. “Yes!” Mindless of the thralls who had crept into the room to remove the dead woman, Stavros shot his wad upward, his eyes widening as the copious white fluid spurted high into the air. He laughed, turning around in a semicircle and spraying his cum in a wide arc. “Fuck you, Lucien Korvina!” he exclaimed. “And fuck your woman!”

Hurrying away with the body sagging between them, the thralls shuddered at the mad laugh that rang out from the prince’s bedchamber. “It ain’t the woman he wants,” one of the thralls dared to say. “Hush!” the other warned, looking about them for listening, spying ears. “Well, it ain’t,” the other declared. They passed Lord Anchises on the stairway but avoided the Lord of Security’s eye. Neither did they look at the woman being hustled along beside Lord Anchises. There would be time enough to take a good look at her when they were sent in to fetch her dead body. ***** Sitting alone in his cramped cell as morning light speared down from the high window, Giles Kolovis repeatedly washed his hands in the basin of murky water he kept beside his cot. He could not rid himself of the stench of death nor the sight of the women he had helped throw into the incinerator. Clenching his jaw, he laved his hands once more with the strong lye soap and washed them again and again until his hands were red and raw. Just as Stavros Constantine had a mole in the keep at Modartha, Giles was the spy in Stavros’ keep, in thrall to Lucien Korvina. It was a bastard’s job but it was important—as Lord Petros had reminded Giles many times. Having allowed himself to be captured by Stavros’ men, enduring the injection of a single drop of the vile prince’s blood into his arm so the bastard could enthrall him, had been both risky and degrading for Giles. Lucien’s blood was far more powerful and not even a gallon of the inferior Constantine blood could have overridden Lucien’s prior claim to Giles’ allegiance. There had never been a chance of a new enthrallment replacing the old. It was the thought of being contaminated with any part of that vile bastard’s body that sickened Giles and strengthened his desire to see Stavros Constantine defeated. Word had to be sent to Modartha so the special one could be watched day and night. It was not enough that she was supposed to be an untouchable, for Stavros Constantine operated by his own set of deranged rules. He was as liable to do the vile things he cackled about as he pulled his pud as he was to slit a thrall’s throat on a wager to see how long it took the poor man to die, wasting precious sustenance. Thralls were as necessary as special ones but thralls were becoming as extinct as usable humans. Thralls—those humans Revenants used to protect them and to do their bidding—were expendable. Thralls were not exempt from being drained or murdered as a prince or lord decided. Rarely, though, were they ever turned, for thralls tended to be lumbering giants with little or no real intelligence. Giles was an exception to the rule. As tall as any thrall ever shanghaied into a Revenant’s service, almost as brawny as Prince Lucien, and keenly intelligent, Giles had been the right man to pick for the job of spying at Duaric Castle. He was fiercely loyal to Lucien Korvina and willing to do what it took to keep his prince safe from Stavros Constantine’s maniacal plans. The scent would not leave his hands and Giles cursed, taking up the basin and flinging it aside, splattering water over the stone wall. He sat down heavily upon his bunk and tried to blot out the ravaged face of the last woman he had helped remove from Prince Stavros’ bedchamber.

Burying his head in his hands, Giles wept. He had been a warrior—a tough and gruff soldier—before being captured by Prince Lucien’s men. He had known death and had looked it in the eye many times, dealing it out more times than he cared to remember. But the sight of that poor woman lying brutalized shook Giles Kolovis to his foundation. “I’m going to do this to his woman,” Stavros had chirped as he danced around the thralls as they carried the dead woman away. “I’m going to make this seem like child’s play when I have his woman in my hands!” The memory of the dead woman’s empty eye sockets, the vision of those pretty eyes sitting atop Stavros’ wickedly long fingernails with him waving those bloody trophies about, brought the bile to Giles’ throat and he bent over and vomited, going to one knee with the force of his retching. If there was, indeed, a woman in Prince Lucien’s life now, a consort, a woman he cared enough about to claim as his own, that one had to be protected at all costs. Chapter Six

Khamsin awoke feeling hot, and sweaty and confined. Before she opened her eyes, she thought perhaps she was back on the ship, wedged in behind Minerva and Portia, their overweight bodies jamming her against the bulkhead. She wriggled and felt the hairy arm lying atop her hip and reached out to lift it away. “Move, Portia,” she mumbled. It was the groan—deep and male—that brought Khamsin’s eyes open and she stared in horror at the face that was almost nose to nose with hers. And the green eyes that were looking back at her. Khamsin swallowed. She became aware of the heat that flowed down her body from thigh to calf and knew Prince Lucien’s leg was pressed against her. “Does that entice you, wench?” he asked. She jerked back, putting distance between them. Lucien sighed. “You are going to hurt my feelings sooner or later,” he said, stretching. Staring at his broad scarred chest with the thick mat of wiry dark hair, the rippled muscles along his abdomen and the solid mound of his pectorals, Khamsin felt a stirring between her legs she could not push aside. “Why try?” he asked and his voice was low and sultry, filled with temptation. “Of my own free will,” she said, putting out a hand to keep him from moving closer to her. Lucien smiled. “Am I touching you?” he asked. “Don’t use your powers on me,” she forbade.

“I’m not,” he said. “What you see is what you want. Can I help that?” “Conceited oaf,” she muttered, forgetting to whom she was speaking. Lucien propped his head on his hand and looked down at her. “You slept well?” She felt rested and relaxed despite the niggling fear that poked at her. “Aye, well enough I guess.” “You weren’t ravaged while you slept,” he said. “Tell me you weren’t thinking of doing me,” she challenged. His dark brows drew together. “You slept well,” he said. “I said as much,” she reminded him. “You were not awakened by me groaning or crying out in my sleep?” “No,” she said. Lucien stared at her for so long she felt naked beneath his hooded gaze. “What?” she asked for his look made her exceedingly uncomfortable. “I’ve never allowed a woman to sleep untroubled through the night,” he said slowly. Khamsin rolled her eyes. “Aye, I bet you haven’t.” “No,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ve always awakened when my nightmares came.” “Apparently you didn’t have any this time,” she said then realized he was looking at her with an expression that drove a wave of heat through her belly. “You banished the nightmares,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “You kept them at bay.” Khamsin shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s a good thing.” He allowed her to get out of the bed and watched her as she looked around her. “What are you searching for?” he asked. “A bathroom,” she muttered. “Through there,” he said, pointing at a slender door to the right of the armoire. As she made use of the bathroom, Lucien sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He was amazed he had slept the day through with Khamsin at his side and had not once wakened her with his groans and moans. “A significant breakthrough, wouldn’t you say, my Prince?” Lucien closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. He knew that voice well though he hadn’t heard it in over a decade.

“Don’t be such a baby, Lucien,” Sibylline drawled. “Open those pretty eyes and tell me you like what I am wearing.” He opened his eyes and then cursed. “You aren’t wearing anything!” he complained. “No, I’m not. Do you like it?” Lucien flung the covers aside. “That’s disgusting, Sibylline.” “Disgusting? Well, then, so are you,” Sibylline chuckled. Knowing he had been relieved of what he had worn to bed grated on Lucien’s nerves and he glared at the woman sitting demurely on his settee. “Oh, all right,” she said and waved her hands, putting back in place the underwear that had covered him from her view. When he cocked an angry brow, she waved her hand again and the black britches he had been wearing when he’d lain down were once more fitting his lean frame snuggly. “Seems such a waste to cover all that potential though, Luc.” Khamsin walked in at that moment. She spied the incredibly lovely nude woman reclining on the settee and came to a dead stop. “She used to do this all the time. It got old then and it is still old,” Lucien snarled as he poured himself a goblet of water. Sibylline smiled warmly at Khamsin. “I had a helluva time finding the right woman for him and there you stand as though he was contaminated with running sores. What’s wrong with you, sweetie?” She pointed at Lucien. “Go. Fuck that man! You know you want to.” Lucien threw the crystal goblet as hard as he could against the wall where it shattered. “I’ve offered and she declined,” he snapped. Khamsin looked from one extraordinary physical specimen to the other and felt ugly. Sibylline—and it could be none other than the queen herself—was an imposing woman with flaming red hair piled high atop her elegant head. Her face was flawless with vibrant blue eyes, long dark lashes and high cheekbones. Buxom with a slender waist and flat abdomen, she had the curves any man would enjoy and every woman would envy. “You aren’t so bad yourself, dearling,” Sibylline suggested. “She’s a hundred times more beautiful than you,” Lucien snarled. Khamsin’s eyes widened. She glanced at the lovely woman across the woman as though she expected to be incinerated where she stood. “Pay no attention to him, Khammie. That’s just his cock speaking for him,” Sibylline laughed. “Get out, Sibylline,” he ordered, his voice low and dangerous. “Not until she gets into your bed and spreads her legs for you, my love,” the Queen of Revenants

declared. “I want to see you rock her world. I didn’t go to all this trouble finding her for you only to be denied watching you screw her, Luc.” “Get out!” Khamsin jumped, for the command was bellowed at the top of Lucien’s lungs and he was stalking toward the object of his anger. She backed away, fear pumping her heart. One moment Sibylline was lying there—sticking her tongue out at Lucien—and the next she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of jasmine. “And stay out!” Lucien yelled. Plastered against the wall, Khamsin watched as Lucien picked up the settee and tossed it across the room as though it was a feather. She flinched as it crashed into a mirror but relieved the surface didn’t break. More bad luck was not needed in this room. “She came to taunt me,” he said, plopping down in a chair. “She’s good at that.” He buried his face in his hands. “Professionally so.” Khamsin could find nothing to say so she stood where she was, wringing her hands though her mind was working furiously. “No,” he said, lifting his head to look at her through the fan of his fingers. “I am not going to let you go and no, Sibylline poses no threat to you, wench. You heard what she said—she found you for me. I’d be stupid to throw her gift back in her face now, wouldn’t I?” A flash of annoyance traveled through Khamsin’s blue eyes and they snapped with fire. “I am no man’s gift, milord. Not even yours!” He settled back in the chair and lifted his foot to the cushion, resting his wrist on his crooked knee. “You know what Christina said about you?” She shrugged. “She said, ‘This one will give you a run for your money’.” He tilted his head to one side. “And I believe she was right. You are not the frightened, meek little girl I expected.” Khamsin raised her chin. “I am scared to death of you, but I will not let you break my spirit. What you do to me, I can not prevent, but I can voice my abhorrence to—” “Abhorrence,” he echoed. “You abhor me, wench?” Steepling his fingers, he thought about the meaning of the word. “You find me repugnant?” A wave of wrinkles formed on Khamsin’s smooth forehead. “Perhaps I used the wrong word.” “Then I’m not repugnant?” She pursed his lips and tossed her head as though his question was silly. “You know full well you are not, milord.”

He half-smiled. “Do you find me appealing?” “I find the situation abhorrent,” she stated, nodding firmly. “That was what I meant.” “That isn’t what I asked, wench,” he countered. “Do you find me appealing?” Khamsin shook her head but didn’t answer. “You don’t find me appealing?” he asked, shock making his voice a bit shrill. She almost laughed at the hurt look on his handsome face but sucked in a quick breath instead as he rose slowly from the chair and came toward her. Quickly she glanced behind her but there was nowhere for her to run. The wall was only inches away. “You don’t think I’m a good-looking man?” he asked, his voice deep and sensual. She backed up until she was pressed against the wall yet he kept coming, stalking her like a big graceful cat, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he drew nearer. “Is my hair unkempt?” he asked when he was but a foot away. Khamsin knew he was playing with her. In her mind, she likened it to a cat teasing a helpless mouse and the illusion irritated her so she kept silent. He was so close to her she could smell the warm male odor of him. It was a pleasant smell, even heady. He braced his left hand on the wall beside her head and leaned into her. “Does my breath smell?” he queried. No, she thought and that surprised her. If anything she would have thought his breath would hint of the grave, of death—or at the very least—be iron-tinted from the blood he had consumed from the day before. “So,” he said, standing so close to her their bodies were almost touching. “I have no body odor, my breath doesn’t stink and my hair doesn’t look like I jammed my finger into a light socket.” His eyes roamed her face. “What, exactly, is it you find unappealing?” The heat from his body was causing her skin to prickle and she could not keep from glancing down at his chest. The livid scars drew her attention and she winced, knowing such mutilation would have caused immense pain. “At least that part of me fascinates you,” he drawled. “I guess you don’t find it abhorrent.” “Stop reading my mind,” she said through clenched teeth. He held up his right hand as though surrendering to her command, but said nothing. He simply leaned further toward her so she was forced to put her hands on his chest to keep him at bay. Electrical current passed through Khamsin’s palms and she groaned. He had automatically pressed closer so that now her hands were trapped between their bodies.

“Am I ugly?” She shook her head, unable to speak, for her blood was racing so hard through her veins she could feel it pounding in her head—and between her legs. “Am I too short?” Again she shook her head. “Am I deformed in some way you find intolerable?” “You know you’re not,” she forced out the reply. “Then—for the sake of argument—let’s say you find me handsome.” Khamsin looked up into his eyes. He was a good foot taller than her, towering over her in such a way she felt even shorter. The backs of her hands were pressing into her breasts. “Let’s say you find me virile and sexy and altogether attractive.” Those pale green eyes were delving into her soul and she was caught by them—intrigued by the golden flecks that seemed to swirl through the irises. “Let’s say,” he purred, his voice low and sultry, “that your body is stirred by the nearness of mine.” She did not flinch when he lifted his hand and laid the backs of his fingers against her cheek. There was no rush of intense pleasure as there had been before. “No,” he said. “But if I turn my hand so my palm rests against your flesh, you will absorb the testosterone and it will speed like lightning to your womb.” His words were far more intoxicating than any potent wine and spoken with such gentleness, such seductive volume, they were doing strange things to her lower belly. “If you were to allow it,” he said and his voice was a mere whisper of sound as it fanned across her heated face. “I would pick you up in my arms and carry you to our bed.” Khamsin’s breath was ragged—coming quickly and her breasts were aching from the pressure of her hands against them. “With infinite care, I would remove your gown and let my eyes wander over the beauty of your naked body.” Her knees felt weak and had he not been pressed so close to her, she suspected she would have sagged against the wall. “I would very gently—and with the greatest respect—trail my fingers down your arm from shoulder to wrist, down your side from just beneath your armpit to the flange of your hip, along the top of your thigh from the crease of your pelvis to the rise of your knee.” She could almost feel that spectral touch easing down her flesh.

“I would run my nails under your knee and into the sweet hollow where the skin is so soft.” Khamsin whimpered. She was unaware that her fingers were moving against his chest hair or that he had moved back just far enough for her to pluck at a wiry stand. He lowered his mouth to her ear and his words caused her to shiver as they wound their way through the auditory canal and reached into the pit of her womb. “I would mold my hands lovingly, gently over the globes of your breasts, my naked leg hooked over yours and I would be just close enough for you to feel the heat of my staff against your thigh.” Completely oblivious to the fact she had spread her hands along his waist and was now holding him, Khamsin closed her eyes as his enthralling words slithered through her mind. “I would run my thumbs over your nipples, pluck softly at those turgid peaks, worrying them with just enough friction to cause shivers to ripple along your spine.” Her hands moved to his back of their own accord so that she was holding him against her, her palms flat against his flesh. “Then I would replace those fingers with my warm, moist mouth and suckle you reverently, laving those erect nubs with my tongue.” His right hand now cupped her shoulder, lightly squeezing. Very slowly, he insinuated his right knee between her legs, pushing hers apart. “I would trail kisses over your breasts and down your chest, spiraling my tongue into that sweet concavity of your navel. With the utmost care, I would worship you as I pressed my face into the curls at the juncture of your thighs.” Khamsin sucked in a breath and spread her hands upward, grasping at the strong muscles of his upper back. “Very gently, very delicately I would press the tip of my tongue against your clitoris and taste the nectar that oozes from that sweet nub. I would put my thumb to the hood and move it back so I could lave the surface of the little bud.” “No,” she whispered, her hands clutching at him. “I would slide my tongue down your nether lips and flick it against the opening to taste the starchy dewlets that hover there.” “Please,” she begged, and the word was nothing more than a breath against his neck. “Delving inside you with the very tip of my hot, moist tongue for just a brief moment, I would replace that small muscle with this.” His hand left her shoulder and moved slowly, insinuatingly down her arm, across the flare of her hip and when he cupped her sex through the obstruction of the fabric of her gown, she groaned.

“Don’t do this to me,” she said. “What am I doing, wench?” he asked softly. “You are mesmerizing me,” she protested. “No, I am not,” he told her. “I am fondling you with nothing but my words and this strong hand.” She could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric as he was holding her between the legs. One finger—she knew it was the middle one—tapped lightly at her opening as though bidding to be allowed inside. “You are using your power to break down my defenses,” she challenged. “No,” he said, drawing out the denial. “I am merely allowing you to understand what I would do for you, to you, if you would but allow it. I am giving you free will to accept or deny me, wench. It is your choice. The only coercion is the warmth of my flesh through the restriction of your clothing.” Khamsin opened her eyes and found his hot gaze locked on her face. There was possessiveness running rampant in that look and despite his gentle words, she knew he would never allow her to gain her freedom of him. He had claimed her and she would be his. “But only when you desire it,” he said and stepped back, breaking her hold on him. He took another step back so that now their bodies were no longer in contact. The removal of his palm from between her legs, the weight of his body pressing into hers, his soft breath against her face, made Khamsin ache from the heaviness of her breasts to the throbbing that had enveloped her lower body. “Only when you desire it,” he whispered and turned his back on her. “I will never force you.” “Please!” she heard herself say and quickly covered her mouth as though she could snatch the word back. He looked around but did not turn to face her. “Please, what?” Her eyes pleaded with him but she said nothing. She felt like a whore and tears gathered. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You aren’t ready yet, wench.” She watched him walk away—never turning to look at her as he left the room. The door closed behind his exit with a finality that brought a gasp to Khamsin’s lips. She slumped down the wall, her hand still tight against her lips, until she was squatting on the floor. A keening sound of surrender pushed from her constricted throat and she let the tears fall. Chapter Seven

Petros frowned when he saw Lucien coming toward him. There was a bitter cast to the prince’s lips that did not set well for whoever had caused the mulish expression.

“What did she do?” the Lord of Security asked. Lucien’s brows drew together. “Who?” “The special one.” Lucien surprised Petros by smiling broadly. “Nothing yet but give her a day—or less—and she’ll do whatever I bid.” “It’s nice to have such power, eh?” Petros asked with a grunt. “I’m not using my power,” Lucien said. “I’m merely offering her the use of my body.” Petros’ left eyebrow rose. “Oh, really? You still haven’t taken her?” Lucien shook his head and stuck his hands into the pockets of his leather britches. “How’s your head?” “It hurts but not as bad. I can handle it.” Lucien looked toward the pens. “Have you seen to the conditions?” “Aye and I have set two of the women to sewing a few new garments until the herders come back with more clothing.” He scratched his cheek. “I am very sorry I let the situation slip past me, Luc, and so is Tina.” “She has other priorities, but that,” Lucien said, nudging his chin toward the pens, “is our sustenance. We need to take better care of it.” “And we will,” Petros vowed. “Walk with me?” Lucien asked. The two men who had been friends since they were toddlers were comfortable with one another and had no need to carry on conversation when they were together. They were content to be in one another’s company, knowing if something needed discussing, the issue would arise in its own time. Thralls were stationed throughout the inner bailey and patrolled the perimeter of the battlements. Torches flared high above, lighting the night sky where bats swooped and owls screeched as they winged their way over Modartha. “Sibylline finally showed her face this eve,” Lucien remarked as they made their way to the corral. Petros glanced at his companion. “And?” “She admitted sending the wench to me.” “Um-hmm,” Petros said. “We figured as much.” “The question is why.”

The horses were dozing but one woke instantly and tossed its black head in greeting. It nickered softly and trotted over to where the men stood. Lucien reached through the fence to pat the beautiful creature’s sleek nose. “Would you like to go for a ride, Fiach?” he asked, allowing the steed to nuzzle his face. As though the creature understood and was giving its answer, it bobbed its head. Lucien turned to Petros. “You coming?” “Do you think I’d let you go alone?” Petros growled. He put two fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle. Each of the dozing horses inside the corral woke, lifting their heads in unison. A big roan left the rest of them and came over to the fence. “I take it you don’t want to bother with a saddle,” Petros complained as Lucien pushed the restraining bar up on the gate and led Fiach out of the corral, his fingers wrapped in the silky mane. “I need to ride something, my friend,” Lucien said, taking a handful of Fiach’s thick black mane and vaulting onto the steed’s broad back. “And I want nothing between my cock and my beast but this thin strip of leather at my crotch.” “Disgusting pervert,” Petros grumbled. He led his mount out then slipped the bar back in place. He stepped back and swung himself up on the beast. The thralls on guard at the portcullis were accustomed to their prince riding out of an evening. They were already working the pulley that raised the ten-inch-thick iron bars with their jagged, sharp teeth. Standing at the window of Lucien’s room, Khamsin saw him and Lord Petros galloping down the plank bridge that led from the keep and across a steep gorge. The sound of those heavy hooves striking the wood echoed back to her and she thought she heard Lucien laugh. “Can you feel the wind rushing through my hair, wench?” She wasn’t surprised when the spectral voice spoke to her in her mind. She closed her eyes and could almost feel the kiss of a light breeze against her face. “I’d rather be riding you.” “I’m sure you would,” she said aloud and wrapped her arms around her for there was a night chill coming in through the open window. “Can you feel the friction between my thighs?” Aye, she thought, she could. There was a hardness pressing there and she knew he was allowing her to feel the same awareness he felt. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the sensation. “Tomorrow night I’ll take you with me.”

She felt him pulling away from her and knew a moment of regret. The withdrawal of his presence left the room cold and lonely. ***** Lucien slowed his mount as he and Petros neared Lake Alcina. The moon rode high overhead and shone down upon the still, dark waters of the wide lake. A loon sang its lonely song to the skies and a flutter of wings nearby spooked the horses and made them sidestep. Reaching down to pat Fiach’s neck, Lucien soothed the animal, speaking quietly to it in the old tongue, calming the skittish beast. “There are shadows about,” Petros remarked as he slid from his big roan. “I feel them,” Lucien agreed. He threw a leg over Fiach’s head and dismounted. “They’ll stay where they are.” “You never know.” Lucien trailed behind his steed as the black ambled to the water’s rim and lowered its head to lap at the cool water. He squatted down beside the horse and scooped up a handful to refresh him. Petros kept watch, his nerves on edge. His hand strayed to the hilt of the dagger strapped to his thigh and lingered there. “If Stavros’ men were lurking about, we’d sense it, Pet,” Lucien said quietly. “Those are humans.” “Angry humans,” Petros corrected. “I can feel their hatred like a wet blanket over my shoulders.” “Aye, but they won’t attack us. They are afraid.” “I’ll send the herders out tomorrow to gather them up.” Lucien shook his head. “They are diseased, my friend. Can’t you smell it?” Petros lifted his chin and sniffed, his upper lip arching. “Aye, now that you mention it, I can. What the hell has gotten into me that I don’t pay more attention to the things around me of late?” “You have other things on your mind, obviously.” Lucien stood, flung the water from his hand. “They are starving,” he told his friend. “One is near death.” Tuning in to the situation around him, Petros nodded. “Aye, I believe you are right.” “Have the herders bring out a hindquarter of beef and a few bushels of vegetables. There is no honor in allowing the creatures to die even if they are of no use to us.” “Stavros would feel otherwise,” Petros reminded Lucien. “I am not Stavros,” Lucien snapped. Petros shifted his shoulders. “But is it wise to have plague victims this close to Modartha?” “They’ll not come within a mile of the keep, Pet. If I thought it would help, I’d have Christina come out

to inoculate them, but since they already have the disease, it is already too late for them.” “Aye, but what of any other humans the diseased ones might come into contact with? Do we take a chance they won’t be contaminated? Is it not better to put these sick ones out of their misery?” “They won’t live much longer anyway, Petros. Just let them be. Besides, you know as well as I there are no viable humans within fifty miles of us.” Petros grumbled but he let the matter drop. He sat down on a rock as his mount swilled the water as though it hadn’t drunk all day. “Why is it,” he asked, “this water tastes better than anywhere else?” “It comes as runoff from the higher elevations of Mount Duáilce. Even in the dead of our summer, snow clings to those lofty peaks.” “I suppose you’re right. At any rate, it is as cool and refreshing as the water I used to get from my fridge, all those years ago when we still had electricity,” Petros said and sighed. “There are some things I truly miss.” “Sometimes—” Lucien said, stretching out on the grass on his side, crossing his ankles, and propping his head in his hand “—I entertain myself by remembering all the things that have been invented in my lifetime. We’ve seen it all, my friend—electricity, the telephone, automobiles, space flight…” “The Black Death, genocide, terrorist bombings, nuclear war,” Petros added. Lucien sighed. “Always the pessimist, Petros.” The two men were silent for a moment then Petros grinned. “Remember licorice?” “Aye,” Lucien said. “And Italian ice.” “Cold soda pops on a hot day.” “Hot chocolate on a cold day,” Lucien amended. “The half-naked girls at Mardi Gras in Rio.” “Aye, back when we could take night flights to such great cities. That was something.” Petros suddenly grinned. “A man walking on the moon.” “A woman becoming Secretary General of the United Nations.” “Sno-cones!” “Hot fudge sundaes.” “Learning to make homemade ice cream.” “Learning to make homemade pizza.” Together, “Elephant ears!” And they burst out laughing thinking of the bakery treat from fairs long, long

before. They sighed in unison. “The world has changed so drastically,” Petros observed. “No more electricity so there is no refrigeration, no movies or television, no gas to power automobiles, boats or planes. To come across the ocean—if anyone is stupid enough to try it—must be like in the days of Christopher Columbus.” He shook his head. “We have reverted to the dark ages in most of Europe and back to colonial days in America if what I hear is true.” “America had vast stores of some of the things we Europeans took for granted,” Lucien said. “We thought they were the stupid ones—wasting resources at will—but we found out differently.” “There is so much I will miss,” Petros said for both of them. “I’ll not miss hiding out to keep humans from knowing of us.” “Aye, but we got damned good at it over the years,” Petros reminded him. “If you have eight hundred years in which to practice, you’d better get good at it!” Lucien said with a chuckle. “But you know Christina once said that the old keeps here and in France and even in China helped to hide us. Who would know we were hiding deep in the old dungeons and in underground caverns to which we could retreat when hunters came looking.” “Hunters,” Lucien said, his lips twisted. “They were a plague from time to time. Misguided fools for the most part but dangerous, nevertheless. Now, we are the hunters.” “True but think of all we have witnessed in our lifetime, Luc,” Petros said. “All the innovations, the silly fads.” His eyes twinkled. “Remember the sack dress or the balloon dress? How about the flapper dresses?” He shook his fingers up and down. “Va-va-vavoom!” “We’ve seen it all,” Lucien agreed then the smile slipped from his face. “While we were in hiding, living vicariously through our thralls some of the time, as you recall.” Petros shrugged. “Aye, but just thinking of the accomplishments, the wondrous gifts humankind made in those last four centuries makes me proud of us all even if I had no hand in it.” “The thralls did, though, and the greatest gift they gave us was to keep us hidden and see to our welfares. We could never repay them for the service they did for us.” “Those who wished to we turned,” Petros reminded him. “But did we dothem a service by doing so?” Lucien countered. “They have lived all these years with us. I’m sure they think we did right by them.” “Perhaps but they’ve known the ills as well as the boons to mankind so maybe it’s a wash, as they used to say.”

