"We need you here in Kanarek," she said quietly. "I need you, Kayr. Don't go live alone in the forest like a hermit. Stay here in Kanarek where you are loved. Where you have family."

"You seem to have managed well enough in my absence. The fields have been planted. The huts have been rebuilt."

"And what of the warriors to be trained? I have a score of grievances to hear in the morning. And we've shortages of just about everything. There isn't anything we have enough of. I can't do it all myself, and I'm desperate for the counsel of someone I can trust."

"I take it you don't care for your first taste of sovereignty, Your Majesty?" There was laughter in his voice.

"I could most definitely use an assistant."

Laughter died in his voice, replaced by seriousness. "Oh no, Riordan. The life of an administrator is not for me."

"Captain then, of her Majesty's Royal Guard."

His face darkened, and her hand moved to touch his wounded shoulder. "My career as a warrior is over, Riordan."

"Now that I doubt. Even left-handed, you could still likely best me. If I have my way, neither of us will ever see battle again. But I need you to help train the army," she said softly. "Just in case. I will never be unprepared, the way my father was."

"Captain then," Nhaille agreed.

Having his consent, she should stop there. But she couldn't. If he was back, she had to know the rest of it.

"And consort?" she asked quietly, and held her breath waiting for his answer.

"Consort," he echoed. He placed his hand over the swell of her stomach, and sighed deeply. "Your father would kill me if he knew.""Perhaps this is what he had in mind all along," Riordan said, drawing a breath in relief. "I suspect that fate is not yet finished with you, Kayr-Alden-Nhaille."

He sighed deeply. "I don't think I have it in me to raise another like you."

"Maybe she will be like you."

That made him laugh. "Gods, I do hope not."

THE END

Be sure to check out Stephanie's first novel, The Bleeding Sun, available in print and electronic form.

The Bleeding Sun Stephanie Bedwell-Grime

ISBN 1-58608-055-5 Rocket eBook ISBN 1-58608-126-8 (c) Copyright October 1999 Stephanie Bedwell-Grime Cover art by Eliza Black New Concepts Publishing 4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

CHAPTER ONE

The chandelier was crying, long tears of palest amber that streamed across her line of sight. Her mind was like shattered glass, jagged pieces that no longer fit together into a coherent whole. She lay, moored to the side of the large bed, that even now seemed to be pitching and heaving beneath her, and rummaged through her mind for thoughts that made sense. . .

Foremost in Melinda's mind was the paralyzing pain that ran down the right side of her body, emanating in dizzying waves from the welt on her neck. She probed gently at her throat, wincing as she touched the bruised and tender skin. Dried blood crumbled beneath her fingertips, as she ran her hands down her chest and arms to find the stinging traces of claw marks. She moaned and tried to turn over, but she was too stiff. She felt as if she'd been dissected and pieced back together.

Her memory yielded images unwillingly in self defense, as she fought her way back to consciousness. She remembered fighting with her boyfriend, waiting alone on the deserted subway platform, and the bright lights of the approaching subway. She recalled boarding the train and staring at the drunken occupant who had passed out in the seat across the aisle. The train crossed a junction in the tracks, veering off to the right and downhill. The lights went out.

Something hunted her in the disorienting darkness, as she thrashed about the empty subway car trying to escape. Taloned hands tore through clothing and skin alike. She could still feel the hot breath upon her face, the odd pressure at her neck, followed by blinding pain, and the thick, black darkness that sucked her down into nothingness. . .

"You're awake," said a soft voice from the end of the bed. He turned into the candlelight, and Melinda looked into the face of her nightmare.

With a hoarse cry, she scrambled away from him, crouching in the corner of the postered bed. The sudden effort sent points of light searing through her vision. She fought for breath, for the tenuous hold on consciousness.

"Shh," he whispered, coming to sit on the bed beside her. Melinda tried to move away from him, but succeeded only in falling forward. He caught her in his arms and placed a finger against her lips to quiet her. Helplessly, she looked up into eyes that were a deep brown, bordering on black. He didn't look like the horror her fragmented memory insisted he was. Rather, he resembled a dark angel with his handsome face and head of unruly curls. But the powerful hands that held her with much restrained strength ended in ten, long, talons. He let her down against the bed and propped the pillows up beneath her head. His hands lingered against her neck.

