France, 1793

He lied. Comte Sergei Laroque was not the man whom he claimed to be.

Lady Chloe Bissette stared at the parchment note folded in her hand. Letters scribbled in indigo ink warned her of a man turned vampyre who fit Laroque's profile. But the Mad Monk Pierre, the author of the letter, still needed proof, and Chloe was the only person who could get close to the mysterious Comte.

There would be no turning back now, no escape.

She rose from her chair and paced the floor. Her silk slippers sank in the cell's damp, muddy surface. Her feet grew cold, and an icy chill stirred her soul. The feeling reminded her of the moment she was first taken into captivity, a moment she wanted to forget just now. She should have escaped both Pierre and Laroque when she had the chance, but like a fool, she didn't.

Her infatuation with the vampyre had existed since childhood, since she first laid eyes upon the handsome Sergei Laroque. The thought of crossing over to the world of the vampyre had enticed her.

An icy cold sensation wrapped around her neck. Chloe held her breath, well aware of the power of the unseen entity that now taunted her. For the first time since this nightmare began, she understood. Laroque was more than a creature of the night--he was master of his race. Pierre was right, the Vampyric Dynasty existed, and Sergei sat at its helm.

The sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the hall outside her prison chamber. She turned to the door and waited for her master. It had to be him. No one else would come; no one save for Pierre and Laroque knew she existed. The sound of a key turned in the lock and Sergei entered the cell.

The dimly lit chamber illuminated on the instant. Chloe squinted her eyes. Laroque's hunched-back servant sat a newly filled candelabrum on the table and took away the old, wax-covered candlestick that had offered only dim light at best. The servant scurried from the room.

Sergei locked the door behind him, then turned to face Chloe. "Mademoiselle Bissette, I've been told you had a visitor."

"How could I have had a visitor? No one knows I am alive," she said. "My family believes me to have lost my head. And since you secretly saved me from the guillotine, I have been locked up in this cell."

Laroque leaned against the wood door and folded his arms in front of his broad chest. Well-toned muscles flexed beneath the thin silk of his shirt. Chloe wished the man wasn't so handsome and so appealing to a woman's hidden desires. In truth, he ruled her like a god ruled his slaves. She had no control over her emotions when it came to Sergei Laroque.

"So, are you telling me my servants lie to their master?" He rubbed his chin. "If so, then they must be punished."

Chloe felt the color drain from her face. Punished? She could only imagine what such a creature would do to a soul who truly displeased him. "I said I had no visitor. I never said your servants lied. Leave them out of this, Monseigneur. Please, I beg of you." She waited for his reaction to her plea, but frustratingly, the devilishly handsome count remained silent.

She acknowledged him with respect, and obedience, despite her fear of him. Yet, still she lied. He offered a sly smile. The woman enchanted him like no other, and for the first time in more than a century, Laroque battled with his reeling emotions. He seldom allowed himself such pleasure. The act of losing one's heart was far too dangerous for a vampyre. And this, he painfully recalled, he knew from experience. He survived such torment and misery once, but fate, he was certain, would never allow him a second escape. Sergei reached out his hand and motioned for Chloe to come to him.

She refused.

He cursed to himself. Fate had him exactly where he hated to be--helpless and spellbound, at the mercy of a beautiful enchantress. "You have nothing to fear from me. Now come."

She shook her head.

He took a deep breath, keeping his rising frustration in check. "Who was your visitor?"

"I told you, I had no--"

Sergei raised his hand in front of him, silencing Chloe on the instant. "Just tell me what he looked like."

She huffed. "You would deny me a priest? A simple request for penance?" She stomped her foot upon the muddy floor and balled her hands into tight fists at her side. Slowly, in anger, she approached him. "At a time when France is being slaughtered, while heads roll on a daily basis, all you are concerned with is keeping your own lies a secret. " She stood face-to-face with him, her fragrant breath warming his cheeks.

He pulled her hard against him. The scent of her--lavender mixed with sweet honey--made him wild with a frenzy of emotions, lust reigning supreme amid his internal chaos. She moved ever so slightly away from him, freeing her face to breathe. Her swan-like neck, draped in an amber necklace, innocently exposed itself for the taking.

He swallowed hard and released her, pushing her away. "No priest in his right mind would ever come to Castle Laroque."

He moved away from her. Like a wild beast caged for the first time, Sergei prowled and paced the modest cell. "I thought I could keep you safe here, safe from the enemies who hunt me. Obviously, I was wrong."

Laroque was pleasing to watch, thought Chloe, even in his agitated state. Across the walls of stone, his tall, dark shadow danced in the candlelight. He raised a hand to his neck and fidgeted with the white cravat tied about his flesh. Chloe sensed his apprehension.

"Then who, if not a priest, was my visitor?" she asked.

"I do not know," said Sergei. "I am hunted by many."

She was curious about this creature. Over the years she had heard numerous rumors about Comte Laroque, the most fascinating being he could manipulate the night. The most sinful, being he could pleasure a woman in such ways few dared speak of without fearing for their souls. He was also said to be more powerful than even the king or the present government. And that, Chloe learned, was one fact proven to be true. If it were not for Sergei, she would have lost her head to Madame guillotine more than a year ago. Of course, had it not been for her own desire to explore the rumors, she would not have been sentenced to the guillotine in the first place.

Laroque turned to face her. His dark, fathomless eyes appeared like orbs of black ice, staring at her as if he were looking into her soul.

She swallowed hard. If Sergei only knew the truth, thought Chloe, he would send her back to Paris to die.

"I know of only one man who would dare disguise himself as a priest," said Sergei. "He is known as mad monk Pierre, the vampyre hunter."

He waited to see what reaction his words would have on his captive. But his prisoner showed no sign of giving in.

Instead, she proved to be a trying little minx who stirred his soul like no other before her. He watched, silently, as Chloe toyed with the heavy fabric of her wool cape, wrapping the garment closer to her body. She was trembling slightly.

Sergei cursed to himself for having kept her here too long. She should be living upstairs, in the castle's sumptuous salons, spending her days in a leisurely manner befitting a lady of her stature. But he couldn't keep her safe if he took her away from his native soil. The dungeon cell was the only part of the castle, save for his own sleeping quarters, where his native soil could protect those under his care. The thought of taking Chloe to his bed was more appealing to his body than he had expected. The realization unsettled him. No, it would be far too dangerous for Chloe if he took her to his bed. Far too dangerous for himself as well.

Chloe slipped her hand inside the little silk bag concealed under her cape, and carefully crinkled the folded piece of parchment she was hiding. She didn't want Sergei to know she had the note. She didn't want him to know her secret. "What difference does it matter who came to visit me? The man only offered to hear my confession, nothing more."

"It means a lot," said Laroque. "The souls who hunt me are dangerous."

"And these are dangerous times. No one is safe, my lord."

He hesitated. "You don't understand. You see, Chloe, I am not who you think I am."

"I am very much aware of who you are, Monseigneur. You are Comte Laroque. The soul who manipulates the night."

"You have heard the rumors, then."

She nodded.

"And what do you think of them, what do you believe?"

"I believe, now, they are true. But such nonsense matters not to me. You saved me from losing my head, and for that, I am indebted to you, regardless of who you may or may not be."

And that was the truth, thought Chloe. She may have come to him under false pretenses, but she would always be indebted to him, and faithful to him. Even if he was vampyre.

A sense of shock flooded Sergei's soul. "What do you mean by you believe, now, the rumors are true, Mademoiselle?"

She didn't answer.

Sergei drew his gaze to the motion beneath her cloak. "What do you have in your hand?"

"Nothing."

The sound of a small, yet heavy sack falling to the floor sliced through the chamber's cold air. Chloe bit her bottom lip and winced.

Sergei stared at the floor. A crumpled purse sat at Chloe's feet.

He bent down and firmly snatched the bag with his hand. He pulled at the frayed strings used to tie the purse and opened the bag. Several items collided with his fingers. Even without bringing the trinkets into the light, Sergei identified the contents hiding in Chloe's purse--a clove of garlic, a silver cross, a vial of holy water, and a crumpled piece of paper.

"You should have requested a stake, as none of these things will do you any good."

He took out the folded parchment note and placed it on the table. The words were still legible, despite the deep creases marring the page. He read the note and realized the truth of the matter. He would never have believed it had he not read it with his own eyes.

Sergei turned to face Chloe. "You deceived me. You came to me under false pretenses. You knew my identity all along."

She shook her head and backed away from him. "No. No, I did not know about the vampyre. I...I only knew...that I loved you."

He froze.

"Oui. I have loved you since I first heard the tales of your existence. At night, I would go to the edge of my father's estate and watch you. I was in awe of you. But at the time, I did not know what you were. And when my parents were sent to the guillotine, I went into hiding. Pierre, the man who dresses like a priest, tried to help me. I promised to work with him, to learn more about you. In the midst of my research, I was taken as a prisoner of the state and sentenced to the guillotine. I was to meet the same fate that had befallen my parents. The rest of my family has turned against the king, and they believe me to be dead. I couldn't risk telling you the truth because I feared you would send me back to Paris to face my death."

She loved him. He never remembered anyone ever admitting to loving him. In four hundred years he had loved only once, but that love was never returned. Now, fate had given him a woman he loved who also loved him back.

So, Lady Chloe Bissette was the young woman who spied on him by night and who haunted his dreams by day. He wondered why he hadn't realized the fact before tonight. He also realized he would have no choice but to bring Chloe across to the vampyre. If he didn't, the mad monk Pierre would come back for her and see to it she be returned to Paris to fulfill her sentence.

"You must be made vampyre," said Sergei. "I see no other way to save you from Madame guillotine. If you remain mortal, Pierre will return for you. As vampyre, he will have no power over you. He has no power over me, that is why he needed your help. The mad monk has been forbidden by the powers that be, to hunt me. He needed a mortal to do his vile work. He is obsessed with hunting the Laroque dynasty."

With wide eyes, Chloe stared at him. "Then he meant for me to kill you, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"I would never--"

"I know."

A God-fearing look crossed Chloe's face. "But to be made vampyre, I will be eternally damned."

"To remain mortal, you will be cursed. The mad monk never allows his assistants to ever be free of his leash. The choice is yours, my dear Chloe. You own my heart, therefore I will do whatever it is you so desire."

Chloe undid the clasp of her necklace. The amber jewels glistened in the candlelight as they silently slipped from her hands and fell to the floor. Sergei offered her neck a gentle caress with his hand. He softly brushed her hair over her shoulder. Chloe wondered how in the world she ever managed to get into such a situation, even if she was in love with Laroque and more than willing to spend eternity by his side.

A soft whisper caressed her ears and the Vampyre's kiss seared her neck.

Life, as Chloe knew it, would never be the same again.

Paranormal fiction author Angelique Armae a.k.a. M. A. duBarry, has had a love affair with paper and ink for as far back as she can remember. She's been writing stories and poetry since grade school. According to Miss Armae, writing is in her blood. Her all time favorite author is her late Irish grandfather, from whom she inherited her passion for writing. Angelique favors novels with dark, brooding characters and gothic settings. She considers herself a typical Virgo, is addicted to all things Celtic and believes her soul belongs somewhere in ancient Ireland.

Angelique began her professional writing career in 1999 and sold her first book a year later. Her critically acclaimed vampire novel Come The Night garnered nominations in both the prestigious SAPPHIRE AWARDS (for best sci-fi romance including paranormal sub-genre) and P.E.A.R.L. Awards (Paranormal Excellance in Romantic Literature), including Best New Author, Best Shapeshifter Novel and Best Overall Paranormal Novel. The book won BEST VAMPIRE ROMANCE in the LoveRomances Readers Choice Awards of 2001 and also took home HONORABLE MENTION for BEST E-BOOK.

Miss Armae's work has been critically acclaimed on both sides of the Atlantic, receiving rave reviews from horror novel reviewers, romance reviewers and from readers of both genres.

Aside from fiction writing, Miss Armae works as a freelance journalist and as a reader for a major publishing house. She has had numerous articles published spanning various topics including Tarot, New York State Tourism, and History. She is currently working on the sequel to Come The Night and has additional projects scheduled for the near future including several sensual novels written under the pen name M. A. duBarry.

You can view her works in progress page at: http://www.angeliquearmae.com

Angels...Vampyres...Heaven and Hell... In medieval Ireland two worlds collide and the term dark ages takes on a whole new meaning...Come The Night.

In medieval Ireland, an evil entity stalks Lazarus Conlon, Vampyre patriarch, threatening the safety of his wife and his family tribe. But to conquer this enemy, Lazarus must first fight his own demons including a sacred heritage descended of fallen angels. Amid this strife, Lazarus learns his only true hope rests within the heart and soul of a mortal tracker--his wife--a woman born to hunt his breed. Can his evil antagonist be defeated?

Neomina Delacroix is no stranger to the world of the Vampyre. As appointed heiress of the Tracker Council and the keeper of the Amulet of Christ and the St. John Stake, Neomina's allegiance to her people is sealed in blood. But the true nature of her heritage has been kept secret for years, revealed only to her father--Gerard Delacroix--and to her husband--Lazarus Conlon. When terror strikes the Conlon Tribe, Neomina is their only hope. Can her heart outweigh the duties of her soul?

Andrea stared out the big picture window that was the centerpiece of her living room. A golden moon, full and bright, caste an amber glow over the landscape. A lover's moon.

Turning away from the view, she gave a forlorn sigh as she settled down for another lonely night of television. She knew when she married Andrew how dedicated he was to his work. But this latest project took him away from her more times than she cared to think about.

He and his fellow scientists had embarked on this top-secret project nearly five years ago, and as the deadline for completion neared, the work hours became more like marathon sessions. It had been a month since she'd seen Andrew. Longer still since they cuddled at night. Their only conversations had been brief exchanges of information over the telephone.

She, as well as the other scientist's spouses, had no idea what the project was about. They were allowed no closer than the security gate at the lab. They did know that, whatever was going on, the work was being conducted in one of the lab's underground vaults.

Andrea hated it and freely admitted her jealousy. Just thinking of how it had come between her and Andrew made her boil. With an uncontrolled snarl, she hurled the television remote control across the room. She refused to stay here alone another night. If Andrew wasn't going to be home, then neither was she.

She stormed to the door and was about to leave when the telephone called her back. She allowed the answering machine to take the call, but listened as the message recorded.

"Andrea, honey, I know you're there," Andrew said. "Please talk to me. It's very important."

Reluctantly, she picked up the receiver. "I'm here. What is it?" Another couple of days away?

"Honey, please don't be that way. I know this hasn't been easy on you. It hasn't been easy on any of the spouses. That's what I called about. We've finally gotten permission to show our project. Tomorrow the world will see it, but tonight is for families only. Can you come down?" The excitement in his voice urged her to comply.

"I'm on my way." She slammed down the telephone so quickly she forgot to say goodbye.

Now we'll see what all this secrecy is about.

During the trip to the lab, she tried to determine what could have been invented this time. Peace had prevailed for at least a century, so there was no need for a new weapon. Space travel was commonplace; the new vehicles made it easy to go from one place to another. Perhaps it was a high-tech fuel or a muffled booster for the rocket sleds the youngsters drove. She was at a loss to figure it out and soon gave up.

She arrived at the lab gate where the other spouses had gathered--twenty in all. After their identification was verified, the guard unlocked the gate, swung it wide, and ushered them inside.

The Head of Operations, Simon, greeted them. He stepped forward with a wide grin, arms opened and inviting. "Welcome. Thank you all for coming. Please follow me. Your spouses are waiting."

He led them to a waiting elevator that took them deep into the ground, to that very secret vault. From there they went to a dark room. The door clicked shut behind them. Andrea heard a tumbler lock them in.

"We're here. Turn on the lights," Simon said.

Amber light filtered around them, not unlike the glow of the moon. With each second that passed, the light grew until it felt like it hummed around them. Finally, a soft white beamed through the large presentation room.

The scientists waited before them. Smiles of triumph, of pride, brightened each face. Two cloth-draped objects stood in the center of the room. One was as tall as Andrew's six feet, the other about six inches shorter.

Andrea caught Andrew's smile and felt his excitement. But it wasn't just his mouth--his whole body seemed to smile. It was contagious. She had to smile back. He gave her a wink.

Then, ever so carefully, he and one of his colleagues removed the cloth from the larger of the two objects. Stunned silence filled the room.

"This is it? This is your invention?" one wife snapped.

"Believe me, it's not what it looks like," Simon said. "Andrew, please explain."

"Gladly." A punch of a button on the computer panel set the hologram display in motion. "What you see here is a system like no other. We began with a basic framework--a skeleton, if you will. A smoother substance at the joints allows for movement without friction. These fibers on top of the skeleton are what make it move. Then, of course, we have this newly developed covering to protect everything."

"What makes it go?" someone asked.

"A magnificent discovery we call 'gray matter.'" Andrew tapped the top of it. "It's housed up here under this protective cap. It's the most sophisticated computer ever invented."

"How does it power up?" Andrea asked.

"It's fueled continually by plasma already within it. When it reaches its destination, it will automatically begin to function. Its plasma can rejuvenate itself."

A gasp went out among the crowd.

Andrew nodded. "Yes, it's true. It is completely self-sufficient."

"What is the covering over it? It's like nothing I've ever seen," Andrea said, in awe of the objects before her.

"It took almost a year to develop it. It's made of tiny interconnecting cells several layers thick. We've named it skin. It's far superior to what we have."

"What is the other object?" someone asked.

The cloth was removed to reveal a smaller, rounded version of the first model.

"So what will you do with these things?"

"Our counterparts in the upper labs have been working on that," Simon answered. "They'll be sent to live on a distant planet a few light years from here. They will be left alone to live and multiply among the objects created for their existence."

"Multiply?" another asked.

Simon chuckled, a tinny laugh. "Yes, my friends. These units have the capability of reproducing themselves with no tools whatsoever--only what you see. And their reproductions will be able to do the same thing."

"It sounds like you have found the perfect replacements for us," a disgruntled husband huffed. "Are we androids to be extinct now?"

