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Excerpt
Our bed.
The bed I would share with him as long as he’d have me. Though at times my inner conflict still raged, Sara was a sin I couldn’t help but commit.
For decades, I’d endeavored to restore my soul through service to the White Monks, and now I regularly engaged in acts that would destroy it.
I found I didn’t care, or at least not enough to leave off my relationship with Sara. Perhaps having lived so long granted me a new perspective, but the joy he brought now outweighed any future paradise.
We lay in bed, him on his side with me propped against his back. After dozing awhile, he rolled over and squinted at me. “You didn’t come.”
“No.” I rubbed his arm, and he settled under my touch.
“I think you get off on the self-denial.”
There was no good response to that.
I prayed for an hour, maybe two. I had missed Compline, and it would soon be time for Matins. Sara’s presence had required a number of accommodations, from the colored lights to the interruption of my prayers. Each a small step, insignificant maybe, leading me I knew not where. Here, in this second week of Advent, I should be readying my heart to greet the infant Christ.
Instead, I gloried in the warmth of Sara’s body next to mine.
The incongruity allowed restlessness to invade my contemplation. Simpler, really, to wonder about the here and now. Why had a man turned up on my front porch? He said he’d followed the lights, but despite the legends, witch lights were a simple phenomenon of the swamp.
If not magic, there must be a human agency. Setting aside my rosary, I left the bed, being careful not to disturb Sara. I knelt and said the prayers for Matins under my breath, then changed into some denim pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. I kept a pair of waterproof boots in the kitchen near the back door, so after a last look at my sleeping assistant and a promise to return in time for Lauds, I left the room.
The night was cool, and a thin layer of clouds wrapped around the moon. I strode across the damp earth, tuning my ear to the constant buzz of the peepers, the occasional hoot of an owl. My home was on a winding tributary of theAmite River
I broke into a run, determined to return before Sara discovered I was missing. He would be dismayed, even angry, though I swore I’d share everything I’d found. I picked up my pace, scanning my surroundings for any unusual signs.
There.
A flash of light halted my progress. I left the path and skidded in the slick mud to the edge of another tributary, or maybe a pond, half-covered with water lilies. The light hovered between the cypress and tupelo trees, enticing me to follow. I dug my heels in, despite a growing urge to wade out into the algae-ridden water.
The sharp racket of an alligator’s warning call broke the compulsion, and I scrambled back to the path. I resolved to ignore the lights, for I was more intrigued by the source of the coercion. I had gone only a short distance when another light flashed, this one closer, and I found myself back at the edge of the water.
Merde. Anger spurred my resolve, and I returned to the path, though each step dragged as if the mud itself held me down. I reached the path but was unable to proceed. Something, some invisible barrier, prevented my forward progress. I headed away from the water, but the barrier held while, winking behind me, the witch light beckoned.
I persisted for some time, and though I sensed the barrier weakening, it did not give way. Finally, I abandoned my attempt, the fear that Sara would wake up alone outweighing the hold this mystery had on me. I might be in retreat, but I vowed to return and seek out this thing that disturbed our peace.
The bed I would share with him as long as he’d have me. Though at times my inner conflict still raged, Sara was a sin I couldn’t help but commit.
For decades, I’d endeavored to restore my soul through service to the White Monks, and now I regularly engaged in acts that would destroy it.
I found I didn’t care, or at least not enough to leave off my relationship with Sara. Perhaps having lived so long granted me a new perspective, but the joy he brought now outweighed any future paradise.
We lay in bed, him on his side with me propped against his back. After dozing awhile, he rolled over and squinted at me. “You didn’t come.”
“No.” I rubbed his arm, and he settled under my touch.
“I think you get off on the self-denial.”
There was no good response to that.
I prayed for an hour, maybe two. I had missed Compline, and it would soon be time for Matins. Sara’s presence had required a number of accommodations, from the colored lights to the interruption of my prayers. Each a small step, insignificant maybe, leading me I knew not where. Here, in this second week of Advent, I should be readying my heart to greet the infant Christ.
Instead, I gloried in the warmth of Sara’s body next to mine.
The incongruity allowed restlessness to invade my contemplation. Simpler, really, to wonder about the here and now. Why had a man turned up on my front porch? He said he’d followed the lights, but despite the legends, witch lights were a simple phenomenon of the swamp.
