Beauty and the Darkness (Marked by the Vampire Book #2)

By A.N. Meade

Aimee was left feeling vulnerable after Damian's attack on her at the end of book one. In this book Aimee throws herself full force into learning all she can of her abilities in an attempt to better protect herself from Damian's growing threat and protect her circle of friends. Damian's interest in her, however is much more than a personal one. He is not about to let her go riding off into the sunset with Marc. She is a vampire now, but there is so much more to the story, as she soon discovers.Beauty and the Darkness is the second book in the Marked by the Vampire series, it can be read in order or as a standalone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.N. Meade
• Release date: Jul 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310304798

A.N. Meade

I'm an avid reader of anything Paranormal Romance (I especially love vampires). I'm the author of my own Paranormal Romance Series: Marked which is published on amazon and available in Barnes and Noble. I'm married to my high school sweetheart, and we have two sons and a daughter. I drink way too much sweet tea, mostly when I'm staying up all night writing down the scenes in my mind.Some of my favorite authors are: Anne Rice (of course), Laurell K. Hamilton, H.P. Mallory, Annie Nichols, Christine Feehan, and Christine Warren.

Book preview

Beauty and the Darkness

Copyright 2013 A.N. Meade

Published by A.N. Meade at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Something Borrowed

Life and Death are One

All the King's Men

Gone Away

Schism

Gilded Cage

Aftermath

Recede and Cope

Casting the Di

Belle of the Ball

Long Live the Queen

Bonus Chapter (Chapter one: Rise of the Blood Queen)

About A.N. Meade

Other Books by A.N. Meade

Connect with A.N. Meade

Something Borrowed

It wasn’t for the pursuit of power, but rather a deep rooted instinct to fight to survive that drove Aimee to dive headlong into studying the rare gifts of her ancestry. She came from a long line of spiritually gifted women. Her grandmother was a typically red haired Scottish-American with some of the fiercest, most determined blue eyes you could imagine. She had married into another clan of Scotch Americans whose lineage was rich with high priestesses, Pentecostal preachers, prophets, and even a serial killer. Whatever they were, you would be hard pressed to find just one who was ordinary.

Her mother certainly hadn’t been ordinary. She had long blonde hair with orange and gold highlights that framed her green eyes like a lion’s mane. She was charismatic, and a gifted Empath. Her great grandmother had gifts with plants, and her great grandfather was a healer. He had healed a burn on a baby’s face with a technique he called blowing the fire out. She remembered him telling her once that it wasn’t something that could be taught, but was a gift that either you were born with or you weren’t.

Even as a child, Aimee had instinctively known that she was born with some measure of these spiritual gifts that her bloodline possessed. She had also learned fairly early on to hide them, or be labeled an outcast. She had never sought to develop her abilities, for any reason, let alone personal gain. She pressed any recognition of them as far back in her mind as she was able to, that is until now. Now, here she was, digging through old anthologies and memories trying to piece back together the puzzle she had worked so hard to distance herself from.

This life that she had built was worth defending. If Aimee had to face the skeletons in her family’s closet to build up the strength it would take to face Damian, she was willing. Many things from the night of the cleansing ritual played over and over in her mind. Liam had come through for her when she needed him most. He had risked so much of himself to help keep her safe. She would never be able to thank him for what he had done. The men he had brought in to help him were mysterious, and her thoughts often lingered on them and imagining what they were all about. Maybe the book that Liam had given her in France would tell her something about them. Aimee had barely read more than the cover of that book. She felt a flush of shame that Liam had risked his life to protect her, and she had shown no interest in the effort that he made to teach her more about who he was.

She tucked some of the loose, stained papers from her family tree into the front of a big brown book of birth and death records, and decided to examine the book that Liam had given her more closely. It was an old book, you could tell from the weight and thickness of the paper. A faint musty smell issued from the cover and the binding. It wasn’t worn on the edges like some of the ledgers were. This was not a book that had been often read. The cover was a blue, canvas like material. There was an odd emblem at the lower left corner that reminded her of the religious tattoos that she had seen on Liam’s back. The wording on the front cover was in some ancient language that Aimee could not recognize. She would try to remember to ask Marc about it later. The numbers marking the chapters were in roman numerals, and their subheadings were in that same unfamiliar languages as the front cover.  The chapters themselves, however, were in English. The wording was not modern in any way, but it was no more difficult to understand than that of Nietzsche or Plato, or any other texts, for that matter, that she found so interesting. It was a storybook, as surprising as that was, like a tale from the Grimm brothers, only so much more poignantly told.

