Blackthorn E-Book

Nancey Cummings

• Herausgeber: Nancey Cummings
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The monster’s widow and the monster.
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?

Leseprobe

Blackthorn

Monsters of the Nexus

Book Two

Nancey Cummings

Contents

About Blackthorn

The Monsters of the Nexus

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Afterword

Want an alien of your own?

About the Author

Also by Nancey Cummings

About Blackthorn

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?

The Monsters of the Nexus

Centuries ago, humans looking to make a new life left Earth on colony ships. Most ships safely arrived at their target destinations, and humanity spread across the stars.

One ship, however, became lost. Very lost.

The crew woke to find themselves on a planet that occupied a spot in the universe with unique properties. Technology failed. Power surges fried computers, and the ship that sailed the stars was grounded. The worst, they discovered, was yet to come.

The wall separating parallel universes fluctuated with the seasons. What came through were creatures spawned from nightmares.

Surrounded by the worthless technology of their colonial ancestors, each generation of humanity slides into darkness and superstitions.

How long can humanity keep the darkness at bay? Can the hunters save them?

Copyright © 2023 by Nancey Cummings

Cover art by Phantom Dame (2023)

Character art of Drive by Ruslana Shybinska (2022)

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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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.

ChapterOne

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 that I find anything objectionable about you, Charlotte, but I don’t wish to marry you.”

Oh, she could think of a few objectionable qualities she possessed.

“Then what possessed you to propose?” she asked.

“It was Mother’s idea.”

That sounded exactly like Lattice Parkell, her late husband’s sister and current thorn in Charlotte’s side. Lattice had marched straight from her brother’s funeral to a solicitor’s office to gain control of Charlotte’s inheritance. They had spent much of the last year in courtrooms, dragging out all the dirty laundry. After the initial ruling that despite the brevity of Charlotte and Lionel’s union, no one could doubt the marriage was legitimate. The license had been signed and the ceremony witnessed by the entire village, after all. Then Lattice claimed that the union was unconsummated, thus invalid.

Charlotte was ever so thankful that her solicitor shut that down quickly. Besides being a desperate ploy, she did not want any scrutiny about her maidenhood.

Which brought them to the present—Lattice’s final ploy with Jase’s reluctant proposal in her deceased husband’s library.

The woman’s single-minded determination was something to be admired. If Lattice hadn’t taken such a dislike to Charlotte—and really, it wasn’t a dislike of Charlotte so much as a dislike of Charlotte taking control of her husband’s fortune—she and Lattice might have been friends. Well, friendly. Certainly cordial.

“Well, what a recommendation on my charms,” Charlotte said dryly.

Jase had the decency to flush with embarrassment. “I do admire you, Charlotte, but not romantically.”

Yes, he found nothing objectionable about her except he didn’t like her.

“Your mother needn’t have bothered with her schemes,” Charlotte said, pulling another book from the shelf. She flipped through the pages and added it to the Questionable pile. “I’ve decided to continue her allowance.”

“Have you? That’s generous.” Jase examined the book she recently added to the pile.

“That’s what Lionel would have wanted,” she said. It was almost a meaningless phrase, like she knew Lionel well enough to decide what he would have wanted. Her husband had so many secrets. Terrible secrets. She hardly knew him. “Anyway, it’s moot. I’ve written to ask her to oversee running Vervain while I’m away.”

Jase’s brows went up in surprise. “You’re giving her what she wants?”

“Temporarily. As much as I adore my father, his head is in the clouds. He can barely manage his own affairs, let alone run a household as complex as Vervain.”

The truth of the matter was that the estate was a working farm that employed nearly two dozen local people. The village market and craft people relied on what Vervain produced. It would be remarkably inconsiderate for Charlotte to leave without making arrangements. As much as she disliked Lattice, the woman had experience running the estate.

“My solicitor is aware of the situation and understands that the arrangement is only until I return,” Charlotte stressed.

“You need to tell Mother that. I’m surprised she’s not arrived yet.”

“I anticipate her arrival any moment,” she said, her good humor returning.

Jase surveyed the stacks of books. “Are you leaving soon?”

“In six weeks,” she said. “I require time to make arrangements, and Mr. Bartram will need to recover after the equinox.”

