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EXCERPT:

The night whispered.

It always had. Soft, gentle, incomprehensible pleas drifted on an endless wind that swept the outer edges of the purple, heather - covered moor. On nights when the moon slept beneath the horizon, the voice ventured across the stream, across the garden, rising and falling within the darkness. And when the moon lifted, the droning song bled, begging to be heard. Never had the call been defined, never urgent or severe. Never.

Until now.

"Annalise. Help him."

She sat up, lighting the candle beside her bed. The flame did little but deepen the shadows within the small room. A twinge of fear touched her breast, for she had only known the voice to be a lulling hum. Clearly her name had been spoken, her aid called upon, but why? For whom was this urgency needed? The shadows remained muted and motionless. She clasped her hands and waited.

Only the beat of her heart marked the passing seconds.

The shutter tapped. Once, twice, three times, then four, methodically uncommon for nature. She would not deny the invitation to investigate. She could not. The hint of destiny had strengthened her resolve.

This night was different. The call had been clear.

She approached the window. The voice had never frightened her, yet her fingers trembled because of the unknown. Beyond the shutters awaited providence. The urgency was contagious. She worried that it might cause her great pain.

Then the worry was gone.

"I am here," she said quietly, surprised at her tone of confidence. "I have always been here."

In response the shutter rattled, the violent quake robbing her breath. Quickly, she reached out, unlatched the hook and submitted to what must be. The candle went out. Walls fell to the ground like black wrinkled cloth. The night sky opened. So, too, did the expanse of moor. Depression descended through her like a wave. Not hers. His.

He stood, chin bowed, staring at three delicately carved goblets, all tipped, the contents soiling the earth crimson. A breeze curled the edges of the heavy dark cloak he pulled tightly around his neck. A waterfall of thick black hair coiled to his waist, several curled strands obstructing the features of his face. His gaze never faltered. He saw nothing except what was lost, and she dared not speak, so oppressive was his meditation.

"The wine of life has been spilled, Annalise. Do you see how he mourns?"

The familiar voice, no longer a chant, floated under her ear, the sweetness wracked with pain. "Yes," Annalise answered. "I see."

"He is lost and alone. The disease of despair has begun to soil his soul."

The shoulders beneath the mantle shivered. Silent sobs vibrated through the emptiness. "He wishes that Death's chariot would ride close and take him away from this suffering."

"Yes, you understand. You have the sight."

"The horseman never comes for him. His suffering never ends."

"No. Immortality courses through his veins. Yet he has lost the will to live."

"What can I do?"

A feathery touch on her cheek broke her mournful gaze. The whisper lightened. "Behold, Annalise."

Her eyes were instantly drawn to the two goblets, upright and full, near the heels of his boots.

"The malaise has blinded him. He is too weak to turn, but all is not lost. Promise waits. Yet he cannot see. He cannot turn. Help him, Annalise."

Fatigue bore down on her. Mixed with it was hopelessness. Both wielded mighty swords.

"Who is he?"

"Our Prince. Your chosen."

The words were uttered with such exaltation that Annalise finally found the ability to shift her gaze. The cold inside her breast melted, for the tall elegant woman who stood beside her glowed. The hazel eyes that returned Annalise's silent questions were filled with compassion, happiness, and dreams of pleasure. The crown adorning the woman's mass of blonde hair twinkled with jewels. Annalise had the sudden compulsion to bow and worship this daunting figure of sheer nobility.and virtue.

"Your Majesty," Annalise said, finally catching her elusive thoughts. "I think you hold great love for this man."

The image smiled. "I love him, yes, but I am unable to please him. My body is of the water. Yours is of flesh as his is of flesh. Only you can help him. Only your spirit can show him what is not lost. Your love is stronger."

"How can I help him? He hears nothing. He doesn't even turn to look at us."

"You have the sight, Annalise. You will find the way. You have the strength to heal. Your soul alone holds this gift."

Annalise curtsied, the burden at such a daunting task almost too great for her to bear. "You have sung to me for over twenty years. I have heard you in the garden, on the moors and at my window at night. Why is it that on this night you reveal his pain so clearly?"

