Unchained

Chapter 25

Saturday, April 11, 12:00 p.m.

101.5 FM

“. . . and so ends the remarkable tale of the guardsmen. Originally they numbered in the thousands. Now a few hundred of the old guard remain: Romans, knights, cavaliers, Celts, warriors from every conceivable time and place. Through some mysterious means, they are now all free to go and explore our world. It’s a brand- new and mysterious world to them. Listeners, can you find it in your hearts to make them welcome?

“The story has an interesting footnote. Shortly after the liberation of the old guards, a star appeared in the Castle above the black lake, the scene of last autumn’s horrific battle. Are these two miraculous events related? Or is it mere coincidence that ending a millennia-old injustice sped the healing of the Castle? What changed to make any of this possible?

“Food for thought, girls and ghouls.

“This is Errata Jones. Good night.”

Saturday, April 11, 6:00 p.m.

The Castle

Reynard’s quarters were military perfect. Of course, there wasn’t enough here to make a real mess. The guy had no stuff. There was a small living room and a bedroom, but neither screamed “live” or “sleep.” The front room had an armchair and two battered old trunks, plus a tiny bookshelf. The books were the only thing that struck Ashe as personal.

Of course, she wasn’t here to give decorating advice.

She leaned over the bed where Reynard was sleeping and peeled down the coverlet, knowing very well that he wore nothing beneath. The skin of his sculpted chest was marble-pale. Bare of tattoos.

“You see, they’re gone.”

She started. “You’re awake.”

“I keep waking up to find you taking care of me.”

“You have a problem with that?”

He reached up, brushing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Never. You’re as welcome as the sun after centuries of darkness. And I know what that means. It’s not just poetry.”

She leaned over him, finding the warmth of his lips. He was safe. He was free.

He’d been sliding in and out of consciousness for a few hours. Now his gray eyes were dark with fascination, his hair loose around his muscular shoulders. Dark stubble showed off his sharp cheekbones—the kind cameras loved and plastic surgeons ached to re-create.

He should model for a pinup calendar. Hot Historical Heroes. Sir September. The Duke of December. Marquess of May—or May Not. Reynard could have starred on every page.

His gaze stayed on her face as the slowly slipping bedcovers revealed his lean abdomen, each set of muscles cleanly defined. Nothing like daily battles for a few centuries to develop the old six-pack.

His hand caught hers before the coverlet could descend those last critical inches. A dare burned in his eyes. “You wouldn’t take advantage of a man when he’s down?”

“Sure I would.” She grinned. “Without apology. And, y’know, you’re not entirely down.”

“You witch.”

“Guilty.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “And what am I going to do with you now that you’re in one piece?”

His gaze made suggestions. “You mean now that I’m not half in a clay pot?”

“A nice pot, though.” She lifted her eyebrows, her expression pleased. “Not that you’ll need it anymore.” She looked over at the urn, sitting on the stand that held his washbasin.

He squinted. “I haven’t seen it for hundreds of years.”

“I caught it just as the place exploded. When you forced the demon back into the Castle.”

“Then you saved my life.”

She allowed herself a small smile. “Maybe.”

He squinted harder. “Is that duct tape stuck to my urn?”

Ashe looked a bit sheepish. “I caught it before it smashed, but I think the blast cracked it a bit. I didn’t want your soul leaking out. Tape was the only thing I could find fast enough to do any good.”

Reynard began to chuckle. “Witches, werewolves, vampires, and a castle full of guardsmen on hand, not to mention police, firefighters, paramedics, and the media—and the only thing that could save my soul was a roll of duct tape.”

The chuckle turned into a guffaw.

Ashe looked down at him with a mixture of shock—she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him really laugh—and pique. “I was doing the best I could. It was all chaos and demon bits!”

He touched her cheek, his fingers threading through her hair. Reynard was giving her that smoking look again, the one that made it feel as if her insides were turning to chocolate syrup. He cupped her head, pulling her mouth down to his. The kiss was urgent and vulnerable, as if he were making up for the centuries of emotion that he’d missed.

When they broke apart, he still held her, his breath warm against her ear.

“How did Prince Miru-kai get your life out of the urn and back into you?” she asked. “You were gone for three whole days before they put you back in your chamber.”