"Not extinct, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to maintain ourselves. These inventions--we call them 'humans'--will grow and develop. Their computers will gain more data as they evolve. When that happens, we will migrate to their planet and they will care for us. It's the only way we can survive." His humor faded as the direness of their situation obviously hit him. "Our probes will monitor their progress."

The importance of her husband's work humbled Andrea. And here she was jealous. These were their salvation. "Where are they going? What is the name of this place?"

It was Andrew who answered. "To Eden on a planet called 'Earth.' We've called the tall human, a male, 'Adam.' The smaller one is a female, 'Eve.' Adam leaves tomorrow; Eve leaves the following day. They will arrive within days of each other. In a few thousand years, we will follow."

"It's not a very long time," Andrea noted.

"No, but it's all the time we have left."

Andrea stepped up to the 'humans' and hesitantly touched each one. Their covering was soft and resilient; she could see the benefits over her own silicone covering.

"Good luck," she told them. "Learn well and fast. Our race is depending on yours."

Anything Is Possible!

That's Catherine Snodgrass's motto. Blessed (or cursed) with a vivid imagination, Catherine has learned to turn that "talent" inward. She grew up reading Victoria Holt, Phyllis Whitney, and others, and loves to "go places" in her writing. Readers should expect different locales and deep emotions in Catherine's books. She also believes that life is to be lived not watched, and has done some inner exploring of her own--hiking a new path, learning a new skill, and even conquering a life-long fear of singing in public to take a turn or two on the stage of the local community theater. Her work as a paralegal in family and tax law has helped her tune in to the emotions of others and further deepen that aspect of her writing. Having set her children off in the world to explore their own paths, Catherine lives in the beautiful desert of Southern California with her husband (a genealogist) and the animals she loves.

Rowan wants the best defense counsel the Marine Corps has to offer. Phillip swore he'd never have anything to do with the one woman who broke his heart. The love and passion each thought gone sparks to life, only now it is forbidden by military law. Someone must choose--love or career before a killer with much to lose threatens the one link between them--a son Phillip never knew she bore him.

In the recess of the doorway, Sebastian stood with his back against the cold brick wall. Though the evening was cool, no vapor left his nostrils. His insides were as chilly as the night. No warm blood ran through his veins. He had ceased to exist centuries ago.

No one noticed his presence in the shadows, for the glowing embers of the streetlights barely lit the sidewalks. This breed of people bustled, always in a hurry, never keeping hours. At any given time, humans were easily attainable. That is why Sebastian loved the city; food was always within reach.

He came and went like a mystical shadow, choosing his victims carefully. Because of his alluring dark looks, most were willing. His eyes, black as twin coals, were like mirrors reflecting the moon's light; his long black hair, a curtain of silk, was as iridescent as midnight. Women drew to him like the Angel of Darkness, offering him their souls.

Little did they know how easily he could take that spirit with little or no effort, sending them to the hell he abhorred. He had no problem using women for his own purpose, as he had little choice. He needed them for survival.

Sebastian was always discreet, placing his small puncture-like wounds where they would likely go unnoticed, high on the back of the neck beneath the hair line, taking no more than he needed for survival. Murder would never be a part of his nightly ritual, nor would he think to give them a part of his existence and turn them into what he had become.

These women would not remember him; it had been one of his given powers. Come morning, he would be nothing more than a shadow in their memory, a blur in the darkness.

Sebastian led a tortured existence--one he detested. Immortality had not been a choice given to him, but rather chosen for him. Everyone dreams of living forever, but until one lives it, no one truly knows of the desire for death. To him, death meant eternal damnation, sent to the Prince of Hell. Had Sebastian the inclination to spend eternity with Satan, he would have ended his life eons ago.

No, Sebastian wanted back what was stolen from him, the chance to die in peace and live eternally in the place some called Heaven. Somehow, he hoped to find a way out of his dilemma. If there was a solution, then Sebastian meant to find it. Surely, the God of this Heaven had made him suffer long enough for past sins.

Watching the city dwellers rush by, he remembered a day long ago when he, too, was one of them before forced to live this life of eternal humanness...

At twenty-two years of age, Sebastian had led the carefree youthful life, always looking for excitement. If it didn't find him, then he went in search of it. He would have none of what his father envisioned, a betrothal with lands to behold. Hell, he was too young, by god. He had plenty of years ahead of him to saddle himself with a wife and brats. For now he would drink and enjoy a carnal engagement whenever the opportunity arose, which, with his leering good looks, arose quite frequently.

But one night, as Sebastian strolled along the docks, a seedy tavern appeared like a phantom from the mist, rising off the bay along the New England coast. The night had been particularly foggy due to the sudden shift in the weather, but he had known the area fairly well. Or at least he thought he had. Never had he stumbled upon the likes of this place.

Entering the establishment, the heavy oak panels flapped behind him. All eyes lazily turned in his direction; most already appeared well into their cups. Sebastian chuckled as an old fisherman swayed in his seat, then fell to a heap on the wood-planked floor. His companion grasped the old guy by the collar and righted him, brushing the dirt off the man's face. Then, as if nothing had happened, both resumed staring into the bottoms of their drinks. Drunken sot, Sebastian thought, ignoring the rest of the tavern dwellers and approaching the bar.

Women of stature never frequented a place such as this, but Sebastian was uninterested in the women who would not. He wanted action, and what better way than to pay for a whore. No strings attached--no unwanted bastards.

Sebastian had been born to wealth and pennies held little significance to him. Had he wanted to, he could have bought himself an entire harem.

A booted heel resting on the brass foot rod, Sebastian ordered a whiskey. "Better, yet," he told the unfamiliar bartender, "just bring me the whole damned bottle."

The man nodded his balding pate without so much as a word, then set a full bottle of the amber-colored whiskey in front of Sebastian, along with unclean empty glass.

Sebastian tossed some loose change on the counter. The old man greedily snatched up the coins in his gnarled hands, the skin weathered with wrinkles, the veins standing out like road maps of time. Sebastian feared age, never wanting to become decayed like this decrepit old man. But he had little to worry about; youth still stood on his side.

Ignoring the glass, he tilted the bottle to his lips, then wiped the moisture from his mouth across his sleeve, leaving a watery track. The burn of the sour whiskey traveled from his esophagus down to his toes.

He glanced about, thinking the place odd.

Conversation was nonexistent. Men bowed their heads, as if finding the answer to the world's problems was somehow hidden in the bottoms of their half-empty glasses. As Sebastian became ready to call the eerie place quits, a cool breeze blew in from the coast, sending the paneled doors dancing on their hinges.

The hairs rose on his nape.

Mist rolled across the floor, drawing Sebastian's attention to the doorway. A beautiful, raven-haired woman, seemingly floating into the room across the mist, approached him. Sebastian shook his head. Surely he would have thought himself drunk as a fiddler, but he'd had only a swig of whiskey. His eyes couldn't have been playing trickery on him already.

His gaze held fast on the woman, one of the most exotic creatures he had laid eyes upon. Her complexion appeared overly tanned for this time of the year, causing Sebastian to wonder from what foreign country she originated. Obviously, she was new to the area, for someone as comely as she, would not go unnoticed.

She stood beside him, an amber jewel suspended from her neck, speaking of money. "The usual," she said to the bartender in a throaty whisper.

Sebastian turned to face her, one arm leaning on the highly polished bar. "You're a regular to these parts?" he asked, narrowing his gaze. "Why haven't I seen you before?"

"The time wasn't right."

Her response startled him nearly as much as her appearance. She tipped the red-colored drink to her lips. Her pink tongue darted out, capturing the last of the moisture.

Sebastian's groin tightened. Dear God, he had died and gone to heaven?

"You've seen me before?" he asked, commenting on her queer statement.

She smiled. "I have."

Women regularly pursued him, but none quite this exotic. He wanted--hell--he needed this woman beneath him and he wasn't about to leave this tavern without her.

"Then why wait until now to approach me?"

"You were never alone."

"Should that have mattered?"

She sat her empty glass on the bar, faced him, and ran an icy index finger down his coarse jaw. The contrast of her cool touch to his fevered skin sent shivers dancing along his spine.

"I wanted you alone," she whispered.

His heart hammered in his throat. His blood ran hot and thick, ending with a near-painful ache in his groin.

Threading his fingers through the hair at the side of her head, he pulled her close. "And I want you alone...now...beneath me."

The woman giggled, though no sign of a blush could be seen. She ran a finger along the rim of her empty glass before sticking it between her lips and suckling it.

He could barely breath. His throat nearly closed as he attempted to swallow. He wanted this woman like he had never wanted another in his life. But before he could offer a suggestion of taking their little engagement upstairs or elsewhere, she sidled even closer.

Her hand cupped his erection.

Sebastian swallowed the lump that hampered his breathing. He looked nervously around. Not a single patron paid them any mind. At this point, Sebastian doubted, had he tossed up her skirts and took her against the bar, not a single drunken fool would notice.

Hand still holding his genitals, she said, "I'm Rebecca."

Sebastian could hardly believe his luck, and within minutes of her cradling his family jewels, he lay beneath her as she unabashedly rode him in a bed above the tavern. Never had he experienced such passion, such raw abandon, as though he might just explode from the sheer pleasure. The amber jewel about her throat, marking the hollow pulse point of her neck, began to glow. Sebastian's gaze fixated on the light as he gritted his teeth against the onslaught of his climax. As his body prepared for release, Rebecca bent over him and licked the throbbing heartbeat of his neck.

Her cat-like tongue was his undoing; his world splintered like shards of bright light and his hot seed spilled forth. Sebastian tilted his head into the mattress and groaned as his body convulsed.

Sharp teeth sank into his exposed neck.

"Dear God," he nearly screamed. Warm blood slipped down his neck and soaked the rumpled sheets as Rebecca held onto him with inhuman strength.

Sebastian bucked and flailed, trying to dislodge the mad woman. But soon his energy waned and lightheadedness settled in.

"What's happening?"

Unable to lift his hand from the bed, his body lay limp, zapped of strength. He could not have moved had he wanted. All the while, the creature atop him suckled and slurped until Sebastian thought no more than an empty shell must remain, a body without any life's blood.

He tried to cry out, but no sound left his lips.

His life slipped through his veins and out the holes of his neck. Though he could no longer move, his mind remained sharp. He watched as Rebecca left him, her flawless body turned into something barely recognizable.

A fiend.

Fresh blood, his blood, surrounded her mouth as her tongue darted out to capture the moisture from her lips. Slowly her form returned to the exotic creature of before. She pulled her silk dress over her head and gathered her hair in a comb at her nape.

All the while he wanted to rant and rave, to scream at her to give back what she had taken. But he could do nothing. Somehow, he was trapped in his empty shell. Fear seized his gut like a vice; panic fluttered within.

Obviously reading his terrified thoughts, she blew him a kiss. "You, I shall return for. Before the sun rises, you will be a creature of the night, a fiend in the realm of life." And with no more of an explanation, Rebecca vaporized like a phantom into the shadows.

Sebastian tried to sit, though his body still would not cooperate. He cried for help, but again no sound emitted from his lips. His mind screamed in agony; his nerves felt none of the pain. For hours he pleaded for someone to aid him, but no one heard. Only when he thought this to be his fate for leading an unholy life did she return.

Her eyes, no longer black, glowed amber like the jewel about her neck. Her pearly white fangs contrasted against the darkness of her mouth. Her smooth-as-silk hair appeared wild as the winds.

"Have no fear, dear Sebastian," she hissed. "I've come for you. You shall remain in eternity as one of us."

Us? he thought.

"Us," she repeated, as if able to read his mind. "I've returned to give you the blood of the Nosferatu, the vampire."

Sebastian's soul winced and screamed as Rebecca bent over him, giving him little choice. She made a quick slice of her wrist with the razor sharp point of her nail. Blood dripped from the wound as she held it over his dry, parched lips. Unable to help himself, like the suckling of a starving babe to a breast, he lapped at the blood when she placed her arm against his mouth. Disgust turned his stomach and sent the bile to rolling, but still he drank. An icy coldness trickled into his veins. The power of many men seeped into his muscles--a strength like nothing he had ever felt.

Finally, Rebecca released her wrist from his lips, then floated effortlessly beside the bed. Her features softened, becoming the beauty he had first thought her to be.

Testing his newfound strength, like a colt standing on wobbly legs for the first time, Sebastian rose from the bed, his feet not quite touching the plank floor.

Without her uttering a sound, Sebastian knew through his thoughts what she conveyed.

The powers you now have, I shall teach you to use. Watch and listen and I will show you all the ways of the Nosferatu.

Why me? he wondered.

She laughed, more like a high-pitched shrill, grating to his newly keen sense of hearing. It's simple. It's because I desire you like no other. We shall rein throughout all eternity together--side by side.

For one hundred years, Sebastian had stayed with the vampire witch, needing to learn all she had to teach him of their existence. But finally, the day came when she revealed the last of the secrets. He easily separated from her, eluding her as she went in search of new conquests, temporarily bored with him.

For four hundred years, he merely existed.

Never once did he create another fiend as Rebecca had created him. Sebastian could not bring himself to force the tormented permanence he led on another human being. For the past five hundred years, he watched those he had come to love and care for grow old and die. As his loved ones aged, he was forced to disappear from their lives and watch from a distance, so as not to allow them to see his agelessness.

He no longer wanted to feel, to care. Sebastian held himself at bay from all who tried to touch his life...

Even now, staring out at a passerby, he silently cried for release from his endless torment. Alone in the world, he watched from his shadowed doorway as hunger seeped into his veins once again and clawed at his soul. The desire to feed became a passion of its own, driving him with a force he could never learn to fully control.

The time to feed would soon be upon him.

Stealing into the night, he walked along the darkened streets, blending in with the nightlife. No one knew how close evil beckoned.

A tenuous line of mastery kept him from feasting like the animal he knew himself to be, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself--an unsuspecting but willing victim.

As he neared the club his band, Kindred, frequented, he noted a scantily dressed woman standing beneath a streetlight.

"One hundred dollars for a blow job," she purred as he walked by.

The ache in his stomach stopped him three feet beyond.

"Change your mind, sugar?"

He turned on his booted heel and extracted a hundred from his pocket. His entire body numbed with the promise of fulfillment.

"Mmm." She licked her painted lips. "Aren't you a sweet thing? I'd almost do you for free"--she snatched the hundred from his hand--"but I won't. A girl's got to make a living. Where to, honey? You got a car?"

Sebastian shook his head, not trusting himself to speak, already feeling the change to his teeth. He grasped her hand, turning his head as not to let her see the amber glow of his eyes.

"Follow me," he whispered, leading her to an alley near the club.

She giggled and ambled along, trying her best to keep up with his brisk pace on her stiletto heels. The sound of her shoes echoed off the pavement and filled the night air. Rounding the corner, very little light illuminated the darkened back street. Sebastian shoved her against the brick wall.

The woman squealed in delight. "My, my, sugar, you are in a hurry. Though I gave you the price for a blow job, for you, honey, I'll let you do it all, right here against the wall." Proving her willingness, she squirmed in anticipation and pulled her short red miniskirt up over her hips, revealing black garters with no matching panties.

Sebastian gently grasped her neck, his fingers caressing the pulse of her throat. The animal in him wanted to rip the arteries from her veins; the humanness gave him restraint, though very little.

Sebastian growled. The whore mistook his guttural sound for one of pleasure. Her hands snaked down his silk shirt to the zipper of his leather pants, finding him placid.

"Well, sugar, what do we have here? I thought you wanted me?" Her tone held accusation laced with a bit of humor.

"I do."

Sebastian's amber eyes glowed off her face as he locked gazes with her. Her lips rounded to scream, but Sebastian rendered her speechless. He lifted the hair at her nape and brought her heated flesh to his mouth, sinking his pointed cuspids into the soft flesh as easily as hot steel slides through butter.

The thrill of the skin giving way to an elongated teeth was better than any sexual encounter could ever be, leaving him no longer placid.

The woman stood spellbound, held fast against the brick wall. Sebastian suckled with the greed of a newborn, feeling the warmth of her blood travel through his body like a shot of good whiskey, appeasing the gnawing hunger, bringing his gut-seizing rage under control.

The animal temporarily banked, he withdrew his teeth, holding the woman fast, lest she land in a heap at his feet. The changes came slowly at first--his teeth retracted back into his gums, the glow of his eyes returned to black mirrors, his dagger-like nails becoming short and well-groomed.

Only then did he release the whore and set her on the pavement, her back resting against the wall. Sebastian smoothed the hair over her nape, kissed her cheek, then extracted his hundred from her cleavage and disappeared into the nightclub through the alleyway entrance. Her neck would be tender when she awoke from her stupor, but she would have little or no recollection of him.

Tommy, the band's manager, immediately spotted Sebastian. "What took you so long, man? The set was supposed to start ten minutes ago."

"I was hungry."

"Christ, you'd think that body of yours is hollow or something." Tommy shook his head with a laugh, then jumped up on the back of the stage.

Sebastian opted for the stairs. "It is," he grumbled, though he doubted Tommy heard as the signal was given to the guitarist and the beginnings of a riff filled the air.

The crowd came to its feet as Sebastian approached his microphone, raking his long hair out of his face. His lips curled back in a snarl even Rebecca would have been proud of. "Are you ready to rock?"

The roar of the crowd rose as they stormed the stage, all vying for a place in the front.

"Then let's roooock!" Sebastian howled as the rhythm of the drums behind him had his hips swaying in time.

His eyes fixated on a woman toward the back of the club, who had become his constant, as he began the words of a tune he had sung at least a hundred times. Long blonde hair curled softly about her ears. Pale blue eyes, the color of the Mediterranean, worshipped him with adoration. His thoughts traveled back to a night in his past when he had first gazed into those eyes...

Kindred had played their last set of the night and Sebastian had approached the bar. "Whiskey," he told bartender, who promptly set a half-full glass of the amber liquid in front of him.

Sebastian knocked it back, tapped the polished surface, and the bartender quickly refilled the glass. About to make a speedy retreat, hunger gnawing at his gut, instinct stopped him where he stood.

Eyes bore into his back--he could sense it clear to his soul. Half-afraid to turn around and find Rebecca had tired of her latest conquest and returned, he stood ridged. His shoulder blades ached from stiffness. After all, she had promised they would rein through all eternity together.

