RIPPLES THROUGH TIME
Rosalie Stanton
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
RIPPLES THROUGH TIME
Copyright © 2010 by Rosalie Stanton
E-book ISBN: 1-60601-741-1
First E-book Publication: March 2010
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2010 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
Letter from Rosalie Stanton
Regarding Ebook Piracy
Dear Readers,
If you have purchased a copy of this book from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.
For those who read this book for free or for a membership or auctioned price, this book is considered stolen property.
For all the wonderful gifts the Internet has given us, it has likewise made the theft of intellectual property a common trade. Thirty years ago, a writer couldn’t have envisioned their work being made available with a few clicks on a computer, much less the threat that a novel over which they labored being exchanged at pirate or illegal download sites. However, with all the advantages the twenty-first century has given us, it has likewise opened a backroom market that makes victims of the new generation of writers.
Receiving a publishing contract for the first time is an indescribable feeling. The outlining, the planning, the self-doubt, the writing and rewriting, the feedback you’ve sought from friends and family has amounted to something, and you’re about to enter a brave new world about which you’ve only previously dreamed. Flash forward a few months. Your novel has been released to the public, and you quickly discover that while many people have the integrity to purchase your work the honest way, there are those who have such little respect for you and common decency as a whole that they buy one copy of your book, then rip your work and upload it to pirate sites. If that isn’t enough, many Internet pirates become belligerent when confronted, insisting theirs is a victimless crime or that it is their First Amendment rights in a free society.
They couldn’t be more wrong. The First Amendment doesn't mean the freedom to steal someone else’s intellectual property. A free society doesn't mean it's OK to steal someone else's intellectual property. Stealing is stealing, whether it’s slipping an unpaid book into your bag in a bookstore or downloading an unpaid copy over the Internet. A writer’s work is copyrighted intellectual property that belongs to the writer. Many authors who are victimized by Internet theft aren’t wealthy; many writers have a day job, one that actually pays the bills and puts food on the table. Many authors struggle in a harsh economy and turn to writing as a much needed escape. After investing so much into a story, after pouring so much of oneself into an expression of creativity, the least authors expect is for readers to be respectful of the process.
I apologize to my honest readers who have to read through this letter. Thank you sincerely to all the wonderful readers who honor authors by purchasing our work. We appreciate you.
With deep gratitude,
Rosalie Stanton
DEDICATION
For Kimmie.
Thank you.
RIPPLES THROUGH TIME
ROSALIE STANTON
Copyright © 2010
Prologue
Home Office of the High Council, 2005
He wouldn’t stop pacing. Up and down the stretch of carpet he went, back and forth, countless times, stopping every few steps to toss a furtive glance to the closed doors. It wasn’t often she saw him so unglued.
“I want to go over it again,” he said.
Raven Rayne tried and failed to keep from rolling her eyes. The past few days had consisted of nothing but her surrogate brother worrying over a big fuss of nothing. Sure, she understood what a big day it was for him. No one had ever been appointed a Guardian of One of the Few at his age. Youth carried with it the burden of perceived irresponsibility, and though Dexter Bartlett was one of the most responsible, if not the most responsible person she’d ever met, his boyish charm served as an Achilles heel. Guardians were the link between the Few and death. They protected them, trained them, and for all intents and purposes, existed as the only family they had. Inexperienced Guardians made for unprepared warriors, and though the Few weren’t in short supply, there were still a whole lot more baddies than good guys. At any rate, it was the Guardian who kept his or her ward from meeting the business end of death, and entrusting the life of a warrior into someone so young was commonly perceived as a huge mistake.
Dexter only had a four year advantage on her, and though at twenty he’d more than exceeded the expectations of the High Council, he still had to prove himself as an effective teacher. He had to prove himself worthy of the Council, and of the Few.
So, naturally, he wanted to go over the highlights of what the High Council would ask her. Just as naturally, Raven thought he needed to take a chill pill.
“There’s no need to go over it again,” she replied, swinging her legs under her chair. The hallway outside the High Council chambers was long and drafty, coated with crimson red carpet and adorned with paintings and artifacts valuable enough to pay for an Ivy League education for all of lower Manhattan. The entryway to the chambers themselves had a gothic revival feel, ornately decorated and well-maintained. It seemed impossible to fathom that anyone actually worked within these walls day after day.
