Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 27

Darkness has fallen and I'm dressed for the hunt. I stare out my living room window into the night, scanning the street, bracing for an ambush. Death doesn't frighten me, but slavery is not an option. It's unlikely the Alpha would kill me. He'd use me until he grew bored. And when he was done with me? I don't know.

There is so much I don't know.

What is it about the turning that triggers our basest instincts? And why do I call it the turning when really it is a wrenching, a rape?

Tonight my house is strangely silent. Not even a creak. I wait for Ivanhoe to greet me like a lamp in the darkness as he does whenever I wake. I sniff. Nothing. Worry begins to well in me. This is not like him. For nine years he's been my only companion and in that time I've grown dangerously attached. I shake my head at myself. How can I continue to love after so much heartbreak? Why do I still feel?

I take a long look about my lifeless living room. My books rest quietly, like a thousand slumbering souls waiting to be awakened. My piano rests patiently, ready to sound its music that opens the door to my heart. The room now feels empty without William. His warmth and energy pulsed inside this space, making it feel alive. Awake. I remember his tall form standing before me like a shield, there if I needed it. The casual strength of him.

I imagine for a moment having a life with him. What that would mean for me. Touches. Kisses. Warmth and laughter. The companionship of an equal. Sex. My heart squeezes. But no babies. Never any babies for me. Quickly, I shove the delusional images aside. A life with me is death and darkness, blood and cold. If I truly cared for William, I would do anything to protect him from such a fate.

My eyes fall upon his manuscript. I've read it twice and written neat, small notes in the margins. I will abandon the idea of William but not his work. It's too valuable. His literary confidence right now is an ember in need of a gentle breath to coax it into flame. He must not quit. Even if rejections roll in like an onslaught of Tiger tanks, he must persevere.

I drape the black hood of my sweatshirt over my head, pick up William's manuscript and walk to his house. The street shines wet with snow and the stars spark like fireflies. At his mailbox, I am slipping the manuscript inside when William walks around the side of the house, an enormous pile of wood in his arms. He stops at the sight of me.

"Anne," he says, surprised. The sound of my name against his tongue makes my stomach flutter. It clouds my thoughts. I close the mailbox, shutting his manuscript safely inside. "What's that?" he asks.

"Your novel," I manage to say. "I've taken some notes."

"You read fast."

I nod and begin to back away.

"Wait. Where are you going?" I don't answer and he drops the pile of firewood on the porch then strides to the mailbox to retrieve his soul. My back is turned. I'm walking away with a rudeness that breaks my heart, but I can't stay. A hand falls on my shoulder, stopping me. I sigh.

"Please, Anne," he says. "Wait." He steps in front of me, a shield again, but this time more obstacle than protection. "Please come in for a moment and have a cup of tea."

Please, please, please. Never has a man wanted the presence of my company like this. The power of that simple word—please—is astonishing. I shake my head, no. "I can't. I've got to get home." And hunt. And pack. I gauge the moon in the sky. I have about nine hours of night left.

William doesn't move. "I don't want you to go."

My heart skips a beat. I search for my breath, but it has been sucked out of me like air yanked through a chimney. "You don't want me to go home?" I say, breathless.