“I’m not sure. I was unconscious.”

“I waited for you here as much as I could.”

He kissed Ashe again, and she completely lost verbal skills.

“Three days,” he murmured. “Three whole days. I only have another forty years or so. I don’t have time to waste.”

“Forty years is a long time.”

“I’ve been alive for nearly three hundred, and I’m not sure I’ve made good use of my time. I have some catching up to do.”

There was real regret in his words. He sat up, the sheet pooling around his hips. Swallowing hard, Ashe rested her hands on his shoulders. There was a lot of naked Reynard right there in front of her. “I’ll do what I can to help.”

He suddenly laughed, his gray eyes alight with humor.

She unbuckled her holster, setting it on the chair beside the bed. Reynard’s laugh faded. One by one, she shed her knives, the stakes, the second handgun at the small of her back. She made a show of it, taking her time. By the time she got to the wrist sheaths, he looked deadly serious.

“Do you want to help me with the rest?” she asked.

He slid out of the bed and knelt at her feet, the motion graceful and fluid. And without a sheet.

Oh, Goddess. He was clearly feeling hunky-dory.

“Allow me.” He lifted her foot in his hands and drew off her right boot, then her left. The stone floor was cold through her socks, worse than an unheated basement, but all she let herself notice was him. It wasn’t difficult. His full lips curved in that bad-boy smile.

She reached down and picked up one of the stakes she’d dropped, running the tip along her thigh as she straightened. “Want to play hunter and vampire?”

Reynard quirked his eyebrow. “Madam, I came equipped with my own stake.”

“Whoa! Points to the old guy.”

He sprang up, snatching Ashe off her feet in the same motion, proving that he’d lost none of his amazing strength. “You consider me old?”

Ashe yipped with horror. “You toss me over your shoulder and I’ll stake your butt, mister!”

With a grunt, Reynard dumped her onto the bed, making the springs squeak. He was breathing hard, but not from exertion.

She grabbed his arms and pulled him down, devouring his mouth. He tasted spicy, like sin melting on her tongue.

Her clothes were off in moments. Their lips met again, starved by the few seconds it took to undress her. Ashe could feel the magic of the fey still clinging to him as they bonded skin to skin. It was far subtler than a witch’s power, as gossamer silk was to heavy wool. It hung like smoke around them, filling her senses with the impossible: rainbows that shone only at night, music that fell like a shower of daydreams.

As Reynard ran his hands over her, she saw a stately home dusted with snow. His old house, back in the day? The scene shivered to a storm of color as the needs of her body pushed away the thrall of magic. The house was gone, and he was touching her, testing her wetness as she clenched around his probing fingers. Salty skin, the musk of man surrounded her. Ashe arched into him, letting pleasure ride her to the first crest of release.

Then she was back in the vision, riding a horse at breakneck speed through a field, the sunset glittering on rain caught in the grass. “Memories. I’m seeing your memories.”

“It’s my life coming back to me, one moment at a time.”

Then they were lost in the heat, finding sweet release. Mouths met again, nurturing, nourishing. She slid down, the length of her body stroking his as they curled beneath the covers of his narrow bed. His hand found her hair, fingers weaving through it. Ashe pressed next to him, glad of his warmth in the cool room.

She turned his hand in hers, feeling the weight of it, the calluses where he held his sword. His fingers were long, but the tips were blunt and his palm square.

“What do you see in the lines of my hand, Madam Gypsy?” he asked. His voice was deep and intimate in the tiny room.

“If I’d looked at your hands first, I might have understood you better.”

He folded his other arm behind his head so that he could see her better. Amusement played around his lips. “How is that?”

“You work hard.”

“I always have.”

“Really?”

“You thought I didn’t?”

“I wouldn’t have assumed . . .”

The lines around his eyes crinkled. “I had my fun, but I was a second son, love. I had to make my way in the world. Either that, or marry an heiress.”

Ashe laughed. “Well, we still have a few of those around.”

“I never could bring myself to wed for money. Now, for that motorcycle of yours, I might make an exception.”

His hand explored beneath the covers, stroking her waist and hip in a long, possessive sweep. “I seem to be recovering my strength.”

“You’re just thinking about my bike.”

“No.” He quirked an eyebrow. “I’m wondering how a man courts a woman in these times. Are there still balls?”