But upon turning, he found a small petite blonde instead of the exotic dark beauty he had predicted. The antithesis of Rebecca. Where she was dark, this beauty was pale. Where Rebecca was wicked, this woman seemed innocent.

Sebastian approached the young enchantress against his better judgment. Her eyes widened. He feared the slightest provocation would send her fleeing from his presence. To her seeming guilelessness, he must surely appear evil incarnate. Though he knew it would have been better had she taken flight, for her good as well as his, he could, for some reason, not bear the thought.

Something more than mere comeliness drew him to her. Hell, he should be the one to flee. Too many nights he had gone home alone, holding himself at bay, that this woman seemed like a breath of fresh air to his rotting flesh.

He stuck out a hand. "The name's Sebastian."

"I know," she said. "I come here to watch you--I mean, the band--quite often."

Her face reddened at her admission and tilted downward. Using the pad of his thumb, he brought up her chin. She turned her head to the side, still not making eye contact with him.

Walk away while you still have time, he scolded himself.

Instead, he said, "Don't be shy."

"It's just that--"

"That you didn't want me to know you were interested?"

A jolt like heat lightning sizzled across his skin as their gazes locked for the first time. In that instant, Sebastian knew he had lost the will to leave.

"What's your name?"

"Angela."

"Angel," he whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm sorry, would you mind if I called you Angel?"

"I don't suppose."

"Would you mind if I called you?"

Again, she blushed. Sebastian reached out, smoothing his callused hand down her soft cheek. Something about her felt right--more right than he had felt in centuries. Though his conscience warned against involvement, his humanness wished to embrace it.

"I would love it," she admitted.

One year later, he still could not believe his luck in finding her. Sebastian knew better than to fall in love, knew better than to allow her to be a part of his life. But it was too late, he had fallen as Adam had for Eve. Angela had become as much a part of his being as the hunger that clawed at him nightly. He likened going without her to missing a night of feeding.

Soon, though, the thin veneer of happiness would crumble and fall; he could sense it. Sebastian could already feel the approaching end like the coming of the Millennium. A relationship built on lies would quickly vanish and truth would rear its ugly head.

Though Angela thought she knew all there was to know about him, much more lay beneath his surface that he could never reveal. And before long, the questions would begin, demanding answers Sebastian could not give, lest he earn her revulsion of his true inner self...

Now, the band's set ended and Sebastian tossed his microphone to the ground. In a sudden sour mood, and wanting to be in the company of no one, he jumped from the stage. Women pawed and strove to touch him. Giving no more than curt nods in way of acknowledgment, Sebastian headed for the side of the club where a set of stairs led to a small room used between sets. Most of Kindred preferred to mingle amongst the throng and enjoy what little celebrity they had gained. But not Sebastian.

He preferred solitude, anonymity.

For centuries he had lived without companionship and had become accustomed to it. It had become a necessary way of life.

A small knock sounded on the door. Even with his keen hearing, Sebastian barely heard it over Axel Rose's vocals on "Paradise City," a CD being spun by the DJ.

Ignore the knock, he warned himself, not wanting to be in the company of who he already knew stood on the other side of the thin wood. But his heart had other plans; it ached to see her, longed to hold her.

Finally, Sebastian opened the door.

"Can I come in?" Angela's eyes glistened with unshed tears, as though she, too, knew he must soon set her free.

The air hung thick between them.

He had nothing to offer. Hell, he would trade all eternity to be able to give her what one day she would want--a husband and kids.

Satan surely laughed in his face at this one. For now Sebastian longed for what he had tried so hard to avoid when he was but a lowly mortal--a betrothal with lands to behold. Leave it to the face and heart of an angel to have him yearning for a life he could no longer have.

He opened the door wider, then closed it behind her.

"What's the matter with you?" Her voice broke from tears she held at bay.

Sebastian gave her his back. His spine ached as he held himself straight. "Nothing."

Angel pushed at his shoulder, forcing him to turn and glare at her. He had never wanted to hurt her, but knew this day would ultimately come.

"Damn you, Sebastian. Don't do this to me. Don't you dare end it like this." She smacked his hard chest. "I loved you, dammit."

Tears slipped past her lashes and down her cheek. He used the pad of his thumb to wipe away the wetness. She swatted away his hand.

"Don't you think that I feel the same way?"

"Do you?" More tears fell.

"Don't cry, my sweet angel." His voice sounded husky even to himself, but he couldn't cry had he wanted to.

"Don't you dare pity me."

Sebastian blinked. "Pity you?"

"I could see it in your eyes the moment you opened that door."

He barked in mock laughter. "Pity you? My dear, that is pity for myself you see so plainly in my eyes. Pity that I can't give you your heart's desires."

"Why? Be honest with me for once in your life. Tell me why you can't give me what my heart longs for. As if you even know what that is."

"You want a husband."

"And at the age of twenty-one, is that really so terrible?"

"No," he sighed, sitting heavily onto a padded chair that faced the door.

Angela straddled his lap, grasping his face within the palms of her hands. Sebastian groaned, already feeling the desire to take her running thick through his veins. After centuries of not comprehending, he finally understood how Rebecca must have felt. He wanted to make Angela his--to have her by his side through all eternity. But just as he resented Rebecca for giving him this life of immortality, Angela would one day resent him.

"Then tell me, Sebastian, is it because you don't love me?" She kissed his chin, then nuzzled his cheek.

"Love you?" he choked out. "My god, if I loved you any more, I think I would burst."

Sebastian wrapped his arms around her, bringing her flush against him. Her face tilted up and his lips met hers with fervor. He wanted to convey in one kiss how much she had come to mean to him. His tongue parted her lips and explored the softness of her mouth, eliciting a moan from her. His groin hardened as he felt the strong need to show her the extent of his love.

But now was not the time, not with another set starting in fifteen minutes. He broke their embrace and set her slightly away from him.

"Why are you pushing me away?" Her tender touch smoothed down his coarse jaw. "I've felt it for weeks. Like there is so much of you that you aren't willing to give me. I want all of you, Sebastian, not just half."

"My dear, you couldn't imagine how I wish I could give you all that you ask. But believe me, there is so much about me that I can never tell you--or anyone."

"Why?"

He could feel the ache in her heart, clear to the soul he no longer had.

"Because you would grow to hate me."

"I don't care about your past. That's what this is about, isn't it? You should know that by now. I love you for who you are today."

Sebastian chuckled, the sound full of malice and no humor. "You have no idea what you are asking."

"What could you possibly tell me that you have done in your years on this earth that would turn me away? A lot of people have past lives they are not proud of."

"Some of us have present ones."

Angela stood suddenly, as though stung. She glanced down on him, looking deeply into his eyes, as if she might somehow read the answers in their depths.

"Is there another woman?"

As if on cue, a shrill laugh came from behind Angela, turning Sebastian's insides to ice. "I'd like to hear the answer to that one."

Rebecca.

Angela twirled on her heel to see the exotic beauty standing in front of the closed door.

"I didn't hear you come in?" Angela startled.

Rebecca chortled again. "My dear--I come and go like the wind. I've no need for doors."

Angela's brows knit together as she glanced from the woman to Sebastian.

"He hasn't told you about me?" Rebecca floated over to him, grasped his chin, and tilted his taut face upward.

He wanted to rip the non-beating heart from her chest with his bare hands. And would have, had he knew it would end her existence.

"Tsk, tsk," she scolded. "You forget so easily that I can read your intentions. My dear boy, 'tis I who made you."

"I haven't forgotten," Sebastian spat. His teeth clenched with such force, it surprised him they didn't crack beneath the pressure. Every part of his being steeled itself against the returning witch.

His gaze flew to Angela, who stood along the wall, eyes wide in fear as she continued to glance from one to the other. Sebastian wanted to go to her, explain everything about himself, confess all. But the time for that had passed. Rebecca had returned and Angela would be forced to see the horror of his true being.

His fangs elongated past his lower lip. His eyes glowed unnaturally amber, heating his eyes sockets. He didn't need to see the changes, he felt each and every one of them. The sheer horror in Angela's eyes brought life to all his fears of the past year, making him wish the night they first met he would have followed his initial instinct and fled.

Rebecca tilted back her hideous head and cackled, mocking him. He wanted to tear her arteries from her throat with his teeth. He wanted to stake her outside at dawn and watch her incinerate.

Her face sobered. "You can't kill me, Sebastian--again, I created you." She walked an arc around him, a sharp-nailed finger tracing a circle from his chest to his shoulder blades and back. "Besides, 'tis a bit too late to make amends with the little one."

"Bitch," Sebastian hissed.

Her smile widened, exposing her fangs and reddened gums. "Tell me something I don't know, dear Sebastian."

"That I will never be yours."

Rebecca sighed, floating over beside a pale and trembling Angela. She winced at Rebecca's touch. "You would take this human creature over me?"

"I would take anyone over you." Sebastian's rage flared, knowing his hate mirrored in his glowing eyes.

"Temper, temper."

"Stay away from her," he warned.

Rebecca approached Sebastian, stopping just outside of arm's reach. "Or what?" She giggled, glancing back to the horrified girl. "Looks like the damage has already been done, dear boy. You should have told her--now I think 'tis irreparable."

Sebastian glanced at the object of his despair. Angela slid down the wall, hugging her knees to her chest.

"What are you?" Angela asked, barely audible. Her lower lip quivered.

Sebastian wanted to take her in his arms and smooth away her fears. But he knew, however, she would never welcome his hold. Rebecca was right. He could not amend what the witch had destroyed in one breath.

"Tell her," Rebecca prodded. "What damage is there in that now?"

Her laugh cut like razors through his skin, slashing him to mere shreds. He would kill her one day. It would be his covenant.

"I already told, you can't kill me, silly boy--I gave you life."

"No!" Sebastian slowly closed the gap between him and Rebecca. "You destroyed my life."

Angela's sobs broke loose and nearly tore through his hate and anger to wrench his cold heart from his chest.

Rebecca chuckled. "Your love for her will be your undoing. You can't even focus your anger on me because you are too worried about the silly little chit."

"You want all of my anger, bitch?"

" 'Tis much better than your neglect of me for a few centuries. I thought if I gave you time, you would come back. Well"--she stomped her foot, trying to drive her point clear through the upstairs floor as the room vibrated around them--"I'm tired of waiting."

"Now who's acting like a child, Rebecca? Wait a few more hundred years, a few thousand--and I will still never come to you."

Angela slid inch by inch along the wall as she tried to move toward the door unnoticed.

"Stay," Sebastian bellowed, fixing her to the floor. He had never raised his voice to her before, nor had he ever the need.

"How precious. Your little plaything needs you, Sebastian. Go to her. You, I will deal with at another time."

He grasped Rebecca's shoulders and pulled her body flush with his. His teeth gnashed. "We will deal with this now."

Rebecca rolled her eyes, as though he were no more harmful than a pesky puppy. "Really, Sebastian, temper, temper. It will be the downfall of you yet."

"You will be my downfall."

"Me?" Her eyes widened, though he could see the amusement in them. "That little chit"--she pointed a razor-sharp fingernail at Angela--"and many more like her are your downfalls, Sebastian. You worry too much about not being more like them. You want to see the sun rise, walk in the daylight, have babies, grow old and die. I gave you eternal life--you will never see old age. But you chose to be unhappy about it. Can't you see the gift I have bestowed on you?"

"A gift? A gift?" he roared. "Did you ever once think to ask me if it was a gift I would want?"

"Anyone would have begged for what I gave you."

"Anyone but me."

Rebecca stood silent; her eyelids thinned as she studied his face. She sighed. "Aye, anyone but you."

She shook her head before vaporizing within his grasp. Her voice traveled back from the void. "I won't give up on you, Sebastian--I'll never let you go. Know this --I will come back for you." Then she was gone, vapor and all.

Sebastian knew the truth in Rebecca's parting words. It could be tomorrow, it could be centuries from now, but the witch would return to try and claim him as her own. His torment would never end, until the vampire blood within him ceased to exist.

He turned back to Angela, who shied away from him, slinking further into the corner in which she had wedged herself. Dear God, what had he done to her? This was not of Rebecca's doing. For this, he took the full blame.

She repeated her earlier question as his features returned to his human form. "What are you?"

Sebastian took a step forward, then stopped, knowing she would not accept him, even as he stood before her in his human flesh. He bowed his head in shame. "I am a Nosferatu...a vampire."

Angela flinched as he brought up his head. The revulsion and horror he saw within the depths of her eyes was like a bucket of ice water being poured over his head.

A knock sounded the door, causing Angela to start. "More of you?"

He shook his head sadly.

"Come on, Sebastian," Tommy called from the door. "It's time for another set. If you don't get up there in less than a minute, Kindred will never play this club again."

"Then so be it," Sebastian growled, not taking his eyes from Angela.

"What?" Tommy cried out. "You're kidding, man. Right?"

"No--it's finished."

The doorknob rattled. The lock kept the door from being opened.

"Come on, man. Think of the band," Tommy pleaded. "Don't do this. She ain't worth it."

"I said, 'tis finished," Sebastian roared. "Kindred is no more."

There was a long silence, then a loud thud on the door as Tommy gave up, slammed a fist into the wood, and trotted away.

Moments later, Sebastian quit the club by the alleyway door and followed Angela to her home, knowing this night would be the end of them. There were finally no more secrets between them, though he knew she would never be able to accept him for what he was.

Angela sat in the center of her waterbed, staring at him as he reclined in a chair across the room. They had said very little to one another since leaving the club. Sebastian wanted with all his non-beating heart to bridge the gap between them. He wanted to crawl on the bed beside her and hold her as he had many nights before.

Although Angela hadn't said as much, he knew her trust had vaporized with Rebecca. He could plainly see her fear written on her features.

"So where do we go from here?" she finally broke the silence.

"We don't." Angela flinched, causing him to laugh, though he felt none of the humor as his insides ached of loss. "What? You still want me?"

"I don't know what I want anymore," Angela answered as she grasped the coverlet, twisting it in her fist. "All I do know is that I still love you."

"Love me?" God, how he wished it so. "How can you love me, Angel. You don't even know what I am. I'm a monster."

She shook her head. "I can't accept that. You--you are--"

"What, Angel? You can't find the right words to describe me now. I am a vampire. I suck blood to survive, for crissake. Can you live with that? Even now my gut calls to me in hunger, telling me I need nourishment." He saw her sudden weariness, and wanted to soothe it. "You have nothing to fear from me. I would never hurt you. But can you honestly say you would trust me again?"

Angela shrugged, bowing her head.

"You can't."

Her head came up and he saw the mistrust in her gaze, as though at any minute he would leap from his chair and take her blood.

"You fear me even now."

"No."

"Then I will call you a liar. You should fear me, Angel. You should fear that I might bridge this gap in the blink of an eye." Then, proving his point, he stretched out beside her, his icy finger tracing the pulse point of her neck.

She slid away. Her back crowded the pillows at the headboard. "How did you do that?"

The same way I can do this. His movements were so rapid, that he now licked the hollow point of her throat and she hadn't even detected it. She shrieked.

"You do fear me."

"I don't." Her quavering voice betrayed her.

"If you really knew me, Angel, then you would not fear me biting you. My teeth are not fangs; my eyes do not glow. Had I the notion to feast upon you, then you would see me as you did before."

With shaking hands, Angela touched his cool cheek. Tears pooled in her eyes, then slipped past her lashes and down her face. "Make love to me."

Sebastian recoiled. "You can't be serious."

"You say that I don't love you, but I do, with my whole heart. I can't stop feeling that way because I don't understand what you are. And I can't pretend those feelings don't exist. Tell me what we would be doing right now had that woman not shown up tonight."

He tangled his fingers into the blonde curls beside her face. "I would be doing this." He brought his lips down to hers.

Desperation fueled his desire to have her. He wanted to memorize every line, every detail--the sunshine smell of her hair, the silky softness of her skin, the way she trembled when he ran a hand along her naked flesh.

Sebastian knew he rode a thin line of control, a line of danger. One that blurred the boundaries of reason and thought. His desire to feed, mixed with his desire to bury himself deeply within her, produced a dangerous concoction, one that could prove fatal to her. He feared during the heat of passion, his hunger would reign over his sanity and take what his empty shell of a body craved.

But he could not stop himself from loving her one final time, no more than he could stop the sun from rising in less than a mere hour.

Come dawn, he would be no more.

His tongue swept the satin of her mouth, eliciting a moan from her. Her fingers grasped the hair at his nape and held onto him as though she, too, knew it would be their final time.

He grasped the edge of her light sweater, shoving it up along her sides, allowing his hands to graze the soft mounds of her breasts. Her small body shivered at his touch, fueling his longing to take her.

Angela broke the kiss, then lifted the sweater over her head and tossed it to the side. Sebastian looked down in awe at her small breasts encased by a lace brassiere. He watched in fascination the flesh rising and falling above the delicate white material before pulling the cups downward and exposing the tiny rose-colored centers.

His mouth itched to suckle each one as the sight held him mesmerized. Finally, he allowed himself the lazy pleasure of tracing each hardened nipple with his tongue before drawing one between his lips. Angela arched her back and tilted her head into the mattress.

"Please," she begged as she raised her hips and her heated flesh met his erection.

Sebastian released her, feeling the warmth of his physical changes taking place. Soon he would no longer be the man she fell in love with, but the fiend that repulsed her hours ago. He tried to move from the bed, knowing his hunger and passion were beginning to mix. Normally, he had always fed well before being in Angela's company. The whore in the alley had not been enough to last him the whole night through.

Angela grasped his shirt and pulled him back to her, bringing his mouth to hers. He growled in sheer pleasure as he slipped a knee between her thighs, reached beneath her skirt, and ripped the silk panties from her.

He tore away his mouth long enough to ask, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

He could see the passion in her eyes as she nodded.

"Then tell me you love me."

"You know I do," she replied, her voice cracking.

"I want to hear it from your lips one last time." Sebastian could see the sun cracking the horizon and knew his moments were limited. "Tell me."

She placed her palms on the sides of his face, looking deeply into his eyes. "I love you, Sebastian--I always will."

