“I didn’t think—” she started to say, and then stopped herself. He didn’t want to hear her whimpering and her pandering. This would be her last chance to say the things she wanted to say. She should not waste it. “I can't say I understand your feelings, or your hatred. You are wrong when you say I never cared about you. I’ve always needed you. And I’ve always loved you.” She reached her hand out and touched his arm. He looked at her hand the way he might look at a mosquito that had the audacity to land on him.
“Whether you do or not is irrelevant,” he snapped. She dropped her hand. “I almost hate myself as much as I hate you. It’s my own fault for loving you so fucking much. It’s not natural.”
Oh, Nic, why did you have to say it out loud? Why couldn’t we have gone our whole lives without addressing our feelings? Now they can never be unsaid.
“Please don’t go,” she croaked, but the plea was weak. There was nothing she could say, after that admission. I love you, but not like that. I need you, but not the way you need me.
For a moment his eyes were filled with the warmth she had known from him her whole life. But as quickly, the tenderness was gone. “I can’t. And I won’t.”
Nicolas turned and left without another word.
She sat on the hospital bed and sobbed, emotions flooding her. The tears came with short, choking sobs, and she gripped the bed frame, struggling for breath. The control she had always held so dearly was escaping her entirely, and was replaced by the first real emotional pain she had ever known.
You are not going to play dumb with me. Those words had driven a wedge between them that was bigger than any imagined betrayal. It’s my own fault for loving you so fucking much. It’s not natural.
Ana would not dwell on his words. She could spend hours dissecting their meaning, but the truth would leave her emptier than she felt watching him walk away, and out of her life. And if she was honest with herself, she had always known the truth.
How much of her life had she given up, in order to live in the comfort of his unconditional love? How many experiences? How many relationships? It is not your fault, Nic. It is mine. I chose this path because it was easier to be loved by the wrong person than to be hurt by the right one.
A ray of sunlight splashed through the dark storm clouds, penetrating the grimy window to light up the floor near her feet. The light danced and sparkled on the cold linoleum, as the clouds moved across the sky.
She stared at the dancing patterns for a while, focusing on the details. Her tongue found the roof of her mouth, and her toes curled tightly in her tennis shoes. Breathe, Muffins.
For the first time in my life, I am entirely on my own. Ana never realized how much she relied on Nicolas to keep her stable, and secure. How she had taken for granted not only his presence, but his unwavering support and loyalty.
I never want to rely on another person that much ever again.
Ana continued to watch the light flood the room, and as the clouds left the sky, so they also left her thoughts. I am my father’s daughter.
Slowly, her control was restored. Her breathing calmed, her heart stopped skipping, and the heat in her face subsided.
Jon popped his head into the door. He pushed Finn in a wheelchair, and his passenger was smiling at her. His eyes were filled with love, but also with understanding and acceptance.
“You ready?” Jon asked.
I am ready to leave the past behind and start a new life. To make up for my mistakes by giving myself, selflessly.
In letting me go, Nicolas may have given me the greatest gift.
Ana smiled. She took a deep breath, standing straighter, Finn’s bag of clothes tucked under one arm.
Yes, she was ready.
THE STORM AND THE DARKNESS was the prequel to The House of Crimson & Clover series. Dive into the secretive, ancient powerful world of the Deschanels and Sullivans in this bestselling Paranormal Southern Gothic saga that New York Times Bestselling Author Christopher Rice calls “modern gothic with fierce smarts.” EXCLUSIVE OFFER: For a free Crimson & Clover e-book of your choice, sign up for my newsletter.
SHATTERED
The House of Crimson & Clover Series Prequel
The follow-up to THE STORM AND THE DARKNESS
Think you know the story of Ana, Finn, and Jon? Guess again.
See SHATTERED here!
* * *
About Sarah M. Cradit
Sarah is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Paranormal Southern Gothic series, The House of Crimson & Clover, born of her combined passion for New Orleans, and the mysterious complexity of human nature. Her work has been described as rich, emotive, and highly dimensional.