“Nightclubs and coffee shops. A lot less formal.”

“What do you like to do?” His smile was wicked, bad boy present and accounted for. “You have such a poor opinion of my aristocratic kind that I ought to show you how a gentleman born can make a woman happy.”

Ashe felt herself smiling in response. She’d all but forgotten this back-and-forth with a man. “Skiing. Mountain climbing. Horseback riding.”

“Riding?”

“I like a good stallion,” she said. “A good, frisky one.”

“Really?”

She moved under the bedsheet. He drew his breath in suddenly, touching her face, sliding his hand down over her breast. Angling over her, he left a long, lingering kiss on her lips. “You’re so beautiful. If a trifle impatient.”

She felt the softness of his hair, the harsh brush of his stubble. The contrast of textures was exciting. Then his mouth was on her breasts, her stomach, then nipping the soft flesh of her thighs. He was just this side of masterful. That was what she needed. She didn’t feel like proving herself tonight. For once, she wanted someone to simply want her—nothing complicated, no thinking required.

His mouth was on her, tasting her, sending a sweet-and-sour need through her belly. She felt her heels dig into the sheets as the tension grew, desire sharp as the finest steel. Cursing under her breath, she felt the waves of sensation pounding through her as he brought her to the edge of oblivion, then backed away, then brought her there again, only to steal her finish once more. She flung her head back, arching her neck, eyes squeezed shut in delicious frustration.

“Goddess, I’m not immortal; let me go before I break!”

“Are you asking nicely?” he teased, closing his lips around the peak of her breast at the same time his fingers slipped inside her.

And that did it. With a wild gasp, she opened her eyes, the pool of lamplight by the bedside dissolving into a golden aura as tears of release spilled down her cheeks. She came under his hand long and hard.

She was still burning with pleasure when he slipped his hard length inside, easing in with a few leisurely strokes. His chest muscles did an interesting dance as he shifted his weight onto his arms, doing a slow, slow push-up to bring his lips down to hers. Ashe could see a vein in his arm pulse as he hovered there, intimately inside her, yet holding himself apart. Her nipples just brushed his skin, trembling against him as she breathed. She began to pant, her inner muscles spasming, clenching around him.

He groaned, giving in to the urge to thrust. She felt the slide through her whole body, a friction that overflowed her senses. She rose to meet it, slick with anticipation. His next thrust was harder, barely banked power.

“Again,” she breathed, reaching up to grab the bars of the headboard. “You don’t need to hold back.”

He let his mouth trail over her neck, down between her breasts, and then the rhythm took them both—slowly at first, Reynard lingering over the motion, then more and yet more greedily, driving into her without mercy. She came first, the sound of his name on her lips bringing him to climax in a shuddering rush.

Afterward, they lay entwined, reluctant to separate. Finally, sweat drying in the chill air, Ashe began to shiver. Reynard made the first move, retrieving the covers to pull over them. Ashe curled into his chest, basking in the lassitude after lovemaking.

It had been perfect. Epic.

There was no reason for this to ever end. She had him. Life was good.

“My love,” Reynard said, running one finger down her cheek.

“What?” Ashe curled deeper into his side.

“You have very, very cold feet.”

She swatted him with her pillow.

Turn the page for an excerpt from Sharon Ashwood’s next Dark Forgotten novel, ICED Coming soon from Signet Eclipse

Talia might be dead, but she still had a bad case of the creeps.

The scent of blood swamped her brain, swallowing sight and sound. She hesitated where she stood, her vampire senses screaming that something was wrong. That much blood was far too much of a good thing. The elevator doors whooshed shut behind her, stirring a gust of recycled air. Stirring up that maddening, tantalizing, revolting smell.

Talia blinked the hallway back into focus. This was her floor of the condo building, and home and Michelle were at the end of the hall. She fished her door keys out of her purse and started walking, the glossy pink bag from Howard’s banging against her leg as she walked.

Now her stomach hurt and her jaws ached to bite, but more from panic than hunger. That much blood meant someone was hurt. There were a lot of elderly people in the building. Many lived alone. One of them might have slipped and fallen, or maybe cut themselves in the kitchen. Or maybe someone had broken in. . . .