If not magic, there must be a human agency. Setting aside my rosary, I left the bed, being careful not to disturb Sara. I knelt and said the prayers for Matins under my breath, then changed into some denim pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. I kept a pair of waterproof boots in the kitchen near the back door, so after a last look at my sleeping assistant and a promise to return in time for Lauds, I left the room.
The night was cool, and a thin layer of clouds wrapped around the moon. I strode across the damp earth, tuning my ear to the constant buzz of the peepers, the occasional hoot of an owl. My home was on a winding tributary of the
I broke into a run, determined to return before Sara discovered I was missing. He would be dismayed, even angry, though I swore I’d share everything I’d found. I picked up my pace, scanning my surroundings for any unusual signs.
There.
A flash of light halted my progress. I left the path and skidded in the slick mud to the edge of another tributary, or maybe a pond, half-covered with water lilies. The light hovered between the cypress and tupelo trees, enticing me to follow. I dug my heels in, despite a growing urge to wade out into the algae-ridden water.
The sharp racket of an alligator’s warning call broke the compulsion, and I scrambled back to the path. I resolved to ignore the lights, for I was more intrigued by the source of the coercion. I had gone only a short distance when another light flashed, this one closer, and I found myself back at the edge of the water.
Merde. Anger spurred my resolve, and I returned to the path, though each step dragged as if the mud itself held me down. I reached the path but was unable to proceed. Something, some invisible barrier, prevented my forward progress. I headed away from the water, but the barrier held while, winking behind me, the witch light beckoned.
I persisted for some time, and though I sensed the barrier weakening, it did not give way. Finally, I abandoned my attempt, the fear that Sara would wake up alone outweighing the hold this mystery had on me. I might be in retreat, but I vowed to return and seek out this thing that disturbed our peace.
Silent night, holy hell.
Thaddeus and Sarasija are spending the holidays on the bayou, and while the vampire's idea of Christmas cheer doesn't quite match his assistant's, they're working on a compromise. Before they can get the tree trimmed, they're interrupted by the appearance of the feu follet. The ghostly lights appear in the swamp at random and lead even the locals astray.
When the townsfolk link the phenomenon to the return of their most reclusive neighbor, suspicion falls on Thaddeus. These lights aren't bringing glad tidings, and if Thad and Sara can't find their source, the feu follet might herald a holiday tragedy for the whole town.
This holiday novella can be enjoyed alone or as book 1.5 of the Hours of the Night Series. Bonfire takes place the December after the events in Vespers.
Thaddeus and Sarasija are spending the holidays on the bayou, and while the vampire's idea of Christmas cheer doesn't quite match his assistant's, they're working on a compromise. Before they can get the tree trimmed, they're interrupted by the appearance of the feu follet. The ghostly lights appear in the swamp at random and lead even the locals astray.
When the townsfolk link the phenomenon to the return of their most reclusive neighbor, suspicion falls on Thaddeus. These lights aren't bringing glad tidings, and if Thad and Sara can't find their source, the feu follet might herald a holiday tragedy for the whole town.
This holiday novella can be enjoyed alone or as book 1.5 of the Hours of the Night Series. Bonfire takes place the December after the events in Vespers.
About the Authors
About Irene Preston
Irene Preston has to write romances, after all she is living one. As a starving college student, she met her dream man who whisked her away on a romantic honeymoon across Europe . Today they live in the beautiful hill country outside of Austin , Texas
Where to find Irene
Facebook | Twitter | Pinterest | Mailing List | Goodreads
About Liv Rancourt
I write romance: m/f, m/m, and v/h, where the h is for human and the v is for vampire … or sometimes demon … I lean more towards funny than angst. When I’m not writing I take care of tiny premature babies or teenagers, depending on whether I’m at home or at work. My husband is a soul of patience, my dog’s cuteness is legendary, and we share the homestead with three ferrets. Who steal things. Because they’re brats.
I write romance: m/f, m/m, and v/h, where the h is for human and the v is for vampire … or sometimes demon … I lean more towards funny than angst. When I’m not writing I take care of tiny premature babies or teenagers, depending on whether I’m at home or at work. My husband is a soul of patience, my dog’s cuteness is legendary, and we share the homestead with three ferrets. Who steal things. Because they’re brats.
Where to find Liv
Facebook | Twitter | Mailing List | Goodreads
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Great review and awesome giveaway. Thank you
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