She had begun reading with every intention of finishing up her research within a few hours, and then joining Marc. Lost in the pages, the concept of time had escaped her; the stories were stories of God and man, demons, and angels. There were stories of civilizations and governments, grand in nature, and as culturally rich as the Mayans or the Egyptians. These civilizations were older and the stories of their rise and fall were basic and all encompassing. They were stories that, in the end, are befitting to all nations. It was the story of a land of prosperity, born from the ashes of great hardship, ambitious in intention, and ultimately destroyed and all but forgotten due to the fallibility of man.

Some of the names were vague recollections from her childhood study of the Old Testament. Aimee fought to recall what she knew of Sumeria and Babylon, this would certainly warrant further study. Shifting her weight from side to side, the length of time she had sat there on the cold floor of the library was immediately apparent when soreness and a dull ache radiated from her feet to her thighs. Such small pains reminded of her humanity, not so long gone. There is something about the dark stiffness of night that lends to philosophy and reflection. This was true before, and it was still true now. How surprising it was that just now was the first time since meeting Marc, she contemplated the nature of what she was. Aimee’s heart was heavy with the weight of each question and implications that accompanied them. She felt her energy waning, and she longed to tuck her body close against Marc’s and feel his arms enfold her.

Marc tossed back and forth, fighting with the mattress, the sheet, and the emptiness of the room without Aimee in it. She had slipped away with her book early in the evening. Marc loved to spend time with Aimee in the library, but he recognized that she sometimes needed time to herself, to contemplate the secrets that she never shared even with him. It was more than difficult to maintain composure in her presence. He wanted her and cherished her as if she were the rarest of treasures. He needed her like life needs air and water. She was everything to him. She always had been, and he knew for certain she always would be.

She had been able to escape within herself from time to time, and although these absences of hers were necessary, they filled him with a kind of dread and pain that bordered on despair.  It was terrifying and enraging to depend on that connection so completely. He pretended to be sleeping as she crawled over him into bed. He didn’t want her to feel obligated to conversation unless she wished it and he certainly didn’t want her know that he was incapable of resting without her by his side. She pressed her body against his and kissed him lightly on the cheek. One small brush of her lips, and he was set at peace. I know you’re awake Marc, Aimee said peeking up at him from his side.

How did you know?

I could feel you smiling when I kissed you.

You are the only one in the world who can know that without seeing my face. He was, of course, smiling. He smiled even more so with her intent gaze on his face.

Sleep came quickly for them both. Marc did not dream, but Aimee was transported to a forest surrounded by darkness. It was hard to see, but things felt familiar. She was sure that she had been here before. Her dreams often led her into the heart of this forest.  Many times she had walked along its familiar paths. She knew much of the landscape by heart, and most of the time, it was comforting to be here. There was a lake that she knew, and a meadow, ad if she walked far enough there was a beautiful manor and home. The trees were beautiful, tall and strong. The smell of their bark was deep and rich and fresh. She filled her lungs with the scent of it. She could sense the animals around her, all of them masked in shadow.

There were two squirrels in the hollow of a tree in front of her. On a bough near them, was perched a large barn owl. His eyes tracked the movements of his prey, a small mouse that was scurrying amongst the underbrush. The mouse must have felt the great owl’s eyes upon him, because he stopped for one fatal second, hoping, she imagined that he was wrong. She wondered if he believed that he was still safe and hidden. Then, the owl descended in one fell swoop and had the mouse in its grip before it had the chance to react. He flew toward her next, up and over her head. The power of his wings left her breathless, and then she saw a figure draped in shadow standing not twenty yards away.

It was the figure of a man, tall and broad. He wore a cape, or a long coat of some kind, and it disguised the shape of his arms and legs. Finer features such as the details of his face were hidden in shadow. Even with all that was indiscernible, there was something in the way that he held himself. There was something familiar in his carriage, almost regal in his strength and composure. Aimee could not see his eyes, but she knew somehow that they were staring right back into hers. She knew him. His air did not invite her to go to him. He never moved any closer toward her. He did not reach out his arms in welcoming.

At once, Aimee found herself hurrying to decide if he was her friend or her foe. She inhaled deeply, hoping that some scent of his would catch on the wind. A scent could help her in deciphering him. There was nothing but the wet dew, and a faint musk rising from the underbrush. When her mind was still, she heard him. The thought was foreign, but his message was clear.  What are you doing, my beauty? Do you still believe you can get away from me? I have given everything to have you. I have given my very soul that I might always find you. You fantasize about freedom, but you are not free, never free.

A cold determination swept over her as she looked at him. She stepped forward, stopping just as she began to see the features of his face take shape, faintly illuminated by the moonlight. She knew who he was. She was surprised in a way that he had not come to her sooner. Liam had banished the demon, who had been helping Damian, but Damian would never give up his pursuit. It was not that he loved her so unconditionally, but rather that he desired so to possess her. He believed that he owned her. There was a time that he had. In her first incarnation on this earth, he had bought her, like a person would purchase livestock.

