by Michele Hauf
For a moment the bartender hesitated, and Nolan could see the decision revolving behind his eyes. Then he pulled his hand from his pocket and shoved it toward Nolan. "This. She left you this. Take it and leave!"
The vial Sarina had worn around her neck fell from his fingers and onto Nolan's palm. With a harried glance, the man shoved his gun into his pants and scurried for the safety of his bar.
Nolan didn't watch him leave; he barely noticed that he had. He just stared at the vial and wondered at what it meant.
A soul. Sarina had given him a soul. Elation and warmth shot through him. Then he closed his fingers around the glass, and his emotion changed.
Not a soul...her soul.
Sarina had sacrificed her soul for him.
Dawn was approaching. Nolan had been at sea for six days. This sunrise would mark his seventh. His eyes burned from sleeping on deck in the day, and his skin itched from the salt still coating his body after his time under the sea with Sarina.
After he'd realized what the mermaid had given him, he had forced his body to stand and follow the bartender. Then he'd used his built up hunger and exhaustion to show the man how intimidating a preternatural creature could be.
The bartender hadn't even reached for his gun. Instead, eyes wide and face pale, he'd babbled every bit of trivia and lore he'd collected about mermaids, including how to find them.
In the distance, silhouetted by the rising sun, Nolan could see the island he sought. The bit of land was covered in rocks, no sign of a sandy beach or a tree, but jutting from the water around it were hulls and masts of ships long ago wrecked and their sailors taken.
Taken by mermaids, harvested, according to the bartender in the mermaids' never-ending quest for souls.
Sarina's soul safe in a silver box, Nolan walked to the front of his small vessel and waited.
Slowly, as he approached, the mermaids came. Only a few at first, brunettes and blondes, red-heads and a few with silver or green hair that glistened like some exotic precious metal in the gathering light.
All were attractive, but none were as beautiful as Sarina.
The mermaids circled his boat, confused, he guessed, by his presence but obvious lack of a soul.
As more mermaids appeared, the water beneath the boat shifted. Nolan widened his stance to maintain his balance and continued to scan the growing group of mermaids.
According to the bartender, the mermaids couldn't touch him or his vessel, like vampires they had to be invited aboard—more than that—invited to touch him. And there was only one mermaid he would give that permission.
Another half an hour he waited. The sun was up now and strong enough Nolan was forced to pull sunglasses and a hat from a duffel.
She wasn't coming. His presence alone wasn't enough. A bit of him died, but he wouldn’t give up hope; he couldn’t.
Kneeling, he dug into the duffel again, pulled two softened chunks of wax from inside and placed them into his ears.
Then he opened the box.
Immediately, the mermaids began to rise out of the water and sing. They bared their breasts, held out their arms and tossed their hair. It was enough to get any male of any species to step off the boat and into the water, to give up his life...his soul...for just the brush of one mermaid's finger.
Enough, that is, for most, but not Nolan. With his ears plugged and his heart taken, he looked over the alluring bodies with the cold clinical eye of a computer tech searching for a missing piece of code.
And then he saw her.
She rose out of the water like the others, her hair flowing over her shoulders and her lips curved in a smile.
Only, Nolan, knowing the real Sarina, could see the cold death behind her eyes and the robotic lack of caring in her movements.
Still, his pulse jumped, and it took all his self-control to keep from jumping overboard into the mass of undulating mermaid forms.
His eyes never leaving Sarina's, he pulled the chain that held her soul from the box and held the precious piece over his head. "Sarina!" he called. "Come for me."
And she did. She pushed the mermaids closest to her out of her path, then sliced through the water with her arms. At the boat, she looked up at him. Water slicked back her hair and glistened on her breasts.
"Human," she whispered.
"Nolan," he replied. "Say my name, Sarina."
Her hand reached up to take his, but he stepped back. "My name."
Her brows lowered and confusion flitted across her face. "You called me."
