âYou do not know what danger you are in when you tempt me like that.â
âTempt you? I didnâtââ
Her words were cut off by his kiss. His lips devoured hers and his forceful domination roused her. This wasnât like the tepid kisses from before. She was getting a taste of his unchecked desire.
Strikerâs fingers moved up and over her breasts to linger at her throat. He laid a finger on her jugular vein and left it there, feeling her heartbeat.
âYou are too much of a temptation,â he whispered against her lips.
When she opened her eyes, she saw his fangs, extended and gleaming. The look in his eyes should have frightened her, sent her running from the hungry vampire who held her in his arms. But the only emotion she felt was all-encompassing passion â¦
Award-winning author CONNIE HALL is a full-time writer. Her writing credits include six historical novels and two novellas written under the pen name Constance Hall. She is thrilled to now be writing for Nocturne.
An avid hiker, conservationist, bird watcher, painter of watercolors and oil portraits, she dreams of one day trying her hand at skydiving.
She lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her husband, two sons and Keeper, a lovable Lab-mix who rules the house with her big brown eyes. For more information, visit her website or e-mail her at [email protected].
Dear Reader,
We all share fantasies of meeting one on a dark nightâam I right? But be careful, you may get what you wish for. And the vampire may not be the nice True Blood, Bill Compton type. You may meet up with the Nightwalker.
Thatâs what happens to Takala Rainwater. And let me tell you, Striker Dark isnât named Nightwalker because heâs a pleasant sort of undead. He was formed before Christianity. Envision the transformations he must have witnessed, the wars and destruction on which he fed. He could have whispered in Nostradamusâs ear, chatted with Einstein, orchestrated civilisation to suit his whims and his hunger for blood. Now imagine putting your life in the hands of such perpetual evil â¦
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot to tell you about Takalaâs sisters, Fala and Nina. You can read their stories in The Guardian and The Beholder.
Happy reading!
Connie Hall
Buckingham Palace
The call came at a most inopportune moment. Striker Dark reached for his phone while keeping his gaze on the queen of England. She cut her eyes at him for a split second, and, without missing a beat, she continued to address the dignitaries with stiff royal aplomb.
After a quick look around, he astral projected out the banquet roomâs closest exit. He would take the call and get back before the humans present even realized heâd left his seat.
Two of the queenâs MI10 agents, a vampire and a leopard shifter, noticed. They were the only Supes (supernaturals) in the room who could follow his departure. They eyed him with distaste. MI10 was a highly classified counterintelligence agency within Great Britain, the counterpart to Strikerâs own United States Bureau of Supernatural Phenomena. They both dealt with anything supernatural and kept it hidden from humans, and duties sometimes included protecting royalty and government officials. Two of Strikerâs own agents were safeguarding the President of the United States right now. But MI10 agents thought themselves a cut above their Yank cousins, and for that reason Striker ignored them completely as he paused in the hallway.
His phone wasnât your typical landline. A crystal, developed especially for him by the tech-support staff at B.O.S.P., drove the gizmo. His clairvoyant powers absorbed the energy it released, and it amplified them. It was like having an omnipresent stalker exploding in his head. Even before he opened the lid he knew something was dreadfully wrong.
His gut flinched, and he couldnât believe the image appearing before his eyes. Hover demons floated and circled five of his agents.
Hover demons could be easily summoned; they killed for pleasure, unlike doom demons, who tortured their victims and demanded payment for their enjoyment. There were as many types of demons as there were types of angels. Angels and demons had their many uses, but Striker refused to summon hovers for anything. They were unpredictable, and in his line of work unpredictability was a detriment.
Black hooded robes covered the demonsâ bodies and faces, but the flamethrowers and scythes in their hands were clearly visible. His agents were near them, on their knees, execution style. Silver chains crisscrossed their vampire bodies and held them immobile. Striker knew every one of the agents by name. He had trained them himself. They were the elite at B.O.S.P. How could this happen?
In the moonlit background, Striker noticed a wharf. Warehouse lights cast eerie shadows over their faded fronts. Boats rocked against the pier, and he saw the Suterâs Marina sign. He knew that place. New Orleans.
A hover paused, the edge of his robe rippling as he lowered the blowtorch and fired. Aquarius, a two-hundred-year-old vamp and one of Strikerâs OICâs, screamed. A rictus of pain and helplessness distorted his face.