Beneath a Waning Moon: A Duo of Gothic Romances by Elizabeth Hunter, Grace Draven Page B

understand me?”
    “Yes, boss.”
    “She’s dead to the world. Do you understand? She’s not in society, mortal or immortal. She died this night. And she’ll stay dead until everyone who remembers her in this life is gone. Can you live with that? Can she?”
    Mad hope had finally pierced the shadow around his heart. “We’ll make do. I’ll take care of her. Always. I promise.”
    “Of course you bloody do. You’re the most stubborn, loyal bastard I’ve ever met. Don’t know why I fooled myself that you’d let her go.” He tilted Josie’s neck to the side. “Now tell the cook to start bleeding all the servants who haven’t given in the past month and pray to God this works.”

    IT took Anne and Declan both to wrestle Tom out of the room, even though the big man knew it was necessary. The process of turning was not far from the process of death. Even now Anne and Declan would be spelling the few servants who didn’t know of their true natures and sending them away, while the others gave blood before retreating to the safety of Murphy and Anne’s house. Away from the danger. Away from the newborn who would wake.
    Murphy had removed half the woman’s blood when he heard Anne return. Josie’s heartbeat was failing, so he drank faster. It tasted… wrong. He spit most of it into the basin beside the bed, not wanting to chance any kind of strange reaction. He’d never fed from anyone as sick as Josephine, and though he knew vampires were immune to human disease, some instinct told him too much of her blood would make him ill.
    “Stop for a moment,” Anne said.
    He drew back and she wiped his mouth, bending down to take his mouth with hers. Then she brushed a hand over his cheek and gave him her wrist. “Take some of mine. You’ll need extra since you’re not taking much of hers.”
    “This is already so risky. I don’t want to chance it.”
    “I agree.”
    He bent to Josephine’s neck again. It was not such an easy thing to drain a human—especially when not in the throes of true bloodlust—but her blood had to be removed to the point of death before he gave her his own.
    Minutes stretched as he held the poor thin woman in his arms, killing her to save her. Finally—when her heart began to falter—he put her mouth to his wrist.
    “No,” Anne said, pulling his collar down. “As much as I hate the idea, she needs to take your neck. Your wrist won’t be fast enough.”
    “Are you sure?”
    Anne was his mate, and as much as he loved Tom, his first loyalty was to her.
    “And I can’t do without her! She’s my mate.”
    It was the pain of those words that finally convinced him, because Murphy knew Tom spoke the truth. Nothing he could do would save his dearest child if Josephine Shaw was allowed to die. No political maneuvering, no intricate plan, and no cultivated reputation would excuse Murphy in his son’s eyes.
    So Josephine must live.
    Anne slashed his throat with her own fangs and held the girl to his neck, forcing the blood into her body. His mate held them both until Murphy felt the first stirrings of amnis in the girl, felt her own fangs lengthen and grow, latching on to his neck with vicious hunger. Amnis, the energy that would bind her to him as his immortal child, flowed over him and into her, resurrecting her, tying them for all time. She was his, but he was hers too. For as long as she lived, Murphy would be responsible for her. Care for her. With every child he sired, he gave up a small part of his soul.
    He hushed her when the small groans of pain crept through. He smoothed her hair back and held her as her body began the process of turning. Anne stood on her other side, ready to help her friend’s transition into immortal life.
    Josephine Shaw would live. But she would never be the same.

Chapter Eight

    SHE BOLTED UP IN BED, almost throwing herself into the fire with the unexpected strength of her limbs.
    “Josie!”
    She screamed when she hit the floor. And she kept