Stroke of Midnight (13 page)

CHAPTER 12

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Reyes ran through the night, sometimes alone, sometimes with a pack of friendly wolves. They chased each other playfully through the darkness, howled their success when they brought down a deer.

And always, in the back of his mind, was the woman. Shanara. His bride.

It was just after dawn when Reyes returned to the outer wall of the keep where he had left his clothing and took on his own shape.

Had all his senses not been centered on the woman sleeping in his bed, he might have realized sooner that something was amiss, but his whole being was focused on returning to his chambers and slipping under the bedcovers beside his bride.

Too late, he realized he was not alone.

Feeling the hairs rise along his nape, he turned and came face-to-face with the man he had sworn to kill. Instinctively, he reached for his sword, only then remembering it was lying on the ground beneath his clothing.

He lowered his hand as Montiori's laughter filled his ears.

"And so," Montiori said, "you sent for me, and I am here." Dismounting, he tossed his horse's reins to one of his men. With his hand resting on the hilt of his blade, he circled Reyes. "I must confess, your battle attire is not what I expected."

The hearty laughter of Montiori's men filled the early morning air, then stilled abruptly as Montiori drew his weapon and laid the edge of the blade against Reyes's throat. "Where is my daughter?"

"I am here, Father."

Reyes felt his insides grow cold as Shanara ducked through the hole in the wall, even as the fact that she had come out to meet him upon his return filled him with a wave of tenderness.

"She is no longer your daughter," Reyes retorted, wincing as the blade nicked his skin. "She is my wife."

Montiori's eyes narrowed ominously. "You have defiled my daughter," he said coldly. "And for that you will die, as will she. I'll have no half-human whelps as my kin!"

Reyes looked at Shanara, fully realizing for the first time how much he had come to love her. No matter what fate awaited him at her father's hands, he would not see her killed. Shanara's life was more important than his need for vengeance, more important to him than life itself. His only hope of saving her was to confess that he had not touched her and hope that Montiori would believe him and return Shanara to her family home.

"I have not defiled her," Reyes said quietly. "Kill me if you must, but do no harm to Shanara. She is yet a maid untouched."

"Do you think I would believe one such as you?" Montiori asked scornfully.

"Believe what you will. I speak the truth."

"We shall see. Melena! Attend me!"

There was a restless stirring among the men as they stepped aside to make way for their lord's witch.

Reyes stared at the woman. She was small and spare, hardly bigger than a child. Though she was now old and bent, he could see she had once been a beauty. Her hair, once golden, was now dull and streaked with gray. Her skin was wrinkled and leathery, but her eyes still held the fire of youth.

She stopped in front of Reyes, a cackle rising in her throat. "I know you," she said, poking her finger in his chest. "You look much like your father before you." Her hand curled around his biceps. "Tall and strong, just like him, you are." Her fingernails were long and sharp and she raked them down his chest, then turned and looked up at Montiori. "You summoned me, my lord?"

"Before I take his head, I want to know if he speaks the truth."

With a nod, Melena turned her attention back to Reyes. "The truth," she murmured, "we must have the truth." She placed a gnarled hand over his heart, her eyes burning into his. "Do you speak the truth?"

Reyes clenched his hands as he stared at the witch who had cursed his father. "My words are true," he replied. "I have not defiled Shanara, nor will I."

The earth seemed to hold its breath as Melena stared into his eyes. The horses stood quiet. The birds stilled their songs.

Melena withdrew her hand from Reyes's chest. "It is as he said," she admitted reluctantly. "The girl is as yet untouched."

Montiori's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "So it ends," he said, and drew back his arm.

"No!" Shanara's cry rent the stillness that hung in the air. She ran toward Reyes as though her feet had wings, throwing herself between her husband and her father. "You will not hurt him!" she cried. "You will not!"

"Get out of my way," Montiori demanded, his face mottled with rage. "Get out of my way or you will be the first to die!"

Shanara lifted her head, exposing her throat. "Then strike me down. I will not live in a world without him."

Grasping Shanara by the shoulder, Reyes thrust her behind him. "This is between you and me, Montiori. She has nothing to do with it."

"Indeed." Montiori lowered his sword. "Long have I waited to add your pelt to that of your father's. Assume the guise of the wolf now, and I will spare the girl's life."

"Reyes, no!"

"Be still, daughter!" Montiori said.

"First let Shanara return to the keep," Reyes said, an unwanted note of pleading in his voice. "It is hers now, by right of marriage."