Raven supposed she should be more nervous than she felt, but in all honesty, she didn’t think they had anything to worry about. Dexter had been her teacher since she was ten in some capacity or another. Guardianship was something of a family tradition in the Bartlett household, a duty passed on from father to son and so forth. Initially, the High Council had assigned Dexter’s father as Raven’s Guardian, but it quickly became apparent that as his father’s protégé, a chip off the old block, Dexter was better suited to meet Raven’s academic needs. They were closer in age, had a better rapport, and it was easier for her to take o
rders from someone she got along with. Authority figures and the Few had a shaky relationship as it was, and Raven hadn’t been the easiest child to manage.
Dexter’s assignment to Raven had initially stood on the grounds that his father would monitor their progress until such a time when he felt the position could be finalized. The High Council had resisted, of course. Change came slowly for most aged establishments. Yet here they stood. In a few crucial minutes, those ornate doors would open, and the High Council would determine whether or not Dexter’s stead as Raven’s Guardian was permanent.
It didn’t matter what they decided. Raven would work for Dexter or no one at all. End of story.
Dexter tossed another glance to the door. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, we’re going over it again.”
Raven sighed dramatically, her shoulders slumping. “You don’t know how to relax, do you?”
“I balance my checkbook for fun sometimes.”
“That’s not relaxing.”
“You say tomato.” When it seemed he was convinced the door wouldn’t open the second he tore his eyes away, he turned to face her fully. “From the top.”
“No way.”
“Raven—”
“Not the numbers, Dex. I know those numbers backwards and forwards. Dates, times, the full shebang. I’m not going over it again.” Raven crossed her arms. “You know I got this in the bag.”
He studied her for a minute before nodding. “All right. You’re right. We skip the numbers.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You memorize dates and times, that’s fine. They expect that. But in there’s not the same as out here. Something you know right now might not be something you know in a few minutes. You have no idea how intimidating they are.” Dexter shuddered, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I know you know the numbers, so we’ll go over the stuff it’s easy to stumble over. Who are The Few?”
Raven blinked at him. “I’d really hope I wouldn’t stumble over that.”
“So would I, but we’re going over it anyway. Textbook answers are fine as long as you know them.”
She stared at him a minute longer before exhaling deeply and shaking her head. “We’re really doing this?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
No, he looked like a schoolmaster with no sense of fun. She hated that look.
“The Few are warriors selected from birth to protect this world from evil uglies that go bump in the night.”
Dexter’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe a little more textbook.”
“They also have these lame things called Guardians.”
“Raven….”
She rolled her eyes again. “I’m cooperating.”
He looked doubtful. “Selected how?”
“Lottery ticket?”
Dexter scowled, and her hands came up.
“Usually by blood, passed down paternally.” Raven turned her eyes heavenward and waved at the ceiling. “Thanks so much for that, Dad.”
This time, he ignored her. It seemed the wisest decision. “Why can’t The Few interact with each other?”
“Energy drain. Big time. We become weak and cranky, and way easy to kill.”
“Why?”
“Because our energy is connected. What I have is what he has is what she has is what he has. That much concentration in one area leads to a power outage, and not one we recover from easily.”
He nodded. “Right.”
“It’s also the reason we can’t be with our folks.” The reason she couldn’t remember hers. As an infant, the power of the Few was barely detectable, but once matured it would have rendered her father damn near immobile. Her parents had held onto her as long as they could, but eventually they’d handed her over to the High Council. In the long run, Raven figured it didn’t matter. She couldn’t miss people she’d never known.
As it was, her father still had a duty to fulfill. He couldn’t be bothered to raise a child.
“Talk to me about vampires.”
Raven met Dexter’s eyes and shrugged a shoulder. “Dead things,” she said. “With fangs.”
“The rules?”
“Aside from don’t feed them after midnight?” She grinned when he made a face. “You’re funny when you’re grumpy.”
“Don’t test me. Let’s just go over it. How do you kill them?”
She nodded and wiggled a bit in her seat. “Stake and sunlight.”
“And the bodies?”
“Sunlight incinerates, so just make sure they get left where the sun can reach them. Also, if you get them with holy water, they go poof.” Raven’s brow furrowed. “Never figured out why, though.”
“It’s not really known why, but some in the High Council think it has to do with demons being from Hell and holy water being, well, holy.” He frowned. “What about the other rules? Reflection?”
“Don’t have one.”
“Can they enter a place uninvited?”
“Demons aren’t exactly polite in terms of personal space, so they’re not going to wait for permission before barging in.”
Dexter nodded. “And coffins?”
“Not used unless the vamp in question is really old fashioned.”
