Christmas After Dark: A Holiday Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Abigail Owen

  Needy!

  She sniffed.

  She was so not needy. Well, maybe she was a little bit needy, but she did not need him. He was, in fact, everything she did not need.

  But she had wanted him. Desperately. Just once, before he found a way to rid himself of her entirely. She blamed it on the vision of them kissing under the mistletoe. It had fixated her brain on the very thing it should have warned her about.

  And there was no point in going all soppy and pretending she’d given herself as some sort of Christmas present.

  Besides, it wasn’t Christmas.

  And maybe it never would be.

  How long had it been since she’d stopped the world? Hours. Midnight would have passed, and it should be Christmas day. But it wasn’t, because she had used the Earth magic and stopped the world. If Christmas never came, then that would be down to her. Because she had no clue how to start it up again. Santa Claus was probably frozen in time, stuck forever, halfway down someone’s chimney.

  That was sad.

  She needed something to wear. Lachlan had dropped her clothes in a pile where he had stripped her. She shuffled over. They were still damp—he was so undomesticated. So was she; another reason they would never suit. One person per couple had to be housebroken. She picked them up, shook them out and lay them on the back of the chair to dry before putting another log on the fire.

  He was still lying, unmoving on the sofa. Naked and beautiful, like a marble statue. Though he wasn’t perfect; he had scars. A slash across his chest. A puckered hole in his shoulder. Had they been made before he was changed? He’d had such a hard life. She remembered the little boy from the vision. Too thin and terrified, yet trying to pretend he wasn’t so his sisters wouldn’t be scared. Providing for his family when he was only eight. She sniffed again.

  She’d had too much wine; it was making her emotional.

  She shuffled out of the room into a hallway. An open door at one end led to the kitchen. She went the other way and peered into a bedroom. The duvet was missing. A big dark wood wardrobe stood against the far wall, and she opened it. Men’s clothes. A big man. She selected a black shirt. It felt like silk, and she dropped the duvet and pulled it on. It reached to her knees. She buttoned it up. Next, she went to the kitchen. She stared out of the window, but nothing moved. Red and silver lights twinkled on the trees lining the path from the wooden gate. She’d been in no position to notice when Lachlan had brought her in here. They were pretty.

  Who lived here? A man obviously. A big man who liked Christmas decorations and good red wine. Maybe, if the world ever started again, she should introduce herself.

  In the kitchen, she turned on the coffee maker. Found bread and peanut butter and made herself a sandwich, then wandered back into the sitting room. She came to a halt. He was awake. Standing by the window, peering out, he’d pulled on his jeans but was otherwise naked. He cast her a wary glance.

  She swallowed. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to ask you to marry me or anything.”

  He raked his hair back from his face. “Good.” But he didn’t sound happy. His gaze dropped down over her, lingering on her breasts under the thin silk and her nipples tightened. Again.

  She hurried across, sat down and pulled the shirt over her knees. Took another bite and chewed while Lachlan paced the room, all half-naked pent-up energy. A…sulky expression on his face.

  “How old were you when you were…changed?” she asked.

  He stopped and turned to look at her. Hands shoved in his pockets. “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “So not much older than me.” And everyone knew boys matured slower than girls. “That explains why you’re so emotionally stunted.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It does?”

  “Well, vampires don’t age after they’re changed. I mean you could still pass for twenty-two. Maybe you don’t mature emotionally either.”

  “I’m emotionally mature.”

  She snorted, but didn’t answer, just let a small smile play across her lips.

  His mouth tightened, then he shook his head. He sat down opposite her, stretched out his long legs. “So tell me about this spell you cast. How long will it last?”

  “I have no clue. I told you—I’m not supposed to do magic yet. I’m not supposed to even know spells. It just sort of…popped out.”

  “Which means you have no idea how to reverse it?”

  “None whatsoever.” She sighed. “On the bright side, you don’t have to worry about me trailing around after you like a love-sick witch.”

