Blackthorn

By Nancey Cummings

The monster and the monster’s widow.
Alone for too long, the last of vampire Draven’s humanity is slipping away. Needing a mate to anchor him and keep the monster at bay, he strikes a bargain with a young hunter to find him a bride.
Newly widowed, historian Charlotte is desperate for a fresh start. When she's presented with the unusual proposition of becoming a vampire's bride for a year, she cannot pass up the chance to speak with one of the oldest creatures on the planet.
Charlotte unwittingly married a monster once, and it ended in disaster. The question is – will she knowingly make that choice again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Menura Press
• Release date: Oct 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215025451

Nancey Cummings

Nancey writes fun, fast and flirty scifi romances featuring feisty heroines and out-of-this-world heros. Nancey lives in an old house with her husband and two cats who have complaints with management. When she’s not writing, she enjoys video games, horror movies and anything involving time travel.

Book preview

Prologue

Radcliffe

Colony Ship Endeavor

Deep Space

One Year Before Founding

Explain it to me one more time. It was the lingering effects of the cryo chamber, but Radcliffe felt sluggish both physically and mentally. He understood the captain’s words, but they did not make sense.

"The Unity sent a distress signal, which woke the vital crew from cryo, Captain Beckford said. Dark circles hung under her eyes. She looked tired. More than tired. Exhausted down to her bones. An asteroid field damaged life support. We might have been able to send a repair crew, but it seems our navigation system was also damaged. We’re not on course and cannot locate the Unity or the Hope."

We’re fucked, another man groaned.

We’re lost, the captain corrected.

Reeve’s presence startled Radcliffe: he hadn’t realized the cartographer was in the room. Several people were in the room, now that Radcliffe bothered to look around. The second-in-command, security, communication, and navigation. The bridge crew, the vital officers. They all had the same exhausted look as the captain. Although why the captain woke the cartographer was curious. The colony ship had no need for Reeve’s skills until they landed.

Why did you wake me? You need an engineer, not a medical doctor, Radcliffe said. The vital crew were supposed to wake early, respond to emergencies, and go back into cryo. Radcliffe was only supposed to be awakened early to prepare the ship for landing. He was meant to be the only one to wake the passengers from cryo.

Despite having been asleep for literally years, he wanted to crawl back into the cryo chamber for at least another decade. His stomach churned, threatening to spill its contents, and his body ached.

That was cryo-sickness. Still sluggish, his mind worked well enough to tell him the grogginess was the drugs still in his system. As improbable as it sounded, more sleep was the answer.

Because we don’t have the fuel or the resources to reach our destination.

But you found an alternative.

Indeed. The planet is less than optimal for humans. We must adapt.

Which is why you woke me, Radcliffe said, comprehension dawning.

Calling the planet less than optimal for human life was being generous.

The radiation was a problem. The colonists would have to live underground or in protective structures. Every drop of water would have to be filtered. Soil would have to be cleaned to grow food, assuming anything grew.

It was impossible. The engineers, agrologists, and botanists all agreed. This was not new information.

Radcliffe ran a hand through his hair. His eyes burned. His body ached. He was hungry, but the thought of food soured his empty stomach. A nutritional drink kept his blood sugar from dropping too much. How long had he been awake now? Easily twenty-four hours. Injections got him over the initial grogginess of cryo-sickness, but now he needed sleep, real sleep.

Run more simulations.

They had to adapt to the new planet. It was why the captain woke him early. Humans had done it before on Earth, to cope with air pollution and rising global temperatures.

Hours later, exhausted and shaking, he had it.

I have a solution, he said, handing the tablet to the captain, interrupting the head of engineering’s little speech about arrays and dust.

Judith Scott tossed him a dirty look but continued to speak. "At this point, I can rule out damage to our communication array. If the Hope’s comms were in the same condition, it may take the AI bots some time to repair."

Captain Beckford scrolled through the proposal, not giving his words the full attention they deserved. Radcliffe clenched his jaw, holding his tongue at the insult.

"Continue hailing the Hope. Even if it’s a ghost ship, let’s assume the AI is functioning. Once you establish contact, convince the AI to change course and meet us on the new planet," Beckford said.

The likelihood of anyone surviving is negligible, Radcliffe said, no longer able to remain silent. Not that he had tried very hard. Our efforts are better spent elsewhere.

Judith leveled a freezing gaze at him. He expected her to scold him with some trite about it being worth the time, energy, and resources if only one life could be saved. Instead, she said, It would be criminal to let a ship full of supplies go to waste. The matter printers alone will be worth the effort.

I agree, he replied, surprised at her practicality.

They almost smiled at one another. Almost.

The captain interrupted, Will this work, Doctor?