"He no longer seeks companionship of either spirit or mortal. Despair is seducing him with the poisoned kiss of insanity. And an enemy approaches."

The impact of the warning panicked Annalise. The man was mourning, weakened and vulnerable. Releasing him from the web of depression would become her only goal.

"A mighty and evil woman," she said, not knowing why she knew.

The crowned figure nodded. "Wet his lips with wine of renewal. Dance with him. Flesh on flesh. Bathe him with pleasures. Speak to him of the history you share. Remind him of the dangers that follow. Then he will turn to see the goblets. Then he will know all is not lost. Then he will fight."

"Where is he? How will I know?"

The crown grew transparent and light sparkled. Myriad miniature stars, yellow and gold dissolved into the air, and the woman's gown flowed as a thin stream through stone crevices.

"Don't go," Annalise cried. "I can't be alone." She reached out just as the light vanished. A borderless shadow crawled along the earth beneath her bare feet. Cold curled around her ankles like gnarled fingers. She tried to scream, but her throat was dry and tight. She couldn't move. Both ankles had been swallowed by the putrid bog.

"Help me." The scream came from inside her head. Outside, the air was thin, and she struggled for breath, her breast stinging. Weakening quickly, she lifted her eyes to the cloaked figure as he continued to mourn his loss, selfish self - pity, but her plight was real. "Help me!"

She struggled impulsively, not knowing what would happen next. She could not run, only watch as something inside her leaped to life. The need for help was instantly forgotten. Held fast to this one place, her gaze transfixed on his shadowed face as he slowly turned towards her. The cloak shifted, folds of black within black. His hand rose, stretching out. Without realising, she reflected the gesture. A penetrating devotion, as eternal as the night sky above them, encased her being. She desired to touch the extended hand, but she could not move. A strange empathy increased rapidly within her, becoming more and more complete with every non - existent second. Her excitement wildly pushed for freedom.

"I am here," she whispered. "I have always been here."

A cry of forlorn agony vibrated through him. His arm shivered, still held out to her while he collapsed to the earth, the dark robe ballooning around him where he knelt. A mass of hair shrouded indistinguishable features, yet she witnessed the deep contortion of pain twisting his whole body. She had to reach him. Her weight doubled as she too, fell on bended knees. Fighting fatigue, she inched forward slowly, one palm after another on the wet earth. Desire fed every burning muscle. She blinked, clearing the tears of her own pain, so she could keep his extended hand within her sight. The chasm between them narrowed. His fingertips were a mere breath away.

"I am here," she cried, her heart expanding in success. She clutched his hand, shivering in her weakened state of exertion.

A warmth of rejuvenation flowed up her arm, cascading through her like a river of warm water. The weight dissolved. If he let go of her, she might float heavenward and be forever lost amongst the stars. But he did not let go. He opened the robe, as though it was the wide wing of a great bird, and she was pulled inside to the safety of his muscular embrace.

No thought swept through her mind, nothing other than the sheer ecstasy of being held so tightly, so tenderly. Fingers wound into her hair, pressing her cheek into his wide shoulder, every gesture motivated by affection she had never known. Her palms explored the solid mass of his body. Velvet skin, a thin coating over the rock rippling beneath. His masculine sensuality exploited by his nakedness. Hard shoulders, a solid waist, the curve of each firm buttock. He was a statue created by a Master, yet living.

Wild abandonment seized her. Inhibitions lost. Her palm arched over his hip. He shifted slightly, welcoming her touch and inviting it lower. The breath against her hair was saturated with hunger. Delicately she wrapped her fingers around his erection, her palm slowly caressing the velvet skin, back and forth. He shuddered, pulling her hair as his fingers held her captive. And he swayed in rhythm with her stroking.

The strange murmurings whispered in her ear were incomprehensible - either in a language she didn't understand or so saturated with emotion her reasoning blurred. Not that it mattered. She prepared to give herself to him, as a woman does for the man she has chosen to love for eternity. Her soft sigh gave him permission to occupy her body, because she cherished him and the kiss upon her neck told her his love was honoured with sincerity.