“Speaking of ills that have befallen man,” Petros muttered. “What am I going to do about Lady Alexa?” Sighing again, Lucien turned over to lie on his back and look up at the stars. The heavens were crystal clear with no clouds in sight and the moon was full and bright. “What do you want to do about her?” he countered as he crossed his hands behind his head and drew his knees up. “The woman is a veritable pest,” Petros complained. “I can’t seem to fuck her enough.” “Is that your problem or hers?” Petros grunted. “A bit of both, I think. She tells me I’m free to screw whomever I please but…” He shrugged. “Keeping track of one woman is bad enough. Having to play court to another wears me out just thinking on it.” “Yet you offered to take Khamsin sight unseen,” Lucien reminded him. “That was to entice you,” Petros stated. “I knew what you’d say.” Lucien turned his head to look at his friend. “And when you saw her?” Petros flinched. “You could have knocked me over with a parakeet’s feather. I couldn’t believe my eyes.” A gentle smile hovered over Lucien’s lips. “You would have sent her to Dorcha to keep me from seeing her.” Petros looked down at the ground. “I thought it best. I didn’t want you to get hurt.” “It’s too late for that, my friend,” Lucien chided. “It hurts to look at her, but I’m trying to ignore the similarity between them.” “What will you do with her?” Lucien wagged his brows but even in the moon glow, Petros did not miss that reaction. He grinned. “You’re sure?” “There is a passing resemblance to Magdalena, but not enough for me to keep comparing the two of them. It’s been lonely without Sibylline, although I’d never admit that to the witch herself.” “Don’t you think she knew? Why else send the wench to you?” “I suppose, but she’ll never get me to admit it.” “And the wench? She seems a handful. Will you be able to break her to saddle without too much trouble?” Lucien had a smile on his full lips. “I’m preparing her, but it may take awhile. She’s willing—whether she knows it or not—so it is but a matter of being patient with her. I believe her worth the effort.” “That’s another thing about Alexa,” Petros said. “She wants to be of the Blood.”

“I don’t see that as a problem,” Lucien commented. “You have my permission if you wish it. Do you have some concern about turning her?” “She’ll have power I’m not so sure I wish her to possess,” Petros stated. “I think I prefer her as my thrall rather than my equal. What of the special one? There is no question of you turning her. The law forbids it. Won’t you be hurt even more as she ages then dies, Luc?” Lucien was quiet for so long it seemed he might have fallen asleep. When at last he spoke, there was firm resolve in his deep voice. “The law states that I can not coerce her into becoming One with the Blood nor can I turn her without approval of the Clan Tribunal. There are provisions that would allow her to ask to become one of us if she wanted that of her own free will.” “True,” Petros agreed, “but every drop of her blood is precious to all Revenants. It would have to be drained completely and replaced with yours. She might not survive such an ordeal.” “She will,” Lucien said with confidence. “I’ll make sure she does.” Petros’ forehead puckered. “You already have feelings for this wench, Luc?” “Don’t you think it past time I moved on?” “You know Tina and I have been nudging you to do that for centuries, but why now?” Lucien exhaled slowly. “There is something about this wench.” He smiled ruefully. “As Tina said, she’s going to give me a run for my money.” Petros’ frown deepened. “Then we’d best make damned sure Stavros does not learn of her existence. He’d move heaven and hell to take her away from you.” Lucien sat up and captured his raised knees within the perimeter of his arms. He stared across the moon-shot lake. “That is the only thing that worries me, Pet.” “We still have a traitor amongst us,” Petros stated. “I’ll double my efforts in finding him or her.” ***** Stavros Constantine’s spy watched Prince Lucien and Lord Petros as they walked their mounts up the serpentine mountain road toward the keep. There were others too close for him to open a psychic link between himself and Lord Anchises, to give his report. Someone might pick up on that link so the thrall was forced to bide his time. Gingerly, he lifted a hand to his eye and winced. “She got you good, didn’t she, Ari?” another thrall asked. Aristotle Pavli ignored the taunt. There would be time to make the bitch pay for giving him the shiner. Before he turned her over to Prince Stavros, Ari vowed he would have her splayed beneath him and her body one long wince of agony by the time he had had his fill of her. He remembered well the feel of her full breasts as he felt her up as she lay unconscious in his arms, the pressure of his nerve constriction on her neck having put her out like a light.

“Open the portcullis!” Taking one last look at Prince Lucien, Ari turned and headed for the guard’s quarters. Dawn was only an hour away and already the Revenants were moving lethargically, their movements slow. The keep would be locked down until sunset, the bridge drawn back across the steep gorge it spanned. There would be no entry—or exit—from Modartha unless Lord Petros sent out herders and the chances of that were slim. But when Ari was about to enter the guardhouse, Lord Petros called out to him, the Lord of Security walking as slowly as the rest of those of the Blood. “Prince Lucien wants a hindquarter of beef taken to Lake Alcina,” Petros ordered. “Take a wagon filled with bushels of whatever vegetables you can load along with you. Just leave the provisions there at the lake and return. I’ve already spoken to the gatekeeper and he’ll be there to let you in and out.” Ari grimaced. “Why am I taking good food and leaving it in the middle of nowhere?” Petros glared at the thrall. “Because your prince ordered it!” he snapped and continued on, his footsteps dragging as he climbed the steps into the keep. “Not my damned prince,” Ari muttered, his beady eyes following Lucien Korvina as that one disappeared beyond the main door. So trusting had Petros been, he had never questioned Ari’s assertion that he was in thrall to the Korvina clan when he had shown up at Modartha ten years before. Because Petros had accepted the lie without a moment’s hesitation, no drop of Lucien’s blood had ever been injected into Ariostle Pavli. Grumbling to himself, Ari slammed into the guardhouse, kicking a subordinate thrall out of his way. “Don’t bother going to bed,” he snapped. “We’ve got to take food out to the lake.” “Why?” the thrall whimpered, rubbing his shin. “Because your prince ordered it,” Ari ground out. “Must be some diseased ones out there,” one of the thralls commented. He had slept all night and was fresh, just then coming on duty. “Then we’ll give them rancid meat,” Ari snorted. “What difference will it make to them? They’re half-dead anyway.” “I wouldn’t do that, Pavli,” someone said. “You know what happened to those guards just yester eve when Lord Petros found out they had not been giving the herd adequate provisions.” “No one need know,” Ari shot back. He swung his angry eyes about the room. “Who’s going to tell Petros?” No one replied. The other thralls feared Aristotle Pavli and wanted no trouble with the burly guard. Ari smirked at the men. “Be ready to ride out at first light. Peleus and Nestor, go load the wagon. I’ll drive it to the lake, myself.” He stomped from the room, his shoulders hunched and fists clenched. “His days are numbered here,” Peleus remarked. “Lord Petros won’t stand for such behavior.”

“I’ll be damned if I’ll load rancid meat on that wagon,” Nestor said. “I saw what Lord Petros did to those guards yester eve and I’ve no desire to follow them to an early grave.” “Throw a few pieces atop the pile so Pavli will smell it. I’m with you. I’ll not do anything to set the Revenants on my ass!” Peleus asserted. ***** Khamsin was asleep on his settee when Lucien returned. His footsteps were heavy, lethargic, but he walked past his beckoning bed and went to stand over her. He smiled, for she presented such a sweet picture of naiveté and beauty. Her hands were clasped together and pressed beneath her cheek. Her knees were drawn up, her pale hair flowing over her left hip in wayward curls. She was sleeping so soundly he hated to wake her so he laid his hand lightly on her head and closed his eyes, willing her into a deeper sleep that would allow him to pick her up and carry her to his bed undisturbed. When he thought her under as far as he’d sent her, he bent over, and scooped her up into his arms and carried her to his bed. Gently he laid her down, stripped off his shirt and britches, and then stretched out beside her. He lay there for a moment, thinking. Khammie was too innocent yet for her to wake and find a naked man lying close to her. As much as Lucien hated the underwear he was wearing, he had to admit to himself that it did serve a purpose now and again. He cradled Khamsin in his arms and allowed the lulling effects of the rising sun to put him to sleep. It was the heat of something heavy draped over her waist that woke Khamsin a few hours later. She felt weighted down, unable to move and when she lowered her hand to the weight pressing against her, she realized it was a man’s hairy arm. For the space of a moment, she froze like a deer in a bright light but then memory crept back to her and she realized whose arm it had to be. Carefully, she turned over and found herself almost nose to nose with Lucien. She stared into his face and was fascinated by his sheer male beauty. His dark hair was tousled attractively around the slight oval of his features. Long, sweeping eyelashes any woman would kill to possess fanned his high cheekbones. Full lips, a slight cleft in his chin, tiny groove lines to either side of his mouth where she knew dimples appeared when he smiled, and a nose that was the perfect size for his face added to the attractiveness. A mole on his right cheek caught her attention and she thought it made him look vulnerable and more human. Her gaze moved lower to take in the chiseled muscles that bulged on his biceps and chest, and striated his abdomen. His chest was matted with curly hair that stretched from manly breast to manly breast then down a smooth line to below the deep indention of his belly button. The wicked scars—very white against his darker complexion—were half-hidden beneath the arm she had removed from atop her. His hand looked so strong with long, tapered fingers and very short nails that were clipped short and were clean. Dark hair grew on the back of his hand and she found that endearing, catching herself before she reached out to touch it. Looking down, she saw his long, muscular legs were likewise pelted with just the right proportion of fine dark hairs. She lay there and watched him sleep for quite some time but nature’s call finally invaded and she scooted carefully from the bed. Going into the bathing chamber, she realized the candle she had placed in the dark room had gone out and she couldn’t find the toilet. There was no window in the bathing chamber so she had to fumble her way until she found the porcelain stool. Sighing, she hiked up her gown and sat down, bracing her chin on the heel of her hand as she considered her situation.

That Lucien would not allow her to leave him was a given. He had staked a claim to her and she knew he considered her his possession. Though the thought of any man having such a hold on her rankled, she had to admit that he was a handsome—if demanding—man and she thought perhaps he would be good to her. “You could have it worse,” she mumbled to herself as she groped for the toilet paper. Not knowing just how soundly her captor slept, she did not flush the toilet when she was finished. She stumbled to the sink, washed her hands, and then went back into the bedchamber. The candle on the bed stand was now almost out and the room too dark to read any of the books Lucien had been kind enough to have sent to her when he left the evening before. Standing there—chewing on her bottom lip—she finally decided she would ease the door open and ask one of the omnipresent guards if she could go have something to eat downstairs. As luck would have it, it was the same guard who had tied her to the chair. When she saw him, her heart sank but before she could close the door, he put a hand out to prevent her. “Milady,” he said softly, “I wanted to thank you for interceding on my behalf. By right, you could have had me flogged.” Khamsin’s eyebrows drew together. “You were only doing your job.” “Aye, milady, but I should not have laid hands to my prince’s woman,” he confessed. “It’s all right,” she said. “We’ll just forget it ever happened.” Briton O’Neil removed his hand from the door panel. “I am your servant for life, milady,” he said, bowing his head. “If you need my help, all you have to do is ask.” Khamsin hesitated then asked if he would escort her downstairs so she could eat. The guard frowned. “Nay, milady, I can not do that but I can get food brought up to you.” Sighing deeply, Khamsin asked if he would also bring more candles for she wouldn’t be able to see once the bed stand candle sputtered out. “Why don’t you just open the curtain, Khammie?” Khamsin jumped for Lucien’s sleepy voice sounded right behind her. She swung her head around and realized he was staring at her. The wavering light from the dying candle reflected in his green eyes. “I’ll get your breakfast, milady,” Briton said and reached out to pull the door shut. Khamsin turned and stared at Lucien. “Open the curtain. There’s no reason you should sit in here in the dark. I’ll hide my head under the pillow,” he said, reaching for the pillow upon which her head had recently rested. She padded over to the bed. “The light won’t hurt you?” “Only if I stare into it,” he said, dragging the pillow over the side of his head. “It would give me a bitch of

a headache.” “It won’t kill you?” she asked. Lucien peeled the pillow back and looked up at her. “Oh,” he said, humor twitching at his lips. “We’re back to the old vampire legends.” He laughed. “No, wench. Sunlight doesn’t turn us into flaming torches. It just makes us very tired and we have little strength. We can even walk out in it but we walk very slowly.” “Then I wouldn’t have killed you if I had flung the drapes open?” she pressed. She heard him laugh and felt her cheeks turn red. “Do you think they would have left you in here alone if it could have?” he asked with a chuckle. The candle flickered then went out, casting the room into near total darkness. Khamsin could see nothing at all but she could hear the rustling of the bedclothes. “Go open the drape,” Lucien said. Khamsin put her hands out and felt her way over to the window. She bumped into a chair and almost fell but finally made her way to the window. She reached up, took hold of the panels, and then looked behind her, knowing he could see her as clearly as though she were in a spotlight. “You’re sure?” she asked. “Very sure,” he said and she realized he was right behind her. He put his hands over hers and spread the drapes aside. Bright sunlight flowed into the room, causing Khamsin to squint. As uncomfortable as the bright invasion made her, she knew it had to be worse for Lucien. She would have shut the panels but he kept his hands over hers. “See?” he said, bending his head so his forehead touched her shoulder. “I am not a scrambling, staggering brand with my hair on fire and my flesh melting.” “The sunlight isn’t deadly to you,” she said with awe. “No, it isn’t. The only thing that kills a Revenant is fire. Set one ablaze with some kind of incendiary and he’ll burst open like an overfed tick.” He was keeping his face from the bright glare and when Khamsin turned, she saw his eyes were closed. “Get back in bed,” she said. “You’ve proved your point and you don’t need another migraine.” Nodding, he turned around and slowly made his way back to the bed. He flopped down on the mattress and flung her pillow over his face just as a light knock came at the door. Khamsin hurried over and opened the portal. She smiled at Briton, for he had a huge tray of very enticing-smelling food cradled in his hands. “Man, that smells so good!” she said. Briton grinned, cast a quick look at the bed, and then took the tray to the table. “Do you need anything

else, milady?” “Since all is well between the two of you,” Lucien mumbled. “Why don’t you take her for a walk later this morn. Keep inside the bailey.” Briton’s mouth dropped open. “You trust me with your lady, Your Grace?” With a heavy sigh, Lucien peeled the pillow from his face once more and speared the guard with a stern look. “I am entrusting her to you and you alone, Briton. See no harm comes to her.” He pulled the pillow tight against his face. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” Khamsin said, taking a seat before the mouthwatering repast. “She’ll be ready in twenty,” Lucien corrected. “Take your time, wench. The bailey will be there when you’re finished.” Briton and Khamsin grinned at one another then the guard turned to go. “Fifteen minutes,” Khamsin whispered. “Twenty,” Lucien stated. “Twenty, Your Grace,” Briton agreed, shrugging at Khamsin as he closed the door behind him. “Go back to sleep,” she said, cutting into the omelet on her plate. “Be careful,” he said, his voice muffled and drowsy. As Khamsin chewed the fluffy omelet, she heard Lucien moaning in his sleep. She laid the fork down and listened for a moment, her heart aching at the grief that came from the sounds he made. She pushed back her chair and went to the bed, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “Dream of me,” she whispered. “Dream of Khamsin. Dream sweetly, Lucien. No more bad dreams now.” Her touch seemed to heal the pain in his soul for Lucien quieted. He snuggled down in the bed with the pillow clutched over his face, and began to snore lightly. Going back to her meal, Khamsin ate slowly, relishing the excellent fare and when she was finished, lit a fat candle Briton had placed on her tray. When the flame ignited and a small circle of light was cast upon the ceiling, she went to the window and closed the drapes tightly. Before she exited the room, she gently removed the pillow over Lucien’s face and laid it aside, smiling as he sighed in his sleep. “He’s getting to you, Khammie,” she said, shaking her head. A third guard was standing beside Lucien’s door when Khamsin opened it. Briton was leaning against the far wall while the other two flanked the door. All three snapped to attention when she appeared. Khamsin giggled. “You make me feel like royalty,” she said. “You are royalty, milady,” Briton said. “You are the prince’s mate.”

The smile slid from Khamsin’s face. She wasn’t accustomed yet to being thought of in that manner but to hear the guard say it, she realized she would have no choice in the matter. And she realized she was beginning to accept the situation and that bothered Khamsin to a degree. Together, she and Briton walked down the long curving staircase that led to the great hall. The opulence of the paintings on the walls, the gilt, the plush carpet and obviously expensive wallpaper was not lost upon Khamsin and when they turned right beside the staircase and ventured toward the huge oak double doors, she caught a glimpse of the dining room and stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, my,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. Briton stayed where he was as the prince’s lady walked into the dining room. He had seen the mural on the wall many times, yet it always stirred something deep in his soul. “Where is this?” Khamsin asked, standing before the sweeping mural, taking in the splendor. Briton came up behind her. “It is the castle from Queen Sibylline’s home world,” he replied. The castle soared into the clouds from beside a sparkling sapphire blue lake. Spectacular towers were topped with snapping banners that looked almost as though they were waving in a stiff breeze. High cliffs of ragged stone provided a backdrop for the castle and between the twin barbicans and the outer wall of the bailey a deep green moat ringed the castle’s perimeter. A wide-plank bridge arched gracefully over a portion of the lake and led to the barbicans. “They say the bridge there didn’t have to be retracted like ours does, for there were no enemies of Queen Sibylline’s race,” Briton explained. “That’s why the bridge is down and the portcullis rose.” “And they could cross running water?” “Aye, well, that lake isn’t really running water, now, is it?” Briton replied. “And they had a moat,” she observed. Briton nodded. “The king kept alligators as pets and that is why the moat is there, milady. It wasn’t a security measure, just a fanciful treat for His Majesty.” “And no doubt where the idea for a protective measure came from for our world to use?” “I imagine so,” Briton said, scratching his head. “I don’t know too much about human history.” “I know a bit,” she said, reaching out to touch the magnificent mural. “Can you imagine the work that went into this?” “It took over a year for the artist to paint it,” Briton said. “He had to work from the queen’s memories and she had to put them in his head first.” Khamsin turned away from the gorgeous painting. “How did she get to our world?” Briton cocked a shoulder. “You’ll have to ask the prince, milady. I have no idea.”

With one last fleeting look at the painting, Khamsin and Briton left the Great Hall. Outside, the sun was bright but the air was cold though it was mid-July. Though the wind skirled around the battlements and through the crenulations with an eerie sound, it was nice to be outside anyway. “Are you old enough to remember the world as it was before the war?” she asked. Briton frowned. “I was ten when the first attack wave hit London,” he replied. “The States had already been hit several times before that. All I remember was the sound of the explosions and people screaming. Buildings were falling down around us we ran down into the metro. I guess it never occurred to any of us that the tunnels might collapse atop us.” He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t like thinking of those times.” Khamsin looked away. “I understand.” “Things changed for the worse,” Briton said. “It’s best not to be thinking of the way it used to be. Makes a man too sad.” They were near the pens and the sight of the locked enclosure bothered Khamsin. Pale faces stared back at her through the barbed wire and a few of those inside the corral hissed at her. “Don’t pay any attention to them, milady,” Briton advised. “There’s nothing you or them can do about your situation. Some of the women wish they were in your shoes.” “Conditions are better for them now, though, aren’t they?” she asked. “Lord Petros made sure of it.” “Are there any other special ones here?” Briton nodded. “Just one other than you. He’s most likely down with Lady Christina in her lab. He works with her.” “Where’s that?” “In what was the old dungeon,” Briton answered. “I’ll take you down there if you’d like.” Her heart heavy with guilt, Khamsin looked back over her shoulder as Briton led her back into the keep. The men and women from the pens were glaring at her, their eyes filled with hatred. “Doesn’t it bother you, Briton?” she asked. “Used to,” he admitted. “But you get accustomed to things when you start remembering you could have it worse than what you got. We could be in Prince Stavros’ keep and that doesn’t bear thinking about.” “Long before I was brought here, I’d been hearing tales of Stavros Constantine. They say he’s the worst of the four princes.” Khamsin rolled her shoulders, grimacing. Briton stopped and looked at her. “Are you all right, milady?” Khamsin put a hand to her chest. “I’m just bruised is all.”

A dark scowl shifted over Briton’s face. “Did I do that?” he asked. “No,” she was quick to deny, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “It wasn’t you. That son of a bitch who caught me when I was trying to escape mauled me like I was a piece of fruit.” “Ari?” he asked, the word an ominous growl. “I think that was his name,” she said. “The man I hit in the eye?” Briton nodded slowly. “He bruised you there?” he wanted clarified, his eyes shifting quickly to her bosom before settling on her face. “I’ve got his paw prints all over me,” she acknowledged. Briton said nothing but stepped aside for her to precede him down a long flight of steps. “If the people from the herds could have free access to the bailey, perhaps they wouldn’t be so miserable.” “What if they tried to escape?” “Where would they go?” Khamsin asked. “You have a point there,” Briton agreed. “And they all know about Prince Stavros. None would like to get caught by his herders.” The further down the two went, the cooler the air became. Lighted torches flickered on the damp walls to give the narrow stairwell a claustrophobic effect on Khamsin’s nerves. “I’ve never liked closed-in places,” she admitted. “The lab is on your left at the end of the stairs.” Brightly lit with torches, candles and leaping cauldrons of fire, the lab’s atmosphere went a long way in displacing the gloom of the old dungeon. Though the rusted iron bars still marked off the various rooms within the lab, there wasn’t the oppressive air Khamsin had expected. They didn’t stay long for Christina was abed and Marcus—the only other special one at Modartha—was elsewhere in the sprawling keep. A few thralls were working in the lab but none paid any attention to Khamsin and Briton. “They are the Lady’s workers,” Briton said when Khamsin asked why they were being ignored. “They answer to her.” By the time the sun began lowering in the sky Khamsin had completed her tour of Modartha. She had been able to thank the cooks for her hardy meal earlier in the day, sit with them for the noon repast, and get a look at the immense library that housed thousands of books she itched to read. At least an hour had been spent scanning the titles and she was pleased to see so many masterpieces of writing in such excellent condition.

When they started up the stairs to Lucien’s chamber, Lord Petros was coming down the wide staircase. “Did you enjoy your day, milady?” Petros asked. “Very much,” Khamsin answered. She didn’t quite know how to act around the man Briton had informed her was the Lord of Security as well as the prince’s best friend. “He’s taking a bath and will join us shortly,” Petros said. “I was to find you and take you to the dining hall.” “I’ve already been there,” she said. Petros frowned. “You’ve already eaten?” Khamsin blinked. “Is it supper already?” “Past time,” Petros commented. “I guess I lost track of time.” Petros turned to Briton. “You did your job well, Bri. The lady was so entertained she forgot herself here.” Briton bowed. “I will leave you in Lord Petros’ very capable hands, milady, but if you should require my services, all you need do is ask someone to find me.” Petros cocked an eyebrow at the guard but said nothing. When Briton was out of sight up the stairs, he turned to Khamsin. “You’ve made a conquest of him.” Khamsin blushed. “He’s been very helpful.” “I’m sure he has. Lucien would not have offered Briton’s assistance to you otherwise.” He held out his arm. “May I?” Reluctant to touch the Revenant, Khamsin nevertheless laid her palm on his arm. There was no electrical charge as there had been when Lucien touched her and she relaxed. “You are his mate,” Petros said. “Only his touch will ever excite you, milady.” “Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t read my mind.” Petros chuckled. “It’s a hard habit to break, but I will make an effort for my prince’s lady.” Khamsin’s mouth tightened as they walked. She wasn’t sure she liked the assumption everyone was making that she was already Lucien’s woman. “The room is lovely,” she muttered as they entered the dining hall. “It is what it is,” Petros quipped. “I don’t particularly like it but I have rather plebian tastes, I’m told.” She said nothing—not even a thank you—when Petros held out her chair so preoccupied with her own

dark thoughts as she was. “He will be good to you,” Petros said as he sat down beside her. “This I can promise you.” “And he always gets what he wants,” she mumbled. “Such is the way with princes, milady,” Petros remarked. “Is she complaining about him already, Pet?” Christina asked as she joined them. Beside her was a tall older man with striking red hair. She introduced him as Marcus Gilbert, another special one. “I am pleased to meet you again under better circumstances, Khamsin,” Marcus said with a slight bow. “We were so in need of new blood for the experiments.” Khamsin winced. “Always the tactful one, Marc,” Christina snapped. She allowed the tall man to seat her. “What the fool means is…” “I understood what he meant,” Khamsin cut her off. The thought of having her blood drawn and fed to the Revenants disturbed her greatly. “There is no pain to the blood taking,” Marcus assured her. “I was training to be a paramedic before the war and was very good at phlebotomy.” Khamsin frowned. “At what?” “Blood taking,” Christina supplied. “Marc is somewhat of an egotist, I’m afraid. He likes to use big words.” Marcus shrugged but made no comment to Christina’s remark. “I hear you have some suggestions for the herds,” Christina injected. “A way to make them happier?” “No one likes to be penned up,” Khamsin said. “You feel like an animal. If they could roam freely over the grounds, perhaps they would not mind their captivity so much. A happier group is a healthier group.” “Ah, yes,” Marcus said, tucking his linen napkin in his lap. “Free-range specimen—that might not be a bad idea.” Christina rolled her eyes. “And by allowing them such freedom run the risk of having a stake driven through our hearts as we sleep, eh, Petros?” Petros looked up. “That won’t kill us, Tina.” “No,” the healer grumbled, “but it would sure hurt like hell!” “They could set fire to your beds,” Marcus suggested. “And run the risk of being punished?” Khamsin asked. “Do you think that likely?”

The servants came in carrying platters of steaming food, which they placed down the center of the long dining table. There was pheasant and rock hen, fish and lobster, pork and beef, and vegetables of varied size and color. “You eat regular food?” Khamsin inquired, her forehead creased. “Along with swilling blood by the goblet full,” Christina chortled. “Of course we eat food. We need nourishment, lass.” “But you are dead,” Khamsin said. “We are?” Christina asked with a gasp. “Who told you that?” “She compares us to the old legends,” Petros said, ladling squash onto his plate. Christina winced. “To vampires?” At his nod, she shuddered. “Egads, woman. What an insult! Vampires have no soul. They have no minds, either, if legend is true. They walk around chomping brains…” “No,” Marcus disagreed. “Only zombies eat brains.” He stabbed a pork chop with his fork. “Revenants have their souls intact although some are as black as a starless night.” “Like Stavros,” Petros commented. He shot Marcus a withering look. “And there are no such things as zombies. Lucien asked Francisco and since the legend of those things come from his part of the world, he would know.” “Vampires are disgusting things,” Marcus observed. “They can’t see themselves in the mirror,” Christina lectured. “Sunlight fries them to a crisp and things like crucifixes and garlic and holy relics will stave them off.” “Imagine Tina not being able to see herself in the mirror?” Petros chuckled. “Get bent,” Christina snapped. “They eat, lass,” Marcus explained, “to keep their bodies from deteriorating. In order for the muscles to maintain elasticity, the veins pliancy and the internal organs to refrain from atrophying, it is necessary for those bodily organs to be nourished. Without breathing air, their lungs would shrivel into dust. Without water, the flesh would dry like cracked leather and without…” “She gets the picture,” Petros reasoned. “Just shut up and eat.” Khamsin looked down at her plate and felt a bit queasy. “Aren’t you going to wait for Prince Lucien?” she asked. “Hell, no,” Christina quipped. “He will come when he wants to. If we had to wait on him, we’d starve to death!” She stabbed a fork toward Khamsin. “Eat!” Khamsin wasn’t hungry but her throat was parched. She took up her goblet of water and drank greedily. “He hasn’t taken your blood yet, has he?” Christina asked. She was chewing thoughtfully on a stalk of celery.