Talia quickened her stride, following the scent. She pulled her phone out of her shoulder bag, the rhinestones on its bright blue case winking in the dim overhead light. She flipped it open, ready to dial Emergency as soon as she figured out who was in trouble. She was no superhero, but she could force open a door and control her hunger long enough for basic first aid. If there were bad guys, oh, well. She’d had a light dinner.

She passed units 1508, 1510, and 1512, her high-heeled ankle boots silent on the soft green carpet. She paused at each door—1514, 1516—listening for clues. A television muttered here and there. No sounds of a predator attacking its prey.

Unit 1520, 1522. The smell was coming from 1524, at the end of the hall. Oh. Oh!

Unit 1524 was her place. Michelle!

She grasped the cool metal of the door handle and turned it. It was unlocked. The door swung open, and the smell of death rushed into the hall like surf, drowning Talia all over again.

Instinct froze her where she stood, listening. There was no heartbeat, but that didn’t mean much. Lots of things, herself included, didn’t have a pulse. Reaching out her left hand, she pushed the door all the way open. The entry looked straight through to the living room, where a big picture window let in the glow of city lights. It was plenty of light for a vampire to see by.

“Michelle?” she said softly. There’s no one here. She must have left.

Talia couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe anything else. She set down her purse and shopping bag and slid her phone into her pocket. Get a grip. But her hands shook so hard, she had to make fists to stop them.

She left the door open behind her as she tiptoed inside. She’d lived there for two months, but suddenly the place felt alien. Lamps, tables, the so- ugly-it-was-cute pink china poodle with the bobble head . . . They might as well have been rock formations on another planet. Nothing felt right.

Her boot bumped against something. Talia sprang backward, her dead heart giving a thump of fright. She stared, organizing the shape into meaning. A suitcase. One of those with the pull-out handle and wheels. Big and bright red.

It was Michelle’s.

“Michelle?” Talia meant to shout this time, but it came out a whisper. “What the hell, girl?”

She groped on the wall for the light switch, suddenly needing the comfort of brightness. The twin lamps that framed the couch bloomed with warm light.

Oh, God.

Her stomach heaved. Now she could see all that red, red blood. Scarlet sprayed in arcs across the wall, splattering the furniture like a painter gone all Jackson Pollock on the decor. Talia shuddered as the carpet squished with wetness.

The smell could have gagged a werewolf.

She dimly realized one of the bookshelves was knocked over. There had been a fight.

“Michelle?” Her voice sounded tiny, childlike. Talia took one more step, and that gave her a full view of the living room. Oh, God!

Suddenly standing was hard. She grabbed the wall before she could fall down.

Her cousin, tall and trim in her navy blue cruise-hostess uniform, lay on her side between the couch and the coffee table. Drops of drying blood made her skin look luminously pale. Beneath the tangle of dark hair, Talia’s gaze sought the features she knew as well as her own: high forehead, freckled nose, the mouth that turned up at one corner, always ready to smile. Born a year apart, they’d always looked more like twins than plain old cousins.

They still looked almost identical, except Michelle’s head was a yard away from the rest of her body.

Talia’s eyes drifted shut as the room closed in, darkness spiraling down to a pinpoint.

Beheaded.

Talia’s grip on the wall failed, and she started to sink to the floor. The wet, red floor. Sudden nausea wrenched her. She scrambled to the kitchen, retching into the sink. She’d fed earlier, but not much. Nothing came up but a thin trickle of fluid.

Beheaded.

She heaved again, the strength of her vampire body making it painful. Talia leaned over the stainless-steel sink, shaking. The image of her cousin’s body burned in her mind’s eye. Whoever had done it had meant to kill her. Taking the head was the usual way to execute vampires—a lot more certain than a wooden stake.

She died because of me. They thought she was me. Talia’s breath caught, and caught again, air dragging through her lungs in tiny gasps that finally dissolved into sobs. She pushed away from the sink, grabbing a paper towel to mop her eyes. There was no time to fall apart.

But she did. She pressed the wadded towel to her mouth, stifling her moans. The tears were turning to a burning ache that ran down her throat, through her body, and out the soles of her feet.

This was no good. She had to get out of there.

Before whoever murdered Michelle came back.

Before someone called the cops and they blamed her, because she was the monster found next to the body.

