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Possessed by an Immortal
Sharon Ashwood


Can she melt the heartof a vampire?After witnessing the murder of her boss, Bree Meadows is on the run with her young son. But danger isn’t far behind and, to make matters worse, her son is in desperate need of medical attention.When vampire Mark Winspear senses a gorgeous female nearby, his first instinct is to attack. Luckily his urge to protect is stronger. Mark has history with the same men who are after Bree – and he’s ready for revenge. As they set off to bring her son to safety, they discover an attraction that might save them both – if they’re lucky.









Yes, Bree was beautiful with her soft hair waving around her face, like the painting of an angel.


Not the Christmas-card type, but the angels from his day, with swords and arrows and smiles that woke the sun and broke armies of war-proud kings. That kind of sweetness remade worlds.

And destroyed vampires like him. Innocents invited tragedy because, well, beasts would be beasts and angels would ultimately suffer. Mark tried to freeze his heart as he strode forward, but the bitter lesson of his memories melted like cobwebs in the wind. Hunger rose in his blood.

The corners of Bree's mouth quirked up in a hesitant greeting. He was struck with yearning to kiss those wide, generous lips. He could tell they were warm, just like every part of her he'd already touched.


SHARON ASHWOOD is a novelist, desk jockey and enthusiast for the weird and spooky. She has an English literature degree but works as a finance geek. Interests include growing her to-be-read pile and playing with the toy graveyard on her desk.

Sharon is the winner of the 2011 RITA


Award for Paranormal Romance. She lives in the Pacific Northwest and is owned by the Demon Lord of Kitty Badness.


Possessed by

An Immortal

Sharon Ashwood






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is for those wonderful readers who have stuck with me through the years. Those e-mails, tweets, posts and visits at my signing table mean more than you know. Hugs to you all.


Contents

Prologue (#udd231dd2-7c9d-5739-ad2c-3f44ddfe5f44)

Chapter 1 (#ufb7a009d-1ea5-5883-8951-88725e0b9cfc)

Chapter 2 (#u7b208d19-0c59-55d0-ba69-c5af7ad7fb3e)

Chapter 3 (#u496f4197-f8fb-5ad0-95b7-1db723e5a127)

Chapter 4 (#u0544795d-fbbe-5a35-afbf-7c8ff2cc9bbb)

Chapter 5 (#u8398934c-cfc8-5f71-a898-b7297e37d9ef)

Chapter 6 (#u1c802dc1-982a-52ad-9484-d00f4bb993a1)

Chapter 7 (#u3d0ab332-e6f2-5112-9145-b7c15debe561)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


If you press me to say why I loved him,

I can say no more than because he was he,

and I was I.

—Michel de Montaigne,

French philosopher, 1533–1592


Chapter 1

Seawater soaked Bree up to the waist. When the rocky shore slammed into her knees, she wasn’t sure if she’d fallen or if the choppy waves had thrown her. Her arms automatically folded around the child sheltered against her chest. Jonathan whimpered, his voice achingly small in the darkness. She scrabbled forward, hauling him with her in a one-armed crawl until she reached a scruff of grass and ferns. It was hard going, half stumbling, half climbing as the shore rose sharply from the beach.

Bree tried to look behind her but from where she knelt, she couldn’t see the man below. For a fat, old, whiskery fishing guide, Bob was strong. And a coward. And cruel.

Curse him! She clung there for a long moment, palms smarting from clambering over the sharp rocks. Vertigo seized her, the tug of the surf still haunting her blood and bones. It’s okay. We made it, at least for now. She cradled Jonathan, trying to give the four-year-old a comfort she didn’t feel.

They’d left the ocean below, but not water. Rain pounded against her back and shoulders, dripping through her hair and down her face to mix with tears and sweat. The only light came from the boat below, where Bob was turning the craft around. She was still panting, still needed to rest, but she couldn’t let the moment pass. Bree stood and wheeled around, instinctively pulling her coat closer around Jonathan.

“You promised to take me to town!” she screamed toward the bright light of the boat. It was a useless protest, but Brianna Meadows had never been the demure, silent type.

“Count yourself lucky!” Bob bellowed back. “I saw you to dry land.”

“They’ll kill us!”

“Better you than me. I’m sorry for your boy, but you’re nothing but trouble.”

“But—”

He said something else, but the words shredded in the rain and wind. The motor roared as the boat picked up speed. It was a small, agile craft a shade too light for the brewing storm. She’d paid him well to get her to the mainland, where she could have found a bus going south. Instead, he’d dumped her ashore at the first hint of danger. Bob was used to tourists in pursuit of salmon. He wasn’t cut out for dodging villains with live ammunition.

Maybe she should have warned him. Maybe she should have gone to the police back at the beginning. But then again, some of them were on the wrong side, weren’t they?

You’re nothing but trouble. The old fishing guide wasn’t the first to say it.

Bree watched the light from the boat shrink to a blurry splotch on the rainy sea. Wind shushed through the massive cedar trees overhead, making her feel tiny. All of her efforts had been spent keeping Jonathan out of the freezing waves. She’d been hot with exertion when she’d crawled ashore, but now the knife-edged wind on her wet clothes made her shudder with cold.

At least Bob had waited for shallow water before he’d forced them out of the boat, but then he’d done it so fast she had no time to fight back. The thought triggered Bree’s fury all over again. How could you leave me here? How could you do this to my baby? She was literally at the end of the earth. The west end, with the Pacific Ocean gnawing at the rocks below.

She licked her lips, tasting salt and rain. She was a city girl. Her survival skills involved flashing a gold card at a five-star hotel. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out.”

Jonathan looked up at her from the shelter of her coat, his eyes dark shadows framed by curls of damp hair. He didn’t speak. He’d stopped talking months ago. It had been a call to a clinic that had given her away and started the chase all over again. Seeking help had clearly been a mistake, but what else could she have done?

Scraping wet hair from her cheeks, she tried to blink the scene into better focus. Bree took Jonathan’s hand and moved under the shelter of the trees, their thick, astringent scent enfolding her. The ground was soft with rotting needles, her feet silent. All she could hear was the drumming of the rain, weirdly amplified by an utter absence of light. Scalp prickling with nerves, Bree made a slow turn, barely able to see her hand in front of her face. She snuggled Jonathan closer, afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep him warm enough. Oh, please, I need a miracle!

No doubt she’d used up her stock of those long ago. Like when she’d escaped her pursuers in the Chicago airport. Or that incident in the Twin Cities. She was probably in miracle overdraft by now.

Except...as her eyes grew used to the gloom, she caught a faint glimmer of yellow light if she shifted a smidgen to her left.

Someone lived in this forsaken wilderness! But her enemies were clever, and she’d been fooled before into thinking she’d found safety. A walk through the woods could save her life, or lead her straight into the monster’s cave. As if sensing her indecision, Jonathan squirmed against her, letting out a weak whimper.

That was the problem with being a mother. Risk didn’t mean the same things when your baby was at stake. Bree would dare anything if it meant Jonathan lived through the night.

* * *

Mark Winspear listened to the sounds outside his cabin, hearing each rustle of branch and bird. The cabin was sparsely furnished, the only light an orange glow spilling from the cast-iron stove. The dark wood walls disappeared into the shadows, giving the impression of a cave. Mark tossed another log into the stove’s maw, watching as crimson sparks swirled. In a moment, fresh yellow flames licked at the wood. He settled back into his threadbare easy chair, letting the worn fabric embrace him.

The scene was domestic, even dull, but it was overdue. Out here, in the back of beyond, he could be what he was: a wild beast and solitary hunter. A vampire. Most of all, he could be alone. After five hundred years plus, he’d become less of a people person.

He willed his shoulders to relax, but his instincts forbade it. Tonight, something was different. His vampire hearing was on alert, the night birds and small furred creatures whispering of something new. An invader. Mark’s fingers gripped the ragged arms of the chair. Who dares to come here?

He rose, gliding to the cupboard beside the stove. He unlocked it using a key he hung around his neck. Inside, he kept a rifle and a pistol—a Browning Hi-Power—and a curved kukri knife. Logic said to take one of the guns, but it would be infinitely more satisfying to hunt as a vampire with fang and hunger, and not with human weapons. Still, there were other hunters who knew exactly how to kill his kind. As a compromise, he picked up the knife and relocked the cupboard.

He did not leave by the front door. Instead, he climbed the narrow staircase to the loft and raised the sash window. Clean, cold air rushed in on a gust of wind. Mark crouched by the sill, listening. He zeroed in on the disturbance within seconds. Footsteps. Human. Coming this way, no doubt drawn by the firelight in the cabin window.

Mark searched the darkness for any sign of movement. Feathery cedars, tall pine and thick fir trees blended their heady scents in the pounding rain. Enemies aplenty hunted him, many of them professionals. Trapping him here at the cabin, when he was alone, was a logical choice.

Whoever came would be the best—or they would be dinner. He worked for the Company, what his friend Faran Kenyon laughingly called an army of supernatural superspies. Kings and presidents called when their own experts failed. Solving kidnappings, thefts, smugglings and every other kind of nefarious plot was the bread-and-butter work of Company agents. Dr. Mark Winspear preferred healing people, but he had other skills that came in handy more often than he cared to admit.

In a single smooth move he was perched on the window frame, and then sprang to a nearby tree. The wet, rough bark scraped his palms as he moved from one tree to another, positioning himself for a view of the intruder. Where the limbs were too soft to bear his weight, he used his vampire abilities to fly silently from trunk to trunk. Branches snagged his hair and shoulders, dripping rivulets of rain down his neck. Mark ignored the discomfort and focused on the ground below.

Territorial instincts triggered a wave of hot anger. These were his hunting grounds. Whoever dared to enter would feel his wrath. He leaped, silent and agile as a cat, barely a branch crackling as he moved.

A rare smile played on Mark’s lips as he caught a whiff of warm blood. Warm female blood. It made his mouth water. Clever, to send a female assassin. No doubt she was a seductress, meant to disarm him. He knew better. Women killed just as easily, sometimes better, than their brothers.

Nice try. After a steady diet of black-tailed deer—well, he was ready for dessert.

Then he saw her, stumbling through the trees. She’d found the deer track that passed for a path and was making good progress, but she didn’t move like someone accustomed to the woods. He leaned a little farther, balancing in the perfect spot to peer between the branches. The hood of her coat was pulled up, so he could tell little outside the fact that she was tall for a woman, around five-nine. No flashlight. Obviously, she was trying to sneak up to the house.

Mark shifted his weight, poised to drop on top of the woman as she passed beneath his tree. Then shock rippled through him as he saw she was leading a small child by the hand. In his surprise, his foot nearly slipped. Who took a kid through the woods on a night like this?

A cougar stole through the brush a dozen yards behind. Adrenaline tightened his muscles. No! One rush and a spring, and the cat would have the child.

Mark dropped between the woman and the cat. His boots landed with a hollow thud on the needle-strewn path. The woman stumbled, letting out a yell of surprise. Mark rose, turning to see both her and the cougar. The cat padded backward a few steps, ears flattening.

A need to protect his domain flashed through Mark. He gave a warning growl, hoping the cat would turn and run. Compact and muscular, this male was nine feet from nose to tail-tip and as heavy as a grown man. Mark suspected it was also every bit as smart.

Except tonight. Instead of running, the cougar bared its fangs in a rattling hiss.

It was too much for the woman. She bolted, dragging the child with her, tripping and crashing as she went. The cat lunged forward, but Mark was there in an instant, crouched in its path. The cougar swiped a huge paw. Mark caught it before the massive claws touched his flesh. The cat strained against his grip, rearing up. Mark grabbed both front legs, struggling against the steel of its muscles and tendons. If he had been human, the cougar would have flayed him in a heartbeat.

