The Darkest Night: The French Fae Legend, #4

By Emma V Leech

The War has begun.

Prince Corin and Prince Laen, united against the Light Fae, are battling their way to the capital, Aos Sï, where Corin will claim the Kingdom for his own.

The Fae Lands plead for a new leader, someone to save it and its people, from tyranny at the hands of King Auberren. But has Corin waited too long ... has he time enough to do what he must? As the land screams for him in his mind, pushing his sanity to the limits of what he can bear, everything he has spent his life running from must finally be confronted.

Laen is his ever-present defender, brother, best friend and the man he will have no choice but to betray if he finally succeeds. Corin must win this war at all costs, but he fears what will be lost in the process.

Those left behind must wait and pray. Claudette is torn as she fears for the lives of those she loves, terrified that she may lose Corin, and waiting desperately for news from her personal spy, Bram.

A disgraced nobleman turned highwayman, Bram has been sent to the human world to protect her brother from Auberren's assassins and she prays he won't fail her.

The war has begun … and no one will escape unscathed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma V Leech
• Release date: May 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201476779

Book preview

Prologue

The four grubby boys stood back, grinning and congratulating each other as they stared with satisfaction at their creation.

It will never hold you, you know. This unwelcome observation came from a fifth child at the edge of the lake.

Four pairs of eyes swivelled in his direction, none of them friendly. He was no more than six, with a mop of thick, dark hair and expressive brown eyes that held a little anxiety, but he faced the others, who were at least four years his senior. The bigger boys nudged each other, sniggering as they pointed at him, and he blushed a little. He knew well enough that his pristine white shirt with a frill down the front, lace cuffs, and the deep blue, velvet knee britches were likely going to get him beaten up, but he liked them.

Who asked you? demanded the biggest of them, wiping his filthy hands on a pair of equally dirty trousers.

Lord Tullius Aelfric Fafner Beltran the Third – Tully to his familiars – shrugged. No one did, he replied, aware that giving his name wouldn’t help matters. But it still won’t hold, he added, looking at the rickety bridge with deep scepticism.

Shut up! they chorused, jeering and mocking him by mimicking his posh accent.

It’s your funeral. Tully folded his arms and watched as the boy put his foot on the unstable-looking structure. It had been built with the express intention of crossing the lake to the small island at its centre and stealing the duck eggs which they knew to be hidden in the reeds. Tully watched as the boy inched along and the bridge gave an alarming creak. The boy’s eyes widened a little, looking a little less sure of himself before glaring at Tully. Push off, he growled, obviously not appreciating an audience. No one asked you to join in.

Tully sighed with frustration, though he was quite used to being told to go away by the older boys, all of whom regarded him as a nuisance. Fine, he muttered, kicking his toe in the dirt. I was on my way to see the princes, in any case.

The boy gave a bark of laughter, looking at him with obvious disbelief. As if they’d let a baby like you hang around with them! The other boys roared with laughter and Tully blushed so hard he felt his cheeks burn. Then the spark of defiance which always seemed to lead him into trouble flickered to life, his chin came up and he crossed his arms. They will, he said, his voice trembling with fury. They’re my friends.

With great concentration the boy shuffled a little further onto the bridge before stopping to regard Tully with contempt. Don’t tell lies, you little rat.

I’m not! he shouted back, with all the righteous indignation of a small boy.

But the boy on the bridge had other things to worry about as a sickening creak sounded and the bridge gave way, plunging him into the icy depths of the lake. For a few moments there was a lot of yelling and thrashing about, but the boy, with some help from his comrades, was hauled from the water, spluttering and coughing. He sat on the edge of the bank, and regarded Tully with disfavour, but Tully was too hysterical to notice. He rocked back on his heels, clutching at his sides, as fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

Get him, the boy said, his tone dark and furious.

Tully’s laughter stopped short as he sensed the likelihood of his imminent demise. For a moment everything was still, and then he turned tail and fled from the copse. Crashing through the undergrowth, he winced as he heard his shirt tear, but hurried on as fast as his little legs could manage, aware that it would be a deal worse if they caught him. Exploding from the undergrowth like a small firework, he made to open ground.

To his great relief, it appeared that luck was smiling on him as he had hardly broken from the tree line when the magnificent sight of the two young princes, riding in his direction, appeared before him.

Help! he shrieked as the four bigger boys were now gaining on him fast. Gasping for breath, he pushed harder as the darker of the two young men urged his horse forward and came to meet him. A pair of impatient golden eyes stared down at him in frustration.

What the devil have you done now? the young prince demanded, shaking his head at him.

Couldn’t you ask me that later? Tully shouted, dashing behind his horse and peering out at the angry mob that had ground to a halt in front of the two princes. At fourteen, they were regarded as being rather godlike figures in the eyes of the younger boys, and as the sun set on the horizon, burnishing Laen’s white blonde hair and sending Corin’s eyes a deeper gold, it was no wonder.

Corin glanced across at Laen, who was the least friendly of the two, and by far the biggest. He glowered but, to Tully’s relief, gave a reluctant nod. They’ll kill him otherwise.

I swear, Tully, this is the last time, Corin warned him as he reached down and grasped him by the back of his shirt, hauling him up onto his horse.

You said that the last time, Tully said, grinning now that his untimely death had been averted.

Corin looked down at him and narrowed his eyes. Don’t remind me.

The two young gods turned the horses in the direction of home whilst Tully took the opportunity to stick his tongue out at his pursuers. They were staring at him in astonishment and it was too good an opportunity to miss. He yelped as Corin gave him a clip round the ear. Stop looking so damn smug or I’ll take you back, he muttered.