  A smile flickered across his face. She had an idea he liked the thought. “Why is that?”

  “Because there’s a good chance that my life is forfeit.”

  “What?”

  “The Earth magic always has a price. Something this big…usually a life. Maybe sometime, I’ll tell you the story of how my sister Gina became a vampire.”

  He jumped to his feet. “Who will kill you? How?”

  “I’ll probably be expected to sacrifice myself. Restore the balance.” Maybe that’s what she needed to do now. Maybe that was what would bring the world and Christmas back into being. But she didn’t want to die. And she certainly didn’t want to kill herself. Though she would find the strength if she had to because—as Regan always said—they had great power and great responsibilities.

  “Don’t you dare kill yourself.”

  Aw, he sounded as though he cared. Maybe now was not the time to suggest that Lachlan’s life might also be forfeit. She put down the rest of her sandwich, no longer hungry. Had she dragged Lachlan down with her? Saved his life, only to have him die as a consequence. Except he was already dead. Her head hurt.

  He paced the room, casting her an occasional dark glance. He clearly wasn’t happy. But then he was supposed to protect her—Darius would no doubt be pissed. He’d failed.

  Finally, he came to a halt in front of her, hands thrust in his pockets. He was so big. His shoulders broad, the muscles of his arms bulging. But with not an ounce of fat, his belly lean, almost concave. Her gaze skimmed over the bulge in his pants, down to is bare feet, long narrow toes. Finally, she traced the route back up and found him watching her out of half-closed eyes.

  “I’m hungry,” he growled.

  “Oh.” She shifted on the chair as heat spread through her, settling low down in her body. She pressed her thighs together. “There’s peanut butter in the kitchen. It’s good.”

  He gave a slow smile, then leaned down. Not touching her anywhere, just resting his hands on the arms of her chair, caging her in. “I don’t want peanut butter.”

  She could feel his cool breath shivering against her hot skin. Her whole body was on fire. “Hey, if this is because you think I’m going to die and so won’t get the chance to be clingy. It’s not a done deal. One more orgasm, and I could get very clingy. I’m needy remember.”

  “Right now, so am I.”

  He lowered his head, kissed the side of her throat, and she sensed it down to her toes. A warm wetness flooded between her thighs, and he breathed in deeply as though he could smell her desire. So not cool. His tongue licked her skin, a slow stroke across her pulse point, and she was suddenly conscious of her blood thumping in her veins. The thud of her heart.

  This could never go anywhere, but did that matter?

  The world had stopped, her life was likely forfeit. It wouldn’t matter if he walked away, it might even make things easier. Her head tipped back to give him access and he gave a low chuckle.

  He scooped her up in his arms. But as they tightened around her, she felt that faint flickering, like something tapping at her brain. Her vision dimmed, and the present faded to nothing…

  11

  Christmas Future…

  It was happening again. Lachlan tightened his arms around her as the room faded around them. His vision darkened, and he closed his eyes, expecting to be dragged back to that earlier time, the
stone room, his mother and sisters, the cold that seeped into his bones, the hunger gnawing at his belly. Instead…

  The castle. But there were decorations, a huge tree with a star on top that brushed the ceiling of the great hall. Candles twinkled and colored streamers festooned the walls. A Yule log burned in the open hearth. The sound of laughter and talking filled the room.

  What was happening?

  He didn’t know these people. Except, there was Darius across the room, with a blond woman he didn’t recognize. And then Lola stepped into sight. His mind scrambled to make sense of what he was seeing.

  Could this be the future?

  She’d survived. And something inside him relaxed. He’d been trying not to think about what she had said. That her life would be forfeit. He would not allow that to happen. But this was magic. He was out of his depth, and he had to save her but he had no clue how.

  Yet here she was. And this certainly wasn’t the past so it must be going to happen.

  A lightness filled him. He hardly recognized the emotion—but that was happening a lot lately.