With a roar, Mark thrust the cat away, the force of it making the creature slide and skitter into the brush.

“Not tonight,” he said evenly, using a touch of vampire compulsion. “This prey is mine.”

The cougar gave a long, slow blink, ears flat against its head. Mark waited. The moment stretched, the cat lashing the ground with its tail, its emerald eyes sizing Mark up, choosing whether or not to obey. Mark raised the knife, letting the cougar see it. The cougar hissed again, a nightmare of long, ivory fangs.

Go. I don’t want to kill you. The moment stretched, Mark still and silent, every muscle poised to strike.

At last the tension broke. With a disgusted swish of its tail, the cougar wheeled and stalked away, shoulders hunched with displeasure. Mark watched it go, relieved to avoid the fight. Good hunting, brother.

He retreated a step, then two, making sure the cat did not change its mind. At last, Mark turned and sprinted after the woman, dodging roots and low branches. She hadn’t gone far. Mark caught another wafting cloud of warm, human blood-scent, now spiced with extra fear.

She ran, too much like a doe fleeing through the woods. Mark’s instincts to chase and devour sparked and flared, roused by her slender, panicked form.


Chapter 2

Mark grabbed the woman’s shoulder. She gasped, making the sound of someone too scared to scream. He spun her around, her feet slipping on the wet ground. His grip tightened as she started to fall, but she sprang back with another noise of pure terror, pushing the child behind her.

“Stop!” he commanded, putting a snap into the word.

She obeyed, hunched against the rain, face hidden by the hood except for a pale, pointed chin. Her feet were planted wide, as if to launch herself at him if he so much as twitched in the direction of her child. The cougar had nothing on a mother protecting her young.

“Please,” she demanded, voice shaking. She didn’t say what she pleaded for. There was no need. They both knew he could be a threat—he knew exactly how much.

Mark didn’t answer at once, but took the time to study her. She was wearing a tan trench coat with half the forest stuck to its sodden hem. Her boots were sturdy tan leather, scuffed and splotched with mud. The only other feature he could make out was her hands, long fingers ending in short, unpainted nails. Capable hands. They were half curled, ready to lash out.

“Where’s the cat?” Her voice was nearly lost beneath the sound of the rain.

“I scared it off. What are you doing here?” he asked in turn, his voice deceptively soft. She smelled so good, his stomach tightened with desire and hunger.

“What does it matter to you?” she snapped back. “I mean, do you live here? Where’s the road to the nearest town?”

She was trying to sound brave, but he could hear her pulse racing with terror. To a predator, fear meant food. He barely resisted the urge to lick his lips. “You’re trespassing.”

“My bad. It’s kind of dark out.”

“A person doesn’t just take a wrong turn out here. The next house is miles away.”

“We walked up from the beach.”

That puzzled him. “You came by boat?”

“Yes.”

He hadn’t heard a motor, but the pounding rain might have drowned it out. Still, something was very off. She was extremely wet, the skirts of her coat soaked through and stinking of saltwater, as if she’d waded to shore.

The child peered around her legs, his small, white face pinched with cold. Mark felt a stab of anger. “You took your boy for a sail on a night like this?”

The woman’s chin lifted to a stubborn angle. “I made a mistake.”

“I’d say so.”

Mark was growing impatient, rain trickling down his collar. He’d been expecting assassins. He’d never met a professional killer with a child in tow, but such things weren’t impossible. Some would do anything to make a target drop his guard. All that fear he smelled didn’t make her innocent.

He lunged forward and yanked her hood back, wanting to see the woman’s face.

“Hey!” She blinked against the rain, her mouth opening in a startled gasp. It was a nice mouth, wide and soft and giving her features a vulnerable, unconventional beauty. Her face was more long than oval, framed by squiggling tendrils of rain-soaked hair.

“Who are you?” he demanded. She was lovely. Desire rose in a sudden heat, but this time it held more lust than appetite.

“Back off!” She crouched, wrapping her arms around the boy and scooping him onto her hip. The fiercely protective gesture put her body between Mark and the youngster. The swift, selfless courage pulled at his instincts. Whoever this woman was, she was magnificent.

But the child made no more sound than a ghost, and that silence dragged Mark’s attention away from the female. The boy has to be sick or exhausted. He’s cold and wet and it’s dark and his mother is frightened. Most kids would be crying by now. This one hasn’t made a peep.

“I apologize.” Mark frowned, his tone making the statement a lie. “Who are you?”

She backed away. “Bree. Who are you?”

“Mark. Is that your son?”

“Yes.” She shifted uncomfortably, rain trickling down her face. The moment dragged. “Is that your cabin?” she finally asked, her tone torn between need and reluctance. “It’s cold out here.”

Mark bristled, edgy. No one came to his property by accident—it was too far from civilization. Then again, his unexpected guests weren’t going to survive the night without shelter. Kill or protect. Food or willing flesh. Be the vampire, or be the healer. For centuries, the debate had worn on Mark, eventually driving him to his island retreat. He wasn’t a monster when there was no one to kill. He liked it that way. This woman was interrupting his peace.

Still, a good hunter never harmed a mother with fragile young. “Come inside. Your boy needs to get out of the rain.”

“Thank you.” The woman bowed her head, her expression a mix of relief and new worries. She didn’t trust him. Smart woman.

Mark took her elbow, steering her down the path rather than letting her walk behind him. He might be taking pity on the woman, but he still didn’t trust her. After climbing the wooden steps to the cabin and opening the door, he gave Bree a gentle push inside.

After shuffling forward a few steps, she stopped, reminding him of an automaton winding down. Water dripped from her clothes, puddling on the old, dark wood of the floor. She shivered with cold as she let the boy slide from her hip to stand clutching her thigh. He saw the child, at least, was dryer, as if she’d done her best to keep him out of the water.

Mark knelt to stoke the fire in the stove, keeping one eye on his visitor. The cast-iron door squeaked as he opened it, a blast of hot air lifting the hair from his face. Bree drifted closer, lured by the heat. Pressing himself to her side, the boy clung to her hand.

The firelight played on her skin, highlighting the gentle flare of her cheekbones. She unbuttoned her coat with her free hand, then pushed back her long, wet tangle of hair. The gesture was slow, almost listless. Bree was a woman at the limit of her strength.

“The fire feels so good,” she said softly. She lowered the khaki backpack she carried to the floor. It sagged into a damp heap.

Mark studied her, his curiosity every bit as hot as the fire. “How long were you out there?”

“I’m not sure. It felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been that long.”

“Where did you sail from?”

She didn’t reply, but stared into the burning core of the stove. A few wisps of hair were already drying, curling into pale waves.

Mark waited in the silence. He could use vampire power to compel the answer, but he chose to be patient. Something else had drawn his attention. Crouched before the stove, he was level with the boy. The child was good-looking, dark-haired, but thin. Mark caught his gaze just long enough to see a lively intelligence before the brown eyes shied away. Once again, Mark noticed that the boy never spoke. Was he simply afraid? Or was it more than that?

Dark circles ringed the child’s eyes. He was exhausted, thin and probably anemic. Mark had medical training, but any vampire could have diagnosed as much. The boy’s scent was wrong. “Your son is ill.”

Bree pulled the boy a fraction closer. “Jonathan’s just tired.” A look of chagrin flickered across her face, as if she hadn’t meant to give even that much away.

“I’m a doctor,” Mark said. “You’d better let me take a look.”

Bree looked at him sharply, her full lips parting as if to protest, then pressing into a tight line. “No.”

The refusal didn’t surprise him. The protective arm she had curled around the boy’s shoulders said everything, but Mark didn’t give in. “I might be able to help.”

“I’ve taken him to a G.P. already, and they sent me to a specialist.”

“And?”

“They were no help.”

Mark offered a smile. “Whoever they were, I’m better.” Suddenly, illogically, it was important to prove it. It had become a challenge. Beware your pride. It would be easier to just send her on her way.

Her brow furrowed, as if she didn’t know how to reply. As Mark rose to his feet, Bree tilted her head slightly to watch his face. He was half a head taller, so he had to look down into her eyes.

Beneath the scent of woods and ocean, there was the warm, earthy smell of female, sweet as sun-warmed peaches. The cabin, with its shabby chair and dark shadows, seemed slightly shocked by the female presence. Or maybe that was just him. Somewhere in the past few minutes she’d morphed in his mind from food to mother to woman. It had been a long time since he’d thought about a mortal female that way. It was almost a novelty.

“First, let me take your coat,” he said, remembering he had once possessed a gentleman’s manners. He was fine with patients, but now the conversation felt painfully stilted. He never had guests, much less mortal ones. Vampires differed little from humans on the surface, but there were a thousand ways he might betray himself. For instance, it was a sustained effort to remember to breathe when he wasn’t talking.

As if sensing his unease, she clutched the collar of the garment for a moment, but then gave way with a sigh. “Thanks.”

She surrendered the wet trench coat silently, letting go of Jonathan’s hand just long enough to free the sleeve. Mark hung the garment on a peg close enough to the stove that it would dry.

“Come into the kitchen,” he said. “We can find you two something to eat.”

It was a mild deception. As he’d planned, the mention of food caught her attention.

“It’s been a long time since Jonathan had dinner,” she said.

“I’ll take care of that. It’ll be my pleasure.”

Her eyes flicked to his at the last word, imbuing it with extra meaning. Then, she looked away quickly, as if regretting that moment of connection.

Mark smiled to himself. He hadn’t lost his touch after all. “This way.”

Wordlessly, reluctantly, Bree followed him, Jonathan at her heels.

“Can I get you a drink?” he offered.

“I don’t drink.” She bit the words off as if he’d offended her. Fine. Whatever.

Mark turned on the overhead bulbs, washing the room in stark brightness. Bree followed, blinking at the bright light. Suddenly, she was in color. Her face was dusted with golden freckles, her eyes shifting between green and blue. A few strands of hair had dried around her face, morphing into long, tawny ripples. He put her somewhere in her mid-twenties, younger than he’d first thought. Hers was a face meant for summer afternoons.

Mark washed his hands in the chipped enamel sink. Then he bent and lifted Jonathan to sit on the battered wooden table.

“What are you doing?” Bree demanded.

Mark ignored her. The boy inhaled, but didn’t protest. Mark bent to catch the child’s eye again, using a tiny push of compulsion to calm him. “Hello, Jonathan. How old are you?”

“Almost four,” Bree answered on his behalf.

Mark frowned. Now that there was good light, he could see the child’s pallor. “How long has he been sick?”

She looked about to protest, as if to say she’d already refused medical advice, but then surrender washed over her features. “Just after his third birthday, I noticed he couldn’t play for long without getting breathless. Then about five months ago, he stopped talking.”

“Fever?”

“Off and on.”

“What other symptoms?”

“There have been no rashes or anything like that. He’s not in pain that I can tell.”

Now that they’d begun, her voice was brittle with worry. Mark wanted to reach over, brush the curve of her cheek in a gesture of comfort. The blood hunger leaped to life, drawing his eyes down the V-neck of her cotton sweater. He forced his gaze away. “Let’s get these wet clothes off him. They can dry while I do the exam.”

It was a good plan, but doomed to frustration. Mark had brought his doctor’s bag to the cabin, but it was meant for emergencies, not laboratory-level diagnoses. Some of Jonathan’s abdominal organs seemed to be tender, but it was hard to tell when the patient couldn’t speak. He asked many more questions, but Bree’s answers could only help so much.

“He needs tests. The nearest place that does that kind of work is in Redwood. I can arrange it if you want.” Mark watched her carefully. Her gaze lowered, but he could still see her weighing the odds, her son’s health against—what? “Is there a problem with insurance?”