He growled in response, turned his face from her just in time to keep her from seeing the changes, the amber glow of his eyes. He entered her in one swift movement. Her hips rose to meet him, thrust for thrust. And before the sun could fully crest, they lay collapsed in each other's arms.

Hunger had claimed him and had made him into something she would have to remember, a vision she would carry. He knew she had seen his changes, felt his fangs as they grazed her neck, saw the glow of his amber eyes through the darkness.

Yet, she said nothing.

His angel had endured the monster. But he could never allow her to sacrifice her life for him. Nor could he take the chance of Rebecca returning and bringing her harm. He knew, after what had transpired earlier, that Rebecca would never allow him to be free. She would one day return and possibly even kill Angela.

That he could not live with.

Sebastian pulled his pants over his hips and fastened them. As he stood beside the bed, shrugging into his discarded shirt, he felt her light caress on his shoulders.

"I thought vampires couldn't survive the light of day," Angela stated as a matter of fact.

"We can't."

"But the sun has risen, surely you can't leave." He could hear the fear in her voice and knew she understood the sacrifice of his staying. "Can you remain in here with the drapes drawn until night falls?"

"No, Angela, daylight comes to me even now. Feel it on my skin."

Her soft gasp echoed in the room as she slid a hand beneath his shirt, against the muscles of his back.

"You're burning up." He heard the broken sob in her voice.

He turned, his eyes still glowing in the dim light. "I must go."

"To where?" she cried, tears flowing unheeded down her cheeks. Her lower lip trembled.

He wished to draw it between his own lips to still it, but knew his time had come.

"I have to go, Angel. And when I do, promise me you will not watch."

She placed her hand over her quivering lips. "What are you trying to tell me?"

"That you are not safe with me. Do not watch when I leave."

"No," she cried, trying desperately to wrap herself around him as though it might somehow save him.

He grasped her shoulders and set her back. "It's the only way."

"I've seen the movies--vampires incinerate if the sun touches them. Is this true?"

He nodded.

"Oh, God," she sobbed. "Please don't go, Sebastian. I love you."

He traced the wetness on her face with his index finger. "Weep for me no more."

She held his hand to her cheek. His heart expanded and he felt human for the first time in centuries as his features returned to his human self.

" 'Tis finished, Angel. I have found my peace. Our souls shall find one another in the realm of the afterlife. 'Tis the only way."

With that, he exited the room, trusting that she would not watch.

Sunlight streamed through the picture window. His skin blistered. The smell of burning flesh wafted to his nostrils as he stepped onto the porch in the direct sunlight.

He knew Angela would find no more than a pile of ashes, but his soul...his soul would be free at last.

A daydreamer at heart, suspense author, Patricia A. Rasey resides in her native town in Northwest Ohio with her husband, Mark, and two teenage sons. At the age of twenty-nine, her boys both tucked away in school all day, she decided to put her creative writing studies to use. A graduate of Long Ridge Writer's School, Patricia has seen publication of her short stories in magazines. With the writing of Deadly Obsession, she was able to see her true dream come to pass and become a full-time writer, thanks to the support and encouragement of her very own hero, Mark.

The year 2001 was a good one for Ms. Rasey. Not only was her book Facade a recipient of the Word Weaving Award for Literary Excellence, but also received an Honorable Mention (in the "Suspense" category) in the prestigious Dorothy Parker Award Of Excellence 2000 (books voted the best of those read and reviewed in 2000 and presented by the Reviewers' International Organization--RIO). Kiss Of Deceit received a nomination for the Dorothy Parker Award as well. Even more special for Patricia, was that Facade was the only electronic release listed amongst the winners/honorable mentions. Additionally, Twilight Obsessions, a hair-raising trilogy of dark suspense by authors Charlotte Boyett-Compo ("Taken By The Wind"), Kate Hill ("Love On The Wild Side"), and Patricia A. Rasey ("Fear The Dark"), was nominated for the 2000 PEARL, the Paranormal Excellence Award in Romantic Literature, in the Best Anthology category.

Patricia is a member of World Romance Writers (WRW). She also belongs to Sisters in Crime (SinC), and their Internet Chapter. When not behind her computer, you can find Patricia cheering on her sons at various sporting events, or taking karate, which she enjoys doing with her eldest son.

You can visit Patricia's homepage at http://www.patriciarasey.com

Marcus "Snake" Gallego lives in the fast lane. Play hard, ride fast, die young. But nothing seems to touch him, not until his faithless wife turns up dead, and a pretty little detective slams his head against a bar, cuffing his hands behind his back.

LeAnne McVeigh has a murderer to catch and "Snake" is a prime suspect according to her fiancé, the County prosecutor. She fights her growing attraction to the biker, but the pull is too strong to ignore and more than that, he proves to be her friend in adversity.

For more than an hour, heavy artillery thundered, spewing blazing destruction across the mile-long field. Gray-blue smoke clouds tumbled eastward, swallowing bountiful crops, brimming orchards, and the occasional abandoned farmstead. The mid-afternoon sun, a fiery amber globe raging in the heavens, pounded down heat like a divine scourge.

West of this bitterly contested no-man's-land where a tangle of woods skirted a ridge, a young man attempted to fill his lungs with air, but the stifling humidity, more than the sulfurous smoke, made the task arduous at best. With a pen, inkwell, and leather-bound journal in hand, he settled his lean, muscular frame on a patch of ground somewhat apart from his subordinates. Resting his aching back against an oak, he thumbed to a fresh page, readied his pen, and struggled to find the perfect words to convey to paper his jumbled emotions.

Words abandoned him. He knew what doubtlessly awaited him when the earsplitting racket reached its finale. It would be his turn. The moment of truth. His last chance to prove just how qualified he was to fill his father's herculean footsteps. In habit, he nervously twisted one end of his thick mustache and combated his frustration. He berated himself--What would Father write? Think! Think!

Then the answer arrived, just as a cannon pumped a final shell into the eastern ridge and the eruption quaked the ground. His gaze descended upon the journal. He gripped the pen, and with a shaky left hand, scratched out the date--July 3, 1863--followed by the three words echoing in his brain--

Today I died!

The truth. Yes, his father would have wanted him to write only that, he decided, as he watched the ink dry under the glare of the homicidal sun.

He climbed to his feet, stretched his long legs, and inspected the pocket of his gray frock coat. That afternoon, just after receiving his orders, he had fastened a note inside, a practice shared by comrades and enemies alike:

Jeb sighed. The compulsory identification to notify his family, the insurance required for a proper headstone, relieved another burden from his heart.

Just then, the clatter of approaching hooves met his ears. Brigadier General J. Johnston Pettigrew halted a lathered mount before Jeb, his staff galloping to his side. The senior brigadier, temporarily commanding the entire division after General Heth had suffered a wound two days earlier, sleeved grime from his cheek. The men exchanged salutes.

"Are you prepared, General?" Pettigrew asked, spiky mustache fluttering in the sultry breeze.

Jeb secured a forage cap over his long, dark hair. He raised his stubbled chin to look the man directly in the eye. "Ready, General."

"Form your brigade," Pettigrew commanded, then leaned forward in his saddle and took Jeb's hand. "Godspeed to you, Jeb."

"Same to you, James."

Pettigrew squared his shoulders, then rammed silver spurs into his mount and sped toward another brigade. His staff followed, their horses kicking up a cloud of yellow dust.

Jeb addressed his subordinates. "Colonels--form your battalions!" Within seconds, hundreds of men maneuvered in obedience. Drum rolls cracked, aiding the call to arms, setting the pace.

As the smoke began to settle over the shallow valley, Jeb located the copse of trees, a mile distant, standing on the crest of a ridge beyond a low stone wall. Cemetery Ridge--a befitting name. After two horrendous days of bloody battle, General Lee expected to break the Union line smack dab in the center? With these exhausted men? Balderdash!

Jeb drew his saber; it did nothing to quell the surge of helplessness coursing through his veins. He faced the soldiers, now begrimed and cadaverous after days of struggle and starvation. Thousands of apprehensive eyes dissected him.

The men are looking to me, he reminded himself, for guidance into the depths of hell. I must set an example--for the righteous cause. Father's cause.

Courage mustered, Jeb lifted his rich baritone. "Boys, we must not disappoint General Lee. We must honor our homes, our loved ones, our sweethearts. We must show all creation that the men of Dixie are the bravest warriors the world has ever known." He thrust his sword heavenward, its glimmering steel slicing the sun's rays. "Let's do the South proud!"

Jeb wheeled toward the east and called over his shoulder. "Let's cut a path straight to Washington City! Straight to Lincoln! At route step. Forward"--a long breath--"Maaarch!"

Snare drums snapped, marking his time as he took a step into the windswept field. Then another step, while hundreds followed in perfect formation. Each step brought them closer, ever closer to the blue-clad men ensconced behind the stone wall.

Jeb looked to the azure sky, imagining his father smiling down, sending waves of encouragement to his debilitated legs, driving him forward with his spirit.

One step. Then another. Then another. He passed the cheering, hat-waving artillery soldiers, encircling their still-steaming guns, urging the infantry forward.

Yes, Father--you were right. The South must prevail. We must not falter.

All around him, well-seasoned soldiers in gray and butternut, more than eleven thousand in all, walked shoulder to shoulder, gallant, valiant, as far as his eye could see. The earth shuddered beneath their feet as they tromped toward the wall.

Damn Lincoln. Damn his doctrines. You were right, Father. Damn the Northern tyrant.

One step. Then another. Then another. Just halfway there. Beyond the wall, shapes of heads materialized--the enemy lying in wait. Banners flapped in the afternoon breeze, regimental colors leading the way through fields of wheat and corn, knee-high in places. The fearless, majestic paladins, with tattered threads on their bodies and parade-ground aplomb in their step, pushed ever forward, with bravado, with purpose.

"Onward, men!" Jeb yelled over his shoulder. Sword held high, his vigor returned full force. "For Dixie!" Pickett's Division, Trimble's Division, Pettigrew's Division--all inched their way toward the enemy.

One step. Then another. Then another. A small fence just a few yards ahead. Then the Emmitsburg Road. Then the wall at the crest of the slight incline. Closer. Ever closer. Jeb's heart pummeled his ribcage.

General Lee--The Army of Northern Virginia--The South--will prevail!

One step. Then another. Then another. The wooden fence. Jeb scaled the obstruction. Statued on the top rail, he spied the cringing blue army--slack jawed, wide eyed at the audacious sight before them. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. He leapt from his perch, continuing forward.

Father would be so proud.

One step. Then another. Then another.

Father would be so--

Yawning black holes of cannon came alive with flaming barbarity. The barrage of sudden fire tore holes in the Confederate formations. Scorching shrapnel burst through the air, ripping, maiming, killing. The lines wavered. Reformed.

A sharp agony crept up Jeb's leg. Crimson stained his trousers. But still he moved forward. His sword swung in circles above his head, slicing the smoke of battle. "Onward, boys! Onward!"

One step. Then another. Then another.

Rifles poured lead over the field. Cannons spat fire. The salvo of death felled men at Jeb's side. Yet he dodged the murderous storm and limped onward, setting an example. For his father. For the cause.

One step. Then another. Then another.

Relentless volleys surged to greet them. Artillery shells at pointblank range tore spirits as well as flesh. Crazed with bloodlust, the men pressed forward--invincible. The staggering, withering fire behind the wall increased. Demonic power rocked the earth. More men collapsed, thrust into a better world by blasts of double canister.

One step. Then another. Then another.

Scalding heat shot through Jeb's leg. Warm blood trickled into his boot. Noxious gunpowder fumes invaded his nostrils, seared his eyes. Bullets buzzed past his ears like enraged hornets. Cannon thumped. Rifles spluttered. The curses and squalls and wails of brawling, charging, bleeding, and dying men cut through the din, each lending a distinctive voice to the cacophony of war.

"Onward, boys! Double quick! Chaaarge!"

One step. Another. Another.

Cannon roared.

One step. Another. Another.

Jeb had hoped he had been wrong to pen the three words in his diary--

Fire beckoned.

--That perhaps he would not die today--

Rifles barked.

--Not on foreign soil--

Shells screeched.

--Not in this little town of Gettysburg--

Comrades disintegrated.

--But now he began to wonder--

At his side, a shell erupted in a turmoil of iron, sod, and flesh, hurtling Jeb through the air. His sword escaped his grasp, its steel shot into the sky along with his forage cap. He slammed onto his back. Pain permeated his body, traversed in his veins. Blood seeped into his left eye. Through clouds of battle he beheld the heavens, now veiled in a film of crimson. With a prayer on his lips for a quick, merciful death, he suddenly smiled--

Father would be so proud.

Author's note: Although originally written as a stand-alone short story, "Father Would Be So Proud" eventually became, with some minor alterations, the Prologue for the novel Sins Of The Father.

Reincarnation? Yes, that's what author Trace Edward Zaber believes, wholeheartedly, especially when, at the age of four, he begged his parents to take him to a little town called Gettysburg, and after arriving, wanted to see nothing other than a hill just south of town named Little Round Top, which continues to fascinate him!

Trace is a Chicago-area writer, specializing in Civil War fiction.

On April 16, 2000, Trace's debut novel, Sins of the Father, won Word Weaving's first-ever "Award For Literary Excellence" and it was a finalist for an EPPIE Award in the Best Historical Fiction category. Also available soon will be Trace's seven-part Civil War series The Culpeper Chronicles--the first book in the series, One Bitter And Deadly Harvest, will be available in 2003, while the second book, Two Nations Under God, will be released in 2004. Moreover, three of Trace's short stories--"Blood Brothers," "The Collections Of Bethlehem," and "Esprit De Corps"-- have garnered several awards and appear in various anthologies. He has also been contracted (along with author J. L. Abbott) to do a series of reference books for historical-fiction writers entitled Listories of the 19th Century--Vol. I of the series will be available in the near future.

Additionally, Trace moderates several writers' critique groups, was a featured author at Barnes & Noble's Writers' Harvest 1997, and was the owner/editor of the award-winning Of Ages Past Magazine.

On the side--and much to the surprise of those who know him only by his prose--Trace is a rock 'n' roller who has just signed his fifth recording contract, this time as the lead vocalist with DSG (The Dave Shankle Group--Dave Shankle is the former award-winning guitarist and Guiness Book Of World Records guitarist with heavy-metal legends, MANOWAR). The first DSG album, Ashes To Ashes, will be released in both Europe and America sometime in late 2002/early 2003 from Magic Circle Records, along with the first single, "Calling All Heroes."

And if that wasn't enough, Trace is also the owner of By Thunder (http://bythunder.org), which includes several authoring services--Thundergraph: Web Design, Graphics, & Webmastering; ThunderProse: Professional Editing Services; and ThunderArt, the division of By Thunder that creates award-winning cover art for both e-books and paperbacks. Currently, Trace is also the Editorial Director and Creative Director for Amber Quill Press. His cover art won the Spectrum Award for "Best Cover Art 2001" and consistently places in the Top 10 in various author/reader polls for both "Best Cover Artist" and for specific book covers.

You can email Trace at: tezaber@bythunder.org

Jebediah Simpson Ellsworth, a young brigadier general from Vicksburg, Mississippi, arrives in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, seeking not only victory for his army and freedom from Northern tyranny, but also to prove his worthiness to his father's ghost. Instead, his army suffers defeat, he is wounded, and while recovering in enemy territory, is falsely accused of plotting a heinous crime.

With the aid of Faith Bradshaw, a young Yankee woman, and Isaiah Walker, an ex-slave, Jeb embarks on a perilous quest to clear his good name. Along the way, however, he is forced to reassess the teachings of his much-loved father, reexamine the world around him, and reevaluate his own convictions once their foundation starts to crumble.

Although the sun had recently set, it had left behind an orange halo, a dabble of light to shine a path for children in pursuit of candy. Giggles and shouts sounded from the street. Doorbells rang. "Trick-or-treat!" There was laughter and the patter of sneakered feet.

Leo Grimes sat in his recliner, feet up, belly on his lap. Beside the chair was a TV table loaded with beer cans, all empty but one, and a bowl of tootsie rolls. He unwrapped a candy, popped it into his mouth, chugged some malt and chewed.

His attention traveled from Wheel Of Fortune to the window. Through the dirty glass, he glared at the little ones dressed as ghouls and princesses, monsters and cowboys, scurrying in a hurry to fill their bags with treats before the Halloween curfew forced them home.

Leo snorted. "Rugrats. Snot monsters."

A group of youngsters stopped in front of his house and one little boy (outfitted as an alien with glow-in-the-dark antennae, an orange pulsing belly, and a red ray gun) put his foot on the grass in Leo's yard. Immediately, an adult hand grabbed his shoulder and steered him back onto the sidewalk.

"That's right, little boy, follow your mama. Big bad Leo might eat you up." Leo laughed, drooled brown spit, wiped his chin, then refilled his mouth.

"What's that, Leo?"

He turned to Summer and grimaced. She'd dressed for the occasion. He'd invited her over, promising her a party and twenty dollars. Summer worked with Leo at the factory on the assembly line, and at one time or another, she'd partied with every male there, married and single. All it took was twenty dollars. Leo had sweetened the pot with the offer of a party and, apparently, she had put two and two together and assumed "Halloween Party." Summer had come dressed as a cat.

When he'd opened the door and found her standing there, swinging a pinned-on tail in her hand, dressed in black stretch pants, black turtle neck sweater, and cardboard ears glued to a pink headband, he'd had to fight the desire to slam the door on her face. Or worse, punch her for being so sorry.

Leo needed Summer, however, so he'd swallowed his insults and allowed her inside. Without speaking, he'd motioned her to the couch and there she'd sat for an hour and a half while Leo drank beer and stuffed his mouth with candy. He hadn't offered her anything, not even a snippet of conversation.

She stared at him, awaiting an answer. Reluctantly, he obliged. "I'm talking about the stinking trick-or-treaters."

Her eyes lit and she smiled. "Oh yeah? Yeah. Aren't they sweet, Leo, all dressed up for Halloween?" Summer straightened her shirt. She was braless and her baggage was slightly inviting. The black whiskers she'd painted on her face were almost cute.

"No. They're not sweet. I hate them and their stupid costumes." He wriggled his rear in the seat, adjusted his crotch, and took his attention back to the television.

