Serena

by Claudy Conn

  What is this? Maxie was worried in spite of the fact that they looked pleased and happy. She knew something was off. An uncomfortable fear pinched her brain. She had left them at Heathrow airport and had hurried on to catch her own flight home. Why was she having this vision of them?

  They were crowded close to one another in the small plane. Something was wrong. Her father was holding her mother’s hand. He looked concerned, and then suddenly the plane banked sharply—too sharply—and Maxie could see them lurching to the left of the cabin. She could hear the horrific sound of the spluttering engine. Wrong … this is all wrong. She wanted it to stop, but the scene switched to the cockpit and she felt sick to her stomach. Maxie hugged herself because she saw the pilot’s eyes widen. Maxie’s throat constricted as she watched him playing with the controls. He called on his radio—they were in trouble … going down. In the close quarters of her car Maxie screamed as the plane went into a dive.

  Maxie’s arms extended as she reached for them. No, no, this can’t be happening. The plane was nosing into the jungle. She saw her father holding her mother tightly in his arms, but—he looked directly at her.

  He sees me?

  His thoughts came through to Maxie as clearly as though he were speaking. “Maxie, love … you know who you are. Be who you are and protect yourself. She is coming.”

  The plane met earth with the sound and effect of a bomb exploding. It crashed into the trees and burst into flames.

  ~ Two ~

  Four months later

  MAXIE HAD WALKED around in a state of devastation. Her parents had been wrenched from her life, and that loss shadowed her. Family and friends surrounded her, however, and she managed to pull herself up and out after those first couple of months.

  Maxie opened the gate, noting that the latch was broken. The stone steps led to the beach below, but she didn’t stop to put on her sneakers yet. She wanted to feel the sand beneath her feet. She had made a decision. She would give her friends a call and tell them she would join them that evening for a night in East Hampton. No more gloom.

  She only hoped she wouldn’t get one of her visions while she was with them. They were used to it. Early on she had explained them away as ‘blackouts.’ They were good friends and had always been there for her. However, lately those visions had taken over her life. She was having them all the time.

  If that weren’t enough, the secrets that had haunted her all her life were demanding attention. Her sleep was constantly bombarded by memories reminding her just who she was, who she was supposed to become. Earlier that morning, the vision had been so real it had made her shake. It was the memory of her father holding her by her shoulders to say, “That’s what you are, Maxie-girl … a Druid priestess from a long line of pure Druids … all of us Reigates—pure Druids.”

  She had pulled a face at him. “Whatever.”

  She had blown him off—her father … and now he was gone. Pure Druid? She grimaced to herself. How does that happen? Someone or something had to have manipulated the fates to accomplish that.

  Maxie hadn’t wanted to be a Druid. Being sixteen had been difficult enough. It had freaked her out. They had told her over and over that she was a Druid priestess, and she told them, “Like come on, and get real … I haven’t even had my first kiss, and now you are telling me I am a bona fide priestess?”

  Her parents were gone, and now she needed to know. What did it all mean? Did this mean she had power? What kind of power? Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it made her feel closer to her lost parents, but Maxie had taken up the old leather-bound journals and started devouring them word for word. They explained a great deal. At first she found them difficult to believe, but Maxie’s instincts moved the lie detector needle into the ‘true’ zone very quickly.

  Her nightmares and dreams plagued her. The visions became more intense and took on a sequence. Every night the same people were there, and it was as though she knew them. Every night a different scene was enacted as though it were live on stage. Scents and sounds accompanied the visions, and Maxie walked though the scene as though she were a ghost amongst them, seeing, but unseen.

  The other evening blasted her with the most vivid dream of all. She felt as though she were experiencing the sensations of the strangers in her dream. She heard their thoughts as she walked as an invisible observer between them. Walked? It was more like she glided as she drifted between them, beside them, stood right up in their faces. And the past totally unfolded for her: it was 1814, and there was a woman—not quite human—and she was threatening Julian Talbot, whom Maxie recognized at once, and his bride, her namesake, Maxine Reigate. The woman’s name was Lady Lamia DuLaine.

  DuLaine was a powerful and obsessed being who wanted Julian Talbot for herself.

  Julian knew his bride was in danger. He knew Lamia wanted to kill her, and he believed he could put a stop to Lamia’s machinations. He believed he was the only one that could.

  Maxie had always known this story, but it had never been enacted out for her as it was now in her dream vision. She had known Julian Talbot immediately because his life-size portrait hung in her father’s study. She had always had a schoolgirl crush on him, and as she moved through her dream vision she came up close to him and reached out to touch. Nothing. It was a vision of the past—no touching.

  Suddenly Julian was riding off on his horse. Why? This was his wedding day, and she sensed he was full of purpose. What was he doing? Maxie saw her ancestor, her twin in appearance and name, looking out a window at his retreating form.

  The curtain of her vision closed. She had slept after that. She didn’t need to see anymore—she knew the legend.