“No, he hasn’t,” Lucien answered for his lady as he entered the room. “Just asking,” Christina said. “She seems awfully thirsty.” Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, Khamsin turned her gaze to the man sitting at the head of the table. Her heart skipped a beat for Lucien was dressed in a white flowing shirt that set off the darkness of his long hair. He had left the wavy locks hanging loose against his shoulders. Leaning back in his throne-like red velvet chair, a jewel-encrusted golden goblet wrapped in the span of his powerful fingers, he was looking back at Khamsin as though she was the next item on his menu. She felt the heat of his gaze all the way to the pit of her womb. “You’re doing it again,” Khamsin complained, looking away. Christina swiveled her head toward Lucien. “What is it you are doing, Luc?” A slow smile spread over Lucien’s lips. “Nothing,” he said, lifting the goblet to his mouth. “Nothing at all. Her thoughts are her own.” Khamsin blushed and kept her head down. She could feel the blood pounding in her ears. “May I be excused, please?” she asked. “You are not hungry, wench?” Petros asked. “The food is excellent.” “Not for food she isn’t,” Lucien said softly. He sipped from the goblet, looking at his woman down the stem. When she glanced his way, he cocked an eyebrow in challenge. Lowering the goblet, he licked the wine from his lips and as her gaze strayed to his moist tongue, he watched her shiver. “Go, Sweeting,” he said. “I’ll be along shortly.” Khamsin could not get up from the table quickly enough. She fled the room, leaving behind her knowing looks. “You’d best take her soon, Luc,” Christina advised. “She is ripe for it.” “Before the night is o’er,” Lucien acknowledged. ***** Once in her room, Khamsin paced the elegant confines. Her palms were slick with perspiration and she was drawing ragged breaths into her lungs. She knew when next she laid eyes on the handsome prince of Modartha, he would exercise his right to her, and mixed emotions were roiling in her gut. He was an exceedingly handsome, virile man beneath whom most women would love to lay. His hard muscles, silken hair and wide chest looked as though they had been cast from a master painter’s easel. There was nothing offensive about him…or at least nothing she had either seen or smelled. If truth were told, he had a sensual odor that hinted of cinnamon and leather. “I promised to take you for a ride tonight.” Khamsin swallowed nervously and turned. He was standing in the doorway, one hand braced against the

lintel. Her eyes traveled down his tall frame and her attention locked on his black leather boots. “Would you like to go riding in the moonlight?” “I…” Khamsin shook her head. She was shivering and wrapped her arms about her. Lucien strolled into the room, coming to stand before her. He reached out and lifted her chin with the crook of his index finger. Staring down into her troubled eyes, he ran the pad of his thumb along the edge of her jaw. “Why do you fear me, wench? Do you truly think I would hurt you?” She felt tears gathering in her eyes. “No, but…” He studied her lovely face, peering deep into the swirling depths of her gaze and what he saw there made his heart ache. “Who hurt you, little one?” he asked. Tears fell slowly down her face. “Please, Lucien, I…” “Give me his name and I will tear him apart with my bare hands,” he said through clenched teeth. Khamsin knew he meant what he said and it was a good thing the man who had taken her innocence was far away, long gone now. “He’s dead,” she said. “He won’t ever hurt anyone again.” Lucien’s eyebrows drew together. “When did this happen? Where?” “On the cruise ship,” she answered. “I was thirteen.” Cold fury hardened Lucien’s green eyes and he reached out to draw Khamsin into his arms—putting his hand on the back of her head and pressing her cheek to his chest. “I am sorry, wench,” he said. She felt safe in his strong arms, her palms pressed to his rock-hard pectorals. Beneath her cheek, she could feel his heart beating and something gave way inside her soul. “I believed all the old tales,” she said softly, her fingers caressing him through the fine white linen of his shirt. “I was taught Revenants were evil things, dead things who butchered their herds and…” He slid his hands to her upper arms, and pushed her gently back from him and looked down into her face. “Some Revenants are that way. Stavros’ coven is but neither mine, nor Gideon’s nor is Francisco’s. We are honorable men.” “I thought you were dead things,” she repeated, shivering. Her fingers plucked at his shirt. “I know,” he said softly. “A rotting corpse was what you expected, wench, wasn’t it?” “I still don’t understand the differences between you,” she confessed. “What are vampires and where did they come from?”

“No one knows from whence either of us came,” Lucien said, “but it has been suggested that neither Revenants nor vampires are native to this world. Some even say there is a third race called Reapers but I’ve never seen one. If that is true, I imagine vampires are the bastard children and Revenants are the rightful race.” “What of the Reapers then?” she asked, seemingly fascinated by the tale. Lucien shrugged. “If such things exist, I imagine they are but a pale imitation of Revenants.” She smiled slightly. “Why could it not be the other way around?” she suggested. Lucien snorted. “Vampires drain the blood from their victims, change the victims they want to keep into either mindless thralls or into beings like themselves who kill without conscience,” he continued, apparently unwilling to contemplate such a thing so dismissing it. “They do not merely take enough blood to survive—they take it all, killing without remorse. They cannot abide sunlight because evil has always been shown for what it is in the light of day. The gods cursed them in such a way that light will destroy them, send them up in howling flames, and anything holy—like water blessed by a priest or a crucifix, anything pertaining to the religious life—will cause them terrible pain. Their souls are so hideously ugly they cannot see their reflections in mirrors for then they would see the evil they had become. They can’t cross running water nor can they consume food. They are truly the undead.” “But Revenants are undead,” she said, confusion showing in her eyes. “We are,” Lucien agreed. “The differences between Revenants and vampires are vast. As I told you, we are not harmed by sunlight as the vampires are. It simply drains us, depletes us. On the other hand, the night revives us, fills our souls. Religious things do not harm us and we can look into a mirror and see ourselves as we really are, although…” He sighed. “I doubt Stavros can.” “Are there other similar traits between Revenants and vampires?” “A few,” he replied. “We both make fledglings in a similar fashion—by injecting a venom from our blood into the new one. Vampires must share their blood, though, in order for a victim to become like them. When Revenants bite, we bite for a reason, not just at the whim of our bloodlust. Though we inject venom just as the vampires do, we can control the amount we inject. Being bit by one of us doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll become a Revenant. Chances are if one bites you without the intention of turning you, you’re on your way to being drained and it’s a moot point.” “What happens when one Revenant bites another?” “Such is not likely to happen, wench,” he replied. “Rarely do we exchange blood—even between lovers.” “Why not?” “Because you can track those you are seeking through their DNA. Vampires fancy themselves so powerful they don’t mind one of their newlings to know where they are. Revenants feel differently. It is not to your advantage to have someone capable of tracking you wherever you are. I don’t know if such is the way with the so-called Reapers but I know I don’t like the notion of anyone being able to know where I am at all times.” He frowned. “It’s bad enough Sibylline does!

“It would have to be a very special circumstance for me to offer my neck to anyone,” he said. “That explains why Revenants do not take blood from other Revenants,” she said. She cocked her head to one side. “What happens when you run out of blood from those you keep in the corrals?” “It won’t happen,” he said. “Why not?” “We’re very careful in how we take blood as Marc told you, Sweeting. We use methods like the blood banks from before the Great War, harvesting blood and keeping it to be consumed later. We never indiscriminately bite someone’s neck like the vampires do. We only bite when we want to make a fledgling and that doesn’t happen that much anymore.” “Are there any more similarities?” “We can both shape shift but I’m told vampires can only assume evil shapes like bats and an occasional rabid wolf. It takes power to change into something like a dragon or an eagle.” “Power such as Revenants have?” she asked, grinning. “Aye,” he said, not hearing the humor in her voice. “We can both read minds and send thoughts. Being able to mesmerize is also a common trait.” She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Are you mesmerizing me, Lucien?” she asked. “Have you made me fall in love with you?” Lucien stopped breathing. Her words had shocked him. “I didn’t want to,” she went on. “I tried not to but when I look at you…” “You like what you see,” he stated. She shook her head. “It’s more than that though. It is something electric that goes through me.” “Aye, well, that’s the testosterone,” he said with a sigh. “When you touch me, I feel warm inside. I feel safe.” “You will always be safe with me, Khammie,” he vowed. “Should any man ever hurt you, he will answer to me.” She tried to keep the thought from sweeping through her mind but the bruises left by the thrall’s fingers were still painful on her breasts and she could feel the slight discomfort as Lucien pressed her to him. She attempted to shut the memory into a closed room of her subconscious but it was easily plucked from her brain. “Who?” Lucien demanded, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed dangerously. “Who dared lay hands to you?” Khamsin knew the name—she’d heard it several times now—but she tried to hide it, instinctively

knowing the thrall would pay dearly for what he’d done. She didn’t want to be responsible for another human’s fate. “Let it go, Lucien,” she asked. “He…” Lucien’s head turned to one side. “He pawed you?” he asked, delving into her mind easily. He shook his head gently. “Let me see your breasts.” A dull blush spread over Khamsin’s high cheekbones. “Please, Lucien. I’m not ready to—” She stopped as the bodice of her dress ripped downward as though invisible hands were parting the fabric. She jerked, wanting to cover herself, but the material was laid aside, exposing the livid bruises on her flesh. Lucien stood as still as a statue and stared at the dark stains on his lady’s body. His nostrils flared for he could smell the thrall’s scent—the oil from his fingers—still clinging to Khamsin’s flesh. Slowly, his eyes swept upward until he was looking into Khammie’s tearful eyes. Their gazes locked for a brief moment then he let go of her arms and spun on his heel. “Lucien!” Khamsin called as he slammed out of the room. She ran to the door but even before she reached it, she heard Lucien bid the guards not to allow her to leave. She took hold of the handle but it did not move for the tumbler of the lock had already fallen into place. “Lucien!” Pounding on the door, begging the guards to open it did no good. Khamsin slapped her palms against the heavy oak panel and turned her back on it to slide to the floor. Bringing her knees up, she circled them with her arms and sat there rocking, fear driving deep in her heart. There was no doubt in her mind that the thrall had breathed his last. How long she sat there on the floor, Khamsin would never know. It was well past midnight and the keep was quiet and still. The guards were not talking quietly. Her rump getting sore from sitting, she finally stood up and went to the settee. About to sit down, she heard noise in the courtyard below. A man’s angry shout rang out, drawing her to the window. Even before she leaned out and looked down to the courtyard five floors below, she knew whatever was taking place had something to do with her. There were several men standing in the courtyard, holding torches. Aristotle Pavli—the thrall who had manhandled her—was bucking between Briton and another guard, cursing them soundly as they dragged him toward an upright. He lashed out at his captors, struggled mightily but he was no match for the men who held him. As he was tied to the upright, Khamsin could see blood running down Pavli’s face and one of his eyes was swollen shut. Leaning further out the window, Khamsin found Lucien standing off to one side, Petros at his side. The Prince of Modartha was as rigid as a statue with his brawny arms crossed over his wide chest. His feet were planted wide apart, the stance suggesting he was barely in control of his emotions. It took Khamsin a moment longer to realize what the other men were doing as they made their way to the upright and bent down—they were placing dry rushes at Pavli’s feet. “No!” Khamsin whispered, shock nearly making her swoon. Lucien turned his head up and caught Khamsin in his hawk-like gaze. His eyes were flint-hard and glowing with a deadly light that set her nerves on edge.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, knowing full well he had heard her denial though the word had been little more than a breath of sound. The Revenant prince held her stare for a few ticks of the clock then looked away, nodding at the men who held burning torches. Khamsin backed away from the window. She did not want to see a man being burned to death because he had dared touch her. She slammed her hands against her ears when the first fierce scream came from Pavli’s agonized throat then she ran to the bed and flung herself facedown, striving to block out the hideous shrieks coming from the courtyard. “Sleep,” the command came—gently but authoritatively. “Sleep and forget this happened.” Khamsin pounded her fist against the softness of the mattress, vowing she would not surrender to the sensual voice insinuating itself into her brain. She swore she would never forget this horrendous night, but even as tears burst from her stricken eyes, sleep reached up to envelop her in warm, soothing arms and she was carried down into layer upon layer of forgetfulness until she was sleeping deeply and all memory of the ill-fated thrall and his exacting punishment had been wiped from her mind. Chapter Eight

Lucien stood at the window and looked down at the charred ruin that had once been a man. The body was being scraped from the concrete upright and piled into a wheelbarrow from whence it would be disposed of beyond the keep’s walls. There was no emotion left in the Prince of Modartha. His rage had been taken out on Aristotle Pavli with meaty fists long before the final punishment had been meted out. Dawn was a few minutes away and already the eastern sky was pink with the day’s rising. The wind—blowing away the last cruel odors of burned flesh—was brisk and beginning to howl at the eaves. Sighing deeply, Lucien closed the window then swept the drapes shut over the portal. He had bathed when he came in from the night’s work but still felt unclean. He hated to crawl into bed with Khamsin, but he needed the comfort of her soft body in his arms and the reassurance his mental command had reached its mark and wiped the horror of the past night from her mind. Stripping the shirt from his body, he kept his eyes on her, his powerful mental ability lightly touching her subconscious to make sure the events of the evening past were no longer there. Satisfied she would not remember what had transpired, he sat down on a chair and pulled off his boots and socks, unbuttoned his britches and removed them. Always a methodically neat man, he folded his shirt and britches and left them on the chair for the maid to remove the next morning. Naked, he went to stand beside his bed. Khamsin was lying on her stomach, her hands to either side of her head, fingers curled. She was sleeping soundly, not moving. As he stretched out beside her, he lay there for a long while just looking at her beautiful face, reaching out to push aside a stray curl that rested along her cheek. So much like Magdalena, he thought as he watched Khammie sleep. The hair color was completely different and Maggie’s eyes had been a darker shade of blue. Khammie was shorter, more petite but decidedly more voluptuous. Maggie’s waist was thicker, her hips broader, but then, she’d given birth. Same cute, upturned nose and full lips and the same gentle nature—considerate of others, tending to

stand up for the underdog. Aye, he thought. The two women were more alike than he felt comfortable in realizing. Though there were enough differences to make the growing feelings for Khamsin real and not an echo of his great love for Magdalena, there were some similarities that made his heart ache with crushing grief. Like the dark bruises on Khamsin’s chest that reminded him all too vividly of the slashes across Magdalena’s. The sight of those bruises sent cruel vengeance flooding through Lucien Korvina and burned him to the marrow. As the past reared its ugly head to remind him of Magdalena’s suffering and horrific death, all humanity that had ever existed within him fled. Fury—white-hot and sizzling—seized his brain, his heart, his very soul. Nothing could have kept him from exacting revenge against the man who had dared hurt Lucien’s woman. Rage still smoldered inside the Revenant prince. His veins continued to bubble with the molten lava that had been unleashed only partway upon Ari Pavli. The powerful wrath that had burned Lucien—even as the flames had crept up the thrall’s legs and consumed him in fiery retribution—now lay in dying ashes, but the stench of the reckoning was still in Lucien’s nostrils. Khamsin groaned in her sleep as though her would-be lover’s savage thoughts had singed their way into her peaceful state. “Sleep deeply, Sweeting,” Lucien whispered as he ran the backs of his fingers along her cool cheek. Not a man in the courtyard the night past would ever speak of what had taken place there. Not a one of them would ever let it be known to the vulnerable woman lying beside Lucien that it was her pain that had claimed Pavli’s life. She was not to know. Lucien’s desire to protect Khamsin from the brutality of his world softened the lines in his handsome face. He, himself, had known such terrible anguish in his life—he would keep those burdens from her if he could. He moved closer to her and took her into his arms, placing her head upon his shoulder. The way she spooned against his body, he felt as though she had been made for him. He stroked her hair, closing his eyes to the softness of it, and finally allowed the lassitude of the coming morning to claim him. ***** Khamsin woke early the next evening. Lucien was pressed against her, his arms enclosing her in a haven that felt natural, perfectly normal. His cheek lay atop her head and his warm breath tickled her ear. The steady beat of his heart was reassuring beneath the plain of her palm. Not so reassuring was the hard erection that poked at her thigh. Carefully, she lifted her head and looked down where his body touched hers. Her eyes widened for he was completely naked and the sight of the enormous staff jutting from the dark triangle between his thighs made her swallow hard. “It will fit.”

Khamsin jerked, her head coming up and her eyes flaring even wider when she found him staring back at her, his lids half-raised, his lips creased in a knowing smile. He reached out to remove a strand of hair from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. His lips twitched and he trailed his fingers down the silky lock, seemingly gauging its softness. “Like spun gold,” he said quietly. “Lucien…” she began, but he laid a finger gently to her lips, shaking his head to still her protest. She laid her head down on the pillow. They remained where they were for a few moments—staring at one another, barely breathing. Their eyes spoke volumes in the silence and when Khamsin reached out a trembling hand to touch Lucien’s cheek, he drew in a long, deep breath. “You aren’t mesmerizing me,” she wanted clarified. “You aren’t making me do this?” Lucien closed his eyes at the feather-soft touch of her palm on his flesh. “No, wench. I won’t ever make you come to my bed for anything other than sleep if that is your desire. I told you I wouldn’t force you and I won’t. You must desire me before I’ll lie with you.” Desire, she thought as she traced the laugh lines on his face, wondering if they had come about before or after his becoming a Revenant. “Before,” he said. “Once you become one of the undead, your body remains as it was at the moment you were turned.” “So all the smiles and laughter occurred before you became a prince.” “The roadmap of my life is etched in those lines, aye,” he said softly, “but so, too, is the sorrow. The lines of grief came upon me the moment Magdalena and Lilly died. Before that, I was relatively free of the harsh lines you see now.” She studied the lines a moment longer than raised up to lean over him. “Then let me see what I can do to lessen those lines, milord.” Lucien went as still as a statue as she lowered her face to his and her lips pressed as sweetly as a child’s against his mouth. Every instinct within his manly body cried out for him to throw his arms around her, crush her to him—but he lay still, unmoving, and let her soft lips move tentatively over his. When her tongue flicked experimentally at the crease of his lips, he opened his mouth to allow her entry, both hearing and feeling the blood racing through his veins and pounding in his ears. The hot warmth of her tongue slipping past his lips brought a drop of fluid from his cock. Khamsin moved over him and stretched out atop his brawny body. The feel of his hard muscles beneath her was intoxicating, and for the first time in her life, she knew what passion meant, for she was aching between her legs, her breasts heavy and her nipples tingling. She reached up to thread her fingers through his where they lay to either side of his head and lowered her mouth to his once more. The kiss was as stimulating as well-aged wine and went right to his head—both of them. Lucien was on fire with a need he had not felt in over a decade and with an emotion he hadn’t felt in centuries. His heart was hammering a beat beneath her lush breasts and his cock was as hard as granite. He laid there, her captive, and allowed her to work the magic of her hot kiss into his very soul. Her fingers tightened around

his and she pushed herself up, looking down at him with a passionate stare that made his belly clench. “I come to you of my own free will,” she said softly. She released her hold on his hands. “I give myself to you.” His cock leapt between them at her words. “Give yourself to me, Beloved,” he commanded, his words throaty and filled with passion. She sat up, her legs straddling his lean hips. Her long hair dropped down over her shoulders to camouflage the thrust of her breasts from his view. She swept the thick locks back with a couple of tosses of her head and sat still as his eyes crawled over her with hunger. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Your body is beautiful.” He put out a trembling hand to touch one breast and she clasped it between hers and brought his palm to the center of her chest. “And it is yours,” she vowed. Lucien’s eyes flared and he took one, two, three short, audible breaths before placing his hands to the curve of her waist. Khamsin gasped as he flipped her over to her back, his powerful body wedged between her parted thighs. He was a hot, damp weight above her, pressing her down into the mattress, the length of his manhood lying like silken flame at the entrance to her sex. “You are sure?” he asked, studying her eyes. “I am sure.” He lowered his head and trailed soft, fleeting kisses down the column of her throat, across her shoulders and into the valley between her breasts. With lightning raids, his lips suckled here, slid across there, and pressed deep on still another spot. His tongue grazed her flesh and lapped at the perspiration that was beginning to dot her flesh. That strong muscle spiraled around the areolas, over the nipples, then dragged between her cleavage. He laved the rounded globes and spiraled upward to poke lightly in the hollow at the base of her throat. Khamsin lifted her hands and tunneled them through his dark waves, holding his head lightly as his mouth continued to do homage to her upper chest. She smiled contentedly as his lips circled one hard nipple and drew the little nubbin into his mouth where he began to torture it deliciously with the tip of his tongue. “You are an evil man,” she said, feeling the heaviness between her legs and the clutching deep in her belly. “Umm,” he growled and his teeth closed around her nipple. Khamsin sucked in a breath, lifting her hips instinctively, asking for his manly invasion—seeking the filling she knew would stretch her to the limits. Worrying her nipple lightly between his teeth, he trailed his hands down her sides then slid them beneath her to lift her hips to his. He ground against her and chuckled lightly as she groaned. With her nipple tucked gently between his teeth, he looked up at her through his lashes, cocking one dark brow in question.

“Aye, my Prince,” she said, her voice husky. “I want you.” She held his head back for a moment. “You aren’t going to bite me, are you?” “No.” He grinned around the delicacy in his lips then suckled her until her fingers tightened against his scalp. The suckling deepened and it was almost a painful grip he could feel then on his hair, but that mattered little to Lucien. He was intent on drawing out the lovemaking for as long as they both could stand it. Khamsin closed her eyes and concentrated on the moist heat surrounding her nipple. The sensation of his wet mouth drawing upon her, his tongue flicking against the tiny ducts that pebbled the smooth surface, sent shivers of delight racing along her spine. A tiny presence of pain flitted across her breasts when his teeth nipped at the sensitive nub, but it was a tiny discomfort she found exhilarating. It had been only the once she had known the intrusion of a man’s body upon hers, but the man who had brutalized her had left in his wake a legacy of tension that seemed not to be evaporating as Lucien worked his sorcery upon Khamsin. As pleasurable as the things he was doing to her were, she could not seem to relax fully and her mind was seething with the fear of being hurt once more. Sensing the turmoil that was detracting from the enjoyment he was striving so hard to give, Lucien lifted his head and looked up at his lady. His gaze fused with hers and when he read the unease slithering through her mind, laid his cheek on her belly. “I would rather walk into an inferno of flames than cause you one moment’s pain, Beloved,” he said softly. “We’ll wait until you are more at ease with my touch.” Khamsin blinked. Not only had he again used a term of endearment instead of his customarywench , he was making it clear he held her feelings above his own and she was touched. Smoothing his hair from his high forehead, she sighed deeply before speaking. “I am ready, Lucien,” she said quietly. “There is no need to wait.” His hands were beneath her, his fingers caressing the smooth cheeks of her rump. His warm breath tickled her belly button to send ripples of goose bumps over the skin of her abdomen. “Are you sure?” he asked her again. “I am.” He pressed a kiss to her belly then lifted his head. He looked up into her eyes and when he seemed satisfied with her answer, flicked his tongue into the hollow of her navel, and then licked his way to the spiky curls at the juncture of her thighs. Reveling in the feelings that were rocketing through her, Khamsin grabbed handfuls of the sheet beneath and twisted them. She was squirming, writhing beneath the quest of his tongue as he trailed it along first the right then the left crease of her thigh. When his mouth moved over the thick curls, she sucked in her breath and held it. Though she had touched herself there many times, nothing could have prepared her for the assault of Lucien’s lips and tongue. She was not a novice at pleasuring herself for she was, after all, of an age to need the stimulation of sexual release. But the sensations that were washing over her as his mouth closed upon her mound told her there was more to the sexual act than just the bursting of a quick climax.

His tongue was stabbing at the little bud that was so sensitive. His teeth were grazing the folds along each side—first the left, then the right. When he eased his hands from beneath her, she snaked out her own hands and grabbed his upper arms. “Lucien!” she protested, wanting his hands on her. “Shush, Beloved,” he calmed her and put his hands on her upper thighs. “Relax.” It was the hardest thing she had done lately, but she forced her arms down to the bed and once more grabbed handfuls of the sheets. His fingers were inching toward her sex and she was panting with anticipation of his touch. When it came, she moaned, for those long tapered fingers were parting her nether lips so his tongue could scrape along the tender folds, licking her as though she was a piece of tasty candy. Swirling around. Dragging downward. Licking upward. Flicking over—his tongue danced around her velvety vulva. He suckled her labia, nibbled the little lips and kissed the larger. He brushed the tip of his tongue over the clitoral hood then put two fingers there to lift it, exposing the swelling glans with its slick gloss of oily secretion. Shock lifted Khamsin’s hips when Lucien laved his tongue across that erect little nub. The feeling was so stimulating, so intense, she could feel her vaginal juices oozing. She barely had time to thrust her hands into his hair to pull his mouth from the responsive area before he plunged his tongue into her slit, his teeth grazing her clit, his lips latching onto her as though he was a sexual leech. “Lucien!” she cried out. Wave after wave of pure joy rippled through her lower body and she could feel the clenching and unclenching of her vaginal muscles as his tongue moved in and out of her like a miniature piston. The sounds his mouth made—slurping, lapping—nearly drove her mad. Her hands were buried in his thick curls, tugging a bit too tight for comfort, but he reveled in the volcanic explosion of her climax as it rippled around his questing tongue. Her reaction was strong as her hips thrust up to his mouth and he had to force her body back to the bed, holding her down with strong, powerful hands that were splayed out along her hips to anchor her. His face was buried in her, his senses enflamed by the smell, the heat, the trip hammering of her pulse as it beat through the vaginal walls. The last tremor of passion undulated through her lower body and Khamsin lay limp, exhausted, totally satiated. Her breath came in shallow little pants that made her feel lightheaded and she realized she was shivering, her legs quivering of their own accord. Licking away the moisture, which had seeped from her, Lucien sighed and moved up in the bed until he could pillow his head between her breasts. He smiled as her arms came up to cradle him, her hands smoothing over his bare back. “When you claim a woman, you claim a woman, don’t you, Lucien Korvina?” she asked sleepily. “You think I’ve claimed you, wench?” he asked and lifted his head to look up at her. Khamsin’s eyelids were half-closed, her expression dreamily. There was a soft smile on her lush lips and the image of a cat lying after having lapped a bowl of fresh cream shifted through Lucien’s mind. “You didn’t?” she asked, yawning around the words.

“Do you want me to?” he asked. “Oh, you mean with your thing?” she asked, frowning a bit. “Aye, wench,” he said, humor evident in his tone. “With my thing, as you call it.” She opened her eyes fully. “Will it hurt like with…?” “No,” he stated firmly. “Any hurt you feel, you will welcome. This I promise.” They said nothing for a moment, and then he asked her what was troubling her. “Will you bite me?” Lucien sighed deeply. “Do you want me to?” he countered. She shook firmly her head. “No. I am not ready for that yet.” “Then it can wait,” he said. “For how long?” she asked in a nervous voice. “For as long as it takes you to be comfortable with the idea.” She looked at him, her forehead creased. “What if I never grow comfortable with it?” “You will,” he said gently. He was running his finger up and down her arm and the heat of it was doing strange things to her insides. Her lower belly was clenching deep inside and she felt entirely too warm. “Do you know what I wish, Sweeting?” he asked. She slowly shook her head, her lower lip tucked between her teeth. “I wish—” he said, reaching up to touch her cheek “—to show you what love between a man and woman really is, Beloved.” “Love,” she echoed for she already knew in her heart of hearts she had allowed Lucien into that lonely spot and it would be hell getting him out again. “I think that might well be what I am beginning to feel, wench,” he acknowledged. Too soon, her mind told her, but she kept silent. Perhaps love did come in the blink of an eye as someone had once told her it did. Perhaps you didn’t have to work at it or let it overcome you like a Mack truck—whatever that is or was—as someone else had declared. Or maybe—just maybe—there was a middle point and that was where Lucien now stood. “It could be,” Lucien agreed, easily reading her thoughts. “Let me make love to you and then we might know for sure.”

