Night's Kiss (Children of The Night 1)

She glanced at the faces of the men, men she knew, men she had healed in the past. They refused to meet her gaze. In the glow of their torches, their faces looked grotesque, devilish.

She struggled against the bonds that held her as the pile of kindling grew higher. Her stomach churned with fear. Terror choked her until she could scarcely breathe.

Why hadn't she gone with Roshan? Where was he now, when she needed him? Why, oh why, hadn't she listened to him?

She cried out as the men circled her, putting their torches to the bits of wood at her feet. She stared in morbid fascination at the tiny flames that sprang up around her. Soon they would be licking at her ankles, catching at the hem of her dress. How long did it take to burn to death? She blinked the tears from her eyes. Oh, Lord, this could not be happening!

But it was. Nausea roiled in the pit of her belly. She felt lightheaded, as though she were about to faint, and then she prayed that she would faint, that she would be unconscious long before the fire consumed her.

The men clustered in front of her, all of them making signs to ward off the evil eye lest she try to cast some spell on them before death claimed her.

Heat seared her skin. Soon the flames would reach her.

She was sobbing now. Acrid smoke filled her nostrils. She cried out as the first tiny finger of flame singed her skin.

"Stop! Oh, please, stop!" She sobbed the words over and over again. It had to be a nightmare. She couldn't die like this, not here, not now.

The men stared at her, their eyes wide. One of them was chanting something. A prayer for her soul? Or some incantation to turn away evil?

She cried out in terror as the heat of the fire breathed against the backs of her legs. Soon she would feel the bite of the hungry flames against her skin. She opened her mouth to scream, felt her breath catch in her throat when she saw a dusting of silver motes shimmer in the moonlight, and suddenly Roshan DeLongpre was there, standing between her and the mob.

Power crackled in the evening air, like the sizzle in the atmosphere before a storm.

There was an abrupt silence as the men brandishing torches became aware of his presence.

"Who are you?" Henry Beech demanded boldly.

"Your worst nightmare." Roshan bit back a grin as he repeated a line he had heard in a movie.

He stared grimly at the flames slowly eating their way toward Brenna's feet and legs, shuddered as he imagined the fire moving over his own body. Preternatural flesh was especially vulnerable to fire. If he was going to save her without sacrificing himself, it had to be now.

Drawing himself up to his full height, he let out a roar; then, with preternatural speed, he was at Brenna's back, his fingers ripping through the thick ropes that bound her as if they were made of paper. Flames burned his hands, seared the skin on his forearms.

Cradling Brenna against his chest, he willed the two of them away from the smoke and the fire and the mob.

Brenna was still clinging to Roshan when the world stopped spinning. Glancing around, she saw they were deep in the heart of the woods that lay to the west of her cottage. It was a place she recognized instantly. She came here often to gather herbs and plants. She came here to celebrate the new moon. It was here that she came to cast some of her spells.

"Are you all right?" Roshan asked, setting her on her feet.

She looked up at him, her body still trembling with the aftereffects of her close brush with death. "Y-yes. I think my legs are burned a little. Are you hurt?"

He nodded. Had he been mortal, the burns would have been of no real consequence, but he was no longer mortal and the heat of the flames had blistered the skin of his legs and arms and burned the palms of his hands.

"Morgana!" she exclaimed. "They will kill her."

He shook his head in disbelief. "You're worried about a cat?"

"She is not just a cat. She is my… my friend."

"Your familiar, you mean."

"That, too," she replied candidly. "I cannot let them kill her."

Roshan grabbed her by the arm when she started walking back toward the cottage. "Hold on. I didn't risk going up in flames to save your life just to have you walk back into the fire."

She shook off his hand. "I am going."

"You stay here. I'll get the damn cat."

He didn't wait for her to answer. Dissolving into mist, he returned to the cottage, or what was left of it. The men had torched the house. There was nothing left of the stake but ashes.

Materializing, Roshan looked around for the cat. "Morgana," he called softly, "come to me."

A faint meow drew his attention. Following the cat's cry, he found her in a sack, hanging from a tree. Apparently the mob had decided to let the creature starve to death, if it didn't suffocate first.

Setting the sack on the ground, he debated opening it, then decided it would be quicker and safer to carry the cat back to Brenna while it was still in the sack.

The cat hissed and clawed at the inside of the sack until they reached Brenna. Dropping the sack on the ground, Roshan untied the cord that secured it.

The cat jumped out of the bag and into Brenna's arms, where it meowed loudly, no doubt complaining of its ill treatment. After a moment, it purred and licked her face.

"So, Brenna Flanagan," Roshan said, "do you believe me now?"

CHAPTER 4

Brenna blew out a deep breath. How could she doubt him now? Whoever he was, wherever he had come from, he had saved her from a horrible fate.

"How badly are you burned?" Roshan asked.

"Not too badly. What of yourself?"

"I'll be all right."

Nodding, Brenna knelt beside a large green plant with long spiky leaves. It had been a gift to her from a wandering traveler years ago. Breaking off a piece, she split the spiky leaf in half, then gently rubbed the thick jelly-like substance found on the inside of the leaf over the burns on her legs.

When she was finished, she looked up at Roshan, a question in her eyes.

He shook his head. Though painful, the burns would heal in a few days.

"It will ease the pain," she said.

Roshan frowned. It had been centuries since he had relied on any kind of human remedy.

"Do it," he said.

Lifting one singed pant leg, Brenna frowned as she began to smear the cool gel over his blistered skin. Odd, that his burns appeared to be more serious than hers when his ankles had been covered by his trousers and boots, and hers had been bare.

His trousers. She had never seen any quite like them, nor felt such material.

She couldn't help noticing that the fastening in front was most peculiar…