  Hope.

  Hope for the future.

  Lola was looking straight at him, smiling, her expression radiant. Then she caught sight of something behind him and her expression faltered.

  He turned slowly, then shock held him immobile. A man stood in the doorway. Tall, dressed in black, with black hair pulled back in a ponytail, stubble shadowing his cheeks, a scar ran down the left side of his face, through his eyebrow, across his cheekbone, to his upper lip, tugging it into a permanent sneer.

  As Lachlan stepped toward him, the vision wavered.

  “No!”

  He tried to hold on, but it was slipping away, faster and faster. And then it was gone…

  And he was back in the present. Lola was still in his arms, and he lowered her to the floor. She squeezed his arm. “You saw?”

  He glanced down, shook his head to clear the vision. She had a worried frown between her eyes. “Yes, I fucking saw.” He ran a hand through his hair. It wasn’t possible. Not fucking possible.

  “What is it, Lachlan?”

  He turned away, paced the room. Drew back his fist and punched the wall.

  “Ouch,” she muttered behind him. “The man? The one in the doorway? Who is he?”

  “You mean who was he? That was my brother, Gabe.” Foster brother, but they had been closer than real brothers. Brought together by death and hardship and the struggle to survive.

  She nibbled on her lower lip. “That doesn’t make sense. That was the future, not the past. He should be dead.”

  “I saw him die. I saw him fall on the battlefield at Culloden. He took the blow meant for me. He saved my life, and he died. I know he died.”

  He turned away, pressed his fingers to his forehead, forcing his mind to go back to that horrific day. The stench of blood and gun smoke. Death. He’d seen Gabe fall under the sword blow and had tried to fight his way through to him, over the bodies. He hadn’t seen the man who shot him. The musket ball had taken him in the shoulder, spun him around. The next thing he had known was Darius, looming over him, asking if he wanted to live forever. And he had said yes. So he could find Gabe, save Gabe. “I went back. As soon as I could. As soon as Darius would let me. But the body had vanished. So many disappeared, buried in mass graves. I came back here, but the place was deserted. He had to be dead. I would never have stopped looking if I'd thought there was any chance.”

  He sank onto the sofa, his head in his hands. “We promised to always protect each other.”

  “You tried. You did your best.”

  “It wasn’t fucking enough.”

  She sat beside him, placed a hand on his knee and a small measure of peace flowed through him. The fog cleared a little from his mind. “What happened? How did he survive? How could he still be alive in the future?”

  But he, more than any, knew there were ways.

  “Could he have been changed as well?” Lola asked. “Some other vampire?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  He jumped to his feet, stood in the middle of the room, looking around. He remembered that earlier vision—his mother describing what could be, Gabe listening with wide eyes.

  “All you need is a little imagination,” she’d said. “Close your eyes and picture the tree. Red and silver—it’s in the corner almost as tall as the ceiling. A holly wreath on the door. And there’s a log fire in the grate. Red velvet curtains keeping out the draft. Thick rugs on the floor.”

  The room was exactly as she’d described. Running a hand over his face, he tried to make sense of his thoughts.

  He hurried from the room, to the bedroom at the back of the house. Looked around, then headed for the dresser. His hand reached out and he picked up the small oval frame. Ran his fingers over the picture of a woman. Dark red hair. He glanced up; Lola stood in the doorway. “My ma,” Lachlan said.

  She came to stand beside him. “She was beautiful.”

  “This was a wedding present from my da to my ma,” he said. “She was only sixteen. We didn’t save much when we fled the castle the night my da was killed. But Gabe went back for this. He knew my mother loved it.”

  The fence and the gravestones? Had Gabe done that? While Lachlan had run from the country he’d loved and never looked back. He’d put Scotland from his mind, because he couldn’t bear to think about it and there was nothing left of his past. But he’d been so wrong.

