The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance (Trisha Telep) (Kitty Norville 0.50)

“I’m supposed to be the healer,” I said huskily. “But you could raise the dead.”

Maggie laughed, not displeased. “Now you will go in my bathroom and take a shower while I throw those appalling garments into the wash.” She kissed my left cheek. “Then we will both lie down on my bed and sleep.” She kissed my right cheek. “Nothing else. But the energy exchange of being close will enable you to recover enough to pass your pharmacology exam so you needn’t think more about that.”

I slid my fingers into her shimmering hair. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.”

“Then you will come back here, and we shall not leave the apartment for the next week.”

Her lips met mine, and we connected in a blaze of pure transformation. This, I realized hazily, was what the ancient Guardians called an alchemical marriage. Two souls bonding till death did us part. And it could happen in an instant.

I wrapped my arms around her slim, provocative body, and we fell into each other. “Are you sure nothing happens when we go to bed?” I breathed. “There is more than one way to share energy and be revitalized.”

She laughed and stepped from the embrace. “You wish to play doctor? We’ll see, Charles. We’ll see.”

I caught her hand and kissed it. She blushed adorably, heat radiating from her as she gave me a gentle push in the direction of the shower. I headed to the bathroom wearing a smile that could light up Manhattan.

Who said that nothing ever happened on Tuesdays?

Trinity Blue

Eve Silver

Prologue

Ten miles north of Fort Vancouver, Oregon Country, 1834.

Night settled, dark and wet, the air smelling of damp earth and blood and death. Daemon Alexander knelt in the dirt, a woman cradled in his arms. Her long hair fell across his sleeve and tumbled to the ground in a riot of guinea-gold waves. She shifted in his embrace as though trying to pull free of him, her breath rattling in her chest.

“Do you want to live for ever?” he whispered, wiping away the thin trickle of blood that slid from the corner of her mouth. Say yes. Ask me. Only say the words. He could do nothing if she did not say the words. Her gaze flicked to his, then away. He knew then that she could not bear to look at him now that she had seen the truth. Seen what he was. “Would you rather die?” Daemon rasped. He rested his fingers lightly on h

er throat and felt her pulse slow, the pace stuttering as her blood leaked out to pool beneath them.

“No ... I do not want ... to die,” she whispered, a tear tracing a path along the pale skin of her cheek. “But ... I cannot bear to live . . . not like . . . you.”

Not like him. A monster. A dark creature that played host to even darker creatures. He had no reassurance for her because he had no reassurance for himself. There was no name for the vile thing he was, at least, none that he knew. Basking in the illusion of their life together, he had forgotten that for a brief time.

“I love you.” His declaration hung in the air, pallid and weak. It meant nothing in the face of his betrayal. He had come to her as a man, made her believe he was a man. He had almost believed it himself. He had brought her here, to a place wild and untamed. Dangerous. The responsibility for the attack on her was his and his alone. “Let me save you, Alma. Only say it. Ask me. I beg you.”

She turned her head and looked at him then.

“I love you,” he whispered again, desperate.

“I despise you.” Her words were so faint he might have made himself believe he had misheard. But no. He would not allow himself that reprieve. He deserved her hate.

“I—” His arguments, his pleas locked in his throat as her chest deflated on a final breath. Too late. She was gone. And he was left with her broken shell in his arms.

All around him the shadows shifted, dark forms rising from the bodies of the men who had come here to steal and rape and kill. They were dead. His will had seen them ripped limb from limb. But he had come too late. They had done their vile deeds before he arrived and so she was dead as well. His love, his wife. Dead.

His fault.

Rising, he held his arms wide, calling home the trinity. Again the shadows moved and three raced towards him, sleek in the night. They wound about him and through him, less than substance, more than shadow. He let his pain feed them, his rage and agony. Together, they burst into clear blue flames that spread and grew until every body, every drop of blood in the clearing was burned away in an icy inferno of smokeless blue fire.

One

Freetown, New York, present day.

Jen Cassaday pushed aside her grandmother’s yellowed lace curtains and stared out at the stranger in her front yard. He stood, legs apart, arms hanging easy by his sides, head tipped back as he studied the house. Faded jeans, scuffed leather jacket over a dark brown T-shirt, dark hair, hanging in long, ragged layers. From this distance she could see great bone structure and a frown. Maybe it was the frown that kept him from being pretty. Or maybe it was the scar that ran across his chin, an angry white line against tanned skin. Either way, he was something to look at.

In one hand he held a newspaper, and the sight of it made Jen’s pulse twitch. He was not at all what she’d meant to attract when she placed an ad for a handyman. And with any luck, he wasn’t here about that.