“All right. One more question.”
Raven threw her head back. “Thank God.”
“What is the single most important blood bond a vampire can form with another?”
No hesitation. “A claim.”
A soft, companionable silence settled between them. Dexter looked at her, then turned to look at the door again. His body remained tight with tension, but Raven sensed his immediate concerns were appeased.
“All right,” he said softly.
“All right?”
“I don’t think we have anything to worry about.” He said it as though trying to convince himself, though she knew he meant it.
It was a big day for both of them.
“I could’ve told you that, doofus.”
Dexter met her eyes again and allowed a soft grin, but whatever retort lay waiting on his tongue was stolen by the sound of a door opening behind him.
Mirth vanished in that second. Raven rose somberly to her feet.
It was time.
Chapter 1
Colonial New Hampshire, 1701
She knew not to do anything without salt. Salt was invaluable. Salt bade witches away. Salt shielded hallowed grounds. Salt stood as the only mineral of the earth that offered pure, unadulterated protection. She knew, then, to encircle herself in salt before conjuring a demon.
Even with the High Council in her corner, salt might well be the only thing that could hope to keep her alive.
The circle of salt would not protect her if she had just any weapon in hand. Salt required a tacit contract of pacifism. She could leave the book open and on the table beside her sacred circle, but she could not bring it into the circle itself. No, save for the clothing on her back and the ritualistic dagger needed for the sacrifice, nothing synthetic could enter the circle.
Ravenna Mal felt so alone here—in her Guardian’s abandoned cottage, surrounded by the very symbols that had betrayed her. She’d stopped weeping if only out of exhaustion, her tears rubbing skin raw. Her eyes ached from crying. If she paused, if she allowed reality to catch up with her, she was certain the rest of her would break.
He was gone. He was gone.
Resolution hardened her veins.
Nothing is ever set in stone.
The thought only offered a blink of peace. No matter how many dimensions she battled, no matter what sacred part of herself she had to forfeit, she knew nothing in the world could eradicate the sensation of the ghost of his hand against her cheek.
Don’t cry, sweet girl. Don’t cry.
Ravenna shook hard, her trembling hands struggling to light the first of her three candles. Her vision blurred with tears, a storm of sobs crashing against her chest without hint of warning. The air around her thickened, humid after the recent rain
fall. She felt flogged with the weight of premonition and bereft with the pain of loss.
If she stopped—if her thoughts caught up with her—she wouldn’t function. She would dissolve completely.
“I c-call thee,” she muttered softly, her voice trembling against the still breath of night, “oh spirit of shadows, giver of darkness. I beseech you to heed my prayer.” She expelled a deep breath and raised her left hand to her eyes, swallowing hard before applying the blade in her other hand to her wrist. “I offer blood for your mercy.” It didn’t hurt too badly. One little flick of the knife and a dark crimson line stretched across her skin. She blinked hard and twisted her arm until the cut faced the floor, then pressed her thumb against the incision to encourage drops of blood to spill onto the wooden planks below.
Physical pain was secondary. She was no stranger to bleeding.
“I swear upon the fates,” she continued, turning her wounded wrist back toward her eyes so that she gazed at her open hand. She inhaled sharply and pressed the tip of the blade against her roughened palm, and carved an upside-down crucifix into her flesh. “To honor my vow. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
She shivered and turned to face northwest. “Paimon, King of Hell, servant of the Legion, I beckon you. Appear before me.”
There was nothing for a long minute aside from the chirping of crickets outside the cottage doors. She didn’t know what to expect. This was, of course, her first demon summoning, the only one she had or suspected she would ever attempt. A hysterical scream in her head forewarned that she would regret her actions, but the part of her that cared had died alongside her lover. The part of her that cared had abandoned her, along with every other human comfort.
Kenneth Mal, her Guardian, had betrayed her. The townspeople would have her head if they knew she had returned to her Guardian’s home. Kenneth had betrayed her. He was dead now, a victim of his own deceit.
But he’d taken Nicolai with him.
Nicolai.
Losing her soul mattered little against these odds. It was the only thing of value she had left.
A great, thunderous roar pierced the air, reverberating through the walls and sending shock waves under her feet. Ravenna cried out in surprise and stumbled back, her legs nearly tripping over the protective circle of salt. Blind panic speared her veins, and she seized control of herself before her emotions spilled into pure terror. A blink of nothing passed before the entry to the Mal home burst open with a great gale of wind, a tall, solitary figure silhouetting the doorway.
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