With a shake of his head, Montiori laid his sword against Reyes's throat once more. "The girl is mine." He grabbed Shanara by the arm and pushed her toward one of his men. "You have nothing to bargain with, Reyes, only the choice to die as a wolf or as a man."

"Or not at all." The words, softly spoken, were uttered by Melena. With a wave of her hand, the witch conjured a sword from midair and tossed it to Reyes.

Taking a step backward, Reyes caught the sword by the hilt, his gaze never leaving Montiori's face.

Montiori stared at Melena. "Traitor!" he hissed, then, without warning, he lunged toward Reyes.

Shanara ceased struggling against the man who held her, all her attention now centered on the two men crossing swords. It was a strange battle. Considering the fact that her father was attired like a king and Reyes was startlingly nude, it might have appeared comical had it not been so deadly serious.

The clang of metal striking metal filled the air, obscene in the stillness that had settled around them. Her father fought like a fury, the love of battle shining in his eyes as he drew first blood. Confident of victory, he pressed his attack again and again.

Reyes parried every thrust, his movements smooth and unhurried, his rage fueled by the blood oozing from the gash in his arm. For this moment, there was nothing else in all the world but his opponent. It didn't matter that Montiori was Shanara's father, or that Shanara was watching him, her hand pressed to her heart. Nothing mattered but avenging his father's death. It was fitting, somehow, that Montiori had come to battle wearing the cloak lined with the thick black pelt that had belonged to Reyes's father.

With a cry, Reyes carried the attack to Montiori. His blade slashed through the air, slicing Montiori's left arm open to the bone. He struck again and yet again, his sword opening wounds in Montiori's right thigh and side.

Panting heavily, both men fell back.

Montiori staggered toward his daughter and then, to the surprise of all who watched, he grabbed her by the hair and laid the edge of his blade against her throat.

Montiori sneered at Reyes. "You will surrender," he said. "You will lay down your sword now, or she dies."

Without hesitation, Reyes tossed his weapon aside.

A low murmur of disapproval ran through Montiori's army.

A muffled oath emerged from Melena's lips.

Reyes ignored them all. He had eyes only for Shanara.

Smiling triumphantly, Montiori flung Shanara aside. He strutted toward Reyes, then raised his sword in both hands, prepared to strike.

Reyes kept his eyes fixed on Shanara, determined that her face would be the last thing he saw in life.

But the blade did not fall.

Puzzled, Reyes darted a quick glance at his executioner. Montiori stumbled backward, the sword falling from his hands. Blood bubbled from his nose and mouth and then, with a strangled cry, he pitched forward and lay still.

Shanara threw her arms around Reyes's neck, her words incoherent as she showered him with kisses.

"What happened?" Reyes asked, surprised to find himself alive and his enemy dead.

Shanara shook her head, then kissed him again.

Reyes put his arm around her and drew her to his side as Melena made her way toward them.

"Why?" he asked the witch. "Why did you not let Montiori kill me?"

"Because Shanara loves you," the old crone said. "And because I love Shanara." Melena pointed a gnarled finger at Reyes, her dark eyes glittering. "Be good to my girl else a worse fate come upon you than the one you had."

"Had?" Reyes asked, frowning.

"Aye. Shanara's love for you has broken the curse. But beware, Reyes, I will be watching how you treat her."

Reyes smiled at his bride, then looked back at Melena. "Have no fear, old mother. I will spend the rest of my life making Shanara happy, starting now."

And so saying, he swung his bride into his arms and carried her home.

EPILOGUE

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Reyes sat on the edge of the bed, watching as his wife slowly disrobed. A month had passed since Montiori's death. For a time, he had regretted the fact that Melena had killed Montiori, thereby robbing Reyes of his chance to avenge his father's death. Later, he realized the witch had done him a favor he could never repay. Though he knew Shanara would have forgiven him had he killed her father, he was grateful that her father's blood was not on his hands, that his death did not stand between them.

Much had happened since then. Montiori's eldest son had assumed leadership of the Montiori clan and there was now peace between their people.

Melena had foretold that Shanara would bear Reyes twin sons within the year. To that end, the witch had moved into Black Dragon Keep to be near the infants and to care for Shanara after the birth.

Reyes felt his breath catch in his throat as Shanara removed the last of her undergarments to stand gloriously naked before him. How beautiful she was, with her hair falling over her shoulders and the lamplight bathing her face with a soft golden glow.

Murmuring her name, he drew her into his lap. "Are you happy here, with me, my beloved?"

She kissed the tip of his nose. "Need you ask, my lord?"