Talia braced herself against the counter and stared into the sink until her eyes blurred and she squeezed them shut. This was the moment when the movie hero swore revenge, made a plan, and went after the bad guy.

All she felt was gut-wrenching grief.

A rustling sound came from the hallway, as if something had brushed against the shopping bag she’d abandoned by the door.

Talia spun around, terror rippling over her skin. So much for her earlier quip of bad guys, oh, well. Macabre images flashed one after another through her mind. Sheer willpower pinned her to the floor, making her think before she bolted straight into danger.

Normally, she would worry about hiding her scent from another predator, but the place stank so badly, that wasn’t an issue. Plus, whoever had killed Michelle had to be human. Nothing else would have confused one of its own with a vampire.

Slowly, she peered around the edge of the kitchen doorway. A figure hulked in the threshold to the condo, backlit by the lights from the hall.

Oh, God! It’s—he’s—coming this way.

Talia shrank back into the galley kitchen, squeezing into the corner between the refrigerator and the wall. She shrank down, making herself small, bending her head forward to hide her pale skin with the dark fall of her hair. There was no need for her to breathe, as the absolute stillness of the dead would in this case work to her advantage.

Except terror made her want to run so badly her muscles cramped.

The fridge hummed, the hard surface vibrating against her arm. Trapped! Through the curtain of her hair, she could see the stranger’s wide shoulders blocking the hallway between her and the door. Her heart gave a single painful beat, jolted back to life by the adrenaline rushing into her blood.

Tears of outrage stung Talia’s eyes. She was frightened, absolutely, but she was also furious. Someone had killed Michelle, and now they’d come back. Realize you screwed up? she thought bitterly. Figure out this is human blood all over your hands?

It galled her to be so helpless. Talia had weapons, but they were stuffed in the top of the hallway closet, gathering dust. She’d thought she’d never have to use them again. Prayed for it.

Apparently no one listened to a vampire’s prayers.

You’re hiding in a kitchen filled with knives. Maybe she wasn’t so helpless after all.

She could see the figure’s shadow slide along the wall, stark against the bright patch of hallway light. His silhouette showed he was tall and big boned, moving with surprising grace for such a large man. She caught a sharp tang of smoke and chemicals, as if he’d been near an industrial fire. The smell drowned her vampire senses, choking out anything else his scent might have told her. He was coming closer, pausing after each step, his feet all but silent on the carpet.

Just a few yards more and he would be past the kitchen door. Then she could make a break for it. Even a fledgling such as her could move faster than a mortal.

Closer, closer. The hiding place where she crouched was just inside the kitchen entrance. If she reached out, she could brush the toes of his heavy work boots with her fingers. Her fingertips itched, as if they had already grazed the dirty leather. He was so close that she dared not lift her head to look at him. All she got was a good view of jean-clad shins.

And then he was past. She rose in a single, smooth motion, balancing on her toes. One careful step forward, and she reached the counter opposite the fridge. Silently she slid a kitchen knife out of the block. Just in case. It was smarter to run than to fight, but he might corner her yet.

She heard his intake of breath as he reached the living room. She froze, the cool handle of the knife heavy and hard against her palm.

The urge to vomit washed over her again, but she didn’t dare make a noise. Not even to swallow. She could hear him, just a few yards to the right, the brush of cloth on cloth as he moved around the gory, glistening carnage in the next room.

Three, two, one.

Talia darted toward the hall, inhumanly fast.

He was faster.

Huge hands grabbed her upper arms, hauling her into the air. She kicked, hearing a snarl of pain as the sharp heel of her ankle boot dug into his thigh. She tried to turn and slash, but the angle was wrong. Wriggling like a ferret, Talia twisted, using Undead strength to turn within that big-knuckled grasp.

She flipped over, dropping through the air as her attacker lost his hold. With an upward slash, she scored the knife along the flesh of his hand.

Ha!

His other hand came down like a hammer, aiming for the weapon. Talia spun and kicked, wobbling in the heels but still forcing him back. She used the motion of the kick to fall into a crouch, sweeping the blade in a whispering arc, claiming the space around her body.

Force the enemy to keep his distance. One useful thing her father had taught her. One of the few.