For a moment, she looked as if she was in physical pain. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“How can I help?” The question came instantly to Mark’s lips, surprising him a little.

“You can’t.”

“I can see your son gets the treatment he needs.”

“That’s not your decision.” She sounded almost angry.

Mark’s temper stirred in reply. “Don’t the child’s needs come first?”

She cursed so softly he almost missed it. “I need to think.” She scooped Jonathan into her arms and walked back to the front room, cradling him against her shoulder. The boy’s dark eyes watched Mark from over his mother’s back.

The sudden silence in the kitchen jarred. Mark stared at the litter of doctor’s instruments on the kitchen table and cursed. He was trying to help, but something wasn’t right. Too many questions crowded into his mind, and he had a feeling none of the answers were pleasant. Why involve yourself with their troubles? You were at peace with just the other beasts for company.

But the one human attribute that still plagued him was curiosity. Bree and her son obviously had a story, and he wanted to know what it was. With speed born of long practice, he tidied away his medical equipment. After that he found some cans of tomato soup in the cupboards. He never had visitors, but kept a small stock of human food for emergencies. He probably should have offered food first, but he’d forgotten many of those small courtesies. Such were the hazards of living mostly among his own kind.

Mark returned to the sitting room, about to ask if he could make tea or coffee. Bree was slouched in his chair, Jonathan—now in dry clothes—asleep in the curve of her arm. Mark’s step hitched, caught for a moment by the peaceful tableau. Mother and child. It never got old.

She rose to her feet, a graceful unfolding of her long, slender legs. Mark watched with appreciation until she brought his own Browning pistol into view, aiming straight for his chest.

A lightning glance saw the weapons cupboard standing open. She’d picked the lock. By all the fiery hells! Shock soured to bitterness. “So you are here to kill me.”

“Paranoid much?” He could hear fear in her voice. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need to kill you. I just want your car keys and all your cash.”


Chapter 3

Nerves dried Bree’s mouth to cotton, making her words clumsy. The cold metal of the gun chilled her hand, driving every scrap of the stove’s warmth out of her blood.

The doctor named Mark stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, stark surprise on his handsome face. Disappointment flooded his dark eyes, making Bree’s throat clutch with regret. He didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry. You’re kind, and I’m horrible, but I have to run.

Mind you, this was the guy who’d dropped from the trees Tarzan-style and scared off a cougar. He was six-foot-plus of steely muscle, and she was very glad she had the gun.

His face dropped back into what seemed to be his usual expression—a wary, keep-your-distance frown just shy of an outright scowl. He’d cheered up when he was dealing with Jonathan, but the frown was going full blast right now.

“You’re robbing me?” he said, voice heavy with incredulity.

A flicker of annoyance bolstered her resolve. “Duh. Yeah.”

His upper lip curled with disdain, ruining the line of his perfectly sculpted lips.

Bree gulped, fighting her dry throat. With that face, he could have been a male model. Wavy dark hair, olive skin, perfect nose, dimpled chin. And a doctor. Even her mother would have approved, except—what was he doing out here? Dancing with wolves?

Though gentle with Jonathan, whenever he looked her way Mark was too intense, too raw. He scared her even as he fascinated. And just to complicate matters, she was coming to believe that he really meant to help. But there were always strings attached—strings she couldn’t afford.

Involving anyone else in her headlong flight meant trusting them. Trust meant risk. She would make fewer mistakes if she worked alone, and Jonathan would be safer—and her son’s safety was the bottom line.

The nose of the gun shook. To cover, she pulled the slide back, remembering it was a single-action pistol and she had to chamber a round. She knew the basics, but was no marksman. She frowned, doing her best to look tough.

“Have you done this before?” Mark asked in that silky tone he’d used in the woods. “Is this a new kind of home invasion?”

“Uh-huh.” Her heart pounded so hard her head swam. Behind her, Jonathan stirred anxiously. Her free hand groped behind her, catching his hand. Images flicked past. Bob the fishing guide who’d left her to freeze. The men who’d chased her from New York to these wild islands in the north. Her best friend and employer murdered, the studio where they’d worked burned to the ground. She’d heard Jessica scream that night, the sound coming shrill through the phone. The memory made her stomach roil.

This wasn’t a game. If Bree faltered, she’d be dead and Jonathan right along with her.

Dr. Bedroom Eyes didn’t know any of that. He just looked annoyed and—embarrassed? He’d probably never been threatened with his own gun before.

“You shouldn’t have wasted my professional time,” he said with deceptive coolness. “You should have just robbed me straightaway.”

Anger rose, and Bree’s hand stopped trembling. “I’m not an idiot. I know I need to find proper medical care. I was hoping you could just give Jonathan some medicine.”

“I can’t even diagnose him yet.”

“I thought you said you were better than the other doctors.”

His dark eyes flickered dangerously, sending a chill up her neck. There was menace just below that handsome facade. “I need the proper equipment. For that I need a hospital. You need a hospital.”

What Bree needed was someone—anyone—to understand. “Hospitals need names.”

Comprehension crossed his face. “You’re on the run. You’re in some kind of trouble.”

“You have no idea.” Men with guns. Men who would cheerfully take what she had and kill both her and her boy.

Mark took a step closer.

“Stay where you are!” she warned.

A second later, he was inches away from her, grabbing her gun hand and twisting her facedown against the back of the overstuffed chair. How had he moved so fast?

The edge of the chair back dug into her flesh. His hands were cool and horribly strong. Rough cloth grazed her cheek as her arm was wrenched behind her. The gun slid out of her tingling hand.

“Jonathan!” she wailed. Where had he gone?

With an inarticulate cry, her son threw himself against the doctor, pounding his fists against the man’s legs. Jonathan’s face was twisted with fury, tears streaking his cheeks.

“No!” Bree forgot the pain snaking up her arm.

Jonathan kicked the doctor’s ankle. With a curse, Mark released her, stepping back and removing the clip from the pistol in a single move. Then he ejected the cartridge from the chamber with practiced ease. “Enough!”

Bree fell to her knees and grabbed her son, who was ready to relaunch his attack. “No, baby.”

Jonathan threw his arms around her neck. With a mother’s instinct, she knew he was offering protection and needing comfort at the same time. She closed her eyes, her heart squeezed with dread for whatever was going to happen next.

Her arm and shoulder throbbed. “I’m sorry. Please, please don’t take it out on him.” She looked up at the doctor, putting her soul into her eyes. “Let us go.”

His gaze narrowed, his expression unreadable. “I’m going to ask questions, and you’re going to answer me. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Bree balked, but she had no cards left to play and everything to lose. “Okay.”

She stood, setting Jonathan in the big, stuffed chair. The boy slumped into the cushions, his face still red and wet with tears. She kissed his cheeks dry. Then Bree turned to face the man she’d held at gunpoint moments ago.

“Why are you running?” he asked.

“I witnessed a murder.” It wasn’t the whole answer, but it wasn’t a lie.

“When?”

“A year ago.”

“You’ve been running all that time?”

“And hiding. I was safe for a while, until—”

He interrupted with an impatient gesture of his hand. “A doctor ran your insurance card, and somehow that let the bad guys find you.”

She nodded, and that perfect mouth of his twitched down at the corners.

“I get it.” He paused a moment, and she could almost see thoughts chasing through his head. After drawing a long breath, he thrust the empty gun into his waistband. The gesture was slow and reluctant, as if he wasn’t sure he’d made the right choice. “You’re lucky I came along. That cougar wasn’t going to back off because you asked nicely.”

Frowning, he looked at the clip in his hand. “If you’re on the run, how come you don’t have your own weapon?”

Bree stiffened. He had a point. She could have used something like the Browning when Bob had forced her out of the boat. “I’m doing the best I can, but it’s not easy. I can’t travel with a four-year-old boy and a loaded gun. That’s just bad parenting.”

He didn’t answer, but made a noise that sounded as though he was choking back a laugh. Heat flared across her cheeks.

The doctor closed his fingers over the clip. The gesture mesmerized her. She remembered the hard strength of his hands, and the delicate touch he’d used when examining Jonathan. With unbidden clarity, she imagined them skimming her limbs with the caress of a lover. Desire simmered under her skin, and it shocked her to realize that she wanted that touch with an ache so sharp it stung.

She’d been alone too long.

His voice snapped her back to reality. The menace had gone out of it, but it wasn’t warm. “Why are you here, in these woods?”

“I hired a boat to take me to the mainland. When my ride found out we were being followed, he dumped me on your beach.”

He took a step forward. “Who’s following you?”

Bree suddenly realized she’d brought danger to his door. She’d been so focused on getting Jonathan to shelter, she’d missed that point. “I don’t have names, but they’re bad news. If they catch up with Bob, he won’t play the hero. He’ll sell me for gas money.”

“Knights in shining armor are few and far between.”

She folded her arms. “No kidding.”

He shrugged. His expression was stone, hard and unwelcoming. “Knights were overrated, if you ask me. If you want to protect a treasure, ask a dragon.”

* * *

Mark had spoken without thinking, but the look she gave him was significant. He was the fierce predator, the dragon; her son was the treasure. Even if she didn’t realize it yet, Bree was counting on him to get Jonathan someplace safe.

No. No women and children, not ever again. I’m not that man. Mark recoiled. He understood the primitive instincts of pack and cave. He knew why Bree looked to him for protection. He was three-quarters beast, only a shred of humanity still tying him to the civilized world.

Family would be his nightmare reborn, history mercilessly repeating itself. Sure, he could play doctor, whether it was with one small boy or a country ravaged by flood and fire. But as a medical man, he could come and go at will, getting involved on his own terms.

A family man had no escape from their needs and his failures. I am not your dragon. Still, he had to do something for her, if only to get her out of his cabin—and maybe after centuries of woe and slaughter, he was ready to see someone like her win.

Nevertheless, this would only work if he set limits. He was a vampire, and far, far from a saint. “I’ll take you as far as Redwood. I have hospital privileges there. I can run tests off the grid.”

She stared at him with something like wonder. “Why are you doing this for us?”

“After you threatened to shoot me?” And, as the most ferocious creature in the room, he would just skip past the fact that she’d got the drop on him with his own weapon.

“Well, yeah.” She had the decency to look abashed.

“I’m a doctor. You seem to need help. It’s what we do.”

“You’re very kind.”

“Not so much. Getting to Redwood is the matter of a phone call.” And if she was being followed, it made sense for them all to leave. He folded his arms. “Where did you learn to pick a lock like that?”

“My dad’s liquor cabinet. All it takes is a paper clip.”

He remembered she’d said she didn’t drink—but obviously she had once. “Very resourceful.”

“I have to use what I’ve got.”

Don’t I know it? She was beautiful. He might be a monster, but he was still male, moved by her grace and her courage. Despite himself, Bree’s desperate protectiveness had made him care. A dangerous woman.

“Stay here,” he said, removing the rifle from the cupboard where he had—emphasis on the word had—locked his weapons. He began mounting the stairs to the second floor. “I don’t have any other firearms sitting around, so don’t bother looking for another gun to finish me off.”

“I would never...”

Turning on the staircase, he gave her a look that made the words fade from her lips, reminding her that he was the dragon, not the knight.

Still, the anger between them had eased. Jonathan had grown comfortable—and tired enough—to have fallen fast asleep in the tattered armchair. Mark turned before Bree could see him smile.

Once upstairs, he found his cell phone and the spot by the window that caught a signal. This far out in the country, cell coverage was spotty and he exhaled with relief when the call connected. It was the middle of the night, but in the supernatural community, that was business hours.

“Fred Larson.”

“It’s Mark Winspear.”

“I didn’t expect you to call for weeks yet. You’ve barely been out there a month.”

“Something came up.”

“Business?”