"Indeed, I must. I dare not take a chance on angering Melena. Who knows what evil might befall me should she find you looking displeased?"

Shanara smiled at him, her eyes twinkling. "Then perhaps you should do this." Her hand caressed his chest. "Or this." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "Or this…" Her hand slid down his naked belly, eliciting a groan of pleasure from his lips.

"You have but to command, my lady," he said. And capturing her lips with his, he drew her down on the bed and did his best to make his wife happy that night, and every night for as long as they lived.

Dear Reader:

This is my first foray into the world of werewolves. Granted, Reyes isn't your typical werewolf hut I loved writing his story.

Once again, I'm pleased to thank Joseph Walsh for allowing me to use his poetry. I think we must be connected on some plane of existence, since he always sends me poetry that seems to fit whatever book I happen to be working on at the moment.

I hope you enjoyed "Born of the Night."

Best,

Amanda Ashley, aka Madeline Baker

www.madelinebaker.net

MAKE IT LAST FOREVER

L. A. BANKS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This is for my first love and soul-mate, my husband, who loves me fangs and all… the only one after all these years who I want to make it last forever.

CHAPTER 1

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OKLAHOMA… 1979

Tara took her time boarding the bus, her gaze sweeping the elderly passengers headed for Las Vegas. New Mexico and her grandmother's reservation homestead seemed so far away. So many days, and so many nights away now that the night was something terrible to fear.

But with her dying breath, her mother had told her to go there. It was part of her destiny and her only salvation. One simple mistake had cost her her life, and she was only eighteen. Tara willed away the tears as she clutched her small, square leather suitcase tighter in her grasp, and refused to look back. What was done was done.

The dry, oppressive heat made her feel as if she would crumble into dust. Maybe one day she actually would. The people who were boarding with her smelled like they had already begun to decay, but their vibrant smiles and incessant chatter about a trip to win big and start their lives all over again almost made her weep. If her grandmother's medicine didn't work, there'd be no second chance for her. She wouldn't have a chance to grow old and hopeful. She wouldn't grow old at all.

She found a seat by the window in the middle of the bus and cast her gaze out of it. For as long as she could, she'd savor the beauty of natural light. She'd turn her face up to the clouds and ask the Great Spirit to spare her.

As new tears filled her eyes, she thought of the gravestones that marked her parents' final resting places side by side. That was the natural order of things. Maybe if she were lucky, she'd have that, too; a marker beside someone who'd loved her for years, where they both could be at peace after a long, joy-filled existence.

Part of her had considered going south to her father's people. The blue calico print of her dress blurred in her peripheral vision as she thought of Nana Wainwright. Each of the women in her family had a piece cut from that cloth; her Southern Nana said this was the way it was done, to bind all in like-mindedness, and she had made the dress, had made her mother and her maternal grandmother aprons from it, and Nana kept the scraps for her leg quilt. After her mother died, Nana had told her repeatedly, "Chile of mine, you never too grown to come home and always gots family wit us. Don't you brave this awful world of woe and evil alone."

But to go to Alabama—the Bible Belt—being what she was, and with a dear Nana who knew nothing about reversing curses, would be to visit horror upon those she loved… just like she'd visited it upon her mother. Tara banished the invitation, guilt squeezing her heart and making tears fall in earnest now. Her daddy always said that God-fearing black folks didn't mess with hoodoo. And even though her Cherokee grandmother didn't dabble in "hoodoo," as her father put it, she was a seer. A respected one, at that. And just like her mother had always explained, she would be caught between worlds forever. Perhaps her mother's words were more prophetic than she'd even known. Tara had to get to her grandmother before it was too late, before she didn't wake up with the sun, and before the moonlight would become her dawn.

One bite in the dead of night that hadn't killed her had stolen her life just the same.

MAYFIELD, KENTUCKY… 1979

"Jack Rider, you are not going to leave my bed without telling me where you're going, or when you're coming back."

He kissed Marianne's pout away, pushed himself up with a grunt, and sat on the side of the motel bed, allowing his gaze to travel down her curvaceous form. He chuckled as he rubbed his beard and tried to think of an excuse to extricate himself from her temporary hold. Everything had a price, and sleeping with her meant that she thought she had some claim to his time. Not even. His personal freedom wasn't for sale, that's why he'd bought her dinner, first.

"Now, don't be like that," he said, rolling a taut strawberry nipple between his fingers, loving how her pout melted away on a moan. "You know I've gotta go to work. This ride'll bring in a lot of cash."

