The Lockwood Chronicles Episode 7: Love Stories

By Katrina LaFond

Alexander and Madeline: Their love is strong, but is threatened by a vow made in anguish.

Lucian and Elisabeth: Their love is forbidden, but irresistible.

Caleb and Anora: Their love will create a power unrivaled among their kind.

Charles and Brianna: Their love started out pure and beautiful, but it was tainted by a careless act of violence.

Four couples bound by love and hatred, friendship and animosity, loyalty and betrayal. These are their stories—of passion, need and tragedy; of new beginnings and long-awaited endings.

Excerpt:

Madeline watched Alexander as he got ready for bed, moving through his routine like any other night. Something was different about him tonight, she decided. He was removing his watch, and she stared, fascinated, at the way the muscles in his forearm moved, the way his shoulders shifted as he dropped the watch onto the top of his dresser. He reached up to his neck for his tie, pulling the knot loose, and her mouth went dry at the way his hair moved around his collar, the way the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed and relaxed.

Alexander pulled the tie off over his head and tossed it onto the dresser. He turned towards her as he reached for the buttons at the throat of his shirt and froze when he saw Madeline watching him, her eyes gleaming red, a look of greedy hunger on her face, like a cat watching a canary. “Madeline?”

Her eyes darted to his and she smiled, slow and sultry, and got to her feet. In the darkness of the room, he could see her clearly, illuminated by the pale light of the moon. She’d already changed into her nightgown and its silk clung to her curves as she approached him, a seductress, temping him with her every movement. He stood, rooted to the spot, amazed at her beauty, the full force of her vampiric magnetism focused directly on him. He opened his arms to her, inviting her closer, offering her everything.

She stopped just within reach and lifted a hand, trailing her fingers from the palm of his hand, up his forearm, and across his bicep, allowing her touch to bring her closer as she traced the path to his shoulder. “I don’t know if it’s me, or you, or the hormones talking,” she said softly, “but you look absolutely delicious.” And she reached her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a demanding, grinding kiss.
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Brianna moved so quickly then that he didn’t see her. She was across the room from him and then suddenly she was pressing close to his body, her fangs at his throat. “I am stronger than you, my husband,” she hissed. “Mind what you say, or I might ask for a divorce.”

Charles stared at her for a moment, the fire burning deep in her eyes scorching him. He feared for her then, knowing the fate that would await her if she was caught. “I’m only trying to protect you,” he said softly, reaching up to touch her flaxen hair.

She pulled away quickly, before his hand reached her. “I don’t need your protection anymore!” she spat. “I’ve been coddled and protected and sheltered all my life, and I’m sick of it! I want to do things I was never able—or allowed–to do when I was alive. And no one is going to stop me.” She placed her hand flat against his chest, and he thought she was finally being affectionate again. Then, a ripple of power flowed down her arm, through her hand, and into his chest, slamming him across the room. He hit the wall and slid to the floor, stunned. Through bleary eyes he looked up at her, his beloved Brianna, as she glared down at him. For a moment, her eyes softened and he hoped she was having second thoughts. But she shook her head and sneered at him. “Good bye, Charles,” she said, and then she glided regally out of the room.
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Love Stories is the seventh episode in The Lockwood Chronicles series. It contains adult situations and some violence and is recommended for readers over 18 years of age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katrina LaFond
• Release date: May 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311344861

Katrina LaFond

Writing is the ultimate escape from reality. You can read or watch a movie, but you're not truly immersed in another world like you are when you're creating one. When I'm not writing, I'm wishing I was and when I'm writing I'm living another life. There's some of me in every female character who lets me write her story--some more than others, but I'll never tell which ones. In my other lives I'm a sexy vampire, a powerful witch, an independent werewolf or a seductive human. I can be anyone and anything I want, and who wouldn't want to do that? My genre of preference is fantasy romance. I became infatuated with vampires in high school when I read a book about a girl, who'd recently been turned, who allowed herself to die in the first rays of dawn rather than feed on the boy with whom she'd fallen in love. I remember that part vividly because I thought it was the most beautiful depiction of unconditional and unrequited love that I'd ever read. I promptly devoured every book with vampires in it that I could get my hands on (in my age range, of course). At the time I wasn’t interested in romance novels, and eventually I ran out of teen vampire stories, so I tried my hand at writing one. Over the years, my characters and stories have matured with me. At first, the only characters I met were vampires, but eventually, other characters came to me, and I discovered I had a thing for tall, dark and handsome aliens as well. I spend so much time with my characters that they become real to me, and all my friends and family have gotten used to me talking about them that way. Thankfully, if they think I’m crazy, they keep it to themselves. I’ve also been very lucky in love. For 26 years, I’ve been with the same wonderful man who is very tolerant of the fact that I fall in love with the leading men in my books.