Once Charlotte agreed to the vampire’s bargain, she wanted to leave at once. Too many people would try to change her mind, and she was correct. Everyone had an opinion about her decision, and no one approved. However, as much as Charlotte desired to run away from her problems, they could not leave immediately. Miles had been apologetic as he explained that with the coming equinox, he required recovery time. The transition into his beast form was painful and all-consuming. Apparently, with time, it would be easier, but he had only lived with the condition for a year.

What could she do? Force the man from his sick bed to trek across the untamed West Lands? Hardly. Considering that her late husband was most likely the one to have bitten Miles and cursed him to shift into a monster with every solstice and equinox…well, accommodating his wishes was the very least she could do.

Besides, there was much to be done to prepare. As much as Charlotte longed to pack a bag and flee, she could not. She had responsibilities. Arrangements to make. Outfits to select. Luis and Miles informed her that Draven resided high in the mountains, so she would have to pack accordingly.

“Are you certain? A year is quite a commitment,” Jase said.

Charlotte kept her gaze on the bookshelf. She did not need a frown or a scowl to betray her true emotions. She loathed this house and the village full of people who pitied her. Charlotte Wodehouse: professional spinster, unlucky in love, and cursed to be a widow on her wedding day.

She married Lionel Chambers because he made her an offer and honestly she didn’t have a lot of options. She was near thirty, of modest means, and not nearly pretty enough to marry well when she had no dowry. It was a brutal assessment, but it was the truth. An impoverished young woman might marry well if she were beautiful. An equally impoverished woman with plain features, weak eyes, strong opinions, and a plump frame had to adjust her expectations, especially when it came to the limited pool of suitors in the village. Despite the difference in their age, Lionel had been a good match. He had a decorated military career. He had wealth. While his features were weathered and his hair more gray than not, she found him attractive.

Given the information Charlotte had—a retired military man, respected in the community, and wealthy—she made the correct choice.

But Lionel kept secrets, deadly secrets, the kind with teeth and claws.

She couldn’t stay in his house, among his trophies, now that she knew the truth. Since the wedding, she had not set foot in the grand hall, where they held a wedding celebration, and where Lionel lost control of the beast lurking under his skin. He shifted into a monster, attacked their guests, and tried to rip out her throat.

Luis saved her that night, driving a sword through the heart of her monstrous husband. And what did Luis ask for in return? A year? It was nothing. A year away from this haunted place was a gift.

“I’m certain,” Charlotte said.

ChapterTwo

Charlotte

Boxon Village

The Woodhouse Home

“Are you certain this is the wisest course of action?” Her father stood amongst the boxes haphazardly piled into his library.

Charlotte plastered a fake smile on her face and slowly counted to five.

Yes, she was sure.

Yes, she was absolutely positive that she was sick of being questioned.

Yes, she knew what people would say.

No, she didn’t give a fig what people said.

And no, she wouldn’t change her mind.

There. Five.

She unclenched her hand. “I’ve decided, Papa. I won’t change my mind.” No matter how many times she was questioned. “Besides, this is too valuable a research opportunity to pass by. Draven is nearly two hundred years old.”

“Allegedly.” Nathan Wodehouse opened the nearest box and peered inside. “I say, what is this?”

“Lionel’s papers and diaries,” Charlotte said. Her father raised his brows. “Oh, don’t give me that look. His sister is taking up residence for the next year and she’d burn all this given the chance.”

Charlotte herself had fought the urge to destroy her late husband’s diaries but decided against it. The information was too unique and too valuable to be destroyed out of some misguided attempt to protect the family name. Lionel had written faithfully in his journal for years, starting when he entered military service as a young man. He had been bitten by his commanding officer. His entire unit had been turned. Some held onto their minds. Some could not. The survivors hunted rogue beasts and monsters in the West Lands.

They had good intentions. Charlotte had to believe that. Whatever monster Lionel became, he started with the goal of helping keep people safe.

His military career was filled with success, commendations, and medals. She knew that. Lionel made his fortune in the military, a fortune she now possessed.

“Have you read these?” Nathan flipped through a leatherbound journal.

