Chosen: Book 1 in the Ancients of Light series by Heather Fleener Page B

behind
him, fanning out across the rolling grounds. His eyes began to scan
the area quickly, aided in the dark by his species’ exceptional
vision. The night was broken by gusts of cold air but the trees in
the forests that surrounded his fortress were unmoving. The scene
before him was bright under the light of a full moon. The snow – it
was not cold enough for such snow – coupled with the lightning
storm, contributed to a growing sense of unease.
    His eyes drifted back to the gate and he
found her then, apparently at the same moment as many of his men,
as there was a collective murmuring among them. Shoulders bared in
a rich gown, the material was so fine it gave the appearance of fog
settled around her legs. She was on the ground, seated with legs
curled under and head bent forward. From this distance, only the
long fall of midnight dark curls over her face and arms, those
exquisite ivory shoulders, and the fluff of gown gathered around
her legs were clearly visible. All was becoming covered in the
falling snow. The female’s hands seemed to work together slowly in
her lap. She was otherwise motionless, settled on the far side of
the locked gate a solid thirty feet from where Lorcan now
stood.
    If she was this great power, why did she
linger there? Why did she not enter and seek their end? The gates
would be no match for any magic that would bring this level of
alarm to Jortha. As Lorcan studied her, somewhat disbelieving, he
thought that if this little creature carried such immense power,
the Realm had surely just been turned asunder. All had yet to see
her face, but the ethereal looking form at his gates had fascinated
his attention and that of his men, he guessed, based on their
stillness.
    The gates creaked open slowly of their own
accord, startling him out of his study as more lightning painted
the darkness overhead. Lorcan reminded himself that great beauty at
times hid great evil; the image of his deceased mother flashed in
memory as his hand readied at his sword.
    A voice, whispering and nearly lost in the
soft fall of snow and the distance that separated them, broke the
night, “She adored you and would not seek your harm.” Her hands
continued kneading the layers of gown.
    Eyes narrowed, he took another step forward.
Lorcan could not believe any of the Realm would dare speak to him
of his mother, “Were your words for me?”
    In the same soft tone, “More for your mother
than for you…but for you, I suppose, since she is no more.” She
shrugged daintily at that, as if presuming her answer should have
been known to him already. Another whisper, with certainty, “Though
you share not the prejudice of your kin towards the
Witch…Vampire.”
    Anger blazed on Lorcan’s face at the
reference to his mother and his steps quickened in her direction,
accompanied by general murmurs of caution from his Elite. Lorcan
waved them off, he needed not the reminder. His warriors held back,
readying and watchful. Within arm’s reach of the creature he
stopped again, witnessing that her hands were not worriedly working
the folds of her gown as he had thought. The fingers were taught,
tensing claw-like and relaxing repeatedly in reflex, and stained
red. Her nails were actually shredding the gossamer material
gathered in her lap.
    Though the scene was being witnessed by
hundreds of warriors, at this moment none existed but the two
before the gates. Lorcan’s tone was icy, “What know you of my
mother?”
    “Apparently more truth than you….Lorcan.” Her
inability to locate Myrrdyn tonight had caused her to seek the
Vampire warrior; she instinctively trusted him and she needed his
protection. Kaitriana had not intended to insult him nor broach the
subject of his Witch mother, but the pain, fatigue and hunger
plaguing her now made her testy. She was not in the mood to argue
vampires and the falseness of their beliefs.
    Anger rising, apparently she knew her enemy
by name while he had no inkling of her origin or