“In for a Bennie, in for a bound,” Khamsin said again and yawned. “I believe that’s in for apenny , in for apound ,” Lucien corrected. “What’s a penny?” she asked. Lucien laughed as he gathered her in his arms. There was so much he wanted to teach her. So many things he wanted to tell her about, to share with her. For the first time in long centuries, he had someone who was a vessel ready to be filled, and he wanted to pour all his knowledge into that waiting receptacle. But first, he wanted to stake his claim upon her and take her to heights she could never have imagined existed. With infinite care, he traced a wavering pattern from her chin to the middle of her chest, circled each breast before moving on to her belly. He lightly touched her navel then rose up to straddle her. “I have only made love with one woman in my lifetime,” he said quietly. “Sibylline was something different. There was no love there, only lust—a moment’s respite from the pain of my existence and when it was over, I felt shame and a great sense of guilt for having lain with her.” Khamsin looked up into green eyes that were filled with deep sorrow and she felt her heart twist in her chest. “With you, it will be love,” he said then grinned. “With a whole lot of lust thrown in for good measure.” She laughed and watched the sadness fading from his gaze. There was hesitation on her lovely face, but then she swallowed calmly and told him to do what he wished. His cock was rock-hard as it pressed against her loins. She could feel the slight moisture that had beaded upon its tip. As he eased down so that he was wedged between her thighs, the wonderful weight of his warrior’s body cushioned upon her womanly curves, she sighed with contentment. “I don’t know how it happened,” she heard him say. “Or why, but in the space of a few days, I have developed a growing love for you, Khamsin.” Khamsin drew in a breath and held it, looking up at him with surprise. Lust for her was evident in the way he acted. Desire was there in the hot gaze that made her melt each time he cast it upon her. Need, longing, yearning? Aye, those emotions were there, but love? “Are you sure?” she asked on a whisper of a sound. “As surely as my heart beats and my lungs draw breath,” he said. “I love you, wench.” And knew it was true… She threw her arms about him and pulled him as close as their bodies would allow. If she could, she would have crawled inside him, taken up residence. All her life she had longed to belong to someone, to know the pleasures she saw other couples enjoying but her violent rape, her years of running and hiding, pretending she was something she wasn’t, had taken its toll on her emotions. She had never thought to find a mate to love and care for her.

“Make me yours, Lucien,” she whispered against his ear. “Now. Please!” His hand moved between their bodies to grip his steel-hard shaft. With just as much care as though she was a fragile piece of crystal, he slowly inserted the thick, rigid muscle until he was well seated deep within her moist cavern. Khamsin felt a moment’s pain at his entry, but she was wet, ready for him, and that moment of discomfort was rapidly replaced with a growing itch that made her begin to squirm beneath him. Lucien wanted to be gentle with her, to take his time, but she shocked him by throwing her legs around his waist and arching up for deeper penetration. He had no choice but to begin pumping into her as furiously as she was slamming against him. In the space of a clock’s hand around the dial, they were straining against one another. His hands were under her ass, lifting her up for the long strokes. Her nails were arched into his back, holding onto him for all she was worth as he filled her with his massive tool. Grunting, Lucien drove into her as sweat beaded his brow and gathered amongst the hair in the center of his chest. Their bodies were soon slick as they slid against one another. When he came, it was with a roar that startled them both. His juices spurted deep within her—branding her, claiming her, making her entirely his. He dug his fingers into the soft cushion of her ass and held her to him as he pushed his cock as far as it would go inside her and held it there as the last spasm drained the cum from him. Khamsin cried out as her own orgasm broke over her like a tidal wave. Her legs tightened around his waist, her heel digging into the crack of his rump as she strained to keep them together. Exhausted, he collapsed atop her, breathing hard, his heart pounding. He shuddered from the sheer reaction of the emotions he had just experienced. Satiated, her arms fell to her sides as though the bones had been extracted. She lay there completely spent, totally satisfied. Chapter Nine

“You look like the wolf that ate the rabbit,” Christina commented. “Was she a tasty little treat, my Prince?” Lucien was sitting quietly beside the window in the library, his chin in his palm as he stared out at the night. Khamsin lay exhausted in their bed, her long hair spread out like a cape over the pillows. He didn’t turn to look at Christina as she came to sit on the edge of the table beside him. “She is more than a tasty treat, Tina. She is a veritable feast,” Lucien said softly. Christina slipped easily into her prince’s mind, surprised he allowed the intrusion then quickly withdrew, for there was such heat in his thoughts they seared her. She whistled, fanning herself. “Did you set the sheets aflame, Korvina?” He snorted then leaned back in the chair, thrusting his long legs out in front of him. Bracing the back of

his head in the cup of his interlocked fingers, he closed his eyes. “I haven’t worn myself out like that in so long I thought I’d wear my thing to a stub,” he pronounced. “Your thing?” Christina questioned, her lips twitching. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call it that before.” She shook her head. “Somehow it sounds dirty, you know?” “Have you ever heard the term tally-whacker?” Petros asked as he joined them. “Nowthat is a dirty one if one was ever invented to label a man’s prick.” Lucien looked over at him. “Where did you hear that one?” Petros shrugged. “I don’t recall but here’s another little cutie—whang-bone. Ain’t that a lovely term?” “And I thought tickle-gizzard was bad,” Christina giggled. “So, yourthing got a workout last night, did it?” Petros inquired. “I’m so sore I feel like I ran my cock over a cheese grater,” Lucien replied. “Poor baby,” Christina said, her lips puckered. “The first time he uses that love tool of his in years and he overdoes it. Do we feel sorry for him or what, Pet?” “Not in the least,” Petros declared, taking a chair across from Lucien. “It’s nice to see him with a grin on that ugly puss.” “Where is the lovely lady, anyway?” Christina asked. “I bid her sleep,” Lucien said. “She was up most of the day, reading in the library.” “Too much energy after sapping yours last eve?” Petros asked with a grin. “Lucien’s cum must have energized her,” Christina put in. Lucien crossed his booted feet, completely relaxed with his friends. “Keep it up, you two. That cat-o’-nine is just itching to scratch your backs.” Petros winked at Christina then sucked in a quick breath through his nose. “I think we found our mole in Pavli,” he said. “But he may have had an accomplice here.” Lucien frowned. “Why do you think so?” “I sent Briton over to Pavli’s room to gather up his belongings. Buried amidst his things was a Constantine medallion. He must have used it to communicate with Stavros. From other stuff we found, it’s pretty obvious he was in thrall to Stavros.” “Son of a bitch!” Christina blazed. “I knew I didn’t like that bastard!” “After his execution, Nestor came to me to confess he and Peleus put rancid meat atop the good stuff we sent out to the plague victims,” Petros said.

A dangerous look darkened Lucien’s face. “Why?” he barked, the one word lethal in its voice and tone. “Because Pavli ordered them to put nothing but rancid meat on the wagon that night. Both men reasoned it was wrong and didn’t want to get in trouble, but then neither did they want to make an enemy of Pavli. They put just enough rancid stuff on top for Pavli to smell it. The rest was good.” “Will you punish them?” Christina asked. “They did what I wanted,” Lucien replied for Petros. “They should have come to you, but I can understand why they didn’t. There’s no need to discipline them.” “But you still think there’s a Stavros spy here?” Christina queried. “Do you have any idea who it is?” “And why you believe he wasn’t working alone,” Lucien amended. “The fool kept a diary,” Petros said with a sneer. “Nothing that would incriminate him, per se, but there were a couple of entries suggesting he had turned more sensitive information over to someone he called Bilitis’ daughter but did not identify her any further.” Christina flinched. “The spy is a woman?” “Apparently so.” Lucien turned his gaze to Christina but she was staring at the floor, her lips pursed tightly together, her eyes shifting back and forth, as though she could find the name of the traitor written on the carpet. “I’ll question each of the women and see whose father is named Bilitis,” Christina said as she raised her head. “What do you want me to do when or if I find her?” “Nothing,” Lucien said quietly and both Christina and Petros turned to stare at him. “Nothing?” Christina asked. “Why not?” Lucien shrugged. “It isn’t important. It wasn’t important about Pavli.” He looked at Petros. “Perhaps one of these days we should slip a spy into Stavros’ camp.” Petros nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we should.” It would not do for Lucien to find out there was already a spy in place in the enemy’s camp. “You don’t think this woman poses a threat to you, Lucien?” Christina asked. “To any of us?” Lucien unclasped his hands, and put his fingers to his right temple and rubbed. “Look for her if you want, Tina. If you find her, bring her to me. I’ll question her then send her back to Stavros. For now, I’d appreciate it if the two of you would find somewhere else to congregate.” “Another headache?” Petros asked. “Too much sex is more like it,” Christina laughed. She slid off the table. “I’ll let you know what I find out.” Lucien nodded but didn’t answer. When she was out of the room, he glanced up at Petros. “You’re sure

about that name?” he asked. “Bilitis’ daughter?” “Aye, I’m positive.” He turned to look at the doorway through which Christina had just exited. “Her father’s name was Telly, wasn’t it?” “Aye, Theodopilous,” Lucien agreed. “Then why that strange look you gave her, which she didn’t see, by the way?” Lucien laid his head on the chair back. “What look?” he asked. Petros drew in a long breath. “Perhaps I read you wrong.” “I believe you did.” The Revenant prince swiveled his head toward his friend. “Are you going to stay here and annoy me or are you going to let me daydream for a while?” “You can’t daydream at night, Luc,” Petros said with a sniff. “Fantasize, I would think, but not daydream.” He got up, his bones creaking with age. “Then let me fantasize,” Lucien ordered. He locked eyes with Petros then turned his head away, closing his eyes to indicate his removal from the conversation. Petros walked to the door. He stopped, his back to Lucien, stood there a moment as though with indecision then went out, shutting the door quietly behind him. Lucien opened his eyes and stared at the far wall. He could hear Petros giving orders to the ever-present guards who went everywhere Lucien did and who guarded him day and night. Though the words were spoken softly, Lucien heard each one of them and smiled sadly to himself. Petros took no chances with the life of his friend and never again would he allow Lucien to be placed in harm’s way if he could prevent it. Pushing aside thoughts of treachery and betrayal, Lucien let his mind drift back to the night before. There was comfort in thoughts of Khamsin and the wicked little body that had kept him enslaved to it from early dusk to just before the rise of the sun. The taste of her, the scent of her and the feel of her was carved into his soul now—as well as his heart—and he could feel the loneliness sloughing off him. For the first time since he could remember, he was content. Yet the headache still plagued him—as it had for days. Sex had not relieved it, though it was not as acute as it had been. He rubbed at his temple, closing his eyes to the pounding pain over his right eye. A soft, gentle hand eased over his, pushing it away as cool fingers grazed his left temple as well. Tender circles spiraled in unison and the scent of his lady filled Lucien’s nostrils. “Is there an elixir for the pain, milord?” Lucien gave into the comfort that was pressing delicately against his temples. “There is tenerse, but I would just as soon not take it if I don’t have to.” He reached up for her hand and pulled her around his chair to sit in his lap. Once she was reclining against him—her head on his shoulder—he encompassed her within the perimeter of his arms, holding her securely. “Why are you not sleeping?” “I slept most of the night,” she protested then smiled. “Then I went through the clothing you had sent to

me and marked those I liked best.” She smoothed her hand down the nightgown she was wearing. “This I like especially well.” “You should be sleeping, wench,” he said, “and not inspecting clothing.” “I wanted to be with you.” He laid his cheek on the top of her head and looked out the window at the mist-shrouded night. “Would you like to go for a ride?” “Doesn’t your head hurt?” she countered. “Aye, but I’m used to it.” “No,” she said. “I would rather stay here.” “I promised to take you riding,” he reminded her. “And you will, but not until you are over the headache.” He smiled and tightened his grip. “Aye, Your Grace. I will do as you command.” Khamsin gave an unladylike snort. They were companionably silent for several minutes then she asked what was worrying him. “Why do you think I’m worried?” “I can sense it,” she said, “and besides, you wouldn’t be sitting here alone if something wasn’t bothering you.” He said nothing for a moment then sighed deeply. “Have you ever been betrayed by a friend, wench?” Khamsin sat up and turned so she could look him in the eye. “Petros?” Lucien shook his head. “Christina,” he replied. “She is a spy for Stavros.” A frown shifted over Khamsin’s face. “You know this for a surety?” “I’ve suspected it for some time but didn’t want to believe it,” he answered. “Tonight, it was confirmed.” “May I ask how?” Lucien had carefully removed all memory of Aristotle Pavli from Khamsin’s mind and he knew he had to be careful with his explanation. He cleared his throat, giving himself time to formulate an answer. “One of the thralls came to me a year or so ago and asked if he could use the library to better himself. I saw no reason why he couldn’t so I allowed him to do so.” “Did he want to become of the Blood?” she asked. Lucien smiled. “You are learning about us, aren’t you?”

“I made good use of the library myself today, milord,” she stated. “As did he, but his research—if that is what it could be called—seemed a bit strange to me.” “What was he researching?” “There is an old saying that goes ‘know your enemy’,” Lucien replied. “I think the thrall was doing that, but instead of trying to find out about an enemy, he was trying to learn all he could about his ally.” “Christina?” she asked. “Was he in league with her?” “Apparently so. I found a volume of poetry sitting on the desk after the thrall had left one evening and thought it strange that a man like him would be interested in such verses.” “What kind of verses?” “It was a mid-twentieth-century work calledSongs of Bilitis by Pierre Louys. It was a volume of love poems between women.” He flexed his shoulders. “Gay women.” Khamsin’s left eyebrow crooked upward. “I take it this man is not the poetic type?” “He was a loudmouthed bully with a penchant for cruelty toward women.” “Was?” Lucien shifted in the chair. “He died recently.” “Had you read that book?” “Not likely, wench. My reading tastes run to history,” he said with a grunt. “I like to see just how accurate the reporting is.” “Since you’ve lived it,” she said. “Aye, since I’ve lived it.” “So the book made you suspicious. Did you ask the thrall about it?” “No.” “Why not?” “I already suspected Christina was sending information to Stavros but it wasn’t anything I didn’t want him to know in the first place. I thought if she had an accomplice, Petros would find out about him sooner or later. Petros would have taken care of the situation.” “And did he?” “I did, but not for the thrall’s spying.”

Khamsin felt a shiver pass down her spine. “Did you kill him?” “Not personally, but I ordered it.” “Why? What did he do?” “He pissed me off,” Lucien stated. “And we’ll discuss that bastard no more.” Feeling chastened, Khamsin returned her head to his shoulder. His right hand was rubbing up and down her arm, the fingers of his left hand entwined with hers. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Not really. Are you?” He ducked his head and pressed his lips lightly to the column of her neck. “Not for food, wench, but a midnight snack wouldn’t be amiss.” “It’s past midnight, milord,” she said. “A pre-dawn snack, then,” he amended and moved his hand to her breast to gently knead the lush mound. “Dawn is but two hours away, milord,” she pointed out. “Do you think you are up to the task?” “The coming of the sun slows me down, Khammie,” he replied. “It doesn’t bring me to a standstill.” “Slows you down,” she said. “Long, slow movements, eh?” Lucien unthreaded his fingers from her left hand and reached up to mold his hand around her other breast, squeezing both and running his palm over the nipples. “Very slow,” he said, nibbling her neck. “Very measured, unhurried strokes that thrust deep and withdraw. Thrust deep again then remain well-seated in the soft, moist cavern it has entered.” “Leisurely thrusts, milord?” she inquired, wriggling on his lap for beneath her rump was a hard, insistent rod that moved against her. “Aye, wench. Very deliberate, calculated strokes that slip in and out with premeditated precision.” “Strokes that might be sped up just a bit toward the end?” she wanted clarified. “Strokes that will most definitely speed up,” he agreed. “Hard strokes, milord?” “Rammed in with accuracy, wench.” He slid his hand down to the apex of her thighs and cupped her, his middle finger tapping for entry. “And what, pray tell,” she asked, “am I to do while you are doing all that measured thrusting, milord?”

He gathered the fabric her nightgown that prevented him from touching her bare flesh and inched it up, crumbling the lightweight cotton in his hand. “Lay there in a wanton state,” he answered. “Arms and legs flung wide as I kneel between your creamy thighs, lift that sweet ass and impale you upon my rock-hard shaft.” “Must I?” she said on a long sigh as though bored. The hem of the gown was past the wiry curls of her mons and inching toward her belly button. His middle finger twirled the pale blonde hair, dipping slowly toward the clitoral hood. “Aye, wench,” he replied. “I believe you must.” She turned so her back was to him and pressed against his chest. She opened her legs. His hand slid downward until he was cupping her heat. Drawing his fingers up and down, his thumb stroking the left crease of her thigh, could feel the juices slipping from her cunt. “Wider,” he commanded. Khamsin shifted her legs apart, giving him more access to her moistness. Her belly clenched when the tip of one finger touched her anal opening. “You like that?” he cooed, continuing the soft friction that ran his fingers from spiky curls to the puckered rim of her ass. Licking her lips, Khamsin could only nod. The sensations he was causing between her legs made her blood pound heavily in her ears. “Put your hands on your breasts, Beloved,” he instructed. She did as he told her, massaging the heavy globes. “Pluck your nipples.” His voice was deep, filled with passion. Folding her fingers into her palm, she grasped her nipples through the thin cotton fabric of her nightgown and rolled them between the pads of her thumbs and the sides of her index fingers. “Ah,” she groaned, the stimulation sending spikes of desire driving through her loins. Lucien slipped his middle finger into the dampness between her legs and drove deep. “Ah!” his lady cried out, pushing her hips up to meet his hand. Flexing his finger inside her, pulling it out a ways, thrusting it back in—deeper and harder—he watched as she pulled at her nipples and worried them between her fingers. Her breathing was erratic, dragging quickly into her lungs. Her head thrown back on his shoulder, her bottom lip clasped between her teeth, her eyes closed. He could feel the tremor that was beginning in the core of her. Without missing a beat, Lucian put his middle finger in his mouth, withdrew it then slid his free hand

beneath her, wedging his palm under her butt and slid it down until he touched the rim of her ass. Although she cried out in protest—clenching her cheeks to prevent his invasion—he inserted the middle finger of his left hand into her hole. “Lucien!” she gasped, slamming her hands to the chair arms in an attempt to pry herself from his lap. “Put your fingers to your nipples, wench!” he snapped in a tone that brooked no argument. Hesitantly, Khamsin returned her fingers to the erect peaks of her breasts, panting as though she had run a long, hard race. “Pull them!” As one long finger wriggled in her anus, another moved in and out of her with steady penetration, she plucked furiously at her nipples, feeling the beginnings of her climax shooting up from the delicious friction inside her. He pushed hard with his right finger and held it as the ripples of her pleasure undulated through Khamsin’s lower body. She pushed against him, grinding her ass on his left hand, rising up to thrust against his right. Her choked cries of relief as the last squeeze of satiation claimed her sounded loud in the still room. They sat in his chair with his fingers still inside her and watched as the first rays of morning speared up from the horizon. She would have moved, but he kept her where she was, thrilling to the pulse of her inner beat he could feel compressing his fingers. Gently, he kissed the side of her neck, pressing his lips to the heavy thud of her pulse. Though every instinct in his body bid him to sink his fangs into that creamy soft flesh, he denied his nature and merely flicked out a tongue to lap at her skin. “You need to go to bed,” she said, her voice breathless. “Aye,” he said and before she could protect, slipped his fingers from her body. He reached across her and pulled one leg around until she was once more sitting at an angle to hip. With the last bit of his morning-draining strength, he slipped one arm behind her, one under her knees and stood, holding her securely in his arms. “Lucien…” she began but he shushed her. “Lie with me until I fall asleep,” he asked. His footsteps were slow, his strength fading but he managed to climb the stairs with her. Never breaking stride for his guards automatically opened the door for him as he neared his chamber—he took her to their bed, and laid her down, practically falling atop her as the last of his vigor was sapped. Khamsin scooted aside for him then pillowed his head on her breast as sleep reached up to claim him. She could hear his soft breathing and knew he was deep in slumber. Within moments, she followed him down into the oblivion of Morpheus. They dozed for half an hour then Lucien woke with a mighty thirst. Quietly so as not to disturb her, he

reached out to pour a glass of water from the bedside table. “Tired you out, wench?” he laughed to himself. He drained the goblet, poured more, and drained that, too. As he lay down, stretching out beside his woman, he wondered why the water had the faintest taste of cherries about. Chapter Ten

Morning brought slashes of lightning and heavy rain to pelt the windows. Thunder rumbled ominously, echoing across the mountains. It was always cool in Lucien’s room, but this day it seemed colder than usual. There was dampness, a cloying press against the skin that Khamsin found disquieting. Easing out of the bed so she would not wake her lover, Lucien’s lady performed her absolutions in the dark bathing chamber with only a single candle to light her way. She was about to leave the stark room when the door shut quickly and soundlessly in front of her. She jumped back, blinking at the obstruction to her exit. “Such a vile day, it is.” Spinning around, Khamsin was stunned to see Sibylline sitting on the rim of the large copper tub, her arms folded over her lush breasts. The flickering candlelight made the Revenant queen’s face look almost beastlike with deep shadows beneath her large eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. “I hated venturing out on such a day and would not have if duty had not called.” “Lucien doesn’t want you here,” Khamsin said. “You’d best leave before he wakes.” Sibylline said nothing as the young woman stalked to the door and tried to open it. Finding it locked, Khamsin pulled on the knob, but the portal would not budge. She shook the knob, twisted it, but still the door would not open. Turning around, she looked fearfully at Sibylline. “What are you doing?” A pleasant smile stretched the lovely older woman’s face. “Me? I’m just sitting here, dearling. What are you doing?” Turning around and yanking as hard as she could on the knob, Khamsin felt her heart thudding in her chest. The door was securely shut. Hating to slap her hand against the panel and wake Lucien, she nevertheless did so, calling out to Lucien to open the door. “I’m afraid he can’t hear you,” Sibylline told her. “He will sleep like the undead he is until nightfall.” Khamsin spun back around. “Let me out of here!” she demanded. Sibylline shook her head. “You will be leaving, dearling, but it will be with me.”

There was a particularly loud crack of lightning and the air wavered around them. The stench of brimstone filled the air as another violent burst of sound shook the room. “Truly vile weather we’re having,” Sibylline commented. Her eyes widening, Khamsin put a hand to her heart where an intense pain had suddenly shot through her. “Why?” she asked, pleading in her shaky voice. “Why are you doing this?” “Did you study religion in that orphanage, Khammie?” Sibylline asked, holding up her hand to study the fingernails—first with fingers crooked toward her and then palm facing away and the slender digits splayed. Tears gathered in Khamsin’s eyes for she was terrified of what this woman might do to her. “No?” Sibylline asked, not waiting for an answer. “No matter. I have studied this planet’s religion extensively and have memorized many of the verses I read. One says—now let me make sure I have it correctly—oh, yes! ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away’. Since I consider myself a Lordess on this backward world and I gave you to our sweet Lucien, I am now taking you away.” “But why?” Khamsin repeated and the tears fell down her cheeks. “Are you that jealous?” Sibylline cocked her head to one side. “Jealous?” she echoed. “Of what, dearling? Poor little you?” She laughed. “Most assuredly not!” “Then why are you doing this to us?” A wistful sigh pushed from Sibylline’s ample chest. “Because Lucien will believe it is Stavros who holds you, he will go after Constantine. Lucien will do everything in his power to get you back—including killing Stavros. Truthfully, I imagine Lucien will mutilate his enemy with great glee. There has always been bad blood—if you’ll pardon the pun—between those two.” “Why don’t you just kill Stavros yourself? Why put Lucien and me through this?” Once more, the sigh came from Sibylline. “Believe me if I could, I would have slain that troublemaker long ago but unfortunately once a Revenant turns a human, he or she loses the ability to destroy them. A bit of a nuisance, actually, but just one of those annoying little loopholes our race was saddled with millennia ago.” Slamming the flat of her palm repeatedly upon the door, Khamsin called out to Lucien, to the guards—anyone who might hear her. “You are no longer in Modartha, dearling,” Sibylline told her and waved a hand. The door opened as silently as it had closed and Khamsin rushed out only to find herself in a large, vacant room surrounded by row after row of windows from floor to ceiling. Dark walls, dark marble upon the floor, shadows cast from the brilliant display of nature’s fury beyond the windows gave the room a decidedly evil and hopeless aura. “I call it my lunararium,” Sibylline comment as she came into the barren room. “Don’t you find it beautiful?”

Lightning was flashing white death beyond the mullioned panes, streaking across the ebony skies like fiery stitching upon a swath of black silk. Thunder boomed repeatedly, underscoring the crack of the lightning and the windows shook beneath the onslaught. “Where are we?” Khamsin cried, her heart quivering in her chest. “Far beyond Modartha,” Sibylline replied. “Beyond any known place on your world. Where Lucien can never travel. No male has ever stepped foot in my keep and none ever will.” As lightning flared around her, washing stark white light over her pale features, Khamsin slumped to the floor, covering her face with her hands. She rocked there on her knees, a low keening sound trilling from her very soul. “This isn’t permanent, Khamsin,” Sibylline said with a hint of exasperation in her sultry voice. “You will rejoin him when he gets the job done.” Khamsin lifted her head, her eyes red and swollen from her crying. “And what if he doesn’t? What if Stavros kills him?” Sibylline waved away the question. “Well, of course he won’t die, you silly chit! He is a powerful warrior. He is the heir apparent to my throne, my Chosen One. There is no way hecan fail!” “There is a traitor at Mordartha,” Khamsin accused. “She…” “She reports only what I wish her to report and does so without even knowing she is doing it,” Sibylline interrupted. “Think you I would allow treachery to lay a hand to my heir?” “Lucien thinks she has betrayed him. The thrall…” “The thrall who manhandled you and earned for himself a fiery death at the stake?” Sibylline sneered. “Is that the thrall you mean?” A niggling memory tugged at Khamsin’s mind. There was a moment of squeezing pain around her breast and she put a hand to her chest. “No,” she whispered. “Aye, the thrall mauled you and paid for it with his worthless life. No great loss I assure you,” Sibylline supplied. “Why Lucien felt you did not need to know he avenged you is beyond my ken but such is his way.” The sound of flames crackling, an agonized scream that went on and on, and the stench of burning flesh—Khamsin shuddered. “Lucien Korvina has a brand on his left biceps. Do you know what it is?” Sibylline asked. Khamsin turned stricken eyes to the woman, confusion at her question and what it had to do with the situation crinkling her face. “He was marked from the caldron during a fire-festival ritual. It was one of the rare pagan ceremonies he embraced as a boy. Do you remember seeing the brand?” Shaking her head at the strange question, Khamsin scrubbed at her tearful face.

“It is the Greek symbol called psi and it looks like this,” Sibylline said and outside a fiery ? appeared in the storm-ravaged sky. “Only those young men who had shown some kind of psychic ability were invited to join and those who decided to do so had to be careful around the old priest. Lucien took his Catholic religion very seriously back then but he had an ability he wanted to learn to control.” “Why are you telling me this?” Khamsin asked. “It was a very secretive, exclusive sect to which Lucien was admitted,” Sibylline said as though she hadn’t heard Khamsin’s question. “There were some very powerful men in the sect. Lucien once told me he thought the man who was the Grand Master was a Druid. Apparently there were men from many countries who met somewhere on Mount Duáilce to convene with brothers who held the same powers as they.” “I don’t see…” “Be still and you will!” Sibylline snapped, her eyes blazing. The storm grew louder and the crack of lightning streaked across the firmament. Somewhere a bolt struck a tree and the sound of the wood splitting, the heavy timber falling made Khamsin reached up to slap her hands over her ears. Even through the obstruction of her fingers, she could hear Sibylline’s voice as though the woman was inside her head. “The Old Ones, the Ancients, met on Mount Duáilce to pass their knowledge onto the next generations. These were powerful men, educated men, men who had honed their abilities for decades. They chose their initiates very carefully and it was an honor to be chosen to become a part of that influential group of men. It was a tribute to Lucien—as a future leader of his people—that he was selected to be a member of the sect.” Sibylline walked to the long row of tall windows and opened one. Wind whipped her long red hair to froth around her head and her shimmering gown of gold cloth pressed tightly to her thighs and legs. Mists of rain washed over her as she stood there, seemingly reveling in the cold. “I was here,” the older woman said, “when I first became aware of Lucien Korvina. I could feel him somewhere out there in the barrenness of time and space. I sensed the integrity of the man, the honor in him, and that was something I had never experienced with a male before.” The windows rattled as a boom of thunder shook the ground and reverberated for nearly a minute. Fiery stitches of light whipped across the black velvet sky, sewing scalloped clouds together. “Respected,” Sibylline said in an awed tone. “Lucien was respected by his people, loved by them. Had the need ever arisen, he would have led them gallantly and fairly.” “But the Manticores invaded,” Khamsin said. “Aye, the beasts,” her companion agreed, “those vile creatures who consumed the flesh of human and animal alike. Evil and despicable, those things fell upon Lucien’s village and destroyed all in their path save him.” “He would have preferred they had killed him, too.”