She felt his twisted cry before it escaped his throat. It ricocheted within his chest, and in a sharp panic, she clung to him with as much strength as she could wield. To no avail. He dissolved, as quickly as a room dissolves when the last candle is extinguished in the dead of night. She screamed, her own anguish a flash of crippling despondency.

"Anna, my poor sweet girl, wake up!"

The scent of heather, damp earth, and cleansing rain filled the air. Annalise staggered, falling into her aunt's consoling arms. "Sadie," she whispered, so exhausted she could barely think.

"All right now, flower. It was just a dream. Just another bad dream."

"This was different," she sobbed, wracked by a tumultuous storm of emotions she couldn't put into words. "This was different from all the others." Sadie wrapped a shawl around Annalise's shoulder. "Hush now child. Come back inside. I'll make us some tea."

Annalise hesitated, glancing once more to the place where the cloaked figure had stood with her in his arms then to where the majestic woman had floated. Morning light eased its way over the craggy moor, white sheep dotting the paths, bleating a welcome to the new day. The familiarity of the scene was a comfort but not enough to ease her trepidation.

The call had come.

And she knew she had no other choice than to follow.

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EXCERPT:

Some storms rush in, overwhelm the sky with mountainous black clouds, gush wind and rain then vanish as quickly as they came. Others creep along silently, betraying their intensity, masking it in silence until the weary traveller is caught in a sudden onslaught, doomed.

And then some are merely gentle, welcoming, almost passionate, suggestive in a mysterious way, as though they were quietly predicting that something unnatural was about to happen.

These gentle storms were the ones Scarlet had come to fear the most. She knew that somehow, these temperate changes in the air are deeply rooted and can thwart the thin perception we call reality.

These changes heightened the human psyche. Scarlet had eyes to see.

Summer nights were not wholly dark. The heat seemed to radiate its own glow, and for two weeks in July, that heat, even during the early hours of the morning, was predictably relentless. Try as she might to prepare, the offence always took her by surprise. Not even the soft whirl of a fan could cool her restlessness so she rose, slipped on her dress and sandals and went for a walk along the city streets, searching for an elusive cool breeze that might rush out to greet her from an alley.

By nature, Scarlet was a cautious person. She never took unnecessary chances. Not because any great tragedy had taught her a valuable lessons but because she relied securely on what many would call a 'sixth sense'. Some faces, regardless of the smile, warned her of danger so she walked away. Some places felt wrong, so she avoided them and of course, she was not one to wander out into a city street during the early morning hours when predators might lurk in shadows, watching intently for their next victim.

But this night the air hung heavy with the smell of rain. There was the perception of serenity. A storm slowly approached and with it was the comfort of quiet. She could walk leisurely without being anxious until the sky broke. And she could sort through her thoughts without interruption.

Nights, despite their twilight heat, had recently brought a darkness of doubt to her. Uncertainty was a guest she didn't wish to entertain but one that made itself comfortable with her anyway. The faithful - those who believed or wanted to believe in powers greater than themselves - came to her seeking answers to the unknown. As an advisor, Scarlet drew out her Guides, putting together what was past, what was relevant in the present and forming the best direction for her clients to take for the future. Not all paths were without predators or storms, so as gently as possible she would warn her anxious listeners of dangers that lay ahead, directions that were good choices, and dreams to cling to. Due to the accuracy of her results, word of mouth had spread, and visitors, the expectant and curious alike, to her small parlour doubled. Scarlet Boujois's name had become fashionable. She had shown many the powers greater than themselves were worth searching for.

But with the increased fame, she felt stretched, at times overwhelmed, that her own spirit was being squeezed and smothered. Clients and their pain crowded into her mind. She had no peace. She was restless, nearing panic driven, and in need of rejuvenation.

Another reason she strolled the streets during the dead of night, the calm before a storm - it was then the gentle voices were the clearest. And freedom was a mere heartbeat away.

Suddenly she was rewarded with the flutter of fresh cool air. Scarlet stopped, and sighed to the luxury of it. Without realising she had done so, she had even lifted her arms to embrace its pleasures. Fickle creature that it was, however, no sooner had she sensed its tease against her flesh then it was gone.