"Oh?" Summer fiddled with her headband and twiddled her thumbs. "Well, uh, I always liked Halloween. Good times, usually. Get to dress up and be something you're not."

"So what're you telling me? You're not really a cat?" Leo glared at her.

Surprise shone in her gray eyes. "Oh! What? Of course not. Now, Leo, ya know I'm wearing a costume. You're a tease."

"Uh huh. Can't say the same about you, now can we?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Leo stuffed his mouth and looked out the window. Two ghosts and a tall zombie wearing a blood-soaked mask, eyeballs hanging onto the cheeks, moved toward his door. "What?" Leo leaned forward.

Three eggs splattered on the window. Before he could rise from the chair, three more joined. Raw scramble dripped down the glass. "Little sons of--"

Leo yanked open the door and screamed profanities at the trio. Several adults yelled back and warned him that small children were within earshot. He told his neighbors to stuff their complaints in the soundproof vacuum located within the flaps of his furry rear. Before anyone could take him up on his offer, Leo slammed the door.

Summer giggled girlishly. It was a sad sound coming from a middle-aged woman. "Boys will be boys."

"You're profound, Summer. Anyone ever tell you that?"

Summer blushed. "No, Leo, you're the first."

"Bet it's been a while since you've said those words without lying."

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Leo walked directly to the recliner, plopped down, grabbed a fistful of tootsies, and swallowed some beer.

"Ya gonna clean your window?"

"You think it deters from the beauty of my home?"

"Oh, now, I think ya got a real nice place here, Leo. It's...it's very...utilization." Pride bloomed like roses on her cheeks.

"Yeah. And the word's 'utilitarian.'" He stuck his finger in his nose and twisted.

"Oh. You are? Well, good for you. I, for one, couldn't live without my hamburgers. I'm a real beefeater. It's real good for your heart not to eat meat. Good for you, Leo."

Leo wanted to laugh, but feared it would encourage more conversation. Instead, he wiped his finger on his pants and watched egg yolk dribble on the widow.

"Ya got some nice posters." Summer pointed out the collection of nude pin-up girls draped over toolboxes, pickup trucks, and motorcycles. Tanned skin, long hair, high-heels, and silicone. "And them's nice neon signs ya got. Kinda looks like a bar in here."

Leo didn't answer. He was busy fiddling with the remote control.

Summer fidgeted a moment, then cleared her throat. "Um, Leo, I was wondering...when's the party start? Ya told me there was gonna be a party. I dressed for a party. I mean, if it was just gonna to be us, that would'a been okay, but then I wouldn'ta dressed for a party. I mean, look at me. I'm dressed for a party."

"Shut up. My guest should be here soon."

Leo stuffed several tootsies in his mouth. Colorful wax papers littered the floor. They looked pretty against the stained, orange shag carpet. The last time his house had seen redecoration, Nixon had been in office. He swallowed the rest of his beer, dropped the can, reached into the blue and white cooler by his chair, and opened a fresh one.

"Guest. Did you say guest? Cuz that sounds like one other person...guest. Did you mean to say guests? Cuz a party should have guests. More than one, see what I mean?"

"Look around. How many do you see?"

Summer did as she was told. She turned her head in every direction, then faced Leo with a smile. "Two."

"That's right. And a guest makes three. More than one. More than two. Three makes a party."

Summer drew her lips tight, nodded, and stared at the television.

She amused him in the same fashion a mouse excites a cat on the hunt. Leo laughed and burped at the same time.

The procession of trick-or-treaters beyond the window continued for another hour. No one came to Leo's door for candy. The egg on the window dried. Sitcoms replaced game shows.

Leo ogled, ate, burped, and scratched. He pointed a dirty fingernail at the television. "You know what I'd do if that little hottie came at me, shaking those melons in my face?"

"What?" Summer waited for an answer.

Leo shook his head, grinned, and slugged more beer. He'd always looked forward to Halloween, but that evening was proving to be the greatest fun yet. "Summer, you're a real--"

The doorbell rang.

"It's about time." Leo laughed and sprang from his chair. "Thought you chickened out on me. Wussy. That's 'wussy' with a capital 'P'!"

"Wussy? No. I think that's spelled with a 'W.'"

Leo stopped in mid-stride. "Unbelievable. You really are as stupid as they say, aren't you?"

Summer looked confused, as if she wanted to respond, but couldn't find the answer.

Leo helped her out. It was the only help he'd offered to anyone in his life. "Let me answer for you. You look a little stuck. Yes, Summer, you are as dumb as they say. You are way more than twenty dollars worth of stupid." He turned his back to her and walked toward the door. "You just sit there and keep your mouth shut. Every time you open it, I'm taking a dollar off the top. You're right now at nineteen."

"Oh. Okay. Uh huh." She frowned. Her whiskers twitched.

Leo grabbed the knob and pulled open the door.

The streets were vacant. Streetlights glowed, casting buttery beams on black pavement. Porch lights all over had been doused and the glow from the houses had softened. Candy corn kisses had been given and grease-painted faces washed. Excited children had finally been tucked into their beds.

On Leo's front stoop stood a tall man dressed in a charcoal-gray hooded cape. His face was hidden. In his hand he held a scythe.

"Boo!" Leo shouted, then laughed.

The Grim Reaper didn't respond. Rather, he walked past Leo and into the house.

Leo smiled. "Come on in!" He slipped his hands into his pants, scratched his rear end, sniffed his fingers, then slammed the door. "Trick-or-Treat!"

Summer turned around on the couch and stared. "Now, that's a costume! Well, well, well, I'm glad I didn't dress up for nothing. Looky Leo, now you're the only one at the party who ain't dressed up. Maybe you oughta--"

"That's a lot of words, Summer. You're about down to a ten-spot."

"Oh. Okay. Uh huh." Summer smiled. A smudge of lipstick dotted her front teeth. It was a nice color.

The Reaper turned to Leo.

"Tootsie?" Leo pointed to the bowl.

The Reaper shook his head, No. The action seemed slow, almost sad.

Leo nodded to Summer, curling up his lips. "Can I get you something else?" Excited, he bounced in place. The exertion forced a fart.

The Reaper held out his arm, cloaked by the heavy robe, and motioned toward the door.

"I'm not going with you and I'm not in the mood to dance, Mr. Bone Man, so why don't we just make our deal now and be done with it."

The Reaper took a step toward Leo.

Leo flinched. "Are you nuts? Don't you want her?"

Summer watched with the eager anticipation of child awaiting a surprise.

"What's the problem? We've been trading out for years. You've taken my mother, my stinking wife, a crazy wino...the list goes on, pal." Leo shook his finger at Summer. "What's wrong with her?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with me?" Summer had a proud look on her face as if she'd just recited the Declaration of Independence in Latin.

Leo balled his fists. "Shut your stupid mouth."

With a pout, Summer fell into the couch, mumbled, and played with her fingers.

Concerned, Leo turned back to the Grim Reaper. The trades had begun twelve years ago. Death had come to his door on Halloween. Leo had put up a good fight and finally offered his mother in exchange. The Reaper had been appeased and had returned each subsequent year. Every visit, Leo had offered a substitute. It had always been a sure thing--

Until then.

Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. Leo scratched his underarms. The Reaper took another step forward.

"You know something, you stinking coward, I'm not going to make this easy for you. You stand there and think about what it'll take to seal this deal. I'm going to sit down in my favorite chair and finish my candy and beer."

Leo plopped into the recliner, passed gas, giggled, and stuffed a handful of tootsies into his mouth. He grunted as he chewed, breathing loudly through his nose, then guzzled warm beer. Brown foam bubbled from between his lips.

The Reaper stood watch.

Leo laughed. Summer joined the laughter as if she understood the joke.

"I'm really glad you came, Summer. Now I look at the two of you together, you make a nice couple."

The Grim Reaper swung his scythe.

A wad of tootsie's lodged in Leo's throat. He punched his chest. The chocolate ball slid deeper and completely closed off his windpipe.

Summer pointed her finger at him and laughed. The Reaper took a long step closer.

Leo kicked his feet. Beer cans scattered to the floor.

Summer jumped up and clapped her hands. "Charades, Leo?"

He fell out of the chair, grabbed his throat, and crawled to her.

She scolded him. "Ya have to signal how many words first. What you're doing ain't in the rules."

He grabbed her feet and looked up. Fermented drool leaked from his lips. He couldn't speak.

"Looky, Leo, if you've never played before, that's okay. I'll tell ya the rules."

Leo fell onto his back.

Summer stared down at him, watching the color on his cheeks blur to blue and his lips purple.

"Leo?"

He glared up.

Summer turned to the Reaper and winked. "Well, I ain't gonna save him, so I guess he's yours."

The Reaper nodded.

Summer bent, bunched up her nose, stuck her hand in Leo's pocket, and pulled out his wallet. She looked up at the Reaper with a cute smile. "He owes me twenty dollars." Summer removed a ten and three fives and dropped the wallet to the floor. "I know he'da give me a tip." She stood, smoothed down her pants, and stepped over Leo, her stuffed cat's tail dragging across his face.

"Let me tell ya something..." She took the Grim Reaper by the arm. He allowed it, seemed to welcome it. "Ya did a real good job here. Good to see ya take a stand. Shows your backbone. Ya should've never let the likes of him push ya around. Made ya look bad."

The Reaper nodded.

"Ya know, we've met before. Recognized ya right away. Ya may remember me, Sol Santa's wife? Sol! He told me his name meant 'the sun.' Now that's a hoot. He was the sun, all right. Son-of-a-ya-know-what!" Summer patted the Reaper's arm. He returned the affectionate gesture by leaning close to her. "Anyhow, ya did me a huge favor taking him away. I wondered if I'd see ya again. And now looky, here ya are!"

The Reaper walked through the door, Summer on his arm.

"It feels real good being with ya. You're a good listener. I think Leo was right. We're good for each other."

They turned down the sidewalk.

"Anyhow, while we're in the neighborhood there's a coupl'a guys ya might be interested in. A few of the boys from the factory. What'a ya say we pay a little visit. I mean heck, after all, I am dressed for a party. It is Halloween. How about we do a little trick-or-treating? And after that...well, who knows Mr. Reaper...anything can happen now, can't it?"

Having been born in a small upstate New York town in the early sixties, Katherine Irving's first memories are of cows, demonstrations on the television, cows, moms with weird hair, cows, the smell of manure in the spring, and cows.

With nothing to occupy her free time besides pulling weeds from the family garden and riding the neighbor's cows, she spent countless hours exploring the rural countryside on her bicycle and scribbling stories and poems to satiate her imagination.

For nineteen years she survived the small-town boredom and never-ending bawl of livestock until she shucked country living and moved south, to the beaches of Florida.

The next fifteen years were a blur of sun, fun, crazy jobs and wacko roommates. She liked to ride her Harley, attend motorcycle races--drag or track--drink frozen libations or cold beer and dream up stories. Whether lying on the beach scorching her skin, or watching blacktop reel away beneath her wheels, her imagination thrived.

At times, unable to satisfy her inner voices with writing, she turned to pranks and has been known to--suffice it to say, a wild imagination without restrictions can be dangerous.

Luckily, at the age of thirty-four, the sworn single married, and within the next five years had three children, sold the Harley and moved to a lazy town in Northeast Georgia. The new lifestyle came with restrictions and she was forced to learn self-discipline.

Surrounded by mountains, trees and chicken farms (Thankfully, cows are not equipped to be mountain climbers, to which she say's 'Moo!') she home schools her children, spoils her husband, tends to a wild bunch of pets--hound dogs, cats, a cranky rabbit, two tarantulas and one fat black widow spider and writes.

To learn more about this author, please visit her website at: http://www.katherineirving.com

Isolated mountaintop, unexplored regions of the Amazon, prosperous complex in Idaho, battered beachside apartment building, local swimming pool, abandoned house, an asylum, city bus line, kitchen, bedroom or the chilled drawers of the local morgue--nowhere is safe.

Housewife, distinguished doctor, tribal leader, father, lover, shadow, exterminator, spectral being, ghost, kindly granny, winter wind or the dead--no one can be trusted.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Evil will find them out in Shivers, a collection of short stories that explores the "What Ifs" in ordinary lives of unsuspecting people...

They arrived just before dusk, the pair of them. He saw the Federal uniform first. Revulsion swiftly rose within him, an automatic reaction to the stain of blue as it spread before his line of vision. The feeling disappeared as quickly, replaced by apathy that comes when too many strong emotions cancel out one another. The woman stood behind the soldier, shrouded in stunted branches and stubs of blood-red autumn leaves lining the path from Valley Mill Road to his decaying Virginia cabin.

The man spoke to him, his voice cutting across the crystal clear cool of the October afternoon. "Captain Peyton? Captain Bolling Peyton?"

The blue of the uniform mingled with the cadence of the words, and Bolling was transported back to that other time, always lurking beneath the surface of his foggy present. It was a time of war when his name was shrieked in pain. When it bore the echo-marks of hundreds of men--his men in gray--as they clamored over a rise to face a hailstorm of Union shells; his men, as they huddled behind twisted tree trunks watching blue uniforms surround them; his men as . . .

He felt the touch of the small hand invade the landscape of his nightmare, the small hand that settled on his arm as softly as a butterfly rests on a dew-stained leaf.

"Uncle Bolling? Are you all right?" Her fragile voice floated toward him, the voice of Amanda, his goddaughter.

He heard her concern and worry. The emotions resonated with him, with the need to please the sweetest presence in his life. He wrenched himself from the battlefield of his memory and looked down at the ten year-old girl, attempted a reassuring smile, then frowned when he saw the blue uniform out of the corner of his eye. It was standing closer to him, now.

"You are Captain Peyton?"

"Once I was, yes," came Bolling's tired voice. "But, no longer. You and yours took care of that by accepting our surrender at Appomattox Courthouse."

He looked past the uniform to the woman standing behind it. She was older than the soldier, in her fifties, probably. With soft brown hair and soft brown eyes.

It was the gentleness in her eyes that demanded his attention. Her gentleness merged with the sweetness of his little Amanda. Together they threatened to exorcise his dark memories and burst through his lethargic shell.

He heard his dead voice continue. "I ended any official business I might have with your kind last April. When the war ended. I mean you no disrespect, sir, ma'am, but I've made it a point of avoiding all contact with the military these last six months. I'm asking you to leave me in peace."

The woman's eyes shown with compassion. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but the next words he heard rose from above the blue uniform.

"We have business with you, Captain--Mr. Peyton."

Something in the clipped tones, the assured security that comes with victory, pierced Bolling's numbed indifference. He felt fury grow in his gut, starting as a tiny whisper of discontent and fueling itself until it was an anguished roar demanding voice.

"Get off my property."

The woman shrank from his harsh words. She wore mourning garb. The mark of death and loss rested heavily on her.

He inhaled sharply, ordering himself to calm down. Out of respect for her loss.

"Sir." The Federal officer's words were clipped, an efficient use of vowel, consonant, and breath. "I mean you no distress, and we apologize for having disturbed you by appearing at your doorstep unannounced, but, we've had trouble finding you, sir. And, we've traveled a long way. The fact is, we have a matter of utmost importance to discuss with you."

Bolling spoke in a calmer voice. "I signed your Oath of Allegiance months ago. I signed, and then I washed my hands of the lot of you. Please get off my property."

The soldier and woman looked at each other. The man sighed and pulled an envelope from his breast pocket, the crisply pressed blue uniform rustling at his touch. He extended the white envelope toward the ex-Confederate officer.

"This explains the nature of our business. I would ask you to review its contents, sir. You'll be contacted in a day or so, in case you've had a change of heart and will agree to talk with us."

Bolling sank into his porch rocker and made no move to take the paper from the man's hand. Instead, his trembling fingers dropped to the worn gray trousers stretched paper-thin across his thighs. His eyes followed the movement of his fingers, mesmerized by the outline of his pale white flesh splayed against the bleached-out gray of a uniform he had worn proudly.

When he looked up, the soldier and woman had disappeared.

"Uncle Bolling?" came the frail voice, and he looked over to see Amanda's beloved face. Her large eyes brimmed over with questions she was too wise to stuff with sound.

Such sad eyes.

Sad eyes in a pale face drawn tight and strained from prolonged illness. Before the war, she had been a chubby-cheeked five year-old, rosy and round, full of energy and the joy of each day. But, the legacy of four years of deprivation, malnutrition, destruction, rested heavily on her gaunt shoulders. Living in the heart of the most contested piece of ground in the country had exacted a heavy price. And Amanda, like the lower Shenandoah Valley around her, had suffered cruelly on the sidelines as men from the north and south rained bullets around her home, trampled her father's wheat fields, ripped to shreds the fabric of her family's life.

Amanda's cough--ever-present, dry, starved of energy –invaded his melancholy thoughts. She'd never recovered from influenza she'd contracted the year before. The killing disease that had taken her mother. Now, he feared the hand of consumption beckoned to her.

"You should take this, Uncle Bolling." Amanda clutched the white envelope in her delicate hand.

"Put it down, honey."

Amanda set the paper on the seat of a camp chair next to her and turned back to face him. "Are you going to open it?"

"I don't know, Amanda." Bolling stroked refugee strands of her dull brown hair into place with a soothing hand. He smiled at her, forcing his stiff white bristly whiskers to follow his tan-hardened skin as they obliged the moving muscles around his lips. "I'll think about it. But, right now, I need to see you home, before your father wonders what happened to you."

Amanda nodded, pulling at cotton strings attached to a sunbonnet bouncing against her back. She settled the hat on her head and smoothed her faded brown-striped dress with delicate fingers that seemed to flit over the worn fabric, caressing and tender. The dress had belonged to her mother, the washed-out cotton cut down to fit her rail-thin figure by a neighbor lady.

Bolling held out a hand and she grasped it, trusting and eager. The pair set off through the wire grass, toward the nearby farmhouse where Amanda and her father lived. Fading sunlight glowed bright yellow and red around them as it reflected the leaves of poplars and beeches. These were the trees that had survived exploding shells screaming from soldiers' rifles, and axes of desperate civilians scavenging for firewood. Just beyond the trees was the wheat field Amanda's father and Bolling were attempting to induce back to life, its rich limestone soil still rock-hard after four years of trampling by thousands of marching boots.