“It had been many a century since I had left Croì Cloiche,” Sibylline said, reaching up to wipe away a sheen of rain from her face. “I had locked myself in this vast keep and had no intention of ever leaving. My mate, myhusband , was in the Great Castle at Cumhacht with his hordes of whores and sycophants. There was no one to gainsay me and I took flight, searching out Lucien Korvina for his call was like a siren song to me.” Khamsin frowned. “He called you? But I thought…” “The power he had been born with was one they have since termed telepathy. He could commune with animals, people like himself, but he was very careful with the gift. He did not abuse it—did not overuse it. No one—not even Petros—close to him knew he possessed such a talent. Had the old priest known, Lucien might well have been burned at the stake for heresy.” Sibylline moved away from the window. Her face was shiny with moisture, the front of her gown wet from bodice to hem. “He was dying and had lost his reason. Some would have called him mad, insane, and that might well have been true. When I heard him, he was cursing his God for having allowed such a terrible thing to happen. The deaths of his wife and child—witnessing those atrocities—had broken his spirit, his will to live, as the Manticores and Sagittary had broken his body. As he lay there unable to move, staring up at the sky, he made one final cry to the Void and it was that cry that brought me—not the smell of blood as he believes—to his side.” “What did he say?” Khamsin asked, her heart aching for Lucien. “He knew he was dying, would soon be dead. He was so weak from loss of blood, he could no longer speak, but his mind—that mystical mind with which he had been born—sent out a message to anyone, anything , who might be listening. He begged to be allowed to come back and avenge his loved ones’ murders. He didn’t care if he came back Eidolon or Daemon so long as he returned to set right the wrong.” Khamsin pushed up from the floor. The storm had grown even worse, and she was becoming frightened by the savagery lighting up the dark sky. “He doesn’t remember calling you, does he?” Sibylline shook her head. “I wiped that memory from his mind for I feared it would weigh too heavy on his soul.” “You turned him.” “I lifted him into my arms and held him as he took his last breath,” Sibylline replied. “But he was too handsome, too virile-looking to have his body ravaged by death.” There was a faraway, dreamy look on the older woman’s face as she put a hand to her cheek. “I could not allow such a travesty to take place so I put my fangs to his throat and injected him with the venom that slithers through my blood. I fed him life and I gave him breath—from my mouth to his—and in the doing lost a part of my heart to Lucien Korvina.” “Then why hurt him?” Khamsin asked, taking a step toward Sibylline. “You must know he will suffer because you took me from him.” “It is his destiny to slay Stavros Constantine. Why I made that man a Revenant escapes me at the moment but it is a decision I regret having made.” Sibylline came to Khamsin and reached out to take her

arm. “Best we move into the keep for the storm is rabid this night.” Khamsin allowed the Revenant queen to lead her out of the lunararium and through a wide set of double oaken doors. The highly polished knobs and pull plates stood out in high relief as a strobe of lightning lit up the room and the doors opened as though by unseen hands. The hall into which Sibylline led Khamsin was breathtaking. Overhead thousands of candles burst into life in intricately fashioned wrought iron chandeliers and the light shone down on the most beautiful oak furniture Khamsin could ever have imagined. A large oblong table banked by fourteen richly upholstered chairs sat in the middle of the room, four gleaming gold candelabras lighting gorgeous china, crystal and golden tableware on its lace-covered top. A ten-foot-long sideboard held crystal decanters of spirits and golden chafing dishes. Sitting along one wall was a monstrosity of a china closet with shelves loaded to overflowing with exquisite china. On three velvet-papered walls, row after row of life-size portraits of exceptionally handsome men hung in elaborate frames—twenty-four of them in all. “Lucien is there,” Sibylline said, pointing. Khamsin moved as in a trance to stand before the striking painting of her lover. So real had the artist accomplished his task, it seemed as though Lucien would step down from the painting at any moment. “His name is Caspar D’Roggula and he is a maestro at his craft, don’t you agree?” Nodding absently, Khamsin reached up to touch the painting with trembling fingers. “Does Lucien know of this painting?” “None of them do,” Sibylline said. She arced her hand over the paintings. “Caspar has visited his subjects many times over the centuries, bidding his time until he had the male perfectly remembered in his mind’s eye before going back to his world to paint the portraits.” “His world,” Khamsin repeated. “Did you think the Earth was the only planet in the megaverse, dearling?” Sibylline asked. “I assure you it is not. There are thousands of planets out here.” Shaking her head at the enormity of what she was learning, Khamsin caressed the painting. “Who are the other men?” “The one to Lucien’s left is Gideon O’Rourke. You have heard of him?” “The Irish prince.” “Aye and what a wonderful specimen of Celtic beauty,” Sibylline said with a sigh. “On Lucien’s right is Francisco Chavez. Not as handsome as Lucien and Gideon but a handsome rogue in his own right.” “Where is Stavros?” Sibylline frowned. “I destroyed that painting long ago,” she snapped. “Just as I took great delight in destroying the painting of my evil husband, Macmillan.” Khamsin reluctantly turned away from the imposing portrait of Lucien and looked at her companion. “Why aren’t you with your husband?”

Sibylline’s lovely face turned hard and her mouth bitter, nostrils flaring as though a horrid stench had invaded the room. “He cheated on me,” Sibylline stated. “Not with one whore but with many, but I pretended to overlook his peccadilloes until he brought one of those sluts into our home and kicked me out to install her on the throne in my stead.” Her eyes flared with fire. “Kicked me out of my own home!” “Did he send you here?” “I built this keep with my own powers!” Sibylline shouted. “With the blood, and sweat and tears of my humiliation. With the hatred bubbling inside me like poison brewing in a caldron. I fashioned Croì Cloiche with my needs, my future in mind. Do you know what Croì Cloiche means? No? Well, it means Heart of Stone and that is what this place is—my heart turned to stone. No man has ever stepped foot inside it and no man ever will!” She narrowed her eyes. “Let them try and they will die a death so horrible, so vile they will scream in agony for all eternity!” Khamsin shuddered at the ferocity blazing at her like a roaring conflagration. “That is why you didn’t bring Lucien here when he lay dying,” she said. Sibylline abruptly smiled. “Are you hungry?” she asked and moved toward the long banquet table upon which food suddenly appeared from the thin air. “I’m hungry and I’m sure our other guest must be hungry, too.” A frown moved over Khamsin’s face. “Other guest?” she repeated. The room filled with delicious smells as steam rose from the many dishes lining the table. “There will be only the three of us dining. Please, take a seat,” Sibylline said as she pulled out her chair from the head of the long table. Khamsin stood where she was, amazed at the transition of companion from Fury to jovial hostess. The woman’s mercurial personality was a bit overwhelming and not a little unsettling. “Ah, there you are, dearling!” Sibylline said, looking past Khamsin. “Come and join us! We were just about to eat.” Khamsin turned to see Christina walking into the room. The healer’s footsteps were slow and awkward. She put a hand to her head as though she was dizzy. Paler than usual, Christina seemed disoriented and stopped a few feet from the table, surveying the scene with eyes squinted and forehead creased. “The tenerse takes awhile to wear off but once it does, you will be just fine, Tina.” Christina’s eyes widened. “You gave me tenerse?” “Not enough to be of any problem to you,” Sibylline said. “There’s no need to worry about becoming addicted to it unless you like the sensations you are experiencing.” Shaking her head as though to rid herself of the dazed feeling, Christina stumbled and had to reach out to grab a chair. Khamsin hurried to her and put a steadying arm around her.

“What the hell is that bitch doing?” Christina whispered as Khamsin helped her to sit down. “Causing Lucien pain,” Khamsin said through clenched teeth. “Why am I here?” Christina seemed to be having trouble focusing her eyes. “Why are you?” “Lucien thinks you betrayed him to Stavros,” Khamsin answered. Christina flinched. “Never,” she stated. “Not on my life would I do such a thing.” “But he’ll think you were the one who took me from him and he’ll think you took me to Stavros.” Lifting her head to glare down the table at their hostess, Christina skinned her lips back from her teeth. “You insane bitch! Do you know what you’ve done?” “Be careful what you say, Tina,” Sibylline warned. “I don’t have to return you to Modartha, you know.” “She planned this so Lucien would go after Stavros and kill him,” Khamsin said. “And he will,” Christina stated. “There is no denying that.” “Once I have what I want, you two can go back to that dreary keep beneath Mount Duáilce and continue on until the world ends, for all I care,” Sibylline commented, ladling her plate with food though she never lifted a hand to do so. Bowls hovered around her and utensils were moved by unseen hands. “You should be happy Stavros will no longer be in the picture, Tina.” Narrowing her eyes at the older woman, Christina pushed aside the plate before her. “There is more to this than ridding yourself of Stavros, Sibylline. What other nefarious purpose do you have?” Khamsin looked from Revenant to Revenant queen. There was a smile on Sibylline’s face and a caustic frown on Christina’s. “I only want what is due me,” Sibylline answered. She poked her fork toward her guests. “Now, eat while it’s hot. The pâté is excellent.” “I’m not hungry,” Christina snapped. “Nor am I,” Khamsin agreed. “Suit yourselves, but you don’t know what you’re missing!” “Why are you punishing Lucien?” Christina asked. “Is it because he now has a woman he loves?” Sibylline waved a hand in dismissal. “My goodness, no! I found her for him, didn’t I?” “And took her away from him,” Christina pointed out. “Why give with one hand and take away with the other?” Sibylline laid her fork down, took up the snow-white linen napkin she had placed in her lap and delicately wiped her lips. “Because—” she said, replacing the napkin “—he owes me.”

“Owes you what?” Christina queried. “A child of his loins.” Both Khamsin and Christina gasped in unison and they looked at one another with horror. “Once he slays Stavros and finds you aren’t at Constantine’s keep, he will turn to me to help find you. I will, naturally, tell him he can have you both back but for a price.” “Him in your bed,” Christina growled. “For only the one night,” Sibylline allowed. “I have no need of him but for the sowing of his seed.” “And you know for a fact it will take only the once?” Christina scoffed. “I will make sure of it.” Khamsin felt sick to her stomach. The thought of Lucien with the striking red-haired queen hurt her very soul. “Why would you want to be burdened with a brat, Lucien’s or not?” Christina demanded. “Have you no conception of the problem babies bring?” Sibylline leaned back in her chair and cocked her head to one side. “What trouble when it is safely ensconced in the mother’s womb—where it will stay.” “You can’t keep a baby from being born!” Khamsin pointed out. “Oh, but I can,” Sibylline said sweetly. “That is ridiculous! You…” “She can do it,” Christina said softly and there was pain in her words. “How?” Khamsin demanded. “She’s going To The Ground,” Christina said. “Well, to the soil of Croì Cloiche, anyway,” Sibylline corrected. “The soil on Earth stinks.” “I don’t understand,” Khamsin said. “What does that mean?” Christina was about to answer but Sibylline interrupted. “What it means is I am tired,” the Revenant queen said. “I have lived thousands of years—even outliving that bastard mate of mine and his last strutting trollop, I suspect. I wish to go beneath the soil and rest.” She sighed. “But I do not want to go alone. I want my child to go with me.” “That’s sick!” Khamsin shouted. “How could you be so cruel?” “Cruel?” Sibylline countered. “Why is it cruel? I will speak to my daughter, carrying on long

conversations with her. I will teach her all she needs to know. We will spend eternity together as the best of friends. I will love her and reassure her and make certain her every moment is pleasant and comfortable.” “And that no man will ever lay hands to her,” Christina put in. “That’s important, isn’t it, Sibylline.” Sibylline’s jaw tightened. “You should know, Tina.” “Do you think Lucien will agree to this?” Khamsin asked. Her hands were clutched into fists on the table edge. “After losing one daughter, do you think he will stand by while you take another from him?” “If he wants you back, he will,” Sibylline stated. “Else he’ll spend eternity alone!” Chapter Eleven

Lucien woke from the drugged sleep that had kept him immobile for two nights. The first thing he felt was the wicked headache that throbbed over his right eye and the first thing he saw was Petros’ concerned face looking down at him. He knew before asking that Khamsin was gone. “Christina?” he asked, trying to sit up although the room spun around him like a top. Petros reached out to assist him. “She’s nowhere to be found.” “Have you gathered the troops?” “They’ve been ready since I found you’d been incapacitated. Marc swears he knows nothing of what Christina planned and I believe him. He found the vial of tenerse she must have used on you and brought it to me.” “If Stavros has hurt my woman,” Lucien stopped, plowing a trembling hand through his hair. He felt weak, disoriented, but managed to toss the covers aside and sit up with Petros’ help. The moment his feet hit the floor, he fumbled for Petros’ arm. “Easy,” Petros advised. “I’d be willing to bet you have enough tenerse in you to keep ten men out for a week or more.” “Get my weapons,” Lucien ordered, ignoring Petros’ concern. “The sharpest and most lethal among them.” He looked up at his friend. “There won’t be a Constantine coven member left alive when I’m through if that bastard has harmed one hair on my woman’s head!” Petros nodded. “Your command will be obeyed, my Prince.” In less than an hour, a troop of Korvina clansmen was trampling over the drawbridge, their faces set and hard, their hearts filled with fury and revenge. Each trooper was battle-hardened and each was a Revenant in his own right. Not a single one was in thrall to the Korvina coven. That was important to Lucien for he wanted no man to look to another for direction. He wanted his men to know their purpose and to be able to take the necessary measures to see the conflict through. “We’ll get her back,” Petros had vowed and the men accompanying him shouted in unison that would, indeed, be the case.

“For Korvina!” Lord Nikos Carrus shouted, stabbing his sword into the air. “For Korvina!” the other twenty-nine Revenant lords echoed. Twenty-two clansmen rode out of Modartha Keep that night with blood and vengeance gleaming in their eyes. The remaining guards cursed not being able to join the party—as they saw it—but were needed to guard the keep. With swords and daggers honed to razor sharpness, pikes and morning stars and battle-axes at the ready, Lucien’s men took the road south to Duaric, where the keep of Stavros Constantine squatted in ruin. Overhead, the moon was bright, leading the way with a steady beam that turned the surrounding dark mountains pale gray. “Stavros is mine,” Lucien had told his troopers. “Keep watch for Giles Kolovis,” Petros reminded them. “You all know him.” Sitting hunched in his saddle, his teeth grinding, Lucien paid no attention to his surroundings. His mind was a jumble of fear and try as hard as he could, he could not sense Khamsin’s presence. “Christina would have seen to that, Luc,” Petros said over the jingle of harnesses. “I pray that it is all it means,” Lucien replied. “Stavros has been wanting this battle,” Nikos Carrus, the man Lucien called the Dog Lord said. “He’ll not harm your lady until he knows for sure the fight has gone against him.” Petros shot Carrus a nasty look, no doubt warning him to keep his mouth shut. “I don’t want one wall at Duaric left standing,” Lucien commanded. “Not one fucking wall left standing!” “What of the women?” Carrus asked and blushed deeply when Petros hissed at him. “What herd is left in his pens are to be taken back with us.” He snagged Carrus with a brutal look. “Any man who hurts a woman, rapesanywoman at Duaric—thrall or slave—will have me to answer to. Thralls are to be dispatched along with their masters if they resist. I want no treacherous bastard left alive to avenge his owner,” Petros asserted. “And Lady Christina?” another Revenant inquired. “Leave her to me,” Lucien said, his eyes as hard as flint. Silence fell over the clansmen as they started their mounts down the twisting road that led to the valley far below. Loose rocks skittered into the deep ravine below as each trooper skillfully controlled his beast to keep it from descending the steep ribbon of road too fast. Lucien tried once more to glean some knowledge of his lady but all he sensed was a dark miasma. Hateful thoughts, sorrowful thoughts prickled his mind and made him exceedingly uncomfortable. The evil of the mist that surrounded Khamsin pressed on him like a wet, cloying wool cape. He shifted his shoulders against the feel of it and felt a shiver of cold wriggle down his spine. He knew he had to get his mind off the wicked notion that Khamsin was suffering at Stavros’ hands. By

dwelling on the brutal nature of Constantine, remembering reports of how horrendously he abused women, Lucien was making himself sick. He could taste the hot bile in his throat and the stench of death was ripe in his nostrils. “If she was suffering,” Petros said quietly, “you would know, Luc. There would be no way for Constantine to hide that from you.” Lucien glanced across at his friend and knew Petros was keeping tabs on his thoughts. He tried to smile but all he managed to do was grimace. “He’ll have drugged her,” Petros said. “Aye, and only the devil knows what he’s doing to her in that state,” Lucien reminded him. “If she’s asleep, she won’t know, my Prince.” Lucien looked away from the concern on Petros’ face, but not before he glimpsed the pity in his friend’s eyes. His fingernails dug into his palms until bloody punctures made the reins slippery. He wiped one palm then the other down his britches. Grief ate at him and his heart was like granite in his chest. “Have you tried to communicate with Stavros?” Petros asked. “No.” “He will know we are coming.” “Doesn’t matter,” Lucien snapped. Petros tried for the third time to mentally contact Giles Kolovis, their spy at Duaric, but there was only an undulating black shadow where once a bright spark had resided in their mind-link. In itself that could mean that either Giles had been discovered and was unable to answer Petros’ call or he was deliberating ignoring the attempt to communicate. If Giles had been discovered and was incapacitated in some way—had been tortured until there was no brain activity or lay dying—that was one thing. But if Kolovis was ignoring Petros’ attempt to contact him that could mean he had gone over to the Constantine side or for some reason thought opening a channel of communication between them was too dangerous. Either way, the situation bothered Petros. “Still no contact with Kolovis?” Lucien asked, sensing Petros’ worry. “Not a peep since I learned Christina and your lady were gone from Modartha. I’m getting worried, Luc.” “It may not be safe for him to converse with you.” “I’m hoping that’s all it is. Giles is a good man.” A falling star flashed across the night sky and Lucien looked up to follow its path. The ancient superstition of wishing on a star flitted through his mind and he closed his eyes, feeling foolish for doing so but making a fervent wish nevertheless—“Keep her safe for me.” The ride to Duaric would take until nearly dawn and not for the first time did Lucien wish he and his men

could simply have shape shifted into ravens and winged their way to the Constantine stronghold, but every ounce of their strengths, their powers, was needed in the oncoming fight. Nothing could take away from their ability to crush the enemy. Power and strength needed to be conserved. There would be a minor sapping of their strength when they were required to change into tiny woodland creatures that could bore their way deep into the earth before the rise of the sun. At least such a shifting would not sap that much-needed power. The only concern was that Stavros’ thralls not find their hidey-holes and try to eliminate Lucien’s troops before nightfall. “Look for mounds of leaves, rocks or fallen logs to burrow beneath,” Petros mentally alerted his fellow warriors in such a way that no escaping thought could be plucked from the ether by any Revenant other than a member of the Korvina clan. “Send your mounts back to Modartha and cover their tracks before you go to ground. Leave no trace of your descent into the earth. Your unlives depend on it.” As dawn approached, the troop became lethargic, their movements slow. They began looking for hidey-holes into which they could spend the coming day. Only two miles from Duaric, the troops took to the ground, taking care to cover their passing. The last two left above ground—Lucien and Petros—inspected the area where their men had hidden themselves, where they had brushed over the imprint of horse hooves when they had sent their horses back to the keep, and were satisfied no telltale trails had been left for Constantine thralls to find. “I hate the thought of her in that vile place even one more hour, less an entire day,” Lucien swore as he dismounted. He kicked a few leaves over one hidey-hole then bent down to add a few twigs to further mask the entry point where the Dog Lord had taken himself. “Stavros can do nothing until nightfall, Luc,” Petros reminded his friend. “He isn’t powerful enough to keep the day at bay as are you. He will have already gone to bed.” “Aye,” Lucien said through clenched, “with my woman at his side!” Petros made no comment to Lucien’s words. Instead, he had found a good place to go to ground and was already in the process of shifting his body into a small rabbit. “See you at sunset,” Petros whispered as whiskers sprouted and his body shrank. Waiting until he was sure Petros’ hiding place was well concealed, Lucien wandered around the clearing, too distraught to think of his own concealment. He tunneled his fingers through his hair as he stood staring off into the distance. Somewhere beyond the ridgeline, Duaric Keep sat like a warty toad upon a small escarpment. “Are you awake, cousin?” Lucien snarled, his hands doubled into fists at his side. He listened carefully but could not hear Stavros’ mental mumblings. Not even sure the bastard could hear him, Lucien cursed the Constantine line and even included Stavros’ dam—Lucien’s father’s sister—for bringing such a contemptible offspring into the world. Still there was no communication from Duaric. “But you know I’m coming, don’t you, cousin?” Lucien sneered. The first faint glow of dawn’s light reached up from the eastern horizon and Lucien felt the pull of the soil

calling to him. He would need all his strength for he knew the brutal anger that was driving him took too much of his energy. Striving to calm the rage building inside him, he looked for a place to secrete himself and spied a stony outcropping that had not been chosen by one of his men. Proceeding carefully so no footprint would mar the surrounding sparse vegetation, he walked to the pile of stones and stood there a moment, staring down, preparing himself to shape shift. It was not a mole or a rabbit, mouse or ground squirrel that morphed there beside the stony concealment but a one-meter-long nose-horned viper, light slate brown in color with chocolate brown zigzag markings framed within white blotches down its back. With a fleshy horn on the tip of its snout, a long, accurate striking ability, hollow fangs that could easily dispense a copious payload of poison, the viper was considered to be the most dangerous and venomous snakes in all of Europe. Any thrall ventured near the place where Lucien had gone to ground would never live to hunt again. Slithering between the sand-colored stones, Lucien ventured into a deep darkness that hid him from the day’s bright light. Flicking his tongue to taste the space around him, his amber eyes open, he coiled in upon himself and let sleep overtake him. ***** Stavros was acutely uncomfortable but he didn’t know why. Something was troubling his slumber, keeping him for slipping down into the rest he so enjoyed each day. Opening his mind to the Rift in the Veil around him, he could detect no danger but he felt it, nevertheless. From time to time, a cold shiver rippled down his spine and that was generally a sign to him that something was amiss. He turned over in the bed and dragged the covers of his head. Though there were no windows in his sleeping chamber and the door was heavy mahogany under which no shimmer of light could be detected, the weight of the sunlight disturbed his ability to sleep. “You are up to something, Korvina,” Stavros mumbled. “Are you raiding my herds again, you bastard?” Though they had grown up in neighboring villages and had known one another since they were toddlers, the two men had never been on friendly terms. Constantly fighting as youngsters, actively trying to hurt each other as young boys, and consigning one another to hell as they reached manhood, the cousins hated the other with a passion none of their relatives understood. Both were handsome young men—having the same mesmerizing eyes and dark complexion with thick black hair and strong features—so perhaps, it was their very resemblance that had caused the original antipathy between them. Whatever the cause, their dislike as boys had grown into full-fledged hatred as men. Shuddering once more as the spectral talons of destiny scraped down his backbone, Stavros ground his teeth and pulled the pillow tightly over his face. His unease had grown to astronomical proportions yet he could not fathom why he should feel such dread, such nervousness. “You won’t attack during the day, you coward,” Stavros hissed. “That much I know.” But sunset was many hours away and sleep was just out of Stavros’ reach. Try as hard as he could, he was unable to sink into the arms of Morpheus, and spent the day trying to glean a measure of understanding from the savage vibrations that were disturbing him. Restless, his powers waning from the constant worry of a threat hanging over his head, he tossed and turned, feeling his energy slipping away. By the time he had fretted himself into a light doze, the sun was dipping toward the western horizon. *****

Khamsin sat beside the blazing fire Sibylline had lit for her and Christina. The storm still raged around them and Khamsin began to think this was the way the weather ran at Croì Cloiche. “Why would she implicate me like this?” Christina asked for perhaps the fifth time. “To hurt him,” Khamsin replied once again. “It hurts me to think he believes me capable of such treachery,” Christina said and her voice broke. “We’ve been friends since childhood. He and Petros were my only friends. They were the only ones who accepted me as I am!” “Once we are back at Modartha and we can sit down and talk to him, he’ll no doubt apologize for what he thought, Tina.” Christina paced in front of the roaring hearth, her arms wrapped around her as though no fire could ever warm her. “I thought I recognized the term Bilitis’ daughter when Petros spoke of it but never could I have imagined Luc thought me a spy for that prick Stavros!” Sighing heavily for they had gone over this same argument time and time again, Khamsin drew her knees up into the chair and laid her chin in the valley between them. She, too, was cold, but it was not coldness of flesh but rather of heart that caused her anxiety. “It will torment him if Sibylline steals a child from him and takes it To The Ground,” Christina said. She stopped her pacing and turned to face Khamsin. “It will cause him great misery.” “I know,” Khamsin agreed. “And she will have her way,” Christina stated. “I fear she will.” The women were silent for a long while then Khamsin asked quietly if she thought Lucien would win his battle with Stavros. Christina waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, he will win! Lucien is the heir apparent to Sibylline’s earthly throne. Of the four princes, he is the most powerful.” “Sibylline seems to regret having turned Stavros. I know he is an evil man but surely she had to have known what he was like before she turned him.” Plopping down in an overstuffed chair, Christina plucked at the chair arm. “She turned Stavros to anger Lucien.” She looked up. “They are cousins, you know.” Khamsin blinked. “No, I didn’t know.” Christina nodded. “They’ve despised one another from the cradle. When the prince in China died during the Great War, Sibylline needed another for the Fourth Corner of the Earth. No one could have imagined she’d choose Stavros. It made no sense then and even less sense now.” “Except as a way to punish Lucien?”

A frown formed on Christina’s face. “Perhaps it was punishment or just simply meant to annoy Lucien that she turned Stavros in the first place. Who knows? Either way, it had little effect on him. Stavros becoming a Revenant was a joke to Lucien until the bastard started mistreating his humans and committing atrocities that boggled the mind. That was when Lucien began sending herders to Duaric to steal Stavros’ herds.” “Do you think Lucien will kill Stavros?” Christina laughed. “He’ll mutilate the bastard! I’ll wager Stavros has no idea you are missing and even if he does, he would have no way of knowing where you are. When Lucien confronts him, he will try to bluff his way out of it, maybe even hinting he’ll return you for a price. That price, of course, would be his worthless life. He might—and I stress themight —reason that Sibylline had a hand in your disappearance but that’s a long shot. The man is not overly smart at his best. As angry and afraid as I can imagine Luc is right now, Sibylline’s involvement won’t even have occurred to him. He’ll be too worried for your safety.” “This must be hell for him for it is sheer agony for me,” Khamsin said and tears filled her eyes. “I wish there was something we could do.” “All we can do is wait, Khammie, and hope Sibylline will make good on her promise to return us to Modartha.” Khamsin’s eyes widened. “Is there a chance she won’t?” Christina shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve always thought the woman mad but then I’ve had little contact with her over the centuries. She finds me loathsome.” The thought of never seeing Lucien again filled Khamsin with overwhelming grief and she broke down and cried, burying her face in her hands. She barely felt Christina’s comforting arms around her and did not hear the soft murmurs meant to soothe her. Chapter Twelve

Unable to continue lying in his bed, Stavros threw aside the covers and sat up slowly. He was dizzy with lack of sleep and his blood flowed sluggishly through his veins. Walking as though in a daze, he went to the door and opened in only a crack, wincing as his guards came to attention, their pikes slapping against the floor with a reverberation that caused the Revenant prince acute distress. “Go,” he said, his words thick for the sun was nearing the ridge of the horizon. “Send men into the forest. There is a threat there.” “A threat, Your Grace?” one guard dared question. “Send men!” Stavros snarled, holding onto the edge of the door for he felt faint with hardly any energy left. “Korvina’s men. Find them and burn them where they burrow. Do it now!” Prince Stavros Constantine’s fury was legendary through Duaric and the region surrounding the decrepit keep. No one dared to question his orders and both guards jumped at his bidding, hurrying away in tandem down the dark corridor.

