Mitchell nodded. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear, obviously, but it was the truth. He seemed flushed, and awkward, and he was staring at her, clearly trying to think of what to say, and failing miserably. But then he looked back up at Amelia and sighed, “Eat.” He nodded to the fridge. “It’s better heated up.” And just like that, the awkwardness was gone.
Mitchell was right; it was better warm. She was … surprised she guessed, and a little elated. He was being so calm, understanding even, and it was—different. Wonderful even.
After downing two bags and listening to everyone’s recount of what had happened over the last few days, Amelia actually started to think that maybe, just maybe, something wonderful could happen from all of this.
Or then again, maybe something awful.
They were all stronger—closer. Even Tyler and Angelle seemed more…comfortable with each other. More together, that was for sure. Eric and Megan doted on each other, and they couldn’t keep their hands off of one another. And Amelia noticed all the extremely private whispers, which she shouldn’t have heard and really wished she hadn’t.
It was weird, how easily they all just forgave each other and forgave her. It was more charity than Amelia thought she could have ever earned, and they just gave it to her, as if nothing happened. Forgiven and forgotten.
It was like her father always said, at the end of the day, the only people who will always be there for you is your family, no matter what. Amelia had never really understood that, not fully, until now.
It was Luke who decided to call it a night first, and Amelia didn’t miss the chill in his voice or the way he looked at Lola when he said it. And by the way she cringed, Lola didn’t either.
“Luke,” Amelia said nervously. She started fiddling with her hair, wrapping a curl around her finger. “Um … don’t be too hard on her.” She groped around for something else to say, and then, an idea hit her. “Technically, she had to listen to me. You know, because at that point Mitch was still, well, you know. So …” she broke off, realizing how stupid her logic was sounding.
“I know, kiddo,” Luke said after a moment, and he sighed. “I just hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into and what you both have gotten us into. Tomorrow is a new day, and sooner or later the people …” He paused then, scrubbing at his face, and when he looked back at them, there were stress lines crinkling his eyes. “They’ll find out he’s human sooner or later, and they will also know you’ve changed as soon as they see you.”
Luke didn’t really have to finish his thought. They all knew what that could mean. The vamps, the humans; Mitchell was the backbone of this town. He kept them together and ultimately in line. They were still acting as if he was still Mitchell, and to them he was, but to everyone else … It freaked her out even thinking about it.
Lola was reluctant to leave. Amelia wasn’t really sure if it was leaving her with Mitchell, or if it was that she didn’t want to leave her unprotected. It was … weird and awesome all at once. And in all honesty, Amelia didn’t really want her to go, and not that she would admit it, but she was starting to understand the worshipy sidekick comment Lola had made before changing her.
After ten minutes of stalling, Mitchell groaned and said, “Lola, give it a rest already. She’s staying in our room and that’s that.”
Angelle and Tyler had already left, and Eric and Megan were getting up from the island, when a devilish grin began to spread on his face. “Hey, Millie,” Eric said. “Try to be gentle with him.” He winked suggestively, and Megan smacked him. “What?” he said, trying to look innocent. He failed. “Look at them. You know damn well …”
“Eric,” Megan shrieked, cutting him off. She blushed, embarrassed. “What they do is none of your business.”
“I’m just trying to help,” he said with mock hurt.
“Sorry, guys,” Megan said, and she grabbed his hand, dragging him from the room.
“He’s right,” Lola said. “Maybe you should …”
“Lola, enough,” Luke said, exasperated. “If Mitch says she’ll be fine, then she’ll be fine.” Lola didn’t move, and Luke scooped her up in his arms and carried her out of the room.
Mitchell stared at her for a second, searching her face. He must have found what he was looking for, because he smiled, and then he turned and started down the hallway towards their room.
