by Roh Morgon
If I turn around, he’ll just follow me. I picture our high-speed chase ending only one way—in a fiery crash, with our bodies and machines strewn all over the highway.
And as much as I want to bolt into the woods, that too would end in a similar, and possibly even more devastating crash. Because I wouldn’t be able to control the wild part of me that wants him—that wants him so badly I feel as though my body is exploding.
God damn him.
Why did he have to shove himself into my life? I didn’t want this…
Using every bit of the skills Colin taught me, I suppress the cursed bloodtears and center myself, then shift the car into gear and finish the drive to the house as the rain dwindles to a heavy mist.
Taz, his arms folded as he leans against the bike, makes no movement when I pull up. He’s soaked. Water coats his eyelashes and runs down his cheeks, and drips from his tangled hair onto his wet leather jacket and the bare chest beneath.
I get out and shut the door, then walk around to the other side of the car, soggy gravel squishing beneath my boots. Adopting his stance, I cross my arms and lean against the muddy car door.
“What are you doing here?”
“You can’t go.”
“You don’t have any say in the matter.”
He stands.
“I have plenty to say.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
The air sighs and he’s standing a half-dozen feet in front of me.
“Europe’s too dangerous. You have no business being there.”
“My business is my own. I can take care of myself. In spite of what you think, I’m not completely helpless.”
“No. You’re not.” He steps closer, smelling of wet hair and leather. “But as pretty as you are, if you think you can make it there alone, you haven’t learned much.”
I bristle at the familiar insult, and easing away from the car, I casually take a step to the side, needing to put some space between us.
“I’ve learned more than you think—”
And then I’m back against the car, his damp body pinning mine to the fender.
I want to struggle, but I don’t, knowing it would do little good.
Or so I tell myself.
His lips touch my brow. Cool breath tickles my scalp as his fingers follow the line of my jaw.
He eases back, shrugs off his jacket, and lays it inside-up on the car’s wet hood. Before I can protest, he grips my waist and, lifting me, sets me on the dry lining.
His eyes, a deep gold tinged with red, bore into mine as he cups my scarred cheek.
“I would go with you.”
“I… I… no, you can’t.”
“You go to look for him.”
I nod, fighting the tears that want to burst from my eyes.
“I would help you.” The touch of his thumb on my lips is as feather-soft as his words.
Wanting nothing more than for him to take me in his arms and crush the life from me, I pull away from his gentle touch.
“Why? So you can kill him?”
He goes still, then lowers his hand to the car.
“Only if you’ll let me.”
I close my eyes as the bloodtears slip past my barrier.
His fingers follow the path of my tears, then trail away.
And the next touch on my lips is slick with blood.
But it’s not mine.
His finger brushes my tongue, and his taste curls about it, bringing memories of blue skies and sunlit love.
Oh God.
I can’t. I can’t give in to this.
I try to push him away, but he only wraps his arms around me. My body trembles against his cold skin as I fight the sobs seeking to tear themselves free.
Images rip through my mind as full-scale war erupts between my past with Nicolas and my present with Taz. Twin futures enter the fray, then fragment into endless possibilities.
“Stay. Stay here with me.”
Oh, how I want to. To run and hunt and fight and love—with him. With this wild, independent animal of a Chosen who’s so like me in so many ways.
But I can’t.
The blood in me that belongs to Nicolas won’t allow it.
I have to go.
I have to find out if Nicolas and I truly belong together, and if not, to make my final peace with him.
Not for him. Not for the lineage.
For me.
This is something I must do, and I cannot move on with my life until it’s done.
Summoning every last bit of my will, I tear myself away from that protective body I’ve grown to love so much.
“What about Alina?”
Taz shifts back.
“What about her?” The gentle tone is gone from his voice, replaced by a knife-sharp edge.
I slide off of his jacket, then swing my leg past his knees and push myself to the ground. Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I move farther away.
“It’s obvious you and she are together.”
“We’re not—”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Looked and sounded like it to me. She certainly seems to think so.”
“It’s complicated.”
I snort and lace my voice with as much scorn as I can muster.
“I’m sure it is.”
“I do not share blood with her.”
I laugh, to keep from crying.
“I do not share blood with anyone. Ever.”
Except with me.
I turn to stare through the mist at the hills, unable to face him any longer, and think back on his teachings about using an enemy’s strengths as well as their weaknesses against them. I can’t best him physically, but now I know how to cripple him emotionally.
The truth will wound him deeply. The lies will scar me forever.
I feel as though I’m going to die as I force out my words.
“Well. I don’t share blood either. Not willingly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means whatever blood of mine you’ve tasted—you took. It was not given.”
His silence is his only reply.
“And whatever blood of yours I’ve endured was forced upon me. I did not ask for it. I did not want it.”
Even though his gift healed me when I was broken.
