Edge of Twilight. Maggie Shayne

had the soul of a poet. And the opal barrettes Bridget had worn in her hair.

      Edge retrieved a handful of the candles from the back, used his lighter to set the wicks aflame and dripped wax onto the pew, then set them upright in it, so they wouldn’t tip easily. He placed them in a circle around the objects and watched their fiery light dance over his odd little collection of keepsakes.

      His family. These items represented his family. The only one he’d ever had. The only one he wanted, because God knew he wouldn’t put himself through that kind of pain again. The people they represented were long gone. Hunted down and executed by a man named Frank W. Stiles. And Edge was closer than ever to finding him and, finally, exacting revenge.

      “You look wonderful,” Amber told Will when he returned to the house.

      “What, you were expecting otherwise?” He set his walking stick aside and gave her a hug, and she noted that his arms felt strong around her, powerful.

      She smiled and hugged back, never admitting that she had expected otherwise. He had cancer, had been given a death sentence—she’d expected him to be pale and weak, to have lost weight. Not so. His hair hadn’t turned gray. His face was harsher, more lines had appeared around his dark eyes, but they seemed more like laugh lines than age. And while his limp was more pronounced than it had been before, that could have been for any number of reasons besides the cancer.

      “Don’t look terminally ill at all, do I, kid?” he asked.

      She winced inwardly but kept her smile in place. “You look healthy as a horse. Guess it takes more than a little cancer to bother a Special Forces colonel.”

      “Retired,” he said, retrieving his intricately carved and painted walking stick—one Sarafina had bought him on their recent trip to Africa—and limping to where his beloved sat. He leaned over ‘Fina, slid his hand over her shoulder, bent to kiss her neck. She closed her eyes. They’d been all around the world, the two of them. Privately, Amber thought it the most romantic thing she could imagine. And thank God, she thought. Thank God they’d had the time they had, to be together. Just in case they were nearing the end.

      Amber moved around the table, pulled out the chair next to ‘Fina’s. “Sit down, Willem, have some tea with me.”

      He smiled at her. “It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to share tea with.” ‘Fina sent him a playful pout, and he patted her hand. “Not that I’m complaining.”

      Amber poured, and Willem sat. His sharp gaze slid carefully over Sarafina’s face, and Amber knew he saw something there. Maybe some clue of the emotional breakdown she had experienced during his absence. God love her, she’d pulled herself together in a hurry. Fixed her hair, her face, put on clothes. But Will knew her too well not to notice something was off.

      Rhiannon sat, as well.

      “So are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?” Willem asked when Amber set the tea in front of him.

      Amber frowned. “Tell you what?”

      He made a face, shook his head, sipped the tea and set the cup down. “Come on, kid. I know you. I know your so-called aunt there, and I know my wife. You’ve been plotting strategy.”

      Amber licked her lips and averted her eyes.

      “Don’t do it, Amber,” he said softly. “Don’t try to find Stiles.” Turning his gaze to Sarafina and then Rhiannon, he went on. “If he finds out where Amber is, he’ll come for her. You both know he will. It’s not worth risking her life on the slim chance you can save mine.”

      “Don’t you think,” Amber asked, “that decision should be left up to me?”

      He met her eyes. “Suppose it works, but you get yourself killed? You expect me to live with that?”

      “You risked your life to save mine, Will. I’m only returning the favor.”

      “You’re only a girl.”

      She glanced down at the walking stick, where it leaned against the table beside his chair. Then she jerked her gaze up and across the room. The stick flew like a well-aimed spear, at a speed so fast it hissed through the air. Just before it sank into the wall, Amber flicked up a hand, and it stopped dead. She flipped her hand over, and the stick turned vertical, then sailed easily back across the room and right into her palm. She set it down on the floor, leaning it against the table.

      “I’m not only anything, Will. I may look young. I may be young, chronologically. But I’m a direct descendant of the most powerful vampire I know.” When she said it, she looked to Rhiannon. “You sired Roland, he sired Eric, Eric sired Tam, and all of you, together, saved my father from certain death when you gave him your blood to transform him into what you are. That blood runs in my veins. And I may not be a vampiress, but I’m not a human, either. And I’m stronger than any of you know.”

      Will nodded slowly. “I know you are. But you’ve been sheltered, protected. You’ve never had to fight to survive, to kill or be killed, Amber. It’s not something you pick up overnight, and it’s not easy. No matter how strong you are. Experience is worth as much as power. And while you have the latter in abundance, you have very little of the former.”

      She held his gaze. He held hers right back, stubborn as ever. She said, “Rhiannon is taking some of my blood to Eric and Tam’s tonight. They’ll work on it in Eric’s lab, with help and input from my parents and Roland. They might find the answers there. We don’t necessarily have to bring Stiles into this at all, if he’s even alive.”

      “Oh, he’s alive,” someone said. All eyes turned toward the doorway, where the two newcomers stood: strong, powerful Dante and his small, frail-looking companion, Morgan.

      Dante’s eyes went straight to Sarafina’s, and their gazes locked. She trembled a little, rising to her feet, and Amber knew it was harder than ever for her to keep her emotions in check, now that her beloved Dante was here.

      He swept forward, wrapping her in his arms. “I’m here for you, my precious ‘Fina. I always will be.”

      “Don’t make promises like that, Dante,” she whispered. “You know life is uncertain at best, cruel at worst.”

      He closed his eyes, no doubt feeling her pain. Sarafina was a relative of his, an aunt or great-aunt, Amber thought, from the same Gypsy band. But in truth, they were more like siblings. They loved one another, fought with each other, then made up again, just as a brother and sister might do.

      Amber waited until they’d parted. She’d never met Dante and his bride, though she’d seen all of Morgan’s films. They were still being made today, even though she was supposed to be dead. Her sister had allegedly found trunks full of unproduced scripts, and Morgan had collected more awards posthumously than most screenwriters did while alive.

      The films were great, too.

      When the introductions were complete, Willem said, “What did you mean about Stiles being alive?”

      Pulling out a chair for Morgan, Dante remained standing. “You know, of course, that Morgan and I are silent partners in her sister’s investigations agency in Maine. We have.sources. On both sides of mortality. Stiles has been sighted numerous times since your encounter with him five years ago.”

      “You have proof it was him?” Will asked.

      “No. But there’s enough circumstantial evidence to convince me.”

      Will thinned his lips.

      “You have doubts as to whether we should pursue him?” Dante asked.

      “Of course he has doubts,” Morgan said softly. “Stiles is deadly, a threat to every one of us in this room. He nearly killed you twice, Dante. But he’s most dangerous to Amber.”

      Will met Morgan’s gaze, nodded. “Thank you. I’m glad someone here sees the risk besides me. I really prefer we give Eric some time to work in his lab with