Forever Clan

By January Bain

Sunday Rose's soul mate is a vampire. If that isn't difficult enough to deal with, she's pregnant with a child that prophecy states can either help or destroy the vampire race. And there are those that fear either outcome. If she is to protect her child from those who would exploit the prophecy, she must awaken unknown abilities and call upon her guardian angels to buy the time necessary to get her family to safe harbor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Books
• Release date: Mar 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781927454916

January Bain

January Bain has wished on every falling star, every blown-out birthday candle and every coin thrown in a fountain to be a storyteller. To share the tales of high adventure, mysteries, and full-blown thrillers she has dreamed of all her life. The story you now have in your hands is the compilation of a lot of things manifesting itself for this special series. Hundreds of hours spent researching the unusual and the mundane have come together to create a series that features strong women who don’t take life too seriously, wild adventures full of twists and unforeseen turns, and hot complicated men who aren’t afraid to take risks. She can only hope the stories of her beloved Brass Ringers will capture your imagination as much as they did hers when she wrote them. If you are looking for January Bain, you can find her hard at work every morning without fail in her office with two furry babies trying to prove who does a better job of guarding the doorway. And, of course, she’s married to the most romantic man! Who once famously replied to her inquiry about buying fresh flowers for their home every week, “Give me one good reason why not?” Leaving her speechless and knocking her head against the proverbial wall for being so darn foolish. She loves flowers.

Book preview

Prologue

Love is not written on paper, for paper can be erased. Nor is it etched on stone, for stone can be broken. But it is inscribed on a heart and there it shall remain forever.~Unknown

Her salacious wantonness astonished Winter Kennedy as she lay cocooned by her new-found happiness. She couldn’t help herself, and besides, Aiden wasn’t objecting. Her true love had moved heaven and earth to find her, even allowed someone to change him to a vampire like her, for heaven’s sake, and she would be forever grateful. Through necessity, she’d managed to compartmentalize memories of the Pharaoh Clan, which had had abducted her, though she still missed her friend Arc, whom she’d met and worked with while there. They’d planned to conquer the world together with their determination to discover cures for the deadly illnesses that plagued humans. She had found it easy to embrace Arc’s altruistic bent, so similar to her own—a rare find in a friend and the one thing that had kept her sane during her long imprisonment.

The high-pitched whine of an airplane’s engine broke into her ruminations and the warm still night. She looked up at her lover, Aiden, who frowned. It’s in trouble. The sound—it’s all wrong, he said as the aircraft ventured close to their cozy highland cottage. The faltering engine choked, fell silent, and the plane fell to Earth, the crash so jarring it felt as if it had hit their roof.

Winter jumped up and ran for the medical supplies she had recently scrounged from the local hospital on a search and secure mission late one night.

We need to be careful, her mate advised as they glided silently from the cottage.

"I can’t not help, Aiden."

I know. It’s one of the things I love best about you. I’m just advising caution.

Of course. She smiled at him, a smile that faded at her first sight of the horrible devastation. To her joy, though, when she and Aiden pulled the unconscious pilot from the wreck they found him miraculously still alive, though his cold, pale skin and weak pulse suggested shock. Winter’s extensive nurses training kicked in. He needs immediate treatment in a modern facility. But they were miles from a hospital, where she might find the necessary equipment and advice.

Will he make it? Aiden asked.

Without help, I don’t know, she said. But— She broke off as the man’s eyelids fluttered half open.

Please, don’t let me die, he mumbled through bruised and bleeding lips, words as soft as a prayer and only their hypersensitive vampire hearing allowed Winter and Aiden to understand.

He’s in a bad way. Winter gently wiped the blood and gore spattered young man who looked to be in his mid to late twenties, using several sterile wipes from her purloined hospital supplies. The late hour appeared to have let their neighbors in the village over the hill sleep through the crash, but the smell of burning fuel and plastics might bring them. The last thing they needed was company.

They moved the injured man as carefully as possible to the living room of their cottage. The salty, iron smell of the fresh blood set them both vibrating—the ancient vampire call always lurked below their veneer of civilization, not much different from what their human counterparts might feel when mob mentality takes over a group and creates a riot.

Winter looked to her mate once more for direction, indecision tearing at her. Do I try?

I don’t know, sweetheart. It breaks so many rules. She saw Aiden’s deep worry about the future, though she knew he tried not to let it show. And what if it doesn’t work properly and it backfires? What will we do then? Aiden asked.

Winter’s mouth trembled as she gazed at the injured man. By nature and training, she knew she must try to save the man’s life but, without proper equipment in the right environment, she had little hope. The other alternative—the one which caused Aiden such concern, made more sense—but did they dare? The last thing they needed was to further anger the Condita, the powerful governing-body over all vampires. Though none of their troubles were of her and Aiden’s own making, she knew all too well, an error in judgment at this moment could still block their attempts to regain their good standing.