He tore his attention away from the engineer and to the captain. She pointed to the tablet, meaning his plan to introduce a genetic mutation to all four thousand sleeping passengers.

The simulations say yes, but complications are unpredictable. I will start with a small group of subjects. If it is successful, the therapy can be administered to all the passengers before they wake.

It’s completely unethical to administer this type of gene therapy on patients without their consent, the captain said. Find another way.

Radcliffe frowned. That clashes with the previous orders you issued. You wanted a solution. I have a solution.

You have a year. Find another way.

Ethics. Moral correctness.

Radcliffe marched back to his lab, clutching the tablet.

It could be argued that it was more unethical to do nothing and let people suffer horribly and die from radiation poisoning. The mutations could have unforeseen consequences. Some would die before they woke up. That was inevitable and a reasonable price to pay if it meant the survival of the entire colony.

He never understood how people agonized over the so-called philosophical dilemma problems. Save one person at the expense of a larger group? Save the group even if it meant the individual perished? What is the moral and ethical choice?

Easy. One life to save many? Who even thought it was a dilemma? Sacrifices had to be made. Radcliffe knew this.

Captain Beckford did not wake him early to administer potassium iodide pills and wring his hands. That was no solution. The captain wanted him to make the unpleasant, necessary decisions. He understood.

Fortunately, he was a man never bothered by ethics.

Draven

West Lands

The Aerie

211 Years After Founding

The beast and his companion left at sunrise.

Draven watched from a tower window as they left his stronghold until they became dark smudges against the mountain. Eventually, they vanished in the distance.

The morning sun warmed his skin. The light did not harm Draven as it once had. Call it one of the few benefits of old age.

This morning felt significant, full of potential, like something could actually change. He had lived long enough to appreciate that true change happened rarely. He savored the anticipation.

The child was one of the Marechal hunters, come to reclaim his family’s heirloom. Draven opened his home to the travelers—the Marechal lad and the newly transformed beast with his tenuous anchor—and listened to the child’s plea. It was little more than begging, asking for the return of the imbued sword with nothing to offer in exchange.

Imagine Draven’s surprise that the foolish, danger-seeking family had not driven themselves into extinction. He had no need for the imbued sword, but he was not inclined to give away his treasure.

Not when he paid such a heavy price to capture it.

This sword took my companion, he said. Find me a bride, and Blackthorn is yours. It is a fair price.

More than fair. A century had passed since the last Marechal hunter tried to end his life on the grounds that Draven was a monster and abomination.

He had a condition that necessitated certain dietary requirements. While many found the consumption of blood unsavory, he had plenty of willing associates who would exchange a pint of blood for food and shelter. It was a fair trade. They were free to leave at any time. Draven was not so crude as to keep his…associates…chained in the basement. He hadn’t done that for nearly a century.

His food was not the issue. He had a steady supply and had learned how to gather the nutrients his body needed due to the Nexus mutation without bleeding a person dry.

He needed an anchor. He had been too long adrift without one. When the seasons cycled, he felt the surge of Nexus energy, and it pulled on him. He needed a companion to hold his mind in place, to tie him to this world, and to keep him from shifting into a bloodthirsty monster.

It was harder every season. Finding one the first time had been improbable. A second anchor? The statistics were grim.

Without a new anchor, he would soon lose himself completely to the monster.

If that happened, Luis Marechal was more than welcome to drive Blackthorn through Draven’s shriveled, undead heart.

Chapter One

Charlotte

Boxon Hill

Marechal House

It had been one year and a day since Charlotte buried her husband.

As chance had it, that was also the day Luis and Miles returned from their quest in the West Lands to find an ancient relic from the founders.

The entire household and then some gathered in the courtyard to welcome the returning travelers. Charlotte watched the crowd. A kitchen maid on her way back from the village had spotted Luis and Miles on the road and dashed back to Vervain Hall with the news. Charlotte, despite the setting sun, hurried up the hill to Marechal House.

The man who climbed off his horse and strode across the courtyard was not the unsure young man who left. Time and the trial of the journey had changed Luis, in more than physical appearance, but that had changed considerably, as well. His frame had filled out with thick, solid muscle, and exposure to the elements turned his complexion a golden tan.

Luis moved with confidence, and Charlotte hesitated to know exactly how many skirmishes had tested him along the way. Miles appeared equally worn, but he beamed at Luis like he hung the stars.

Pangs of envy went through Charlotte. She had fiercely believed that she could have been happy in her marriage, or happy enough, but Lionel had never looked at her with such devotion.

If he had, he would not have been a monster, after all.

Charlotte’s dear friend, Solenne, gripped her husband’s hand. Another happy match. Another monster anchored to their partner.

She pressed a handkerchief to the corner of her eyes and then mopped her brow to disguise her tears. The day had been unusually warm.

