Crimson Twilight by Graham, Heather
Dedication
For Franci Naulin and D.J. Davant
Yevgeniya Yeretskaya and Derek Pozzessere
and
Alicia Ibarra and Robert Rosello
And to all kinds of different, beautiful—wonderful weddings!
One Thousand and One Dark Nights
Once upon a time, in the future…
I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.
I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and
the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast
library at my father’s home and collected thousands
of volumes of fantastic tales.
I learned all about ancient races and bygone
times. About myths and legends and dreams of all
people through the millennium. And the more I read
the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered
that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually
become part of them.
I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher
and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I
would not be telling you this tale now.
But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off
with bravery.
One afternoon, curious about the myth of the
Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to
see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar
(Persian: ??????, "king") married a new virgin, and then
sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written
and I had read, that by the time he met Scheherazade,
the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand
women.
Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived
in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged
places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had
never occurred before and that still to this day, I
cannot explain.
Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have
taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can
protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to
protect herself and stay alive.
Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.
And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a
point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.
And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that
he might hear the rest of my dark tale.
As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new
one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before
you now.
Chapter 1
“I say we fool around again,” Sloan Trent said.
Jane Everett smiled.
They’d spent the night before fooling around—even though it had been their wedding eve— so she assumed they’d fool around again a great deal tonight.
Which was nothing new for them.
They’d finally made it out of the shower and into clothing and were ready to head downstairs. But Sloan was still in an amorous mood. He drew her to him, kissed her neck just below her ear, and whispered, “There’s so much time in life that we can’t fool around… so you have to fool around when the fooling around is good, right?” He had that way of whispering against her ear. His breath was hot and moist and somehow had a way of creating little fires that trickled down into her sex, generating an instant burst of desire.
“We’ve just showered,” she reminded him.
“Showers can be fun, too.”
“We’re supposed to be meeting up with Kelsey and Logan and seeing a bit of the castle before we get ready for the ceremony.”
“You never know. Maybe Logan and Kelsey are fooling around and showering, too?”
He pressed his lips to her throat and her collarbone, drawing her closer, making the spoon of their bodies into something erotic.
She wasn’t sure what would have happened if it hadn’t been for the scream.
More a shriek!
Long, loud, piercing, horrible.
They broke apart, both of them making mad leaps for the Glock firearms they were never without, racing out of their room to the upper landing of the castle’s staircase. Of all the things Jane hadn’t expected as her wedding approached, it was for the minister to be found dead—neck broken, eyes-wide-open—at the first floor landing of Castle Cadawil. Logan Raintree and Kelsey O’Brien, their co-workers and witnesses for the wedding, rushed up close behind them.
They all paused, assessing the situation, then raced down.
Reverend Marty MacDonald lay on his back, head twisted at that angle which clearly defined death, his legs still on the steps, arms extended as if he’d tried to fly. Sloan looked at her, shaking his head sadly. She felt as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs. Her blood began to run cold. Her first thought was for Marty MacDonald. She didn’t know him that well. She’d met and hired him here, on the New England coast, just a month ago when she’d first seen the castle. She and Sloan had been talking about what to do and how and when to marry, and it had suddenly seemed right.
But now. The poor man!