Even though all I want now is to drink it with every bit of my soul.
Bloodtears sear my cheeks like acid as I steel myself for the killing blow.
And the sky itself begins to cry.
“I do not want you… not now… not ever.”
The choking silence between us is broken only by the pitter-patter of falling rain. The sound grows louder and louder, pounding metallic against the car, then finally dies beneath that of the Harley engine rending the dark with its demonic roar.
I continue to stare out at the hills as pink rain streams down my face, wincing at the retreating crunch of gravel beneath his tires, at each answering rumble as he shifts gears, and at the fading thunder of Taz as he vanishes into the cold, wet February night.
FRIDAY
CHAPTER 81
Once again I’m on the road, though this one ends at the edge of the runway. The engines of the Lear jet grow louder as the small plane Colin chartered backs away from the hangar. I’m the only passenger. Which is good, because I can’t stop crying.
A dream that once filled me with so much hope has crashed and burned, leaving only bitter ashes in my mouth.
I thought finding Nicolas was the answer. I thought that might repair the hole in my core, one that’s ached with emptiness since the night I left him.
Now, I’m not so sure.
Because now there are two of them.
I stare out the window as we taxi down the runway. The loud engine roar and shuddering through the cabin makes me think of my last ride with Taz—the cold wind tearing at my face, the growl and vibration of the bike beneath me, the broad back before me.
Clutching the little ceramic til
e of the Golden Gate Bridge that Jeanette gave me, I can’t believe I’ve done it again.
I can’t believe I walked away from another possible shot at ending the loneliness that guards me with such fierce jealousy.
Stars peer through the clouds dotting the dark night sky, forming a backdrop for the vision that’s driven me these many months—fierce emerald eyes staring into my very soul.
But now the green keeps fading, shifting, turning.
To gold.
The engines scream louder, and the vibration increases, and then the Lear tilts sharply upward and we’re airborne.
As the landing gear rumbles back into the belly of the plane, I watch the earth fall away.
The last thing I see down there, on an empty road across a field from the runway’s end, is a lonely, amber-lit streetlight.
And parked beneath it, staring upward, a tall figure sitting on a motorcycle.
The brittle wind snatches at me as I crest the mountain peak and stare down into the snow-blanketed crevasses below. In the distance, the tortured path of a frozen stream winds its way around broken boulders and disappears in a steep mountain divide.
Nothing down there is moving, except dead windblown grasses and shrubs clinging to tiny patches of soil between the icy rocks.
I’ve grown fond of this rugged, bleak terrain. Surviving its challenges is the only thing that keeps me sane, that keeps me from re-living the horrific nightmare I walked into when I arrived at Nicolas’s castle and found a monster far worse than any I could’ve imagined.
Shrugging off his sinuous whispers that continually slither through my mind, I start working my way down yet another cliff.
It’s been many nights since my last meal, a scrawny hare plucked from the mouth of his den. It wasn’t even enough to bring a moment’s relief to my shriveled tongue and parched throat. Burning hunger is my constant companion now, but I welcome its distraction—anything to hold my memories at bay.
Neither time nor distance has meaning out here. I just keep moving, night after night, pulled by some instinct I do not understand.
Movement above the streambed far ahead freezes me in my tracks. I wait, senses straining.
There.
A small herd of the wild, goat-like creatures inhabiting these heights is bedded down on the steep slope, their tawny coats blending with the rocks on which they perch. I steal forward, step by step, fighting to keep my impatience under control.
I’m within a quarter mile, almost striking distance, when they bolt to their feet and run straight up the slope, leaping from rock to rock. I take off after them, but they have too much of a head start, and by the time I reach the point I’d last seen them, they’ve vanished.
I yowl my rage and hunger to the surrounding peaks, and the sound echoes back at me, a too-vivid reminder of the nights I spent screaming in the dungeon. Clamping my hands over my ears, I crouch among the rocks until my trembling fit passes.
When I feel steady enough, I move downslope, back toward the twisting streambed.
Fighting off the hopelessness that swoops in with every failure, I focus on making my way through the endless rocks and boulders, drawn by what, I do not know.
And then I feel it.
Something, or someone, is watching me.
I look upslope ahead of me, and there, on a broad ledge, a snow leopard crouches, its furry tail lashing back and forth.
We stare at one another a long moment, and then it hisses and disappears into a cave at the back of the ledge.
A memory surfaces, a pleasant one, of a day spent at the zoo with Nicolas and the beautiful snow leopard there, and his story of spending time with one when he was on the run from his Maker.
Nicolas.
The lash on my back, the spur in my side. The need to find him drives me ever onward, giving way only to the incessant hunger that rules every painful breath.
Movement on the ledge vanquishes the gloom beginning to descend over me, that descends every time I think of him, and I look back up.
And I see someone standing there.
Standing on the ledge, looking down at me.