Solenne pointed to the sun disappearing behind the trees. And what kind of time do you call this? You’re late.

Luis crushed his sister into an embrace. Even from her distance, Charlotte smelled the distinct aroma of sweat, horse, and leather.

Gah, you smell disgusting, Solenne muttered, her face pressed into his chest.

I missed you too, Luis said. Are you shorter? He pushed her away, hands on her shoulders. You’re shrinking. Must be all the magic. I do not approve.

It’s not magic, she said, knocking his hands away, and you’re a giant now. Everyone is shrinking from your vantage.

Mystical werewolf bond magic. Luis wiggled his fingers.

Solenne laughed, sounding so pleased to have her brother back.

Luis and Miles made the rounds, embracing and slapping everyone they saw, including Travers who stood motionless, enduring the hug.

Well? Solenne asked. Did you find Blackthorn?

Luis gave a dramatic yawn. We’ve been traveling for days—

Only because you were so excited to be near home that you refused to rest, Miles interrupted.

Days without pausing to eat or sleep, Luis continued, as if he could not hear Miles. I’d like a bath and a meal. Then we can talk.

Miles rolled his eyes. Draven has the sword. Apparently, he’s been waiting for someone to come and fetch it.

So you have it? Alek asked.

Luis shook his head. He wants a trade that I was not qualified to make.

What does the vampire demand?

A bride, Luis answered. He pulled a letter out of an inner coat pocket. A bride and an anchor. He wrote down his terms. He asks for a year and claims she can leave after her, um, duty is done. Luis then added, like it would help, He’s probably telling the truth.

It did not help, but the proposition intrigued Charlotte.

The crowd fell silent. The Marechals looked at each other like they had lost the battle before they had fired a single shot.

I suppose that’s that, Solenne mumbled.

Yes. I said I’d send word, but how could we ask— Luis trailed off.

An interesting fellow, but an unreasonable demand, Miles added.

That family. Charlotte loved them, but they lacked imagination and had a disturbing forgetfulness when it came to history. They squabbled amongst themselves, demanding to know the terms of the negotiation or if Luis just accepted the terms without protest.

Alek and Miles watched the exchange, amused and exhausted.

A year with a vampire? One of the oldest creatures on the planet? Not just old, but an original settler from the Endeavor…

Imagine the knowledge he had. The lost history.

Charlotte was a student of history, particularly the time humans settled on Nexus, but she lives in a village on the fringes of the civilized world. Requesting books and waiting for them to be shipped took ages, and she long gave up hope of accessing contemporary source material. To read the original diaries and logs of the colonists, she’d have to go to the university in Founding, which was not an option. Her father’s controversial opinions made him, and by extension her, unwelcome at the university. She did her best with the books and reprints she could get, but her mind reeled at the possibility of speaking to an actual Endeavor passenger.

It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

I’ll go, Charlotte said.

No one heard her.

I will go, she repeated, raising her voice to an unladylike decibel.

The family faced her as one, as if they had just noticed her presence.

No, Solenne said. Out of the question. You’re not giving yourself to a blood drinker. They’re dangerous—

Don’t be ridiculous. Send me. This is what I do, isn’t it? Charlotte retorted. I marry monsters.

Draven

West Lands

The Aerie

The new arrivals waited in the tunnel between the gates. Five this time.

Once, Draven would have observed his guests through cameras and on screens. Now, he watched from a slit cut into the rocks. It was one of several that lined the long tunnel connecting his fortress to the world. Unless one of the people below had exceptional eyesight, they would not see him.

But he saw them, as did the soldiers that stood at the other slits.

It was an old defense design, basic but brutally effective. The gate opened, and people shuffled in. If they passed inspection, the far gate opened, allowing them into the fortress. If not, they were trapped while fire and hell rained down upon them.

Raiders and outcasts arrived all the time, seeking refuge in his fortress, begging for miracles from a lost age. It was a hard life in the West Lands. They were either sharpened to survive or they were beaten down, lucky to have survived for as long as they did. Some were murderers, thieves, and the most dangerous sorts of persons. Others were the foolish innocents who thought they could live off the land and find balance.

Draven did not care. Dangerous or foolish, they all had their uses, as long as they were who they claimed to be.

Sir, they claim to need medical attention, Stringer said.

Draven did not turn to look at his first officer. He studied the people below. They clustered around a person on a makeshift stretcher, constructed from tree branches and canvas. As far as distractions went, it was a good one. One man had a badly broken leg, the white bone protruding. His face was pale and glossy with a cold sweat. Draven could smell death on the man, even from a distance.

