Christmas After Dark: A Holiday Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Abigail Owen

  She had no clue where to go. And the snow had soaked through her clothes. She was icy cold and soggy. And she had a horrible suspicion that Lachlan was dying. Could vampires die from loss of blood? And even if she hated him and had zero desire to kiss him under the mistletoe, she still didn’t want him to die.

  After all, they might be the only two people left alive. For all eternity. A whimper of denial rose up inside her, and she swallowed it down. Worry about that later.

  She took his arm, gave him a shake. He felt cold, so cold. She looped her arm through his and sort of tugged. At first he resisted, then he stumbled, nearly bringing them both down. Lola braced her legs and managed to stay upright. For now.

  “Which way?” she asked. “Come on, Lachlan. I need you. Remember, you told Darius you would protect me. Not doing such a good job, tonight. Time to step up. So which way?”

  For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, that he was too far gone, then he raised an arm and waved off to the left, into the forest.

  She didn’t want to go into the forest. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “That way there’s shelter. You need shelter.”

  He was right. She was shivering, the cold seeping down to her bones. Wrapping her arm around his waist, she set off. There was a strange, eerie light, just enough for her to see the way between the trees.

  They passed an owl on a branch. Frozen in place. A fox unmoving on the track in front of her, so she had to maneuver the vampire around it. She saw nothing moving.

  The Earth magic was powerful. That was why there were so many rules. Why young witches weren’t allowed to learn until they had a measure of control. Because if you didn’t know what you were doing, you could do something really bad. Like stopping the entire world and everything in it.

  Lachlan had been vaguely steering them, but his movements were becoming jerkier, more uncoordinated.

  Finally, he stopped, a shudder ran through him, and he crashed to his knees, dragging her with him. Then to the ground, landing half on top of her. She pulled herself free and knelt beside him. His eyes were closed. His face as cold and pale as death, and her heart hitched, skipping a beat. He couldn’t be dead. He was a vampire. She shook his arm, then slapped his face. “Lachlan, wake up.” Nothing.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  She sat back on her heels. What was she supposed to do? She had no clue where she was, and she could wander around in these woods all night and never find shelter. Besides, she couldn’t leave him. What if she lost him and somehow, by some miracle, the world hadn’t completely stopped, and the sun came up and he was out here? He’d fry to a crisp.

  Breathe.

  There must be something she could do.

  His hair had come loose from its ponytail in the fight, dark red, almost the color of blood. She stroked it away, revealing the clean lines of his face. High cheekbones, a sharp jaw. She trailed her finger down his big, beaky nose. Unconscious, he appeared so young. She’d never have dared touch him like this if he was awake. The thought made her feel guilty, and she snatched her hand away. Her gaze strayed to his throat. Did he have a pulse? Did vampires ever have a pulse?

  “Please wake up, Lachlan. Please. I’ll do what I’m told. You can lock me in the dungeon. I’ll never sneak out again. Just wake up.”

  He didn’t move. Not at all. Tears pricked her eyes and she sniffed. He was perhaps the only other being awake in the whole world. He might not be…nice, and likely if he did wake up, he would just dump her at some point in the not too distant future, but right now he was all she had. And she couldn’t do this alone.

  Think.

  He’d clearly lost a lot of blood. He needed to replace it. And what did vampires drink? Blood.

  She had blood.

  She could surely spare a little.

  And it wasn’t as though she had a lot of other bright ideas.

  She bit her lip, then glanced around. How did she even do this? Why had she never asked? Her sister Gina would have told her. Gina knew all about feeding vampires. She was married to one. Was actually a vampire herself. But Lola had never asked.

  How hard could it be? She stripped off her gloves and pushed up her sleeve and stared at her wrist with the tracery of blue veins so close to the surface. “So near and yet so far.”