Sorry, Tully replied, chastised. He rubbed his ear, looking up at his greatest hero with unabashed admiration. Where are we going?

"You are going home."

Tully pouted but wisely kept his mouth shut.

Once back on Corin’s estate, Tully was unceremoniously dumped at the stables and left to make his way home. He watched with disappointment as the two young men headed off to set about the business they had lined up, deep in discussion. Knowing he’d likely get into trouble, but quite unable to resist, he followed them. It didn’t take long for Corin to discover they were being shadowed. He pointed back in the direction of the stables where they had left him. Go away.

Tully quailed a little, hating it when Corin got angry with him. Nonetheless, he stood his ground, shaking his head and crossing his arms, looking mutinous. Laen took a step forward, then, and Tully could not help but swallow as the bigger, scarier boy turned his dark, black eyes on him. You heard him, get lost, he said, his voice an angry snarl.

Shan’t, Tully replied, his voice trembling a little.

Gods! Laen cursed, turning to his friend. Let’s lock him in the cellar.

Corin returned an impatient look and shook his head. You’ll give him nightmares and then we’ll be for it. He sighed, and Tully knew he was weakening. Corin was always the kindest of the two of them. If we leave him here, he’ll only sulk, Corin said, sounding as though he was giving into the inevitable.

Yes, and tell everyone where we’ve gone, Laen muttered in disgust, folding arms that were already heavy with muscle.

Corin sighed and gestured for Tully to join them. Come on then, he said, before giving him a hard stare, those strange golden eyes glinting at him. But mind you keep your wretched mouth shut, do you understand?

Tully nodded, beaming at Corin and grasping his hand. I will, I promise, he said, meaning every word. He’d do anything for Corin. Even if I’m tortured, he added, just to illustrate his devotion.

Laen snorted, a look of deep disdain in his eyes. Tully, you couldn’t keep your mouth shut if your life depended on it. One day it will get you into the kind of trouble there’s no getting out of.

That’s what my father says, too, Tully said, glowering at Laen and feeling it was deeply unfair. It’s not true, though, he added, finding he was really quite angry that people didn’t trust him to hold his tongue. "I can keep a secret. I’ve kept big secrets, haven’t I, Corin? He thought for a moment and then grinned as he remembered one of the biggest. I mean, I never told Laen about catching you lying in the straw kissing his sis..."

Tully’s teeth rattled in his head as Corin smacked his hand over his mouth and the two of them turned to see that Laen had stopped in his tracks. A look of such fury coloured his pale skin that Corin sighed. Looking down at Tully, he raised one elegantly arched eyebrow. You were saying?

Tully swallowed, his gaze swivelling from Corin to Laen, eyes widening as he saw Laen was heading in Corin’s direction with a murderous expression. Removing Corin’s hand from his mouth, he dived into the nearest bush as Laen collided with his friend with the weight and finesse of a raging bull. The two boys hit the floor with muttered curses and fists flying. and Tully settled back to watch the fight from his place of safety.

Moments later, and with the unerring sick sense that seemed to follow her son’s safety, the stunning vision of Corin’s mother, Queen Audrianne, arrived to discover the two princes knocking each other senseless. Taking in the scene with a heavy sigh, she didn’t bother wasting her breath trying to part them, and instead ran to the well and hauled up a bucket of water. This was thrown, unceremoniously, over their heads, and as Tully well knew it was icy cold, it had the desired effect.

Mother! Corin spluttered, pushing his sodden dark hair out of his eyes while Laen spat blood on the ground beside him.

Get up, the pair of you. Whatever is it about this time? she demanded, picking her silk skirts up out of the way of the muddy water. Oh, Corin! She took out a pristine white handkerchief and began to dab his bloody lip and exclaim over his eye which was already swelling shut. Mother, Corin grumbled, pushing her hand away. Stop it, you’re embarrassing me. She sighed and put the hanky away, looking at Laen, who was trying to stem a bloody nose with his sleeve. She raised an eyebrow in what was a familiar gesture.

Laen blushed before pointing at Corin. He kissed Aleish! he yelled, still utterly furious.

The queen bit back a smile and reached down, patting Laen’s cheek with affection. Well, of course he kissed her, she said, sounding perfectly reasonable. She’s very pretty.

Laen opened his mouth to reply, but this terrible logic seemed to have stalled his brain, so he just gaped at her in amazement. He turned to scowl at Corin, who was now smirking.

Come on, the healer for both of you. She took each boy by the ear as they cursed and protested that they were no longer children, and towed them in the direction of the house. Stopping in the doorway she paused as a thought occurred to her and let them go. Straight to the healer, she said, eyes narrowed. Then you’d best go and see cook, she mentioned something about making spice biscuits this afternoon.

The two boys looked sheepish and grinned at her, heading into the house with their fight forgotten for the time being. Tully watched as the queen pursed her lips and walked back to the scene of the crime.

Tully? she called, putting her hands on her hips.

Wondering how on earth she had known, Tully emerged from his hiding place, brushing down his britches and picking leaves from his hair as he walked towards her. He looked up at the queen; wondering just how much trouble he was in and kicking his toe in the dirt.

Do you like spice biscuits, by any chance? she inquired, an amused lilt to her voice that allowed Tully to let out a breath of relief.

Oh, yes, he said, grinning at her. Above all things!

She held out her hand and Tully ran over and took it, looking up at her with a shy smile before frowning. How did you know I was there? He stared at her, puzzled, as he’d been well hidden.

The queen glanced down at him, her lips twitching a little. Lucky guess, she said before taking him down to the kitchens.