An unabashed geek, Sarah enjoys studying obscure subjects like the Plantagenet and Ptolemaic dynasties, and settling debates on provocative Tolkien topics such as why the Great Eagles are not Gandalf's personal taxi service. Passionate about travel, Sarah has visited over twenty countries collecting sparks of inspiration (though New Orleans is where her heart rests). She's a self-professed expert at crafting original songs to sing to her very patient pets, and a seasoned professional at finding ways to humiliate herself (bonus points if it happens in public). When at home in Oregon, her husband and best friend, James, is very kind about indulging her love of fast German cars and expensive lattes.
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INDIGO DAWN
by Elle J Rossi
* * *
Chapter One
Josie
Somebody is going to die tonight.
“Oh, lucky me. It’s Josie. I see you’ve joined the living.”
I stop and squint into the dark interior of Wolfie’s, where I tend bar five nights a week and sometimes on Sunday. Annoyance wraps its prickly arms around me, instantly changing my mood from thoughtful to combative. Perhaps the cocky bartender has a death wish. So what if I’m a little late tonight and didn’t show up for work last night? I don’t have to explain my reasons or whereabouts to this knob. At least I’m here now. Sore, but here. As for the living part, I can’t really claim to be completely alive—not in the human sense of the word—but no chance will I be sharing that bit of juice with the tool behind the bar. The less he knows the better. Same goes for most of the general population.
Ignorance is bliss. Especially this time of year. Ostara—the Spring Equinox—is one of only two times a year when light equals dark. When the secluded lore creatures come out of hiding to wreak havoc on the innocent. When daywalkers and nightwalkers co-exist for a full twenty-four hours. A recipe for disaster, also known as: My Busiest Season.
Even now, I’m scanning the crowd, alert and ready to protect. Humans are so unassuming, so blasé when it comes to their safety. In their defense, they don’t know what lurks around the dark corners at night. I do, and it isn’t pretty.
I’m Josie Hawk.
I’m a killer. Literally. Technically I’m classified as a huntress (even though I’m only a half-breed), but the ultimate outcome of any given hunt is death. Be it by hand or weapon—I prefer blades with blinged-out handles. It isn’t easy, but it’s who I am. My father taught me how to hunt and how to live. My mother, God rest her soul, taught me how to love fiercely. But then she died and took most of that love with her. The fierce part I kept though. I hold it close, like a baby clutches a blanket, security in the purest sense. If I’m fierce, I’m alive. If I’m alive, I can hunt. And if I can hunt, I can protect the people of my city.
To most, I’m just another bartender in another bar. Friendly enough, even if a little off with my over the top opinions and fashion choices. I don’t mind being off. I suppose some killers might prefer to blend, become part of the scenery. Not me. I prefer to be the brightest flower in the bunch. The red rose stashed in a white bouquet. The lone neon sign on the dark street.
As I sashay by in my zombie stompers and ripped fishnets, I try hard not to limp from my recently injured ankle, because let’s face it, limping tota
lly ruins the whole sashay effect.
But I can’t be that flashy all the time. Not when I’m hunting. The time between last call and dawn, I become part of the shadows, part of the night. I spend so many hours there, it’s no wonder I prefer the spotlight in my off time.
It’s a little quiet in Wolfie’s tonight, and that has the fine hairs on my arms standing on end. A quiet country-western bar is like a hamburger joint with no fries. I quickly note the lack of a band. They must be running late. Not cool. I’ll need to make a phone call and get a replacement if they don’t show up soon. For the life of me, I can’t remember who I had scheduled to play tonight. I did schedule someone, didn’t I? This whole Ostara business has my mind muddled, and I don’t like it.
“Nice outfit, by the way,” Tool Boy says before averting his attention to a rag and the bar, rubbing the pungent cleanser in circles and then wiping it away.