  Could she bite through the skin? Ugh. She needed a knife. Or if not a knife then something sharp. Slipping her hands under Lachlan’s coat, she patted him down. He was hard, and he didn’t have a knife that she could find. He did have a belt, with a shiny silver buckle and she unfastened it with fumbling, freezing fingers, tugged it free and then scraped the buckle across her wrist. “Ow, ow, ow.” Finally, the skin broke open, and a minuscule amount of blood welled from the tiny wound. She had an idea it wasn’t going to be enough. Gritting her teeth, she pressed harder, until her blood dripped onto the snow. What a waste.

  She leaned in closer to Lachlan. “Think of this as an early Christmas present,” she said and pressed her cut wrist against his lips.

  Nothing happened. It wasn’t going to work. “Come on, Lachlan. It’s blood. Lovely delicious, virgin blood. Yummy.”

  Suddenly, his eyes flashed open, and his hand grasped her wrist in an immovable grip. His mouth opened and his teeth sank into her skin. She gave a little yelp of shock. Then closed her eyes and breathed.

  “Okay, okay. This is good.” This is what she wanted.

  Wasn’t it?

  Then his whole body shifted. His mouth released her wrist, and relief flooded her system. For one second. Then somehow, she was on her back, and Lachlan was looming over her, huge, eyes crimson, her blood dripping from the biggest pair of fangs she had ever seen—and she seen some pretty big fangs tonight.

  She opened her mouth to scream as he buried his face in her throat. His fangs sank into her flesh. She waited for pain. Instead a sense of peace washed through her, and she went still as he started to feed.

  A deep rhythmic tugging pulled at places deep inside her. Her body relaxed; warmth spread through her where there had been only cold. She arched her back, her arms going around him to pull him closer. Shouldn’t she be pushing him away? But it felt so good. Nothing had ever felt this good. Tingles radiated out from the center of her body. Her nipples ached; her sex was drenched. The pleasure was building and building until she shuddered beneath him. Pleasure like she’d never known existed exploded, shattering her into a thousand pieces. And still he drank. Her vision was dimming, going dark at the edges.

  Her last thought as the darkness took her—if she was going to die, then this was as good a way as any.

  And…would he be sorry?

  7

  Lachlan could sense the life force filling him. There was nothing like it. That moment when you took the last drop of blood and the life was yours.

  Not happening.

  Somehow he found the strength, broke his hold, and jerked away, every fiber in his body screaming to finish this.

  No!

  That wasn’t who he was. His whole body shuddered. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he waited until he had control. He felt disorientated. Dizzy with the power flowing through him.

  Where the hell was he? What had happened?

  He’d fed. And he’d never tasted anything like it. Rich and sweet and full of magic.

  His gaze shifted back to the woman in the snow. Lola.

  Shit.

  He leaped to his feet and closed the small space between them, dropped to his knees. She lay sprawled in the snow. So small and still, he was sure she must be dead, and panic swamped him. Her skin was pale, her eyes closed. A ragged wound was torn in her throat; he hadn’t been gentle. Her sleeve was pushed up and there was a second wound at her wrist. She’d offered herself to him.

  Don’t let her be dead.

  His fingers searched for a pulse and he found it, weak and thready. He’d nearly drained her dry. But instinct had taken over. The need to survive. He’d lost so much blood. Now his wounds were all but heale
d. He’d never known blood so powerful.

  Had he taken too much?

  He had to get her out of the cold. Get her some food, some drink. Maybe a blood transfusion. He pulled out his cell and tried the castle, but there was no signal. Nothing. Then he remembered. She’d stopped the goddamn world. Saved his life not once but twice.

  He couldn’t let her die.

  Scooping her up out of the snow, he held her cradled against his chest. So small.

  Then he ran. He hadn’t been in these forests for nearly three hundred years. He’d kept away since he’d returned, but long ago, he’d called this place home. After his father had been killed by the redcoats, they’d moved here with his mother and sisters and Gabe, the foster brother he had loved like kin. He’d known the forests intimately. Had hidden and hunted here. Then the English had come, slaughtered the last of his family. After that there had been only Gabe, who had died at Culloden, saving Lachlan’s worthless life. A pointless act of bravery as it turned out. He had only put off the killing blow.