As she sighed, he filled his hands with both porcelain breasts, and let his caress drag down her torso, past her tiny waist, and then pausing, allowing her shapely hips to warm his palms. Damn, Marianne had been a great roll in the hay, always was. Blondes were indeed more fun, but he had things to do. He kissed her navel and stood. There was no way he was going back to the trailer with his parents, who'd most likely be in the midst of another of their drunken rages. He'd had enough of it all. The road was calling his name. This had just been a pit stop. Marianne had known what this was, going in.

"Well, when are you coming back?" She sat up slowly, thoroughly disappointed, and began twisting a long tendril of corn-silk-colored hair around her finger.

"Soon," he lied, pulling on his jeans, and stalking around the room to find his T-shirt and boots. "I'm just going to ride with the fellas to be their road mechanic, then I'll be back. I'm the best in the business, and if they're gonna do the Arizona races, then I not only get fed and paid, with free drinks along the way, but also get a cut of what they win. Nobody can rebuild a Harley like me. Like I said, I'm the best at what I do."

"You
are
the best," she murmured, sending him a double message with her sad smile as she left the bed and came toward him slowly. "But you promise you'll call from the road?"

"Yeah, baby, of course," he said absently. "Don't I always take good care of you?"

She nodded and melted against him, and leaned up for a kiss. He returned it hard, holding her silken tresses in his hands, and then let her go. Damn it, she was going to make him late.

"I'll call you," he said, pecking her lips one more time, and swiping his wallet off the dresser.

"I wish you could make it last forever," she said quietly.

"Maybe when I come back, I will," he said offhandedly, giving her a sly wink that contained its own double message, and then he was out the door.

Freedom, blessed freedom. He'd broken out of Kentucky's red-clay prison, had money in his pocket, wind in his face, and was riding with the pack. Even the rough riders had respect for his skill and his custom rebuilt bike. She was purring like a kitten between his legs, petting his crotch with her vibrations—a black and chrome beauty, and the sexiest thing he'd ever been with.

He was proud of his pretty woman. She could make love to the asphalt at a hundred and ten without a shudder, and could go faster than that if he wanted her to. All he had to do was stroke her right and she'd respond. There wasn't another one like her. She was a fingerprint original with his stamp of excellence; a custom-built Easy Rider that would make a man shiver just looking at her.

She had fine Hell's Angels high bars in the front, a teardrop gas tank, custom painted, with blue and red flames… V-twin engine—a hard-tail, with no shocks… fishtail stack exhaust, highway pegs that demanded respect, and a sissy bar for those times when he needed to pick up a stray babe and ride a little female companionship toward a motel. When the women got off his chopper, they were already wet. She was the hottest thing on two wheels, and the only thing he needed to make a commitment to. No, he wasn't coming back. Unfortunately, Marianne's sweet charms couldn't compare.

He pulled fourth position in the convoy, just behind Snake, Crazy Pete, and Razor, and had moved up a notch in front of Bull's Eye, loving the way the vibrations traveled up his arms, quaked his legs, and jarred his spine. Motion was an aphrodisiac. Speed was a rush. He had no plans to take a job he hated, like his father, and then come home to beat his wife. The old man should have gotten out before he'd lost his mind in a bottle. He should have done what Rider was doing now. Just got out. But roaming probably wouldn't have helped his dad. From northwest Kentucky near the strip mines, to Mayfield in the southwest parts near the Mississippi, it was all the same nonsense.

Where he'd been didn't allow for the individual soul to explore. They said music was a waste of time. Playing the guitar was a fool's dream. Trying to get some of Johnny Cash's and Willie Nelson's riffs under his belt had mollified them. He could do that on a plaid nylon lawn chair out back without protest being hurled out the window at him. But he had to tinker with B. B. King, Eric Clapton, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, Led Zeppelin, and the other masters in private, at the garage. Messin' 'round with Hendrix had made his father threaten to break his arm. Had put his other lover, his guitar, at risk. Had to pet her like that on the sly. Didn't his father know some things just transcended race? Music, like knowing how to rebuild an engine, was another one of those things.

L.A. was his destination. After he made some money, he was never coming back. He was twenty-one and there was just too much of the world to see.

His guitar was slung over his back, his tools, a bottle of Jack Daniel's and a roll of jeans, concealing a Smith and Wesson model 19 revolver, were in his side saddlebags—just in case life got crazy, as he headed toward the Wild West. Black tires set in gleaming wire rims eating up Route 66 blacktop.

And they said Paradise was lost. Well, he was living testimony. Being a nomad was in his genes; this was the only thing he wanted to make last forever.

