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Will
curiosity kill the witch?
Kind
witch Melanie Merrow regards herself as an honourary aunt to the
eccentric staff of Serafina’s Psychic Investigations. But Melanie
has buried a terrible past that her friends bring unwittingly to the
surface during a séance. Plus her insatiable quest for knowledge has
fixated on the most elusive and dangerous being on the planet – the
ancient, tragic Founder, from whom all vampires are descended.
The
Founder, who hides himself in shadows and illusions, even from the
scattered vampires over whom he watches from a distance, plans to
leave the world of humans forever. He should not be engaging in
banter and seduction with the beautiful and intriguing Melanie, let
alone buying her chips or involving himself in the chaos that is
Serafina’s. But, fighting the human police, the possessive spirit
of a dead serial killer, a pack of vengeful wolves, and the anger of
the Tuatha de Danann is easy compared to dealing with his own
reawakening desires...
Excerpt:
Her
heart still beating hard, she stared into the shadows by the
curtains. Although she couldn’t see him, the darkness there seemed
blacker, almost shimmering.
“Well,
don’t just stand there,” she said loudly to the curtains. “Since
you’re here, have a seat. Let’s chat.”
This
was why she didn’t have flatmates anymore. They’d have had her
sectioned.
The
curtains didn’t move. Neither did the shadows. But after a moment
or two, she realised the shimmering black shade had dulled to normal
darkness. She sighed. Speaking to him clearly scared him off—which
was good. Who wanted to be stalked? Especially by something even
vampires were afraid of.
Still,
as she sat up and reached for the lamp switch, she was conscious of a
disappointment—which vanished into sudden, galloping terror as a
figure seemed to loom out of the darkness in front of her. This was
no vague, shimmering blackness. This was the definite shape of a man,
only two or three feet away from her.
Oh
shit. I’ve done it now…
“The
Founder does not chat.”
Deep,
soft, icy, with just a trace of self-mockery, his voice bypassed her
ears and spoke straight into her mind, almost like a daydream or a
fantasy. She’d have considered insanity if it hadn’t been the
same voice which had once told her, “Curiosity killed the witch.”
Old
vampires didn’t speak aloud. They communicated telepathically. Only
Sera could hear them because she was telepathic, or perhaps because
she could talk to the dead. Melanie could do neither. At least not
without some very powerful spells. And yet she heard him. Surely more
humorous than supercilious: “The Founder does not chat.”
She
thought she could make out the whites of his eyes, a gleam of amber
directed at her like a torch.
“I
suppose he doesn’t stare either?” Melanie retorted.
There
was a definite pause before he said, “That would be rude.”
“And
breaking into someone’s home isn’t?”
“Not
when I’m invited.”
“Invited?”
she repeated, aware now that she was doing the staring. Not that she
could see much.
“You
have a short memory,” he remarked, “even for a human.”
Oh
shit.
Melanie grasped the quilt tighter as she remembered a certain spell
cast a year ago, when she’d first learned about vampires and the
legend of the Founder. “I tried to summon you. It didn’t work.”
“Of
course it didn’t work. I have free will. On the other hand, I’d
have heard your magic in hell. I chose to be invited.”
“And
if I rescind my invitation?”
The
air stirred, almost as if he was laughing at her naivety. She
shivered.
He
said, “You’ve been reading too many novels.”
Melanie
swallowed, peering through the darkness at him. She could see two
eyes now, but one seemed darker than the other. A trick of the
nonexistent light. She said, “Are you speaking to me?”
“Is
there anyone else here?”
“No,
I mean are you speaking
to me? Not, are you speaking to me?”
“Questions,
questions,” mocked the Founder. “Do you want to end up like me?”
“You
mean staring at people while they sleep?”
She
knew that wasn’t what he meant. Legend said his own curiosity had
caused him to face down ignorance and prejudice, had led him into
torture and suffering and ultimately to defy death itself. But she
couldn’t resist the barb.
For
a moment, she imagined she’d actually thrown him. He didn’t move
or speak for several seconds. Then he said, “You weren’t
sleeping. You were waking. From a nightmare.”
Melanie
twitched without meaning to. She never spoke of this. To anyone. She
shrugged. “Everyone dreams.”
He
stirred. She heard the faint rush of his clothes, whatever they were.
What did the Founder wear? Her fingers itched for the light switch,
but she was too afraid to move, in case he came any closer. A shiver
thrilled down her spine.
“What
do you dream, little witch?” he asked softly. “What scares you
more than I do?”
She
stared at the brighter of his eyes. “Nothing. I admit that.”
“Then
you lie. Though I’m not often the one called upon to frighten away
the demons.”
She
caught her breath. Was that what she’d done?
She
hadn’t called on him—of course she hadn’t. But if it hadn’t
been for the dream, she’d probably have said nothing, just waited
for him to go as she always had before. Everyone, including the
vampire Blair, had told her never to speak to the Founder, never to
try to engage.
Oh
hell. I’ve engaged.
Even more surprising, not to say terrifying, so had he.
“Well,
thank you,” she said politely. “The demons have gone. Apart from
yourself.”
“That’s
the danger of inviting the biggest demon to dispel the lesser. Who’s
going to scare me?”
“Can
you be scared?” she countered.
“You
could try with one of your little spells.”
“Now
you’re being insulting.” Should she really be bandying words with
the Founder? Oh well, in for a penny… “Actually, since you’re
here, I want to ask you something.”
“How
to keep the dreams away?”
“Oh
no. The dreams are mine.”
For
some reason, the answer seemed to intrigue him. She caught a faint
head movement, as if he’d leaned it to one side, considering her.
Then the darkness blurred, and her heart lurched as the mattress
depressed.
Oh
God help me, the Founder’s sitting on my bed.
Surely
she should have been able to make out more of him than this blur and
odd glimpses of his eyes? She was used to the dark now, and there was
moonlight gleaming through the curtains. And he was close enough to
touch. She could move her knee and brush his hip through the quilt.
If she was insane enough.
No,
she couldn’t see him properly, but he could see her. His very
stillness told her that. She wondered what he thought, and her body
heated with embarrassment and something more, because she wanted him
to like what he saw. She wasn’t just a curious witch, she was a
woman, and she could sense the caress of his eyes on her naked arms
and shoulders, on her breasts, which, while mostly covered by her
nightdress, probably revealed the outline of her tense nipples…
In
the dark? Get a grip, Melanie.
He’s
the Founder. He’s vampire. He doesn’t need light.
And
this is so not the point.
“Do
vampires get sick?” she blurted.
There
was a pause. “Not often.”
“I
have a vampire client who is. I don’t know how to help him.”
The
mattress shifted very slightly, and she tensed, terrified he was
coming closer, longing to know how it would feel if he did.
The
Founder said, “He isn’t your concern.”
“Then
you’ll help him?”
“I’m
not your concern.”
“But
you are.” Lunging for the lamp, she grabbed the switch and flicked
it on.
A
warm glow swam around the room. The empty room, containing only
herself and her possessions. She didn’t even hear the window
rattle, but she could have sworn that just for an instant, soft
laughter echoed in her head.
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