Chapter 1

Ameena stared out of her bedroom window, her warm breath fogging the glass. It made little difference to the view. From her vantage point at the top of an ugly tower block, London was spread out below like a filthy blanket. The view didn’t please her one bit, but wore on her already low spirits, sinking them further. A sky as grey as the pigeons that huddled outside on the window sill loomed over the city, heavy and oppressive with the promise of more rain to come. The rain fell and fell, a never ending torrent, slicking the grey streets and the grey buildings, and soaking all the little grey people, hurrying to and fro like ants.

She sighed as the woman in the flat next door screeched, and banged on the adjoining wall. Ameena reached for her phone and slid the bar further across until the music thudded through her, louder than her own heartbeat. Three Days Grace shook the paper thin walls and rattled the glass in the windows, and she threw herself down on the bed in despair. God, she hated her life. She hated this nasty little flat, hated being surrounded by people, hated the city, and hated her job as a nurse. Oh, no, she thought, a bitter smile crossing her mouth, strike that last one ... she didn’t have a job.

She had quit last night; the malicious bitch who had been her boss had finally succeeded and Ameena’s temper had overruled good sense. Nothing new there. But the satisfaction she had felt in telling her what exactly she could do with the bedpan she’d been holding had been short lived. Her rent was two weeks overdue already, there was no food in the house, and there was no way she was going to go and ask her parents for a handout and admit she had fucked up ... again.

Oh God, oh God, oh God ... kill me now, she said with a groan, pulling a pillow over her head as the neighbour thumped harder on the wall. She lay there for a moment before flinging the pillow aside in frustration, and pulled out the drawer on the bedside table. Scattering the contents in all directions, she searched for a packet of cigarettes she had stashed there when she had been feeling momentarily flush after pay day. Spying the packet, she grabbed it with relief, accidentally snagging the edge of a tattered old envelope at the same time.

Though it was stupid, her heart ached at the sight of it. Well, it wasn’t like she could feel any more depressed than she was. Ameena picked it up and slid off the side of the bed onto the floor, placing the envelope on her lap with care. She didn't need to open it to see the photographs it contained. Though every one of them was engraved on her memory, she didn’t usually allow herself to actually look at them. It had been years since she had last given in. She wasn’t one for self-pity, and it only ever made her feel more wretched. Lighting up a cigarette, she inhaled, leaning her head back on the mattress and watching the smoke curl up to the dirty, yellowing ceiling.

If she closed her eyes she could see the cottage, tiny and lopsided, set amongst trees and rolling hills. She could hear the cows lowing in the fields next door and the frogs singing their joyous summer song by the pond. As a child she’d spent hours there, trying to catch the slippery creatures as they slid through her fingers and splashed into the cool, green water. Her heart constricted at the memory, only to be battered afresh as more followed in quick succession. The smell of wood smoke that pervaded the whole house, even when the fire wasn’t lit, and the way her bedroom window had grown white with frost, even on the inside, when the winter began to bite.

Ameena sat up, cursing, and wiped away foolish, hot tears in irritation. Her fingers were covered with heavy black eye makeup and she rubbed them on her black jumper. Stupid cow. What was the point in crying over something that was long gone?

Her parents had moved her to France when she was just a baby, only to rip her away again when she was eleven, when their organic farm business failed and the only thing to do was return to the real world and get proper jobs. They had sold all of the land but still owned the cottage; it was in too bad a state of repair, too small, too remote for even the staunchest of DIY enthusiasts. By now it was probably a pile of rubble.

They had never again returned, not even for holidays, though she’d begged and pleaded. Her parents had been too broken-hearted over the loss of their dream to ever face it again, though. They never seemed to notice that Ameena’s dreams had been stolen, too.

She tapped the ash into an old saucer on the side table and pulled out the tatty photos, even though she knew it was stupid. Her eyes drank in the sight of the sunshine and blue skies, lush green fields and the cheeky smile of the little girl with dark pigtails who was waving happily at the camera, blissfully ignorant of what was coming. The move to a frenetic inner city school where one naive, county girl who couldn’t write a word of English, was swallowed up and spat out again, tougher, harder ... and with her eyes wide open.

Fuck it.

Ameena stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet, grabbing the backpack that was stowed on top of her wardrobe. Placing the photos carefully in the pocket, she began pulling out drawers and stuffing clothes in, ramming them down as hard as she could. She finished off with a few essentials including her phone, a small speaker and headphones.

Standing in the middle of her flat, she looked around, trying to think if there was anything she would regret leaving, any single positive thing about her life here that she would regret, and couldn’t find even one. She turned then, hauling the backpack over her shoulders and slamming the door on the hideous flat without a second glance. At the nearest cash-point, she cleared every penny from her pitiful savings and then, with a glimmer of hope burning in her chest, she headed for Victoria Station.

THE TAXI DRIVER SWIVELLED round in his seat, frowning at her and looking every bit as anxious as Ameena felt. Vous êtes sûr? he queried.

No. I’m not sure, Ameena muttered inwardly, biting her lip.

She swallowed and peered out into the darkness at the cottage illuminated in the headlights of the taxi. The years had not been kind. Good sense told her to scream no out loud and get the fellow to turn around and take her back to the station. No, she wasn’t sure, but what else was there for her? Her usual pigheadedness and stupidity forced her on, making her nod her head despite her fears.

"Oui, quite sure."

She handed over a horrific amount of Euros, ignoring the pitiful amount that remained in her purse, and pushed open the door. A gust of wind snatched it from her and almost ripped it from the car as lightening cracked across the sky. Good omens weren’t exactly piling down on her. With a sinking heart, as she ran to the front door and searched for the big smooth stone they had always left the key under. With a little surge of triumph she grasped it and waved it at the driver who rolled his eyes, clearly thinking she had taken leave of her senses as he hauled her backpack out of the taxi.