A slight movement in a tangled mass of dead branches strewn on the ground attracted Bolling's attention. He looked over to see a tiny white kitten struggling to climb out of an object lying among the wood. As he drew closer, he saw that the kitten was being held prisoner by a tattered kepi cap--part of the debris left to the Shenandoah Valley by troops who had swarmed over the land, part of the legacy of a war they had brought to the civilians' doorsteps.

Amanda dropped to her knees next to the helpless animal and freed the quivering body from the frayed cap.

"This has got to be one of Betsy's kittens, Uncle Bolling! So new to this world, it hasn't even opened its eyes." As she stroked it, the kitten nuzzled into the palm of her hand, seeking warmth and security, its face crinkled tight, bunched around eyes clamped shut.

"You're right, dear. It's probably only a few days old. Newborns are a helpless lot, especially animals like cats who are born blind. Good thing they grow into their eyes. Can't live in the world very well if you can't see what's around you."

She turned to look at him, concern crossing her face. "It's too young to be off on its own. I hope Betsy's close by."

Bolling smiled down at her. "I'm certain she is. I wonder where--" He broke off, and pointed to a laurel bush. At its base hunched an enormous white cat, watching them patiently. "There's Betsy. She's probably moving her kittens and is just waiting for us to leave before she continues on her way." He took Amanda by the arm, urging her forward.

After the pair had walked a few feet, Bolling motioned behind them. "Look, Amanda. See? There goes Betsy with the little one. All's well."

The pair lingered for a moment, watching the mother cat trot across a plot of scorched earth with the kitten dangling out of her mouth.

"Where's she taking it?" asked Amanda.

"From her direction, I'd say she's probably keeping her babies in the old mill."

"Why in that place? It's nothing but a heap of rubble."

"It offers her protection from the elements."

"Our house would have been a better choice," Amanda said, disappointment in her voice.

"Want to see where she's going?"

Amanda nodded, her haggard face bright with excitement.

The two began following the mother cat. Around them, remnants of war were ever-present. Tree trunks were chipped and stripped clean of bark after being battered by shells. Tin plates, dented cups and scraps of gum blankets lay in haphazard profusion, along with shreds of weather-bleached uniforms, cap boxes and haversacks, all partially hidden by the season's growth of wire grass and wildflowers.

Ahead of the pair, sitting along the bank where Abraham's Creek meets Mill Race, stood the charred skeleton of a woolen mill. The marks left from angry licks of fire had paled over the two years since the building had been torched by the Federals. A blackened brick chimney rose above a dense profusion of ferns and wild violets bursting through wide spaces between the few blackened floor boards that had survived scavengers. Vines climbed and entwined around rusted fragments of machinery--a contorted mass of metal that had been tortured by the intense heat from a wartime inferno.

"There she goes." Bolling pointed to the heart of the mill as a long white cat tail disappeared underneath a wood plank. "See? She and her kittens will be snug and warm under those boards."

"I suppose so. Do you think we'll see the kitten, again?"

Bolling tweaked her nose, grinning at her. "Now, you know Betsy's never more than a few feet behind you most of the time. She's just waiting for her babies to grow up a bit before she makes her introductions."

He nodded towards a farmhouse disfigured by shot and shell, visible through the stand of trees. "Come on, honey. I need to get you home before you're late for supper, and I hear from your father."

He waited at the edge of the trees until he saw the frail figure disappear inside the house, then returned to the tranquility of his front porch. Settling heavily in the cane-bottomed rocker, he reached for a book in the chair next to him. His movement disturbed the envelope Amanda had placed there, and it fell to the sagging floorboards. As Bolling retrieved it, a calling card tumbled out. He picked up the black-bordered paper and read, "Mrs. Claire-Marie Dandridge."

His female visitor, he thought. Dandridge. That name was familiar, to him. Somewhere, it resided in the dark recesses of his memory.

He stuffed the card and the envelope into a fraying pocket of his ancient frock coat and turned his attention back to the book. Cradling the soiled leather tome in one rough hand, he stroked its pages with callused fingers, his eyes caressing the magical words printed there. It was the only survivor of his prewar days, this book of Wordsworth's poetry. The only clue of the life he'd lived before, when he'd taught poetry at Winchester Academy.

That life was over for him. Winchester Academy was closed – the war had sealed its fate in the early years of fighting. His modest rented rooms in the town of Winchester had gone up in smoke thanks to the Federals. After the First Battle of Winchester, the Bluecoats had retreated through the streets of the town, torching Coontz's foundry as they went. Bolling's rooms were nearby, and had been engulfed in the resulting fire.

He'd accepted the demise of his comfortable bachelor life through a numbed fog. He had no heart to return to teaching. Had no energy nor motivation to do much of anything any more.

Bolling felt self-derision swarm over him like a mass of honey bees disturbed from their hive. The Oxford-educated teacher, the literary scholar, that was what he had once been. And then, the War of Attempted Secession had transformed him into a dutiful soldier who had become nothing more than a killing machine for the Cause as he'd served the Army of Northern Virginia in the Stonewall Brigade. He'd given the Confederacy all he had to give. Now, after the war, he felt hollow and empty inside. Used up. Existing in a sea of gray and muffled sound only punctuated with Amanda's color and laughter.

In fact, the only element of his life seeming real was the friendship he shared with Amanda and her father. What would he have done without them these last six months? They had offered him shelter and a meager subsistence on their ravaged farm outside Winchester, Virginia, in exchange for his help with the work. Amanda's father had suffered an injury to his leg at Cold Harbor that had never healed properly. Now, the man was unable to use the leg for sustained periods of time and walked with a pronounced limp. Bolling's presence on the farm was not charity--it was necessary for the survival of the family. Bolling had accepted the responsibility gratefully.

His thoughts returned to Amanda--his goddaughter, his best friend's daughter. How much longer could she cling to that silken thread connecting her to life? He prayed to God she wouldn't share the same fate as many of their neighbors, those who had fallen into consumption. But the telltale signs of the condition were there--growing weakness, chronic cough, fatigue and the distinctive pallor.

Still, a healthy diet of plentiful nourishing food would make all the difference. She could live a happy, long life with the right food. Unfortunately, food was in short supply where money was scarce, even six months after the war. The first postwar harvest had been woefully meager, hampered by compacted ground, a decimated workforce, and little seed money – another legacy of war and the "scorched earth policy" adopted by the Federals in the Valley.

"Black Dave" Hunter and Phil Sheridan had implemented the barbaric plan, ordering their men to strip bare the once-verdant region. Their soldiers had carried away or destroyed every resource that would have enabled the Valley's civilians to resume their livelihoods after the war. The precious contents of homes, barns, smoke houses, orchards, gardens, spring houses –- all gone. Most trees had been cut down or burned; orchards decimated; barns, outbuildings and mills torched;, snake fences broken up; livestock stolen. Every sight on which the eye rested represented that malicious waste and evil intent. A black force of destruction, it had been--a plague, an epidemic permeating the ground, seeping into the soul, ravaging the spirit.

His mind flickered on the Bluecoat who had invaded his world earlier that day. He couldn't even summon the hint of curiosity about him. Or the woman. Let them go back from whence they came and leave him to struggle in the fractured, tortured peace their kind had manufactured for him and his loved ones.

The next morning, as the first light crawled up the wooded sides of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Bolling plunged into the cold fog shrouding the valley floor. He followed the dreary routine of his day with a weary salute to the bare demands of civilized regimen, biding his time until he saw Amanda's smiling face appear at his doorstep.

When he finally laid eyes on the delicate, drawn little girl coming down his path, it was a not a smile greeting him. Instead, she looked distracted and contemplative. Deeply entrenched lines of weariness crossed her face.

As she settled on the top step of the porch next to him, he said, "Are you having a bad morning, little girl?" He placed a gentle hand on her bare head. "And where's your bonnet?"

She shrugged her shoulders, taking a shallow breath. Bolling winced at the labored, wheezing sound of her.

She gave him a swift glance, then looked away. "They came to visit us, last night, Uncle Bolling."

"Who did?" he said more sharply than he had intended.

"The Yankee and the woman who were here to see you, yesterday."

"What business did they have with your father?"

Amanda turned back to him, her wispy eyes studying him. "You didn't read the paper they left you, did you?"

"No, honey. I'm not even certain what I did with it."

"Well, sir. Their business is you."

Amanda leaned toward him, and Bolling could feel the gentle warmth of her sweet breath brush across his face. Her words came out in a rush of pent-up nervousness. "Please, Uncle Bolling. Please don't be cross with me for talking to them. I know you didn't like them. But, well, I thought they seemed quite nice. Even the Yankee. And, they were very polite to Father and me. They're not here to do anything bad. I'm sure of it. They just want to speak with you, Uncle Bolling."

"Did they ask you to talk to me, Amanda?"

Her eyes dropped away from his face and he got his answer. Bolling got up from the step, and walked across the porch, seeking to quiet the anger and sense of betrayal surging through him.

"They . . . they said it's very important," he heard her whisper behind him.

"Important for whom?" Bolling's bitter voice bit through the crisp air.

"I think they meant for you, Uncle Bolling."

He turned to look at her.

Her eyes were upon him, filled with earnestness and pleading.

She wants you to talk to the Federal and the woman. Is that so difficult? For her? Would you rather disappoint this cherished little girl than agree to it?

Amanda had been watching his face, reading his expression, and he saw her delicate features broaden into a wide, delighted smile. She came at him in a rush and flung her arms around his waist.

"I knew you'd agree." She beamed up at him.

And so it was that later that day, Bolling sat on his rotting porch, in the creaky rush-bottom rocker, and watched the Federal and the woman approach the foot of his porch steps, again. This time, he rose, ramrod straight, and gestured to two wooden camp chairs with a stiff jerk of his arm.

"Sit!" he commanded through numbed lips. He kept his eyes on the uniform, watching it invade the perimeter of his home, his refuge, his sanctuary.

The soldier leaned toward him, carefully, as one would approach an invalid in precarious health. He opened his mouth to speak, but the woman laid a hand on his arm. It was a gesture restraining him, asking him to remain silent.

"I'm Mrs. Claire-Marie Dandridge, Captain," she said in a voice as light and gentle as an early spring rainfall. "This is my son, Major Fitzgerald Dandridge. We're family of the late Captain Asa Dandridge."

The woman dropped her eyes, and Bolling could feel waves of pain radiate from her. He felt her emotions pull at him, beckon to him. It was if she was able to reach into the deep heart of him still struggling and chafing to make sense of the carnage of war, that core always threatening to disrupt the delicate equilibrium he had constructed so he could stumble through his days.

She was speaking to him again in her soft voice. "You . . . did you read the documents we left, last night?"

He shook his head.

"Captain--Mr. Peyton, do you remember my son? Federal Captain Asa Dandridge?"

"I'm sorry ma'am. Should I?"

"Well, sir, I thought you might."

"Mrs. Dandridge, except for the obvious possibility that your son and I faced each other across the no-man's land of a battlefield, why would I know him, in particular?"

"May 5, 1864, Captain. The first day of the battle at the Wilderness. You made the acquaintance of my son, then."

Bolling could hear the pleading in her voice.

Please try to remember. Think back. Open your heart to the memory.

Her voice was joined by the gentle touch of Amanda, as his goddaughter stepped to the side of his chair and placed her hand on his shoulder. Please remember, her nearness begged.

And Bolling did.

With the name of Asa Dandridge drumming a steady tattoo in his consciousness, he marshaled the ragged fragments of his courage and forced his mind back. To that awful time, the killing time, when the world drowned in a sea of blood and grew deaf from the hellish cacophony of brothers destroying brothers.

South of Virginia's Rapidan River, hard by the Orange Turnpike and Orange Plank Road, across the trampled stubble of Saunder's corn field and in the tangled mass of trees and shrub, thousands of boys in blue and gray lay in states of mutilation and death on the afternoon of May 5^th, 1864. Fires brought on by shells exploding amidst dry wood had flashed to life, roasting fallen bodies. The stench of burning flesh mingled with the fetor of blood and the pungency of gun powder. Smoke swirled, pressing down in heavy layers, adding a cruel mystery to the scene.

The two sides had been struggling to find each other's northern flank throughout the afternoon. As Stafford's Louisiana Brigade stretched the Confederate line northward, it had become separated from the Stonewall Brigade--Bolling's unit. The gap between the two brigades had widened, and Union Colonel Henry Brown's New Jersey men had rushed into the midst of the Confederate position, volleying heavy fire into the Virginians' front and flank.

Bolling's commander, General "Stonewall Jim" Walker had reorganized his men to meet the onslaught, receiving point-blank volleys in the process. The Brigade's 4^th Regiment had stopped the flank attack. For the better part of the last two hours, Bolling's 2^nd regiment, along with the 33^rd , had held against the Federal onslaught.

Now, Captain Peyton hunkered behind the breastworks with the rest of the Stonewall Brigade, watching soldiers from "Uncle John" Sedgewick's 6^th Corps stumble toward them across the brambly, bloody Saunder's field. The Federals were attempting to crack the Confederate position, again.

The fight intensified. The air around Bolling was thick with sheets of iron as men in blue surged toward the Confederates on a frenzied tide. Wave after wave they rode, only to dissolve before the withering fire Bolling and his men threw at them.

Suddenly, one of the Federals broke from the jagged formation and started advancing toward Bolling. Somehow, the infantryman dodged the rain of shells spewing at him from Peyton's company. On came the Bluecoat. Closer. Eyes fixed on Bolling, Spencer rifle aimed at him.

Peyton was mesmerized by the Yankee's eyes. Pale gray eyes. Wild and wide. Flecked with fear, fury, panic. Resignation. It was as if the Union soldier had stepped inside him and plunged into his own sea of anguish and misery. Those eyes could have been his own. The war had never been so close, so personal to Captain Peyton.

Suddenly, the roar of rifles, shrieking shells, yelling men, receded to a distant echo. In its place, Bolling heard the mournful refrain of a fighter's dirge. And before his mind's eye, strutting in formation to this martial lament, marched the ghosts of all those soldiers whose lives he'd taken. It was a long parade, tramping through blood that had spilled at his hands.

Bolling looked down, and he could see the blood flowing toward him, threatening to drown him. Its warm moisture oozed around his ripped Jefferson boots, slimed his tattered trousers, settled into thick rivulets across the jagged plane of his conscience.

He shrank away from the vision, focusing again on the Union soldier's eyes, seeing that the man shared his nightmare. Bolling felt himself rise above the breastworks until he stood at full height. He lowered his rifle before the man. The Union soldier did the same.

They would not shoot each other. They would not shoot a kindred spirit, a man with whom each had shared such intimate feelings. These men would not die at each other's hand, this day.

Bolling reached out to the man. His enemy. His soul mate.

And then, as Bolling watched, the Federal's eyes disappeared before him, dissolved into bloody pulp as lead from a Confederate rifle met its mark. The man dropped before the breastworks, his torso draped over gummy pine logs.

Even as the man fell forward, the memory of his gray eyes dangled before Bolling. Gray eyes now dissolved red.

He reached out to the soldier again, seeking contact, meeting nothing but murky air. The soldier had slipped away, disappeared into the smoke beyond the battered breastworks.

Vaguely, behind him, Bolling heard the order to move out. Under a blizzard of lead, Stonewall Jim had decided to move his men to a stronger, rear position.

Bolling's comrades began to move back in good order. But he was still reeling from the image of the Federal he'd faced across the breastworks, and lost his bearings. Vaguely, he was aware of ghostly figures swirling behind him, then dissolving into thick air as his men slipped into the folds of the Wilderness.

Bolling shook off his confusion and began to maneuver toward his line, threading his way through stands of stunted evergreen, dwarf chestnuts, and hazel trees. He struggled forward in this fashion for a short time, making slow but steady progress in the tangled mass of foliage.

As he paused to chop through a thick wall of grapevines, an anguished cry suddenly pierced the din. He felt drawn to the sound, and without questioning his actions, he turned toward it.

Pushing through thick white smoke coiling through the sultry air, Bolling almost tripped over the Federal soldier. The man was crouched against the thick trunk of an oak tree, his arms embracing the slimy wood as a child grabs for the security of his mother's skirts. Bolling raised his Enfield, prepared to take prisoner the Union captain.

The man raised a blackened face toward Bolling, staring ahead of him with wild, unfocused eyes. He gave no indication he saw Bolling standing a few feet before him.

"Someone...someone help me!" he cried in a panicked voice. "Don't let the fires burn me alive. Good Christ! I can't see them! Where are the fires?"

"There's no fire near you, at present, Captain," said Bolling.

"Where...I can't see you. God almighty! I can't see at all!"

Bolling crouched next to him.

"Are you...are you there?" The Union soldier's arms thrashed wildly.

Bolling grasped the man's arm, steadied him, then released him. "What happened to you? You don't look injured."

The man pulled himself up alongside the tree. "Flash of gunpowder--some Reb's powder bag exploded in my face back there. Saw crimson and gold, then nothing. Just black." He raised trembling blackened fingers to his eyes. "I...I can't see a thing. Who are you? Listening to you...you're a Reb, aren't you? Part of that brigade we flanked earlier this afternoon."

"Yes."

Bolling watched the frenzied soldier push off from the anchor of the tree, flail through the bristling shrubs, and crash to the ground. He brought the man back to his feet, feeling the pressure of the Federal's weight as the blinded soldier leaned on him, seeking clear ground upon which to stand.

He should take this man back to his lines. Now. As his prisoner. But, as Bolling watched him struggle for equilibrium in a world suddenly gone dark, the Confederate captain was flooded with another image--the Union soldier who had charged his line, eye sockets flowing blood as his body was pummeled with Confederate lead.

As the image of those empty sockets lingered before his mind's eye, Bolling knew he'd been given another chance to save a life. And by so doing, save the tattered fragment of soul still clinging to him.

Bolling wrapped an arm around the Captain's back and urged him forward.

"Where--where are you taking me?" The Federal's voice was steadier. It was the voice of a man preparing himself to become a prisoner, or die.

"Back to your own people, Captain," Bolling said in a gruff voice.

