Enchant the Night. Amanda Ashley
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was incredibly lovely, her figure slender and ripe, her skin glowing with good health.
She came to an abrupt halt when he stepped out of the shadows. Eyes wide and afraid, she stared up at him.
“Callie.”
She swallowed hard, then nodded. It was him. She would recognize that deep, whiskey-smooth voice anywhere. He wasn’t a figment of her imagination, after all. He was tall and broad-shouldered and exuded an air of strength and power that was frightening in its intensity. Why had she come here? Everything within her urged her to turn around and run from his presence just as fast as she could, but she seemed unable to move. She could only stand there, looking up at him, feeling small and helpless as his dark-gray eyes moved over her. Questions tumbled through her mind, but she couldn’t find the courage or her voice to ask them.
A wry smile turned up one corner of his mouth. It sent a shiver of awareness down her spine as she remembered the feel of his lips on hers when he’d kissed her. It had only been a dream, she reminded herself, but it had felt so real.
She flinched when he reached for her, yet seemed incapable of resisting when he drew her into the circle of his arms. He held her lightly, his hand idly stroking up and down her back.
“You needn’t be afraid,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you.”
At his words, all the tension drained out of her. She had no idea why she believed him, yet she was no longer frightened. Feeling as if she had come home after a long journey, she closed her eyes. A sigh escaped her lips when his tongue laved the skin beneath her ear. She clung to his shoulders when he bit her ever so gently.
He’s drinking my blood.
The thought should have frightened her. Repulsed her. Instead, it filled her with a sense of peace and a familiar wave of sensual pleasure.
Her eyelids fluttered open when he lifted his head.
“Meet me here again tomorrow night, my sweet Callie,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.
And then, between one heartbeat and the next, he was gone.
Callie glanced around the park, but there was no sign of him. How had he disappeared so quickly? She lifted a hand to her neck. If not for the faint tingling where he had bitten her, she would have sworn she’d imagined the whole thing.
Lost in thought, she turned and headed for home.
* * *
Curled up in the easy chair beside the small, brick fireplace, Callie tried to make sense of everything that had happened earlier, but to no avail. Feeling suddenly weary, she closed her eyes, felt her body go limp as long-forgotten memories of her childhood paraded through her mind.
Things like her paternal grandmother, Martha, telling six-year-old Callie that her parents had been killed in an auto accident and that she would be going to live with her maternal grandmother, Ava.
Grandfather Henry refusing to hold her or let her visit them because she was left-handed and he believed that was a sure sign of a changeling child. He claimed her presence in their house would cause some terrible catastrophe. Callie had never seen her paternal grandparents again.
Her maternal grandmother, Ava Langley, making a mystical sign of some kind over Callie each night before she went to sleep. Ava and three of her cronies had performed strange rituals in the light of a full moon. Sometimes Callie had been included; sometimes she watched in secret from her bedroom window. She had vague memories of Ava whispering in her ear that she would understand everything when she was older.
Callie had grown up firmly believing that Grandmother Ava was a witch, even though Ava had adamantly denied it. Callie continued to believe it until she went to high school and discovered boys were far more interesting than four old ladies behaving strangely whenever the moon was full. College courses had convinced her that there were no such things as witches or warlocks or magic spells and that everything could be explained logically and scientifically if one only took the time to think it through.
She had been eight or nine when she’d tried to perform one of Ava’s spells, but instead of turning water to hot chocolate, she had started a fire that had burned her grandmother’s garage to the ground and scorched the backyard fence. That was the last time Callie had tried her hand at magic. Funny how she had forgotten about that until now.
Grandma Ava had passed away in her sleep at the ripe old age of a hundred and six. Callie had been on holiday in France at the time. When she’d returned home, she’d discovered that Ava had left her only heir a tidy nest egg and the house she had grown up in.
Yawning, Callie stretched her arms over her head, wondering what had made her think of those things now. Too tired to care, she took a quick shower and went to bed.
She was on the verge of sleep when she heard Grandmother Ava’s voice whisper in the back of her mind.
Be careful, Callie. You’re on dangerous ground.
Chapter 4
Quill strolled through the park’s winding paths long after Callie had gone home, his thoughts unsettled. Not all blood tasted the same. Most was warm and bland. Some people’s blood was more satisfying than others’. Some was sweet, some bitter. And then there was Callie’s blood—hot and rich and oddly familiar. Though he couldn’t say why. Perhaps he had fed on one of her kinfolk. There was usually a strong similarity in taste among close relatives.
He was still puzzling over it when he realized he was being followed. Coming to an abrupt halt, he whirled around to confront his stalker but saw no one. And still the feeling persisted. Lifting his head, he opened his preternatural senses, searching the night for the source of his discontent.
He was about to continue on his way when a slight movement caught his eye. As he turned toward it, three men materialized from beneath a cloak of invisibility and rushed toward him brandishing wooden stakes and wicked-looking blades.
Before he could vanish, the Knights were on him. He let out a roar of pain and anger as a sharp stake drove deep into his chest, barely missing his heart. His attacker withdrew it and struck again—and again missed the mark. And all the while, the other two were slicing and stabbing.
The scent of blood—his and theirs—filled the night air.
Quill managed to break the neck of the man with the stake, but the other two were unrelenting. His injuries usually healed immediately but wounds inflicted by pure silver took longer to stop bleeding and longer to heal, and left nasty scars.
One of his attackers let out a holler, and two more Knights emerged from another cloak and joined the fray.
Weakened by the loss of so much blood and in agony from the cuts inflicted by their blades, Quill felt his strength fading. It took all his remaining energy to break the neck of one of the men holding him down.
“His head!” cried one of the Knights. “We have to take his head!”
Quill bucked violently as one of them produced a wicked-looking cleaver. The Knight was about to deliver the killing blow when a deep voice shouted, “Here now! What the hell’s going on?”
The Knights attacking Quill ducked under their invisibility cloaks and were lost from sight.
The jogger stared wide-eyed at the place where the three men had been. Stared at the bodies sprawled on the ground near Quill, then turned on his heel and bolted toward one of the park exits.
Needing blood and needing it quick, Quill tried to go after him, but the pain was too severe. Dragging himself into the shadows, he closed his eyes, and found his link to Callie.
Come to the park. I need you.
* * *
On the brink of sleep, Callie jackknifed into a sitting position when she heard Quill’s voice in her mind.
Come to the park. I need you.
Rising,