Book #2 - Cycle of Rebirths - Apple | Barnes and Noble | Amazon |
Charlotte was a high-school music teacher when Nicholae Dragomir found her and charmed his way into managing her career. She’s happy with minor fame until she meets Simon, a mysterious Englishman she’s irresistibly drawn to.
Simon lost his wife Caroline in 1530 to a devastating curse—she’s reincarnated every generation with no memory of him and he spends his days trapped as a statue. If they don’t fall in love again by her twenty-fifth birthday, the search starts all over.
When Simon hesitates to divulge his past to Charlotte, it sends her straight into Nicholae’s arms—a vampire in Lady Juliet’s clan—and a path of destruction. Simon, Agent Seven, and Adam must save Charlotte in time or she and Simon will be cursed forever.
This story is intended for readers over the age of 18 due to adult situations.
Chapter Three
The hotel was
really too nice for Charlotte
They had an old
but well-maintained Steinway grand in the lounge. With Nicholae coaxing her to sit at the
bench, she tested it out. “What do you
want me to play?” she asked.
“Your choice. Your
favorite, perhaps.”
She’d had a
full-size keyboard at home growing up.
Knowing how to play was a requirement for a music major, of course, but
she only played what she loved when alone.
Mother was pushy enough about her “exploring her gifts”, really missing
her calling as a stage mom.
Sitting in the
lounge with Nicholae standing next to her, she closed her eyes and tapped into
her teenage passion. Losing herself in
the music, she hadn’t felt him sit on the bench next to her. When she finished, his eyes were gleaming
like he’d just discovered the treasure of El
Dorado
“I haven’t
performed in a while, so—”
He touched his
finger to her lips. “Stop. You’re
wonderful.”
“Thanks.” Heat bloomed in her cheeks again.
For a second, she
thought he might kiss her.
Then he stood and
offered his hand.
He walked her to
her door.
“Well, this is me.
Thanks for lunch. Perhaps we’ll even talk about more than music next time,” she
said.
He stepped
closer. “Mmm, I like that…’next time’.
You’ve made my time in this city much less lonely, Charlotte
“I-I don’t know…
This is the last week of school, so…”
Her pulse raced.
She was not admitting his voice
turned her to jelly.
“I understand. I
will call you in a couple days and see how you are doing, yes?” He smiled gently, his voice soft, like he was
dealing with a skittish animal. “We need
to discuss your future.”
“Okay.”
Nicholae pressed a
soft, slow kiss to her cheek. “Until
then. Goodbye, Charlotte
Leaning against
the door, she watched him walk away, then shook her head and went inside.
With school over, Charlotte
Teaching had been
the safe choice and she wanted out of Oklahoma, so she’d taken the Advanced
Placement Music Theory test to get a jump on college credit, signed up for a
double major, then took classes during summer sessions to graduate ahead of her
class.
But she loved
performing. The adrenaline rush, the
reaction from the crowd.
The next time he
offered to sponsor her, she said yes.
Nicholae was…like
no one she’d ever met, not that she had extensive experience with men. He got her into concert halls all over the
place, the seats always at least three-quarter filled. Sometimes she sat in with orchestras,
sometimes performed on stage alone. The
solo concerts were comprised of original compositions Nicholae brought her to
learn.
She played, people
applauded, and flowers and champagne came to the dressing rooms around the
country. She didn’t know how he did it,
but she was having the time of her life—if feeling a bit uprooted on occasion.
By August, she was
prepared to turn in her resignation at the high school.
He doted on her,
yet never asked for something in return.
Flirted with her, but didn’t try any moves. She would’ve thought he was gay, if not for
the fact she noticed him admiring women too many times to count. They never talked about anything
personal. It was always about art, or
music, or culture, or history.
Even so, she felt
drawn to him in a way she couldn’t explain.
The only thing
marring her new semi-stardom was during sleep.
I’m being watched.
I get out of bed and shut and latch the
window, drawing the curtains, too.
My neck throbs and there’s a trickle of
blood from two holes.
I wasn’t alone in the room while I
slept.
A hand covers my mouth before I can scream
and I’m pushed back on the bed. “Usually,
I like a screamer, but I’m not keen on you drawing the attention of the entire
hotel,” he says.
He bites my throat and I reach blindly for
the lamp. I crash it over his head and
he moans, rolling off me.
I run for the door and the hallway.
And wake up.
Sometimes, it
wasn’t that dream.
There was another
that passed in flashes—a small town, people screaming and running around in
terror, children hiding or calling for parents, and always the glimpses of
monstrous faces. And fire.
She always awoke
the instant before she died.
It felt very real,
almost like a memory.
Weird dreams had
been with her all her life—well, as far back as she could remember. It’s
normal for dreams to be weird, her ever-practical, ever–logical mother would
say. She gave up telling Mom they were
the same images over and over by age nine.
At twenty-two, she
was so bored with them being a part of her nightly mental repertoire she
blocked them out and rarely remembered dreaming them when she woke anymore.
But one dream in
particular had come back since her birthday in June.
She was in a small
stone church, standing up at the altar, and feeling the happiest she’d ever
been in life. She felt a wreath of
flowers on her head and knew she wore her best dress, like you do in
dreams. It was obvious she was standing
up there to get married, but she never saw the groom’s face or heard his
voice—only felt his hand holding hers, thinking they made a good fit.
Pretty innocuous…
Except the style
of their clothes was from hundreds of years ago.
Was it a memory of
a past life (ha!) or merely a yearning for Ren Faire?
She felt juvenile
for not wanting to sleep alone, but it’d always been a guard against troubled
sleep. From her mother’s arms, to a bed
full of stuffed animals, she’d always taken comfort from not being alone at
night.
These hotel beds
were unfamiliar and too big.
Too…
Lonely.
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