My squint turns into an eye roll and I know I’ll never be able to stop the words that are only a breath away from tumbling out of my mouth. I have the habit of throwing sarcasm more often than a pitcher throws a ball in the World Series. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth while I run my finger across the gleaming oak.
“Yeah, go ahead and polish your wood, Wes.” I arch a brow. “You’re really good at it.” His eyes widen and I know I’ve hit a mark. I’m not usually this combative with him. Maybe now he’ll back off. Personally, I rather like tonight’s attire. After waking from the longest stretch of sleep I’ve had in six months, I took an even longer shower before carefully choosing my ensemble. I paired a white tee embellished with ropey chains with a black tutu. Chances are, the chains will come in handy at some point in the night. The glittery earrings I’d added as a pick-me-up. Anything to add some sparkle to my dark world.
Wes mumbles “bitch” under his breath and quickly turns away. I couldn’t care less and don’t even bother to reprimand him. The small crowd in the bar whoops with laughter, encouraging the caustic banter.
Attention seeker that I am, I drop my messenger bag, hop up on the bar, curtsy to the crowd and tip my black cowboy hat to a snarling Wes, who practically has smoke coming out of his ears.
After the last bit of applause echoes and fades, I allow a man in jeans and flannel to help me off the bar. Even though I catch him looking up my skirt and frowning when he sees the frilly bloomers beneath rather than the anticipated skin, I blow him a kiss and offer him my hat. He winks, takes the hat and puts it on his head, pulling it low over his brow. The exchange with Wes flees my mind quicker than a deer sprinting into the woods. He really isn’t worth the effort.
A current ripples through the air. No one notices but me. Something about this Ostara is different, though I can’t quite put my finger on what has caused the shift. Somehow the nasties are seeping through the cracks two days earlier than they should be. This does not bode well. How many times do I have to beg the Assembly—the governing council of all lore—to form a committee to negotiate a peaceful alliance between the light and dark creatures? I’ve busted my ass to make it happen, trying to prove to the Assembly that I can lead the troops. I want to lead. I need to lead. An answer has not been forthcoming. Their silence—scratch that—their negligence to let me do what needs to be done to protect my city, to protect people like this friendly just-wants-to-enjoy-his-beer-and-have-a-good-time cowboy, eats at my gut like a pack of starved and snarling wolves.
I grab my bag off the stool and head to the back of the bar, smiling to the patrons as I walk by. Recognizing a few regulars seated at the corner table near the soundboard, I force myself to take a few moments to chitchat. Typically, I enjoy talking to people. Tonight, I can’t seem to focus on the conversation for any length of time without eyeing the door for lethal beings. It’s exhausting, but with the help of these friendly people, I somehow manage to forget about the incident from two nights ago—the one that kept me away from Wolfie’s. I even manage to forget about the pain in my ankle and the hours I’d missed while my body recuperated. I am home again.
I love this place. Not just Wofie’s, but this entire city. From the autographed memorabilia adorning the walls of this dark bar, to the Elvis impersonator on the corner of Broadway and Fourth, to the random guitar player on every other corner. Nope. This isn’t Vegas. It’s Nashville, baby. All the way. Music, lights, and really great people. My people. I took a vow to protect the innocent many years ago, and the only way I’ll break that promise is if I get myself killed. I’m not dead yet, though I’ve come close to total lights-out plenty of times.
Being Friday night, I stash my gear under the bar and take a deep breath, readying myself. Though there are only a few people in the bar now, within the hour the place will be packed and Wes and I will have our hands full. I pull my bright red hair into a low pony, and my eyes zero in on the stage again. A quick glance at the clock has me really pissed off that the band hasn’t shown up yet.
Normally, live music plays from noon to two a.m., with band changes every four hours or so. Just now, Alan Jackson is crooning from the overhead speakers and that’s just not good enough. The empty stage reminds me of a ghost town. The platform sits right next to the front door, placed there for space as well as attracting the people off the streets. The entire front wall of Wolfie’s, and every other bar in Nashville, consists of windows. Cheapest marketing out there. And another reason we keep the door open.
