Fire and Fantasy: a Limited Edition Collection of Epic and Urban Fantasy

by CK Dawn

  “Mianna.” His whisper warmed his lips as it pooled against her neck.

  She stirred, and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

  “Cole.” Her sleepy eyes fluttered open but closed as if her lids were too heavy. “Have you been awake long?”

  He smiled as the sound of her voice dispelled his troubles. “A while. How are you feeling?”

  She brushed his long hair with her fingers. “So tired. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.” Her soft voice turned to a mumble. “You couldn’t have given me a better wedding gift but,” she drew a deep breath, “what did it do to me? What does Unsigh mean?”

  Cole blinked his gaze to the side. She doesn’t know what Unsigh means? He peered at her cherubic face. Did she say wedding gift? Realization flushed his senses. The gift returned her memory to our wedding night. We truly are starting our life together over as if it were 1613. And never mind the thirty-two years we enjoyed as a married couple.

  He pulled the comforter up to her chin and then wrapped his arm around her. “Unsigh means one heart, my love. It joins our passion when you create the symbol, a triangle with your fingers and thumbs, then utter the spell. It’s an enchantment only you can call on.”

  “Oh,” she said with a breath. “It’s amazing…really. It’s just…I’m so…”

  As she drifted back into sleep, Cole furrowed his brow in thought. Mianna’s spell had never caused her fatigue.

  A spray of sunlight pitched across his face as it hit the wide dresser mirror. With a scowl, he squinted at the glare and twitched his hand toward the window. The crepe sheers whipped closed followed by a thick swish from the burgundy drapes. The room plunged into darkness. Dim light from the vanity area competed with the beams peeking through the gaps around the window coverings. He heaved a sigh and sat up, resting his arm on his knee.

  Perhaps it was everything she’d been through, and she just needed rest. She’d experienced more trauma in the last week than he had in his sixteen hundred years. Her life as Anna hadn’t been easy—abandonment, loss, and then manipulation by a man whose attention she’d refused. He raked his hand over his scalp. Then, to nearly lose her life while he tried to unbind her soul...

  Cole gazed at the petite form beside him. He shook his head and brushed the dark hair from her face. How could Anna’s features be so similar to Mianna’s? The gentle slope of her nose, the curve of her bowtie lips. He tilted his head and gently stroked her cheek with his finger. Or was it love that colored his view? A smile bent his lips, and he touched his brow to hers. No matter the reason. He had her back, and he vowed to never lose her again.

  A satisfied grin tugged at Lord Dressen’s cheeks as he looked over the gathered noblemen. Their low voices filled the stately hall. Sunbeams poured through the twelve-foot windows and drowned the crowd in a yellow haze.

  With the majority of the Grand Marshals’ court in attendance, the turnout met his expectations. He furrowed his heavy brow and lifted his chin. Cole Shilo, you’ll pay for taking Anna from me.

  The dull rumble of conversation subsided as he stepped to the Officiator’s stand and took his chair at the center of the table. He nodded to the two gentlemen at the entrance, and they stepped out, closing the doors behind them.

  Lord Carrington tugged at his vest as he strode up the center aisle. His trusted friend moved with trained temperance, an admirable trait. Taking his place at Dressen’s side, he leaned in with a hushed voice, “Ninety-nine are in attendance. Lord Standish’s men are the only ones not to sign in.”

  “We can do without them. What are twenty-two votes against ninety-nine?”

  Carrington nodded and stroked his tailored beard. “One concern I feel I must voice, Kyle.” His brown eyes twitched. “Standish may not hold the court’s majority, but he’s a strong believer in tradition. Tradition and religion go hand-in-hand. The men here control a vote, but many of their wives and family are faithful to the gods, including my own. They practice religious rites that encompass the Shilos as Sentinels. If this isn’t handled with care, it could become nasty.”

  Dressen sighed as he glanced at the portraits of Senior Grand Marshals that lined the room. His gaze gravitated to the depiction of Sylis Shilo at the center of the hall. The Founder seemed to watch him, coal hair, onyx eyes, and square features set firm. Dressen sneered. A wizard surrounded by noblemen.

  “Sentinels,” he scoffed. “They’re aliens. Nothing more. And their own laws protect us from the powers of their dimension. What superior race agrees to such an arrangement? They’re weak. Their kind has no place on Terra.”

  “Nevertheless, the faithful could rise up to protect them.” Carrington looked at his cufflink as he straightened the gold piece. “And I’ll be frank. Even though I see nothing wrong with how you achieved your goal with the girl, many will see it otherwise. Having the wizards bend her will as a servant was one thing, but calling for total compliance pushed the intention of the agreement.”

  Dressen scowled. “The Wizards of Shilo Manor accepted my bid as any other. She broke the law and she was harvested. With the new curfew in play, she was no different from the homeless.” He softened his tone. “It was the only way to get her past the idea that my standing separated us. Once she joined the household she admitted wanting to be with me all along. She told me she loved me. Always had. She was happy.”