  Now he ran through the trees, not thinking, leaving it to memory. Still he skidded to a stop, shock holding him immobile as the cottage came into sight. Maybe he’d expected it to be nothing more than a tumbled down ruin. Or at least the dark, cold place of his memory. They’d been fugitives and fires had been a dangerous luxury. The winters long and cold. They’d slept, huddled together for warmth. One of his sisters had died the first winter. She’d been a weak and sickly little thing. Not strong enough to withstand the cold. It had broken what was left of his mother’s heart.

  But the cottage was nothing like he remembered. There was a garden out the front—surrounded by a picket fence—covered with snow, but he could make out a path from the wooden gate to the bright red front door.

  Did someone live here?

  It didn’t matter, he had to get Lola to safety. He pushed open the gate with his hip, carried her down the path, then shifted her in his arms so he was able to try the door. It opened to his touch. Inside was total darkness, but he was used to the night and made his way unerringly to the sitting room. Found the sofa and lay her down. He moved to the edge of the room, located the light switch. At first he thought he was out of luck, nothing happened, then somewhere he heard the hum of a generator starting up and the lights flickered on.

  He hurried back to Lola and sat on the huge brown leather sofa beside her. Took her hand; it was icy cold. Felt for her pulse with fumbling fingers. Still there. Her clothes were damp. He hesitated a moment, then stripped her down to her black bra and panties. They were dry. He shrugged out of his coat and covered her with it, while he went and searched the house. He found the bedroom and snatched the duvet from the bed, ran back, and wrapped it around her, tucking it in so only her pale face showed.

  Then he sat back for a moment and blew out his breath. The place was nothing like he remembered. The cottage of his childhood had been a cold, damp, miserable place. With a dirt floor, bare stone walls, and windows shuttered with rough wood, the gaps stuffed with straw to keep out the drafts. Now the floors were polished wood, with thick rugs, the walls cream, dark red curtains at the windows. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, decorated in red and silver and a holly wreath hung from the door. A leather chair sat across from the sofa and on it lay a sleeping ginger cat. He smiled. His mother had owned an almost identical animal. It hadn’t moved since they entered, presumably frozen in place by Lola’s spell.

  A fire had been set in the fireplace, and he went across, found the matches and lit the kindling.

  He gave Lola one last look—her eyes were still closed—and left the room in search of food and drink. The kitchen was off a small hallway. His mother had cooked over an open fire when they could risk it. Most of the time they’d eaten their food cold and often raw. When they had food to eat.

  The fridge was well stocked, and he found cooked chicken, some sort of pie, cheese, and piled them all on a plate. Added bananas from a dish on the big scrubbed wooden table. He picked up a bottle of water, then spotted a wine-rack, selected a bottle of red and added that to his pile.

  When he got back, Lola was still unconscious.

  He couldn’t let her die. He was going to make sure she lived, and then he was going to get the hell away from her. He was the kiss of death. Everyone he had ever cared about had been taken from him. After Culloden, he had sworn never again. He would send her back to her family whether they liked it or not. Unless they were also frozen in time.

  How far had Lola’s spell spread? Could the whole world be affected? It seemed inconceivable. Maybe when she woke, she could tell him more. The room was warm now, and he added wood to the fire, then got a couple of glasses from the cabinet. He poured wine into one, then sat beside her, wrapped his arm around her and shifted her so she was lying against him.

  “Lola, wake up.”

  Nothing. He put the glass to her lips. The first mouthful ran down her chin. He tried again, and this time she swallowed convulsively, then coughed and her eyes flashed open. Panic flared on her face, and she flailed but was wrapped too tightly in the duvet to do much.

  “What? Where are…?” She searched around her frantically.

  “We’re safe,” he said.

  For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t or couldn’t believe him, then she slumped down. “I thought I was dead. I thought you—” Her eyes widened. “You drank my blood.”