  Salt air filled her lungs, and she breathed in and then out. The pleasant breeze swooshed at Maxie’s clothes and blew her long, black hair around her face. She reached up to sweep it away from her eyes and lips and clipped it at the nape of her neck. The damp sand beneath her naked toes felt good, and she remembered how nice it was to be alive—if only she could banish the visions.

  Aaaaah—a bolt of pain went through her, and she bent over as another sharp blade sliced through her gut. Maxie went to her knees on the sand, and her hand went out to the boulder at her side. She collapsed and screamed, “Enough!”

  The pain subsided and then vanished. A vision remained, and it was horrendous, but the pain was gone. Had she done that? Had she managed to control and then rid herself of the pain?

  No time to think.

  Lamia’s amber eyes were glowing red. She was doing something to Julian. Lamia’s long blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulder and hung over Julian, who was lying on her Oriental rug. There was blood. It was his blood—her blood … on his white shirt sleeves. She was screaming. It had all gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Julian was a powerful Druid priest, but he hadn’t been able to stop Lamia DuLaine, and she had erred. He was fighting the blood she had poured down his throat—her blood. His body would not accept it, and he was slipping away.

  Her diseased blood ravaged Julian Talbot’s system, and he went into a coma. DuLaine raised her fists towards the Druid Realm she hated, and her scream filled her house.

  Maxie knew what was coming next. Again, she didn’t need to see it. She didn’t want to see it. She knew the next scene would show DuLaine tricking her ancestor to ride and meet with her. She knew DuLaine would have someone pull a rope across the bridle path and that her ancestor would go down. She knew that DuLaine would take a rock and with deliberation smash it down on her ancestor’s head—killing her. She didn’t need to see that. She didn’t need to see—wait … who was that—someone else was in the vision. She couldn’t see who it was. This wasn’t part of anything she had read in the journal—and then it was gone.

  Maxie leaned heavily against the boulder at her side. She needed help. Hurriedly she shoved her hand into the pocket of her sweat jacket and pulled out her cell phone.

  Chased by an evil vampire who is also her father,

  protected by a sexy immortal
with his own agenda,

  Shawna’s story is one thrilling ride.

  Read it in Book 1 of the Shadow series,

  ShadowLove—Stalkers

  ~ Prologue ~

  A LONG, LONG time ago …

  Little was known of the infamous Dracula’s mother, and during the first twenty-five years of Dracula’s somewhat normal life he knew nothing of her at all. Hers was a name no one in his father’s household was allowed to speak, and Vlad Dracula grew to manhood believing she was dead.

  That was what his father had told him …

  He discovered her name when he was just coming into his teens. At first, he used to whisper it on the wind—Elizabeth.

  He didn’t know that she had only been sixteen and full of life, with eyes the color of fresh spring grass and hair the color of gathered honey, the day his father saw her. He didn’t know she had been an innocent approaching maturity with an enormous secret she kept well hidden from the outside world.

  She kept those secrets still …

  When Count Wendall Dracula came to the Highlands, locals looked away in fear, for his behavior was brutish. They were suspicious of him and recognized that he was a warrior with a ‘rough old Eastern mindset’. He rode out on his horse every morning, and on one of those mornings he saw Elizabeth.

  She had been picking wildflowers for her grandfather—her parents had been killed in a wagon accident the year before, so it was just she and her grandfather. Wildflowers for the wine her grandfather was making …

  The count took one look at her and decided he had to have her, cursing whatever consequences there might be. He wanted her—that was all he cared about. And in the stealth of night he managed to abduct Elizabeth MacFare from her grandfather, and her home.

  During those first ten months Elizabeth’s grandfather and village friends searched for her everywhere. They had no idea who had taken her. Wendall Dracula left behind no clues.

  Back in his country, the count didn’t court her, he didn’t cherish her, and he didn’t really love her. Elizabeth was a possession to him, and she despised him—all the while, planning her escape.

  She became pregnant almost immediately, and when she discovered she was pregnant with twins, she enlisted the help of her young midwife and friend. Together they kept the knowledge that she was pregnant with twins a secret from the overbearing count. He only knew she was going to have his child, and for him that was enough; it was what he wanted.

  She got larger during those first months of pregnancy, he lost interest, and he left her to her own devices while he pursued other women—and other entertainment. It gave her the freedom to plot out her course.

  Elizabeth had made up her mind that as soon as they were born, she would take one of her twins and run …

  Her plan was well thought out. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the only way she knew to save at least one of her children, and herself, and return home.

  She did not fear for the child she would leave behind. She knew that although the count was a selfish, often mean-spirited, and willful man, he wanted a child with all his heart, and she believed that he would love his child.

  Her twins were born, and her plan was put into action. The count was enamored with the one son that was put into his huge hands and had no clue he had twins. He no longer had any interest in Elizabeth, for she had served her purpose. When the midwife told him she had a difficult delivery and needed rest, he was more than willing to leave her to her sickbed as he coddled his son and cavorted with his court.

  Thus, with her son hidden in her arms, she ran for the border and there bought her way home to her grandfather.