One

I think reading all those vampire romance novels you love so much has addled your brain, Sunday Rose St. Clair’s mother remarked without rancor as she deftly rolled out the piecrust for the fifth pie of the morning. First, it was Grandma Rose and her faeries, and now you and your vampires. Sunday Rose, in her task of peeling the Macintosh apples lagged behind her mother, earning herself a stern warning glare that plainly told her to hurry it up.

She sighed. But Ma, to be able to live forever, just imagine!

Her mother brushed back a wayward strand of still-bright auburn hair that belied her years. She left a streak of flour on her forehead. You, she said, with your Titian hair, your emerald eyes filled with foolish dreams, your books and poetry, are so like Grandma Rose it sometimes frightens me. And while some say it’s the middle one who tends to be fey, in this family, I think that’s not so. You and Grandma, both last-born children. It makes one wonder.

Sunday Rose peeled another fragrant apple, sliced into the large tin basin positioned precariously in her lap. But, Ma, she said again. To live forever? Wouldn’t that be something?

"I think it would be torture. I’ve done enough baking and cleaning and doing for others in this lifetime. I’d not care to continue it indefinitely. Be practical, child."

Sunday Rose hurried her pace at another warning glance from her mother, but continued to argue. "It’s not a practical matter. It’s about being able to have endless time to live and love and learn and—to just have more." Yearning filled her voice as she tried to explain how she felt.

What do you know about love? You’re just a chit of a thing.

I know that I’m going to find someone who will love me no matter what—who’ll love me unconditionally.

That’s pretty hard to find, child. Sounds more like the love of a parent for a child.

Ma! That’s not what I want. At least not now. You had your— She broke off, ashamed of what she’d almost said, though it was true. Her ma had had her turn. She’d loved and been loved, and Sunday Rose knew it had nearly destroyed her mother to lose her husband, Sunday’s own dear father. Many times in the months since the loss, her mother had stated her gratitude for the company of her youngest daughter. Sunday Rose knew, had always known, without reservation, she’d been given the priceless gift of being a loved child. Staying with her mother, offering what little comfort she could, was her way to pay back what had already been given and was happy to do so.

Her ma’s authoritative voice cut through her thoughts. It’s time to get the first batch out of the oven. After they’ve cooled I want you to take one to our new neighbors, but not ‘til you’ve finished cutting up that last basket of apples. The idea of meeting the neighbors everyone wondered and talked about ignited a fire under Sunday Rose and activity hummed in the kitchen for a time.

The sun sank in a fiery blaze behind the rolling green horizon as Sunday Rose opened the gate to the old Macalister farm. She’d always liked this cottage, which she’d often visited as a child. She climbed the stone steps, feeling their cool density underfoot. She gripped the tarnished lion’s head knocker on the faded red door and rapped with it, waiting expectantly to hand the heavy pie over to her neighbors. Covered by a yellow gingham dishtowel, the pie released the lovely scent of warm apples, brown sugar and cinnamon. She was not walking back and having to carry the damn thing all the way. If no one was home she’d leave it on the step or on the table if the door was unlocked. Maybe she would even have a piece first and not tell her ma, whose pies won blue ribbons every year at the Solstice celebration in town.

She almost hoped no one would answer her knock, but as the thought made her mouth water, the door opened.

She gazed up into a pair of mesmerizing whiskey-brown eyes that looked so directly into hers it was as if they could see into her very soul. Time froze for a split second and then her heart lurched uncomfortably in her chest. She gulped and tried to steady her voice.

I’ve… I’ve brought a pie. My—my ma sent it. She hated the way she sounded, all breathless and stuttering, like a child. What would this man think of her? His blond streaked sandy brown hair waved back from a face that radiated intelligence, kindness, curiosity—and interest. God, and to think he’s married! She thrust the pie forward at him, none too politely. What a waste!

He accepted the pie and stepped back. That’s very nice of her—of you both. Please, won’t you come in?

Sunday Rose smiled her pleasure at the invitation. Sure, I can stay for a bit. She preceded him into the familiar kitchen she’d known since childhood. She’d damn well stay as long as she wanted after slaving over pies in the stifling hot kitchen all day, she thought in defiance of her mother’s edit to get herself home as soon as possible to avoid the night chill.

She sat down at a heavy oak table with the surface scarred from having seen a great deal of service over the decades and looked around. For the most part, the former Macalister kitchen was the same, though a few tasteful red flourishes added dimension and warmth. Gently, she stroked a fingertip over the silk petal of a floral arrangement on the lace table cloth. Her ma would love this one. She was partial to the pineapple design. Sunday Rose wished she had the patience for such craftsmanship, but to her ma’s disappointment, she did not. Everything always ended up in a twisted ball of jumbled, tangled threads.