Unfortunately, the vamps in the area also consider an open door their invitation in. As long as they keep their fangs to themselves, I’m cool with them. Only once have I had to take someone out back, so to speak. One of us returned. The other? Let’s just say, ash happens and leave it at that.
Damn. I should know what’s up with the band, or lack thereof. I’m supposed to be in charge. Truth is, I’m part owner of this place. Sage Larson, my best friend and the nicest vampire you’ll ever come across, has the other fifty percent stake in Wolfie’s. I love that girl. It has nothing to do with the fact we’re practically mirror images—except she’s a skinny mini with dainty fangs and I’m . . . we’ll just say not so skinny and very unfanged. Actually, we don’t look alike at all. Our connection runs deep for many reasons, but mainly because I know I can trust her and—most importantly—she’ll never leave me.
Not to mention the fact that she forgave me for breaking her brother’s heart. Just thinking of Keller gives me the tingles. The good and bad kind. But that’s history, and history is where Keller will stay even though my body still craves his bite. Technically Sage and Keller aren’t related, but the same sire turned them, and their sibling bond is stronger than if they had shared a womb. Sometimes I’m jealous of their closeness. Most of the time, I’m just happy Sage has a brother who would do anything for her. Anything at all.
“Where’s the band, Wes?” He ignores me and continues stocking the beer cooler as I give him my angry laser stare, minus the laser.
“Wes!”
“Don’t know,” he says over his shoulder, not daring to make eye contact.
I guess he’s decided I won this particular battle. Yay, me. Having crashed for a solid day has really messed with my brain. Normally, details are stored in my brain, which tends to be more organized than any notepad or computer system I’ve ever attempted to use. But not tonight. Even though I’d won, that last hunt really whooped my ass. My brain is throbbing just as much as my blasted ankle. I hate not being in prime condition. But I can’t let my ankle or a killer headache keep me from hunting tonight. I need to be on the streets.
Nasties certainly will be.
Which leads me back to my current issue. The fact that none of the band members have shown up yet gives me a queasy feeling. Musicians in this city are not only talented but very reliable. My instincts tell me something is wrong—like maybe they’re not here because they’re dead—but that could just be me trying to get my bearings back. The fog of sleep still has me under its spell. If I were full huntress, I wouldn’t sleep at all. But since I’m half human, I need
to refuel my energy every now and then.
No band equals loss of revenue. Big time. I close my eyes and lean back against the bar, propping my boot up on a low shelf. The need for more sleep threatens to pull me under, and if it wouldn’t smear my eyeliner, I’d rub the sandpaper from beneath my lids. Popping one eye open and then the other, I bite my lip as an idea takes form. I can fix this. I’ll just hook up the karaoke equipment. Wes’s newly shined bar is about to get boot-scuffed. Like peanut butter and jelly, karaoke and bar dancing are always better together.
I drop my boot to the floor and cringe as sparks of pain shoot up my leg. I transfer all my weight to my right foot. That shifter had really done a number when he’d sunk his canines into my leg. I smile to myself. He paid for it with his life. The smile quickly fades as dark thoughts creep in. Just because that particular beast is dead doesn’t mean the teenage boy he’d sold drugs to won’t find someone else to buy from. Another corner. Another dealer. Innocence forever gone with the purchase of one little package. I don’t like it. Not in my city. I plant both feet firmly on the ground and crack my neck. The next dealer will have to die, too. They all will. One by one.
I shake my head to clear the last bit of sleep fog and turn to the small crowd sitting in the back of the bar. “Karaoke in twenty. Who’s ready to show off their pipes?”
“I’d like to,” a rumbling lilt answers in my ear. Goosebumps instantly cover every square inch of skin on my body. I know that voice. I feel his breath on my neck and I don’t know whether to run or fight.
Four deep breaths and several mental pep talks later, I turn to face a history that is doomed to repeat itself. “Hello, Keller.”
Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 128