Book preview

The Lockwood Chronicles

Episode 7: Love Stories

by Katrina LaFond

copyright 2014 Katrina LaFond

Smashwords Edition

Edited by: Laurie Williams

Cover by Abstractionz

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Table of Contents

Beginning of the Book

More Lockwood Chronicles

Other Books by this Author

Connect with the Author

London, England, around 200 years ago—Dr. Charles Hollister was distracted as he walked home that night through the misty London streets. He barely noticed the buildings he passed, didn’t see the people at all. His mind was turning over and over a new problem that his patient had just presented. The fog rolled in slowly, curling around street lamps, crawling up the brick buildings. As it crept down cobblestone streets and sidewalks it worked its particular kind of magic, muffling the sound of wooden wheels, horses’ hooves, and pedestrians’ scurrying footsteps.

Perhaps it was the fog that kept him from hearing his attacker. Or perhaps it was his overactive mind keeping his attention from his surroundings. All Charles remembered later were impressions. A pair of incredibly strong arms snaked out of the darkness and pulled him into the small alley between buildings. He was flattened against the brick wall, a powerful presence pressing against his chest. His head was wrenched back and he felt scorching hot breath on his throat. There was a low, menacing growl, then piercing hot pain radiated through his body. He struggled violently, but he might as well have been fighting a statue for all the difference he made to his attacker. As his life’s blood flowed down the fiend’s throat, he grew weaker and his struggles slowed. His limbs felt like lead, and he hung limply in the brute’s hands like a rag doll. He began to lose consciousness and he saw his world through a slowly closing tunnel.

The animal lifted his head from Charles’ throat, smacking his lips obscenely. He tossed Charles away, not caring as the dying man’s body smashed brutally against the side of the building. He smirked at the crack of bones snapping echoing sharply in the small alley. For a moment he contemplated his victim, listening as Charles’ heart labored for one more beat, as his lungs struggled to draw breath.

Charles could feel the life draining from him, and his eyes drifted closed. In his mind’s eye, he saw her face. The beautiful, pale face of his beloved wife. Her clear sapphire eyes, her golden hair. He wasn’t afraid to die, he just wished he could have seen her one last time. Now he’d never be able to cure her. And she would never know what happened to him. Before he could stop himself, with his last breath, he managed to gasp her name: Brianna.

The creature heard the whisper, and a cruel, twisted smile split his face. He chuckled. Without giving it a second thought, he tore open his own wrist with his fangs. Leaning down, he pressed the bleeding wound to Charles’ mouth. He forced the blood down Charles’ throat, then straightened up. See you around, he snarled. Leaving his victim battered and broken, he vanished into the night.

* * * *

Charles opened his eyes slowly, and even that small movement hurt. Cautiously, he lifted his head, wincing at the sharp pain in his neck. As if in slow motion he sat up, every muscle in his body crying out in protest. He straightened his left arm, and the bones in his forearm snapped back into place, wrenching a shout of pain from him. The same thing happened with his right arm, and then his left leg, as his various broken bones sought to re-align themselves. When the large thigh bone in his right leg slammed home, the pain nearly drove him back into unconsciousness. Gasping in agony, sweating, his whole body shook with the shock.

As he sat there trying to get past the pain, he heard footsteps. He looked up at the mouth of the alley and saw a woman standing there, peering in at him. It was evening, yet he saw her as clearly as if it were noon. She was shabbily dressed, her hair hanging in a mass of unkempt curls over her shoulders and down her back. You all right down there, gov? she called, her cockney accent thick.

Charles didn’t register her accent, nor did he notice the revealing neckline and the overdone makeup, but he stared at her in fascination, watching the pulse jump and throb in her throat. He could hear her heart pounding like a drumbeat.

The woman took a tentative step toward him. Sir? she asked uncertainly, casting a glance over her shoulder. Alarmed, she realized she was alone with this man. She was often alone with men, but at least then she knew what they wanted and what they were going to do to her. This man was dressed in an elegant suit and a tailored long coat. But he was also filthy and covered in blood. And did she see a red glow in his eyes?

She was about to bolt when he held his hand out to her. Please, she heard him whisper.

Mustering up all her courage, focusing on the fact that he was obviously well-off and would maybe reward her for helping, she stepped into the alley and reached a hand out to him. I’m not strong enough to lift you on my own, she told him. She ended her comment with a yelp of surprise as his strong hand closed over her wrist and he yanked her into his arms.

Charles wasn’t thinking about what he was about to do. He was overcome by the savage hunger, the clawing demand for sustenance. He felt fangs burst into his mouth and he swirled his tongue over her rapid pulse. He hesitated only for a moment when he heard her whimper, but the hunger won, and he plunged his fangs into her soft throat.