“Yes and no.” It wasn’t Company business, but Larson didn’t need to know.

“Must be serious to call you back to civilization early.”

“My bad nature precedes me.”

“Just a bit. What can I do for you?”

Mark studied the horizon. The rain outside had slowed, now pattering instead of pounding on the roof. Light was already turning the horizon to pearl-gray. Bree’s pursuers were probably lying in wait, biding their time for sunrise to make a search of the island easy. “I need to get into Redwood as soon as possible.”

“Today?”

“I’m talking hours. There will be passengers besides me. A woman and child.”

The ensuing silence vibrated with curiosity, but Larson knew better than to ask. Mark wasn’t just Company, he was one of the Horsemen, a small team of elite operatives. As a doctor, they’d nicknamed him Plague, his two friends War and Famine. Death, ironically, was dead. A pang of sadness caught Mark. He treasured the few friends he had. Losing Death—whose real name had been Jack Anderson—had cut deep.

“I can have the plane in the air at first light,” Larson replied, mercifully breaking into his thoughts.

“Be careful. There’s a good chance we have hostiles in the water nearby.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open and my powder dry.”

“Good. See you then.” Mark thumbed the phone off.

And then winced. First light. By the fiery pit.

Larson worked for the Company, but he was human. Daylight flights were no problem. Vampires could function during sunlight hours, but only under protest. It felt like stumbling around in the blare of a zillion-watt floodlight. Bloody hell.

Mark pocketed his phone and started for the stairs.

A square of white paper lay on the floor. As he stooped to pick it up, he saw it was an envelope. He had obviously passed by it on the way up.

The cabin didn’t have a mailbox, much less delivery straight to his bedroom. He tilted the envelope to the faint light falling through the window. The handwriting read Dr. Mark Winspear.

Curious, he ripped it open and slid out a folded letter. The salutation inside used his real name: to my Lord Marco Farnese.

He sucked in a breath. No one had called him that in hundreds of years. Seeing that name written in modern ballpoint pen gave him an odd sense of dislocation, as if he were neither in the present day nor the past.

He clicked on the bedside lamp, welcoming the puddle of light. The message was only a single line: I haven’t forgotten you.

He flipped the paper over, studying the blank side, then turned the page print-side-up again. He was annoyed more than disturbed. Except...there was a human woman and child downstairs. Whoever came for him would kill them first. They were easy targets.

Just like before. He’d played this game long ago, and lost.

A second thought crowded in. While he had been out playing pat-a-cake with cougars, his enemies had been in his house. Standing over his bed. Territorial rage swept through him, leaving his fingers shaking.

The signature on the letter was a crest, the inky impression of a signet ring used like a rubber stamp. It hadn’t worked very well—the ink had run, making the whole thing look smudged—but Mark could make out the serpent and crossed daggers of the Knights of Vidon. Below the crest were the initials N.F.

Nicholas Ferrel.

Vile memories ripped through him, old but undiminished. He killed my wife. My children. He burned them alive.

Mark had slaughtered Ferrel, Commander General of the Knights of Vidon, back in the fifteenth century. Then he’d torn every Knight he could find flesh from bone.

Mark clenched his teeth. Vengeance had solved nothing. Ferrel’s sons had sworn a vendetta. They’d sworn their service to the vampire-slaying Knights, as had their sons after them. Back then, the Knights were a breed apart, stronger, faster and resistant to a vampire’s hypnotic powers. The Ferrels were the foremost among them.

None had killed Mark, but a good many men, human and vampire, had paid for the feud with their lives. Was this new Nicholas a descendant eager to perpetuate the fight? Why leave a note and not just, say, drop a bomb on the cabin?

Mark glanced at the horizon again, calculating how long it would take the plane to arrive. Two hours at most. He crumpled the letter in his hand.

Assassins had come before, but this time was different. These had been in his bedroom. These had used Ferrel’s name.

And that meant Mark had more than himself to protect. History was repeating itself. There was a woman and a boy, and they were depending on him for their lives.

Bree’s enemies weren’t the only ones he had to fight. Now there were his, too.

Suddenly two hours to dawn was a very long time.


Chapter 4

Dawn clawed its way into the sky. It came stealthily at first, a lighter shade of steel that threw the craggy trees into sharp relief. Then the sky erupted in streaks of crimson and orange, a flame that started low in the forest and slowly climbed as a rising wind shredded the clouds.

To Bree, the light brought little comfort. Jonathan was asleep in the big chair, buried under blankets, but she was too restless to sit still. As the fire in the stove burned down, the circle of heat around them grew steadily smaller, as if the cold, wet forest pushed through the cabin walls.

Mark moved about the small space with quiet efficiency, packing a large nylon knapsack with clothes, books, weapons and a whisper-thin laptop. He wrote a note and left it on the table for someone who was coming in to ready the cabin for winter. He spoke little and checked the window often, a sharp crease between his brows.

“It’s time to go,” he said at last.

His low voice startled her. She turned from staring out at the fiery sky. The light inside seemed a thick, pearly gray—neither day nor night. His scowl was deadly serious. Not the face of a healer, but of something far more dangerous. She prayed he would keep his word. She prayed he was really on her side. If she guessed wrong, it would be Jonathan who suffered.

“Okay.” She pulled on her coat. It was still wet in the folds, but most of it was warm from the stove. “Is it far to the plane?”

“About a ten-minute walk.”

With Jonathan, it would take twice that. The boy was asleep and not ready to be disturbed. She started putting on his shoes. They were cold and damp to the touch, and must have felt awful. He woke up with a noise of protest.

“Sorry, baby,” she said, crouching down before the chair so she could get a better angle.

He jerked his foot back, his lower lip jutting and his eyes resentful.

“C’mon, we’ve got to go.”

Bree reached for his foot again. She was exhausted, with a numbness that came from no sleep all night. She felt as though she were moving underwater.

But her fingers closed on air as Jonathan’s feet disappeared under his bottom like darting fish. As she reached under him, he curled into a ball, drawing the blanket into an impenetrable cocoon.

“Jonathan!” Her voice held an edge she didn’t like.

The wad of boy and blanket shrank tighter. She rested her forehead on the arm of the chair for a moment, summoning patience. Forcing the issue would simply start a struggle that would last half the morning. Her son—oh, bliss—had inherited her stubborn streak.

She changed tactics. “If you’re good and put your shoes on right away, we’ll find waffles for breakfast.”

There was no response.

“With syrup and bacon.” Bree studied the blanket ball for signs of surrender. It was hard to read. “I’ll count to three. If I don’t see your feet, no waffles for you.”

She poked the blanket with a finger. That got her a giggle. Good sign.

“We have to go.” The doctor’s voice was urgent.

“In one minute. I have to get his shoes on.”

“Now.” Mark picked up the boy, blanket and all, as if he weighed no more than a stuffed toy, and braced him against his shoulder. Jonathan made a protesting noise, but not for long. Mark hushed him, one large hand ruffling the boy’s hair. He gave Bree a look made inscrutable by a pair of dark sunglasses. No hint of a smile.

She tried not to notice how well the dark glasses showed off the fine sculpting of his lips and chin. She wasn’t sure she wanted to like him, much less lust after him.

“You bring his shoes and my medical bag,” he commanded.

Bree obeyed, stuffing the shoes in her pack, but every instinct wanted to rip Jonathan out of the doctor’s arms. That was her son. He had interfered. Still, she followed Mark out of the cabin into the damp morning air.

Jonathan seemed perfectly content loafing against the man’s shoulder. That stung, too. She had grown used to being her son’s only protector. Hot, tingling anger crept up her cheeks, barely cooled by the mist.

Mark led the way beneath the trees, moving in a swinging stride that made her trot to keep up. The sun was up now, slanting across the dew-soaked greenery. Where autumn had kissed the leaves, golds and reds shone like scattered jewels. Her temper eased. It was hard to hold on to anger in the face of such beauty, and she was too tired to make the effort.

Easier by far to watch the lithe movement of his body through the forest. It was like watching a panther on one of those nature shows. The play of his muscles against tight denim did something to her insides.

As the path began to angle downward, she heard the distant purr of the plane’s motor beneath the incessant chatter of birds. The sound made her heart lift. On the mainland, they could get a decent meal, a bus to civilization, medical help, a new place to hide. Bree didn’t know what she would do after that, but there would be an after, thanks to that plane.

And thanks to Mark. He stopped at the edge of the trees, Jonathan still propped against his shoulder. He held the boy one-handed, which impressed Bree. Her son was getting far too big for her to do that for long.

She followed Mark’s gaze to the sky, now kissed a fading pink that reflected in the silvery water. Ropes of mist shrouded the end of a wooden pier. This spot was farther south than where she had landed last night.

“Where’s the plane?” she asked.

“There,” Mark said, nodding his head to the southeast.

Bree drew a step closer, suddenly far too aware of being near a good-looking man. It wasn’t just his handsome face that unsettled her. It was the fact of his physical being: tall and broad enough to shelter her from the searching breeze; strong and alert enough to offer protection. And yet—that was a problem in itself. It felt like an ice age since she’d noticed a man, and it felt risky. She’d shut down that part of herself for far too long. How good was her judgment? You’re better off alone. You know that.

And yet, solitude had its own vulnerability. Standing next to Mark reminded her how raw her loneliness had left her. Every kindness left her close to tears. But what if trusting him is a mistake?

She didn’t see the plane at first, but in a moment or two, it emerged above the trees right where he indicated. The stubby body made the craft more of a duck than a swan, but it made a graceful enough landing. It began gliding toward the shore, leaving a glittering wake behind its pontoons.

Bree took a step forward, but Mark grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”

High above, a raven croaked.

“What?” she asked, the sun losing all its warmth.

“Your friends from last night have joined us,” he said quietly. “Or maybe they’re here for me. Either way, they’re not bringing roses. Wait until the plane docks before making a move.”

“How do you know they’re here?” she said under her breath. “How did they know the plane was coming?”

A sudden wave of panic hit her. Did he call them? He was holding Jonathan. Was this a trap? She wanted to grab her son and fade back into the woods, gathering the sheltering green around her the way Jonathan had hidden under the blanket.

For a split second, Mark studied her from behind the dark glasses, somber and silent. As if sensing her uneasiness, he handed her Jonathan. The boy settled on her hip, and the doctor tucked the blanket around him with practiced efficiency. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he’d ever had a child of his own.

Holding Jonathan calmed her instantly. The next moment, Mark had drawn the Browning from under his jacket and was checking to make sure it was loaded. She clutched her son closer, glad that the walk had lulled him back into a doze.

The plane glided closer, turning to one side before the pilot cut the motor and drifted in next to the pier. Bree watched as a tiny arched door opened just behind the wing. A man jumped out, using one pontoon as a stepping stone before hopping onto the pier and grabbing a mooring rope. Using one foot to stop the drift of the seaplane, he anchored the craft securely to the pier.

Mark stepped from the tree line, motioning Bree to stay put. A bullet slammed into the rocks at his feet. Bree gave a startled cry that woke Jonathan. She clutched him, backing into the trees as he started sobbing in her ear.

Mark dropped to one knee, returning fire. He was angling the shot upward and to the right. Whoever was shooting was higher up on the rise. Bree saw the pilot of the floatplane draw a gun, scanning the land behind and above her. Even from this distance, she could tell he was hesitating, not sure what to do.

Bree’s heart sped, suddenly thumping double time. A jumble of thoughts raced through her brain, most of them focused on the open stretch of beach between her and the plane. How was she going to get Jonathan across without both of them getting killed? How did the gunmen know we’d be right here?

Another shot came from Bree’s left. The pilot fumbled with the gun a moment and finally returned fire.