And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? the man asked with raised eyebrows, unabashedly eyeing her tight pink tee shirt and blue jeans as he joined her at the table. She sat up straighter in response, enjoying the obvious appreciation for her efforts to look nice.

My name is Sunday Rose St. Clair, she said, happy to be over the stuttering fit. "My Ma says it’s because I was born on a Sunday when her climbing roses were in bloom and it was finally her turn to name a child. And my Grandma was named Rose."

It’s very nice to meet you, Sunday Rose St. Clair. I’m Sean Cameron. He held his hand out to her and she grasped it only to feel a jolt of electricity shoot up her arm and heat her insides, despite his oddly ice-cold skin. At once, an unaccustomed but pleasurable ache spread through her in lovely waves. Whoa! This had definitely never happened to her before.

You’re not from around here, Sean, are you? she asked, though she knew. Your accent sounds American. So, he was not the Aiden she had heard about. She relaxed considerably with this new information. Perhaps there was a chance he was unencumbered by a wife or girlfriend…

I thought I had lost my accent—ten years back in the old country. You have a good ear, Sunday Rose. His wide smile dazzled her, as if he knew a great secret—one she wished he would share with her.

You’ve covered it well, but it’s still there, just under the surface.

She smiled at him with the well-practiced, arch expression she used to cover a sense of inadequacy and her inexperience. She often used it on would-be suitors of which there had been plenty and all turned down to date. She’d promised herself early on to hold out for the right one. She wasn’t sure how she’d recognize him, but knew she would and until she did, she’d not entertain any thoughts of a physical relationship. Her avid reading had shaped her beliefs and she longed for a story-book love. Could Sean Cameron possibly be The One? She drifted for a moment, living inside the idea.

Would you like a piece of the pie you were so kind to bring, Sunday Rose? His sexy, low pitched voice caressed the syllables of her name, as if he liked it, which even made her like it. Something in his eyes, as well as his tone suggested he was offering a completely different treat from apple pie. Another wash of heat pulsed deep into her nether regions. She squirmed in her seat and Sean’s eyes darkened perceptibly as if he experienced the same sensations. Suddenly, electric lust lay heavy between them, needing only a slight gesture on either’s part to spark it.

Her breath caught and her Sure, that would be great, came out just over a tremulous whisper. She still wasn’t sure what she was saying yes to.

Pie and a handsome—maybe single, exciting neighbor—doesn’t get better than this. She tingled with excitement. The day making pies was definitely not wasted effort.

So, what are you doing in our wee hamlet? she asked over a mouthful of her mama’s famous apple pie. Caithness doesn’t get many imports.

My plane crashed out back in the meadow a few days ago and I’ve been nursed by the new owners of the cottage, Aiden Hightower and Winter Kennedy. Actually, I should say it was Winter who mended me.

So, you’re not the new owner? My ma said to give this pie to the new tenants of the old Macalister’s house.

Oops. Maybe we should put the pie together again? They both looked at it and laughed.

Are the new owners around?

Sure, they’re around somewhere. Probably out walking and stuff, you know, like newlyweds are known to do.

Sunday’s eyebrow rose. Newlyweds? That’s nice! When were they married?

Sean put his fork down. To her surprise, he had only been playing with his pie, sliding his fork into it, and moving a piece around on his plate. Usually a man would finish every bite and ask for seconds. Just recently, I understand, he said. They’ve hardly begun their honeymoon

We should have a party for them. We love a good céilidh in our part of the world—lots of fun! She smiled at the memory of such events in the past.

I think they’re more the type that likes privacy, he warned. They were kind enough to help me, but I know I’m intruding on their time.

How badly hurt were you? She ran an appreciative gaze over his strong shoulders and chiseled face. You look great now.

His gaze sharpened momentarily, then he gave his head a wee shake as if in denial of something. I’m a quick healer. He shoved his chair back. I should get back to the wood pile I was restocking before you arrived with this wonderful pie. Please, thank your mother for me—for us. It was very generous of you both.

She stood. It was our pleasure. Shock made her tone stiff. He’d all but told her to leave. How odd. And he hadn’t so much as taken a bite of his pie. Not to be dismissed so easily, she asked, Would you like to come to our new library opening this coming Sunday night at the White Chapel Auditorium in exciting, downtown Caithness? I’d come early for preferred seating, if I were you.

He must have picked up on her tongue-in-cheek tone, because he laughed. I imagine you’re expecting hordes of invaders?

Of course! At least ten or twelve hardy souls that we can always count on. Then reluctantly she added, Since you need to return to your woodpile, I should make my way home. My ma is waiting for me.

Your ma? No husband? No beau? She shook her head and he smiled. Then what’s the rush? The night is young. Stay awhile.