She turned, reminiscing about the sensation of cool delight as the heat again swathed her. There, at the end of the alley, a door was ajar. Yellow light bathed the street, the perimeter clearly defined between it and the darkness on the cobbled pavement. A shadow distorted the light for a mere second. Someone moved about inside, perhaps as frustrated with the heat as she. It was far too late for any merchant to be open for business. Curiosity pulled her along the alleyway, closer to the yellow glow and the hope of another fresh breeze against her flesh.

She stepped into the light.

Certainly it was a shop. Trinkets, ornaments, crockery, and books precariously cluttered the shelves. Photographs, postcards, and paintings filled the walls. Antiques. The musty damp smells confirmed the age of these artefacts. And the waft of incense - sandalwood, she recognised - hung heavy in the thick air. The sweet odour hinted at a devilish mystique, that those who walked an impish course might have more of a longing to explore this solitary shop than the righteous would.

Scarlet was neither, so for the time being she stood on the threshold, neither inside nor out.

The shopkeeper appeared swiftly from a backroom, the beaded door clacking as he moved through. He smiled briefly in her direction before turning his focus to a stack of papers he placed on the glass counter. The aisle between them was clear, and for some reason she was compelled to follow along and draw closer to him. The counter was the barrier between them, and she placed her palms upon it, without considering this might be rude. He peered up at her without lifting his head, that icy school teacher stare, a silent reprimand. She took her hands off the counter and wiped them down the sides of her dress. If she hadn't, she felt that he might have been tempted to rap her knuckles to teach her a lesson in etiquette. The air inside the shop was tepid. Even so she shivered.

"Something I can help you with?" he asked quietly. She noticed he hadn't blinked. Not once.

"May I look around? I mean, you are open, aren't you?"

He nodded, the side of his mouth pinching into a half - smirk. Then he returned rapt attention to his papers.

From behind a shelf, Scarlet secretly studied him, reaching out with her senses. She couldn't get a feel for him. She perceived he had no history, that his very existence was superficial, shallow, an echo. She couldn't draw on any essence to predict his future because he would always remain the same. This feeling was unprecedented, and it left her feeling unnerved. Had she discovered a Master Predator? One who could cloak his being, one who followed the quiet storms, feeding on the frightened, the innocent and the unwary? The one who would vanish as rain evaporates in the midday sun?

Scarlet gave herself a shake. Of late, she'd worried that her physic abilities had lessened. At the moment, she felt those abilities had abandoned her completely.

Still, all men had history. Even those she couldn't read. To coax her physic ability to function, she concentrated on his appearance.

She was no master at guessing age. His physique - wide shoulders, strong arms, thick chest - was that of a powerful youth. Pitch black hair swept back from a high forehead and was flecked with grey, which could denote middle age. Could, but not always. No, the indicator that a decade must be added to the physique was his face. That stern forehead was creased. So, too, were his cheeks. Thin lines were evident on his mouth and in the corners of his eyes. Under his ears. He had to be nearing fifty.

This was odd.

Twenty years her senior was a conservative estimate and yet, despite her wariness of older men, she felt a sharp stab of arousal.

Then it struck her as harshly as any physical slap - his was an ancient soul and he courted the knowledge of the dark arts! Deep, dangerous, occultist secrets! Her Guide spoke within her mind, The darkness within him is ageless.

She looked away. It was as though time, and all its measurements, meant absolutely nothing here. Between the heat, the sweetly saturated air, and the heavy drumming silence, Scarlet was losing her grasp on her own narrowly defined reality.

A vision, born from arousal, flickered through her mind's eye - seduction - the ultimate risk, an intimate union with one who could feel no guilt, shame or consequence. She was pressed tightly into the circle of his arms, a slave to his talented craft of foreplay, accepting his hand across her breast, his mouth upon hers in the most fervent of kisses. She was accepting him inside, to share her body and take her energy. She was one with the storm.

She shook her head and snuffed a laugh that came from both absurdity and embarrassment.

When she looked again to the counter he was gone. She tipped her ear to listen. There was a distant rustling sound in one corner - an irregular tapping, like the heel of a boot, footsteps, one slightly out of pace with the other. But they neither progressed nor retreated.