Bullets were coming from the right and left. Two shooters! Bree’s breath stopped. She was no strategist, but to her it looked like the gunmen had them caught between pincers. And even if they got across the beach, a stray bullet in the plane’s fuel tank could cause an explosion.

Jonathan’s sobs were escalating to a hoarse, breathy wail. Bree cursed herself. He was frightened by the noise, but even more by her terror. She had to calm down. She took a gulp of air, forcing herself to breathe.

Mark wheeled. “When I start firing again, run for the plane.”

“Are you crazy?” Her voice was high and thin, choked with panic.

“Larson and I will keep them busy.”

“But—”

His mouth was a grim line. “It’s your one chance. Now, go!”

He started firing a deadly, insistent barrage of bullets. Blam! Blam! Blam! She understood what he meant by keeping the enemy busy. They’d either be ducking or aiming at him—and too busy to worry about her.

“Go!” he repeated, his voice on the edge of a snarl.

She ran, covering as much of Jonathan with her body as she could. It felt like a crazy game show, or a terrible episode from some thriller movie. It just didn’t seem real. Her. Bree. Bullets. She tried to pretend she was just running for the bus. It was about the right distance, half a long city block, maybe.

A bullet whizzed by her ear. She stumbled, Jonathan’s weight dragging her down. Somehow she got her feet under her and kept moving. Go, go, go! If she thought about what she was doing, she’d be too terrified to move. Only a few yards now.

Larson went down with a scream. Blood bloomed on his leg, staining his khaki pant leg crimson. Jonathan was wailing in her ear, a steady tearing sound that made her want to scream herself, to snarl at him to just shut up so she could think. She was so terrified, her breath was coming in wheezing gasps because her body was too tight to function.

Her feet hit the wooden pier, the pounding echo of her footfalls adding to the din. A black haze was clouding the edges of her vision, but whether it was fear or lack of oxygen was hard to tell. Another bullet skimmed her elbow, a lick of heat telling her it had grazed her skin.

She stumbled up to the plane. The pilot was on the pier, one hand pressing on his wound, the other still holding his gun. She crouched next to him.

“Get inside,” he ordered. “Fast.”

Bree looked for stairs, or a ladder, and then remembered he’d used the pontoon. A strip of ocean gaped between the plane and the pier, wavelets making the pontoon a moving foothold. She might be able to climb over the watery gap, but not her son. Fresh panic engulfed her.

“Go!” Larson barked, then let off another volley of shots.

“I’ll go first.” Mark was suddenly behind her.

Bree jumped as he touched her, her nerves wound too tight for surprises. But she was insanely glad he was there and in one piece. He jumped onto the pontoon, his movements quick and sure. Then he grabbed the handhold by the door and made the long step inside without hesitation. He turned. “Pass me the boy.”

Apprehensive, Bree rose from her crouch, still cradling her son. The pier was only a few feet from the edge of the plane, but it seemed miles. She put one foot on the bobbing pontoon and angled her body to shorten the distance between Jonathan and Mark’s outstretched arms. Her son protested, digging his fingers into the cloth of her coat and catching a handful of her hair into the bargain.

A bullet rammed into the plane, inches from Mark’s head. She jerked in fear, but he had Jonathan firmly in his hands. For a moment, she thought everything would be fine.

And then her foot slipped off the pontoon. Bree’s hands clawed for the handgrip, the edge of the door, anything, but she was falling. Another bullet smacked into the plane, just above her groping hand. Her knee hit something, and she was deafened by a loud, shrieking sound.

Her shoulder jerked in its socket, stopping her in middrop. The noise stopped, and she realized it had been her. As her mind cleared, she realized Mark had caught her under the armpit and was keeping her out of the water with the strength of one hand. Frantically, her feet scrabbled to find the pontoon again. Then, with both hands, Mark lifted her through the door.

“Are you all right?” The words were brusque.

“Yes,” she answered automatically. She didn’t actually know yet, but he was out the door again before she could reply.

She shoved the pain aside. She could still use her arm, so her own injuries were the least of their problems. The shooters were finding the plane a much easier target than humans running around the beach. It was only a matter of time before they hit something important.

There were four seats behind the cockpit, two rows of two, and some space for cargo. She put Jonathan in one of the seats and helped Mark pull the pilot inside. Larson was white-faced and sweating, letting out a steady stream of profanity as the doctor heaved him through the door.

“Lay him down,” Mark ordered as he left the plane one last time so he could release the mooring lines.

Bree helped the man to the floor behind the seats. Mark hopped in behind him and went to the controls, pausing only long enough to fasten a seat belt around Jonathan.

“Can you fly this thing?” Bree asked anxiously. Obviously, Larson wasn’t going to get them out of there.

“Yes,” he answered, starting the engines. “There’s a first aid kit in the back. Do you know any first aid?”

“I do.” She’d taken a course when she first found out she was going to have a baby. She’d been so determined to be a better parent than hers had ever been.

“Apply pressure to the wound. Elevate the leg. It didn’t hit an artery, so you should be able to hold him until we reach Redwood.”

“How long?” Bree asked, but the sound of the motors drowned out her question. Another bullet pinged against the side of the plane.

“Don’t worry,” Larson said, wincing as he shifted on the floor.

“Don’t try to talk.” Bree was hunting for the first aid kit, trying to ignore the rattling vibration as the tiny aircraft taxied toward open water. She’d been left in charge of a bleeding man, and her hands were shaking and sweaty. Don’t you dare die on my watch!

Mark was a doctor. It should have been him doing the first aid, but she couldn’t fly the plane. Irrationally, she scolded herself for never taking pilot lessons. If they got out of there in one piece, that was going to be high on her to-do list.

The waves bumped under the pontoons. The plane felt to her like a toy powered by a rubber band. Her stomach began protesting against the motion.

Finally, Bree spotted the familiar red cross painted on a white tin box. She pulled it out from under the right-hand seat. “You’ll be okay,” she said a little too heartily. “I promise.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine.” He winked, as if to give her courage. It would have worked better if he hadn’t been as pale as death.

He had a nice face and sandy-brown hair. She knew the type—a little past his prime, a little overweight and a lot of good, kind heart. He looked as if he would have been happy sitting in a bar telling fishing stories to his buddies.

“You don’t need to worry about the plane, either,” he added. “It’s got the best lightweight bulletproofing money can buy.”

Bree’s hands stalled partway through unlatching the lid of the first aid kit. The plane didn’t look like anything special. Neither did Larson. Bulletproofing? What was he, a smuggler? That would explain why he seemed to be a pretty good shot once he finally decided to start shooting.

“I don’t want to know,” she replied, digging through the kit for scissors. She found some with rounded tips, made for cutting away clothing, and bent to slice through his blood-soaked pant leg. “I just want to get out of here with everyone alive.”

“I can get behind that.” He winced as she worked around his wound.

“At least they didn’t seem to be very good shots.”

“Don’t underestimate how hard it is to shoot a moving target in a stiff wind. They got me and they clipped you from a good distance. That’s better than you think.”

Bree didn’t want to think. She peeled away the cloth from his wound, exposing the bloody mess the bullet had made of his thigh. Stomach rolling, she turned away, searching in the kit for sterile pads. She wasn’t normally squeamish, but this was worse than anything she’d ever seen. Sweat trickled down her back.

She found a sterile pad and ripped open the pack. “I’m sorry if this hurts.”

“I’ve had worse.” Still, he sucked in his breath as she pressed down on his wound. He pushed her hand out of the way, and then pressed down twice as hard himself. It was a necessary evil. They had to stop the bleeding. Bree found a triangular bandage and tied the pad in place, knotting it tight but not so tight that the circulation would stop completely.

“Is there water on board?” she asked. “You need fluids.”

“Cockpit,” he ground out. “If you find anything stronger, bring that.”

Just then, Bree felt the plane lift from the water, a lurch as if she had leaped into the air herself. She grabbed the back of the seat, casting a glance at Jonathan. He was fine, his nose pressed to a tiny window. A typical boy, in love with anything that had a motor. She hoped he had no sense of just how much danger they’d been in.

Rising carefully, she shuffled forward between the seats. Mark was completely focused on the instrument panel and the scene below. That awareness of his presence rose again, and she made herself look out the cockpit window and not at him. Focus on what’s ahead of you. Don’t get distracted.

The view out the cockpit stopped her in her tracks. The scenery was breathtaking, a cluster of pine-covered islands scattered over silver-spangled ocean. The warmth of the sun through the glass touched her face, making her realize her skin was itchy with the salt of tears.

She raised her hand to wipe them away, but it was crusted with blood. Swallowing hard, Bree wiped it on her pant leg, which was already smeared, and then bent to scrounge around the floor for bottled water.

“How is he?” Mark demanded. Beneath his sunglasses, he looked even paler than Larson. Deathly pale. “I smell a lot of blood.”

Bree wrinkled her nose. She could smell it, too, but not enough to gauge quantity. Maybe that was a doctor thing. “Working on it. I’m looking for water.”

“Behind the copilot’s seat.” He caught her arm, reminding her that her shoulder was sore. “That’s your blood I can smell. Your elbow. It’s fresh.”

The way he said it sent a shiver through her, despite the warm sun streaming through the windows. She twisted to look, and vaguely remembered the bullet grazing her. Her sweater sleeve was soaked, but after Larson’s wound, it seemed trivial. “That’s nothing.”

“I’ll look at it when we land.” He turned back to the controls, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were fighting to concentrate on one thing at a time. He must have been tired, too.

She moved to get the water and then paused, aching to satisfy her curiosity. “How did you know those men were on the beach?”

He didn’t answer right away, but finally relented when she didn’t move. “Better to ask how they knew we were coming.”

“I’d settle for that.” The answer was simple, no big surprise. Someone had betrayed her. Someone always did. That’s why she worked alone. The moment she didn’t...

“There was only one other person who knew I was leaving the island,” Mark said.

Bree turned to the back, where Larson lay. The man had been shot. The man had kind eyes, and up until that moment, she would have sworn Mark had trusted him. “So much for friends.”

The doctor stared out the cockpit window, not saying a word.


Chapter 5

Late that night, Mark stormed into the office he shared with two other part-time physicians at Redwood General Hospital. He slammed the door behind him, beyond frustrated. Larson wasn’t talking.

At first, it had been understandable because he was unconscious. The wound was serious, but Mark had tended to it and thankfully Larson would recover.

But once Larson was awake, he hadn’t talked because he was afraid. Someone had threatened his grandchildren. Someone he feared more than Mark—and that was saying something.

The phone rang. Mark snatched it up. “What?”

There was a beat of silence. “I see someone had their grumpy pills today.”

It was Faran Kenyon, werewolf and fellow member of the Horsemen.

“What?” Mark snapped again. He wasn’t in the mood for Kenyon’s antics. His skin itched like the devil. He’d been exposed to too much sun on the plane and now he looked pink. He’d already used half a tube of medicated cream and smelled like the victim of a bad diaper rash.

And the scent of blood on the plane had gotten to him badly. As a doctor, he was used to it, but Bree had been bleeding. The blood of strangers was one thing. The blood of a woman who had caught his notice was something else. Dangerous. Tantalizing.

“Next time you send a top-secret report to the captain, blind copy me,” Kenyon said, breaking through his thoughts. “Otherwise, all I get are bits and scraps. I heard about the damsel in distress showing up and you deciding to get her and a sick rug rat to town, but why the shoot-out in the bush?”

“I was tracked. I found a letter inside my cabin.”

“Who from? The health department?”

“The Knights of Vidon.”

Kenyon swore.

“Indeed,” Mark said with wry humor. “Vampire slayers apparently take no vacations. Therefore, I don’t get one, either. Unfortunately, the letter was from one of my longtime fans. It was a surprise. I haven’t heard from that family for a very long time.”