"Stiff?" he asked with genuine concern. His voice was deep and melodic. She nodded dumbly.

With strong, warm hands he tenderly massaged the feeling back into her neck. "It'll pass," he said gently. And, for the first time he looked human, almost.

Solemnly, he surveyed the damage, carefully running a finger over the red welts on her throat and arms. "You're hurt," he said, more as a statement than a question.

"Yes," she croaked, her voice a rasping remnant of its former tone.

"I'm sorry, you must believe that."

Melinda choked back a sob and stared at him in mute terror.

"The first time is always a shock. But you're safe now.""Safe?" she whispered in absolute horror, "I don't think so."

"You'll see," he said, almost sadly. For a moment he looked as if his mind was far away, dwelling on some old and familiar sorrow. He looked back at her suddenly, making her jump. "Besides Melinda," he said sweetly. "You really don't have any other choice."

"How do you know my name?" she asked, trying to keep the tremors that resonated out from her knees from working their way up into her voice.

"I looked at your driver's license, of course," he said, as if she was incredibly naive. Then he remembered his manners and said almost apologetically, "Well, you've been asleep for a day and a half, it wasn't as if I could ask you."

She stared at him, waiting. "I don't suppose I'll need my license when I'm dead," she said finally.

"Dead? Whatever gave you the idea I was going to kill you?"

"Look what you did to me!" She wanted to scream. "You were trying to kill me!"

"I am trying to save your life," he said and looked away.

An icy shiver snaked down her spine. She hugged her wounded arms and shuddered.

"Really," he said gently. "I have no more choice in this than you."

"I don't believe you."

"As you wish," he hissed. He grasped her head in his taloned hands and turned her face so she was forced to look into his eyes.

"But I want you to understand something. You are in a situation in which you have very few options. In a few short hours you will be thinking very differently about all of this. I will await your call."

He left the room, pulling the heavy metal door to with a loud resounding boom that had an ominous note of finality to it. As if in emphasis, she heard the jingle of keys as he locked the door.

The room was spinning, clockwise, then counterclockwise. Melinda looked about slowly, trying not to turn her head too fast and send the dizziness flooding back upon her.

The mammoth bed on which she lay was the only piece of furniture in the cavernous room. It was an imposing creation with its heavy curtains and towering columns. Judging from the tiled walls and floor and the persistent rumbling above, she suspected she was still underground. An abandoned subway station perhaps. She'd read once that there were a couple in the Toronto Subway System. The place had a haphazard look to it, as if he made do in surroundings less opulent than he was accustomed. Tapestries, embellished with gold and silver thread covered the walls, and Persian rugs warmed the utilitarian tiled floors. The foyer was flanked on either side by what looked to be a small study and a large closet.

Gingerly, Melinda placed a tentative foot on the floor, then stood, holding on to the tall posters for support. She willed herself to remain upright. Awareness was her only defense. She had to find a way out.

Slowly, she walked about the perimeter of the room, lifting up the corners of the heavy tapestries, examining the wall underneath.

She pounded on the tile, bruising her hand on the hard cement it covered. Not even an echo. The place was as solid as a tomb. It was doubtful anyone would even hear her screams.

There were no windows, and the door was locked as securely as it sounded. She threw herself against it, gaining only an aching shoulder for her efforts.

Desperate for clues, she lurched toward a desk in an alcove off the main bedroom and almost fell into the fragile antique chair.

She flipped through a stack of parchment papers on the side of the desk, searching for a means to defend herself. Something silver slid from the paper, falling to the desk with a loud clink. Melinda turned the slender object over in her hands.

Faded runes ran along the silver blade that was worn smooth by years of use. A blood-red jewel was set in the hilt. It could have been a dagger, but she guessed by its presence on the desk, he used it as a letter opener. She folded it tightly in her fist. As a last resort, it could be used as a weapon against him.

Melinda turned her attention to the row of leather-bound books that faced her from the back of the desk. A similar volume lay open before her, as if he had tossed it there expecting to return shortly.

She reached for the book, feeling its soft leather cover. The passages inside were scripted in a strong hand, a form of calligraphy so ancient and decorative it was difficult to read. The open page was dated the twenty-sixth of April. A few days ago then. Scrolls of red and black ink revealed the beginning of a poem, lovingly bordered with much care. Melinda read the words aloud, wondering at the odd imagery,

The blood of sunset stains the sky lips, of ruby wine darkness like a feather falls into the depths of midnight bless the glow of candlelight...