"My name. Say it." He didn't know why he needed her to say his name. Perhaps it was to prove that even minus her soul, she could remember him, love him as deeply as he loved her.
To prove that neither of them—soul or no soul—was a monster.
"Nolan," she whispered, then placing her hands onto the boat's edge, she lifted her body up. As she rose, her face changed; her mouth opened and her teeth sharpened. Not just fangs, teeth...like a piranha's.
He didn't pull back. He didn't feel any horror. She was still his, still everything he loved. "Sarina. Say it again," he ordered, stepping back again and hiding the soul behind his back.
She shook her head as if trying to dislodge some thought or nightmare. "Nolan," she muttered. "Nolan...the vampire...the man I...."
Her face crumpled, and she fell limp into the boat. She curled into a ball, shaking.
A trick. It's what the bartender would have claimed, but Nolan knew better. She remembered him.
He rushed forward and pulled her close. Her face was hers again; the monster was gone. Her fingers tightened on his arm, but her eyes remained closed, screwed tight as if she was afraid to open them.
Carefully, he slipped the necklace over her neck and let her soul fall down against her heart. Then he tipped her face up to his and stared into her now open, beautiful sea-green eyes.
"I don't need to be what I was. I don't need a soul," he murmured. "Not if you can love me as I am."
"But..." Her fingers went to the vial. "I would have killed you, dragged you to the bottom of the sea and torn out your heart. I...wanted to."
"But you didn't."
"But—"
"You didn't." It was enough. He didn't expect perfection, didn't expect the impossible. Her loving him at all, accepting him, was miracle enough.
"The sea hag has more souls," he told her. "Enough for all the mermaids here."
"You would go back? Risk being captured again?"
"I would." For Sarina he would risk anything...everything.
"I love you," she whispered. "I shouldn't, but I do."
"And I love you."
Then he pulled her close, and he kissed her.
One soul, one life, one love—nothing could be better than what they had, together.
###
Cruel Enchantment
Michele Hauf
Chapter One, Cruel Enchantment
Bree kicked and screamed and clawed. The powerful men wrangling her added their own share of hissing and swearing as they moved her from a van toward a dark building. One cried out at the pain she inflicted with slashing fingernails.
Kidnapped from the back lot of the strip club where she worked, Sabrina Kriss hadn’t seen the three men coming until it was too late. Normally, she got along with werewolves. These bruisers were trying that relationship. Whatever they wanted her for, she wasn’t about to make it easy.
Aware they were moving her into a dark room, she kicked blindly. Something tender crunched under her spike heel. She hoped it was a pair of gonads. Fingernails cutting through her captor’s flesh, she shouted and spat, and—
Suddenly, she was free. Shoved, stumbling forward across a hard cement floor. The door slammed shut. Utter darkness surrounded her.
Bree spun and beat her fists against the metal door. Not iron but some kind of cheap tin. Iron would weaken her. Stupid werewolves.
“Let me out! What the hell is going on?”
She pounded the door until her fists a
ched. Pressing her forehead to the dented metal, she huffed. Heartbeats pounded faster than a heavy metal guitar solo. Nasty-smelling wolf blood coated her fingertips.
This was not happening. She would not allow a bunch of werewolves to harm her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she fought against releasing a mournful cry. She was tougher than that. Besides, crying would get her nowhere.
A clink disturbed the air behind her.
Bree swung about, slapping her palms against the door behind her. “Who’s there?”
The metallic noise had sounded distinctly like chains. Now they clattered as if being pulled through a heavy ring. A deep male groan accompanied the commotion.
Impossible to press her shoulders any tighter to the door. She couldn’t see who or what was chained, but sensed it was male by the baritone groan.
Did her captors think to feed her to a hungry wolf? Made little sense. For the most part, wolves got along with her kind. Werewolves didn’t eat faeries, nor did they drink their blood—though they were partial to fresh rabbit.
Another growl rumbled from the man’s throat. She didn’t know what was chained perhaps twenty feet from her. He wasn't human, for she perceived his distinctive aura of something other. Humans did not give out such peculiar vibes.