"Why? Why are you doing this?"

Bolling led the man into the heart of the manic confusion clamoring around them, concentrating on skirting the shadowy figures of soldiers passing by. Minie bullets snapped and tore through tree limbs next to them. Splinters flew into their faces. Still Bolling moved on, seeking the densest swirls of smoke, the thickest trees, the jungle of switch rising twenty feet around them. Using these natural obstacles as cover.

Bolling spoke into the Federal's ear. "I'm doing this because I need to, I guess. I need to help you. Can you understand that?"

"I thank God for you. What's your name, soldier?"

"Captain Bolling Peyton, 2nd Virginia, Stonewall Brigade. And you, Captain?"

"Captain Asa Dandridge, 3rd New Jersey, Brown's Brigade."

Bolling has been maneuvering east toward the Federal line. Now, as a patch of clear air swept away the swirling smoke for a few seconds, he could see a thick body of blue uniforms ahead of him. The Union soldiers were heading in his direction.

"Well, Captain Dandridge, this is as far as I can take you. Your men are approaching."

"Captain Peyton, there aren't words to express my thanks to you. I owe you my life."

"I did what I could. Pray God it's enough."

As Bolling eased the Federal to the ground by a clump of pine trees, he could see the captain flinch as shells exploded in the ground a few feet away from him.

"Jesus, I can't even see the lead coming at me." Dandridge's voice quivered. "I'm totally helpless. Once you leave me, Captain, I'll be at the mercy of fate. Blind fate."

"You're in the path of your comrades. They can't miss you. And then, you'll be as safe as is possible in this mess." Bolling wanted to walk away, aware that with every second he lingered, he was risking capture by the approaching Union soldiers. Still, he hesitated, looking at the shaken, terrified man.

Bolling couldn't leave him that way. So alone, with nothing to comfort him.

Reaching inside his tattered frock coat, Captain Peyton pulled out a small silver cross encrusted with amber. It had been a gift from his mother just before she died, a momento of her love, her faith, her conviction that as long as he carried it, he would be protected from harm. As he cradled the cross in his hand, the amber pulsed, its rich, golden tones reflecting light from the exploding shells.

Bolling placed the cross between Dandridge's shaking fingers. As he turned to leave, he saw the Union soldier clutch it to his chest, and lower his head in prayer.

Captain Dandridge disappeared from Bolling's sight in a spiral of scrolling smoke.

Seventeen months after Captain Peyton left the blinded soldier crouched on the ground waiting to be rescued, he looked into the face of Asa Dandridge's mother and tried to shake off the painful memories.

"Was he . . . was he found by his men?" Bolling asked Mrs. Dandridge.

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "Thanks to your heroic efforts, he was rescued and taken to a field hospital. Unfortunately--" She broke off with a sob.

Fitzgerald Dandridge placed a comforting hand on his mother's shoulder, saying, "The field hospital was shelled the next day. Asa was wounded. He never recovered, and died in the depot hospital at Fredericksburg a few days later." The Major looked at Bolling with eyes draped in heavy grief. "But not before he was able to write us a letter, telling us what happened. How you saved him. What you did for him."

Claire-Marie Dandridge fumbled in her reticule. "He wanted us to find you, and to give you these things." She held two envelopes in her hand. She handed Bolling one of them. As he opened it, she said, "This is returned to you with Asa's gratitude and deep thanks. And ours."

Bolling pulled out the amber cross he had given Asa on the battlefield. He watched as sunlight skimmed across its lustrous surface, radiating waves of golden light. He felt its warmth and the love of his mother course through his hand, up his arm, and through his body. He placed it in his vest pocket and nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice to support words.

The second envelope was thrust into his hands. He shook his head in confusion. "I didn't give your son anything else."

"You gave him more than you could ever know," Asa's mother said, nodding towards the envelope. "That's a copy of what we left with you, yesterday. You'd be honoring us if you'd look at it, now."

Bolling pulled out a sheet of paper. It was an account statement from a bank in Baltimore. He stared at the dollar amount. It was a fortune. Enough money for several lifetimes. All in his name.

"There must be some mistake. I can't accept this."

"The money is there for you," said Fitzgerald Dandridge. "And will remain there for you. Asa wanted you to have it. And so do we. What you choose to do with it is your decision."

Bolling's eyes bore into the sheet, its neatly printed columns of figures marching before his eyes. Yankee money. Probably accumulated during the war at the expense of rebel blood.

No. The price is too high. I want nothing from the Union but to be left alone.

"Maybe the money would make you happy." Amanda's words wafted across the ledger sheet towards his heart.

"Make me--"

"You've been so sad since you've returned from the war, Uncle Bolling. If this money would make you happy, you should accept it as the gift it's meant to be."

He looked over at Amanda, her pinched face pale and glowing. In her eyes, he saw the ravaged fields, ransacked home, torched barn, empty larder.

With the wealth represented by those impersonal figures printed on a sheet of paper, he could buy nourishing food to strengthen her, materials to rebuild her home and farm buildings, and tools to work the fields properly.

How high would be the price if he didn't accept the money?

He turned towards Fitzgerald and Claire-Marie Dandridge and slowly nodded his head.

"Thank you."

As soon as he uttered those words, Bolling was infused with a sense of redemption and rich purpose. Before his mind's eye a vision of crystal clarity escaped the confines of the ledger sheet and beckoned to him, inviting him to look at the blessings his actions had wrought.

It danced in front of him, its graceful steps showing him a path toward a future of sustained health and fulfilled potential for his loved ones. And, when he stumbled over its promises, it set him upright, guaranteeing those things on the blood of an oath made by an enemy in the grip of terror and thankfulness, at the heart of a battlefield in the wilderness.

A childhood home haunted by the Civil War general who built it, sparked the historical fiction of J. L. Abbott. She has completed two post-Civil War espionage novels: The Third Corner and The Bluecoat Affair, both part of the chilling and riveting Dark Watch series. Two of her historical short stories, "The Devil's Own" and "Blind Fate" were featured in the short story anthology, Twilight Antiquity.

"I've always been drawn to the 'Conflict Between The States,'" J. L. says. "I grew up in a farm house built by a Civil War general. As a child, I poured over written material documenting his life. I imagined I could see and hear him as I moved through the rooms he inhabited. My attraction to this amazing historical period deepened as I matured. Today, I'm struck with the fact that the tragedy of that conflict continues to ripple through our culture. The opportunity to highlight aspects of this drama through my fiction thrills me. I'm compelled to write about it.

"I also savor espionage tales. The double life of a spy during the chaos of wartime and the post-war years is an especially rich field for me to cultivate. The characters I create live on the edge. They're tough, vulnerable, and haunted. I like to create plots that twist and turn. My goal is to snare the reader in a web of suspense, subterfuge, and ultimate vindication."

A speech graduate from Northwestern University, J. L. has worked in radio and television, and written promotional and public relations materials. After receiving a Master's Degree in Urban Planning and Policy, she published a series of technical planning reports.

J. L. lives in the Denver foothills of the Rocky Mountains with her husband, Marc, and English cocker spaniel, Kalli. In her spare time, she hikes, writes poetry, and reads voraciously. She and Kalli, a certified therapy dog, have participated in animal-assisted therapy programs with Chenny Troupe, a Chicago-based organization.

Shots slam into a back alley of post-Civil War Washington, D.C. Two government agents fall. A traitor lurks in the upper ranks of the Grant Administration and conspirators kill the operatives to protect their mole. Kathryn Devereaux and Jared Bentley of the espionage organization, Dark Watch, carry on in the footsteps of their fallen comrades. They're driven by a hidden agenda. The dead spies were their fathers. Revenge stokes the flames of the official assignment as they seek to uncover the deadly knowledge their fathers possessed, and the rebels who killed them because of it.

The Dark Watch pair follows a tangled web of deceit, all the while struggling to protect their secret love for one another. Stakes skyrocket when a third player surfaces. A reviled adversary from the War is hell-bent on destroying their mission--and their relationship. The fight becomes personal and no one is safe from her wrath. As Kathryn and Jared battle to safeguard the Presidency, their family, and their love, an unexpected ally offers them a timeless perspective revealing the truth about their present and lending clarity to their past and future.

Sawyer Walker held the dying priest in his arms, his heart leaden with guilt and grief. Dimly, he was aware of the villagers outside the tiny stucco church, crying out their sorrow, wailing for God to take their beloved father to the heaven about which he had preached so fervently.

This wouldn't have happened if Sawyer had only heeded the priest's warning. He should have known better than to go after Aldrik on his own. But then he'd never dreamed the rogue vampire would retaliate by attacking Father Callahan.

The old man opened his eyes. Sawyer winced at the shadow of death in their watery depths. "Sawyer, you must listen. Behind the altar...there...secret compartment. The amulet...the only thing on earth that can...stop him." The priest closed his eyes.

Sawyer felt his mouth go dry. His throat thickened, and his chest tightened. "Come on, Father. Don't give up on me now. We're going to beat Aldrik together."

The white-haired priest reopened his eyes. "No...my good friend. My time is over...you must be the one to carry on...the fight." The dying man gripped Sawyer's hand with a strength that surprised him. "Promise...Sawyer."

"Yes--of course, I promise. But you are going to be there with me, old man."

Father Callahan smiled, then with one last gasp, he was gone.

Sawyer choked back his grief and gently lowered the man to the plank floor. He made the sign of the cross, more out of respect for his friend's religion than any belief on his own part.

"Rest in peace, Patrick Callahan," Sawyer whispered.

Shelia Blakely typed the words "THE END," saved the book in her word processing program, then turned off the computer. She sighed. Finished at last. Now she could go on that Bahamas cruise she'd promised herself six months ago.

She stood and stretched, trying to work the kinks out of muscles that had remained motionless for far too long. There were times when she wondered if it was worth it. But on the other hand, writing best-selling horror novels paid well. Oh, she would have liked to have written the "great American novel," but horror was what her fans wanted, and it paid the bills, so who was she to complain.

"We all can't be Earnest Hemmingway," she said to the empty study.

With a shake of her head, she walked down the short hall and went into her bathroom. God, but she needed a good long soak. If she were lucky, it would help dislodge the cobwebs in her brain. She still hadn't completely removed herself from the mind of her most recent creation. She shuddered as she stripped off her worn terry-cloth robe and ran the bath water. There were times when her characters scared the hell out of her, especially when she was inside their heads, feeling the way they did--thinking the way they did.

Stop it right now, she told herself. It's make-believe. There are no vampires that go on bloody rampages across the country, or werewolves terrorizing an entire community--no ghosties or ghouls or beasties of any sort, except in your own imagination.

She poured a tiny amount of the bath crystals her mother had given her last Christmas under the churning faucet. To her delight, the water foamed into a mountain of glistening white bubbles. She stepped into the wide tub, gratefully lowering her aching body into the steaming water.

Leaning her head against the porcelain, she reminded herself to call Sam and let him know the book was finally finished. He was a damned good agent and friend, but there were times when she wondered if he really saw her as a person, instead of his personal money-making machine.

Shelia grimaced at the thought. She really wasn't being fair to Sam. There were plenty of times he acted as if he cared about her, and how hard she worked. But then there were other times...

She let go of the disloyal thought and tried to relax in the fragrant water.

A nice breeze blew her hair, and she relaxed even more, thinking how refreshing...how...

Breeze?

She jerked upright, her eyes wide, her heart thudding painfully in her chest.

Impossible. There were no windows in her bathroom, so where was the rush of air coming from?

She scanned the room, noting the black and white tile, the overflowing clothes hamper in the corner--nothing out of place. Everything appeared to be normal.

Suddenly, she clamped her hands to her ears as a loud whining, rushing noise assailed her. Dear God, what was happening?

Shelia scrambled up onto her feet and grabbed a towel. The noise increased; her ears popped under the strain. She jumped out of the tub and revolved slowly, trying to find the source of the noise.

Okay, enough already. She was getting out of here and calling 911. Something was definitely going on and she wasn't about to stick around to find out what it was--not alone, at any rate. The police could check it out.

She reached for the doorknob, intent upon making her escape. Without warning, a strong gust of frigid air blew her against the door. Stunned by its ferocity, she held onto the brass handle with a strong grip. The preternatural wind whipped wildly at her towel, and just as she thought it was about to fall, she lost her grip on the door and was flung outward.

She landed against the side of the tub with a loud thump, banging her head on the porcelain. She moaned as tiny red dots danced before her eyes.

She tried to gather her wits as the wind died down. She couldn't believe a tornado had invaded her bathroom. Things like this don't happen, she thought, sitting upright, and feeling for the lump on the back of her head. She winced as her fingers touched the pea-sized swelling.

Great. Now, she might have a concussion. Just what she needed the day before her thirtieth birthday. The cruise she'd booked was beginning to look better every minute. This entire episode had to be a product of her over-active imagination. Okay it was over, the wind had died and the noise had ended.

"You're losing it, girl," she muttered as she struggled to her feet. "Next you'll be seeing little green men."

She glanced toward the bathroom mirror, then stepped back with a horrified gasp at the man appearing in its shiny reflection. He formed in a haze of grayish smoke, smoke...that didn't exist in her bathroom. This is crazy. People didn't just show up in your bathroom mirror, she reasoned. She was hallucinating, that's what it was--that's what it had to be. The alternative was unacceptable to her.

Nevertheless, instinctively she stepped back, coming up against the tub as the man leapt out of the mirror and over the counter with one leap.

She could hear her heart thundering in her ears. Frantically she rubbed her eyes, but it did no good, for the stranger still stood in front of her, eyeing her with a leering grin on his thin lips.

It was the grin that convinced her that she wasn't imaging it. She shuddered. Not even with her imagination could she dream up a grin so evil--so horrifying. She couldn't catch her breath under his penetrating stare.

He was tall, dark, and handsome, but there was an air about him that brought goosebumps to her flesh. She tried to scramble away, but succeeded only in ramming against the bathtub. Damn, she'd forgotten there was nowhere to run.

She lifted her chin with determination. Dammit, this was her house, her bathroom, and she wouldn't be scared half to death by some intruder. An intruder she still half-suspected was a product of her fevered thoughts.

"Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my bathroom, for God's sake?" She pivoted and looked at him, terror clogging her throat. "I'm calling the police!"

He leaned down and offered her his hand, but she cringed away. He sighed and straightened. "Sorry, dear lady, but I don't have time to chat." He grinned. "Perhaps later we will have more time to get to know one another...shall we say, more intimately."

Shelia gaped as he spun around. He was gone before she could speak. As if he'd actually disappeared into thin air! Impossible. No way.

She waited for her heartbeat to return to normal before she tried to get back on her feet.

What had just happened? A psychotic episode, perhaps? She shook her head. Unacceptable. She was far too sane to freak out so incredibly, or so she had always thought.

Her hands trembled as she swept back her hair. Whatever it was, it was over now. A one-time occurrence, nothing more, nothing less. She looked into the mirror--normal now--just an ordinary mirror. Thank God, she thought.

"You are not losing your mind," she told her reflection. But her voice wavered. Frowning, she tried it again. "This time with a little more conviction, please."

"You are not losing your mind," she repeated. This time her voice was stronger, surer. "That's better," she breathed, turning away from her reflection.

She pulled on her robe and grabbed the towel from the floor, roughly drying her hair as she wandered into the bedroom. With a wry laugh, she realized there was no need. She'd barely had time to bathe, much less time to shampoo her hair.

The thought brought her back to what she had seen; her mind shied away.

God, but she was more rattled than she'd thought. "That's what happens when you write about monsters," she said to the empty room.

She walked to the closet, then froze, her hand on the sliding door. What if he was still here? Perhaps hiding in her closet. The thought made her shiver with dread. No, now she was being silly. The man was nothing but the product of an over-imaginative writer's mind. It was just starting to catch up with her after all this time. If she didn't get out of here and go on vacation, she'd soon be vacationing in the loony bin...

A loud thud came from the bathroom, then a moan of pain.

Shelia froze. Her mind went blank as a tall, blond giant staggered out of the bathroom, holding his head, gripping a necklace with some kind of amber pendant hanging from it. Blood seeped between his fingers, dripping upon the pendant. The man looked down at her, and for just a moment, she felt very small to his over-six-foot height.

"Where did he go? I have to stop him before it's too late."

His husky voice shook Shelia out of her reverie. She fought hard to control her emotions, afraid to even think that again she was seeing a mirage. No. She wasn't crazy. She forced herself to look up at him, trying to hide her fear. "I don't know how he got in my bathroom or where he went...just like I don't know how you did the same. Now, either all of this is in my head or you are only a figment of my imagination, in which case, I'm going insane. On the other hand, you're an intruder and I'm calling 911."

She grabbed the phone by her bed. In a microsecond, he gripped her arm and forced the phone back onto the cradle. Terror invaded her body, numbing her to the bone with icy cold.

Was he going to kill her? What was happening? Dear God, she prayed--let me wake up from this nightmare.

He sat on the bed and pulled her down beside him. "Please...let me try and explain. Then, if you like, you can call the police. Did you see Aldrik come out of your mirror?"

She started to shake her head, but when she looked into his bottle-green eyes, she saw something that made her want to listen...and tell him the truth. "No--yes--I mean, I thought it was my imagination, then you showed up. And you haven't disappeared like the first one and--" She tilted her head. "What did you call him?"

The man sighed. "Aldrik. And my name is Sawyer."

Shelia held out her hand, still not believing all of this, but what the hell. "I'm Shelia. Now before you disappear, can you tell me if I'm losing it? I'd really like to know."

Sawyer touched his head again. "Could you get me a wash cloth to clean up this blood? Then I'll tell you what I know."

Shelia returned a few moments later with a first-aid kit. Immediately, she set to work. "Talk," she demanded as she cleaned the wound on his forehead.

Sawyer winced as the antiseptic touched his skin. "It all started in Peru for me. I study the occult, you see, and was in Peru on a grant, researching some of the local myths in a small village no one knew much about." He winced again as she dabbed on more of the foul-smelling antiseptic. "Anyway, there were rumors of a vampire, terrorizing and literally butchering the villagers in nearby villages. It was only a matter of time before he hit the village where I was staying."