"There is a lovely little Chambre d’hote, he said as he walked over to the cottage with it, a concerned and fatherly light in his eyes. It’s just a couple of miles away, very reasonable prices," he added, looking at the crumbling building behind her with obvious distaste.

Non, merci, Ameena replied, knowing her savings would be gone in no time no matter how reasonable it was. I’ll be fine. Thank you anyway.

He gave a shrug, shaking his head at the mad English woman, and ran back to his cab as the rain began to pelt down in earnest. Ameena turned the key in the lock before she lost his headlights and pushed hard as the door protested but swung open.

The familiar scent of old wood smoke hit her first, and for a moment her spirits lifted. Scrabbling in the darkness she made her way across from the front door, cursing as she hit her shin on a chair, and fumbled around until she found the mains electric switch. At least her memories of the place were accurate, she thought with a smile. She flicked the switch and ... nothing happened. Of course nothing happened, you moron, you need to pay bills to get electricity.

Cursing her own idiocy, she wondered if she had just made the biggest mistake in a life time already scattered with a truly impressive amount of them. The sound of the taxi pulling away reached her ears over howling wind and rain outside and she tried to push away a shudder of misgiving. Light. She needed light, and warmth. It would look much better once it wasn’t so dark and cold. Ameena dug around in her bag until she found her lighter, and then made her way to the drawer where they had always kept emergency candles in case of the frequent power-cuts. Sighing with relief, she found a good supply and began to light them. Sadly, the results didn’t make her feel any better.

Oh crap.

Everything was tattered, dusty, shabby and horribly depressing. To her relief, there was one bright spot as she discovered there was still plenty of wood stacked up around the fireplace. The thought of a blazing fire was appealing and she shivered as the chill of the room enveloped her, a damp, musty smell now discernible over the smoky scent she had first noticed. First things first, then. Ameena advanced on the fireplace with the most positive attitude she could muster in the circumstances. The cheery glow of a good fire would make her feel better for sure.

The wood was good and dry, and within a very short time a merry blaze was crackling as she shut the doors of the log burner. Mercifully, the chimney seemed to be clear, and despite a little smoke, it had lit with no effort. Not to worry, though, there were plenty of other problems waiting for her attention. She regarded the rest of the place with mounting anxiety, running her hands through her short hair and attempting to quell the rising panic that was making her chest feel tight.

Well ... perhaps it will look better in daylight? she muttered, not feeling much hope on the subject. Deciding she may as well get it over with, she was about to investigate the bedrooms, when there was a heavy crash against the front door. She screamed and almost dropped the candle as every horror film she’d ever seen flooded back to her with dreadful clarity. The sound came again and she almost dropped the candle, except this time it was a series of heavy thumps.

Qui est là? she demanded, trying to make her voice deep and forceful and wondering if it was just the taxi driver come back to change her mind? If not, she prayed that she’d sounded big and intimidating. For a ridiculous moment, she considered trying to imitate a Rottweiler and then she heard a voice.

Help. Ameena inched closer, her ears straining to listen. As she moved close enough to press her ear to the wood, there was an even heavier thud that sounded like a body falling and made her shriek again, and then everything went quiet.

With shaking hands, and wondering if she had completely lost her mind, Ameena slid back the bolt and turned the key and the door flew inwards ... as a body landed at her feet.

She leapt back with a scream of terror, eyes darting outside to see if anyone else was around. The storm was lashing at the countryside, though, the wind howling and pulling at the closed shutters, the trees swaying in a dramatic fashion. No one in their right mind would be out in this weather, a fact which didn’t reassure her in the slightest as she stared at the body at her feet.

Oh my God! Ameena gasped, stepping closer and raising the candle as she prayed it was just a trick of the light. No, she wasn’t that lucky. For starters, the man was dressed in the most bizarre fashion. But as if that wasn’t enough, blood, thick and dark and sticky, was seeping through the clothes at his shoulder. His breathing was fast and he appeared to be unconscious.

Setting the candle beside him, out of the worst of the draft, she crouched down to take a better look. Pulling back his coat and shirt she found a neat bullet wound.

Shit! she cursed, as her pulse began to race.

He’d been shot, and if he’d been shot, the person who had shot him would likely be looking for him. For a moment, she just considered pushing him back out in the rain and shutting the door, but knew she didn’t have the heart. Maybe he’d asked for that bullet and gotten what he deserved, or he maybe he hadn’t. Either way, she had become a nurse for a reason, and she couldn’t in all conscience leave him to his fate.

Moving quickly, she got to her feet and grabbed hold of him under the arms. Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she heaved and slid on the dirty wood floor, landing on her backside with a thud. Bloody hell, how much do you weigh? she muttered, before hauling herself to her feet and trying again. This time he did move, but only a couple of inches. Taking a deep breath she heaved with all her might and he cried out in pain, stirring from his unconsciousness just long enough to pass out again.

Look, I’m sorry but I didn’t bloody shoot you! she snapped, as her arms and back protested under the strain. With one last heave, she pulled his boots clear of the door and ran to slam it, sliding the bolt firmly back into place. At least with all the shutters still closed, the house should look as dilapidated and abandoned as it was. With shaking hands, she pulled out her phone to call the police, an ambulance, and the bloody armed forces if necessary, only to find she had no signal. With a wail of outrage, she flung the phone into her backpack. Of course not, she thought, the words savage, that would be far too bloody helpful!

Running her hands through her hair, she regarded the man with despair. Now what? She had no supplies, no water or electricity. Oh shit, she’d have to clean the wound. Water? There was a well outside, she remembered, thanking heaven for small mercies. The water had always been clean and sweet. She’d missed the taste of it, but had rather hoped to discover it again under simpler circumstances.

