The Last Trace (The Chosen Novellas Book 1) Read online

  No! I will not do this.

  He wrenched out of her grasp and strode across the cabin. But as he neared the door, his feet slowed, then stopped.

  “Mon chéri, come here.”

  His body turned, his feet moved, he moved. An iron will not his own forced him back to her side.

  To the chair.

  Angelique reached up and pulled his face down to hers.

  No . . .

  She kissed him. Her lips trailed across his jaw and down to his throat. She took hold and slowly sank her fangs into him.

  His flesh ached in pleasure, and as she drew him in, his teeth found her shoulder and he bit deep. She filled his mouth, his body, his soul, and with another twist of his gut, he knew he’d have to do whatever she asked.

  Withdrawing, she licked his neck and eased back. He released her and wiped his mouth as she stepped aside.

  Feeling as though he was in a dream, Trace knelt beside his father. Concern stole through him as he noted the broad chest barely moving, and the ashen face, deeply lined and sweaty.

  He watched himself lift a slack arm and horror clutched at his throat, choking him.

  Trace slowly pushed back his father’s sleeve. The stubby fingers twitched again. Trace felt his heart twitch in response, and a crushing pain gripped his chest.

  Tears filled his eyes as he focused on the pale flesh over a blue vein. He felt his revulsion give way to the excitement and relentless demands of the thing raging within him, and then the arm, warm and filled with life, pressed against his lips.

  Father. Please forgive me.

  He closed his eyes and bit down as gently as he could. His father’s acrid blood flowed into his mouth as the tears spilled over and down Trace’s cheeks. Trembling, his body screamed in pleasure and demanded more.

  He drew harder, needing more, wanting more.

  His father gasped, and gasped again. Trace continued to drink, unable to stop, as the tears ran down his face.

  The blood in his mouth took on a new taste, bittersweet and carrying an odd vibration. The vibration grew stronger, and a strange power, reeking with anger, spread throughout his body, gaining strength by the second as his father’s life dwindled away.

  Everything flared bright white. Deep within him, an alien energy pulsed, then burst outward, and its surge pounded through him, smashing every fiber in his body before exploding through his skin.

  He lunged to his feet, filled with rage and a strength he’d never known, powerful, undefeatable, immortal. A deep roar ripped from his chest and thundered through the cabin walls and into the night. He opened his eyes and his vision was painted in bright white, then it cleared and crystallized. With pristine clarity, he saw every detail, every dust mote. He could see the air itself.

  I feel like . . . God.

  He turned to look at Angelique. Her eyes, both pupils and irises, had turned completely white. With her lip curled and mouth open, baring her long fangs, she looked like something that had crawled from the deepest pits of Hell.

  Which is where we both belong.

  He looked back down at his father. His face was slack, his eyes staring sightlessly. Trace reached down and closed them.

  Pain suddenly stabbed his belly and spread like wildfire throughout his veins. Daggers pierced him, inside and out, over every square inch of his body. Everything turned crimson as an agony he’d not thought possible gripped him deep within his very core. He screamed and fell to the floor, writhing.

  The red faded to black, and the darkness took him.

  ~ ~ ~

  His awareness slowly returned. His name was . . . Pain. It pulsated in great waves, endless waves, with no time to breathe between. It clawed through his belly, up his throat, and out into every bit that was him. He could do nothing as it squeezed, not even fight the screams mangling his torn vocal chords.

  But after a while, he noticed gaps in the waves, and the single breath between them became several as the gaps widened. Soon he was panting for longer and longer periods. The pain faded and finally released him, taking its name with it and giving him back his own.

  Except he didn’t know what it was.

  He tried to move and was rewarded with a deep ache in every muscle and joint. Even his mouth throbbed, and as he massaged it, a fresh pain stabbed the inside of his lip.

  His tongue darted to the wound, but encountered something else. An upper tooth, where he knew one hadn’t been before, sharper and longer than all the rest. He found a matching one on the other side.

  Fangs, like a mountain lion. Like her.

  And he remembered.

  He remembered her, and red eyes, and long nights filled with lust and passion and blood.

  Blood.

  And a deep hunger screamed like an animal in his belly, a burning hunger, full of fire, full of need.

  He opened his eyes.

  She was sitting next to him, cross-legged, her tan skirts pulled up to expose shapely porcelain legs. Her fingers toyed with the beaded collar on her pink, hand-stitched blouse.

  A smile brightened her face as she stroked his unblemished cheek.

  “Welcome, newborn. Welcome to your new life, free from the scars of your past.”

  He tried to speak, but nothing came out. His throat was so raw. He swallowed and tried again.

  “I remember you.” His words came out in a hoarse whisper.

  She laughed, a tinkling laugh that sounded like the waters in a creek dancing over the rocks.

  “What’s your name?” he rasped.

  She smiled.

  “Danielle.”

  “Danielle.” He frowned, struggling with the memory of something else, another name, a different name.

  He tried to think of his own and failed.

  “Do you know mine?” His voice cracked.

  She laughed again.

  “Taz. Your name is Taz.”

  His frown deepened. It seemed familiar, yet not right.