  He looked at his comrade and narrowed his gaze. “Cole Shilo’s desire to have her is what took her from me.” He pointed his finger to accentuate his view. “I know he has her up at that manor.”

  Lord Carrington cocked his head. “We have no jurisdiction within the Sentinel’s home.”

  “You just deal with the charges.”

  “The only real proof we have is the vision you shared from that night she disappeared, Kyle. And that’s another issue. You were only able to share it by way of the magical means Cole Shilo gifted you.” His friend quirked his tan lips. “There’s talk about a loss of integrity at the expense of—”

  “A thief?” A growl rumbled in Dressen’s throat as his blood seethed.

  “A Sentinel, Kyle. You have to view this from these men’s perspective. I know you’re not religious, but religion is going to play a large part in what they decide.”

  “Then use their beliefs against them. Look into the covenants the wizards have made. Their long lives will show something. In eight hundred years, no man can live without error.”

  Carrington tugged at his collar as if it had suddenly become too small. “I’ll make the assignment. But how do you expect to get to the girl if she’s up there?”

  Dressen cocked his grin. “I’ll find a way. You just call them in for questioning, and I’ll do the rest.”

  Continue the Cornerstone Deep series in book two, Echoes.

  Get your own printable

  Cornerstone Deep Series Vignette Journal

  when you join Charlene’s VIP Readers mailing list.

  Get it NOW at CharleneAWilson.com!

  About the Author

  Charlene A. Wilson is an author of stories that take you to other dimensions. She weaves magic, lasting love, and intrigue to immerse you into the lives of her characters.

  She began writing in her early teens when her vivid dreams stayed with her long after she had them. The characters and worlds were so amazing she brought them to life through her books.

  Read more from Charlene A. Wilson at:

  http://CharleneAWilson.com

  Pheobe and the Steel City Vampires

  Eileen Enwright Hodgetts

  Phoebe and the Steel City Vampires © 1993 Eileen Hodgetts

  * * *

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, cha
racters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Pheobe and the Steel City Vampires

  Phoebe accidentally enslaves a domestic vampire; he’s great around the house but his master wants him back.

  Phoebe is rich, lonely, and addicted to the Home Shopping Network. She thinks she’s hit the jackpot when a box delivered by mistake, turns out to be the home of Wally, a domesticated vampire trying to escape his fate.

  Wally is handy with a hoover and makes a great Bloody Mary but Phoebe is not the only person who appreciates his talents. Wally’s master, a ruthless vampire of the old school, wants him back. When Phoebe decides to stand up and fight for Wally’s freedom, she has no idea of the trouble she’s going to cause for herself.

  Fortunately, her determination to overcome impossible forces attracts more than the attention of the blood thirsty Baron Raoul de Bressard and Phoebe finds herself a boyfriend.

  Can her unlikely beau thwart the fanged attacks? Is Phoebe inspired to turn to a completely unlikely agent to win back hearts and lives?

  Prologue

  The boy labored beneath the silvery light of a waning moon. He dug his bare hands into the mud along the river bank and filled his ragged sack. He kept his eyes on the horizon fearing to see the first light of dawn. At last the sack was full and he hoisted it on his shoulder. He could see the lights of home; the watch fires that marked the village of Londinium nestled in the curve of the great river but he could never return. He would march when his master marched; with his bag of earth and the iron collar around his neck, he would follow the undead lord who had enslaved him. The Roman legions would come with the rising of the sun, but the boy would be long gone, marching north with an army that would never see the light of day. Beneath the iron collar, his neck bore the marks where the lord of the undead had drawn blood; not enough to kill, only enough to enslave.

  * * *

  He took his place among the most wretched of the slaves limping and crawling across the ruined landscape. He longed for the courage to turn and face the east and allow the rising sun to wipe him from the face of the earth, but the desire to live was too strong within him. One day, he told himself; one day he would be free. One day he would stand and face the dawn and his life would begin again.

  One

  PITTSBURGH USA

  The pale young man in the ragged overcoat shivered in the chill air and clung to the roof of the delivery truck as it negotiated the dark streets. With frantic energy he willed the truck not to cross the river; not to go into Pittsburgh’s North Side, and definitely not to go to 62 Alamo Street. Not yet, not yet. He grinned in delight as the truck sped past the 9th Street Bridge and headed out toward the university district. It was working. The plan he had created in the freight office on the spur of the moment was actually going to work. He was going to be free.

  The truck, moving well beyond the speed limit, rolled past the University of Pittsburgh and the Carnegie Institute. The students on the streets, wrapped in scarves and heavy coats, were busy with their own thoughts. No one looked up to see the crouching figure on the roof, or to observe the pallor of his skin and the unusual red tint to his eyes.