Cursing, she snatched up her phone, stuffing it in her back pocket, and opened the door again, looking out into the darkness of the raging storm with her heart pounding in her ears.

Please don’t shoot me, she muttered, before taking a deep breath and running in the general direction she remembered the well. Thick, wet grass wrapped around her jeans, brambles catching her as she went, but finally she made it. The mechanism was rusted and hauling the bucket up no easy task, but somehow she managed it. Unhooking the bucket, she set it down and tried her phone again, walking around in the pouring rain as her eyes darted back and forth, scanning the darkness. Not a single bar lit despite her desperate pleas, and so she hurried back to the cottage, carrying the bucket and cursing all the way.

Unfortunately, her hopes that the man was just a figment of her stressed imagination were proved unfounded as his very solid presence was still taking up most of the kitchen floor.

By now, she was soaked to the bone, shivering violently, and extremely unhappy, to put it mildly. Muttering curses through chattering teeth, she moved about the kitchen and lit more candles so that she could give his wound a closer inspection.

Getting to her knees beside him, she discovered that it was a clean shot, through and through, as she could see the exit wound and it appeared to have missed anything vital. As long as it was kept clean, she thought it should heal with no problem. Although it must be painful, she wondered if he was hurt anywhere else, as she couldn't see why he would be unconscious. She placed her hand on his head, and then moved her fingers through his hair. He did seem rather hot, but there no obvious signs of any trauma. Discounting a head injury for the moment, she undid his shirt, wondering again as she did so at his peculiar outfit. His coat fell open as she worked and she squealed as not only an ancient looking pistol but also a sword was revealed. The pistol was obviously one of a pair, as the other holster was empty.

Ameena gaped in astonishment, wondering if there was any chance she could wake up now. Then she groaned and slapped her forehead, breathing out in relief, and chuckling as the truth of what must have happened to him dawned on her. He must be one of those weirdos who went round re-enacting ancient battles. Probably one of his nutty friends had used real shot and he'd come off the worse for it.

Oh thank the Lord.

She breathed out a sigh of relief. At least she didn’t need to worry about being murdered in her bed, after all. Well, assuming this place had a bed. She still hadn’t had a chance to see what had been left.

Returning her attention to the problem at hand, she continued inspecting him for injuries. Except her train of thought ground to a shrieking halt as the open shirt revealed a beautifully sculpted chest ... and incredible abs ... and a trail of dark hair that disappeared under his belt. Dragging her eyes reluctantly back up, she held the candle higher to take a look at his face. Dark stubble highlighted a strong jawline. Thick black lashes that would have been the envy of any woman fluttered as he groaned and shifted. There was a large gold hoop earring in one ear and a scarf around his neck that gave him a rather rakish air, like a pirate or a highwayman, she thought, and then snorted at her own foolishness. For all she knew he could be an escaped lunatic.

Ameena raised her eyebrows as she stared at his beautiful face again; well, nutter or not, he was certainly easy on the eye. She frowned, though, as she saw how heavily he was sweating now. Trying to retain her professional approach, she continued to check him over for broken bones and injury, but found nothing but hard muscle. With effort, she managed to strip off his jacket and shirt, and proceeded to shred the fine material of the shirt into strips. With this, she improvised bandages while she boiled some water to clean the wound.

As she waited for the water to boil, she searched for the small first aid kit that she had packed in her bag. She’d had too many misadventures of her own to ever go far without one. She had discovered to her cost that it paid to be prepared for trouble, as, in her experience, it inevitably found her.

Ten minutes later, and the wound was washed but still bleeding more than she was happy with. Ameena glared at the wounded man with a frown, cursing him and his stupidity. She didn’t have a needle and thread, and so all she could do was disinfect it. She had a bottle of Jack Daniels stashed in her bag, so that would have to do. Thank God he was unconscious.

The man shifted, and she turned back to him, but he was muttering nothing that she could understand. She wet some of his remaining shirt and used it to wipe his face. He was really feverish now and very pale, which was strange and worrying. The wound shouldn’t cause him this kind of fever. In desperation, she looked at her phone again and walked up and down, trying to see if she could find a signal. Nothing. Absolutely, bloody nothing. A clap of thunder exploded over the house, rattling the glass and scaring her so badly she nearly dropped the phone.

Staring down at the body of a strange man amongst the wreckage of her own long lost past, Ameena felt the hopelessness of the situation pressing down on her. She sat down on one of the remaining chairs and put her head in her hands.

Well, Ameena, you’ve really excelled yourself this time, she muttered.

In a lifetime of minor catastrophes and reckless decisions, this one really took the biscuit.

Chapter 2

Ameena poked at the fire; her patient might be sweating but she was freezing cold and shivering. The shock and the chill damp of the night had taken its toll and she felt miserable and shaky. The wound was still seeping blood at an alarming rate, which was worrying her more than she cared to admit. Explaining how she’d arrived in France and landed a corpse the same day was not a story she had any desire to explain to the Gendarmes. She had no idea when she’d be able to get help here, as she knew she was a good long walk from anything resembling civilisation. He’d lost a worrying amount of blood already, though. Getting to her feet, she stood looking at him, wondering how such a handsome fellow had got himself in such a bizarre fix.

She was about to set down the poker and dig out the bottle of whisky when his eyes flickered open. They looked from her to the glowing poker she held, widened in horror, and then he moved, with more speed than she could have credited for an injured man. Ameena exclaimed in shock, which seemed to unnerve him further, and he ended up huddled in the corner of the room, crouched with his back to the wall, eyes fevered and wild, and looking at her like she’d planned to murder him.

