I fly down the block toward the sound. Every yelp feels like a 10-gauge needle stabbed in my heart. Sound leads me to scent which leads to the cemetery. I flash past trees and graves, surprised by my own speed until I find the little lamb shaking near a man felled upon a gravestone.
William!
Falling to my knees, I gather Woody in one arm and crouch above William like a dark shade, looking, listening, scenting. His breath comes ragged but thank God his heart beats fast and strong. I tense. The scent of a Night Walker hovers about him, different from the one before. Woody is violently trembling in my arms. A low howl escapes his throat. He's panicked.
"Shhhhh, it's okay my darling, hush."
Silent as smoke, a woman glides from behind a crypt. Her jeans are ripped at the knee, faded from black to grey. They fit like skin and disappear into scuffed leather boots with thick straps crawling up her calves. She wears a tattered t-shirt and leather jacket, both dimly black. Her hair is a dark, tangled catastrophe and glimpses of flesh glow like moonlight from beneath her torn clothes. Her eyes are star blue. They shine in the dark like a lion's and take my breath away.
"Emily," I gasp. My sister.
YOU ARE READING
Anne Brontë Nightwalker
FantasyIn 1849, Anne Brontë died a devout and innocent virgin. Three days later, she rose from the dead. Now from the jagged wilderness of the Blue Ridge Mountains, to a glittering lair deep beneath the Biltmore Estate, a lonely Nightwalker fights her ete...