 From the beginning she had fought to be free of him. Thanks to his agreement with the demon, he had always found her. Whenever she had tried to run, he never failed to find her. Now she did not run, but instead stood there in front of him, defiant. She would not enter into a war of words with him if she could help it. He was eloquent, strategic, and more educated. More than any of his intellectual attributes, he could read every inflection of her voice. He knew her fears, and he would feed upon them ravenously given half the chance.

Her stillness took him by surprise, but it did not stop him. He advanced several steps of his own, so that he could better judge her face as he spoke. What a pretty prison it is that you have made for yourself. The gardens are beautiful. You always loved roses. Do you remember? He tilted his head a little to the right, lifting his sculpted brow just slightly. His attention fell to a small pink bud that he spun between his fingertips.

She did not want to remember anything about her life with him. What had been brought to her memory of it already was nearly more than she could bear. Her breath quickened, the closer he came to her. She tried to still her body, but she could not. The thought crossed her mind to run. She wanted to run. Every cell in her body bounced with the energy to attempt escape. Some primal part of her mind screamed at her, Run. Get away from him! He will kill us and eat us! It was a ridiculous thought, or was it?

He smiled fully and truly, his fangs flashing with glints of moonlight that broke through the clouds. She wondered if he could read her thoughts, or perhaps it was that he had recognized the fear in her eyes. Whatever the case, he was close to her now. It shouldn’t have made her more afraid, but it did. Logically she knew that at one foot or at one hundred, he could kill her in seconds. She had felt the strength he possessed. She had felt his rage, and the pleasure he took in causing her pain. It was just like the great owl and the mouse, he was the owl and she was the mouse. It did not matter if she ran. It did not matter if she was perfectly still. He had her in his sights and he was hungry. She could not stop him. She could not fight him. She closed her eyes, the only hope she had was that at the last moment he might change his mind. Like the owl, he did not. She felt the heat of his breath on her forehead, she felt the pressure of his hands sliding down her forearms, and his fingers interlace with hers. She tried to pull her hands away, but he gripped her fingers so forcefully that tears began to well up in her eyes.

He bore down on her, mercilessly continuing his one sided conversation. It was the pink roses, I believe, that you liked best. Isn’t that right?

Her fingers ached and the pain lent a sharp focus to her thoughts. She did remember. She could see the roses from her window in the south tower. Their addition to the grounds had been a primarily English influence. Most of them were red or white, but her favorites were the pink roses. They reminded her of stories she had heard of girls who were happy. They reminded her of her little sister, whose cheeks held the same hue when she laughed. More than anything, the roses made her feel hopeful, that despite all the ugliness she had known that there was beauty in this world.

She longed to walk among the roses in the garden, but he had denied her even that simple pleasure. He would bring her single rose from time to time, cut off, so that in a few days’ time it would wither and die. She had begged of him some earth to keep in a jar. This small thing he had allowed her, and it was one of her most sacred treasures. She had always tried to get the cut rose to grow and had failed all but once. One day, just before Damian had left out on a raid, he sent up a rose for her. Receiving the rose was always bittersweet. She loved them, but their arrival meant that he would soon come to her. He was cruel, but his company was the only human interaction that she was allowed. The roses were beautiful, and were the only tangible proof she had that Mother Nature was real and alive, and wild, and free. It was everything that she wanted to be. She would mourn them when they died, every one equal to the sorrow she felt when they withered away. She was more than overjoyed when one took root. She put it in the window and watered it out of her own daily water. It almost felt like a friend of sorts for all those weeks that he was away. She thought to hide it, but there would be no point. He searched her room each time without fail, to make sure his wishes concerning her were carried out. If she had hidden the rose, he would be sure of its significance to her. She knew her only chance of keeping it was to pretend as if it did not matter to her. He came back and found it, as she knew he would.

Seeing the rose blooming there in the window sent him into a rage. Stupid girl! he yelled as he grabbed the stem of the rose in his hand. You are a queen, and you continue in the foolish notions of a peasant! The petals fell against her feet as he continued yelling and shaking the rose violently. You continue on as a child, finding whatever way that you can to be disobedient to me. You occupy your mind with entertaining yourself instead of pleasing your husband. He flung the rose and the small vase of earth out the window.

She could hear the vase breaking against the stones that protruded from the walls. Something in her snapped, and she began to speak before she had the chance to stop herself. "Even when I was a child, I have never been as a child would be. You know that is true. I have never