Um, hi, she said, holding the poker to one side and not really knowing what the hell else to say.

BRAM’S HEART WAS THUNDERING in his chest, his shoulder burned and ached with an intensity that was making him want to throw up, and he was hot, like his blood was burning in his veins. He had woken to find the strange woman leaning over him and it had been a bewildering sight. Sharp grey eyes, heavily made up in black, short spiky black hair with a bright blue fringe that almost covered one eye, and a small metal ring glinting in her nose, with another little pointed stud in her eyebrow. He’d never seen a woman like this one before in his whole life. Combined with the red hot poker and the fierce look on her face, Bram could come to only one conclusion ... she was a witch!

What do you want with me? he demanded, finding his throat hoarse and dry.

The young witch’s mouth dropped open. I don’t want anything with you, freak! she snapped at him, grey eyes flashing with irritation. She took a step closer, pointing at him with the glowing end of a poker. You’re the one that landed on my doorstep with a bullet wound in your shoulder. I was just trying to help, but the door is that way ... be my guest, bleed to death if you want to. The witch rammed the poker back in the fire and stood glaring at him, folding her arms and staring at him with such fury that he was quite taken aback.

Bram frowned and tried to remember what the hell had happened. He had a vague recollection of a fight at the gates, but the rest was a blur of pain and confusion. He glanced at his shoulder to see the bandages and wondered if maybe he had jumped to conclusions. He looked back at the woman who was still glaring at him with indignation. He had simply never seen anyone quite like her before, though. What kind of race had blue and black hair? He had heard of a kind of water sprite, the nixe, having blue hair, but he had never actually seen one himself. But then there were those strange pieces of metal in her face. He wondered if they were spells or perhaps some kind of ward.

He frowned, glancing up at her and realising he didn’t have a lot of choices in any event. He felt like he was about to pass out. What are you? he croaked, wanting at least to establish that much before he succumbed to the heat that felt like it was dragging him into a furnace.

I’m a nurse, she replied, still scowling at him with suspicion.

His head tipped back, hitting the wall at his back which was blissfully cold. A healer? he asked, wanting to be sure he’d understood.

Oh, God, you’re not a damned hippie, are you? she asked, narrowing those sharp grey eyes.

He gave her a blank look. He’d never heard of a creature called a hippie before. Were they like pixies, perhaps?

The girl, or witch, or whatever she was, rolled her eyes at him. A New Age traveller, maybe? she pressed.

Bram opened his mouth to explain that he was Fae, which he thought ought to be damn obvious even if he wasn’t of the purest blood, but a wave of dizziness hit him and he closed his eyes.

Damn tree hugger, I’ll bet, she muttered. He managed to open them again as she got up to put more wood on the fire. He started at the sudden movement and she rolled her eyes.

Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m not going to eat you, she said, snorting and shaking her head. But that wound needs to be cleaned. I was hoping to do it while you were still out cold. she said, pointing at his shoulder. It’s going to sting, I’m afraid. He watched as she bit her lip, looking suddenly anxious. It’s still bleeding more than I like. You’ve lost a lot of blood, I think. Bram wondered if he looked as shocked as he felt as her rather severe face softened. There’s a terrible storm raging outside. I have no signal on my phone so I can’t call an ambulance, and we’re miles from civilisation. She sighed and chewed at a fingernail, looking rather nervous herself now, which seemed odd if she was a witch.

Bram was still breathing hard but he turned his head to look at his shoulder, which was still oozing blood. He could see the remains of what had been his shirt wet and dark with it. Swallowing, he turned away again before he threw up. He’d never been great with blood.

The woman moved suddenly and he tensed. She held out a hand to calm him and moved slowly, picking up a large basin and sliding it towards him. If you’re going to be sick, do it in that please, she said, gesturing at the bowl. I don’t want to be clearing up after you all damn night.

You are too kind, my lady, he muttered, not appreciating her rather harsh tone.

Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him. Damn straight, I am. I should have let you bleed to death in the rain, instead of dragging you inside and trying to save your life!

He closed his eyes, laying his head back against the damp plaster at his back. I apologise, he said, feeling guilty now. That was uncalled for. I do thank you, most sincerely. He opened his eyes and looked back at her, hoping she could see he was sincere. Please ... would you help me, my lady?

She frowned at him, still looking as though she thought he was a mad man. Fine, but you can cut the crap. You’re not playing your stupid fighting games now.

Bram blinked at her. His head was fuzzy and it was hard to think through the fog, but this woman seemed to say the strangest things.

What happened? she asked, as she rummaged about in a heavy looking black bag. One of your little make-believe soldiers think it would be fun to be more authentic and you came off worse? Bram just stared at her, wondering what the devil she was on about. Your battle re-enactment went wrong, did it? she pressed, and finally one word made sense. He latched onto it, figuring that was what she was asking about.

Battle ...? he said slowly and then nodded at her. The war must have begun by now, certainly. He paused, narrowing his eyes at her. He really didn’t know what side she was on after all. She wasn’t Fae, that was for sure. What do you know of it? he demanded, suspicions flickering to life again.

She snorted in disgust. Nothing, thank God, she said, shaking her head at him. And let’s keep it that way, shall we? Now ... your shoulder. She walked over to him and he watched her as she moved, not trusting her an inch. If I help you up, can you stand?

Bram nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure it was true, but she bent down and took hold of his good arm and he tried to get his legs to move. With a grunt of effort, he managed to haul himself to his feet as his shoulder throbbed, but then stumbled as his head span.

Whoa there! She grabbed a hold of him until he was steady again, and Bram found himself surprised that such a slender woman was so strong. She looked up at him, assuring herself perhaps that he wouldn’t faint if she let go, and then blushed, clearly realising that she was wrapped around a half-naked man. She let him go fast enough, then, and pointed at a kitchen chair. Sit. Bram obeyed in silence, watching her all the while.