She frowned in perplexity at his abrupt change of manner. But…

Since we’re both single, what’s the harm? He stepped closer, crowding right into her personal space, his breath cool on her face, making her lips tingle. His voice dropped to an even lower register. We need to get to know each other better, Sunday Rose St. Clair. A lot better…

She felt suddenly uneasy, though the knowledge he was single added enormous temptation. She pulled back, hesitant over exactly what he meant by get to know each other a lot better. She knew what her body thought he meant—and knew it agreed, but her brain said, No, not yet.

His delectable odor flooded her senses. His eyes, so compelling, spoke silently of thrilling things that could happen if she stayed. Her pulse raced. Her voice, unsteady, betrayed her inner turmoil. No. I should go.

Please—don’t. His expression softened. He took a deep breath and stepped back an inch or two, as if in better control of his alpha male persona, bewildering her further with his mercurial changes. I… I could use a friend. Someone to talk to. He reached out and grasped her hand. It’s been a hell of a week, what with the plane crash and all, and—

I’m sorry. She pulled her hand free. "But, I really do need to get home. If you want to talk again, I work most nights at the Wolf’s Head tavern in town."

He looked into her eyes and then nodded slowly. Of course, let me walk you out. He slid an arm around her shoulders with such graceful charm—she had never seen such easy movement in another human being before—and guided her to the door. Even his arm radiated a chill, though, setting Sunday to wondering if his recent accident had impaired his circulation.

I really hope you can join us for the library opening, Sean. If you want friends, there’ll be a few interesting people there. Including me. She surprised herself by going up on tip-toe and quickly kissing him on the cheek.

Still tasting his flavor, and even more aware of his cold skin, she escaped the cottage and made her solitary way back home.

I’m such a coward! I should have taken him up on the interest he showed in spending more time with me this evening. What am I afraid of? He’s just a man. And what if he was The One? Did I just walk away from my best chance at happiness?

But her mama’s training went deep. Too deep to just throw it all away on a one night, first-time tryst that could sully her reputation, perhaps forever. Though at this moment her concern for her reputation was taking second stage to the fierce pull of one Sean Cameron. She shook her head to clear it and headed into the night.

The shadows had deepened during her time in the cottage. The night fog rose and the air cooled. Sunday Rose pulled her sweater close, buttoned it and tramped off down the road. A sudden wolf howl erupted so near she could almost feel its hot breath on her neck. It stopped her dead, her heart beating as rapidly as a hummingbird’s and all her senses attuned to the piercing mournful sound. Wolf attacks were rare, but they did happen. Why hadn’t she heeded her mother and left for home sooner? Her disquiet grew. She picked up speed. Was someone or something following her? A rustling in the bush close by sent her feet racing down the lonely country road. She had not been the track and field champion of her senior class for naught! She had just made the path leading to the last twenty feet to her home when a hand on her shoulder startled her into spinning right round. Her heart nearly stopped in her heaving chest.

I’m sorry. Sean’s confident, reassuring voice filled the night and she slumped back in relief. He reached a hand out to steady her and she somehow managed to fall into his arms. I don’t mean to frighten you but I heard a wolf howl and I needed to see if you were safe.

I’m… I’m all right, she whispered. Her hand curled into the fabric of his sweater. But… thank you. She breathed deep. The scent of his skin overpowered her, intoxicating, as he pulled her closer.

Sunday Rose… He murmured into her hair. Sean slipped a hand from her shoulder, tilted her face up, and kissed her.

Energy crackled between them. Sunday Rose savored the heady taste of his mouth, sinking deeper into a dream-state. Her lips parted to admit his probing tongue. He pulled her even tighter into his arms until her body felt melded to his. She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned more heavily into him, reveling in the closeness, the taste, the scent, the hardness of his muscles and wanted never, ever to stop this delight. The front porch light blinked angrily on and off and on again, snapping her back to reality, and she jerked back from him.

I have to go! My ma is waiting.

Sean let her go with obvious reluctance, his breathing erratic. He hand, stroking her hair, trembled slightly. Of course, he murmured. I’ll see you soon, Sunday Rose. He lingered tenderly over her name and then was gone. Drawing a deep steadying breath, Sunday braced herself to face her mother.

As she crossed the threshold of the cottage her mother gave her a bright blue glare of disapproval.

Sorry I’m late, Sunday Rose said. I just lost track of time talking to our new neighbor.

I told you to get home sooner, Sunday Rose, and you didn’t appear to be merely ‘talking’. Is the new neighbor not wed, then?

He is. That was their houseguest. He’s a lovely man, Ma. I… enjoyed chatting with him. She hated to worry her ma after what she had been through in the past months.

Indeed. I’ve kept supper warm for you. It’s in the oven. Sarah St. Clair went back to her knitting.

Sunday Rose headed for the kitchen, downed two glasses of cold milk to quench her thirst,