“Who?”

“Nicholas Ferrel. I knew the taste of his ancestor.”

“Creepy. How long ago was that?”

Mark sat down at the desk, and was greeted with stacks of files plastered with sticky notes. Sign this form. Initial that one. Complete another mountain of logs and charts. He shoved them aside with a sweep of his arm. “Five hundred thirty years, give or take.”

“And his descendant still holds a grudge? What in blazes did you do?”

“It was a different era. Listen, I’m sending some blood samples by courier. I’ve addressed them to you, but would you send them over to the lab when they arrive?”

“Sure. Anything I should know?”

“They’re for the boy. There’s something about his case that worries me. Redwood is just a small regional hospital. I want the Varney labs on it.”

The Varney Center in Los Angeles was the West Coast hub of the Company and the North American headquarters for the Horsemen. As well as the usual mountains of data intelligence, spy toys and black ops coffeemakers, it had an exceptional medical facility. There were few things that made Mark go weak in the knees, but those labs counted. The fact that he got to work there was one of the main reasons he had joined the Horsemen.

“Not to sound like the trolls in accounting, but he’s a human, right? Should we be using our resources for this?”

“Do I ever ask for favors?” He knew very well that the answer was negative.

Kenyon sighed. “Dare I ask why now?”

“The woman has insurance issues. If there’s a hassle, tell them to take it out of my pay.”

Kenyon was quiet for a moment. “If you’re that involved—”

“I’m not involved,” he said quickly. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong, and that frustrates me. I became a doctor for this kind of science.” Not to mention atonement for all the lives he’d taken.

Kenyon’s voice was cautious. “The boy’s really sick, isn’t he?”

“Maybe. Probably.” Closer examination had confirmed his earlier fears. Whatever was wrong was chronic and debilitating—almost certainly something in his blood. He could smell it. “But I don’t want to say anything until I’m absolutely certain. I don’t want to put his mother through any false alarms.”

He swiveled the chair around so that he could look out the window. All he got was a view of the parking lot, growing dim in the fading light. Besides sending a brief report to L.A., he’d spent hours treating Larson, then more time testing Jonathan and looking in on some other patients he had in long-term care. He’d lost track of time, and now the clock said it was after six in the evening.

A whole day back in the human world. He already missed the green of his island retreat, where he didn’t have to fight to wear a civilized mask. Where choices were easy.

“I have bad news,” Kenyon said. “You don’t get to hang around up there playing Dr. McGrumpy. The boss wants you in L.A.”

“Now?”

“Right now. He’s sending a plane to pick up Larson. Raphael got the copy of your statement.”

The boss. Raphael. “His timing is inconvenient.”

“Sorry. He wants you on the plane. He’s scooping up Larson’s family, bringing the whole lot of them in so that they’ll be safe. Then he’s going to question Larson again. He wants you present for that.”

We’ll see. Mark had never liked having his leash yanked, and thoroughly resented it now. “Then I need you to do one more thing. I want an ID on this woman. Her name is Bree. The boy’s name is Jonathan. He’s almost four years old.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t have one. I suppose Bree is short for something.”

“Uh-huh. Date of birth? Place of birth? Maybe a Swedish accent to give us a clue?”

Mark considered. “I’d say Californian.”

“Californians don’t have an accent.”

“They do if you’re Italian.” California hadn’t even been discovered when he was born in 1452. By the time Columbus sailed for the New World forty years later, Marco Farnese had been Undead for a decade. “Parlo la lingua del canto e della seduzione.” I speak the language of song and seduction.

Kenyon gave a short, dry laugh. “Right. Like I’d call you for phone sex. There’s something sad about an Italian vampire. All that great garlicky cuisine going to waste.”

Mark grunted. “Call me when you find something.”

“When is optimistic. Stick to if.”

“Nonsense. You’re a bloodhound.”

“I’m a werewolf. Hear me howl in dismay.”

Mark swiveled back to the desk and hung up the phone without saying goodbye. His mind was already racing ahead to what Kenyon might find out, and how that would connect with any of the other puzzle pieces.

Larson’s refusal to say who had frightened him so badly was a problem. Mark’s enemies had been close by—close enough to play mailman.

And why had Ferrel resurfaced now, after so many years? After generations? Mark had let down his guard enough to take a position at a hospital filled with vulnerable patients. If the Knights of Vidon found him on the island, how long would it be before they showed up here?

And that was only half his problem. There was Bree and the boy, with their own set of gun-toting maniacs. Whose enemies had been the ones shooting at them? His or hers?

Mark swore softly. Even if he was being summoned to Los Angeles, Mark had a responsibility to the boy and his mother. He couldn’t just dump them and go. At the very least, he had to get the boy into adequate care.

That didn’t mean he was involved with them in the warm-and-fuzzy sense. It was just that there were some occasions when he had to be a doctor first, and a vampire later.

Mark pushed back from the desk, trying not to see the paperwork glaring up at him. So much for a paperless world, where everything was digital. He swore every time he looked at the stack of files it was bigger. Worse, it didn’t care if he was a supernatural being of immense power. Growling never made bureaucracy run away.

He left the office, closing the door behind him. The corridor was narrow, painted the usual nondescript hospital-beige. A nurse in scrubs hurried by, giving him a nod and the professional half smile of someone with too much to do. He nodded back, then strode toward the ward where he’d left Bree and her son.

Like everything at Redwood General, the pediatrics area was small, but the staff made the most of it. It was the one place with bright colors. Mark found the kids’ TV room, where Bree waited with Jonathan. A swarm of cardboard bees covered the walls, smiling down at the tiny patients. Jonathan was playing on a giant red sea monster that doubled as a slide. Skinny arms flung wide, he scooted down the curve of it as Mark walked in.

It always fascinated Mark how even the sickest children still had the impulse to play, but healthy adults quickly forgot how.

They were the only ones in the room, and Mark saw Bree before she saw him. She was hunched over, her chin propped in her hands, watching a cartoon with the dull expression of the exhausted. Nevertheless, she’d angled her body so that she could still see her son. That vigilance of hers never, ever slipped.

As if she could sense his presence, she raised her head. She was disheveled, her eyes bruised with shock and fatigue. He’d bought a different jacket for her from the gift shop because her trench coat had been bloody. This one was ice-cream-pink and fuzzy—not something he guessed was her usual style—but it was all the store had. She’d pulled another pair of jeans from her backpack, and this pair had threadbare knees. The woman had nothing but the clothes on her back, and they were in sorry shape. And yet, she was lovely.

As their eyes met, hers widened, expectant. Mark’s chest squeezed, a half-forgotten feeling waking inside. It had been so long since someone had waited for him. It was something he’d never take for granted—to walk out of a room, and have it matter to someone if he ever walked back in. He’d lost the right to expect that from anyone long ago.

Yes, she was beautiful with her soft hair waving around her face, like a painting of an angel. Not the Christmas-card type, but the angels from his day, with swords and arrows and smiles that woke the sun and broke armies of war-proud kings. That kind of sweetness remade worlds.

And destroyed vampires like him. Innocents invited tragedy because, well, beasts would be beasts and angels would ultimately suffer. Mark tried to freeze his heart as he strode forward, but the bitter lesson of his memories melted like cobwebs in the wind. Hunger rose in his blood.

The corners of Bree’s mouth quirked up in a hesitant greeting. He was struck with yearning to kiss those wide, generous lips. He could tell they were warm, just like every part of her he’d already touched.

He squashed that thought before it took flight. A kiss would only end in complications. Neither of them needed that, especially when he might have to tell her she was going to lose her precious son. Please, no.

“Bree,” he said softly, sitting next to her in the row of molded plastic chairs.

“Mark.” Her hands twisted, fingers lacing and unlacing. “Or should I call you Doctor here?”

“Mark is fine.” He reached over, stilling her hands. The bones felt delicate beneath his fingers. “I’ll be honest. I still don’t have a diagnosis for you, but I’ve sent some blood samples to an excellent laboratory in Los Angeles. They’ll run whatever tests I ask for and not ask any questions.”

Her eyebrows lifted, expressing skepticism and hope in one gesture. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s a start. Depending on what those tell us, there are some other things we will probably want to do—we just don’t know yet.”

Her eyes clouded and she pulled her hands away. “We can’t stay here. Those men who were following me—they’ll check hospitals.”

Again, Mark wondered if they’d been shooting at him or at her. “Who are they?”

She looked down. “Like I said, I don’t have names. I’m really sorry you got caught up in this. You’re kind. You don’t deserve it.”

“You said you witnessed a murder.”

She shifted in the chair. “You don’t understand how powerful they are.”

You don’t understand how powerful I am. “Tell me.”

She bent her head, avoiding his eyes. “It’s been like this all along, from one coast to the other. And there have been close calls. Jonathan and I got cornered in the Chicago airport. They stuck both of us with needles full of some sort of sleeping drug. The only thing that saved us was that they got the dosage wrong. They didn’t give me enough. I woke up in the back of a van and managed to get out with Jonathan. I was so scared.” She covered her face with her hands. “He didn’t wake up for ages. I started to wonder if he would.”

Fury washed through him in a hot tide, followed by hard suspicion. Why drug Bree and Jonathan and not just kill them?

Her expression was bitter. “They’re getting closer every time they strike. One day we won’t get away.”

“You need a bigger city.”

“Maybe.” She looked away. “I’ve been through most of them.”

“I could take you to Los Angeles.”

She shuddered slightly. “No, I— No. Not Los Angeles.”

Clearly, something bad had happened there. “Seattle?”

She chewed her lip. “Maybe. For a while.”

The implication being that it wouldn’t work indefinitely. No hiding place would. What does she have—or know—that someone wants so desperately?

“I’ll take you there,” he said, almost before he had made a conscious decision. “I need to catch a plane, anyway. I can do it from there.” He’d just miss the one Raphael was sending for him and Larson. Oh well.

“You’re going away? And here I was getting used to personal service.” Her tone was careless, but a lift in her voice betrayed a hint of dismay. Then she laughed, shaking her head as if to clear away unwelcome thoughts. “No, I travel alone.”

“So do I.” He gave a slight smile. “But it’s just to Seattle. A couple hours, then I’m on a plane and out of your life. I can leave you a contact number so you can call me to get the results of the tests. No matter what, I’m still your son’s doctor.”

She was silent.

“Are you okay with that?” Mark asked. “Am I being too pushy?”

“Of course you’re not. I’m sorry. I’m not really this antisocial,” she said, flushing.

“But the men with guns totally ruin cocktail hour. I get it. Take the ride, no strings attached.”

“You’re a kind man.” She lowered her eyes. “Okay.”

Then she looked up from under her lashes. Her gaze caught his, holding it while his gut squeezed with guilt. Fiery hells, she’s beautiful. And she had no idea what he was. She was running away from one kind of killer and accepting help from another.

And right when Nicholas Ferrel was back in the picture. It was like Mark’s nightmare was unfolding again, and he was helpless to stop it.

Well, he’d get her settled in Seattle, and that would be it. There were other agents there who’d keep an eye on her if he asked. This didn’t need to be complicated. It couldn’t be.

Just then, Jonathan ran over, flopping into his mother’s knees with a giggle. Bree laughed, too, her waves of honey-gold hair swinging with her as she scooped her son into her lap. The sound eased the tension in Mark’s gut. If she could still laugh and Jonathan could still play, there was hope for them.

His cell phone rang. Mark rose, walking out of the playroom to get away from all that domestic bliss. He thumbed it to life. “Winspear.”

“Hey.” It was Kenyon.

“You have something?”

“I’ve just gotten started, but before I go any further, I have a photo for you to look at. Is this your girl?”

