Black Fallen

I go to him, and he nods to the chains. They’re made of pure silver. No wonder Vic hadn’t broken them himself yet. Grasping first one, then the other, I yank them out of the wall. Then, I pry them off of the girl. I study her. Her eyes are pale now. And she looks absolutely terrified. “She’s not a vampire.”



“Not yet,” Victorian corrects. He looks at her. “What is your name?”



The girl’s gaze flashes to all of us before returning Vic’s question. Her brows furrow, as if she’s thinking really hard. “Abbey,” she answers in a heavy brogue. “I think.”



“Do you have family?” Gabriel asks.



Abbey shakes her head. “No.”



Gabriel nods. “You’ll be safe now,” he assures her. “Arcos, bring her along.”



I watch in fascination as Vic gingerly helps the somewhat-vamp girl out of the chamber. Gabriel turns to Jake. “I know a place to take her. Arcos can accompany us.”



Jake nods. “Aye.“



Then Gabriel and Vic leave with Abbey. We all follow behind, but instead of leaving out of the vaults, Gabriel leads them down a long passageway in the opposite direction. I stare until the darkness swallows them up.



I glance at Eli. “That was weird.”



“Not as weird as you think,” Jake answers. “Edinburgh has more than one human group of ghost hunters and monster chasers. They were spot on with this one, though. She’s no’ far from changing into full-potency vampire. He shakes his head. “We’ll have to find out who her maker is.”



“Will they be able to save her?” I ask.



Jake’s green gaze meets mine. “Mayhap.”



Finally, a way out of the catacombs. We enter through an unobtrusive doorway and exit through a pub. Out on the street, the strained sounds of a bagpipe echo off the stone.



I think I have the general makeup of the city engrained in me. No, I don’t know each close and wynd, but I see how they work. Just like Savannah runs in squares, Edinburgh runs on the fish spine. I get it.



It rains all day. The oiled canvas coat I wear keeps me dry, for the most part. As the daylight fades, we find ourselves on Princes Street, and the hustle and bustle of tourism and nightlife are just kicking up. The imposing Gothic spires of the Scott Monument draw my attention, and I think before I leave Edinburgh I’d like to do a little crazy free running. If my brother, Seth, could see this place, he’d be all over it.



By the time light fades into shadows, we’re back at the Crescent. Gabriel and Victorian have returned and now join us. We all mill in the courtyard. Tristan begins to argue about leaving.



I knew he would.



“My wife would encourage me to stay,” Tristan argues. “I cannot in good conscience leave you all here, knowing what you face. What the people, mortals of Edinburgh, face.”



“Nor can I,” adds Gawan.



“You can use the extra blades,” Tristan adds.



Jake pinches the bridge of his nose.



“If we get into a desperate situation, we’ll call you,” Gabriel says, then looks at me. “You wouldna argue if you knew the full potential of that one.” He inclines his head toward me.



“I know she has multiple senses, mind powers that I do not have,” Tristan says. He looks at me. “No disrespect, Ms. Poe, but you simply lack the strength of a man. You are, after all, a female.” He glances toward Ginger. “Unlike Ms. Slater, who is lupine—”



Tristan jerks around, because he’s now talking to thin air. In the split second it takes him to look away, I have made two leaps. One toward that hideous yet weirdly attractive angel fountain; two, the gargoyle on the far side of the Crescent. I’m now on the ledge of the rooftop, looking down. I’m watching that big, bulky knight look everywhere but up. Bending over, I pick up a loose stone, search for a bigger one, and find it, then throw them both at him. One bounces off his head, the other—the larger—off his ass.



Tristan curses, then spins around. He looks up, and I wave.



“Damn me,” he says, low and under his breath. He turns back and faces Jake and Gabriel. “Aye, so she can jump and apparently climb. But— damn!”



Just that fast I leap down and onto Tristan’s back. I flip him over, we fall to the gravel, and I land on top of him. He lets out a deep grunt. I pin his massive arms above his head, his tree-trunk legs trapped beneath mine, and I allow him to struggle for a few seconds. I almost can’t stand it. I want to burst out laughing.



For a full minute, I let him struggle.



Only when he becomes winded do I grin. “Is that your sword, Dreadmoor, or are you just happy to see me?” I ask.



“Get off me, woman!” Tristan bellows, but his lips twitch.



Before I jump up, I take one more look. I can’t help it. Tristan de Barre is just too damn fascinating not to. With a smile, I take his hand in mine. And hold it.