“Yes, I have.” Of course she read them. She pored over them, searching for some clue as to how her husband had turned out so wrong. A young soldier, full of promise and good intentions, ended up twisted into a monster that killed indiscriminately.

One that tried to kill her on their wedding day.

“It’s rather interesting if you want a firsthand account of the transition.”

“Seems to be nothing but military jargon,” Nathan said.

“Lionel was a military man,” Charlotte replied. The military life had suited the beast in him. Countless journal entries supported that. Structure kept him grounded. Human. When his commander and half of his unit were killed in a skirmish, Lionel’s control began to slip. He grew erratic. Angry. The beast lurked just under his skin, ready to claw its way out.

Whether Lionel was forced out of the military, or he chose to leave, the journal was unclear. What was clear was that the beast inside him had control. He killed for the fun of it. His transformations were no longer limited to the nights of solstice and the equinox. He was dangerous, a beast wearing a mask, and no one suspected.

Her father picked up another journal, this one just as beaten as the other.

“No matter what we think of him, his journals are valuable,” Charlotte said.

“I suppose they are useful for research purposes,” he admitted.

She seized the opening. “Then you admit that research is important.”

“Charlotte—”

“No, Papa. There is only so much I can research from here.”

“You can request books you need from the university in Founding.”

Charlotte shook her head. She wasn’t being stubborn about the issue. A year ago, the subscription fee to the university library was a luxury beyond her reach. Now that she was a wealthy widow and could easily afford to buy any book she wished, books were not good enough. She could buy a house in Founding and visit the library daily. That wasn’t the issue. She could buy her way back into the university with a generous donation or fund a new building, but she would never be accepted.

Papa spent the family fortune on a fool’s mission into the mountains.

In the process, he destroyed his academic reputation and ruined any chance of Charlotte making her career as a historian. The sudden change in fortune resulted in Charlotte quietly withdrawing from the university and returning to Boxon.

Academia was a small world, and when one’s father was a known eccentric who famously financed a doomed expedition, one’s opportunities were limited. Even if she returned, her work would never be taken seriously. She could pour every cent Lionel left her into the university and rebuild it brick by brick, but she’d forever be an amateur historian, the daughter of the disgraced professor with outlandish theories.

“This is your book, isn’t it, dear?” Nathan handed her a well-worn copy of Captain Beckford’s memoir.

She turned the book over in her hands. Captain Beckford’s memoir, written in the last year of her life. She had read and reread her copy enough to wear away the gilded lettering on the spine. This copy had suffered the same abuse though the colonial logo embossed into the leather binding remained. Three stars streaked across the front of the book, leaving a fiery tail.

Charlotte brushed a thumb over the stars. Three stars for three ships.

Her father often repeated that phrase, so much so that the words barely registered. The same design was all over Founding, stamped into the structures built from the carcass of the original ship and carved into subsequent buildings. The design even graced the metal streetlamps.

Three ships left Old Earth. Only one made it to Nexus. The others were lost. Everyone knew that. Only crackpots—and her father—believed that the other two ships landed safely and somehow remained a secret for centuries.

A familiar resentment stirred in her gut. Her father had wasted the family fortune chasing the myth of the lost ships. He ruined his academic career and prevented her from even finishing her studies. For what? An obvious fantasy.

Just the logistics of having to scrub the ships’ existence from every recording and data entry was a nightmare. Yes, a lot of digital data was lost, but people had pen and paper. They wrote letters and memoirs, kept personal journals. There would be evidence. Solid evidence, not the flimsy supposition her father found.

If anyone knew if all three ships landed, Draven would.

“Lionel’s. He’s made annotations in the margins.” Charlotte handed the book back to her father. “And library books are not acceptable.”

“Not good enough for you?”

“No two editions are the same. Details are missing or removed entirely. I’m tired of comparing editions and piecing together a complete work,” she said, reciting the very complaints her father expressed many, many times.

It was frustration they shared. She was interested in early accounts of the colony, diaries, and log entries from the very first settlers. Unfortunately, what was socially acceptable had changed greatly in the two hundred and some years since humans arrived on Nexus. Society had drifted toward being more conservative, and “offensive material” had been removed from newer editions.