Amelia took a deep breath, steadied herself, and began to follow him, feeling lost and alone. Suddenly it was all too much, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry. She wanted to cry for everyone they had lost. She wanted to mourn for them, and in a way, for herself and Mitchell. Because, well, parts of them had died during this battle, and she wasn’t sure if those parts would ever come back to life.
Tomorrow she’d think about how to hide Mitchell, how to keep the town going, how to deal with the fact that she had killed someone. But she couldn’t face that now. Now all she wanted was to feel the pain, as if feeling it was the first step to recovering from it.
She stepped into the room behind him and shut the door. She went to walk past him, completely lost in her own grief, when he grabbed her wrist, and pulled her into his arms. “You’re going to be fine, love. We’ll be okay,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair. His lips found hers, and he pressed a soft, burning kiss onto them, and for a second, she believed him, well, until he pulled back and opened his mouth, ruining it. “Besides, how long could my body take to recover? A few days? A week?”
Amelia broke away from him, barely having to use any strength at all, and she stepped out of his reach, unable, and maybe a little unwilling, to look at him. “A month,” she whispered, “maybe two just to be safe.”
He didn’t say anything, but she could smell the frustration and anger simmering on his skin. He paced towards her, and out of habit, she dodged him, skidding across the room. He groaned, frustrated. He wasn’t mad at her, she knew that, and she was pretty sure he just wanted to hold her. But it still freaked her out—just a little—especially since she couldn’t hear his thoughts. She opened her mouth, ready to yell for help, and then reality hit her and she laughed. Hard. So hard that her sides hurt and her jaw ached, and she plopped down on the floor, holding her stomach.
Mitchell jutted out his bottom lip, looking down at her. “It’s not that funny, love.”
“Yeah, it kind of is,” she said, through her hysterical laughter.
A sexy, and maybe just a little devilish, grin spread upon his face, and then he scooped her up off the ground, cradling her in his arms. His eyes darkened, and Amelia stopped laughing.
“Mitch, what are …” she started, but didn’t get to finish. He pressed his lips to hers, working over them with such hunger and longing that it left her breathless. Her skin buzzed everywhere he touched, and she opened her mouth under his, taking the kiss deeper. There was something different … something that growled in her stomach, and her gums throbbed. Then, her fangs slid down, pinching in her mouth.
Amelia gasped, and broke the kiss abruptly. Revulsion washed over her in waves of hot and cold as she realized what she had been about to do. She opened her mouth to apologize, but he stopped her, placing a warm finger against her lips. “It’s okay, love.” He pressed a skin tingling kiss on her neck and whispered, “It’s a normal reaction.”
“But … but …” she said, but with his lips trailing along her neck and nibbling at her ear, she couldn’t figure out what it was she was trying to object to.
“Tomorrow,” he said against her neck. He carried her up the steps to their bed, pulling off her top as he went, and working on the buttons of her jeans, before he laid her down, his lips barely breaking from their exploration of her skin. “We’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”
She smiled, and her fangs flooded back into her gums, and she whispered, “Tomorrow.” And then, the world melted away, and the only thing that was left was Mitchell’s burning skin pressed against hers.
###
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ashley Stoyanoff lives in Whitby, Ontario and loves diving into the magical world of creating fiction. When not writing, she can be found reading sappy novels, watching cheesy chick flicks, and buying far too many clothes.
Connect with Ashley Stoyanoff online:
www.ashleystoyanoff.com
www.facebook.com/AshleyStoyanoffTheSoulsMark
www.goodreads.com/ashley_stoyanoff
Read on for a preview of Waking Dreams, A Soul’s Mark Novella.
Coming Spring/Summer 2013.
CHAPTER 1
Sterling snorted, and her left ear twitched to the side. “What do you hear, girl?” Eric asked, stroking his mare’s thick neck. His teeth chattered, and his breath puffed out in a cloud of white fog. She jumped to the right, and pawed at the snowy ground, with jittery, nervous strikes. Her ears pinned flat against her neck, and she glared at the tree line.