  The young man read the street signs. According to the wall map he had studied at the train station, they should be making a right turn; and there it was. Drummond Circle, an imposing street of brightly lit high rise apartments. The truck turned into a landscaped parking area and screeched to a halt at the service entrance in the rear of the building. He climbed nimbly down from the roof and moving as swift and as dark as a shadow, concealed himself in the ornamental shrubs beside the rear of the truck. Two men, one very young, and one middle-aged, descended from the truck and unlocked the roll up doors. The middle aged man consulted a clip board.

  “One box for 605, The Atrium” he announced.

  “No,” whispered the pale boy in the bushes. “Two boxes for 605.”

  The younger delivery man climbed into the rear of the truck, and turned on an interior light. He pushed a small box towards the rear door.

  “There’s another one back here for 605, Bill”

  “No, there’s not.”

  The younger man was impatient. “Yes, there is and it’s a big one. We’re gonna need the wheels.”

  Bill clicked his ball point pen impatiently and again consulted the list. “One.”

  “Two,” whispered the unseen watcher.

  “Two,” said the young man in the truck, “look for yourself.”

  He pushed a large box to the rear of the truck and the older man studied the label carefully. He shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “Okay, looks like there are two for the same apartment. I’ll give you a hand.”

  The two men maneuvered a large wooden packing crate onto a hand truck, balanced a much smaller parcel on top of it and wheeled it to the rear entrance of the apartment building. The pale boy slipped through the bushes and watched as they dumped their burden on the loading dock and went in through the glass doors. The boy hastily pulled a large black garbage bag from the capacious pocket of his overcoat and ran nimbly to the loading dock. He was working on removing the lid from the large box when the doors opened again. He ducked back into the shadows.

  Now there were three men. The delivery men had been joined by a security guard.

  “Take it up yourselves,” said the security guard.

  The younger man protested. “That ain’t our job.”

  The security guard was not convinced. “Well it ain’t mine either.”

  Bill, the older man, seemed to provide the voice of authority. “Come on Ted, it’s quicker to take it up than to argue. Go close the back of the truck, and we’ll wheel it up there. We still have to go over to the North Side, so get a move on.”

  The pale boy watched in dismay as his precious box was wheeled inside the building by the still protesting Ted. The security guard closed the glass doors and returned to his desk and the boy could see Bill and Ted inside the lobby wheeling the box to the freight elevator.

  He stuffed the garbage back into his pocket and looked up at the sheer walls of the apartment building. This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to leave it on the dock. He was supposed to have time. Granted it had been a last minute plan, and not well thought out, but it should have worked.

  He stood looking upwards. “Sixth floor,” he thought. “I can do that.”

  He jumped.

  Two

  PHOEBE

  In Apartment 605, Phoebe Ellis was trying to entertain her sister by showing her pictures in a photo album. Phoebe was disappointed to find that her sister was showing not only a lack of real interest but also a certain amount of cynicism as she leafed through Phoebe’s fading photographic trophies.

  Well, what else am I supposed to do? Phoebe asked herself. What am I supposed to talk to her about? She felt her usual resentment looking at her slim, successful and much younger sibling. Why should Catherine have all the success while she, Phoebe, was left to molder alone in an over-decorated penthouse with nothing to do but grow fatter and fatter and more and more lonely?

  “That’s me with George Clooney; he was very taken with me.” Phoebe announced pointing to a picture of herself on the arm of a handsome man. “He said he could fall in love with me.”

  “Are you sure that’s George Clooney?” Catherine asked.

  “Of course I am. That’s the black and white Dior I’m wearing.”

  “I recognize the Dior,” Catherine agreed, “but are you sure it’s George Clooney?”

  “That’s the dress the cleaning woman stole,” Phoebe s
aid. “I fired her.”

  “You didn’t fire her, she quit. And she didn’t steal your dress, you split the seams and we had to throw it away.”

  Phoebe felt her resentment build. Why did Catherine have to do this? Why did she feel it necessary to destroy Phoebe’s memories; even if they were not strictly speaking accurate memories?

  “Are you sure about this being George Clooney?” Catherine asked again. She had taken slim reading glasses from her purse and was giving the photograph very close scrutiny.

  “Will you stop asking that,” Phoebe begged. “Of course it’s George Clooney. Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because it doesn’t look like him, and because I don’t think he’s ever been to Pittsburgh, and because you have never really been anywhere else. Why don’t you look at it again? Perhaps you have the picture confused.”

  Phoebe turned away, more resentful than ever. Now Catherine was being kind and giving her a way out. Well, she didn’t need a way out.

  “I can’t see what you’re talking about,” she declared. “I don’t have my glasses on.”

  Catherine was impatient. “Well put them on! Really Phoebe, it’s very important that you get a grasp of reality and stop making things up. I don’t know who this man is but he’s not George Clooney, and I’m not sure that woman is even you. She’s too thin.”