  “You offered it.”

  “Not all of it,” she snapped.

  The tight band around his chest, eased a little. She was fighting back. She would live.

  She freed her arms and then peered under the duvet. “You took my clothes off.”

  “Not all of them.” That could be remedied. Then he couldn’t believe he had thought that. He’d already decided she was going far, far away. As soon as possible. He handed her the glass and she looked at it suspiciously.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “Possibly. But you need to drink—replace fluids. And eat.” He got up and got the plate of food from the table, placed it on her lap. “Eat. Drink.”

  She scowled. “I wondered how long it would be until you started giving orders again.” But she took a sip of wine. Then a nibble of chicken.

  He prowled around the room. Searching for anything familiar. Then into the hall and to the back door. Opening it, he stared out into the darkness. Then took a step, unable to stop himself. Down the dark, shadowy path, just out of sight of the cottage, he found the place.

  He and Gabe had dug the graves. At the time they’d had nothing to mark the site. But now someone had built a fancy fence around the small plot, and stones had been placed at the head of the five graves. Shrouded in snow, but he pushed through the small gate and ran his fingers along the engraved names, picturing each one in his mind.

  Who had done this?

  There had been no one left.

  He turned away and headed back to the cottage. The plate was empty and so was the bottle. Some of the color had returned to her face. Clearly, she had a resilience that was more than human. And was quite capable of protecting herself. And him. Despite her lack of stature.

  Suddenly, he was curious as to what she was. Witches had always kept to themselves, been cloaked in secrecy. He went into the kitchen to grab another bottle of wine, came back, and poured them both a glass. Picking up the cat, he moved it to the floor and sat down.

  “What are you?” he asked.

  “I’m a witch.”

  “And what is a witch?”

  “We’re the daughters of the Morrigan. The Goddess of war and pestilence.”

  “Your mother was a goddess?” Of war and pestilence? That didn’t sound good.

  She sniffed. “Still is somewhere. She dumped me on my sisters when I was only a few days old, and I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Your father?”

  “No clue. I didn’t exactly have a birth certificate.” She sounded a little bitter.

  “So what do witche
s do?”

  She sniffed again. “Well, I don’t do a lot. I told you we’re not allowed to use magic until we are trained, and we aren’t trained until we’re twenty-one. But after that, I’ll be able to do lots.” She smiled. “Witches guide the souls of the dead from this world to the Shadowlands and then beyond. We also have the power to open other gates. We could open the gates to Hell if we wanted to.”

  A shiver ran through him at her words. “Anything else?”

  “We have power over the sun and moon. We can extinguish the light and turn the world to darkness forever.”

  A deep sense of foreboding washed through him at her words. She was telling the truth—he could hear it in her voice—and the idea of so much power made the muscles of his stomach clench. But then he’d seen the evidence of what she could do. “And stop the world?” he asked.

  She took a huge swig of wine, looked away and then back. “Maybe. But that should not have happened.” Another swig. “I’ll think about it later. Soon—when I’m stronger. Just not quite yet.” She emptied her glass. “I also have visions.”

  “Visions?”

  “Sometimes of the past, mostly of the future. And they always come true.” She gave him a dark look. “Well, up to now. That’s changing though, because some visions are not meant to be.”

  “And can you use these visions and tell us what’s going to happen?” Like would the world start up again.

  “Unfortunately not. They just come…” She blinked. “Speaking of which…” Her eyes fluttered closed, and the glass crashed to the floor.

  Lachlan jumped to his feet and was beside her in a moment. He grabbed her hand…

  And present day disappeared.

  8

  Christmas Past…

  For a moment, Lola tried to fight the vision. She wanted to stay. But as always, she had no choice and her world shimmered and darkened and was gone.

  And she was cold, so cold.

  She was in a stone room, with an earth floor and it was dark, the only light from the stub of a candle, that guttered and smoked so the air was hard to breathe. At a guess, the past not the future.