She came back to the table carrying a small bottle and another wad of his ruined shirt. Take a deep breath, she instructed once she’d taken off the bandages, before pouring the liquor over the wound.

Bram hissed as it hit, pain whiting out his sight. He clutched at the table, vaguely aware that she was warning him the exit wound was next. Despite his best efforts, he exclaimed as the pain came again. His skin burned and pulsed, the searing pain making his stomach roil. He pushed himself off the chair and fell to his knees, vomiting into the bowl she had given him earlier.

He sat there, sweating and shaking and feeling like death. He felt foolish and vulnerable and so damned weak. Bram started as a cool cloth was pressed against the back of his neck and the woman sat on the floor beside him. She held his long dark hair out of the way, before pressing the cool cloth against his forehead, too.

I'm sorry. His head was bowed, and he pushed the disgusting bowl away.

Don't be ridiculous, she said, and he was taken aback by the compassion in her voice. I'm amazed you didn't pass out.

Thank you, he said, wishing he didn’t sound so damned shaky. For helping me.

She nodded but said nothing. Can you get up? The floor is filthy and I don’t want that wound getting infected.

With a lot of cursing and stumbling about, they managed to get him seated back at the table. Bram laid his head on his good arm, trying to breathe through the pain until the dizziness passed. Closing his eyes, he decided that the woman had been given plenty of opportunity to finish him off, so he had to trust her. For now, at least.

AMEENA COULD HEAR THE storm outside, raging and thrashing at the countryside around her. What a night. The wind howled past the small building, branches scratching at the shutters on the windows as the wind tugged at the edges, making the wood rattle and bang. She had liked nights like this as a child, in this place. She’d felt safe and cosy and secure in her room, knowing nothing bad could happen. Her throat tightened as she knew she’d never felt such peace since.

She carried one of the candles, holding it aloft as she walked into the tiny room that had once been hers. The white wallpaper was a dingy grey, and the fairies in the pattern that had been frolicking amongst flowers and wearing acorn hats for many years now looked weary and forlorn. A few tatty posters of kittens and ponies remained, and the white metal bed was bare except for a fusty-looking mattress. Ameena sighed, heart sick for the way this place looked in her memories. It had been a safe place, a place where she had been truly happy. She didn't honestly think that was an emotion she had ever found again. Not since the day her parents dragged her out the door, crying bitterly and telling them she would never forgive them for ruining her life. She’d been honest, at least, as in truth, she wasn't sure she ever had.

She went back to the kitchen, but her patient hadn’t moved and she thought he was sleeping, or maybe passed out again. Tugging out a hoodie from her bag, she laid it across his shoulders. He was still slumped over the table and she imagined he must be in shock. Walking across to the room on the opposite side of the kitchen-living room, she found her parent’s bedroom and opened the door. Only the mattress remained in here; other than that the room was bare, but there was a fireplace, at least. She went back to the kitchen, taking some wood from the store beside the log burner and got the fire going there as well.

While he was still out of it, Ameena took the opportunity to bind up his shoulder as best she could. By this time, the chill had been taken off of the bedroom and she tried to wake him. He mumbled, still incoherent as she felt his head. Damn, he was burning up. She found an old chipped mug and washed it before pouring some of the clean, boiled water into it.

Here. She held the mug to his lips and he drank a little. He stared at her, eyes glassy with fever. The poor devil looked like he was completely out of it. Can you stand up? she asked, wondering if he even heard her. You can't sleep here all night, but there's a mattress through there, you’ll be more comfortable.

He moaned and went to lay his head back on the table.

No, she said, tugging at his good arm. Get up. Come on, get on your feet.

It took a lot of cursing and muttering on both sides, but eventually they made it to the bedroom and he collapsed onto the mattress. Within seconds, he was asleep, but Ameena watched him as he moved about in his sleep. He was restless and fretful and she feared that the fever was getting worse.

Muttering about the stupidity of men in general, she went back to her old bedroom and hauled the mattress across. She'd have to stay here tonight to keep an eye on him. She just hoped in the morning she could get a bloody signal on her phone and he could get to the hospital - and out of her life. She had quite enough problems of her own to contend with, thank you very much.

She was woken an hour or so later by the sound of his voice, and lit the candle she'd left by the bed with her lighter. His skin glistened with sweat in the candle light, wet strands of long dark hair trailing across his cheek and down his neck. One arm was flung over the edge of the mattress, trailing on the floor, and she took his hand and felt his pulse, which was hammering under his skin. He started muttering again and she sat down beside him, trying to figure out what he was saying, when she realised he was still sleeping.

"Please, Leola, no ... No ..." He seemed frantic, his breathing erratic, and she washed his face and neck again, speaking to him softly to try and calm him.

I didn’t ... I didn’t do it! he raged, sounding desperate and afraid and furious all at once.

Ameena sighed, wondering what it was he hadn’t done, but pressed the damp cloth to his forehead. I know, she said, even though she didn’t. I know you didn’t do it. Just rest now. You’ll be alright.

He seemed to relax after that and she went to go back to her own mattress.

Don’t go. His voice was rough and scratchy, and though she knew he was likely dreaming and it wasn't her he was speaking to, she replied anyway.

Hush, now, it's alright. She took his hand and his breathing slowed further, as the dream seemed to leave him. With a sigh, she lay down beside him still holding his hand. Go to sleep, you're quite safe, I'm not going anywhere ... I won't leave you.