Was he the author of the poem? She replaced the book carefully, and selected another from the row behind it.

A huge plume of dust burst from the book, as she opened it, making her cough. The pages were brittle and yellowed with age.

Some leaves were loose, their corners ragged. She gasped aloud as she read the date, The First Day of May in the Year 1795.

Identical handwriting stared back at her, disguised only the by antiquated patterns of speech. It had the look of a journal to it, an account of preparations for a trip to the country, including much annoyance over the hiring of a carriage.

The next entry was a sketch drawn in thick black strokes of ink. It was a portrait of two people, a man and a woman in historical dress. The inscription underneath read 'Kirsten and Me in the country'. The drawing was signed with a blood-red 'M'. She forced herself to breathe. The man in the picture was her captor, and he looked exactly the same.

Hastily, she replaced the book, not wanting to think about what her eyes were trying to tell her. Could these entries, nearly two hundred years apart, actually be written by the same person? Who was this creature that lived below the city in a forgotten rat- hole in royal splendor? More accurately, what was he?

She wanted to scream. For the first time in her adult life, she wanted her mother. But her parents lived in Unionville, too far away to be of assistance. Hysteria would accomplish nothing.

Research, she reminded herself. That's what good detectives do before anything else. She decided to tackle the closet on the other side of the room.

The contents were a lesson in fashion history. The Textile Department at the Museum would love this! Medieval cloaks, jeweled, brocaded jackets, frilly lace shirts were neatly arranged among blue jeans and black leather jackets. Melinda reached out a hand to feel the rich textures, pitching forward suddenly, her vision going black. She came to staring at her knees, and huddled there a moment, shivering and sweating while her head cleared.

A flash of brass caught her attention. Hidden away behind rows of old-fashioned clothing was a small trunk. It was fashioned of dark wood and decoratively hinged in brass. Melinda tried the lid. It wasn't locked. She cast a backward glance over her shoulder. The room was quiet. She lifted the lid and peered inside.

The box revealed a medieval woman's gown. It was a beautiful piece of work, fragile with age, hand sewn and lovingly decorated.

It seemed curiously out of place among such male accouterments.

Who does it belong to? A past victim, a lost lover, someone dear to him. . .the person who made him what he is? Strange, to keep an article of clothing instead of a portrait or a piece of jewelry. . .Perhaps she left suddenly. . .

Steadying herself on the closet door, Melinda clawed her way to her feet. Except for the letter opener, her search had not turned up anything else that could be used as a weapon. Each hopeful discovery seemed to quash another plan of escape. She felt like a child who'd just been told that monsters did exist, that all her nightmares were real. How could she reason with a being whose motives were nothing close to human? It was too much to think about, none of it having anything to do with logic or reason. She looked around at her absurd surroundings, the letter opener that was her only means of defense, and uttered a sob of hopelessness. She staggered back toward the bed, falling into the pillows, into darkness.

Melinda awoke to the sounds of her own tortured screams. Searing pain radiated from the center of her stomach. Her veins throbbed with an agony that rendered her limbs useless. Every nerve, every cell in her body cried out in misery. Each rasping breath was an exhausting undertaking. She prayed and begged the empty air for anything that would end her suffering. Finally, he appeared beside her.

She looked up at him, desperately hoping against all reason that he would help her.

"You seem a little happier to see me this time," he said, gazing down at her.

"Make it stop," she whimpered.

Desire burned in those black eyes that flickered from her throat to her face. Desire and something else. . .reluctance? "Only one thing will make it better," he said sadly.

"No," she gasped trying to sit up, but her weakened body would not obey. Too much effort was required to hold the letter opener in her fist. It fell from her hand, a silver flash in the golden candlelight.

"And what were you going to do with this?" he asked with the faintest hint of amusement. "Slit my throat perhaps?"

Melinda offered only a groan in reply. He walked to the desk and tossed it back on the pile of paper. He returned and stood looking down at her thoughtfully. She felt the bed give as he sat down to wait, patiently, as if he'd been through all this before, while she valiantly tried to resist the crushing anguish.

"Why do you make this so difficult?" he said softly, when this had gone on for some time. "It won't get any better. You're half changed already. Either we continue, or you die."