Stumbling back to his bed, Stavros barely had the strength to climb atop the thick mattress. He lay there on his belly, his cheek pressed to the rumpled coverlet, his hands beside his head. “No guards at my door,” he mumbled as sleep tried to glue shut his eyes. “No safety for the prince.” Somewhere there was a Rift in the Veil. Beyond the battlements of Duaric danger was lurking, waiting, crouching. Agitation bubbled in Stavros’ gut. Never a brave man, he felt the disturbance to the marrow of his bones and knew a confrontation with his hated enemy was imminent. “Burn his men,” Stavros mumbled as his tongue grew thicker and his words more unintelligible. “Burn Korvina.” The sounds of harnesses jingling, leather creaking and horses neighing in the bailey made Stavros’ eyes open a bit wider. He heard the shriek of the portcullis as it was raised and the pounding of hooves as the thralls raced their mounts over the drawbridge. The stench of burning pitch drifted through the partially open door of his chamber and Stavros drew in the musky smell along with the scent of human fright that washed over the thralls. In his mind’s eye, he could see the thralls hoisting high-flaming brands meant to fire the hidey-holes of the Korvina clan. Though the sounds and smells were reassuring, fear put a squeezing hand on Constantine’s heart and sent bile up his gullet. ***** The nose-horned viper struck, its fangs catching the Constantine thrall in the fleshy part between thumb and index finger. It withdrew and struck again before the human could jump out of the way, this time snagging the screaming man’s wrist. Venom bubbled up from the man’s pierced flesh and he stood there—his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish—until the serpent slithered up through the outcropping and struck again, burying its fangs into the hapless man’s shin. The human took one step back then collapsed to the ground like a deflated balloon. To the other thralls searching the mounds of leaves and fallen timbers, their comrade’s piercing scream sounded like a war cry and such it might have been for all around them shapes began to materialize with the setting of the sun, streaming up from the ground in wavering columns of wispy gray smoke that took on the form of men. Without so much as a whimper, Constantine’s thralls dropped to the ground on their bellies, burning brands tossed aside to light fires in the dried leaves. Threading their hands behind their necks, legs crossed at the ankles, the thralls made it clear they were surrendering without a fight. “We can’t let them live,” Nikos Carrus said loud enough for the thralls to hear. Petros took shape beside the Dog Lord and gave him a tight-mouthed look before shouting at a couple of his troopers to put out the spreading flames before someone caught fire. Lucien appeared beside Petros, the last thing about him to shift back into mortal form his serpent’s tongue that lashed out at Carrus, sending the Dog Lord staggering back. A low, vibrating hiss came from Lucien and Carrus put even more distance between them. “Turn them,” Lucien ordered. “Now!” Falling upon the thralls, the Revenants of the Korvina clan sank sharp lateral fangs into the necks of the thralls and the sound of blood being sucked, venom being injected, rang out through the forest.

“Do we really need more brothers?” Petros inquired in a conversational tone. “It was either that or kill them,” Lucien explained. “There will be those at the keep who will fight. Those, we slay. These—” he swept his arm over the dozen or so thralls who lay stretched out on the ground “—gave us their lives in hope for mercy. What would we be if we took that life and gave nothing in exchange?” “Just asking,” Petros said with a grin. Lucien snorted and went to hunker down beside one of the thralls. He grabbed a handful of the man’s tangled hair and lifted his head to gaze into eyes that were already showing signs of the Revenant venom that had been injected into the man’s neck. “How many among the herd at Duaric?” Lucien asked. The thrall’s eyes rolled wildly in his head. He licked his lips. “Forty, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice a dry husk. “And how many Revenant lords?” His flesh taking on a pale blue tint, the thrall shuddered as the venom spread to his vital organs. “Only two other than our prince.” “Who are they?” “Lord Anchises, his Lord of Security, and his brother Lord Stefan,” the thrall answered. Lucien let go of the man’s hair but stayed hunkered down beside him, watching the transformation he had seen only once and never wanted to see again. He was aware of Petros standing beside him and wondered if his friend remembered the night Lucien had turned him. “How many thralls are left?” Petros queried. “Fifteen, maybe twenty. One came down with a fever and was too ill to join us.” Petros and Lucien exchanged looks. “Which thrall is sick?” “Kolovis,” the thrall replied and his voice was stronger. “Giles Kolovis.” “That explains why I haven’t been able to reach him,” Petros said. “How ill is Kolovis?” Lucien inquired. “Near to dying I think, Your Grace,” the man answered and sat up, the blue tint gone from his flesh. “Shall I send him on his way, my Prince?” Petros bent over and took the man’s chin in his hand, and studied his face carefully. “Who are you?” he asked. “Farris Papoulis,” was the reply.

“Giles Kolovis is of the Korvina clan,” Petros said. “Would you dispatch a thrall belonging to Prince Lucien, Farris Papoulis?” The man shook his head. “I would not, milord!” he denied. “Do you swear fealty to Prince Lucien Korvina and his coven?” “With my last breath, Lord Petros,” Papoulis vowed. “Then take two of your men and find Kolovis. Guard him well for he is an ally of merit,” Petros ordered. Papoulis turned to Lucien for permission to rise. He looked healthier than he had a few moments earlier for the venom had done its work in the man’s body. “Tell me of the woman,” Lucien demanded. “Where is the woman brought to Constantine by the Korvina healer?” Puzzlement puckered Papoulis’ face and he shook his head. “I know of no such woman, my Prince.” “He was most likely an outside thrall,” Petros said. “Aye, that is true, milord. I was,” Papoulis agreed. Lucien looked about them for those thralls that had been turned were standing about in various stages of transformation into Revenant. “Who among you worked inside the keep?” Two men stepped forward. “We were Prince Stavros’ guards!” one of the men admitted. “Was the woman with him?” “There was one with him before he retired but we removed her before the moon rose.” Lucien felt a shiver of ice go down his spine. “Removed her?” he repeated. “She was dead, my Prince,” the ex-guard explained. “We…” The howl that came roaring from Lucien Korvina’s throat shocked even Petros. Every man there stood transfixed as the Revenant prince suddenly became a towering, raging dragon with fiery breath and thrashing tail adorned with vicious barbs. Sizzling froth fell from the sharp jagged teeth in the dragon’s snarling mouth. Its snake-like eyes glowed scarlet red and smoke spurted from scaly nostrils. Before any of them could react, the dragon twisted around and thundered into the night, the ground shrieking beneath the scrap of its savage claws. “Well, that’s not good,” Petros barked, shape shifting into a huge black bear. He scrambled after Lucien, speeding along on all fours, his fangs glistening in the moonlight. Having turned the thralls sent to kill them, the Revenant lords of the Korvina clan waited until no living human remained and all had sworn allegiance to Prince Lucien before turning into animals, themselves, to race toward Duaric, leaving the new Revenants behind to make their way there as best they could.

Trees and shrubs between the place where Lucien’s men had taken cover and the ruins of Duaric burst into flame as the dragon passed. With each bellow of primordial rage, its scorching breath lashed out to set the vegetation on fire. The ground shook beneath its enormous weight and all wildlife scattered to the four winds, trembling in terror as the giant serpent suddenly took to the air, its huge leathery wingspan reaching fifty feet across from the longest razor-sharp wingclaw on the left wing to longest wingclaw attached to the scalloped membranes on the right. The downward sweep of those powerful wings beat heavily against the air, thrusting the body upwards and over the tops of the tallest trees. It banked close to the mountain ridge then began a swooping descent that was accompanied by a horrendous shriek. Its claws were arched, extended to their full length as it dove toward the battlements of Duaric Keep. The thralls guarding Duaric looked up in horror as the giant winged creature shot toward them. Slapping their hands over their ears as the piercing shriek came, their eardrums burst, and blood trickled down their cheeks. They tried to scurry out of the way, striving to reach cover, but not a one of the ten or so humans escaped the blast of furnace breath that washed over them and turned them to crisply fried meat where they stood. The stench of sulfur filled the air to vie with the noxious scent of charred flesh. A portion of the parapet crumbled beneath the weight of the dragon as it landed upon the wall walk. Mortar joints cracked and a serpentine line of destruction spread from mortar line to mortar line. Chunks of mortar and stone slid down the age-pitted walls to splash into the weed-clogged moat. Blocks tumbled from decaying crenulations, falling to earth to raise clouds of dust into the air. Shrieking one last painful cry to the night sky, the dragon shifted once more and the imposing figure of Lucien Korvina stood with legs planted wide, his face a terrible blending of rage and grief. His hair blew wildly about his head and the red glow of his eyes was like a beacon to light his way down the stairs from the wall walk. Anchises Banos held his ground as the Revenant prince came striding toward him from the bottom of the stairs. In his hands, he held a huge broadsword—gripping the weapon so tightly his arms were trembling. His forehead creased as Korvina came closer and he could read violent death in the prince’s narrowed eyes. Banos knew he would not survive the night whether he struck out at the prince or threw away his weapon. “Take me to Constantine,” Lucien ordered, his teeth clenched. Outside a tremendous racket began and Banos knew the Korvina clan was making quick work of what guards were left at Duaric. His own brother was somewhere in that melee and he knew he would never see Stefan again. Not that it mattered for the two had never been close. With a wavering sigh, Banos lowered his weapon then dropped it to the stone floor. He went to one knee, his head lowered. “I cannot, my Prince,” Anchises Banos said quietly. “Do what you must.” Knowing Petros would react no differently were the tables turned, Lucien walked past the kneeling man, never giving the moment a second thought as he lashed out with one powerful fist and decapitated Stavros’ Lord of Security. Banos’ head rolled down the corridor, its eyes half-closed and lips parted. Without breaking stride, Lucien looked back, hissed and the Revenant lord’s body burst into flame. There was nothing between Lucien and the stairs leading up to the chambers above. Somewhere in the maze of stinking, mildewed rooms he knew he would find Stavros. He could feel the other man’s hatred, the intent sizzling in his black heart, but he could also feel Constantine’s fear. Pity was not in Lucien Korvina that night. Rage unlike anything he had ever known boiled in him like

acid—it dripped from his pores, squeezed at his vital organs and festered in his blood. It ruled him and with every step he took, every riser he climbed, the fury grew until his entire body pulsated with it. By the time he reached the landing, the only emotion filling Lucien was all-encompassing wrath. Stavros, in the form of a snarling tiger, bolted from his chambers and launched himself at Lucien. His sharp claws swiped at his enemy but instead of striking flesh, swiped only air. He landed with a heavy thud against the far wall, shaking his furred head to clear away the pain. Before he could turn to face Lucien, he found himself caught tight in the thick coils of a boa constrictor—its pointed head arched back, tremendous jaws opening to engulf the tiger’s head. Once more Stavros shape shifted and fell from the tightening hold of the huge snake to skitter away in the form of a small green beetle that darted into a crack in the decaying wall. The boa snapped in upon itself until it was a furry spider that scampered into the same hole and began stalking the beetle on eight long legs that clicked over the stone. There wasn’t much room in between the lathe and plaster of the walls and Stavros’ beetle could barely maneuver as it burrowed deeper. Scurrying along as quickly as it could, it could sense the spider coming closer. A large section of space showed a lighted hole at the base, near the floor and the beetle crawled through the hole, materializing on the other side as a skittering rodent, claws clicking on the stone floor as it shot under a piece of furniture. Lucien pressed his segmented body out of the hole and into what he recognized as a bedchamber. Under a settee, he saw a mouse, nose twitching and he could sense Stavros’ fear. Within the space of a single breath, the spider morphed into a grinning cat, mouth open to show sharp fangs as it propelled itself toward the settee. Squealing, the mouse raced away and along the baseboard until it darted out the crack between an opened door and the wall. Once in the hall, the mouse elongated to the form of a wolf and stood poised—hackles raised—to pounce on the cat when it stuck its head through the crack in the door. But it wasn’t a cat that reached out with thickly taloned paws to swipe the door open. The creature that came slowly out of the bedchamber was unlike anything Stavros Constantine had ever seen and the wolf piddled on the floor and turned to run away. At the end of the corridor where the stairs led to the floor below, a huge black bear stood on its hind legs, front paws arched with vicious curving paws and a snarling muzzle in which jagged ursine teeth showed. The wolf spun around and would have raced in the opposite direction but there perched a mountain lion bigger than any known to man. The giant cat hissed, its ears drawn back, its giant tail swishing angrily from side to side, knocking against each wall so large was the feline. There was no escape for Stavros Constantine. He backed up against the far wall, staring in terror at the thing that sidled slowly from the bedchamber. Thatthing that was Lucien Korvina made the wolf’s blood run cold and the lupine shifted haltingly back to humanoid form. Yet the monstrous being that advanced toward the shivering form of Stavros Constantine did not shift. It crept forward until its leathery face was but a few hot breaths from its enemy’s. Glaring into that frightened face with eyes that flowed a sickly green, the creature flicked out a thick, forked tongue and tasted Stavros’ flesh.

Shrinking in upon himself, cowering as that slick, rough tongue washed over his cheeks, Stavros began to whimper. His legs were trembling so violently, his knees were knocking together. The hot scent of urine clung to him as well as the even bolder, muskier smell of runny shit. Scales covered the creature’s low-hung brow beneath which slit eyes stared unblinkingly. A short snout with wide nostrils that flexed with each audible breath quivered and leathery lips pulled back from long, needle-like fangs. “What have I ever done to you, Lucien?” Stavros whined. His teeth were clicking together in rhythm with his knees. “What, indeed?” the creature queried and its voice was slick and oily and of such a timbre it grated on the nerves. A broad paw came up to slap against the wall beside Stavros’ head. Thick, yellow claws pierced the stone wall as though it was paper. The creature’s other paw rose to bracket its enemy’s head. “A few minor things,” Stavros answered. “Nothing s-serious.” As broad as the head of a small elephant, the creature’s face cocked to one side and one thick, horned brow lifted in challenge. “Minor things,” it repeated. “Nothing serious.” “You can have my thralls,” Stavros said and bloody tears streaked down his cheeks. “Take my lieutenants, my herd. I’ll not lift a hand to stay you.” “What of my woman, cousin?” the creature purred. Stavros’ brows drew together. “Woman?” he repeated. The creature pressed close to Stavros, and the spiky plates of its scales dug into Constantine’s flesh like hot nettles. “Which woman?” A savage paw moved lightning quick and came across Stavros’ face, neatly cleaving the Revenant’s nose from his face. The bloody flesh landed several feet away. Deep gouges scored Constantine’s once-handsome face from left temple to the right side of his screaming mouth. “Mywoman!” the creature thundered and fire washed over Stavros to burn flesh from bone. The agonized shrieks of Stavros Constantine trilled down the chamber and the Revenant lord fell to the floor in a heap, his hands pressed over what was left of his ravaged face. Giles Kolovis had been delirious for several days, a rampaging fever having taken a toll on the Korvina clan member. His legs were rubbery as he was helped past the large black bear that blocked the stairs. Petros shifted from his ursine shape to reach out and help Farris Papoulis support Giles. “You’ll survive, Giles,” Petros promised. He lowered his head toward the other man’s throat. “Turn me later, milord,” Giles said weakly. “His Grace must be told the Lady Khamsin isn’t here and

never has been.” “I told him what I suspected,” Papoulis injected. Petros glanced at the creature hunched over Stavros then turned back to Giles. “You are sure she was not brought here?” “Aye, milord. Very sure.” “And the Lady Christina?” Giles shook his head. “I would know if either one of them had entered Duaric. They have not.” Petros nodded curtly and hurried down the hall, calling out Lucien’s name as he walked. He winced as the creature swung its misshapen head toward Petros and gruesome eyes fastened on him. “She was never here,” Petros said. “Stavros has not laid a hand to her.” Constantine continued to scream, the piercing sound echoing all around them. He squatted in the middle of a ring of his own piss, trying to hold the mutilated pieces of his face together. Swiping out a paw to gently push Petros out of the way, waving the Revenant lord back with a wave of its scaly arm, the creature waited until Petros was well out of range then turned its ghastly face to Stavros and another spurt of fire sprayed from its maw to engulf the man huddled on the floor. Putting up a hand to pinch off his nostrils to the smell, Petros backed further away as the once-humanoid body of Stavros Constantine burst into roaring flame and split apart with a hissing, popping sound like bacon frying in a hot skillet. Standing over his enemy until there was nothing left but ashes, the creature threw back its head and roared, causing a section of the wall behind Nikos Carrus—still morphed into his mountain lion form—to collapse. As that roar reverberated, Lucien Korvina transformed into his warrior shape and backed away from the destruction he had wrought upon his cousin. Petros let out a shuddery breath and came up to his friend. “Do you think Sibylline has her?” he asked. Lucien nodded, his anger still so high he could not speak. He stood there panting, dragging ragged breaths into his lungs as he clenched and unclenched his fists. The audible grinding of his teeth was brutal. “Do we stay here until she contacts you?” Petros inquired. It took every ounce of his self-control for Lucien to answer Petros. He didn’t look at his friend but continued to stare down at the heap of ashes that had once been Constantine. “Take his herd and those who have been turned back to Modartha. Burn the dead and destroy Duaric.” Petros frowned. “What are you going to do?” Lucien’s eyes shifted slowly to Petros. There was no need for him to answer for the knowledge of what he was planning glazed from his ice-cold eyes.

“Be careful, Luc,” Petros bid. “Obviously this has been her plan all along. She couldn’t slay Stavros and she knew you’d never attack him without good reason.” Lucien snorted and turned his back on his friend. Giles and Papoulis moved out of his way, bowing respectfully to him as he strode past them. “Turn Giles before he breaths his last!” the Revenant prince ordered. Chapter Thirteen

Khamsin ignored the food Sibylline had left for her and Christina and stood staring out the window. Hail was hammering the stones of the walkways in the dark courtyard beyond the window. “Do you think it never stops storming here?” she asked. Christina looked up from the book she had been trying to read, having scanned the same paragraph ten times in the space of an hour. “I think Sibylline revels in the tempest,” she replied. She closed the book and laid it aside. “The fury of nature must make her feel more alive.” “Do you think she has gone to meet with him?” “She left with a smirk on her face so, aye, I think she will be seeking out Lucien.” Leaning her forehead against the glass pane, Khamsin no longer flinched with every flash of lightning and boom of thunder. Both she and Christina had come to realize the storm that brewed outside was nothing more than show and posed no threat to either them or Croì Cloiche. At least the turbulent display was distracting and kept her from giving in to the fear that was pressing upon her heart. “If you are entertaining the thought that she won’t return us to Modartha, forget that,” Christina said as she got up from her chair and stretched. “She doesn’t want us here in her precious keep any more than we want to be here.” “Aye, well she could just as easily kill us or hand us over to some other man,” Khamsin reasoned. “Not her style,” Christina denied. “She isn’t as evil as she wants us to believe she is.” “You know that for a fact?” “Selfish, self-centered, self-absorbed, egotistical, arrogant, narcissistic but not evil. Besides, she has affection for Lucien else she wouldn’t want his bairn in her oven.” “This will hurt him,” Khamsin said, her voice breaking. “Aye, that it will, but he’ll do as she bids.” ***** The moon was high overhead as Lucien climbed the rocky slope overlooking Duaric. He stood on a narrow ledge and watched the keep’s timbers blazing, the stones crashing down as his troops demolished the Constantine stronghold. In the light from the flames, he could make out Petros giving orders and saw Stavros’ herd being loaded onto wagons. Though he was a good mile away, his keen eyesight took in the

scene and felt deep remorse that he had allowed the humans to suffer for as long as he had. From the looks of them, they had not fared well at Stavros’ hands. With only three Revenants to feed, they should have been healthier-looking but almost all of them were emaciated and could barely walk. When the last section of wall fell to the ground, Lucien turned away and continued up the mountain trail. As young men, he and Petros had ventured into the higher elevations of Mount Duáilce and hidden in one of the vast caves, once with two bottles of Communion wine they had pilfered from the church. Experimenting with approaching manhood, they had learned how to masturbate in that cave and both had lost their virginity among the stalactites and stalagmites. Though it had been centuries since he had set foot in the cave, Lucien ducked beneath the cobwebbed overhang and time seemed to hurl itself backward. An old lantern still sat on a rocky protrusion and with his keen sense of smell could detect a small level of oil left in the brass base. He fumbled on the shelf, and found a box of Lucifers and struck one against the rough rock wall. The match flared to life and he touched the flame to the lamp. Feeble light caught then flared to light up the immediate surroundings. There on the rocky floor was a pile of empty wine bottles. Against one uneven wall lay a moth-eaten wool blanket, no doubt so dry-rotted it would disintegrate in his hands should he attempt to pick it up. Knowing it was not a holdover from his own time spent in the cave, he wondered if some human had not called it home in the recent past. Smiling grimly to himself, his memories traveled back in time and he shifted his shoulders, feeling the fall of his father’s wide leather strap on his bare back. Such a beating he and Petros had received that time! He thought as he sat down on one of the loose boulders his friend and he had rolled into the cave to use as seats. The blood had run down his rump and stained his britches and he hadn’t been able to work in his father’s woodshop for nearly a week. Petros had fared no better but had been made to tend the family’s sheep even though he could barely walk. Both boys had been taught a lesson neither wanted to have to repeat. Strong drink and willing girls aside, Lucien had enjoyed his yearly visits to the cave simply because he had been able to have a modicum of privacy that he could not have in a small hut with his parents and five sisters. He and Petros spent many a night simply sitting around the fire pit they had built and not saying a word, knowing full well that when they returned to their village, they would pay for their daring. Until the two had brazenly swiped the forbidden wine, their whippings had been more a token protest in acknowledgement of their mothers’ worries than actual punishment from their fathers. Stealing sacramental wine had not only been a grievous sin, the act had resulted in the entire village knowing of their transgression and from that time onward, the boys were very carefully monitored, not daring to step out of line again. Stretching his long legs out in front of him, Lucien crossed his booted ankles, folded his arms, and let his chin drop to his chest. He was tired, sick at heart and the headache that had plagued him for weeks was back with a vengeance. The odor from the burning oil made his stomach turn and seemed to intensify the agony throbbing over his right eye. Perhaps he dozed—he would never know—but when he lifted his head, the lantern had gone out and the cave was dark, except for the faint sky glow coming in from the opening. He knew immediately that

he was not alone. “Is she all right?” he asked softly. “Unhappy but perfectly well, Sweet One,” Sibylline replied. He heard the swish of silk coming toward him and did not flinch as a cool, soft hand touched his cheek. Her smell—of jasmine—invaded his nostrils and took him back to many passion-filled nights lying abed with this woman. “Christina was no spy,” he stated. “No spy,” she agreed. “Simply a means to an end. If I had left her at Modartha, you would have known right away it was me who took your sweeting.” He sighed. “If you had wanted Stavros removed, all you needed to do was bid me do it, lady. There was no need to make me think she was being brutalized by him.” “Perhaps, but if I had not taken her and placed her where you could not rescue her, you would not be willing to do as I ask now.” “Willing?” he echoed. He shook his head. “It’s not willingly that I am here, Sibylline. It is blackmail.” She trailed her fingers across his lips. “Such a handsome man you are, Lucien Korvina,” she said wistfully. “How do I get her back?” he said, careful to keep the anger from hardening his voice. Sibylline slid her hand down his chest and between his legs. “You service me, Sweet One, one last time.” He sought her eyes in the darkness and squinted when the lantern flared to life once more. Though she was a good six feet away, he knew her magic had fired the lantern. She was watching him as her hand massaged the bulge in his britches. There was a faint smile on her lush lips and her eyes were sparkling with passion. “One last time,” he said and no more trusted her than he would have Stavros. Sibylline shrugged. “I am ready to go To The Ground and I would have a final thrusting to keep me warm in the coolness of the soil.” “Neither Gideon or Francisco have women. Why not go to them?” he asked. “I know you’ve lain with both many times over.” “Aye, and they are both extremely satisfying cocksmen but it is yours I want in me. As my heir, it is your right and…” “A right I will gladly decline,” he interrupted. “One in which you have no say,” she countered.

He lowered his head. “Will you swear this will be the last time you abuse my body, lady?” “Abuse?” she questioned, shock in her voice. “You dare call it abuse?” Not looking up at her, he shrugged. “Abuse, exploitation, rape. Call it what you will. Any way you slice it, it was always against my wishes that you fucked me, Sibylline. I had no say in the matter, as you just reminded me.” She snaked out a hand and grasped his chin, yanking his head up so his eyes were locked on hers. “Tell me you did not enjoy our times together, Korvina,” she demanded through clenched teeth. “Tell me you did not!” “Much to my shame I can not tell you I didn’t enjoy it. You are very good at turning a man’s blood hot and his cock hard as steel. You’ve had many millennia to practice your craft. Why would you not be an artist at it?” Her right hand tightened cruelly on his chin as her left cupped him brutally between the legs. “Whether you enjoyed it or not, you will provide your cock one more time and youwill enjoy it!” Lucien steeled himself not to flinch at the pain her hands were causing. Despite the sharp discomfort at the juncture of his thighs, he could feel himself growing hard beneath her onslaught. “Then get on with it,” he said, holding her stormy gaze. “Take what you want and let me have my woman back.” Sibylline snatched her hands from him and stood there quivering with rage. “I could snuff out her life like that!” she said, snapping her fingers. “Harm her and I will go To The Ground, myself,” he said. “You’ll need to find a new heir apparent.” A hiss of rage pushed from Sibylline’s mouth and she reached out to rip open his shirt, exposing his naked chest. She caught hold of one manly pap and twisted it viciously. “Take off your clothes, Korvina. I will ride you like the beast I have made you!” she spat. “I will show you what abuse is!” The pain intensified around his nipple until he thought she would snatch it from his body. When she let it go, stepping back to allow him to stand, he shook his head. Such had always been their relationship and he hoped this one last time would be the end of it. Sibylline took another step back, her chin lifted as she watched him shrug out of his torn shirt. The sight of his chiseled chest made her mouth water. Her fingers curled at her side as though she were striving not to rake her nails down the wide expanse. Unbuckling his belt, he kept his eyes on her, not trusting her for one moment not to jump on him and try to scratch his eyes out. Her fury was evident in the harsh, labored breaths she was taking and in the way her jaw was set. That she would make him pay dearly, he had no doubt. Sibylline licked her lips as Lucien pulled the belt from its loops and let it drop to the ground. As he

worked the buttons at his fly, her eyes became slits of smoldering lust. Lucien kicked off his boots, peeled off his socks, then shrugged the leather britches down his lean hips and stepped out of them. He felt defenseless, vulnerable as her hot eyes raked his nakedness. The cold night air spread over him and pebbled his flesh. “Strip off my gown,” she ordered. He knew the way she liked to have sex—violently and with him seeming to overpower her. She wanted him to conquer her, make her like the degrading things he would do to her body and though the entire scenario had always been her idea, he had all too often reveled in the dominance such behavior had always made him feel. Stepping up to her, he grasped the bodice of her gown and rent the fabric down the middle—popping buttons and stitches to expose her pendulous breasts. With a muscle grinding in his cheek, he slid his hands over her breasts and squeezed until a soft groan escaped her full lips. “This what you want, bitch?” he asked, saying the words she had taught him so long ago. His hands were merciless on the softness of her globes—pinching the nipples until they were hard little pebbles between his fingers. Snatching up the hem, he thrust his hand beneath the skirt, found her sex and rammed his fingers deep inside her. “Lucien!” she cried out, trembling. He detested the feel of her juices on his flesh and snatched them out of her, ignoring her squeal of protest. He wiped his fingers on her skirt, feeling hot bile pushing up his throat as he tried to rid himself of her smell. “Take me!” she ordered. “Fuck me, now!” The skirt was ripped and tossed aside, her stockings torn from her long legs, her heels jerked from her feet and the garter belt at her hips snapped in twain and tossed aside. There were no undergarments to impede the roughness of his hands as they dragged over her. “You like it rough, don’t you?” he snarled and the flat of his hand slapped brutally against her rounded rump. Her jerked her to him and thrust his thigh between her legs, lifting her from the cave floor. “You like me to be forceful.” “Aye,” she said and rubbed against his thigh. “You may have bitten off more than you can chew this time,” he growled and fell with her to the ground. Sibylline grunted as loose rocks drove into her back and ass. The heavy weight of him had nearly knocked the wind from her and she was grunting beneath him as he shoved his hands into her hair and swooped down to slant his mouth savagely across hers. Lucien was lying between her spread legs, pinning her down. His hands were twisted in her thick red curls—anchoring her head for the assault of his tongue thrusting deeply into her mouth. He bit her lip, trailed nips down her neck and when his mouth closed around one hard little nipple, he bit until he drew blood.

