Possessed by an Immortal - Sharon Ashwood Mills & Boon Nocturne

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then winced. First light. By the fiery pit.

      Larson worked for the Company, but he was human. Daylight flights were no problem. Vampires could function during sunlight hours, but only under protest. It felt like stumbling around in the blare of a zillion-watt floodlight. Bloody hell.

      Mark pocketed his phone and started for the stairs.

      A square of white paper lay on the floor. As he stooped to pick it up, he saw it was an envelope. He had obviously passed by it on the way up.

      The cabin didn’t have a mailbox, much less delivery straight to his bedroom. He tilted the envelope to the faint light falling through the window. The handwriting read Dr. Mark Winspear.

      Curious, he ripped it open and slid out a folded letter. The salutation inside used his real name: to my Lord Marco Farnese.

      He sucked in a breath. No one had called him that in hundreds of years. Seeing that name written in modern ballpoint pen gave him an odd sense of dislocation, as if he were neither in the present day nor the past.

      He clicked on the bedside lamp, welcoming the puddle of light. The message was only a single line: I haven’t forgotten you.

      He flipped the paper over, studying the blank side, then turned the page print-side-up again. He was annoyed more than disturbed. Except...there was a human woman and child downstairs. Whoever came for him would kill them first. They were easy targets.

      Just like before. He’d played this game long ago, and lost.

      A second thought crowded in. While he had been out playing pat-a-cake with cougars, his enemies had been in his house. Standing over his bed. Territorial rage swept through him, leaving his fingers shaking.

      The signature on the letter was a crest, the inky impression of a signet ring used like a rubber stamp. It hadn’t worked very well—the ink had run, making the whole thing look smudged—but Mark could make out the serpent and crossed daggers of the Knights of Vidon. Below the crest were the initials N.F.

      Nicholas Ferrel.

      Vile memories ripped through him, old but undiminished. He killed my wife. My children. He burned them alive.

      Mark had slaughtered Ferrel, Commander General of the Knights of Vidon, back in the fifteenth century. Then he’d torn every Knight he could find flesh from bone.

      Mark clenched his teeth. Vengeance had solved nothing. Ferrel’s sons had sworn a vendetta. They’d sworn their service to the vampire-slaying Knights, as had their sons after them. Back then, the Knights were a breed apart, stronger, faster and resistant to a vampire’s hypnotic powers. The Ferrels were the foremost among them.

      None had killed Mark, but a good many men, human and vampire, had paid for the feud with their lives. Was this new Nicholas a descendant eager to perpetuate the fight? Why leave a note and not just, say, drop a bomb on the cabin?

      Mark glanced at the horizon again, calculating how long it would take the plane to arrive. Two hours at most. He crumpled the letter in his hand.

      Assassins had come before, but this time was different. These had been in his bedroom. These had used Ferrel’s name.

      And that meant Mark had more than himself to protect. History was repeating itself. There was a woman and a boy, and they were depending on him for their lives.

      Bree’s enemies weren’t the only ones he had to fight. Now there were his, too.

      Suddenly two hours to dawn was a very long time.

      Chapter 4

      Dawn clawed its way into the sky. It came stealthily at first, a lighter shade of steel that threw the craggy trees into sharp relief. Then the sky erupted in streaks of crimson and orange, a flame that started low in the forest and slowly climbed as a rising wind shredded the clouds.

      To Bree, the light brought little comfort. Jonathan was asleep in the big chair, buried under blankets, but she was too restless to sit still. As the fire in the stove burned down, the circle of heat around them grew steadily smaller, as if the cold, wet forest pushed through the cabin walls.

      Mark moved about the small space with quiet efficiency, packing a large nylon knapsack with clothes, books, weapons and a whisper-thin laptop. He wrote a note and left it on the table for someone who was coming in to ready the cabin for winter. He spoke little and checked the window often, a sharp crease between his brows.

      “It’s time to go,” he said at last.

      His low voice startled her. She turned from staring out at the fiery sky. The light inside seemed a thick, pearly gray—neither day nor night. His scowl was deadly serious. Not the face of a healer, but of something far more dangerous. She prayed he would keep his word. She prayed he was really on her side. If she guessed wrong, it would be Jonathan who suffered.

      “Okay.” She pulled on her coat. It was still wet in the folds, but most of it was warm from the stove. “Is it far to the plane?”

      “About a ten-minute walk.”

      With Jonathan, it would take twice that. The boy was asleep and not ready to be disturbed. She started putting on his shoes. They were cold and damp to the touch, and must have felt awful. He woke up with a noise of protest.

      “Sorry, baby,” she said, crouching down before the chair so she could get a better angle.

      He jerked his foot back, his lower lip jutting and his eyes resentful.

      “C’mon, we’ve got to go.”

      Bree reached for his foot again. She was exhausted, with a numbness that came from no sleep all night. She felt as though she were moving underwater.

      But her fingers closed on air as Jonathan’s feet disappeared under his bottom like darting fish. As she reached under him, he curled into a ball, drawing the blanket into an impenetrable cocoon.

      “Jonathan!” Her voice held an edge she didn’t like.

      The wad of boy and blanket shrank tighter. She rested her forehead on the arm of the chair for a moment, summoning patience. Forcing the issue would simply start a struggle that would last half the morning. Her son—oh, bliss—had inherited her stubborn streak.

      She changed tactics. “If you’re good and put your shoes on right away, we’ll find waffles for breakfast.”

      There was no response.

      “With syrup and bacon.” Bree studied the blanket ball for signs of surrender. It was hard to read. “I’ll count to three. If I don’t see your feet, no waffles for you.”

      She poked the blanket with a finger. That got her a giggle. Good sign.

      “We have to go.” The doctor’s voice was urgent.

      “In one minute. I have to get his shoes on.”

      “Now.” Mark picked up the boy, blanket and all, as if he weighed no more than a stuffed toy, and braced him against his shoulder. Jonathan made a protesting noise, but not for long. Mark hushed him, one large hand ruffling the boy’s hair. He gave Bree a look made inscrutable by a pair of dark sunglasses. No hint of a smile.

      She tried not to notice how well the dark glasses showed off the fine sculpting of his lips and chin. She wasn’t sure she wanted to like him, much less lust after him.

      “You bring his shoes and my medical bag,” he commanded.

      Bree obeyed, stuffing the shoes in her pack, but every instinct wanted to rip Jonathan out of the doctor’s arms. That was her son. He had interfered. Still, she followed Mark out of the cabin into the damp morning air.

      Jonathan seemed perfectly content loafing against the man’s shoulder. That stung, too. She had grown used to being her son’s only protector. Hot, tingling anger crept up her cheeks, barely cooled by the mist.

      Mark led the way beneath the trees,

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