  In the ‘old country’ the count poured all his time and endeavors into the hearty son Elizabeth had given him before she fled his house. He didn’t bother trying to follow her. His pride prohibited him from caring.

  He had not allowed her name to be mentioned in his presence, and he told everyone that he had gotten news of her death.

  His son, Vlad Dracula, gave him great joy, and as Elizabeth expected, Vlad’s childhood was a pleasant one.

  As Vlad grew to manhood and took on the duties of a warrior, his father slapped shoulders of his friends and proclaimed his son’s prowess with great pride. Truly, his son was strong and capable. However, in his quiet hours he thought to himself, If only he were less gentle of nature—less good-hearted.

  And then, Vlad fell in love and married a lass as beautiful of heart as she was of face. Vlad adored her, and she softened his combative nature and drew on the gentleness that was, and should have remained, his.

  Vlad’s father was furious. He wanted war with other lands. He wanted to take on and destroy any that opposed war. He needed more land, more gold, and his son was being swayed against such things by his new bride.

  While Vlad was away defending their territory, the count engineered the death of Vlad’s beloved bride. And so the legend began.

  Vlad discovered his father’s hand in his bride’s death and responded by picking up his long sword, which he plunged deep into and through his father’s heart. His rage not assuaged, he then sliced across his father’s neck so vigorously that the count’s head, splattering blood everywhere, went flying across the room.

  His father was not immortal. His father was not a vampire. Dracula looked at the corpse of his father and felt only one thing: rage.

  Vlad became Count of Dracula, and he went on the bloody rampage that won him the title “Vlad the Impaler”.

  It was then that he discovered that he was immortal. He knew at once that this had not come from his father’s side of the family. He had often seen his father sustain an injury that took as long as most to heal. He realized that all his life, his wounds had healed quickly—too quickly to be a natural thing.

  And so a curiosity that had always been in the back of his head was revived. His mother—what had really happened to his mother? If she had given him this self-healing ability he possessed, surely she had not died. Was she also immortal? Why then had she left him?

  However, his new and decadent life enveloped him, and he put the question aside.

  Vlad Dracula, father of all vampire tales, was not by the true definition of the word a vampire. He did not die, to awake a vampire. He did not die and awake with a thirst for blood. He did not die and awaken an immortal. He was born an immortal. His lust for blood and killing was born from the need for revenge and the loss of his soul in black magic.

  He became skilled in the Dark arts as he denounced God and all religion. He dove into wicked pursuits in an effort to eradicate the memory of his beloved. Memory was too painful; memory left him empty.

  And then he began turning humans. He discovered quite by accident that if he allowed humans he had impaled to drink his blood they would die, yes, but they would be reborn with a thirst for blood—and a need to kill. This amused him for a time.

  One day, something someone said made him remember that his mother was an immortal and must have untold abilities. He grew bitter when he thought about her. Why she had left him was a question that ate at the soul he had not quite lost. His soul was a dark, dense shade of black, but it was there somewhere inside him.

  Thus, in the nineteenth century he began his search for her. He only knew his mother’s name had been Elizabeth.

  In the Highlands of Scotland, his mother and his twin had prospered over the centuries, keeping their secrets to themselves. Elizabeth MacFare’s grandfather had died shortly after her return and had left her his fortune intact. She knew her grandfather was not immortal, she knew of course neither of her parents were immortal, and she wondered how it was that she was. At that time, she hadn’t realized the truth of the matter.

  Elizabeth had named the son she kept with her John, and he took her family name—MacFare. Together they went forward.

  She never ceased to mourn the empty spot she had for her other son, Vlad Dracula. She knew one day he might discover that she and John were alive—

  And tales
of what he had become made his mother’s gentle heart tremble.

  “For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul.”

  —Judy Garland

  ~ One ~

  CHADWICK MACFARE STOOD on the stone steps of Darby Bray Grange, his Scottish home, and stared up at the stars. They were bright and appeared full of untold stories. Some of the stars seemed to take shape, forming a warning in the night sky.

  He had just walked Mary Beth to her car, and he watched as she started to drive off. Her convertible top was down, and her red hair glowed in the dim lights that lined his courtyard.

  He had felt nothing but relief as he watched her leave. She was a lovely, experienced young woman, and he thought she had understood the rules. He had told her from the start he was looking for ‘fun’—not friendship, not a romantic tie, nothing stable …

  He had told her they could never have a future together. She was a worldly lass, and he was sure she understood what he had said to her. However, apparently he had been off the mark.

  Lately every expression on her classically lovely face had warned him she wanted permanence, at odds with the fact that everything about her told him she was not in love with him. She wanted position, money, and power.

  Lately, every word she spoke seemed to hold less affection for him, seemed calculated. This night, more than ever, she had tried to force his hand. She had suggested that, if he weren’t ready to declare himself, she might have to start ‘seeing’ other men.

  He had given her a long look. He had already decided it was over between them. He answered softly, “Aye then, Mary Beth, you are entitled to do that and have the life you want.”

  “I want it with you,” she snapped at him.