Mark’s phone pinged. He tapped the photo and it filled the screen. He felt his eyes going wide. It was Bree, but looking very different. Her hair was the same, but she wore a lot of makeup and a very tiny sequined dress. He was tempted to head back to the playroom for a detailed comparison of all that smooth, white flesh. What would she feel like, warm and alive, half-naked and in his hands? He felt his fangs descending, his mouth suddenly filled with saliva.

He sucked in a deep breath, crushing those thoughts. “Yes, that’s her.”

“Holy hair balls,” Kenyon groaned.

“Why?”

“You pick ’em, Winspear.”

“I don’t pick anyone. What are you talking about?”

“If there’s a train wreck within a million miles, you’ll put yourself on the scene.”

“Stop talking and say something,” Mark growled in icy tones. “Who is Bree?”

“Brianna Meadows. Daughter of Hank, also known as Henry Meadows of Henry Meadows Films.”

Mark knew the man’s work. Gorgeous sets, huge budgets, historical epics of doomed courage and noble sacrifice. Genius stuff, if you liked that sort of thing. Having lived the real deal, Mark didn’t.

“And of course that’s only the half of it.”

Mark waited through a beat of silence. “Which means what?”

“Don’t you ever watch Gossip Quest TV News Magazine? She’s the ex-mistress of Crown Prince Kyle of Vidon. That kid of hers is rumored to be his illegitimate son. She’s unofficially on the Vidonese most-wanted list.”


Chapter 6

Vampires were not made for road trips.

The red Lexus IS F Sport luxury sedan had specially tinted windows to block the sun, climate control, a V-8 engine that did zero to sixty miles in five seconds and a sound system calibrated to please extrasensitive hearing, but it was still a metal box on wheels. Mark needed to be outside, with the wind and sky. Free. Alone. He’d lost a good deal of patience along with his humanity, and what remained had been whittled away by the centuries that followed his Turning.

Speed was his only consolation, and the 416 horsepower motor of the Lexus was begging to give it. Except there were humans in the car, too fragile to risk on the twisting roads. Bree was dozing in the passenger seat next to him. Jonathan, wide-awake but silent in the back, clutched a stuffed duck.

Mark hadn’t let on how much he knew, or that he was taking them straight to the Company safe house in Seattle, where they could be protected. Explaining about the Company without revealing the existence of the supernatural was a delicate business, and he wanted the right environment to do it. Bree had to be convinced the safe house, with its guns and rules and guards, wasn’t a jail. If he got it wrong, she might bolt at the first gas station they stopped at, her ailing child in tow.

Mark cast a glance in the rearview mirror. The booster seat—pilfered out of the hospital lost and found—brought Jonathan just into view. The child met his eyes in the mirror. Mark was struck again by the watchful intelligence in that gaze. The kid didn’t miss a thing.

He tried to see Prince Kyle in the boy’s face. The dark hair and brown eyes were similar, but that was inconclusive. Maybe the shape of the eyes was the same, or the way his hair fell across his face, but he didn’t exactly have a poster of the Crown Prince of Vidon taped to his locker door. He couldn’t remember every feature.

Mark made himself smile at the boy and turned his attention back to the road. The sun was up but it was still early, the world fresh and tipped by frost. The rolling land was a rumpled blanket of evergreens patched with gold. The sky was a rich autumn-blue. It was going to be one of those fall days that seemed a parting gift from summer—and all that sun was giving him a splitting headache.

Mark had used the night to get Larson ready for his flight to Los Angeles and to attend to the files on his desk. Larson would be fine—at least from the bullet wound—but the hospital administration might perish from shock when they saw the completed paperwork the next morning.

The wait had served two other purposes. It gave Bree and Jonathan a real night’s sleep, and surveillance teams were less likely to see them leave during the morning shift change. Mark had remained on the alert, but had seen nothing suspicious. If their pursuers were watching the hospital, hopefully they’d given them the slip.

Bree opened her eyes, stifling a yawn. She was still pale with fatigue, the freckles across her nose standing out. “Where are we?”

“We just passed through Sequim.” He focused his attention on the ribbon of highway, ignoring her soft, female smell. Or trying to. He was getting horny and hungry, and wasn’t sure which impulse was in the lead.

She turned around in her seat, checking on her son. “We should find a drive-through for breakfast.”

The scent of woman was one thing. Tantalizing, dangerous, but good. Mark imagined the stench of human food trapped inside the car, and nearly shuddered. “No.”

“Kids need to eat.”

“Kids are sticky.”

“He’ll be hungry.”

“I’m the driver.”

Bree gave him a sharp glance that reproached him and acknowledged his position of power at the same time. “Fine. It’s your car.”

It was. With a dove-gray leather interior. And she’d managed to make him, a centuries-old monster, feel bad about it. He winced. “We can stop at the Gleeford Ferry. There’s better food in town than just drive-through.”

She sank back, turning her face to the side window until all he could see was her long, waving hair. Even it looked disgruntled. “This road we’re on is barely a highway. Wouldn’t it be faster to pick up the I-5?”

“Someone put Puget Sound in the way.”

She made a small noise of impatience. “I guess we’re farther out than I expected.”

“We’ve only been driving an hour.”

“It feels longer.”

He realized she was nervous, but it was coming across as demanding. He stifled a growl. Being alone on his island was much easier. “There are fewer cars here. I can spot someone following us on this route.”

With no further comments, Bree pulled a magazine out of her backpack and started flipping through it. From the corner of his eye, he saw it was one of those thick fashion rags. Each page turn was a sigh of impatience.

Flip. Flip. Flip.

Mark gripped the steering wheel, trying to ignore the sound. To make matters worse, Jonathan was humming tunelessly, thumping his stuffed duck against the car door. He clenched his teeth, summoning inner strength. You are the lion. The hunter that strikes in the night. You have the patience of the leopard in the tree.

Thump. Thump. Flip. La-la-la.

I’m not a thrice-damned cab driver. Another few hours, and he’d be alone again. Breathe deeply. No, then he smelled tasty woman. Open a window. Yeah, that was it.

This was his nightmare. Once before, he had been responsible for a woman and her young. The Knights of Vidon had destroyed them. And I tore the first Nicholas Ferrel and his animals to pieces in retribution. The centuries that followed had been a bloodbath, an endless feud of vampire against slayer as one act of violence demanded payback, then another.

But Mark had taken a different path since then, one of healing instead of death. He desperately wanted to stay on it.

Bree stopped turning pages, gazing out the window again. Her long fingers gripped the magazine so hard the tendons stood out along the backs of her hands. “You don’t think anyone’s following us now, do you?”

Mark cleared his throat. “Not that I’ve seen.”

“What have you seen?”

“Two logging trucks and a pickup full of produce. Unless the gunmen are disguised as squash, we’re safe for the time being.”

“Good.” The word was as packed full of meaning as her glance had been. “It’s been a while since I had a few hours.”

He looked over at her. He was wearing dark glasses despite the tinted windshield, and they washed the color out of her, leaving her in shades of gray. “You mean a few hours to not worry?”

She gave a quick, rueful smile. “To worry about one thing at a time. To focus on normal mom things, like breakfast. Clean clothes. I’ve been carrying this magazine around for weeks and haven’t got past the first ten pages. Getting to read it feels like a scandalous luxury.”

Something made Mark glance in the rearview mirror. Jonathan was watching his mother, picking up every word. Mark wondered how much of it he understood. Probably everything. Kids in trouble grew up fast. Maybe princelings on the lam grew even faster.

“Where’s Jonathan’s father in all this?” he asked.

“Nowhere.” Bree said it quickly, opening up the magazine again. The word was the next best thing to a slamming door.

Mark watched the road, keeping his face turned straight ahead. They were getting near the ferry that would take them to Seattle. He should start laying a little groundwork to prepare Bree for the safe house. “It’s a lot, raising a child on your own.”

“Sure it is. But you do it, whether you’re ready or not.” Her voice was quietly matter-of-fact.

“The guy’s a prince. He can afford child support.”

Her hands froze midflip. “You know who I am.”

Got you. Mark shifted his hands on the steering wheel, as if closing his grip on more than the car. “I figured it out.”

“How?” She pulled herself straighter in the seat. “How did you know?”

“I have a good memory for faces.” Which was true, though he’d made no connection between this woman and the celebutante who’d graced Crown Prince Kyle’s arm four years ago. But now that he’d met Bree, there was no chance he’d ever forget her.

She slumped. “Sue me. I had my fifteen minutes of fame.”

“You weren’t the last girl Kyle showed a good time.” There had been others, including the infamous Brandi Snap, who had nearly wrecked Prince Kyle’s engagement to the much-beloved Princess Amelie of Marcari. “Does Kyle know about Jonathan?”

She gave him a dirty look. “They’ve never met.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Oh, but everyone knows about him, don’t they?” Her tone was steely enough to draw blood. “I worked hard to keep a low profile for a long time. Lived my life, raised my son. Then one day the paparazzi must have been having a slow week, because all of a sudden it was all over the papers—the prince’s bimbo had a baby.”

“Is that who you think is after you?”

“Photographers shoot with cameras, not guns.” She toyed with the edges of the magazine, riffling the pages. “And Kyle isn’t the one giving the order to chase us. He’s a good guy, prince or not.”

Mark was inclined to agree. As one of the Horsemen, he had crossed paths with the crowned heads of several kingdoms, including Prince Kyle. He’d seemed pretty levelheaded—but the fact that he’d had this woman and then let her get away—well, that was just foolish.

Mark turned her story over in his mind, still trying to match the glittering arm candy with the serious, frightened young woman next to him. “Let me play devil’s advocate for a moment. A royal court is a well-oiled machine. Kyle is only one piece of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“He might be a nice guy, but there are plenty of people at court who aren’t. It’s not just all parties and polo. Vidon has been at war with its neighbors off and on since the Crusades.”

“But he always knew he would marry Princess Amelie from the kingdom next door. Their families have been fighting forever. He wanted to end the war and, from what he said, so did she. Marriage would unite Marcari and Vidon.”

Her matter-of-fact tone surprised him. “You don’t mind that he’s marrying another woman?”

She shrugged. “He’s a prince. He has to marry a princess. Besides, we were just friends.”

Just friends. Not the statement he’d expected, but relief eased his shoulders. A silence fell over the car for a moment, leaving only the sound of the road and Jonathan’s aimless humming. Mark struggled to tune it out. Whatever kept the kid from talking, it wasn’t his vocal cords.

They passed through a tiny hamlet that was nothing but a gas station and a place that sold pies. A bored-looking horse swished flies and stared morosely over a broken-down fence. Mark checked the rearview mirror. Still no one tailing them.

“Your son can still be used as a pawn, even if he’s not a legitimate heir.”

Bree snapped the magazine shut. “He’s not the heir. He’s not Kyle’s. I wish people would believe me.”

“There are people who might benefit from saying he is.”

“Seriously?” she scoffed. “These are tiny kingdoms. Nice, lots of Mediterranean beaches and all that, but Texas could swallow them both and leave room for snacks.”

“Neither country is big, but the income from tourism, especially gambling, is huge.”

“Still, how would kidnapping Jonathan help anyone?”

Mark wondered how much he should say, but decided she deserved the straight goods. “Not everyone wants the match between Vidon and Marcari. Their feud is so old, it’s become a way of life for some people. Even a means of making money.”

And then there was the whole supernatural issue. Amelie’s father, the king of Marcari, had an old alliance with the vampires. The Company and the Horsemen had his personal support. But right next door, the vampire-slaying Knights of Vidon had kept the feud between the two nations alive—and had most recently left a fan letter in Mark’s bedroom.

Which meant the his-and-hers sets of gunmen were probably the same people. Mark had to get her to the safe house, whether she liked it or not. He turned to Bree, who was biting her nails.