But as she came out of the turn, he grabbed her by the scruff of the neck—how long was his reach, anyway?—and heaved her to the ground like a bag of laundry. Before Talia could move, she felt a heavy knee in the small of her back. She tried to arch up, but he was at least twice her weight. Rage shot through her, riding on a cold slick of terror. She hissed, baring fang.

His hand was pinning her wrist to the carpet, immobilizing the knife. Gripping it hard, she twisted her hand, snaking the point toward his flesh. His other hand clamped down, peeling her fingers one by one off the hilt.

She did her best to scratch. A female vampire’s nails were as sharp as talons.

“Give it up,” he growled.

She made a sound like a cat poked with a fork, half hiss, half yowl. The knife came loose. He sent it spinning across the floor, out of reach. Then she felt something cold and metal click shut around her wrist. The chill sensation made her flail, the motion jerking her elbow up to connect with solid flesh. His jaw? For a glorious moment, she felt him flinch.

Only to shove her back down and snap the handcuffs around her other wrist.

“There’s silver in the alloy.” His voice was hard and low. “You can’t break them.”

Talia rolled over, baring her fangs. The slide of metal against leather told her a gun had left its holster. She next thing she saw was a freaking .44 Magnum Ruger Blackhawk aimed between her eyes—loaded, no doubt, with silver-coated hollow-point bullets.

Their fight had brought them closer to the living room. The glow of the table lamps cast a wash of light over the attacker’s face, at last giving her a good look at the man. Or what she could see of him around the muzzle of the minicannon in his hand.

Shaggy dark hair, thick and straight and a bit too long. Dark eyes. Swarthy skin. Killer cheekbones. Not classically handsome, but there was something heart-stopping in that face. Something wild.

She’d seen him before. What was his name? Lorne? No, Lore. He lived somewhere on the sixth floor.

“Great,” Talia ground out through clenched teeth. Everything was catching up to her, emotions fighting their way through shock. She was starting to cry, tears sliding from beneath her lashes and trickling down her temples. Oh, Michelle, what happened? “Just great. I’m about to be blown to smithereens by the boy next door.”

He leaned forward, pressing the muzzle of the gun into her flesh. “Be silent.”

Talia hissed.

The corner of his mouth pulled down. “Did the smell of her get to be too much? You needed a taste?”

“Oh, God, no.” Talia caught her breath, feeling beads of cold, clammy sweat trickle between her breasts. Fear. Guilt. She’d been so afraid of hurting Michelle, been so careful. Accusing her now wasn’t fair. “How can you say that? She’s right there. Right over there.”

“Then tell the truth.”

Talia gulped, tasting death on her tongue. “I didn’t do this.”

“All the vampires say that.”

“Wasn’t this your doing?”

“I don’t hunt humans. I go for bigger game.”

The statement made her shiver. His hand was bloody where she’d cut him, but he didn’t smell like food. Not human, but nothing she recognized. The realization came like an extra jolt of electricity. What the hell is he?

“Then why are you here? Who are you?” She struggled to sit up, awkward because her arms were pinned behind her back. He pressed the Ruger hard against her skin, but she barely noticed.

“Who is your sire?” he demanded.

Talia clamped her mouth shut. His dark, angry gaze locked with hers. It wasn’t the cold stare of so many killers she’d known. His eyes were hot with emotion, a righteous, remorseless fury.

“Who made you?” His voice grated with anger.

Talia blinked hard, her heart giving another jerking thump of fright. “No, please. If you send me back to my sire, I’ll be lucky if he only kills me.”

“That’s what happens when a vampire goes rogue.”

Now she was starting to sob, ugly little gasps that caught in her throat. “You can’t send me back. I didn’t kill her. I loved Michelle.” She was begging, and put every ounce of her soul into it, holding his dark, burning stare.

A crease formed between his eyebrows. “Damn you.”

The wail of a police siren ripped the night. Lore pressed the muzzle of the gun like a cold kiss against her forehead. “I don’t trust you. I can’t tell if you’re the killer or not. But I believe you’re afraid of your sire.”

Her mouth had gone paper dry. “What are you going to do?”

His mouth thinned as if he didn’t like the question. He looked her up and down, all that anger turning to a smoldering frustration. Talia could almost feel it heating her skin.

“I’ll give you a choice. Take your chances with the human police, or . . .” He trailed off, clearly mulling over his next words.