Eric searched the ice-encrusted trees for what may have spooked his horse, but he saw nothing. Creaks and cracks from the trees drifted to his ears, as the branches sagged under the weight of the ice, but aside from that, the forest was silent and still. He stroked her mane and cooed calming words to her, and after a moment, she began to settle.
Giving her a gentle nudge, he reined Sterling back to the fence. A gust of frosty wind blew through the field, and a shiver prickled over his skin. It had been a long day, rounding up the cattle that had gotten loose during the ice storm last night. Now, if he could just find the broken place in the fence and mend it, he would finally be able to get back into the warmth of his ranch house.
Sterling walked along the rails slowly, picking her footing with care. The sun shone brightly, winking upon the icy ground and making the field look like a sea of glittering gems. Breathtaking. It was sights like this that reminded Eric why he had chosen to live so far from the village, on his own, surrounded by nature. His mother had called him a fool, not understanding why anyone would choose to farm and live an hour’s ride from civilization if they did not have to. But to Eric, the peace and wilderness was like living a dream.
After a good twenty minutes, he finally stumbled upon the broken rails which were buried beneath a crusty layer of snow and ice. Eric slid off of Sterling’s back, and gave her a pat as he unhitched the fencing wire from the saddle, and then he got to work, breaking off the crunchy layers of snow, and yanking out the snapped rails.
Once the three broken rails were down, Eric dug through the snow for the spares, which he knew were resting just below, against the fence. He had just pulled the first rail free, when he heard Sterling snort and squeal.
“Settle down, girl,” he said. He dropped the rail in place and turned, pacing towards her. Her eyes were wild—panicked—and her nostrils flared. He put his hands up and he crouched, slumping his shoulders, trying to make his bulky frame smaller and less intimidating. The last thing he needed was for her to bolt, and leave him to walk back to the house in this frigid weather. “Easy girl,” he murmured, as he continued towards her.
Sterling pranced around nervously, watching him with frightened eyes. She snorted and began to back up with her ears lying flat against her neck. Eric reached out for a rein, slowly, carefully, and just as his hand closed around it, she let out a piercing high-pitched roar, and then she reared.
Too close, a voice in his head shouted, and he scrambled back. His foot caught a patch of ice and slid out from under him, and he landed on his back with a jarring thud, sliding closer to her and cracking his head against frozen ground. Her hooves came down fast and hard, so close to him, that he was certain she would come down right on him. He tried to roll out of the way, but he couldn’t move quickly enough. And in a blink, she was on him, her hoof came down on his stomach, and then it jumped across and skidded down his right side, ripping at his skin and muscles. She roared again, drowning out Eric’s wheezing cry. For a spilt-second, she looked down at him; her eyes were wide with fear, and then she bolted, racing away through the field.
Eric couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Black spots danced through his vision, and a stabbing pain shot through his head all the way down to his toes. A warm wetness spread along the base of his skull, and his stomach convulsed with pain.
Time stood still. His ears rung, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t. Even the slightest movement sent hot waves of pain coursing through his body, paralyzing him. Get up! You need to get up! he told himself over and over, trying to coax his body to ignore the shooting pain and begging his mind to fight for survival. But no matter how much his brain wanted to survive, his body was shutting down—giving up.
Eric didn’t know how long he had been lying on the ground, fighting against his body. It could have been seconds, or it might have been hours when he heard the crunch of snow nearby. It was excruciatingly loud, and the sound sent shockwaves through his head. A small sense of hope gripped at his chest. He forced in a burning breath, and opened his mouth to yell for help just as a shadow fell over him. He blinked and shifted his gaze, looking for the source of the shadow, and he found it, but in that moment, all he noticed was the pair of blazing red eyes staring down at him.
“Demon,” Eric breathed and gasped, a wet and painful sound, and he coughed, choking on his own saliva. He tried to scramble away, but the pain ceased him, rendering the effort useless. The demon smiled, which might have been meant as a friendly gesture, but the dagger sharp fangs that protruded from his mouth were anything but welcoming.
