Part 59 (1/2)

”We should.”

”I spent some time with him, but I'd really like to thank Father Brindisi again myself. And what's really important is that... I want what I love back. I want the beauty, the fun, the respect for true Wicca... the belief that people around me are just living, going along like the rest of us, and not all part of a conspiracy. I need that back. I'm not letting a core of evil ruin my home for me, and everything that is so wonderful about it.”

”I agree!”

”So... we have to go back.”

Finn pulled her tightly against him.

”Whenever you want!” he said softly.

”Really?”

”You bet.”

She leaned against him happily. Sometimes, she still doubted herself all the things that had happened. It was all too impossible. But then again, she was very good friends with a number of vampires now, people who insisted that she and Finn were really part of their Alliance. Vampires. And a werewolf, of course. Different, but not to be forgotten.

They were just so d.a.m.ned normal.

”But for right now...” Finn murmured.

”Yes?”

”I'm having this vision...”

”Oh?”

”There's a great expanse, and I'm trying to cross it And I'm on fire, because I know that you're waiting. There's a feel in the air, like a caress, and I'm hungry, starving, I have to reach you.”

”Like a demon lover?” she murmured, joking uneasily.

He shook his head, smiling. ”No, just like the man who loves you more than life itself... and of course, wants you right now with every bit of natural but ardent, fevered, pa.s.sionate, l.u.s.tful desire in his very human body.”Megan smiled, feeling his fingers moving lightly, insinuatingly, down her ribs.

”Let's go say our good nights, shall we?”

There was no fog that night as they left the balcony.

And later...

He walked across their darkened room to her.

And he was everything. The man, the perfect man, who loved her. Which was all they had needed, Lucian had said.

There were many powers on earth.

None as great as the power of love.

Turn the page for an exciting preview of HAUNTED.

by Shannon Drake writing as Heather Graham Available from MIRA Books.

Jeannie Mason Thomas lay in the white expanse of the four-poster bed in the Lee room at Melody House in pure bliss.

Roger was snoring softly at her side. Men, she thought affectionately. Bless 'em. Whatever came, they could sleep.

She could not. She had to keep playing over the day, minute by minute. Her wedding day.

There had been the usual ha.s.sles in the morning. Her mom had gotten all teary every few minutes, and insisted on giving speeches about s.e.x and marriage that were totally unnecessary. Alice, her matron of honor, had clipped off two of her newly purchased acrylic nails trying to fix Jeannie's train. Sandy, another bridesmaid, had gotten too looped on the champagne they had shared while dressing for the service. The limo had been late. Her original soprano had come down with a sore throat leaving Jeannie desperately seeking a new singer at the last minute. But she'd managed to find an Irish tenor through the priest, Father O'Hara, and once she had reached the Revolutionary-aged old church just outside of town, everything had gone perfectly.

Everyone claimed that it had been one of the most beautiful weddings they had ever seen. Roger had been tall, dark, and glorious in his tux. Her father had been stately, her mother beautiful. Her brother and sister, both part of the wedding ceremony, had been well behaved, joking, laughing, and wonderful. Her first dance with her new husband had been magical, but it was during her dance with her father that she had realized she was one of the luckiest human beings in the world with a tender, tight family and an incredible groom.

The reception would be the talk of a number of counties for months to come. The Irish tenor had joined with the band. The music had gone from cla.s.sical to rock and pop to theatrical. The food had been delicious, the cake stupendous.

Then, after fully enjoying their own reception, they had taken off at last for Melody House. And it hadn't been as if making love had been anything new for them, but making love as man and wife was new and therefore, somehow, more sensual, more erotic, and so deeply satisfying. They'd been hot and heavy, they'd laughed, they'd joked over getting out of clothing, slipping in the shower in their haste, rolling off the bed, and all sorts of little foibles. They'd had a great deal more champagne, finis.h.i.+ng the bottle that had been left in the elegant little silver bucket on the antique table set before the fireplace. They'd dined on the delicious little snacks left for them, caviar, quiches, chocolate-dipped strawberries and more. Then they'd made love again, all lazy and slow, and it had been incredibly luxurious as well. Melody House had offered everything they had wanted. In the morning, they could go downstairs and be served breakfast in the sunny little nook off the kitchen. They could spend a day indulging in the heated pool-a recent addition to the colonial manor. They could ride the trails that meandered through miles of forest when the sun was just setting. They could have both privacy and service. Jeannie had every right to be entirely blissful, and also, patient with the fact that her new husband could sleep, while she could not.

She rose, feeling as agile and luxuriously sinuous as a cat, naked in the coolness of the early hour of a summer morning. She stretched, thinking that the strenuous exercise program she had put herself through before the wedding had been well worth it-she didn't think that she could be more than five percent body fat at the moment, and Roger had been delighted. She was glad, too, because she liked to think that she had talked Matt Stone into allowing them to use the seldom-rented room for their wedding night because she had just been cute and charming. Stone was known to be something of a hard-a.s.s.

Walking over to the open French doors that led to the balcony, Jeannie almost pouted, then grinned instead. Roger had told her that Matt Stone had given in just because he knew the only way to keep Melody House as a private property had been to allow the house itself to earn some of the upkeep money such an estate so desperately needed. Roger had probably been right. But then again, maybe it had been a combination of Stone's needs and her charm and persuasion. Whatever! It had all worked, and it had come together so beautifully. She was a lover of history, and to spend her wedding night in such an elegant and historic place was like the most delicious icing in the world on the most wonderful cake-her perfect wedding day. She parted the draperies, glad to feel the breeze against her bare skin, and feeling sensual all over again as it touched her. She was married now. She was Mrs.

Thomas. She could slink right on back over to the bed, wake up her lightly snoring husband, and live out her every fantasy.

Yet...

Suddenly, the delicious feeling wasn't quite so delicious anymore. She felt a sudden, quick, bone-numbing chill. She spun around and saw nothing in the dim nightlight pouring out from the bathroom, or even from the faint glow of moonlight and property lights that seeped in from the open French doors to the balcony, just hemmed in by the drifting draperies where she stood.

She felt...

Fear. Deep and irrational.

She glanced at Roger. He kept snoring. She tried to calm herself. If she was feeling a sudden and totally irrational fear, all she had to do was run back to the bed, jump in beside him, and he would cuddle and hold her, and everything would be all right.

That was exactly what she was going to do.

But she didn't. She didn't move. Because she saw...

The slivery movement in the night.

She blinked, but it didn't go away. And it wasn't the darkness, or the reflection of the lights, or a combination of the two. It was something, vague in shape, silvery-white, hovering, moving. It came from the side of the bed, where she should have been sleeping, and it was coming toward her.

She panicked totally. Her vocal cords were frozen. She stared, breathing out desperate little choking sounds, since she could find no voice. It came closer and closer. She felt ice trickles into blood and limbs and then...

It was almost touching her. She felt her hair move... pulled? Cold seemed to slap her right across the face. And she could have sworn that she heard a whisper, mocking, scornful. ”Silly little girl! He'll only kill you!”

Then again... her hair... lifting. On its own, in the grip of the vague, silvery-white substance. A substance that whispered or played havoc with the breeze. There was no breeze. She had closed the doors.

At last, she found voice, movement, and energy. She let out an hysterical, chilling scream, and ran.

She didn't run for the bed and Roger-she headed straight for the door out of the Lee room. Jeannie wrenched at the k.n.o.b so hard she nearly ripped it from the wood. The door itself flew open, and banged wickedly against the wall. This had no bearing on her.