Chapter 3

Ameena woke, disorientated . She could feel the thud of a heartbeat, the tantalising combination of rough chest hair and smooth skin under her cheek. Sucking in a breath, she held very still as the events of last night came back to her in something of a rush. Well, this was awkward. Blinking in the dim light, she opened her eyes and was greeted with a landscape of impressive male beauty. That might well belong to a lunatic, she reminded herself. Sitting up and trying not to disturb him, her eyes drifted up over those splendid abs and that impressive chest to her patient’s face ... and eyes that were open and watching her. She jolted awake, moving away from him and sitting upright.

With difficulty, she tried to return to her professional demeanour, which wasn’t easy as she simultaneously blushed and stifled a yawn.

How are you feeling? she asked, rubbing a hand through her hair to try and liven up the no doubt flattened spikes.

Hurts, he muttered, his voice dry and rough.

Ameena nodded, trying to ignore the fact that her parent’s old room looked like it had two exceedingly disreputable-looking squatters in residence. I don’t doubt it. She reached forward, touching his forehead with a frown. You’re still burning up.

The lead, he rasped, closing his eyes as the effort of speaking wore at him. From the bullet, he added, as though to clarify. Poison.

Ameena frowned. Lead poisoning from a bullet that had passed through him in a split second seemed unlikely, to say the least. The bullet was gone, it couldn’t poison you.

He shook his head, dark eyes flicking open to stare at her. Very poisonous ... to me.

She gave him a sceptical look, not really believing him. You’re allergic to the bullet? she repeated, watching him nod again.

Lead ... it’s poisonous. His tone was insistent but his eyes closed against the pain and he fell quiet. Ameena got to her feet, realising she should have given him some painkillers last night. Not that it had mattered so much, he’d been pretty much dead to the world; well, apart from the dreams.

Where are you going? he demanded as she glanced back at him. There was anxiety in his voice, his eyes bright with fever.

To get you something for the pain. I’ll be right back.

She returned to the kitchen, pulling another top from her backpack and putting it on, she needed to get the fires lit as the place was bloody freezing. Grabbing the first aid kit, she found a packet of ibuprofen, filled the chipped mug with what remained of the boiled water, and took it back to him.

Can you sit up? she asked, kneeling beside him and wishing there wasn’t dust and cobwebs everywhere she turned.

He nodded and went to move, and then bit back a moan. Ameena set the mug and tablets down and knelt beside him, putting her arm behind him to try and help him up. He was a large, solid male, however, and weighed a great deal more than her. Somehow, they managed to prop him up, but they were both sweating and breathing hard by the time it was done.

Thank you. He leant back against the wall with his good shoulder; his eyes closed against the pain as she picked up the packet of pain killers and broke two out of the plastic blisters.

I have to get out of here, he said, sounding panicked now. I have to ... he trailed off and ran a shaky hand through his hair.

Yes. Ameena nodded in wholehearted agreement. Yes, you do, and as soon as you’ve had these, I’m going to phone for an ambulance.

He snatched at her arm, his grip strong, and she gasped, fear spiking under her skin until she realised he was looking terrified, not murderous. No. He shook his head, his expression fierce. "No .... ambulance."

He sounded the word out as though it was foreign to him, as if he hadn’t spoken it before. Ameena glared at the hand on her wrist and back at him. He took his hand away. Please, he added, sounding a little chastened.

Ameena rolled her eyes at him. Don’t be a bloody fool. That wound needs professional care. It suddenly occurred to her that he was afraid because there were bound to be police involved over a bullet wound. Look, she said, hoping she sounded like the voice of reason, as it would be the first time. Any amount of trouble with the police isn’t worth avoiding getting properly treated.

His eyes had widened at the word police and he shook his head with more vigour. No. You have cared for me, the wound will heal. The was a stubborn set to his jaw that didn’t bode well for her getting him off her hands.

That wound will get infected if you don’t keep it clean, she said, her words rather harder now as the vision of caring for him indefinitely sprang to mind. "I don’t see you leaving here on your own two feet, and you are certainly not staying," she added, folding her arms and hoping she’d been fierce enough to get the point across.

He nodded, though she wasn’t sure which bit he was agreeing with. She sighed and held out the painkillers to him. He narrowed his eyes, staring at them with suspicion. What are they?

She laughed at the misgiving in his eyes. Ibuprofen, for the pain. She tipped them into his hand and held up the mug of water but he just stared at the tablets like she was trying to feed him cyanide. Oh, for crying out loud, just swallow them, will you? she muttered, shaking her head. If I’d wanted to do away with you, I wouldn’t have sat up all bloody night checking you were still breathing!

He seemed slightly reassured by this logic and put the tablets in his mouth and then grimaced. Ameena handed him the mug and he downed it, shaking his head. Ugh.

She snorted, amused by his disgust, before getting to work relighting the fire as he watched her every move. What is your name? he asked, as she coaxed a tiny flame to life.

She was head-down, blowing on the embers of the fire that she had found still glowing, faint but bright as she replied, Ameena.

Mina? he demanded, and her head came up with a frown.

"No. Ameena," she repeated, correcting him as she waved a plume of smoke away from her face.

Oh, he sighed, for some reason looking relieved.

Remembering her manners, such as they were, she figured she’d best ask him his, despite the fact she had every intention of throwing him out as soon as possible. Yours?

He hesitated for a moment and she wondered if he was going to make something up. Bram.

Bram? she echoed, one eyebrow raised. As in Stoker?

He nodded, looking a little sheepish. She didn’t blame him.

Good Lord, she muttered, feeling sympathy for the poor devil. And I thought my parents had dodgy taste in names. Oh, she added, as the penny dropped and she realised why he had questioned her name. Not Mina, as in Dracula’s lady love, she said, laughing