Words weren't even necessary to communicate with these guys he was with. One of them would simply ride down the line, offer a nod, and it meant "pull over; bar stop." Time to leave highway civilization and do the back roads.

Rider squinted at the setting sun, loving how it turned burnt orange and fired his bike with a supernatural glow. There was just something about sunset going down on a man's chrome. It was almost a religious experience, if there was such a thing.

Kicking the stand and stopping the motor's purr in one deft motion, he stretched as soon as he dismounted. All of them did, just as they all glimpsed the smoking bus that stuck out like a sore thumb in the dirt lot a hundred yards away. Its front sign read, "Las Vegas." Rider just shook his head. Tourists.

"Check it out," his buddy Snake said, nodding toward the bus. "Think they've got balls enough to come in?"

"Nah," Jack said, laughing, and slung an arm over Snake's thick shoulders without breaking stride. But his laughter slowly trailed off as he glanced back and appraised the passengers through his dark aviator shades. A pair of eyes held him for a moment and his stomach clenched. Her large liquid-brown irises were mesmerizing; had the startled quality of a deer. He shook it off. "But leave the old ladies alone."

"You going soft on us, Rider?" Razor asked, punching his arm. "Or you just miss your momma?"

"Or did something real different on the bus catch your eye?" Bull's Eye asked with a knowing smirk.

"Neither," Rider said, his smile wide as he glanced at Crazy Pete. "I just don't want him to get tangled up in girdles and garter belts. I'm just trying to help the man."

It had happened so fast that she almost couldn't catch her breath, and then time stood still. A long, lanky biker had paused, tilted his head to the side, and she saw it. The thin blue-white light around him that the old ones said all seers could see. His back was straight, and behind his dark sunglasses she was almost sure she'd seen a pair of kind eyes. It was in the crinkles around them that made her know. It was also in the regal way he lifted his strong chin and squared his shoulders, standing with the pack but apart from them in a way she couldn't define. Then he turned away slowly, still glancing over his shoulder at the bus. His laughter boomed rich, deep, and honest. There was just something in his carriage, but it wasn't false pride. Somehow it seemed so natural, dirty blond ponytail and all. Then he was gone.

Her fingers pressed to the window in reflex. The hair stood up on her arms. Danger was near, but where?

Rider laughed as the guys continued to tease him, elbowing and play-boxing with each of them as the rest of the squad straggled into the roadside tavern. Crazy Pete purposely bumped the bus driver, who was anxiously speaking into a black rotary telephone provided by the bartender as they went up to the bar to get a drink. The burly driver looked up, saw Pete's wiry, muscular build, then immediately glanced at the others, nodded an apology, and moved out of the way.

"Leave the man alone, dude," Rider said, shaking his head. "The poor SOB is about to drop a brick in his pants, as it is."

"Just marking our territory as off limits," Crazy Pete argued, accepting his shot of tequila. He downed it hard and set his glass in front of the bartender for another. "Can't have them desecrate sacred lands. Next thing you know this'll be a damned mall."

"Everything's changing around here," Bull's Eye said with a weary sigh, then removed the sweaty black bandana from his bald head to mop his sunburned brow.

"Yeah, well, with change comes progress," Rider said sarcastically, then ordered a Jack Daniel's, as the others around him laughed and slapped Pete's back.

"Progress?" Pete was beyond indignant, but still had to laugh. The tequila helped.

Rider took a deep swig of his drink as soon as the bartender put it in front of him, made a face and shuddered. "No. I stand corrected," he said, holding up his near-empty glass. "
This
is progress."

His cronies laughed and raised their glasses, each mimicking him, and slamming their glasses down hard enough to nearly shatter them.

"But how did we end up in this godforsaken place?" Razor asked. "No women, nuthin' but an old man bartender and old tunes on the juke."

The bikers cast a disparaging glance around the tavern. Rider nodded in agreement. This was piss-poor and pitiful. The establishment seemed like it had had a day, once, a
looong
time ago. It wasn't the mix-match chairs, or the wooden tables that were scored and engraved with names and every profanity known to man that gave it a dead look. Truthfully, that was pretty cool, gave the joint character.

He couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't the old sawdust on the floor, or the old Elvis tunes skipping and popping vinyl in the ancient jukebox, nor was it the dingy paneled walls and dusty moose head hanging above the bar. He and the fellas weren't picky. It wasn't even the old pool table that couldn't give a good game anymore because it wasn't level and leaned like a dead battleship. To his mind, it was pure evidence that a good brawl had broken out here at some point. Now
that
was life.