“Aye!” she said and raked her nails down his back, pressing him closer to her. Sickened by what he was doing, Lucien wanted an end to the sordid affair and moved his right hand from her hair to inject it between their bodies. He fumbled with his cock—furious that he was rock-hard—and was about to drive it mercilessly into her when he caught sight of a shadow advancing into the cave. He lifted his head and what he saw stunned him into immobility. The man standing over them was immense—nearly nine feet tall—with skin the color of freshly drawn milk and streaked with a spider’s web of pale blue veins. His lips and eyes were blood red, his fangs so long they nearly reached the tip of his chin. The hand he extended toward Sibylline was as big as a polar bear’s paw with wicked sharp nails that were at least a foot long and curled under toward the palm. Atop his large head was a shabby mane of wispy white hair and a beard that reached nearly to his waist. He smelled of sulfur and decay and wet dirt as he bent down. Sibylline arched her head back and when she caught sight of the being bent over her let out a terrified shriek that could have broken every crystal wineglass within a mile’s radius. That huge hand took hold of Sibylline’s hair and dragged her out from beneath Lucien in one mighty tug, holding her squirming body up from the cave floor by a twist of her long red tresses. “Whoring bitch!” the man snarled and shook her so her breasts wobbled and her legs jerked as though she was a marionette. Lucien jumped to his feet and moved back, his eyes wide as Sibylline dangled. “Macmillan, please!” she pleaded. The towering inferno of fury swiveled his shaggy head from Sibylline to Lucien, and impaled the Revenant prince with a glower so brutal the air sizzled. “So you are one of the many wagtallies this slut has slid her filthy body down, eh?” he bellowed. Lucien could see tears in Sibylline’s eyes as her hands tried to pry the vicious hold from her hair. “Answer me, boy!” the man ordered. Knowing he must be looking at the King of the Revenants, the mate Sibylline had spoken of in such derogatory terms, Lucien dropped to one knee. “I am Korvina, Your Majesty,” he responded. Tossing Sibylline aside as though she were a used napkin, the man advanced on Lucien. When Sibylline tried to scramble away, Macmillan Laoch spun around and thrust a pointed finger at her. “Move one more inch and I will twist your lying, cheating head from your body, bitch!” he warned. Sibylline sat down, drew her legs up into the protection of her arms and began trembling, pressing her head to her knees as though the sight of her husband terrified her. It terrified Lucien and as the mountain of a being stomped over to him, he jerked him up by one arm and brought them nose to nose. He could not swallow for the spittle in his mouth had dried to dust. The hold on his arm was like tempered steel, digging in until Lucien thought his arm would explode.

“Aye, you are one of the many with whom she has cuckolded me,” the man sneered, sweeping his crimson eyes down Lucien. “I can tell by how pretty you are!” A snort of derision thrust from his thick lips as his gaze fell between the younger Revenant’s legs. “Pretty but with a prick the size of a flea’s!” Lucien felt like that insect as the merciless stare traveled slowly upward and settled on his own face. “Have you no notion what that slut was about, boy?” Shaking his head, too afraid to even try to find his voice, Lucien was ashamed of his reaction to the Revenant king but held in thrall to the man’s authority as though he was a babe in arms. “She was about to harvest seed from you, you stupid little prick. She would have stolen a babe and taken it with her To The Ground.” Lucien flinched and his head twisted toward Sibylline, his mouth parted in disbelief. The thought of such a horrendous thing made his blood run cold. “Not a very bright little wagtally, are you, Pretty Boy?” Macmillan demanded. “I can see why you are her favorite. She has pulled the wool over your sweet little green eyes so often you believe every word she says!” “I…I didn’t know,” Lucien said, horror at what he had almost done filling what soul he had left. “And she has your woman in that hellhole she calls her keep and you can do nothing about it,” Macmillan scoffed. “Not only a flea-sized prick but a brain no bigger that a gnat’s!” Before Lucien could react, the enormous man swept a hand to Lucien’s cock and grabbed it in an ice-cold grip that hurt far more than the light hold with which the Revenant king held it, weighing in his palm. “Would you like me to relieve you of this puny little tool, boy? Only a man needs a cock and you’re obviously still a boy!” He jiggled Lucien’s tool. “Have your balls even descended? If not, shall I pull them down for you?” He leaned down. “Or off?” Fearing that was exactly what was about to happen, Lucien’s complexion lost its coloring until he was only a shade or two darker than the man holding his staff. “Leave him be, milord,” Sibylline spoke up, lifting her head so the men could see the tears staining her cheeks. “He is a good man.” “Man?” Macmillan snorted. “He’s a child! You woke me from my rest, brought me from The Ground for this?” Sibylline scrambled to her knees and crawled over to her husband. She reached toward him though was careful not to touch his immense body. Around her, her flaming red hair floated to hide her breasts from view but the thick pelt of fiery curls at the apex of her thighs was in plain view. “I didn’t mean to draw you up from The Ground, Mac,” she said, shivering. “I didn’t even know I could.”

“Hell’s rod, bitch, you drew me from counting my cock hairs and you didn’t know you were doing it?” he exploded. “For that alone I should squash your little wagtally into dust!” “I will do whatever you want, Macmillan. Just don’t hurt him,” she pleaded then looked at him. “Why were you counting your cock hairs?” Lucien breathed a ragged sigh of relief when the huge man released his hold on Lucien’s penis and turned to kick out at his wife, missing her but sending her scrambling back from his oversized boot. “You torment the addlebrained little wagtally but don’t want me to do the same?” her husband sneered. “Where is the equality in that, Sibylline?” “There has never been equality between us, husband!” Sibylline said as she gained her feet. “You made sure of that with your plethora of whores jumping in and out of your bed at the drop of a skirt!” “And why was that,wife ?” Macmillan snarled. “You cheated on me first!” she threw at him. “I but returned the favor!” As the two argued over who had been the one to instigate the trouble in their marriage, Lucien gathered his clothes, drawing on his britches as quickly as he could. Being naked in front of the giant of a man was intimidating enough, and Lucien could still feel his massive arctic paw on his cock. “Come here, bitch!” Macmillan demanded, pointing at the ground in front of him. Sibylline shook her head. “I’ll not be your punching bag ever again!” she denied and turned to run. Despite the immensity of his bulk, Macmillan Laoch moved with the speed of light. He caught her by the hair, wrapped the long wealth several times around his wrist, and pulled her back to him, slamming her naked body into his thick chest. “Do you really think I would let you be defiled with the get of another warrior, Sibylline?” Macmillan hissed. “I want a child!” she cried, beating at his chest with her fists. “You can want with one hand and shit in the other!” her husband pronounced. “I want a child!” she repeated, kicking out at her husband. “You will fetch this boy’s woman and then you will go with me To The Ground,” the colossus ordered. “Any child you have will come from my loins!” “She can stay where she is!” Sibylline shouted. “I never intended to return her anyway!” Lucien’s heart ceased to beat and he staggered back, colliding with the wall. “Sibylline, please!” he begged. “I cannot live without her.” “Then die, Korvina, for you will never see her again,” Sibylline spat in anger. “We’ll see about that,” Macmillan said and reached between her legs, thrusting his enormous hand into

her cunt with such force Sibylline screamed in agony. Another hideous shriek peeled from her lips and blood gushed from between her legs. When her husband withdrew his hand, he held a bloody pocket of flesh in his palm. Sibylline’s eyes went wide in horror and she reached out for what he held as blood gushed from between her legs. “Fetch his woman and his friend and bring them here or you will never get this back!” her husband warned. Lucien stood transfixed as he watched the blood dripping from the giant’s hand. He knew little of female anatomy but it didn’t take a genius to realize what lay in Macmillan’s palm was Sibylline’s womb. Sobbing like a child, keening as though her heart would break, Sibylline dropped to the ground as Macmillan released his grip on her hair. “Do you hear me, bitch?” the huge man demanded. “I want a child,” she whimpered. Macmillan cursed. “Aye, well I’ll give you one when you return this boy’s plaything to him.” Looking up with red, swollen eyes, Sibylline searched her husband’s face. “You swear?” she asked. “You aren’t saying this to trick me?” “It is tedious being alone in The Ground,” Macmillan confessed. “I thought I’d enjoy the rest but the last woman I had was a bore and gave me as much mental stimulation as a cold enema. At least with you, I might find the after-unlife somewhat amusing.” “Macmillan, think of it!” she said, hope entering her tearful eyes “Think of all we could teach her!” “Him,” her husband corrected. Sibylline frowned but she got to her feet. “Perhaps twins? You could do that, couldn’t you?” Macmillan slapped the meaty palm of his free hand over his cock. “I have fourteen inches of prime pecker that says it can!” “Fourteen inches?” Lucien whispered. His stare went to the big man’s crotch and he shuddered. “Makes your measly little ten insignificant, huh?” Macmillan chortled. He reached down, freed that mammoth weapon, and laughed manically at Lucien’s gasp. “Seven inches in diameter, if you want to know, boy!” “I had forgotten how well-endowed you were,” Sibylline said with a shiver. Stuffing himself back into his britches, Macmillan folded his arms over his chest. “Fetch the boy’s playpretty and be quick about it else I’ll find another bitch to take To The Ground with me!” Sibylline shot Lucien an annoyed look then shrugged. “You can’t compete with him, Luc,” she said.

A bright flash of light lit the cave almost as bright as day then broke apart into myriad sparkles of multicolored lights as Sibylline took her exit. “She has a nasty habit of doing that,” Macmillan complained, scraping a hand over his eyes. “Makes my fucking eyes water every time.” “Will she return with my lady to me?” Lucien asked, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. “She’d fucking well better,” Macmillan growled. He hefted the dripping uterus in his palm. “If she wants this back.” He leaned closer. “Actually, this is nothing more than magic, wagtally, and she knows it. As long as she just thinks I’m holding her babymaker in my hand, she’ll tow the line.” “I’m seeing it, too,” Lucien said, a little sick to the stomach at looking at the bloody thing. “You’re seeing what I wanted you to see,” Macmillan said. He waved his hand and there was no longer anything in it nor was there blood pooling on the floor where Sibylline had been standing. The giant laughed. “Then you didn’t really pull out…” “Of course, not! It was a mind-curse. Symbolism, you twit!” Macmillan said with narrowed eyes. “You really aren’t too smart, are you?” Lucien shook his head. “There was blood…” “Aye there was blood!” Macmillan agreed. “How else was it to look real?” “She was bleeding,” Lucien reminded him. “Of course she was and she’ll continue to bleed even knowing damned well I didn’t pull nothing outta her! It’s thethought of it, wagtally. Thethought that I could if I was of a mind to!” He slapped his meaty thigh. “I always did enjoy putting one over on that frisky whore!” “Why would you want to hurt her like that?” Lucien asked. “Hell, she knows I’ll be here when she returns and then I’ll lift the mind-curse and she’ll have that silly womb of hers back.” Lucien pushed away from the wall. He was leery of the giant man—terrified of him if truth be told and that was a novelty for Lucien Korvina. He licked his lips, swallowed, and then asked what was to become of him. “To you?” the Revenant king inquired. “Why the fuck would I care what happens to you, boy?” “Will you let me take my lady and return to Modartha?” Macmillan waved away the question. “You can go to hell for all I care.” He yawned. “I have been away from my grave too long and this world is worse than I ever imagined.” He turned toward Lucien, one eye screwed up, the other blazing with speculation. “Just what kind of Revenant king will you be on this fucked-up world, boy?”

“Reluctant, but I hope fair,” Lucien answered truthfully. He rubbed at the excruciating pain over his right eye, wincing for that area had become bruised from all his rubbing. “Headache, eh?” Macmillan asked, his head to one side. “I never had the damned things until I met Sibylline,” Lucien confessed. Macmillan grinned. “That bitch could give a head of hog cabbage a headache.” He crooked his fingers at Lucien. “Come here, boy.” Lucien came forward reluctantly. The giant glaring at him was too intimidating by far for Lucien to ever be relaxed around him. Huge lips twitched. “Let me guess,” the colossus said. “You’re considered a warrior among warriors on this puny world and you are ashamed your bowels feel watery around me.” He laughed. “That isn’t a sign of cowardice, boy. That’s just a smart man knowing his limitations and acknowledging superiority.” “I thought you said I had the brain of a gnat,” Lucien reminded him. The laugh that rumbled out of Macmillan’s chest shook the ground and when he slapped a hand on his knee, the crack was deafening as it echoed around the cave. “I like you, boy,” Macmillan chuckled. “You’ve got balls after all.” He winked. “Tiny little balls, I’ll grant you, but balls nevertheless.” Standing in front of the tall man, Lucien felt like the child Macmillan considered him. In truth, the vast age difference between them certainly underscored the big man’s opinion. He had to steel himself not to flinch when that giant paw of a hand covered the top of his head. “I don’t remember how it came about that Sibbie learned to cause headaches, but it’s one of the meaner tricks in her arsenal,” Macmillan commented. “I can’t tell you how many of her wagtallies I’ve cured of the ailment.” Lucien opened his mouth to speak but the sudden sensation of a great suction sweeping from his chin to the top of his head stunned him and he staggered, reaching out to grab hold of Macmillan’s wide leather belt. “Easy does it, boy,” the giant growled. “I don’t take to men putting their hands on me.” Snatching his hand back as though he’d touched a hot skillet, Lucien swayed but realized the headache was gone, though the inside of his skull felt numb. “It’ll take a moment or two to settle back to normal. When I remove the source of the pain, it doesn’t ever come back.” Macmillan put a rigid finger on Lucien’s chest and pushed. “Now get the fuck away from me. You humans stink.” Stumbling back from the push, Lucien mumbled his thanks although he felt the insult to the very bottom of his heart. Macmillan stomped over to the cave entrance and poked his head out. “Dawn’s coming, Sibylline! Get your pussy back here, bitch!”

Lucien frowned. “You don’t think she will stay at Croì Cloiche, do you?” Macmillan snorted. “I know she won’t. Most likely she lost a bit too much blood and is having to—” A bright spray of skittering blue lights exploded through the cave, causing both men to throw a hand over their eyes. When they lowered their arms, Christina was standing in the center of the cave, her eyes wide as saucers. “Shit,” she said. “I’d never get used to traveling like that.” Lucien rushed to her for Christina’s legs gave way beneath her. He caught her before she could hit the ground. “You stink of female,” Macmillan complained, sniffing. “You’re one of those that gets her kicks from muffing.” Christina gaped at the huge man. She shuddered, alarmed at his immensity. “Who is he?” she whispered to Lucien. “Whatis he?” “I am your king, muff eater,” Macmillan introduced himself. He sniffed again. “And you smell of disease.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you diseased, muff eater?” “She’s a healer,” Lucien said quickly. “She’s been working on finding a cure for the plague victims.” The thunderous look on Macmillan’s face slowly disappeared. “A healer, eh?” Christina clung to Lucien. “Why is he here?” she whispered. “He came to fetch Sibylline.” Nodding, she seemed reluctant to take her eyes from the mountain of a man but turned her face up to Lucien. “I was no party to your lady’s disappearance, Luc,” she said in an earnest tone. “I am no spy for…” “He knows that, muffie,” Macmillan interrupted. “Tell me more of this plague.” “Why?” Christina asked. Rolling his eyes. “I believe the one thing I hate most about muffers is that they think they have balls.” He squinted. “You don’t and never will ‘less you strap ‘em on.” “He cured my migraine,” Lucien told her. “He might be able to cure the plague.” A suspicious look folded over Christina’s face. “Or make it worse.” Macmillan strode forward, jerked Christina away from Lucien, spun her around and lifted her to his eye level and held her dangling in front of him by her upper arms. “Not that I give a fuck what happens on this backward little planet of yours, but if Revenants are to thrive here, they will need good, rich sustenance. Diseased sustenance is of no use to them.” He cocked

a head toward Lucien. “If he’s to be an effective king on your shitty little world, he needs to repopulate it with thralls that will provide him with a comfortable lifestyle.” “And you can do that?” Christina challenged. “I have fourteen inches of pecker that says I can!” Macmillan stated. Christina’s mouth dropped open. “You’re joking,” she whispered. “Wanna see?” Macmillan countered. “No!” the healer denied, shaking her head. “Not even in my nightmares!” Macmillan grinned. “It’s a sight to see, lemme tell you, muffer.” He lowered her to the floor then draped a heavy arm around her shoulder. “Let us talk about this plague.” Christina looked as though she had a boulder resting on her shoulder but she allowed the giant to lead her to one of the rocks and they sat down. Lucien breathed a sigh of relief that Christina was all right but he was still nervous as he waited impatiently for Khamsin to be returned to him. He paced the confines of the cave, going often to the entrance to look out. “She will bring the girl back, won’t she?” Christina whispered, sensing Lucien’s worry. “As far as she knows I have her babymaker in my pocket,” Macmillan said. “She’ll be back for it.” Christina looked around at Lucien. “He’s a good man.” “So I keep hearing,” Macmillan said with a grunt. “You females are always being misled by a pretty face.” “He has that,” Christina agreed. “Aye, well if I was a cocksipper, I might be tempted but give me a dripping snatch any day,” Macmillan said. “Me, too,” Christina agreed with a giggle. “Have you ever tried…” Lucien ignored the whispering and tittering going on behind his back. He knew the two were beginning to bond at his expense but it was better than having them glaring suspiciously at one another. He stood at the cave entrance, his forehead resting on his arm, staring out and—for the first time in centuries—prayed to a God he suspected had forsaken him long ago. Chapter Fourteen

Khamsin turned over and drew her knees up to her chest. Her fetal position helped to control the violent spasms that were rippling through her body.

“The reaction will pass soon and when it does, I’ll take you to Luc,” Sibylline told her. The coppery smell of blood permeated the chamber for Sibylline had lost a copious amount before packing her empty cavity with all the cobwebs she could gather until she became too weak to stand. “Son of a whoring bitch didn’t think about me bleeding when he pretended to pull out my womb,” Sibylline complained. Shuddering, Khamsin reached up a trembling hand to wipe away the tears that flowed from her eyes. “When he pretended to do what?” Sibylline waved away the question. “Sometimes he goes a bit far in making his fucking point!” The sight of the blood on the chamber floor was too much for Khamsin and she put her hands over her face and sobbed. It wasn’t just Sibylline’s blood but her own that was smeared on the floor. “Don’t you realize yet what a gift I’ve given you?” Sibylline snapped. “Stop that blubbering, girl!” Her throat was on fire, aching with a pain Khamsin could barely tolerate. It was an agony that made it hard for her to breathe and she was so weak, her heartbeat so slow, she feared she was dying. “Well, you aren’t!” Sibylline snapped. “You should thank me instead of lying there cursing me, you cunt!” The punctures in her throat throbbed with a life of their own and the venom from Sibylline’s fangs spread hot acid through Khamsin’s veins. “Perhaps I took a bit too much but, hell, I needed it,” Sibylline muttered. “I sure couldn’t take it from another Revenant. You were my only choice.” She shrugged. “Unfortunately, my bite is more potent than even that of Lucien’s so that’s why you’re having a bit more reaction to it. My venom isn’t diluted as it would have been from sweet Luc.” Khamsin closed her eyes to the misery undulating through her. It was more than just the Revenant venom spreading through her, turning her into an undead creature, it was fear of the unknown that disturbed the young woman. “You won’t age and you won’t ever gain weight,” Sibylline lectured. “You will be immune to every illness.” She glanced at Khamsin. “And you will be with your lover for all eternity.” Opening her eyes to that statement, Khamsin felt a moment’s relief from the wretchedness that had washed through her. “He won’t thank you for doing this to me,” she said weakly. “The hell he won’t!” Sibylline disagreed. “He might have loftily agreed to grant you free will, girl, but he would have found a way to have you ask for the turning. He wants to spend his lifetime above ground with you.” “My blood was important to the Revenants,” Khamsin reminded her. “Now, you’ve made it worthless.”

“That’s a moot point if Macmillan does his I-can-make-everything-right routine—as I know damned well he will!” The lethargy of having lost nearly every pint of blood in her body weighed heavily on Khamsin. The spasms were dying down and the pain was becoming more tolerable. “You feel up to traveling?” Trying to lower her knees, Khamsin discovered the pain could come roaring back quickly so stilled. “No,” she said. “I hurt too badly.” Sibylline turned her face toward the window. “Dawn is only a few minutes away on your world. If we don’t go now, we will have to wait until nightfall.” Spending another day in the company of the Revenant queen was a doom Khamsin had no desire to experience. She forced her legs down—groaning with the agony that shot through her—but managed to turn to her back. Swinging her legs over the bed proved to be an excruciating experience that almost brought on unconsciousness. She fell back with a scream. Sibylline sighed. “As much as I hate to do this, I see I have no choice. I’m afraid the leaving is a bit more dramatic than the arrival.” She strode over to the bed and scooped Khamsin up in her arms. “Hold on!” Light burst over Khamsin like a ball of fire and she squeezed her eyes shut, pain lancing through her head. Cold swept fiercely over her, making it hard to draw in a breath. Wind rushed around her, whipping her long hair about her head. “Hold on,” Sibylline repeated. ***** Christina laughed at something Macmillan said then leaned closer to him as he spoke so softly Lucien could not hear. Already the pulse of dawn was beginning on the crest of the eastern horizon and fear was clouding Lucien’s mind. Despite Macmillan’s reassurances that Sibylline would return, Lucien wasn’t so sure. He was afraid the woman would keep Khamsin just to spite him and the thought hurt so badly, Lucien had to sit down. He went to the far end of the cave, slumped on a rock and buried his face in his hands. “Where did you come by your unusual looks, Your Majesty?” Christina asked, studying the strange appearance of Macmillan. Macmillan grinned. “My ugliness you mean?” he countered. Christina shook her head. “I wasn’t suggesting that you…” “Don’t have a clue what my parents looked like but I suppose I must bear a resemblance to at least one of them,” Macmillan interrupted. “I was brought here—or sent here, don’t know which—to this world many millennia ago—me and the old ball and chain both. All I can tell you for a certainty is that we are not of your world.” He put a finger to his eye and drew the lower lid down. “That’s a story best left for another time, though, I’m thinking.”

“Will you stay around long enough to tell me?” she asked. “Let me tell you about what it means to go To The Ground, muffie,” Macmillan suggested. “Vampires, now, they go for that eternal rest of theirs, you understand? They smart off about how the soil heals them, revives them and all that drivel. For a Revenant, it is just a time to laze about without having to worry about feeding and the like. You store up enough blood to last you for as long as you think you want to be there and you take with you a comely lass or two to while away the time.” He grinned. “Or five or six. It depends on how addicted you are to the fucking, you see.” “In other words, it’s like a vacation,” she said. “Exactly!” Macmillan exclaimed. “A vacation!” Macmillan slapped her on the back, nearly knocking her down. He looked around, spied Lucien and sobered. “The boy is suffering,” he observed. “He must love the human.” “He has been alone for so long. Khamsin is the only woman he’s touched other than Sibylline,” Christina said. “I had almost given up on him ever finding happiness.” Macmillan dropped his wide chin into his massive hand and studied Lucien. “Shall I take away his pain, muffie?” Christina shook her head. “He wouldn’t appreciate it.” “Likes to suffer, does he?” “Sometimes I believe he does.” “Humans,” Macmillan said with a snort. “Such strange creatures, you are. I once…” He stopped, sniffed the air, and then grinned hatefully. “Her bitchiness returns.” The sparkling lights did not burst over the cave this time but a harsh wind roared through the area so violently, small loose rocks and sand was whipped up like a mini cyclone to sting the eye and pelt the flesh. Those in the cave cursed, hiding their faces in the crooks of their arms. Lucien lowered his arm to a sight that turned his blood as cold as ice. He slowly came to his feet, his face a mask of sorrow. “Oh, get over it, Luc,” Sibylline snapped. “She’s alive.” Khamsin was draped over Sibylline’s arms, her head hanging down, her long hair sweeping the ground, her arms limp. The brutal marks of Sibylline’s fangs stood out in high relief against her very pale throat and a streak of blood was caked on the white flesh. “You couldn’t resist turning her, could you?” Macmillan accused. “You made sure I would have to when you made me bleed. I was being drained and had to drink from her whether I wanted to or not,” Sibylline snapped. She walked over to Lucien and extended his lady toward him. “Take her. She’s heavy.” Christina turned to Macmillan. “You knew she’d turn Khamsin?”

The giant shrugged. “She had to replace the blood loss from somewhere. Any handy human would have sufficed but she took what was at hand.” Lucien dropped to his knees, cradling Khamsin to him. Her stillness, the boneless limpness of her body, the pallor of her skin made his heart ache. He lowered his lips to the swollen red punctures on her throat and kissed them. Gently. Beneath his mouth, he could detect the slightest beat of her heart and he knew she would survive. But what had been done caused him such intense fury he raised his head and glared at Sibylline, wishing he could pull out her black heart and squeeze it to pulp. “When you have time to consider what I’ve done for you, you will thank me,” Sibylline said, raising her chin. “I doubt he ever will,” Christina disagreed. She went to squat down before Khamsin and placed a hand on the young woman’s chest. She looked up at Lucien. “She will be okay, Luc.” He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His strength was waning with the spreading light of the dawn he could feel seeping into his bones. Macmillan picked up two heavy boulders in the wide span of his meaty hands and carried them to the cave entrance as though they were no more than feathers. He piled the rocks across the opening and turned to gather more to block the intrusion of light that would soon bother them all. “I want my womb back,” Sibylline said. Her movements were not as slow as Lucien and Christina’s but she yawned for sleep was needed. “I’ll lift the mental suggestion and you’ll get it back when we leave this accursed world,” Macmillan told her. “And not a minute before then.” Sibylline grunted and went to sit down with her back to the cave wall. She slid down, crossed her legs and arms, and lowered her head. Just as quickly as that, she was sound asleep. “Bitch,” Macmillan said. He finished blocking the entrance then went to where his wife sat. He plopped down beside her, turned and laid his head in her lap, turning on his side with his back to the others in the cave. In her sleep, Sibylline lowered one arm and twined her hand through the giant’s hair. “They are quite the pair,” Christina remarked. “I believe they love one another but just can’t live together.” Lucien nodded. He was tired, his eyelids drooping but he rocked Khamsin slowly against him, crooning softly to her in his native tongue. “Lay down, Luc,” Christina said. “You looked like undeath warmed over, my friend.” With Khamsin’s head resting on his shoulder, Lucien stretched out, his arms protectively around her. His lady moaned in her deep sleep but her hand crept up to press against his chest. Lucien smiled. Christina lay down, bracing her head on her outstretched arm and before her eyelids closed, was asleep. *****

Lucien stirred, drawing in a long breath, and then opened his eyes to the midnight darkness surrounding him. He could smell the warm scent of his lady and listened closely to the strong beat of her heart as she lay against him. His arms tightened and he smiled for he sensed she was awake, looking up at him through the lightlessness. “Can you see me?” he asked. “As clearly as though we were in bright sunlight,” Khamsin answered. “Being a Revenant has its rewards,” he said. “When did the others leave?” she asked. Lucien lifted his head and surveyed their environs. They were, indeed, alone. He laid his head back down. “I don’t know.” “Can we go home?” That one word made Lucien’s heart soar. “Whenever you’re ready, milady,” he replied. “I’ve been ready,” Khamsin said, sitting up. Lucien lay there for a moment and watched her. Her long hair was spread like a cape of daffodils around her shoulders and when she ran her fingers through the thick mass to drape it down her back, he sighed for her breasts flexed, and his cock pulsed. “She was furious you did not give her a child.” He shrugged. “Had I known that was what she was after, I would not have laid hands to her.” He reached up a hand to cup her cheek. “Do you understand I never would have had you been safe at Modartha?” Khamsin clasped his hand in hers. “There is no need to explain, my love. I am as sure of your love as you are of mine.” His heart soared and he sat up, crushing her to him, his mouth closing over hers in a heady kiss that left them both breathless when he ended it. They gazed into one another’s eyes for a long time then without speaking he reached out to cover her breast with the palm of his hand. “May I show you just how much I love you, milady?” he asked softly. “No,” she said. “Let me show you.” Holding his gaze, she leaned forward to run the tip of her tongue across his taut nipples. “Wench,” he warned and would have put his hands to her but she pushed him to his back then made quick work of his belt. She pulled it from his waist then ran her fingers through the buttons of his fly. “What are you doing, wench?” he asked, his fevered gaze burning.

