Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1)

by Jeanine Croft

  “It is hopeless then,” she said. “I am forced to be a murderer.”

  “Then be an angel of justice instead.”

  She looked up, intrigued. Like her husband, she could go about hunting a very specific prey and do the world some good by ridding it of wastrels. Yes, that might do very well, indeed. “I suppose I might try. Can vampyres eat witches?”

  “Witch blood is the most delicious blood,” he said, smiling.

  Her mouth filled eagerly.

  “You see, eternal darkness need not be so bland, nor so useless to mankind.”

  “Do you know, I thought I’d miss the sun, but the night world is so beautiful and so rich with color.” She thought back to a sermon she’d heard in London (one that felt like a lifetime ago now) about the Book of Revelation, and the fall of the dragon. Warnings about straying from the light. Yet here she was beneath the heavens, feeling no more evil than the woodworms gnawing through the hull below. No less righteous, for she was on a path bound towards her sister’s rescue.

  The night sky was even lovelier than its sunlit counterpart, the moon still smiled and the falling stars blinked with silent laughter. The ocean too was lit with deep, wonderful fires of its own, no doubt borrowed from the sun that had sunk far below its vast mantle. All around her the sun’s presence remained—there was no such thing as darkness, not really, not in their world; and even the day, she well remembered, was sometimes darkened by clouds. Nothing was exactly one way or another—there was always both at the same time and she’d been desperately naïve to think there was only one way or another—black or white; good or evil; light or dark.

  Mary was right, wisdom was in that grey area that few took the trouble to glimpse. Wisdom was having empathy for that which you didn’t understand. Markus had seen her in her human ignorance and darkness for who she truly was; he really had seen her best in the dark, the dark she now knew not to be what it seemed. “Thank you, Markus,” she said.

  The suddenness of her gratitude pressed a most adorable little wrinkle in his brow. “For what?”

  “For not devouring me that first night in London when you had the chance.”

  He laughed, his wings furling tenderly around her. “Think nothing of it, my love, I have an idea how you might repay me.” With that he lifted her up and plundered her mouth with sweet abandon.

  The hunger in her belly was now an animal of a different kind, her fangs employed in pleasure not death. They remained thus entwined, their bodies flush against one another, as the schooner galloped across the waves towards the Flemish coast and wild beyond.

  But first there would be a wedding night. A woman newly wedded could not be expected to hunt witches when she was so shockingly distracted by needs yet unfulfilled.

  The bow dipped suddenly and leapt up to throw a playful wave across the deck. It fell like a mist across their wet lips. They laughed and kissed the salt from each other’s faces, but were forced to comport themselves as dignitaries when the watchman’s rounds brought him near. Still chuckling, they carefully bestowed their lustful play behind dignified masks and gazed across the greying horizon rushing steadily towards them.

  A horizon upon which she was determined to slake her hunger for witch blood.

  Acknowledgments

  This ambitious little story has gone through more than one rough draft and has taken far longer to write than it should have. Some stories just take forever to tell; and I’m a complete pantser.

  The following book angels have championed it and some have been cheering these characters on since the story’s inception. Without them, I’m not sure Winterly would have emerged from the dank, dark bogs of mental chaos.

  Thank you Britney Hain for always checking in to remind me you were waiting to finish the story.

  Thank you Kissimmee Crum for helping to polish all the rough edges.

  Katrina Cozens, what would I have done without your sharp eyes? Thank you for being my ideal reader!

  Melissa Mitchell, my cheerleader. My bestie! You are the voice of sanity whenever I feel like lynching a story. You are the sounding board to my madness. I love you!

  Kaiah Oseye, while everyone else is out there slaying dragons, you’re that special breed of hawk-eyed human hand feeding them black forest cake; thank you for championing my dragon and helping me to polish his scales.

  Melissa, my beautiful sister. Even though you don’t get much time to read nowadays, I wrote this story for you. I write every story for you.

  And to my fellow bardic book nerds, Megan, Anne & Morgan. A little vampire smut is just the thing to keep the Covid away. Miss your faces! Please don’t wear your covid masks to the next vampyre ball.

  Lastly, to my husband, Josh—thank you for supporting my bad habits—pizza, coffee, and writing into the witching hour. By the way, it’s purely incidental that we named our baby after a cranky werewolf. I love you, Josh.

  About the Author

  Jeanine Croft is an itinerant seaman turned helicopter pilot turned novelist. She currently lives in Charleston with her ball and chain (who can’t decide whether he’s a pirate or a pilot) and their son, Will. She’s been known to have whole conversations with her characters in the shower, which isn’t at all unsettling to her menfolk or the dogs. She’s a lover of penny dreadfuls, fried tofu, and prefers the company of books and animals (except mosquitoes).

  For more books and updates:

  www.jeaninecroft.com