A clock? Or water expanding pipes between the walls?

If not for this peculiar noise, she might have remained silent. But now her skin crawled, her senses warning that perhaps she shouldn't linger here. Something foul and unnatural inhabited this place. She wasn't brave enough to uncover what she cared not to understand, especially within herself. So she turned to leave.

She cried a short scream of alarm. The shopkeeper stood directly behind her, and as she whirled around, she had nearly walked into him.

Heat rose in her face. Scarlet's sexual fantasies embarrassed her more because he was so close, towering over her. She also suffered extreme reticence...a desire to neither stay nor leave. The moment, surreal and painful, hung without hope.

Coal black eyes bore into her. "I am Nicolai Von Adler," he said with a quick nod. "Welcome to my abode."

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EXCERPT:

She had to feel him, truly feel him. A wash of sensuality pooled in her groin. Responding to its feral appeal she moved her hands across his chest, tweaked a hard nipple on a solid mound of muscle, and she smiled as he flexed beneath her caress.

"More," he said, his arms strengthening, luring her into the promise of extreme pleasures.

She lowered her hands over the silky hairs on his stomach, stopping where flesh met denim, tugging playfully at the edge. He swayed, parting his legs. Then he took hold of her wrist.

"Touch me, harder." The plea changed to demand. He sounded like a man who gave orders naturally and had others follow those orders without hesitation. There was no escaping. She didn't want to escape. She liked being told. By him.

She had succumbed to temptation and the euphoria was taking control. She would do all he asked.

A stranger. She was dancing with a stranger who was dark and very possibly dangerous. No one would hear her scream. Even this thought added to the mystique, doubling her urges.

So she griped his groin through the denim. And bit into the flesh on his shoulder.

A whirlwind of motion, blocked sunlight - like a shadow falling over her eyes - and a forbidding rampart of muscle was suddenly thrust against her. When she stopped moving she was on her knees, submitting again to the persuasion of what was lurid, her lips parted to welcome the sticky sweet wine of lust. He had her hair firmly entwined in his fingers, and he directed her forward to his unyielding erection, perfectly aligned with her mouth.

Without hesitation she took him, obeying his command to be pleasured. His grunts of appreciation were short, sharp. His thrusts forward were similar. His palms heated her jaw, his touch gentle now because he knew she intended to do as he wanted, that she would not leave, that she would carry out her silent promises. She felt, too, his eyes on her, the same eerie sensation of eyes watching when she'd first arrived. There also was the heavy sigh that pursed into her mind, only this time she was fulfilling an act where this response was justified.

She clutched his hips, shuffled in, and took him deeper, twirling her tongue around the mighty girth, waiting anxiously for the tightening, the gasp, the short prelude to his release.

A stranger. No face. No name. No history. No past or future. Just then and now.

His thighs flinched. He sucked in a long hard breath of air. He clawed her scalp, death grip over her temples. He plunged himself into the back of her throat.

And screamed in agony.

He pulled away from her so abruptly she fell off balance. Before she had the inclination to lift her eyes, to question what had gone wrong, he turned away.

She swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, the taste of him lingering on her tongue. "Why?" she asked, her voice hoarse. "What's wrong?" He wanted her pleasuring; she was willing, able. Yet he baulked?

His only reaction was to stride, rapidly, in a straight path across the lawn towards the short wharf.

"Hey - wait a minute," she yelled, rising in a panic and stumbling after him, unable to keep up with his frantic pace. He reached the wharf first, lifted his arms over his head, palms together while still in full stride and without any hesitation dove head first into the water.

She stifled a shriek with her hand and raced over to where her lover had jumped.

"Oh my God," she whimpered, a terror like none other, paralysing her mind with white searing heat, blinding her to rationale. There was no ripple in the water where he had jumped! There was no man swimming in the icy cold water. There was no sign that anyone, other than her, had walked across the lawn.

"Oh my God," she repeated, shivering uncontrollably. She turned, a full circle, but the man, who'd moments ago been her passion's desire, was nowhere to be seen.

Edge of sanity. Perhaps she had stumbled closer to it than she thought.

"Who are you?" she whispered...