Her sensory perception bounced off the walls, determining the room was small, perhaps the size of the huge kitchen in her St. Paul loft. The air was stifling, and the smell—
For the love of Herne, now that her anxiety had begun to settle the scent crept into her nostrils unbidden. Blood, and lots of it. Neither fresh, nor stale. She wiped her fingers over her dress, but there was little werewolf blood. She wanted to sneeze from the acrid pinch the odor delivered her sinuses. And punctuating that odor, a salty male scent she recognized as exertion, perspiration—and heightened arousal.
Overhead, an electronic buzz preceded a blinding flash. Ultraviolet lights whitened the room painfully. Bree squinted, but didn’t take her eyes from the creature before her.
He strained against the chains, using his shoulders, as his wrists were bound before him by manacles. Tight, rock hard muscles pulsed his abs as he struggled to get closer to her. Jaw tense and neck thick with strain, he groaned, sweat dribbling along his limbs.
His eyes were bloodshot. His mouth was open, stretched wide to reveal—
“Fangs. Oh hell.” Bree’s leg muscles gave out. Her body slumped against the door. “A vampire.”
She didn't fear vampires. And she had a habit of getting along with most in the paranormal nations because she believed in treating others the way she wished to be treated in return. But seeing the man's fangs now clued her to where she'd been taken.
Some werewolf packs practiced the macabre sport of pitting blood-starved vampires against one another. For weeks, they kept their unfortunate charges chained under UV lights, which rendered them sick and weak. Later, when put into a cage with another vampire, the opponents fought to the death, desperate for the healing blood.
This vampire didn’t look weak. But he didn’t look eager for a friendly chat, either.
Why had they brought her here?
Another growl and he gnashed his teeth. The chained vampire rasped, “Hungry.”
“This must be some kind of sick joke.”
Bree slid along the wall, palms flat against the cool cinder blocks. The position anchored her, and, for the moment, enhanced a feeling of safety. But it was a false feeling, not a tangible guarantee. The chained vampire could get to her if he tugged those bolts from the steel plates secured to the floor.
“Come to me,” he growled.
The vampire lowered his head, yet looked up at her. Eyes dark as hell entreated, but instead of making her feel warm and sensual, a shiver traced Bree’s neck. A shiver of…recognition?
Her heart stopped for so long she noticed it. Bree slapped a palm over her chest. Then her pulse started rampaging. Something in the vampire's gaze…
"Can't be. No. No way."
Her mother had told her that some day she would find her Intended, the one man meant for her, and that her heart would recognize him before she did. She'd given up on ever finding that man in Faery and had left for the mortal realm years ago, only to be further disappointed by the male offerings this realm put forth.
"No. Not a vampire. That would be so wrong."
But her heart stuttered. It spoke to her in a whisper, He is yours.
A vampire, her Intended? A ridiculous match to comprehend.
A vampire bite wasn’t awful. She’d been bitten once. Never saw the creep again. So much for one night stands. But faeries and vampires did not mix for one reason—her ichor would prove addictive to the vampire. And if this guy didn’t know what she was, she didn’t want to be the one to spring on him that his snack could do more nasty to him than another UV sickened vampire could.
Nor must she tell him she suspected he was her Intended. She had to be wrong. What she saw in his eyes was hunger.
So why did your heart stop beating? And why are your shoulders tingling right now? As if preparing to unloose her wings.
Bree rubbed her shoulder against the wall, attempting to distract the tingle with a new sensation. The wolves must have put her here to further torment the poor creature with the possibility of a wicked addiction.
“Chill.” She held out a hand before her to placate.
The vampire snarled, revealing bold white fangs.
“Listen, buddy, you don’t think that razor charm is going to win you a bite, do you?”
The chains clanked. The manacles about his wrists were medieval, thick enough to contain him. But, oh, his wrists bled. He’d been straining at the cuffs too long.
