Chapter One
He could smell them. Prince Alastair Thorne lifted his nose in the air and took a deep breath. Humans, he could smell their sweat, the smoke from their camp, the fat of a roasting rabbit dripping into the fire. His mouth watered. He tongued the sharp fangs in his mouth knowing that soon he would be able to fill his thirst.
He listened to their sounds. Men and women went about their business unaware of the monsters lurking in the shadows. He ignored the low mutterings of men and focused on a woman singing a slow mournful song. The grumbling men were of no concern to him. He wasn’t interested in their kind. It was the women he wanted.
He could hear their light, high-pitched voices creating a tantalizing music that danced towards him. Closing his eyes for a moment, he just listened. He heard laughter from a group, a tittering that sounded like bells and a deep longing surged to the surface. They were so close.
He gripped his sword, his fingers digging into the supple leather of the handle. The blood lust was coming on. His heart began to pound, adrenaline pumped through his veins.
His pupils dilated and the darkness around him lit up. He could see everything clearly. Every blade of grass stood out in bright detail. The wind picked up making the boughs of the trees shudder. It was as if nature herself knew what was coming.
“On marks,” Alistair ordered. Behind him, fifty men unsheathed their swords and bared their fangs.
“Now!”he said. He took off at a run, racing towards the bright fires of nomad’s camp. He ran across the flat grassland as his men fanning out behind him. The dogs in the human camp began to bark furiously, tugging and straining at their leashes. The sound only made Alistair’s feet go faster. He opened his mouth and let out a screaming war cry echoed by the men around him.
They crashed on the camp the way a wave crashes on the shore. Swords clashed as women screamed. Men leapt up from their chairs and reached for their swords, but they were too slow and their blades dull.
The nomads were not fighters. As the vampires descended on their camp, the men panicked and fled. They abandoned their dull weapons on the ground to speed up their cowardly retreat. The abandoned women began running in all directions clutching at each other and screaming for help. It was chaos and madness. To his left there was a bright burst of flame as one of the elaborately decorated caravans of the nomads caught fire.
He was halfway through the camp before he came upon the first man willing to put up a fight. A fat nomad raced towards Alistair, holding his no doubt stolen sword like a cudgel. Bringing up his own sharp, well-hewn blade, Alastair took a moment to sneer at the nomad before cutting him down with one slice of his blade.
In disgust, Alastair watched as several men threw their women in front of them, attempting to use them as shields. Alastair ignored the women, leaving them weeping on the ground, crying for the men who had left them behind. Racing past them he charged down their weak men. With a fury, his sword raked across their backs and legs sending them screaming to the ground.
Heaving for breath, Alastair looked around the chaotic camp searching for another threat, another enemy. All he could see were women huddled together holding onto each other. Caravans burned, his men emptied the elaborate carts searching for anyone attempting to hide from their fury. He needed a warrior, someone willing to put up a real blade. Was there no one left? Had they really defeated the nomads that easily?
Alastair wasn’t ready to be done yet. Bloodlust pumped through his veins. He wanted a real fight, a real challenge. These weakling nomads had disappointed him. He felt unfulfilled. He spun in a circle his eyes scanning the camp for movement. There must be someone who would give him a proper fight.
He heard a scream from a caravan behind him and he turned around in time to see a woman tumble to the ground. There was a man behind her, holding her by her hair, wrenching and pulling her forward. She screamed and fought against him, her hands trying to pull him off her hair. But he was bigger and anytime the girl managed to get her feet underneath her he would kick them and she would fall again.
Alistair snarled and the man whirled around, bringing the girl with him. Her face was screwed up in pain and wet with tears. The crying had smeared her make-up, leaving tracks of dark tear lines down her pale skin. It did nothing to hide her beauty.
“Take her, not me,” the man screamed throwing the woman on the ground in front of him. She tumbled, falling directly below Alistair. On her hands and knees, she looked up at him beseechingly. Even there, in the hectic chaos of battle, she did not quiver with fear or beg for mercy. He expected to see anger and hatred in her face. Instead, she looked up at Alistair like he was her savior. He stared into her deep grey eyes and the longing in his stomach surged.
By the Gods she was beautiful. Alastair let his sword drop as he took all of her in. She had a full head of thick, dark hair, clear alabaster skin and grey eyes that shone in the moonlight. Through her poor nomad's dress, he could see she had an hourglass figure with full breasts and hips.
A fire surged within him. He wanted to take her right then and there. He wanted to push her down into the grass, enter her and bite her, draining the beauty and have her all at the same time. But there was something he needed to do first. He tightened his grip on his sword and moved around the kneeling woman, leaving her be.
Alastair snarled at the sniveling man. The nomad turned and ran, but he was far too slow. Alastair was on him in a moment. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and plunged his sword into his chest. The nomad cried out and went weak. Alistair pulled his sword free and the man fell to a heap at his feet.
“Weak men are not permitted in Varlyn,” he said as he spat on the body. He turned around and saw the beautiful woman was still kneeling. She stared at him, her mouth hanging open as her eyes darted between Alastair and the dead man.
Looking down at the corpse he could see the similarities. The nose and the hair color were the same. This must have been her father.
“What is your name, nomad?” the Prince asked her, blood dripping down his sword. Her father’s blood.
She paused for a moment, staring at him in confusion. “Avery Lathe, My Lord,” she finally said.
“Stand,” he ordered.
She rose to her feet and he was able to take her all in. Her thin nomad rags flapped in the wind as her long hair danced on her shoulders. She was like something out a dream, a perfect gift from the Gods left just for him. Caravans burned around him as his men called to each other, but all Alistair could focus on was her.
He took a step towards Avery, expecting her to run away, but she didn’t move. She remained frozen in the spot staring up at him. He took another step. He moved slowly—as if she were a frightened animal that might run at any sudden movement. The moon lit up her soft features and he could not stop staring at the perfect curve of her cheek. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands all over her soft flesh. He needed to feel her in his arms.
“Shall I take her to join the rest of the women, My Lord?” one of his men asked. It was like being awakened from a dream. He had been so focused on the creature in front of him that he had missed the end of the battle.
“No,” he said to his soldier. “She is mine, let no one touch her. Take her to my tent.”
She looked up at him startled. Her eyes went wide and her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but the soldier took her by the upper arm and pulled her away before she could speak.