He raced above the clouds, his heart arhythmic with panic. Her panic! It laced his blood with an acrid chill unlike he had ever felt before.

Damn love! He hated love! And hated the way it made him vulnerable and weak! He hated the way his fear was consuming him and turning his entrails inside out. Most of all he hated himself for letting her go!

He urged his wings faster, thrust them harder against the air, tasting blood as his fangs dropped, cutting into his flesh; the pain would sustain him—distract him—until he was at her side. If he could only fly faster!

But it was not his blood flavoring the air. The closer he drew towards her life-force, the weaker it seemed to pulse. The clouds themselves tasted of death and blood as he dove through the grey canopy that shrouded her like a pall. Beneath it, dusk was already dancing macabrely around the churchyard. She was lying beneath the willow—he couldn't yet see her but he felt her there. Still alive! But the bond betwixt them was unravelling faster than he could move. He would need to act quickly!

The water in the pond trembled as he slammed his boots against the earth and the tree gave a shiver as he passed quickly beneath her boughs. Emma was lying at the base of the willow. His veins seethed with hot fury as he beheld her grey flesh, the blush of life stolen. His eyes suddenly snapped up to scan the limbs overhead, for Victoria's scent pervaded the willow. The tree, however, was untenanted. Having detected no danger, he quickly pressed on.

"Emma!" He knelt down beside her and lifted her head carefully onto his lap. "Can you hear me, my love?" No flicker of life passed across her features, but he could hear her failing heart. "Please, Father, don't take her from me!" Not since he'd fallen—not since Cleopatra's death—had he spoken to his father, but he readily did so now! There was no more place for pride in his heart, only anguish and love; in the darkest lair of his heart, however, hate was brewing. But it was love that ripped him apart as he kissed her blue lips. He had to act fast lest her heart stop, and it would do so any moment. Nothing could save her then. Especially not love.

He opened his vein, racing against time, his efforts stiff with his desperation—her heart was already stuttering and it was all he could do to steady his wrist against the rising panic. "You're supposed to die an old woman, Emma, surrounded by sons and daughters." Not like this! Never like this! He emptied his wrist over her open veins—the quickest way to her heart—and brushed reverent fingers against her blood-spattered brow, watching as his dark ichor rushed over her torn flesh. He could do no more.

Had she been nothing more than a pet he'd marked—his property, alone, to do with as he pleased—his rage would not have been any less deadly, but she was his! His mate! His to protect and love! The dragon within roared and raged to see the flesh of his bride so ruined and violated!

He could no longer sit still, brooding and hoping, seething with hatred for Victoria, while her body lay pallid and broken. What he wanted was a diversion from this overwhelming pain. When her heart suddenly stopped, he staggered backward, wondering if he'd been too late, agonizing over the misery of an eternity without her.

His mind would run to madness if he stayed and waited, so he turned and stalked away, forcing his attention to his fallen comrade and the murdered nuns he'd died defending.

He'd felt the sharp pang of sorrow as he neared Hawk's body, but there was nothing he could do for the wolf. He'd been loyal and he'd sacrificed everything for the sake of loyalty.

His glare scoured the wall beyond for any sign of trespassing eyes; he'd seen none when he'd landed and he saw none now. His ears and nose affirmed what he already knew. All was dead and quiet.

The priory sat at an adequate distance from its village, and the encroaching twilight meant that his grim duty would go unobserved. Still and all, he kept vigilance with his keen hearing as he began removing each body from where it had lain haphazardly sprawled atop another. When the last one had been uncovered—this one headless—he stood up, suddenly alert, his brows pinched as he searched the yard for Milli's body.

"Milli!" But she was gone. There was no answer save for the carrion birds hopping eagerly as they waited for him to leave them to their feast. "Not tonight, my friends," he told them, his eyes flooding with rage as, one after the other, he lifted the bodies into his arms and carried them into the nave.

After he had placed Hawk beside the nuns, he ripped boards from the wooden pews and piled the scraps of wood and kindling atop the bodies. With flint and steel, he finally lit the pyre and waited until he was satisfied the flame was healthy. Thereafter, he shut the church doors, mindful that no mortal eye would see the violation of these bodies for the mercy it truly was; what did he care for mortal sensibilities. There was no other recourse left to him and he'd acted accordingly: with the cold detachment of an immortal grown used to death and violence. Better that they lose their lifeless heads or burn to dust than awaken as thirsty wights tomorrow. He had enough faithful wights; he needed no more. He needed only her—Emma—the light of his life and the flame in his darkness. Without her he would go mad; he would be no different than Sariel, consumed with madness and black rage. But he would not lose hold of his sanity, he promised himself, leastwise not until after he'd avenged Emma and brought her sister back to England. There was only one place on earth that Victoria would feel safe from his wrath and if it was the last thing he did, he would find her and flay the skin from her deceitful bones.

The idea pleased him. It coiled around him, insistent, like a dark caress. It was easier to give in to the darkness than to brood and eat his heart out over Emma. How seductive that darkness, demanding death and blood. How it called to him, the dragon within, and beckoned him away from reason, tugged at the fetters that leashed him to sanity. "Release me," it whispered, eager for him to roar wild as the fire and black smoke that belched from the shattered windows of the priory; urged him to release the dragon within and annihilate everything in his path—scorch the earth with his hate and fury!

But not yet. The fire raged, within and without, as he stalked back to where his bride lay in her catafalque of grass and willow roots.

He could hear the distant yell of voices raising the alarm. Soon, the little priory would be overrun with smoke and soot and busy hands filling pails of water from the pond. They might drain that pond, but they would not find a nun's head lying in the muck; he had seen to that as well.

The scent of rain lay thick in the air as he lifted Emma into his arms. Let it come; let it wash the stain of murder from the churchyard. The fire had already made a feast of the bones, and the mystery of the priory would die with its faithful servants, forevermore entombed in soot and ash.

He threw his wings wide and sailed up into the night, the rush of air cooling his blood as he climbed above the thick grey strata. Below, the clouds billowed with gold, but the unnatural glow dimmed the further he flew from the crematory fire. And with the distance from the fire his mind cleared and the dragon quietened, contented beside its mate. There was time enough tomorrow to slay monsters and rescue little sisters. Tomorrow.

Later, as his castle appeared beneath the whips of cloud and silvery moonlight, he smiled. Only the moon and stars bore witness to that smile, tracing its enigmatic curves and the flash of white teeth as he gazed at his sleeping beauty. Only he and the night could hear the sudden flutter of her heart. The beat of life eternal.

"Emma," he whispered, brushing his lips against hers. "Wake up."

They were crimson and lush, those parting lips, curling with life as she opened her vampyre eyes to gaze up at him. The wind whipped the dark velvet of her hair against her porcelain temples. "Markus," she said, her voice soft with the mellifluous whispers of the night. "My beautiful dragon. Have I been sleeping?"

"Like the dead." His heart stormed against his breast, euphoric and hungry, as he lowered his head once more to her sweet mouth. Not in a thousand years would he ever tire of that voice, or weary of that smile. And he would never take for granted the love that gleamed at him through the jewels of her eyes.

...