A brown fur covers him, protecting him against the wind whipping through his long black hair. His sharp features and sharper eyes bear little resemblance to their former selves, and I inwardly cringe at the changes wrought in him.
Changes, I fear, that were caused by me.
Breath held tight, I scramble up the slope.
He steps back as I pull myself onto the ledge and get to my feet.
Time freezes as the moment I’ve long dreaded, the same moment for which I’ve long yearned, arrives with a chill that sinks into the marrow of every bone in my body.
His eyes search mine and I want to shrink away from their cold, distant gaze.
I struggle to formulate words, to use a language almost forgotten.
“Hello, Nicolas.”
He stares at me, his emerald gaze now curious as he tips his head and answers.
“Who are you?”
Dedicated to
all of the readers
whose faith in this story
helped bring it
to life
and, as always,
to
my one love
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This journey started eight years ago with a vision of a lonely vampire woman lamenting her existence. Her compelling story unfolded like a movie, and her demands that it be told resulted in the crafting of this series.
I’m deeply indebted to the family and friends, and the writers and readers, who supported my efforts to bring her story to life. Without their encouragement, feedback, and enthusiasm, these books would never have seen the light of day.
To paraphrase a famous saying, it takes a village to publish a book—at least a book that readers will enjoy. In a village, inhabitants cluster around a central square—in this case, the book—and contribute to its development as the heart of the community.
Beta readers are essential members of that community, providing insight and suggestions to help an author shape their story into one with a universal appeal.
My beta readers, many of whom were instrumental in the honing of Watcher, were invaluable with this book as well. A big thank you to Lex, Janine, Mellie, Ed, Earl, Vanessa, Odette, Jeannie, Danielle, Tirzah, Amanda, Ayesha, and Kirsten. Their in-depth comments on Runner helped me identify problems and bring clarity to the story. Though I may not have addressed all of their concerns to their satisfaction, I hope they like the final version.
The medical scenes in Runner presented a unique obstacle. As with all of my works, I endeavor to keep as much realism in the fantasy as possible and devote much time to extensive research. But these scenes needed the guidance of experts, and I’m grateful to Janeane Stover and Gazelle Sexton for providing their medical advice. Any errors in the portrayal of the depicted procedures are entirely the fault of the author.
Kirsten Starkweather played in integral role in the final stages of this book. Her viewpoint as a voracious and discerning reader of many genres gave me a better understanding of the reading audience and the reassurance that this book stays on track as a sequel. I appreciate the long hours she spent on the phone with me discussing everything from reader expectations to pop culture, and am especially grateful for her input on the book covers for the series.
The appearance of the central square in a village is the responsibility of the landscape designer. In our village, that task belongs to the cover designer, and I believe Milo, Kim, and Darja at Deranged Doctor Design have served the village well with their beautiful covers for Watcher and Runner. My thanks to them, and to Lex, Kirsten, Jodi, and Vicky for their valuable feedback during the development process.
One of the key figures in the publishing village is the editor, and it took me some time find the right one for The Chosen series. My deepest thanks to Jodi Renée Lester for her editorial skills, her unflagging commitment to Sunny’s story, and her partnership in
bringing these books up to their full potential. And most of all, her friendship.
None of this would have been possible without the primary residents of our village—the readers. I’m sincerely humbled by the devotion of those who’ve been on this journey with me since the beginning, and their continuing support for Sunny’s story. Many of these folks were fellow members of the Fresno Scifi & Fantasy Writers and were the first to read my work outside of family and close friends; others I met through shared interests in pop culture. A few I’ve never met, nor spoken with, but their appreciation for Watcher and anticipation for Runner kept me working through those dark times when I wondered if it would ever be published.
To those who’ve waited patiently for this book, I offer my humblest thanks.
And last, but never least, I want to thank my parents, my children, and especially my husband for everything they do to encourage and support my writing. Without them, there would be no village at all.
MUSIC PLAYLIST
Music plays an important role in my life, and that includes my writing as well. It provides a sound buffer, preventing the outer world from intruding into my inner one. It helps me to feel the emotions of the story inhabitants and bring those emotions to the page.
Some songs on this list belong to a specific character; others to a scene. For me, the most important part of a song is the mood it creates and enhances, whether it does that through the melody, the rhythm, or the tone. The lyrics may or may not have anything to do the scene, but the emotion with which they are sung does. And when the words in the song align with the words on the page, the effect is magnified.
Sunny’s emotions are all over the map in this book, and the songs for her vary, from quiet laments to proclamations of strength. Sandy is epitomized with Leona Lewis’s “I See You.” Taz’s old-school biker attitude harkens back to The Allman Brothers and The Doors. And Chia—poor Chia—gives her frustration and outrage a voice in Skrillex’s “First of the Year.” Though the words don’t quite fit, the tone most certainly does.
