Seraphim. Michele Hauf

challenge, yes. But one he would not have issued to a woman had he not been cajoled by the dawn.

      He was different because of his connection to the dawn. But why?

      For decades Dominique had questioned his inner cache of unconscious memories, hoping to recall a preternatural image of his birth mother’s face. Had she looked upon him, for one sweet moment, with love in her heart?

      The image was impossible to fathom, to put into any real form. He’d been rejected and traded for something else. A more desirable—yet lesser—being.

      Changeling was the word he’d learned to hate. Something…not right. Different. Unwanted. Cast out of Faery with no hope of re-entrance. He knew it was there—Faery. The Other Realm shimmered and moved all about him. Always so unreachable. All attempts to connect, to become, had been fruitless.

      Dominique’s wool cloak fluttered out from his body, flowing like a shadow dancing upon the slight morning breeze. The muscles between his shoulder blades tightened and flexed.

      He would never possess the freedom to just be. But he prayed that with the answer to his greatest desire he could finally learn to accept. And with acceptance would come a certain freedom from the darkness.

      In the distance, the sing of steel reverberating through the crisp morning air coaxed Dominique’s thoughts from the past and all he could not become because of its elusivity.

      Pulling his cloak securely about his shoulders and slipping off a glove to push stray hairs away from his face, he blew out a heavy exhale. Again the song of steel slicing winter air sounded. Drawn by curiosity, Dominique trod across the field of thick snow, crusted with an ice-crystal top layer. He landed a rise on the ground where Seraphim worked her blade with surprising skill.

      Here in the long-stretching shadows of the forest the sword she wielded caught no sunlight to gleam or sparkle. But the motion of sharp, swift steel, and alluring female curves worked an orchestration of power, fire and beauty. What this woman lacked in physical strength was made up for with stealthiness. Feline prowess moved long legs—bent at the knee, her feet planted—to direct the sword’s path. Chain mail and armor shrouded any feminine charm she might possess. But the notion that there, beneath the silver mesh, lay temptation, planted itself in Dominique’s mind and clung like a burr to wool.

      This warrior, this self-proclaimed Amazon, was not a woman to be wasted on such feebleness as the ill-fated Henri de Lisieux. Seraphim d’Ange was fire, and feral wickedness, and bright pride.

      Fierce concentration kept her attention from his approach, until he was within distance to challenge. Her figure drew a graceful line through the icy air.

      A few more steps, close enough to wound with a swift lunge…

      “You’re up rather early, San Juste.” She expelled a controlled breath and swung her blade around to face him. The tip of her sword skimmed one of the hematite stones sewn onto his cloak. “I could have your head if I wish.” A lift of her dark brow spoke defiance.