Night's Kiss (Children of The Night 1)

"Did you ever make it rain toads?" Roshan asked.

"Who told you such nonsense?"

"Did you complain about one of your neighbor's pigs rooting in your garden?"

"You know about that, too?" she asked, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

"The man died a few days later, did he not?"

"He had a weak heart. Everyone in the village knew he was ailing."

"If I asked you to make me a potion, could you do it?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps."

"Women in Salem are being hanged for less."

She crossed her arms over her br**sts. He saw the shiver she tried to hide.

Roshan grunted softly. Finally, he had said something that made her stop and think. Witch hunts had been running rampant in Salem, and all because of a bizarre set of circumstances that began when a young girl began acting strangely. She ran aimlessly through the house, hid under the furniture, and complained of having a fever. It was unfortunate that young Betty Paris's symptoms seemed to mirror those described in a popular book of the day. Memorable Providences, written by Cotton Mather, was about a washerwoman in Boston who had similar symptoms and was believed to be a witch. Talk of witches and witchcraft had increased when some of Betty Parris's playmates— Mary Walcott, Mercy Lewis, and Ann Putnam— started displaying the same strange behavior as Betty. When the local doctor failed to find a cure for the girls, he suggested that their illness might be supernatural instead of physical. From there, things really got out of hand. Dorcas Good, a four-year-old child, was accused of witchcraft. The child was arrested and spent four months in jail, during which time she saw her mother carried away to be hanged.

Before the hysteria was over, nineteen people had been hanged. But that had no bearing here, in this tiny village. Brenna's date with death would occur after Salem had come to its senses.

Brenna released a deep breath. "Thank you for warning me," she said, a distinct tremor in her voice. And then she frowned. "Are you a wizard?"

"No."

"Then how do you know these things?"

"It's a long story." And not one he had time to tell her now, even if he was so inclined. He could smell the dawn peeking over the horizon.

She was staring at him, her brow furrowed in thought, her eyes filling with suspicion. "Who are you?"

"I'm afraid I don't have time to explain it to you now," he said, rising. But it wasn't only the dawn's coming that urged him to leave the house. It was the nearness of the woman, the allure of her blood. It called to him, quickening his hunger, urging him to call her to him and quench his hellish thirst.

Afraid he wouldn't be able to resist the siren call of her blood, he bid her good night and hurried out of the house and into the darkness to seek his prey and a safe place to pass the hours of daylight.

Brenna stared after the stranger, puzzled by his hasty departure, troubled by his warning. Could it be true? Could her life be in danger?

She went to the window and peered out into the darkness. She would have thought him quite mad; indeed, even now she wasn't sure of his sanity. But he knew about the painting, something no one knew of save for herself and John Linder. Not only did the stranger know about the portrait, but he had somehow copied it onto a piece of paper that was whiter and finer than any she had ever seen.

Who was he?

Where had he come from?

How had he found her?

How did a portrait known to no one save herself and the artist find its way into a book, and how did the stranger have a copy?

She moved through her house, dropping the crossbar in place on the door, shutting the single window, snuffing the candles.

Meowing softly, Morgana jumped up onto the bed, circled four times, and curled up on the pillow.

Undressing, Brenna pulled on the shift she slept in and crawled under the covers.

Usually, she had no trouble at all falling asleep but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the stranger's image— his hair as black as hell's heart, his eyes dark and deep and mysterious. He had denied being a wizard but every instinct she possessed warned her that he was not an ordinary mortal.

After tossing and turning for an hour, she slipped out of bed and drew on her robe. A soft incantation brought the hearth fire to life. She lit a pair of white candles for protection and then filled her cauldron with water. When the water was still, she passed her hands over the bowl.

"Show me the stranger who came to my door, tell me why I feel I have seen him before; is he wizard or warlock, ghost or ghoul, show me the truth ere I act the fool."

Taking a deep breath, she peered into the bowl, her mind devoid of all thought save what she wished to see. A swirling mist feathered over the face of the water and when it settled, she saw Roshan DeLongpre's image reflected in the mirrored surface. He sat at a desk in a large room with high ceilings and white walls. He was leaning forward, staring at what looked like a small window. And even as she watched, he made some curious gestures with his hand and suddenly her image appeared on the window, and beneath her image there appeared several lines of writing that were too small for her to read.

He moved his hand again and a piece of paper emerged from a strange-looking object beside the window. And there, once again, was her portrait.

She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed, as Roshan went outside, her picture clutched in his hand. She stared at his image, thinking what a handsome creature he was, when he was suddenly enveloped in a swirling silver gray mist. And when the mist was gone, so was he.

She reeled backward, one hand pressed over her heart. "What dark magick is this?" she exclaimed softly.

Whatever it was, it was more than witchcraft, more powerful than any of the spells with which she was familiar. She could brew potions. She could cast charms. Sometimes she could even foretell the future. But to vanish from sight in a swirl of mist… She shook her head in astonishment.

Leaning forward, she stared into the dark surface of the water once again but it was clear now, the spell broken.

In the morning, she found it hard to accept what she had seen the night before. Mayhap she had dreamed the mysterious Roshan DeLongpre. Mayhap she had imagined the whole thing.

She tried not to think of him as she prepared her morning meal but time and again the image of his countenance appeared in her mind. She didn't know what or who he was, but he was no mere mortal, of that she was certain. And if he was not a wizard, then what was he?

He had warned her that her life was in danger. Dare she believe him? How did she know he had not been sent here to trick her in some way, to make her confess that she was, indeed, a witch? Burned at the stake. The very thought sent a shiver of dread down her spine. 'Twas a horrible way to die.