A very small number of people attended the celebration. Live people, that is. Jameson; his son, Thomas, who looked just like Jameson; Miss Kate; her daughter; and Heath, the priest, to name a few. Tristan and his knights, of course. Even Constable Hurley showed up. Dreadmoor had quite a haunted reputation, but there were a few who put their fears aside and dared to come forth.



The remainder of the guests were restless spirits, ghosts from all corners of England, Scotland, and France. They had poured in through the front gates in droves, just to see the arrogant Dragonhawk and his lady wed. The news had apparently traveled fast, because there were knights and warriors of all shapes and ages littering the bailey, the lists, the great hall and chapel—ghosts Andi had not once laid eyes on.



By the time the sun began its descent and the sky turned various shades of purple, gray, and orange, Tristan had threatened to toss her over his massive shoulders and haul her to the kirk. She wouldn’t have minded, really. Not one little bit.



As Jameson led her to the staircase, her heart began to pound. That is, until her eyes landed on Tristan. Dragonhawk.



Then her poor heart nearly stopped.



The groom-to-be stood at the foot of the stairs, speaking with his captain. Kail must have announced her, because Tristan’s head turned. He stared, a feral glint lighting his eyes, a muscle tightening in his cheek.



Jameson led her down the stairs, and it was a damn good thing, too. She would have surely tripped had he not been holding her steady.



Jameson approached Tristan, gently placed her hand on his arm, then stepped aside and gave Andi a low bow.



The lord of Dreadmoor all but robbed her of breath. He was so big. His very presence demanded respect and authority and power, and reeked of self-confidence. It lingered in each and every knight’s eye, whether live or ghostly.



He wore his mail—new, of course—as did the other knights. Dark hose strained to cover his massive calves and thighs, followed by boots and a black surcoat. The mystical Dragonhawk, same as the one on his shield, was stitched on the front, its head thrown back as though issuing a mighty command. Its eye eerily glowed the same shade of sapphire as Tristan’s. More of Kate’s beautiful handiwork. His sword, now polished and gleaming, hung low on his lean, narrow hips. But something was odd.



The sapphire stone was missing from the hilt. It’d been filled in with a black stone. Onyx?



A voice, deep and raspy, growled in her ear.



“Lady, you’re gaping. I vow ’tis immensely satisfying.”



The corner of her mouth lifted. “No doubt.”



He caught and held her gaze, and the impact alone nearly knocked her over. Love and desire shone bright and intense in his eyes. She couldn’t have torn her gaze away had she tried.



Not that she would want to try, of course.



“You are passing beautiful, Andrea. I am the luckiest man in the entire world—dead or alive.” He grinned, gave her a quick peck on the tip of her nose, and then lifted his gloved hand to her chin. Tilting her head, he lowered and whispered words meant only for her. Warm breath caressed her ear. “God, I love you.” He stared a moment longer, then straightened and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “Let’s be off to the kirk. I am ready to wed you.”



Andi grinned and looked up—ghost medieval knights stared at her and Tristan, some more fierce-looking, a few no more than fifteen or sixteen years old.



Jason, bless his sweet soul, stood close by. He grinned at the pair and led them through the gathering of men. “This way, my lord and lady. Move you, men there, and make way.”



Jameson awaited across the great hall, door open and lanterns lighting the path outside to the kirk. They passed through the doorway, followed by Tristan’s garrison and no less than one hundred ghostly knights.



A slight salty breeze wafted across the bailey. Andi lifted the hem of her gown with the one free hand she had, so as not to stumble. At the rate at which Tristan pulled her, it was a miracle her feet even managed to light on the ground.



Maybe he was in a big hurry.



Standing now at the front of the small chapel, they turned their attention to the priest waiting for them. He opened a large, leather-bound ledger and began to scribble.



Jameson stood to her left and behind her. Jason took a place beside Jameson. Kail stood on Tristan’s right side. The rest of the Dragonhawk knights stood in a line behind them. Kate and her small family lined the wall on Andi’s left. The small kirk was literally filled to the brim with the remaining ghostly knights and warriors who’d traveled to Dreadmoor.



The plain, weathered stone kirk suited Andi just fine. Torches lit the room, their flickering flames casting a warm glow. Tristan had her hand tucked safely within his own as they faced the priest. She held on to him so tight, his mail pressed into her skin. Then, before they knew it, the priest began the ceremony in Latin. He turned to Andrea and Tristan, repeating the words in English.



“Tristan de Barre, Dragonhawk of Dreadmoor, how take ye this woman, Andrea Kinley Monroe?”



Tristan cleared his throat, turned, and stared down at her. The dimples pitted deeply into his cheeks, although he didn’t smile. There was that intense look, the very one that made her completely senseless. Her knees swayed a bit.