  Had Gabe been here all this time? Somehow he had survived Culloden. Somehow, he had survived for nearly three hundred years.

  “Lachlan.”

  He glanced up as Lola spoke his name. She held something up in her hand. A braided leather necklace and hanging from it a yellowed fang. Not a vampire fang. More like a canine, but bigger than any dog he had ever seen.

  Werewolf.

  Something clicked in his brain. And he headed for the door at a run.

  12

  “Lachlan!” Lola called out to him, but he was beyond listening.

  The front door slammed. Where was he going so fast? Clearly, he’d thought of something. She glanced at the necklace she held in her hand.

  Ugh.

  It wasn’t even a nice white fang but yellowed with age, or usage. She didn’t like to think of that.

  And big. Big, like the werewolves who had growled and snarled and nearly ripped Lachlan’s throat out last night.

  She hurried back to the living room, grabbed Lachlan’s long leather coat from the floor, and pulled on her boots.

  Through the snow, the tracks were clear. And she ran after him, hugging the coat around her. Her knees were freezing, but she ignored the cold.

  She passed the spot where her blood still stained the snow crimson. Then farther. Finally, she came upon Lachlan. He stood just outside the circle of werewolves. As though unwilling to enter. Nothing had changed. They were frozen in time.

  Lachlan was still naked from the waist up, his feet bare, but he didn’t appear to be affected by the cold. No doubt a vampire thing.

  He was staring at the man in the mask. It covered his upper face but left his mouth clear and she could see the dark shadow of stubble on his cheek. He had thick black hair, pulled into a ponytail, and was dressed in black. Black jeans, a black silk shirt, a leather jacket. His arm was raised, the sword in his hand.

  Was this the same man from the vision? It could be, but she’d only seen a brief glimpse. Not enough to be sure.

  Lachlan took a step closer, then another. Lola followed. He came to a halt in front of the man, then reached up and stroked his finger along the edge of the blade. A bead of blood welled up. “My da’s sword,” he murmured. “Gabe got it at the same time as the picture. He got it for me. Risked his life. I said he should keep it. It was his most prized possession. God, he spent hours cleaning the blade. And I didn’t even recognize it.”

  He licked the blood from his finger. Then took a deep breath and slipped the mask from the man’s face.


  He looked older than Lachlan, but maybe werewolves aged differently from vampires. And harder. Harsh lines bracketed his face. A scar ran down from his forehead, across his cheek to his upper lip. His eyes were blue, but cold as ice. His expression fierce.

  Lachlan touched a finger to the scar. “He got this in a brawl in a bar in Glasgow. Over a prostitute. When he was sixteen. He used to tell the lassies it was a war wound.” His hand dropped to his side. “Jesus. He was trying to kill me. We were closer than brothers. And now he hates me.”

  “You don’t know that. Maybe it was just a…” She searched her mind for an explanation. But it certainly looked like he’d planned to kill Lachlan. The sword. The expression on his face. Probably planned to chop off Lachlan’s head. “…a misunderstanding. He likely didn’t even recognize you. It has been a long time.”

  “He knew me. It makes sense now. The things he said.”

  “Then maybe it’s a werewolf thing. Nasty, vicious lot.” Her sister Regan was a werewolf now—though Regan had always been pretty fierce. And Regan was in love with a werewolf—well half-werewolf. So they couldn’t all be bad. “And perhaps he doesn’t like vampires. Didn’t he kill the last head vampire? Isn’t that why you were here in the first place?”

  “Yeah, but the guy was an asshole. I would have killed him if I’d had to live in the same country.” He pressed a finger to his forehead. “This thing tonight was a setup. Agreeing to the meeting. Just an excuse to get me out in the open. The stinger across the road. The car crash. Chasing us here. Close to where we grew up. Would he have told me before he killed me?”

  She glanced at the man with the big sword. “From the look on his face, I don’t think he had conversation in mind.”

  “You have to wake him up.”