“What’s your name, son?” the demon asked, folding his arms over his thick chest. His voice was like velvet, alluring and comforting. Eric froze and looked back at him, mesmerized by the sound. The demon was tall, at least four inches taller than Eric’s own six feet, and he had the same muscular frame. He had no jacket or gloves, only wearing a thin short sleeve shirt and woven cotton slacks. His skin was flawless, the color of ivory.
He chuckled, and his blazing eyes danced with amusement. “Your name?” he repeated, and his smile grew.
Eric opened his mouth to speak, but the words were lodged in his throat. He cleared it, and his voice shook as he answered, “Eric Carter.”
The demon watched him with a thoughtful expression for a moment, and his crimson eyes faded to sky-blue. He bent down, crouching beside Eric in the snow. He reached out, ripped open Eric’s coat, and lifted his shirt. Blood pooled below his skin where Sterling had landed, blackening his stomach.
“Well, Mr. Carter, it looks like you are about to die,” he said with a matter-of-fact tone, as if it was common knowledge, obvious even.
“Yes, sir,” Eric replied breathlessly, wincing as the demon poked at his stomach. For a moment, he wondered why he was not trying to run, but then he looked back at the angelic face of the demon, towering over him, and then down at his stomach, and he knew fear was pointless and running, impossible. Death was inevitable. Even if he could fight the pain and get to his feet, he would die from his injuries.
“Is that what you want? To die?” he asked curiously, cocking his head to the side almost like a bird.
Eric thought about the question, as if there could be more than one possible answer to it, and then he shook his throbbing head from side to side and said, “No, sir.” His voice was a gravelly whisper. “Are you going to kill me?”
The demon cocked his head to the side again, and looked at him with an intensity Eric had never seen before. It was a complicated look, filled with so many conflicting emotions that he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what any of them meant. The demon sighed, a long and gusty sound. His eyes grew wide and clouded, and the pleasant cerulean fogged as a milky film swallowed them. He lifted his wrist to his mouth, biting down, and when he pulled it away, blood pooled on his skin. He slid closer, cradling his wrist as if he was trying not to let any of the blood to spill onto the snow, and before Eric could comprehend what was happening, the demon pressed his wound against Eric’s lips and said, “Drink.”
Eric squirmed and gasped. The movement sent shockw
aves of pain coursing through his body. The demon cupped the back of his head, and held him firmly, with unyielding strength. Eric could feel the warm blood on his lips, seeping into his mouth, and his stomach rolled. But then he tasted it. Tangy and sweet and spicy. It was delicious and disgusting all at once, and Eric couldn’t stop himself. He opened his mouth, latching onto the demon’s wrist and drank, swallowing mouthfuls as quickly as he could.
The demon leaned in closer, but Eric didn’t care. All he could think about was the mouthwatering blood that filled his mouth in a waterfall of goodness. Skin tingling warmth spread through his body.
The demon dropped his hand from the back of Eric’s head, and then suddenly, his mouth was on Eric’s neck. Eric felt the demon’s teeth sink into his skin, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered except tasting the nectar of his blood.
It was when he pulled his arm away from Eric’s mouth, that Eric noticed the demon’s teeth were no longer in his neck. The disconnection felt cold, sending shivers along his skin. His eyes became heavy and drowsiness smothered him. He wanted to ask for more—demand more, anything to bring back the warmth and ease the pain of death, but his voice eluded him. He stared into the milky eyes, pleadingly, but the demon just smiled a little.
The shivers came quicker, and Eric’s body convulsed from the cold. The pain in his stomach faded. It felt as if his mind couldn’t take it anymore and had given up—shut down. Darkness grew around him. Then, despite all efforts, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, and they drifted shut.
Ashley Stoyanoff, Soul's Mark 3: Broken
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