Bree bit her lip. She would not succumb to the frustrating inner desire to protect and make better. But a homeless man nestled in an alleyway or a woman standing by a car with a flat tire? She was all over the situation. And what if he really was her Intended? She couldn't allow him to suffer.
“So…hungry.” His voice was hoarse. He must have been here a while. It took weeks for a vampire to crave blood, to starve from it. But if the wolves kept him under UV lights, that sped the process. “Please.”
“What’s your name?”
Keeping one eye on the vampire, Bree stretched her gaze along the ceiling. In the far corner a green LED blinked. They were watching. “Listen, buddy, how long have you been in here? If you give me a name, I’ll tell you mine.”
Yeah, make nice. Food wasn’t as appealing if you knew its name, right?
“Too long.” He swung about and lunged against the wall. Bloody palms slapped the cinder blocks, leaving smeared tracks. He beat the ungiving surface and pounded his shoulder against it.
“Stop it!" She couldn’t bear to watch him hurt himself. Maybe he’d settle if she talked to him. And hopefully a chat would distract her from the pining ache between her shoulder blades. "Listen to me.”
Like she expected to cure him of horrible torture through talk? Oh, Bree.
“My name’s Sabrina. Bree. Those bastards kidnapped me and tossed me in here. Yeah, you guys.” She flipped the camera the bird. “They must be waiting for a show. Which, they won’t get. I work for real solid cash,” she commented again to the camera. “No freebie here, boys.”
Oh, Sabrina, don’t make them angry. For all she knew there was a release button for the chains. If she pissed off the wrong werewolf, they’d set the longtooth free to devour her.
Could he recognize what she was to him? No, the sidhe were able to recognize their Intended, but it generally did not work in tandem, since the Intended could be anyone, sidhe, paranormal, or even mortal.
“Need blood!” He lunged for her, fingers clawed. The chains stopped him short and he landed on his knees and slipped in his own blood. Sprawled, he shouted. “The light!” Tucking his head down, his whole body arced into a protective fetal curve.
She scanned the walls. No light switch. Hands to her hips, Bree approached the camera and spoke to the silent wa
tchers. “What the hell? Are you all insane? What did I ever do to you? And for that matter, what’s his crime?”
The rush of air at her back clued her she’d stepped too close to danger. The vampire groped in the air, straining. Spinning about, she settled at the wall beneath the camera.
The lights went out. The brilliant afterglow danced on her retinas. The scramble of chains and limbs alerted her. Emboldened by darkness, he lunged, and she could feel his hot breath upon her ankles.
She wouldn’t move. The last thing she wanted to do was treat him like a thing or show him that she was frightened. He needed compassion.
“Rev,” he said, panting.
“Your name? Thanks. I hate seeing you in pain, Rev. More so, I hate to give those bastard werewolves the sick show they’re jonesing for." She softened her voice, unsure if the wolves could also hear them. "But you have to know something. Even if I were willing, you wouldn’t want to bite me. Oh no…”
Her wings shivered, pulling at her shoulder muscles. Must be some sort of involuntary reaction to her Intended. She did not want this to happen…
“Yes. Blood," he gasped. "Need it. Won’t…harm you.”
He was going to learn the truth, whether she liked it or not.
“Rev, I don’t have any blood to give you. I’ve ichor in my veins.”
Her wings sprang free at her back, unfurling and fluttering to their full length.
Chapter Two
The lights flashed back on and Rev coiled forward, protecting his eyes. But the flash of the woman he'd gotten before he'd recoiled had not been good. Wings?
They’d tossed a freaking ichor-laced faery in with him. That was worse than the UV light that burned his eyes and made his skin crawl with a million insects. Worse than two weeks of starvation—if it had been two weeks. Rev thought so, but had lost count after day seven or eight.
Straining at the manacles, he no longer winced at the pain of iron tearing through his flesh. The throbbing had become a distraction from the light, replacing one agony with another.