He said nothing, his arms folded behind his back, and Stringer knew better than to interrupt while the vampire lord made his decision. That was one of the things he liked most about Stringer. The man was loyal, obedient, and did not hound Draven for constant conversation. What was there to say? New arrivals always needed medical attention. They often suffered from parasites, malnourishment, and various broken bones. Life in the West Lands was hard. He could not stress that enough. Humanity was an infection, and the planet actively tried to remove that infection.

Why were people surprised when the planet’s immune system did what it was meant to do?

Humans thought they would change Nexus. Tame it. Such arrogance.

Draven tightened his grip on the stone, his fingers digging into old grooves.

Long ago, the arrogant human military carved this fortress out of the mountain. They designed the entrance with a series of gates and the long tunnel that led to the fortress above and the research facility below. Not many people knew of the abandoned laboratories under the stone. Draven made sure of it. Plenty of people knew about the vampire’s fortress perched high on the mountain. It was a beacon. He also made sure of that.

His gaze swept over the five figures again, taking into consideration their soddy gear and lean faces. They looked hungry. They looked desperate. It was very convincing. He had to be certain the new arrivals were who they claimed to be, people of no consequence, seeking refuge. The military tried to sneak in spies, but Draven always found them out. They had a certain stink about them.

Draven turned to his first officer. Captain Stringer, what happened to your face?

Stringer touched his face, confused. Nothing.

Exactly. Your eye is whole. Draven had many resources, many relics from an age of wonder, but he had been helpless to prevent cancer from taking Stringer’s eye. The best treatment had been to cut it out before it spread and replace it with glass.

Stringer touched his cheek. You’re thinking of my father, sir.

Your father.

Yes. I’m Wallace Stringer. The man flushed red in the face, clearly embarrassed to have to correct Draven.

It was maddening, the way the world parted around him like he was a stone in a river. Or snow settling on a mountain fortress, buried under time. Without an anchor, he felt himself erode.

Draven stepped back from the window and straightened his shoulders. If his voice was colder than normal, Stringer did not comment. Forgive me, Stringer. When you are my age, time is slippery.

It’s not a bother, sir. Father would be pleased you thought of him.

The use of the past tense did not go unnoticed. Draven wondered how many years had passed since the elder Stringer’s death but refrained. Such questions unnerved those around him. At least Draven had not mistaken the young man for someone gone more than a century.

Their boots, Draven said, already turning his back to the window. The new arrivals have military-issued gear. Eliminate them.

He walked away, confident that his soldiers would carry out the order.

Charlotte

Boxon

Vervain Hall

What are you doing? Jase Parkell stood in the doorway of the library, his hat in his hand.

Packing. Charlotte held two books and debated which pile they belonged in. Several piles were scattered across the library’s floor. While this looks chaotic, I assure you that I have a system.

I should hope so, he said, sounding like he disbelieved her.

Honestly. Charlotte was an academic, albeit one in exile. Organizing her reading material should not have been so complicated.

I will be gone for some time. I require entertainment. Lionel, for all his faults, had excellent tastes for a good story. Lionel certainly told a good story, after all.

So many?

Well, of course, she said. His comment baffled her. The vampire Draven might have a library, but he will hardly have the latest books, fresh from shops in Founding. And I find nothing more frustrating than to open a book and find I do not like it for whatever reason. Can you imagine lugging a book across the West Lands only to discover that I dislike the premise? Thus, I am sorting the collection. That stack is the books I already know I will enjoy. She pointed to a short stack on a table. Books that seem interesting, but I am uncertain about. That one by the bookshelf is the No, Absolutely Nots. She pointed to the largest stack. See, it’s all quite rational.

It’s been a year since we lost my uncle—

Charlotte pulled down a set of books covered in a green cloth. There was no title on the spine. How intriguing. The book fell open to an illustrated page that depicts a couple enjoying themselves. Without clothing.

Oh. A blush burned hot on her cheeks.

She snapped the book shut and added it to the Definitely pile.

Good heavens! Why are you on the floor, Mr. Parkell?

Jase kneeled on one knee. Charlotte had a good idea of what he was doing and it was dreadful.

Madame Wodehouse, I would be honored if you would do me the honor… He frowned at the repetition.

Oh no. This was a proposal.

Absolutely not. Get up this instant before someone sees you and thinks you’re asking for my hand, Charlotte said, tugging Jase to his feet.

But I am. He dug a ring out of his coat pocket.

Don’t be silly.

He held out the ring like he was offering a chunk of meat to a wild animal. The silver band shone in the lamplight, and the blue stones twinkled. It was a lovely ring but nothing in his demeanor—he had his head turned and his eyes screwed shut, for crying out loud—said he wanted this.

That made two of them.

Absolutely not, Charlotte said, pushing his hand away. Put that away.

Jase breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. Not