  A spasm tore through his belly, sending a fresh blast of fiery hunger searing into his throat and out into his veins. A twitching anxiety seized him.

  He needed . . . something. But he didn’t know what.

  He shoved himself up from the floor and staggered as he got to his feet.

  Danielle stood as well, her head tipped as she watched him.

  “I’m hungry,” he croaked.

  She smiled and red flashed deep within the pupils of her blue eyes.

  “I know.”

  He steadied, then looked around.

  They were in a small log cabin. His gaze travelled over a wall filled with steel traps of all sizes hanging from wooden pegs, and bundles of furs stacked on the floor below. A small rock fireplace took up most of another wall, its fire cold and long dead. A woman’s body, her blue dress spattered with blood, lay on the floor before the hearth.

  Something tugged at him, but his gaze kept wandering around the room, noting the small table and tree stump chairs, other furnishings, and several deerskin bundles next to the door of the tiny space.

  He finally looked down at the large, fur-covered chair beside him. A bearded man lay in it, dead, his shirt torn open and dried blood caking his chest.

  Again something tugged at him, a shadow of a memory, but it vanished beneath the fiery scream of hunger. It raked through his belly, doubling him over, and his body cried out with Need.

  What’s wrong with me?

  Cool arms gathered him in, and he pressed himself into their familiar embrace. His face buried itself into her hair, then drifted downward, his mouth seeking.

  “Ah, ah.” She pushed him away.

  He looked at her, confused, remembering . . . drinking from her.

  “That is not what you need, mon chéri. Come, we must leave this place. But first, there is something you must do.”

  She pointed to a small wooden cask sitting on the table.

  “Open it.”

  He walked over and pried the stopper from the cask. A golden, pungent liquid spilled o
ut onto the table. It smelled familiar to him.

  “What is it?”

  “Whiskey. Now pour it on the bodies.”

  He frowned, puzzled, but did as she asked.

  Again, the shadow memories pulled at him, and he hesitated as the whiskey splashed onto the body of the woman.

  “Hurry.”

  He nodded and emptied the cask over the man’s body in the chair.

  She waited by the door. When he joined her, she handed him a nearly spent tallow candle, its flame hovering in a pool of melted fat, and several long twigs from the kindling box.

  “Rule number one. Never leave a body with your mark on it. Burn it, bury it, dump it in the sea. But always destroy your mark. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, not quite sure what she meant by mark.

  “Light a twig and drop it there.”

  He did as she asked, dropping it on the man in the chair. The whiskey caught, and the fire roared to life. Terror struck him at the sight and feel of the blaze, and he leapt backward, splashing melted fat across the wood floor.

  “Don’t forget the other one.”

  He relaxed and walked over, lit the last twig, and tossed it on the woman by the hearth.

  He was ready for the fire this time and held his ground. Once more the shadow memories danced through his mind, like the flames before him.

  “I . . . I can’t remember,” he whispered.

  “Ah, but you will, mon chéri, you will. Not now, but later . . . you will.”

  He nodded. A sudden and unexplainable remorse tore through him. He stepped back as the fire leapt higher.

  “Come,” she called.

  He looked up at her waiting by the open door.

  With one last glance at the burning body, he tossed the candle into the fire and strode across the room. Danielle took his arm and they stepped outside.

  He looked up at the stars blanketing the night sky, and at the forest glowing with deep shades of green and brown and grey. The rustle of small animals reached his ears, and his nose filled with an exotic array of rich and musky scents.

  A mouse scurried in the underbrush across the meadow, and he felt an instinctive desire to pursue it. His gums pulsed as the hunger took hold again.

  A loud crack from the cabin startled him, and he ducked, then spun around.

  The whole cabin was engulfed now, the thundering flames stretching high into the sky. A wisp of smoky regret brushed through him as he watched it burn.

  Danielle giggled and walked up beside him, then reached up and stroked his cheek that no longer held a scar. He glanced down at her as she clasped his hand and gently nipped the back of it.

  “Come, my beautiful, my sweet and simple son.” She tugged on him and took a step.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Out there.” She waved toward the trail before them.

  “Why?”

  She laughed.

  “You wanted to see the world, my noble savage. It awaits you, in all your raw power and native glory.”

  He frowned, not understanding what she meant.

  She laughed again.

  “Oh, mon chéri. You are going to be magnifique!”

  The Last Trace is a novella from The Chosen series, and will be followed in 2014 by Without a Trace. More information on this series can be found in the section Also by Roh Morgon.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Roh Morgon discovered the magic in stories at an early age, both in books and the ones she made up in her head. Her years spent in the lofty mountains of Colorado and the stark plains of Wyoming, the red canyons of central Arizona and the rolling hills of California, provide some of the diverse stages upon which her characters re-enact their lives.

  Roh currently shares her home in California’s Sierra Nevada foothills with three mustang horses, two crazy herding dogs, and a very patient husband who frequently reminds her of the need to eat and sleep. She writes fantasy and horror for middle grade, young adult, and adult readers.

  You can find Roh online on her website, rohmorgon.com, her blog, musings of a moonlight writer, and on Facebook, Goodreads, and Twitter.