As her hot blood flowed down his throat, he felt his strength increase. Warmth suffused his body and the pain began to recede. As the bloodlust was slowly sated he found himself able to think again, and he became fully aware of what he was doing. Her body was growing cold in his arms and he could hear her heart fluttering desperately. His doctor’s mind evaluated her symptoms, and clinically he knew she was about to die. He marveled distractedly at the fact that he was not repulsed by his own act. Instead, while her heart stuttered in one last desperate attempt to live on, Charles analyzed his own body’s reaction to her blood. He felt strong, vital, pain free. He felt powerful, like he could do anything he wanted.

The prostitute died, and Charles noted it with cold, medical detachment. He laid her down on the alley floor, careful not to let her drop too hard. Why he was being careful was not a question that crossed his mind. He was already thinking of the myriad possibilities of his transformation. The possible miracle he could finally perform. For Brianna.

* * * *

A week passed, and Brianna once again found herself sitting at the large front window. Watching. Waiting. She was wrapped snugly in a large, thick afghan, and a steamy cup of tea was cradled in her hands. But she was still so cold. Since Charles had disappeared she hadn’t been able to get warm. Somehow, her body seemed to know that he wasn’t there to enclose her in his strong arms, and it was rejecting all her nurses’ efforts to warm her.

One of them approached her. He is not coming back, miss. Please, she implored, let us take you to your mum’s. She can take much better care of you.

Brianna’s lips thinned as she clenched her teeth in annoyance. I already told you, I’m taking perfectly good care of myself. I am not a child. She handed her empty teacup to the girl. Besides, he’ll come back.

But the constable said—

I know very well what the constable said! Brianna interrupted. I will hear no more of this! He’s coming back. Leave me!

The girl bobbed a curtsy and scurried away. Brianna hunched down further into the afghan. She felt tears welling in her eyes. Despite her strong words to the servant, she was beginning to have her own doubts. He’d been gone a week with no word, no sign. He was always so attentive, so thoughtful of her. Why would he vanish like this, unless it was not by his choice?

After an hour, Brianna felt her head nod with fatigue and sighed. Standing, she made her way to the large bed and, still wrapped in the afghan, she crawled under the covers. Still though, swathed in a cocoon of cotton, wool and down, she could not get warm. She yearned for his arms around her, holding her against his strong body, lending her his own warmth.

He came to her, deep into the night. Gently, with tender hands, he unwrapped her slender body from the blankets as though she were a gift, until she lay before him only in her thin nightgown. He stretched out beside her, his hand stroking the length of her body, sending shivers coursing through her. No longer cold, her shivering was in delight, then ecstasy. She arched into his hand, wanton in her certainty that he was not real, a dream born of her longing.

His skin was hot against hers and she realized he was naked, his muscles hard and unyielding beneath her fingertips. He wrapped her in his steely arms, holding her against him possessively, his face buried in her blond hair. He nuzzled her neck, kissing her pulse. As he moved to cover her body, she yielded to him completely, opening for him her heart and her body.

Without preamble, he plunged into her, stroking to her very core until he was seated deep inside her. He retreated, eliciting a small cry of protest. Against her pulse, he smiled, his ego appeased, and he drove into her again. He built her fire with each thrust, feeling her body tighten as she raked his back with her nails and begged prettily for release. He could hear her heart pounding, her pulse frantic against his lips.

At her moment of complete fulfillment, his fangs burst forth and he plunged them deep into the creamy flesh of her throat. She cried out at the intense pain-pleasure coursing through her body. As the tremors of her climax subsided, she relaxed into his arms, her limbs feeling leaden. Her head lolled back into the pillow.

Charles felt her weakening as her sweet blood flowed down his throat. Her heart stuttered. She sighed and gave herself up to sleep. Charles lifted his head to look at her. Using a small knife, he sliced a small cut across his own pulse, so close to her mouth. She turned her head instinctively, nuzzling closer. Of its own volition, her tongue traced the path of the blood on his skin to the cut, where she fastened her mouth.

Charles groaned in unexpected ecstasy. He was still buried deep in her body and the feel of her mouth working on him sent him over the edge. One involuntary thrust and he spilled into her even as he nourished her from his veins. He barely noticed when her heart stopped beating.

Finally, he urged her away. He withdrew from her body but remained beside her. Gently, he brushed her hair away from her face. Brianna? he whispered.

She was still for a moment, then she opened luminous blue eyes and looked at him. Husband? She reached up and touched his cheek. Are you here, Charles? I didn’t just dream all of this?

He smiled. No, I’m real. How do you feel?

Brianna’s eyes seemed to glow from within, like two blue stars. She arched her back and stretched languorously, like a cat, a contented purr vibrating in her throat. Charles watched her in fascination, his heart skipping a beat at her beauty. She had always been pretty, ethereal even, with long, waist-length blond hair, so pale it was almost white. And her delicate features gave her a china-doll appearance, emphasized by the fact