“Think about it,” Mark said softly. “What if people believed Jonathan was the only heir? What if someone stopped Kyle’s wedding to Amelie so there would be no real heirs?” Or what if they killed the royal couple? But Mark didn’t want to say that out loud.

Bree gave him a look packed with excitement, reluctance and another emotion he couldn’t name. “I didn’t put everything together before now. What you say makes more sense than I want to admit to.”

“Why?”

Her grave eyes held a glimmer of something he hadn’t seen before—trust. “Someone tried to sabotage the wedding before. I was there, firsthand.”

Mark tensed, his gut mirroring the conflicting emotions on her face. Knowing her story would connect them. Part of him wanted that. Another part wanted to run free, back to his island, untethered.

But that wasn’t an option. He had a duty as a Horseman. Even more than that, Bree’s vulnerable expression made him push on. “Before?”

“I used to work for a design firm. We got the commission to do the wedding clothes. Weird, eh? I was working on the outfits for my friend’s celebrity wedding. My ex-boyfriend, if you believe the tabloids.”

Mark nearly veered off the road. He knew this part of the story already. “There was a fire in the design studio. It destroyed the whole collection, except the wedding dress. That was found later.” Mark had been one of the Horsemen who’d returned the gown to Princess Amelie. Jack Anderson, the Horseman called Death, had died doing it. By all the fiery hells!

Bree closed her eyes, suddenly looking excruciatingly young. “Yes, all the clothes for the wedding were burned up. Except for the dress.” A tear leaked out from under her lashes.

“What is it?” Mark asked gently, although he felt a wave of anticipation surge through him. He was finally getting somewhere with her.

She opened her eyes, giving him a long, steady look. “You don’t need to get any more involved than you are.”

“The dress wasn’t the whole story, was it?”

She sighed, giving in. “No. There was something else, another reason they might be tailing me besides Jonathan. My boss, Jessica Lark, was murdered before the fire was set.”

So that was the murder she’d witnessed. Mark felt a chill go through him. “There were rumors that Lark had an assistant, but the name on the payroll records was a fake. There was no way to find out who you really were.”

“I was hiding from the press. Jessica kept my real identity off the books as a favor, especially when it turned out that we were the ones working on the wedding designs. I wanted my work to be taken seriously and not regarded as fluff because I was a rich girl playing with fashion.”

Mark felt a knot of suspicion forming in his gut. “You realize that doesn’t look good. Everyone thinks you’re the prince’s ex. The wedding was sabotaged. Lark was murdered. You would have been the prime suspect.”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice growing hard. “I would be if you don’t know the whole story. But think about it. The police are good at their jobs. The whole thing with Jessica’s records slowed them down, sure, but the police should have been able to get past that.”

“So why didn’t they?”

She turned her face toward the window, speaking so softly he barely heard her, even with his excellent hearing. “The murderers don’t want me in police custody. For some reason, they want me and Jonathan for themselves. And to keep hunting all this time, I think they must have a lot of resources.”

Mark shifted his grip on the steering wheel. He had to get her to the safe house, and now it wasn’t just for her safety. Jessica Lark had been one of the Company’s agents. There would be questions. “Tell me the whole story.”

Bree’s mouth quavered and she bit her lip. “I was on the phone with Jessica when it happened. I heard the whole thing.”


Chapter 7

“What happened?” Mark demanded. Jessica Lark had been his friend long ago. Long before Bree would have joined Lark’s studio.

But Bree turned away, as if regretting her words. “Look, there’s the ferry. We must be in Gleeford already.”

“Tell me.” His voice was nearly a snarl.

Her eyes were shuttered. “I’ve said too much already.”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. When he thought of Lark, it was as more than a coworker. Mark didn’t connect with people; he was too old, weary and wary both—but she had been different. “Jessica Lark loved animals, hated housework, didn’t trust banks and was allergic to any kind of jewelry that wasn’t pure gold or silver.”

Bree made a sound that might have been a laugh. “She loved pretty things.”

“She was a creative genius who everyone wanted to know but most found a little frightening. Anyone lucky enough to land in her bed quickly bored her but she was too soft-hearted to send them away. Does any of this sound familiar? Do you believe that I knew her and that she was important to me?”

Bree made a derisive noise. “All the men were in love with her. You, too, then.”

“Not in the way you mean. But yes, I loved her. We knew each other a long, long time.”

He caught her glance for a moment, and it was like seeing some small, frightened animal backing into its burrow. Bree was pulling away, giving in to her fear. Silence and running were the only survival tactics she knew.

Frustrated, Mark turned at the sign for the ferry. Ticket booths guarded a parking lot filled with cars waiting for the next boat to arrive. Puget Sound stretched before them, a broad silver swath of water rimmed in dark forest.

Mark pulled up to a ticket booth and lowered the window. “Two adults, one child.”

“The next sailing’s at ten twenty-five. You’ve got a forty-minute wait.” The man took Mark’s cash. He looked cold despite a Cowichan sweater under his coat. The wind off the water was brisk. “You may as well park and go for coffee.”

“Where’s a good place?”

“There’s a shop that does its own roasting right over there.” He pointed up at the road. “Good cinnamon rolls, too.”

Mark thanked him and pulled ahead. There were about a dozen cars ahead of them already.

“Breakfast,” Bree said, unbuckling her seat belt before the car had come to a full stop.

Mark caught her wrist. “I have questions.”

She shrugged him off. “I need to eat. So does Jonathan. We can talk after.”

Mark hesitated but gave in because she was right. Besides, he seemed to have her trust for the moment. Everything was going according to plan. There was no good reason to insist they stay with the car.

He waited for her to unbuckle Jonathan. The boy bounced out of the car like a joyous puppy, banging into Mark’s knees. He caught the child before he could zip in front of a moving SUV. Automatically, he hoisted Jonathan into the air, making him gurgle with laughter, the wind tossing the waves of his soft, fine hair.

Memories. He’d done the same thing long ago in Parma—picking up his own son in the stable yard, keeping him out from under the horses’ hooves. His son had laughed in just that way.

The image caught him off guard, a jab under the ribs that nearly made him stumble. He slammed into grief and anger he had long tried to forget. He set Jonathan back on his feet, but the boy clung to him as they walked toward the street, the feel of his tiny hand chaining him to the past. Mark wanted to pull his hand away, but stopped himself. The child was innocent. It was up to Mark to swallow down the pain.

Fear made another lap through his imagination, repeating what he already knew. The first Nicholas Ferrel had killed his wife and children over five hundred years ago. Now his descendant was prowling around, just when Mark had found this woman and child. Surely I’m smarter now. Surely I can stop him this time.

The threat could be anywhere. Mark tensed, opening his vampire senses to scan the quiet scene, tasting the wind for any hint of an enemy. A low growl thrummed deep in his chest. Jonathan gave him a curious look.

Fortunately, Bree didn’t hear him. “This is the cutest town ever. And there’s a quilt shop.”

“I thought you wanted breakfast.”

“Some women need pretty fabric the way others need air.” But she turned into the coffee shop.

It was a long, narrow space with a few wooden tables and chairs. Most of the space was taken up by the coffee bar and glass cases of buns and pastries. Jonathan pressed himself against the glass like a determined squid.

“Isn’t there anything with protein?” she muttered. “Too much sugar isn’t good.”

“There’s milk,” Mark suggested. “And I don’t think one pastry will hurt. Surely his grandparents have spoiled him once in a while?”

“No.” Her answer sounded cold and final.

No doting grandma and grandpa, then. Mark pondered that, and the frown that suddenly darkened her face. Bad memories?

Jonathan bounced on his toes and pointed to a tray of buns thick with nuts and frosting.

Bree huffed a sigh. “I shouldn’t be feeding him that stuff. At least at a drive-through I could get something with eggs.”

“Forgive yourself, and make the best choice from the available options.”

“You sound like a self-help book.”

“Does that mean I’m quotable?”

“Only when I’m feeding my child his own weight in sugar. Remember we’ll be trapped with him for miles and miles while he burns it off.”

Mark grunted in acknowledgment. “I’m sure I have duct tape in the trunk.”

“Hey,” said the young man who took their order. He was looking at Bree closely. “Are you somebody famous? I know you from somewhere.”

She laughed easily. “My kid thinks I’m a rock star, but that’s it, I’m afraid.”

Mark shouldered his way forward to pay, blocking the young man’s view of her. Bree picked up their tray and claimed a table for the three of them. As Mark waited for change, he watched Bree with fresh interest as she arranged food and drink and boy, every gesture quick and graceful. Jonathan sat down, grabbed a sticky bun as big as his head and tried to eat it all in one bite. Bree moved in for the rescue, napkin in hand.

Mark chose the chair closest to the shadows and sat down. He took a swallow of thick, strong coffee, feeling the caffeine hit his finely tuned vampire metabolism. Jonathan wasn’t going to be the only one climbing the walls, but Mark needed to be on full alert.

Bree heard Jessica Lark die. How many people knew? Was there more to her sudden appearance on his island than met the eye? “The man named Bob. Your boat driver.”

Bree looked up from cutting Jonathan’s bun into socially acceptable chunks. “What about him?”

Mark waited while a man in coveralls shuffled past their table, bag of pastries in hand, before he answered. “I wonder if he knew Larson.”

“He knew everyone. He knew every inch of every island.”

Which meant he probably knew Mark’s cabin. “I think he meant for me to find you.”

“I found you, remember?”

“Whatever. The fact that we met drew both of us into the open. A sweet package deal. I think the reason he dropped you where he did, and the reason I was motivated by a letter I received to leave the cabin—well, it made somebody’s work a lot easier. Now they get a two-for-one.”

Bree frowned. “What are you saying?”

“We might both be targets. I knew Jessica Lark. We worked together. Not on fashion, but on other things.”

Her eyes grew wider. “What kind of things?”

“Things that interest men with guns. We, uh, did a bit of freelance undercover work.” It wasn’t information he ever shared, but Bree’s life, and Jonathan’s, depended on getting out of this mess. The least he could do was sketch in a few details to help her. As a vampire, he could always erase her memory later.

“You mean you two were like spies?”

“Sort of.”

Before Mark had joined the Horsemen’s team, he and Lark had done a fair number of assignments together—a fey and a vampire posing as a beautiful couple, infiltrating the rich and famous. It had been easy for Mark, who had spent his youth as a courtier. Lark had been fun, vibrant, beautiful and very unpredictable. Not an ideal operative, but a fascinating female.

Bree leaned across the table, lowering her voice. “What else are you besides a doctor?”

“I have varied interests.” He leaned forward, as well. It put her face only inches away, the blue-green of her eyes so clear that he could see the subtle shading of the irises. She smelled of warmth and life.

“You could have killed me when I pulled a gun on you.”

“Yes.”

Her lids lowered, her lashes sweeping the dusting of freckles that crept over her cheeks. He’d meant to reassure her, but it wasn’t working. Tension pulled at the corners of her mouth. She was so afraid.

“Bree.”

Those thick lashes lifted. Mark was aware of the chatter of other customers, the hiss of the coffeemaker, but that was all distant backdrop. He kept telling himself that he didn’t want to become tangled in her story, but here he was—tangled. She seemed to step right over the circle he drew around himself. “I can protect you.”

The hunger in Mark welled, reminding him that he wasn’t just a human, and he wasn’t just a healer. There was a flip side to him, a darkness that destroyed. That was his natural state, what lay beneath when the surface was scratched. He was appetite without end.

He never let that creature loose anymore. But now it battered against its iron cage, yearning to take the woman whose mouth was right there, so close he could already taste her. Her lips were wide and generous, giving her face an oddly vulnerable cast. Loneliness rose from her like a scent. Any predator could see she was cut off from the herd, alone and unprotected.




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