“Or?” The single syllable came out in a croak.

“Or you’re my prisoner. Take your pick.”

“I urge anyone who is a fan of urban fantasy and paranormal romance to put Sharon Ashwood at the top of their list!”

—Night Owl Romance

Praise for the Novels of Sharon Ashwood

Scorched

“Scorched: The Dark Forgotten is a fast-paced urban fantasy that will keep you up long into the night. Hanging with the supernatural never felt so good!”

—Romance Junkies (Blue Ribbon Favorite)

“Ms. Ashwood’s stories are multidimensional, and it is hard to second-guess this author. I can’t wait for a third adventure in Ms. Ashwood’s unique and twisted version of the world!”

—The Romance Studio

“With the darkness and danger lurking on every page, it will keep readers engaged until the very end.”

—Darque Reviews

“Sexual romps, fight scenes, shopping expeditions, and magic . . . Scorched has it all.”

—The Romance Reader

“The second Dark Forgotten urban fantasy is a terrific thriller.”

—The Best Reviews

“Sharp and stylish writing, plenty of action, a well-conceived and intriguing mythology, and a great sense of dark atmosphere.”

—BookLoons

“Sharon Ashwood has convinced me to put the Dark Forgotten on my must-buy list. This tale is dark and sexy, romantic, full of action, and filled with all kinds of fascinating creatures and people. If you love paranormal romance, you simply have to get a copy of Scorched.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Sharon Ashwood has become a must-buy author for me.”

—Fallen Angel Reviews (5 Angel Review)

Ravenous

“Sexy, suspenseful fun.”

—New York Times bestselling author Kelley Armstrong

“A multilayered plot, a fascinating take on the paranormal creatures living among us, plus a sexy vampire, a sassy witch, and a mystery for them to solve . . . Ravenous leaves me hungry for more!”

—Jessica Andersen, author of Demonkeepers

“Strong world building. . . . Readers will look forward to the sequel.”

—Publishers Weekly

“The world building is complex and absolutely terrific. But most of all, it’s the powerful attraction between the spunky witch heroine and her sexy vampire partner as they battle evil that makes this story a real page-turner!”

—Alexis Morgan

“The world is interesting (I look forward to seeing more of it!), the romance gorgeous, the sex sizzling. There’s plenty of action as well.”

—Errant Dreams Reviews

“This tongue-in-cheek, action-packed urban fantasy hooks the reader from the opening moment . . . and never slows down.”

—Midwest Book Review

“A fast-paced urban fantasy . . . nonstop action that will keep the reader turning pages long into the night. Ashwood has created a wonderful fantasy romp that’s tough to put down until the end. I look forward to reading the next installment in this series.”

—Romance Junkies

“I think I have found a new favorite series. . . . I guess I have to wait for the next story, hopefully not for too long!”

—The Romance Studio

“Ravenous is a fantastic read, filled with action, suspense, lush details, sizzling romance, and very memorable characters. Ms. Ashwood has created a very compelling world and left us with enough questions about the fate of certain characters to have us hoping that this is the start of a very promising new series.”

—MyShelf.com

“Ms. Ashwood has created an intriguing world where both good and evil dwell in the shadows and things are rarely what they seem. Ravenous is a well-written and sexy read that makes for a great escape from the norm. I look forward to the next visit with the Dark Forgotten.”

—Darque Reviews

“Ravenous is packed with action, humor, and a drool-worthy vampire. The demons and the hellhounds and the evil house with a killer mind (oh my!) are what set it apart from the fold. A whole new mythology surrounding the supernatural and how humans police [it] is introduced, and I can’t wait to see where Ashwood takes it. This book earns 5 tombstones for creativity, sex appeal, and one kick-ass house.”

—Bitten by Books

“Sharon Ashwood hooked me from the first page! Ravenous gets off to a roaring start and the fast pace never relents. Ravenous has all the elements of a top-notch urban fantasy tale. . . . It will be hard to surpass this book! I can’t recommend this one highly enough!”

—CK²S Kwips and Kritiques

Also by Sharon Ashwood

Ravenous

Scorched

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

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First Printing, July 2010

Copyright © Naomi Lester, 2010

eISBN : 978-1-101-18840-8

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