The Lost Lord

The Lost Lord

Book 1: The Veils

By Danella Faye

Copyright© 2012 Danella Faye. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication and Acknowledgments

A huge thank you to everyone who helped me with this book, I appreciate your support, effort, advice, and sanity-saving humor.

But, most of all: Sean, this one is for you.

Contents

Chapter_1

Chapter_2

Chapter_3

Chapter_4

Chapter_5

Chapter_6

Chapter_7

Chapter_8

Chapter_9

Chapter_10

Chapter_11

Chapter_12

Chapter_13

Chapter_14

Chapter_15

Chapter_16

Chapter_17

Chapter_18

Chapter_19

About_The_Author

Upcoming_Releases

Chapter One

Abby Faa sat back on her heels, studying the screen as live footage of a cemetery streamed across the computer monitor. Six panels displayed panoramic views, showing every angle in the small plot. A faint flicker, a brief rustle, perhaps a leaf in the wind or a low flying bird, caught her interest but vanished before she identified the source.

The clear night created a perfect setting for capturing ghosts on film; faded tombstones rose from darkened earth and shadowy corners like wraths reaching for the moon, the sweep of dead grass tossing in the evening breeze danced through the scene, and bare limbed trees scratched dark outlines against the moonlit sky. The footage played for hours, showing stark yet beautiful scenes, which lacked a vital element: a spark of mystery, a flicker of benevolence, anything to inspire fear.

Legends coated the cemetery like a blanket of fall leaves after a storm. The wilted and withered tales would surge back to life under the urging of a strong force, but they required something more enticing than hours of video showing pale shafts of moonlight floating over graves.

The cemetery needed a haunting, one she vowed to provide. Without a ghost, or a dust mote hovering close enough to the camera to be mistaken for a spirit, she’d wasted an evening monitoring the site.

Pushing herself up from the floor, she stretched and eyed the sofa. The overstuffed couch offered a comfortable place to work. However, Leonard commandeered the space, sprawling his black and white body across the cushions. He caught her looking at the softer seat and chirped a warning. Although she ached, she decided to leave him alone, too tired to fight a temperamental skunk.

Paranormal University, her business partner of sorts, had scheduled a tour of the cemetery in three weeks. If she captured live footage of a haunting to put on the website, there would be a big showing, and she desperately wanted a strong turnout.

The lack of an actual ghost did pose a problem, one she could fix. After discovering a field where her skills made a difference, her personal pride demanded she overcome this challenge.

She had other resources to provide the scare tourists thought they wanted. Paranormal University believed her to be a technical wizard, somehow able to capture ghostly images others missed. If her employers knew the truth about her abilities, she’d become their best attraction.

The thrills provided through video won her a part-time position scouting out new locations and maintaining the company website. They always invited her on tours, and she joined a few after dark, because she couldn’t indulge in the daylight excursions saved for those with a weaker threshold for the unknown.

Leonard, do you have relatives on the other side looking for a little fun? Round black eyes stared up at her; he blinked once and then buried his nose under his tail. Grinning, she gave him a quick pet. I didn’t think so, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.

The skunk snorted. She shrugged and made her way across the basement studio to her kitchen.

Unlike the rest of her current living quarters, the pristine room didn’t reflect her personality. Not a fleck of grease marred the oven; the dishwasher stood empty, and the countertops gleamed.

She opened the refrigerator and removed a package of hemoglobin from the chilly interior. Mick, her sometimes roommate, guzzled her favorite, O-negative, like a drunk with a six-pack. Realizing a trip to the blood bank loomed in the future, she sighed.

Her fangs slid into the bag, and she drank straight from the container, listening for Mick the entire time. He always insisted on using crystal. A set of Waterford rested on a rack above the sink, but she never used them to avoid washing dishes. Even now, the we are vampires, not animals lecture played through her head complete with an image of Mick, with hands planted on his hips, staring down at her.

Who ever imagined a fastidious warrior such as Mick existed? Guilt forced contemplation about getting a glass, but she discarded the idea. She hated dishes.

A sound at the door made her jump. Her short fangs ripped the bag at her lips, sending a thin trickle of blood down her chin.

Frozen in place, no urging could force her to move. The chills skittering across her skin revealed the identity of the unwelcome guest.

Her maker, the man who’d been her curse for almost two centuries, was visiting. Even the blood spells, purchased from human witches at a premium, warding her current living quarters didn’t stop him. She made a note to ask for a refund as sickness welled in her gut.

Time had reduced the image of her father’s face to a faded memory long ago, along with the rumble of his voice, and the power of his strikes. However, the sinking ache in the pit of her stomach he’d inspired remained with her, a gnawing disease she couldn’t shake because her maker evoked those desperate, hollowed out sensations with every appearance.

Eyes wide with fear, she swore never to allow another controlling man in her life after she freed herself from Vance.

A black finger of cold fog slid under the door. The vapor swirled around the computer she’d left open on the coffee table. Leonard hissed and leapt from the couch, scurrying under the cushions on the floor while frigid mist snaked over her feet, slid up her calves, circled her thighs, and moved to form in front of her.

Draped in black from head to foot, Vance’s pale eyes glowed, and his nostrils expanded as he inhaled her scent. Without warning, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her close.

She itched to wipe at the faint, slick residue seeping into the skin he touched, and her flesh bristled under the rasp of his tongue as he collected the blood she’d spilt. Even when his blonde head dipped to catch the last drop resting on the top of her breast, she remained motionless.

Balling her hands into fists, she held them at her sides. If she could breathe, she would have stopped to keep his presence from filling her lungs.

As he lifted his head, she noticed the crimson smudges lingering on his lips.

You are home. The voice, colder than the mist he traveled in, echoed against the walls. Centuries weighed each of his words.

He waited; a pantomime of manners he’d witnessed in others. Silent, she focused on him.

When blood coated fangs extended from his gum line, she dropped her chin.

I didn’t come to feed today. His eyes gleamed, and her attention darted to the pile of cushions where Leonard hid. I am not here for your pet either. That last one, his expression wrinkled into a mask of disgust, tasted horrible.

I don’t keep them for snacks, she shot back. The cushions quivered. She lifted her eyes to meet his glare.

Do you know how long it has been since I gave you this life?

Experience taught her not to respond, she didn’t answer.

Over a century you have hid in one hole or another waiting for the dead to come back.

You promised two hundred years.

He rewarded her protest by stretching his lips across protruding fangs. The smile sent tremors down her spine. I tire of waiting. The time is now.

His icy gaze swept over her, and the studio she rented below a human nightclub.

The original building had been a church; years passed, neighborhoods changed, and today the grand old structure hosted mortals intent on anything but saving their souls, and held secret rooms and unknown hallways below the sanctuary. These chambers ensured her extended occupation.

I was too generous offering two hundred years. I need a mate. He ran a finger down her cheek, and goose flesh broke out where he touched her.

I still have time. Stomach clenching at the extended caress, she protested while edging back, out of his reach. You vowed.

Panic rose up her throat. Her mate, her true mate, had vanished the night Vance ripped out her neck and left her in a shallow grave. Upon waking the following dusk, different and hungry, he fed her and fought with her as she tried to crawl away and find Lucas. Weak and terrified she bit and clawed at him until he uttered a promise - two hundred years to track down her lover.

The ends of his mouth stretched into a real smile, brows rising in amusement.

No, he corrected, I did not vow. You heard what you wanted. I need a mate, and you require protection. There are laws in our world, Abigail Faa, laws you insist upon breaking over and over again.

He held out his palm with his index finger extended. No interacting with mortals, unless they’re food.

Tapping off the sin with his