"Stop right there." Shelia finished dressing the wound, then sat next to him. She wasn't crazy--he was! "You're telling me you believe in vampires?" She tried to laugh. "Next you'll be telling me you believe in werewolves, witches, ghosts and--while we are at it--mermaids!" She shook her head in disbelief. "Listen to me, Sawyer. I write about that supernatural gobbledygook, but at least I write it as fiction, because it is." She stood. "Now if you don't mind, I'm calling the police and will let them take you to a really nice hospital with clean sheets and good doctors--"

Sawyer grabbed her hand. "Please hear me out. You don't understand. I watched this monster kill almost every resident in that village, including a priest who was a good friend of mine, and I couldn't stop him. But I have to stop him now!"

Shelia saw the pain in his face and her doubt wavered. Could he be telling the truth? After all, they both had arrived here through means totally unknown to her.

"How did you both get into my bathroom?" An inane question, she knew, but she was too numb to think of anything else to ask to prove he was telling the truth.

"Aldrik has been around for thousands of years. Somewhere alone the way, his powers increased. Maybe he dabbled in the black arts...I don't really know. But he somehow opened up a portal, using this." Sawyer held up the bloodstained, amber-colored amulet. "I was right behind him. He was so intent on the portal, he didn't hear me. I snatched the amulet, but he jumped through the portal too fast for me to stop him."

"So you jumped in after him?"

Sawyer shook his head. "I didn't even think...I just knew I had to somehow stop him from killing more people."

Shelia jerked away her hand. "Idiot! Don't you know he could have killed you? Why would you think you had a chance at killing this Aldrik character?

"I have this." Again, he held up the necklace. "Father Callahan gave it to me to fight Aldrik, but the vampire stole it from my possessions and used it to make his getaway. I can use it to locate and destroy him."

She stopped pacing and gave him an incredulous stare. "Just like that? You're going to walk downtown in small-town USA and this Aldrik guy is going to stand there and let you drive a stake into his heart. I assume that's the way it's done?"

She could hear the irony in her voice, but Jeez!--this man was crazier than she was. Assuming everything was true, it would take more than a mere mortal man to kill that beast.

Oh, God! Now it was making sense to her. And when she looked into his eyes, she knew--he was telling the truth.

Sawyer stared into the most beautiful blue eyes he'd ever seen. He tried not to stare, but he couldn't help himself as he admired her distinctive cheekbones and a mouth too wide to be in vogue. But he had a sudden desire to kiss her very kissable lips.

Yet, her jawline spelled tenacity--meaning trouble. That was enough to bring him back to earth with a thud. Sawyer Walker had no time in his life for a woman--even less for a woman who could only bring him problems. Back off man, he told himself. Here he was, chasing the worst killer known to mankind, and thinking about kissing this beautiful but tenacious woman he had met a few moments ago.

He shook his head and stood, towering over the slim, petite woman. "I have to go."

Shelia crossed her arms in front of her. "And in what direction do you plan to start? Conway isn't a big town, but it's big enough for him to stay out of the path of this amulet thing of yours."

"Doesn't matter," he replied, his voice hoarse with pain. "I'll walk every inch of this town, and the next, and the world, if I have to. I promised I would stop Aldrik, and that's what I intend to do."

Shelia grabbed a sweat suit out of her dresser drawer and a pair of insulated long johns. "You're not going without me, Buster."

Dazed, he looked at her. "You can't go with me! It's too dangerous for a woman."

When he saw her eyes harden and her jaw tighten, he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"What I meant was, this is my fight, not yours."

Sawyer gulped as she angrily threw off her robe and started dressing in front of him. He surmised, because she was frightened of what lay ahead and angry with him, it probably hadn't occurred to her what she was doing. He tried to do the gentlemanly thing and turn away, but his body refused to budge, except for his groin--and that he couldn't control. Her rich, chocolate-brown hair flowed down her slender back, enhancing the beauty of her skin. Her breasts were small but perfect.

Shelia finished dressing and glanced at him, turning a deep shade of red as she obviously realized what she had done. "Oh...I...oh just get out of here! Don't you have work to do before we go? Did you bring any stakes? I didn't see any lying about."

He grinned at her discomfiture. "Hmm...you're right. I'll check what you have in the garage."

"There should be some lumber left from the bookshelves I had made last year." She looked him up and down. "While you're out there, I'll try and find you something warm. It's freezing outside--been snowing for three days."

Shelia came through the hall, dressed in sweats with an insulated coat to protect her from the bluster of the frigid wind outside. Again she wondered if she was dreaming as she watched the stranger come toward her with half a dozen wooden stakes in his arms. She smelled the fresh scent of cut wood and knew it wasn't a dream--but it was still hard to accept as reality--her reality.

Silently, she held out the battered tote bag and black trench coat she had dug out of the back closet. The coat and bag had belonged to her father and she had kept them after his death, comforted by the thought she had something that belonged to him in life.

Sawyer pulled on the coat and stuffed the stakes into the bag. "It's time to go." He stiffened as the lights flickered, then went out.

"Don't worry." Shelia pulled a flashlight out of her coat pocket. "Good thing I thought ahead." With a grim smile, she motioned for him to follow her into the garage.

"Damn."

Sawyer visually breathed the curse in the cold as he saw there was no way they could take Shelia's car anywhere in this weather. Snow had piled up more than a foot deep, way too much for her little red sports car to handle. They would have to wade through the snow to get into town.

Between the snow and the blackout, their vision was reduced to what the flashlight could provide, which was pretty much what was in front of their eyes. It seemed to take forever to trudge a few blocks, but they finally made it to the edge of town. There were no vehicles on the road, except for an idle snowplow, headlights on but seemingly abandoned.

As they started toward the plow, Sawyer knew something wasn't right. "Stop a second..."

He felt a warmth in his coat pocket and instinctively reached for the amulet. Shocked, he almost dropped it. The amulet had transformed into something almost living. It pulsed like a heart and didn't feel like metal at all. As he held it up for a closer look, a bright kaleidoscope of swirling colors--most prominently amber--hurt his eyes. As they neared the snowplow, the lights swirled faster, becoming brighter, if that was possible.

"I thought it was broke?" Sheila asked with a curious stare.

"I thought it was, too, but now it seems to be alive, for some reason. Stunned, he looked at her. "And when I say alive, I mean alive."

As he climbed onto the snowplow's sidestep, he opened the door. A bundled body fell out. Sawyer immediately jumped back to the ground, away from the body. He jumped again when he thought he was being attacked, but was pleasantly surprised to find it was Sheila, clinging to him for protection. She turned away as he inspected the city worker. His throat was ripped out and his head barely attached.

"Aldrik..." Sawyer mumbled as he stood up. "He must have done this."

Sheila finally looked at the corpse, then tucked her head into the crook of his shoulder. "Let's leave now--please."

"Ok...but we've got to find Aldrik and end this."

They made their way to where the road had been cleared.

Sawyer asked, "Do you need to go back--are you all right?"

"I promised myself I would see this to the end, and I'm going to."

He noted the tremble in her voice and admired her courage, despite the fear she must have felt. He took her hand into his and helped her over a drift.

Once again, he felt the warmth of the amulet. Dread rose from his soul. "Oh, no..."

"What is it?" she asked, fear rising in her voice.

He conferred to the amulet. It led him toward a bleak storefront, with a dim glow from within.

Sawyer pointed. "He's either there or had been. We have to check it out. You ready?"

Sheila nodded, her face tense from strain. Sawyer had an overwhelming desire to carry her to safety and forget about vampires and mayhem that surrounded them--a safe place where they could get to know each other better. He sadly shook his head. Later. Right now he had to focus on stopping Aldrik. If they survived...maybe then.

As they approached the door, Sawyer clutched the satchel of stakes. Sheila stood behind him with a stake of her own in her hands.

When he stepped inside the convenience store, he knew it was too late. A pair of emergency lights came on above the entrance. The store was painted with splashes of crimson. They didn't have a chance, he thought. The clerk had been pulled across the counter and torn in two...entrails spilled with the upper torso on the counter and the lower torso was nowhere to be seen. A cop lay on the floor, his pistol drawn. It looked like his hand had been crushed into the pistol, and his torso had been stomped, for a large gaping hole was in his chest. A patron had been tore to ribbons with his down jacket still on. He lay in a heap with blood and feathers covering smashed shelves.

Sawyer tried to hide the sight from Sheila, his voice raspy. "Turn around and get out. Now."

She willingly stepped out. Sawyer followed and saw her hesitate. Sheila turned to him with fear in her eyes. "Are you going to be able to stop him?"

"It seems Aldrik has grown even more angrier than I have seen in Peru...he's become even more brutal. I don't know, but I'm gonna give it my best shot to take down the bastard."

A shrill, anguished sound of terror shot through the stillness.

The time had come. Sawyer knew that in the very depths of his soul.

He grabbed Sheila's hand and pushed his way through the snow until they reached the edge of the Town Square.

He stopped suddenly as he watched people wandering in their nightclothes, as if unaware of the bitter wind blowing about them.

"Come to me, my children..."

Sawyer looked up at the courthouse steps to see the dark-garbed figure of Aldrik, his arm outstretched, urging the people forward. He knew the ancient vampire had grown in strength and was using his power to entrance the townspeople.

"This insanity stops here, Aldrik!" Sawyer shouted. He moved forward with the amulet thrust out in front of him.

Sheila stumbled up behind him.

"Stay back," he whispered to her.

Aldrik smiled thinly; a chill ran down Sawyer's back. He could only hope the incantations the priest had taught him would work.

Sawyer walked toward the steps, muttering the words of the ancient spell while holding the amulet high above his head.

Suddenly, Aldrik was no longer on the steps. A mist had formed directly in front of him. A maniacal laugh echoed through the night, and the mist became Aldrik.

"You are terribly mistaken if you think nonsense words and shoddy baubles are going to defeat me. Nothing can stop me, puny human." With a swipe of his hand, Aldrik slammed Sawyer to the ground.

Sawyer felt the cold snow against his back as the breath left his body. Stars floated in front of his eyes. He struggled to breathe again.

Screams split the air when Sheila fell upon him. "Get up...get up before he kills you."

Why didn't the amulet work? Sawyer wondered, his mind numb with defeat when he watched the vampire lunge down for the kill.

Aldrik, his fangs gleaming in the pale, watery glow of the streetlights, pushed Sheila aside and jerked Sawyer upright. He leered at Sheila. "Be patient, my sweet. I want to relish this kill."

A thousand things rushed through Sawyer's mind, but one thought stood out the most--he failed to protect Sheila and now she was going to die for his mistakes.

"Can I join the party?"

Sawyer hit the ground with a thud as Aldrik dropped him and whirled around to face the stranger who suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Another vampire! Darkness threaded through Sawyer's soul at the thought of these monsters teaming up against mankind.

"What are you doing here, Angel?" Aldrik shouted.

The newcomer laughed, his green eyes glittering with anger--or maybe something else, although Sawyer couldn't identify what exactly. "You know why I am here."

"I'm not going back with you! This is our time! We can defeat these puny humans and take our rightful place as the gods we are. The tribunal consists of nothing but old vampires afraid of their own shadows!"

Sawyer felt a glimmer of hope--the newcomer was an ally.

Sheila tugged at his sleeve. "We need to get out of here."

He tried to move, but all he could do was hold his head in hopes of stopping the world from spinning.

"Aldrik...please come with us. Now." This time it was a female voice. "You know this will mean the end of our race if we are discovered in such a manner. Mankind must continue to believe we are myth. If they discover we are real, they will hunt us down when we are most vulnerable and destroy us all. Don't do this, my love. Let us help you."

Sawyer's head jolted with pain, but he managed to watch a tall blonde appear in the snowy light. She wore mink fur from head to toe and appeared to have walked right out of the pages of a fashion magazine--except there was sadness in her eyes as she glanced at Aldrik. The woman walked over to the mad vampire, careful not to touch any of the mesmerized pedestrians. She stood face-to-face with him as Sawyer pushed himself upright and fell into Sheila's lap. He felt her holding him tight and heard her muttering under her breath.

Aldrik dismissed the beautiful vampire's words with an airy sweep of his hand. He laughed, as if bored. "Oh, Rhiannon, such words of devotion. But you spoil them with your words of fear. You are so afraid of a species that is nothing compared to us. Absurd, to say the least." He shook his head. "I regret that you have chosen to side with Angel and the others on this matter, ill-advised though your decision may be."

She reached out to him. "Aldrik."

"Careful what you do, Rhiannon." Growling hisses formed between words. "I won't let you stop me."

Sawyer's eyes could barely catch the swipe across Rhiannon's shoulder as Aldrik hammered her to the ground and held her there.

"Fade into a mist, dammit, fade--" Sawyer gasped, enraptured by the scene.

Aldrik pinned down her arm with a knee when she tried to escape his hold.

Suddenly, the dark newcomer lifted Aldrik into the air, breaking Aldrik's hold on Rhiannon, and somehow, the spell he had on the townspeople. Obviously confused and disoriented, they watched the heart-stopping scene.

Sawyer also knew the only thing he could do was watch the fight and try to shield Sheila. If he could have joined the fight, he would have. But he shook his head and looked down at his body. The pain in his side told him he had at least a few broken ribs. Anyway, he assured himself, from where he sat, he'd wager the vampire called Angel needed no help from his quarter.

"Rhiannon didn't deserve that--she only wanted to help you. She loves you, although you are nothing but a fool! You deserve eternal torment for jeopardizing our brethren!"

"Aldrik...no, don't kill him...please Angel," Rhiannon cried, panic evident in her voice.

Angel glanced at Rhiannon as he dropped to one knee and snapped the spine of the flailing vampire. Aldrik stopped moving, then moaned, barely audibly, when he rolled onto the snow-covered street.

Rhiannon got to her feet and shook the snow from her clothes. "Thank you for saving me, Angel. We should leave before daylight breaks."

As a mother picks up her baby, Angel picked up Aldrik's limp form, then glanced down the street. Sawyer heard it as well--the telltale scraping sounds of a snowplow heading their way.

Angel stopped and looked at Sawyer. "No one will believe you, my friend..."

The pair of vampires melted into the shadows, their footprints in the snow fading as quickly as they had formed.

Sheila glanced down at Sawyer in her arms, hugging him tightly--her lips touching his. Then she whispered into his ear.

He laughed, pulling her to him as lights of the snowplow appeared.

For now, it was over...

Jewel Dartt has been writing for many years. She has written numerous short stories for the confession magazines, but writing books was her dream.

She has a FILE full of rejections to show she's paid her dues :)

...And now all the hard work is paying off. (In spades, since Jewel's dark romantic fantasy titles, Enemy Mine and Moonlight Legacy, continue to be two hot sellers.)

She loves to write paranormal (yes, vampire, too), fantasy...all intertwined with a splash of romance.

Jewel lives in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains where inspiration abounds. She has three beautiful daughters and a wonderful husband who is the gremlin that helps with e-mail, filing, webpage, revisions etc...

You can visit her home site at: http://www.geocities.com/jkdartt

Can a doctor forget logic and enter a world of the supernatural to save the woman he loves from the darkness of her heritage?

On the night before she is to marry the man of her dreams, Miranda Slate finds out the shocking truth of her heritage. A heritage so dark and terrifying that she calls off the wedding, retreating from the world. For she is the last of her line...a line of werewolves that trace their beginnings back to the dawn of mankind. Miranda is more frightened than she's ever been in her life. She can't turn to the man she loves, for nothing he or anyone else can do will halt the horrifying changes she's going through.

...The kettle hit the floor with a loud clang; water splashed the floor and cabinets. Miranda grasped the edge of the sink and held on, her knuckles bleached white from the strain.

"Oh!" she screamed, bending over in agony as another red-hot knife sliced through her.

Mother of God, what was wrong with her?

She breathed deeply...in...out...willing the pain away.

It didn't work.

The next pain took her to her knees as it twisted its way into her middle and then traveled down her spine. Someone screamed and then screamed again. Could that be her voice making that high keening sound? It sounded more like a wounded animal...not human. Dear God, what was happening to her?

A sea of pain swept Miranda away, yanking her deep into an endless void of reddish haze. She was drowning... drowning in a whirlpool of torment. Slowly, she fought her way back to the surface.

The phone...have to get to the phone call...Hadden...doctor...make the pain go away. Fear like she'd never known before overcame her. Dying...this must be what it's like. No...not like this...worse...

Hadden...Hadden. His name echoed through her mind in a silent scream as she inched her body across the wet, yellow tile toward the wall.

If she could just get to the phone...get to Hadden...everything would be all right. He would make everything all right again. Take away the pain...do something. Dear Jesus...please...

The phone rang out its low, trebling sound. Hope soared as Miranda tried to crawl toward it. Each movement was agony, but she kept going. Perspiration beaded her brow as the pain crested again, and she could smell the acrid scent of fear emanating from her tortured body.

Miranda moaned and bit her bottom lip to keep from screaming; the coppery taste of blood flooded her mouth. Keep going...have to keep going, she thought, trying to distance herself from the pain and the horror.

It didn't work.

When she at last reached the wall where the phone hung she tried to pull herself up.

A wave of nausea flooded over her. Her sunny yellow kitchen dipped alarmingly as she lost her grip and she slid back to the floor. The phone quit ringing, and despair slammed into her at its sudden silence.

With a tiny whimper of defeat, Miranda curled up into a tight ball. She held herself, screaming and letting the pain wash over her. She didn't understand what was happening to her, but she knew she was dying...dying before she'd had a chance to really live.

"Please...somebody help me...Oh God..." she screamed in despair as yet another pain swamped her. Dear God, would it never end?

Something foreign...alien...had taken over her body. Now it was inside, rearranging her organs...her insides...to fit some demented scientist's idea of something not human.

A distant memory dark and foreboding danced on the edge of her awareness. Something primordial...something inhuman. She moaned out loud as she tried to catch the gray wisp of knowledge floating so near, yet it was too far away for her to grasp.

Another stab of pain sent Miranda's mind scurrying into the dark. She had to get away...get away before it drove her mad. The sound of a wolf howling in the distance accompanied her into a void of warmth and darkness.

A place where she could retreat from her body's betrayal and be safe...for now...