“Seeing to my man’s needs,” she replied as she spread open the fly of his britches then worked them down his long legs. She scooted down in the bed to rain kisses on his belly and thighs. She licked at his flesh, spiraling her tongue over him in lightning raids that made him squirm. That hot little muscle ran along the inner surface of his thighs, over his knees then up again until her warm breath was whispering along his balls. He buried his hands in her hair and held her head as she took the tip of him into her mouth, drawing upon his shaft, lapping at his dewy slit, thrusting her tongue as far inside as it could go. He groaned as she pulled him into her mouth, her teeth scraping along the sensitive sides of his erect column. When her lips fastened around his cock and sucked him deep inside, her lips pressed close to his pelvis, he arched his hips up and began a light rhythm in and out of her mouth. Khamsin looked up through her eyelashes as she increased the pressure of her lips upon his shaft. She was swirling her tongue around and around the oozing head—tasting him, sipping his saltiness—and increasing the force of her suckling in proportion to the thrust of his cock. Her hands were on his balls, kneading them gently, and one finger pressed firmly against the soft flesh just under his anus. His reaction was immediate—lifting upward, whimpering softly—and she pressed a bit harder, making tiny circles upon his flesh. No longer able to contain the heat of his lust, Lucien pulled out of her mouth and reached down to draw her up and over him. When she was lying stretched out atop his body, he flipped them over until she was on her back. Before he could move down to return her torment, she wrapped her strong legs around him—legs that now had the strength and power of a Revenant woman—and refused to allow him to escape. “Take me, Korvina,” she said through clenched teeth. “Take your woman!” He dug his fingers into her delicious rump and slammed into her, his cock going to the hilt in the soft, moist cavern that gripped him as though it would never release him. He thrust into her with an abandonment he would never have known of himself and with every push into her lushness, he felt the world as he’d known it for so long—for far too long—slipping away in bits and pieces, like the shards of a broken mirror that held an image he no longer wanted to see. Khamsin felt the rush of his seed coming up from the core of him and she held on, refusing to allow him to buck loose although he was slamming into her with mindless thrusts. The inward and outward suction of his cock was driving her crazy and she gripped his shoulder, dragging her nails down his back to spur him on. The passion that broke over them was like a fire catching from some exploding incendiary device. Ripples of heat danced along their genitals to inflame them and they ground against one another in an attempt to put out the fire, to quell the itch. His cum spurted deep inside her and she drew him in, taking the copious fluid into her womb to nourish it there. “Feel me in you,” he said. “I am a part of you, a part that will forever be there.” Warmth spread through Khamsin and filled her with a joy she could never have imagined. His strong arms were around her. She felt protected, treasured and—aye, she could say it—needed—by the man lying with her.

He turned with her still locked in his arms until she was lying above him, their loins still clinging together as though with a mind of their own. “I want to make you a part of me, now,” he said. “I want your life juices flowing through my veins.” Khamsin was looking into his eyes and she could see the hunger for her invading his green gaze. His lips were slightly parted and he looked vulnerable, almost as though he expected her to deny him. She tilted her head to one side. “I could never deny you anything, my love,” she said and swept aside her hair, exposing her neck to him. “Take what you want from me. It is freely offered and given only to you.” Lucien’s heart swelled at her words and he felt tears pulsing in his eyes. She was giving him not only her love, her passion, but her trust and that was something he knew she did not give lightly. Never would he do anything to lose that trust, for she was as dear to him as the air he breathed and now just as necessary to his existence. “Take my blood, Luc,” she said, leaning over him so her throat was almost at his lips. “Make me that part of you that can never fade.” With gentle care he flicked out his tongue to taste her flesh and quivered at the sensation that rippled through him. The scent of her filled his nostrils and the pulsing throb of her flesh drew him like a drowning man to a life raft. He could not take his eyes from the hollow at the base of her throat and when he eased his lips over that sweet notch, he felt heat pooling low in his groin. Cautiously, very tenderly, he slid his lips to the side of her neck. Khamsin heard the slight rasp of his fangs extending. She closed her eyes, preparing herself for the prick of those sharp points. When he scraped against her flesh, she drew in a breath and held it until she felt the gentle sting of the puncture—first one then the other—entering her throat. Her blood was sweet and warm, and filled with the purest of tastes that rocked Lucien to his foundation. Nothing could have prepared him for the experience. It was like a high-powered aphrodisiac trickling into his mouth and he drank greedily, careful not to suck upon her tender flesh but to extract the crimson drug with the greatest care. Khamsin’s hands were buried in his hair, massaging his scalp. Her head was thrown back to give him access to her pulsing flesh. She felt his cock slip out of her and groaned, wanting, needing, desperately desiring that intimate contact between them. Lucien withdrew his fangs and licked at the tiny drops that remained on her flesh. He ached to be inside her for his cock was stirring into hardness once more. The sweet sensation of her blood on his lips was drawing from him emotions he had thought long dead and he wanted nothing more than to share the ecstasy with her. “You must taste me, Beloved,” he said. “I want to be in you as you are in me.” Khamsin opened her eyes and looked down at him, hesitation showing on her face. “It is such an easy thing to do,” he whispered and reached up to drag his thumbnail across his jugular. A fine line appeared then bright blood began seeping from the cut.

“Think of your fangs growing then use them to pierce my neck,” he told her. “I don’t think I can!” she said, somewhat uneasy with the notion. “Don’t think, Beloved,” he said. “Just do it.” She hovered there for a moment above him, staring at the thin line of blood easing down the side of his neck. She licked her lips, her heart pounding. “Lucien, I don’t…” “What is mine is yours,” he said. “I wish to share everything with you.” Pushing aside a moment of distaste, she did as he asked and felt a supreme moment of power as the fangs exploded into her mouth. Running her tongue along the tip of their sharpness, she wasn’t sure she could take blood from Lucien’s neck. “Share my life with me, wench,” he said. “Share my love.” Without giving herself another moment to contemplate what she was about to do, she leaned down and sank her newly discovered fangs into Lucien’s strong neck. She drew on his flesh—a bit squeamish at first but the warm flow of his powerful blood soon claimed her and she drank easily. When she finally released him, she threw her head back, thrilled to her core she could feel the power that now coursed through her veins. “Wherever I am, you will be able to find me,” he told her. The power encased within what she had just done slammed through Khamsin and she went wild with her desire for the man she had claimed. She felt the hardness of his rod pushing against her and she moved over that pulsing shaft and impaled herself upon it, pushing down hard until it was seated as far as it would go within her. Riding him as though he were the strongest of mounts, she began bucking in her effort to gain for them both that most priceless of sensations—ultimate release. Lucien could feel the tremors beginning deep within her cunt and those tremors were squeezing him tightly, warmly, wetly, so passionately that his own climax was roaring toward the shore of their completion like a tidal wave. He sank his hands into her hips, lifting her as she rode him, slamming her down upon him over and over, striving to scratch the maddening itch that was driving him insane. Khamsin shrieked as he rolled her over and drew her right leg over his shoulder, so he could seat himself deeper within her creamy heat. He was thrusting into her with such abandon—grunting with the effort—she thought his heart might burst in the process. His eyes were tightly closed, his face a mask of deep concentration, his sweet tongue caught between his lips as he pummeled his tool into her sheath. His hands were digging into her rump, pressing her upward, bringing her to him. They rocked together as their passion beat at them. They writhed against one another until their flesh was wet and slippery with sweat. As the itch became a sweet torment that had to be sated, the lovers tensed against one another—both going still at the same moment—as wave after delicious, precious wave swept over them. Twin howls of release echoed as the climax came to claim them. Exhausted, spent, Lucien collapsed atop her and laid still, his head on her chest, her arms around his

shoulders, holding him to her. He could hear her heart slowing its rapid tattoo and knew his own hastily pumping organ was dropping into cadence with hers. His breath slowed along with hers and he closed his eyes to draw in the smell of their mutual juices. The roaring flames died down. The heat dispersed along limbs and through bellies, pooling into the heart where it lay warm and dormant. The roaring fire had become a smoldering caldron of embers that could so easily be fanned back to life again with a look, a word, a single touch. “You fair wore me out,” he said tiredly. “I don’t think I could put one foot ahead of the other you drained me so,” she admitted. “Well, just lie there while I see to our transportation,” he said, getting up. “Transportation?” she asked, stifling a yawn. “Have you the energy to walk home, wench?” he asked. “Find me a horse, Korvina,” she said, waving him away with a smile. She watched him pull on his britches, go to the entrance and roll the rocks away then duck out of the cave. As she watched, the rocks covering the entrance rolled back into place as though by unseen hands. “Show off,” she accused. Stretching like a contented cat, Khamsin later thought she must have dozed for when her lover returned to the cave, he looked refreshed with blooms of color in his cheeks. She hadn’t even heard the rocks rolling away to allow him entrance. “Ready?” he asked. “I hope you have at least one horse waiting outside,” she said. “A bit weak still?” he asked, slipping into his shirt. She nodded. “We’ll deal with that later,” he said. He reached a hand down to her and she took it. Pulling her to her feet, he gave her a quick kiss then turned toward the cave entrance. Outside, the night creatures were creeping about and a gentle breeze blew. “It smells like rain coming,” Lucien observed as they bent down and exited the cave, her hand in his. “Right about now, I’d welcome a good light rain,” she said with a sigh. “I feel gritty.” She looked about and groaned. “No horse, milord?” Lucien let go of her hand. “I have something better.” Before her eyes Lucien transformed, morphing into something larger, more streamlined, and as she stood there with mouth ajar, shifted into a magnificent snow-white steed with a wingspan that arched elegantly

overhead. “Pegasus,” Khamsin whispered. Dropping to the ground gracefully, its front legs crooked beneath its snowy chest, back legs tucked beneath its belly, the steed nodded its beautiful long neck as though in answer. “Your steed awaits, milady,”he sent to her on the wisp of the wind. “You fed,” she said, surmising this mythical animal had sprung from a replenishment to her lover’s strength. “A few woodland creatures donated a portion of their lifeblood for me to be able to give you this gift,” he replied. Khamsin climbed atop the exquisite creature and as its hindquarters lifted, gasped and tangled her fingers in the flowing white mane to keep from pitching forward. Her heart was thundering in her chest as it stood, the heavy wings flexing—sweeping upward, downward, the gleaming white feathers shimmering in the moonlight. A light mist began to fall from the night sky. “Ready?” Lucien’s voice wound its way through her mind. “Aye,” she breathed, thrilled to be sitting so high above the ground, straddling the smooth strong back of her Revenant lover. The mount walked sedately to the edge of the serpentine rock pathway that time and nature had carved into the side of Mount Duáilce. With one powerful thrust of its hind legs, it sprang off the pathway and straight out into the rain-misted night. Its wings flapped once, twice, then stilled as the downdraft of cool air from the mountains allowed the steed to glide like a giant bird upon the currents. With the rain kissing her face, the wind blowing through her hair, Khamsin knew a peacefulness she had never expected to experience in her lifetime. Freedom settled in her breast and she gloried in it. “You comfortable?” “I am in heaven,” she answered. “Hang on tight.” The flying horse flapped its concave wings once more and began rising upward at a steep incline. Khamsin sucked in her breath, her eyes wide, fearing she’d slide off, but then the magnificent creature banked to the left, gliding along downdrafts, rising with the updrafts, moving this way and that through the air as it sailed the rainy skies and she gripped it tightly between her legs. “Now that you can do all evening, wench!” Laughter bubbled from Khamsin and she threw her head back to let the rain cascade upon her closed

eyes for the force of the water’s fall had increased—though not uncomfortably so—and she was thrilling to the feel of its clean touch. Her breasts tingled as the moisture seeped through the bodice of her gown and she could feel her nipples turning into hard little pebbles. “Pebbles I will warm with my hot tongue, milady,” Lucien whispered as he read her mind. Between the warmth of the wide back pressed between her legs and the friction caused by the movement of the steed’s powerful muscles, Khamsin was beginning to experience passionate sensations in her loins that made her wet and aching. “Imagine my cock sliding through the folds of your tight, hot cavern,”came the low, husky whisper.“Imagine the feel of it seated deep with you.” Sailing, gliding, soaring through the ebony waves of space—completely free of all earthly troubles, liberated even from reality—Khamsin discovered a wilder side of her nature that ached to break free. “What would you like to be, wench?” She opened her eyes. “Be?” “An eagle? A bluebird? What creature would you like be?” The implication of what he was asking filled Khamsin with excitement. She was Revenant! She could shape shift! But she didn’t know how! “Think of the creature you would like to become,” Lucien told her. “Picture it in your mind.” The image of a dove flew across Khamsin’s mind. “Hold onto that image and envision yourself changing into its form.” What had once been only a fantasy became an exhilarating adventure as Khamsin morphed into the shape of a beautiful gray-brown mourning dove, its outer feathers tipped in pure white. Little red feet kicked at the air as it propelled itself from the horse’s back, spreading its falcon-like wings, and catching a current to ride through the mist and burst into strong, rapid flight on whistling wings. Lucien dropped into flight beside her. He held his wings out straight and a bit lower than his body and soared around his lady. Below them were the towers of Modartha, sputtering torches burning despite the steady misting of rain that fell from the heavens. Khamsin soared away. She rose and fell, dipped and turned, banking with her long pointed wings steady as the currents kept her aloft. The male dove shook his head with its bluish crown and nape and dove toward the crenulated walls of its home. It landed upon a merlon and looked up at the female as she frolicked through the night. “Oo ah! Cooo-cooo-coo?” His song inviting her to land and mate.

The female twisted her pretty little grayish-brown head and looked down at her love. She sailed past him a few times then with a spark in her little eyes—the bluish ring of bare skin around them looking delicate—blinked and she sidled to her mate to rub against him. “Oo ah. Cooo-cooo-coo,” her mate sang his territorial song. ***** Lying on their backs upon Lucien’s rumbled bed, the lovers’ hands were entwined. They were both as naked as the day on which they’d been born and were covered with a fine sheen of sheen. “It never occurred to me I’d have to shit as a bird,” Lucien said and blushed. Khamsin giggled, unable to look at him for she knew she’d once more burst into gales of laughter. “It wasn’t funny, Khammie,” he said. “It was nature, milord,” she reminded him. A wicked gleam entered Lucien’s eye. “Just as it is this man’s nature to ravish the captive lying in his bed.” Before she could wriggle out of his way, he had her pinned to the mattress, his sleek, hot cock buried inside her. “Oooh,” she said, her eyes widening for the weight and stab of that delicious cock was heating her blood. “Oo ah. Cooo-cooo-coo,” Lucien trilled as he began to move inside her. “Shameless little bird,” she admonished him, but already she was wrapping her legs around his hips. “Oo ah. Cooo-cooo-coo,” her lover taunted. There was nothing feathery about the thrusts into her moist sheath. There was power and heat behind those calculated stabs. His eyes were on hers—locking her to his very soul—and his fingers were still threaded with hers—tightening with each push into her velvety folds. “Do you think that thrall knew it was you who shat on his head, milord?” she asked innocently and, at his warning growl, pursed her lips together. The speed of his thrusts increased until they were straining against one another in a frenzy of wriggling, writhing limbs, and arching hips. The sound of their lovemaking could have woken the undead had any been lurking about. One long, reverberatingcooo sang upon the air from Lucien’s throat. His climax was so thunderous, so powerful, he knew at the exact moment he had seeded life into his lady’s womb. Feeling that life spurting into her, Khamsin drained even the smallest drop and as soon as she had, ripples of release squeeze his hard cock—milking him of his essence—and filling her not only with his

love but with his child. Lucien would have collapsed atop her but he flinched as she flew out from under him, her sleek little dove wings fluttering across his chest. He half-turned, watching her flying out the window. He shook his head but a steady, wicked gleam fired in his green eyes and he changed, following her closely, his more powerful wings easily catching up with her in the midnight sky. ***** Petros stood transfixed as he watched the doves as they mated. It was a strange sight and one he thought highly erotic. Never had it ever occurred to him to mate during a shape change but now the possibilities spun through his mind in every direction. “Is that who I think it is?” Alexa asked as she slipped her arms around Petros and pressed her naked breasts to his back. “Don’t you find that hot as hell?” he asked, unable to take his eyes from the birds. Alexa twirled a strand of thick belly hair at his abdomen. “A little, but if I were able to do it as any creature I chose, I’d do it as a stick insect.” Petros blinked and tore himself away from the sight of Lucien and his lady to stare at his own woman. “A what?” “They have sex all night,” Alexa answered. “Locked together in steamy bug sex until—” “No,” Petros stated, throwing out a hand for emphasis. “Well, there are these other insects that can have sex for over sixty hours but there’s a slight problem there.” Petros narrowed his eyes and twisted his head around to look at her. “I suppose you’re dying to tell me what that problem is, huh?” Alexa shrugged. “Well, it seems that the little insect’s pecker locks within the female, making withdrawal difficult, sometimes impossible, so the pecker breaks off.” Horror shifted over Petros’ face. He just stared at her. “Of course there is always the praying mantis. The female will eat off his head—literally—while they are mating yet he’ll keep right on plugging away without it.” She sighed. “Gives new meaning to making sure you satisfy your lady, eh?” “A tiger,” Petros said, turning around to face her. Alexa took a step back for the look on her lover’s face was purposeful. “A burly black bear.” Petros’ woman took another step back.

“A hard-as-stone bear cock should satisfy you well enough, wench,” Petros growled. Alexa licked her lips as she took another step back from her advancing lover. Petros cocked his head to one side. “Maybe a wolf or a midnight black stallion.” Her breath coming in quick little pants, Alexa rubbed a hand across her breast, squeezing as she kept retreating and Petros kept advancing on her. “Aye,” he said, his voice low and husky. “A stallion to mount you, wench. A sleek black stallion with a cock that will fill you to bursting.” He reached for her. “I want that. Now!” “No,” Alexa said, shaking her head. “Not as a human. As a mare, aye, but not as a human.” Petros came up short. For months, he had been fighting Alexa’s request to be turned. He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend his life with just one woman—intoxicatingly lustful as this one was. He had even made a vow to himself that he would resist her appeals and break it off with her if she didn’t stop pestering him. “Just think, Pet,” Alexa cooed, sidling up to him and reaching down to rub the flat of her hand over his crotch. “We could gallop like the wind across the meadows—wild and free. We could race side by side until we are winded then lay down in the cool meadows and bide our time until you are ready to mount me.” Petros groaned at her choice of words. Her hand was bringing the situation to a head. Alexa pressed up close to him, her hand molding his growing erection. “I can feel your front legs gripping my rump. I flick my long tail aside and you press that thick, bulging tool to my opening. Your teeth nip at my neck, showing me you are my mate, and I stand still, quivering, and waiting for you to thrust that big…” Petros didn’t give her a chance to finish. He jerked her to him, lowered his head and his fangs sank deep into the side of her neck. “Ah,” Alexa said, that one word expressing all the pleasure in the world. He drew her sweet blood into his mouth and down his throat, garnering as much satisfaction from drinking in her life fluid as she seemed to be deriving from having gotten from him—at long last—what she had been seeking. They sank to the floor and she fumbled to free him while his mouth was still attached to her flesh. She pulled him from his britches, opened her legs wide as he moved over her, and thrust his hard rod deep between her legs. “Next time,” she said as she felt the sting of his venom beginning to seep into her blood. “Next time we will do this outside in the meadow!” Epilogue

Khamsin eased the blanket from her son’s face and sighed. He was a miniature copy of Lucien—even

down to his sweet little snore—and she had never been happier than with her baby’s precious mouth circling her nipple as he fed. Watching his life, his love, his wife, Lucien felt his heart soaring with pride. The tiny bundle in her arms made up for all the years of loneliness and grief he had known. Christina went over to the window to close it for winter had set in and snow was streaking lightly through the air. As she reached out to draw the casement, she stopped, looking up into the sky. “They’re at it again ,” she said, her voice filled with disgust. “As what this time?” Lucien inquired, glancing around. “Hawks, I think.” “You started something, milord,” Khamsin said softly. She stroked her son’s head, smoothing back the pale hair. “Two nights ago it was rabbits hopping around the courtyard,” Christina snapped. “Last night it was two caterwauling cats that had me ready to take a crossbow to the both of them!” She shut the window with a snap. “What next? Beavers?” Lucien chuckled, catching his wife’s eye. “Well, beavers are relatively quiet with their mating, Tina. Don’t you think, Khammie?” “Not as quiet as garter snakes but a lot less noisy than swans.” Christina threw her hands in the air. “I give up! I am surrounded by horny toads and all manner of gasping, grunting, slurping animals!” She went to the bed, looked at her godson, bent over to kiss his cheek, and then stalked to the door. “What’s wrong with a little one-on-one unhuman sex for a change? Huh?” She looked around. “What’s wrong with that?” She shut the door firmly behind her departure. “Don’t you think she’s getting rather testy of late?” Lucien asked. “She needs a mate of her own, that’s all,” Khamsin said with a sigh. “She’s just jealous.” He came to sit beside her on the bed and put his finger close to his son’s little hand, smiling when the child grabbed it firmly. “Petros seems happy,” Khamsin said. “Worn out,” Lucien snorted. “But very happy.” “Not as happy as I am,” his wife told him. Lucien leaned over to press his lips to Khamsin’s. Their kiss lingered a moment longer than their son thought prudent for he grunted, kicking out with legs that were getting stronger by the day. He seemed to be frowning at his father as he continued to slurp his mother’s milk. “Talk about jealousy,” Lucien commented. He tweaked his son’s little button of a nose. “You have to share, little man.”

The son they had named Corydon released his hold on his mother’s nipple and seemed to be seriously studying his father for a moment before the babe’s pale blond lashes slipped slowly over the dark green of his eyes and he settled into sleep. “Have you seen Briton of late, milord?” Khamsin asked as she pulled the bodice of her gown up. “He and Giles have been making themselves scarce,” Lucien said. “Is there something going on there that I should know about?” Khamsin smiled. She and Briton had become good friends and she was pleased he had found someone in whom he seemed to be interested. “We’ll see,” she said then yawned. Hearing the fatigue in his wife’s voice, Lucien slipped his hands under their son and gently lifted him from atop her. He took the babe to his crib and laid him down on his back, covering the chubby little body with an afghan Christina had crocheted. He stood there for a moment watching his child sleep. “He’s our miracle,” Khamsin said, joining him. She slipped her hand into her husband’s. “Aye, wench. That he is.” Dawn was approaching and their footsteps were slow as they made their way back to their bed. Lucien pulled the covers over his wife as he had his son, blew out the lamp, and then stretched out beside her. “Do you think Macmillan gave Sibylline the child she so craved?” Lucien asked. “I would like to think he did,” Khamsin replied. “If not, I’m sure she is making his unlife very unhappy right about now.” She yawned again and nestled against his chest, one slender hand covering the heart he had long since placed in her keeping. Just as sleep was overtaking Lucien, he felt a presence there in the bedchamber. The scent of jasmine was overpowering, the room much lighter than it had been but moments before. He sighed and lifted his head, expecting to see a beautiful naked woman sitting in midair. “Are you happy at last, Sweet One?” Sibylline asked from beside his son’s crib. Her back was to Lucien and he was ready to spring from the bed in fear for his child, but when Sibylline turned around, he saw that her belly was hugely distended. She put her hand on the mound and rubbed gently. “Twin girls,” she stated. “As I had hoped.” “How does Macmillan feel about that?” Lucien asked in a whisper so he would not wake his wife. Sibylline shrugged. “Oh, he did his duty then went To The Ground as he longed to do. Had one of the bairns been a boy, he might have stayed with me.” “You are not with him?” “Don’t think I could take that much time with Mac. It is just as well,” Sibylline answered. “I find I want to see them born and to womanhood before I go To The Ground. I have picked the names Aisling and Maere. I am at Croì Cloiche and it will be there I deliver these darlings.” She grimaced. “Any day now if

the signs are any indication.” Khamsin opened her eyes and looked up at her mate. “She should not be alone, Luc.” Lucien narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said, his voice firm and brooking no argument. “You will not…” “I came for the healer,” Sibylline cut him off. “But I could not resist seeing the boy I helped you two conceive. He is as beautiful as his father.” “I can’t speak for Christina,” Khamsin said, her voice weak for the day was brightening beyond the window, “but since Macmillan gave her a cure for the plague victims, she has had little to do. I imagine she might enjoy a vacation.” “Sibylline…” Lucien began but the lovely woman dissolved in a flash of sparkling lights and once more the room was plunged into darkness. “Did you hear the happiness in her voice?” Khamsin asked. Lucien was silent for a long moment then sighed angrily. “I don’t trust her.” “Neither do I.” “What if she keeps Tina there?” “She won’t.” Lucien thrust his right arm under his head and glared up at the ceiling. Even as tired and lethargic as he was, his uneasiness would not let him reach for the rest he needed. “How do you know that, wench?” Khamsin rubbed his chest with the palm of her hand. “Because they are like oil and water and as you well know oil and water don’t mix. Do you really think she would like Tina there to influence her daughters?” There was another long silence then Lucien relaxed. He lowered his arm and threaded his fingers through his lady’s. “Perhaps you’re right. Let’s just hope they don’t turn out like their mother. I pity the men those bratlings choose as their own. The gods forbid they should go after the same boy!” Khamsin did not reply for sleep had reached up with warm arms to draw her down through the soft layers of rest. Long into the morning Lucien lay awake, unable to close his eyes for he worried Sibylline might return. He knew she was somewhere in Modartha, waiting to transport Christina safely to Croì Cloiche. Just knowing the insatiable beauty was lurking about somewhere inside his home rankled and left Lucien with a distinctly sour taste in his mouth. Khamsin sighed in her sleep and Lucien turned his head to look down at her. He could feel her heart beating close to his and listened for a while as the two organs beat in unison. She was as much a part of him as he was of her and the product of their great love was but a few feet away. Wondrous satisfaction had spread over both their lives.

Are you happy at last, Sweet One?Sibylline had asked. He was more than happy. He was contented. With Stavros gone, there was peace throughout the world. Gideon and Francisco had worked closely with Lucien to help rid the Earth of the plague. A prince had been installed once more in China and by all accounts was a good leader. Humans were venturing out from their hiding places and settling in the old cities. The herds at each keep had been set free and Lucien had been surprised to learn most had stayed on where they lived, improving their quarters and willingly sharing their lifeblood with those who had once been their masters. There was still a long way to go before humans could fully trust their Revenant neighbors but at least the pathway had been cleared. Slowly his eyes closed for exhaustion was taking its toll. He tried to stay awake, but the peacefulness pushed aside his thoughts of Sibylline. The sweet warmth of his lady’s body pressed to his, the scent of her body, her perfume, the feel of her silky hair draped over his shoulder pulled him gently into the arms of Morpheus then cradled him there with infinite care. Sunlight splashed upon doors, and through windows and across floors, streaked down the walls of Modartha. A gentle rain pooled upon the cobblestones and seeped into the earth. Lucien Korvina’s dreams were love-filled.

About the author

Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 39 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing house slave to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.

Charlotte welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Ave., Akron OH 44310. Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

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