  ALSO BY ROH MORGON

  THE CHOSEN

  Watcher: Book I of The Chosen

  (see Excerpt)

  Sunny Martin’s been a monster - or so she thinks - since the night she was drained of her blood and left for dead, but when she falls in love with Nicolas, the mysterious leader of The Chosen, she discovers a startling truth behind her savage nature which may force her to choose between her heart and the last remnant of her human soul.

  Runner: Book II of The Chosen

  (Fall 2013)

  Sunny Martin faces her worst fears when her choice between two worlds could mean the death of someone she loves in this sequel to Watcher.

  Without a Trace

  a novella of The Chosen

  (2014)

  In the sequel to The Last Trace, Trace Tasman’s violent life as companion to his bewitching ‘she-demon’ takes a harrowing turn when the pair come face-to-face with another Chosen on the battlefields of the American Civil War.

  MONSTERS IN THE MACHINES

  Short Story Collection

  The Seduction

  The first time Erica saw the black, low-slung sports car, she felt its sensual pull deep within her soul—but when she began succumbing to its whispered promises, she didn’t suspect she might be losing much more than her mind.

  The Monster’s Growl

  The stakes of the game in the small-town bar are higher than Carly and her friends realize when a mysterious biker puts his quarter on their pool table.

  Hellbound Train

  (Winter 2013)

  A gambler’s winning hand in a high-stakes game may cost him more than he’s willing to pay.

  Available from

  http://www.darkdreamspublishing.com

  Predator. Killer. Monster.

  The words echo in Sunny Martin’s head each time she looks in the mirror. Since the night she was torn from her car and drained of her blood, only one fear rivals that of the hungry beast within her—the fear of exposure.

  Her lonely struggle to survive on the edge of the human world leads Sunny to the mountain peaks of Colorado where she meets Nicolas, the enigmatic leader of a hidden society.

  Their passion, tainted by betrayal, violence, and murder, reveals a shocking truth behind Sunny’s savage nature and drives her toward an agonizing choice between her heart and the last remnant of her human soul.

  WATCHER EXCERPT:

  I watch my daughter, the sunlight dancing across her long, dark hair, cradle her swollen belly as she kneels to place the flowers on my empty grave. Pink carnations this time . . . last year was red roses; the year before, golden mums.

  Her shoulders quake with her sobs and, swallowing, I fight to stifle my own. Her lips move as she whispers to the flower-strewn ground, but I’m too far away to hear her precious words. Throat tight, I struggle to remain still, hidden by the large eucalyptus at the other end of the cemetery.

  She caresses my name etched into the grey granite, tracing the letters one by one before wiping the tears from her cheeks. Her fingers touch her lips, then the top of the cold hard stone.

  My own fingers clamp against my mouth and smother the impulse to cry out to her.

  She looks so much like me—the me I used to be. Tall, willowy, she’s become a woman since I disappeared five years ago and soon, to my surprise, will become a mother. The inferno of emotions ignited by her pregnancy threatens to devour me and I do not think I can remain quiet much longer. For once, I hope she will end her visit soon and leave.

  She stands and turns toward her car. A breath of summer wind lifts a few dark strands of her hair and they float for a moment, waving goodbye.

  Her scent reaches out to me and triggers memories of our brief life together. Seventeen years was not enough—not enough time to share with her, to hold her and teach her and tell her how much I love her. In a flash of ang
er I curse the evil creature that stole me away, leaving my daughter to finish growing up alone, and leaving me . . . leaving me no longer human.

  My chest heaving, I watch her drive away, then step between the markers and cross the lawn to my grave. Once again, I read the inscription on my headstone:

  Sunshine Collins

  Beloved Mother and Best Friend

  October 10, 1969 —

  Trembling, I rest my fingers where hers last touched, press them softly against my lips, and whisper, “I love you, Andrea.”

  SUNDAY

  ~ Chapter 1 ~

  “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you . . .”

  Wincing, I try to block out the song from the party in the back room of the bar and reach down into the cooler for three bottles of Bud. I twist them open, set the beer on Sally’s tray, and collect the money from her.

  “Thanks, Sunny!” Sally grins, her blond curls bouncing as she turns and walks away. My thoughts drift while I wait for Lenny to finish with the cash register.

  Birthdays.

  I hate them. My daughter’s twenty-second was yesterday, and I couldn’t be there to share it with her, anymore than she can share mine with me.

  It’s pretty hard to celebrate birthdays with a dead person.

  A filthy comment and raucous laughter rise above the club din and my pity party evaporates. I look up in time to see which foul mouth is spewing obscenities—and realize its target once again is Sally.

  Oh, hell no. Apparently their earlier warning wasn’t strong enough.

  The buzz of voices and clink of ice in glasses fades as I move out from behind the bar and step to the table where Sally is standing, her mouth and eyes wide.

  I glare down at the jerks sitting at the table.

  “You need to leave.” I wait, but they make no movement. “Now.”

  The spike-haired punk, pale eyes shining with an unnatural glint, tips his chair back and makes a show of drinking his beer. His two buddies glance at him and guzzle the last of theirs.