With a shake of her head, she broke into a ground-eating run, yipping with pleasure as she bounded effortlessly over rocks and brush. She reveled in the sense of invincibility that filled her as she raced along.
She hadn’t gone far when a jackrabbit exploded from its cover.
With a short bark, the werewolf gave chase, reveling in the sting of the wind in her face, the myriad scents that assailed her nostrils from every side, the sheer joy of the hunt.
The unfortunate rabbit never had a chance.
* * *
Chapter 3
Verah reclined upon a bed covered with soft furs, a large bowl of exotic fruit at her fingertips, while a pair of handsome male servants hovered nearby, waiting to do her bidding. Her familiar, Rama, stretched out beside her, purring softly.
Verah knew that some of her fellow witches thought her lifestyle a bit on the eccentric side because she preferred to wear long skirts and peasant blouses instead of more modern garb. When they commented on the way she dressed, or remarked that they thought some of her magic was primitive, she merely smiled and told them she had an old soul. Far older than any of them knew or suspected.
There were all kinds of witches, and many forms of magic—some witches were born with it, some learned the craft from another witch. In rare cases, the magical arts were bestowed on some lucky soul as a gift. There was earth magic and water magic, fire magic, and magic wrought by the wind. Verah had inherited her magic from her mother, but she had wanted more power, more knowledge, and so she had sought out the old Navajo shaman who had instructed her mother. Yanaba was respected and feared by his own people, though none dared call him a witch to his face.
Verah had often considered telling the old witch about the magical properties in Gideon’s blood, but whenever she started to do so, some inner voice warned her that such knowledge should not be shared with anyone else.
Verah smiled as she glanced at the two photographs standing side by side on the nightstand. One showed an old woman with stringy gray hair, wrinkled skin mottled with age spots, sunken eyes, and yellow teeth. The other was of a young woman with thick pale blond hair, porcelainlike skin without a spot or blemish, and bright green eyes—a beautiful woman in the prime of her life.
She gazed into the small gold-framed mirror standing on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed, and the image of the beautiful young woman smiled back at her.
“Ah, Rama,” Verah murmured, stroking the cat’s head. “Hard to believe both photographs are of me, isn’t it?”
Before Gideon, Verah had rarely left her house, too ashamed of her appearance to let anyone see her. Always vain about her looks, she had shunned her cronies when her beauty began to fade, had veiled her face or covered her ugliness beneath a magical spell on the few occasions when she’d had to leave the house.
She smiled as she thought of the handsome nightwalker imprisoned in her basement. She owed her restored well-being to him. His blood nourished her inside and out, gifting her with increased health and strength. And youth. She ran her fingertips over her cheek. The skin was soft and firm and baby smooth. Gone were the ugly wrinkles and discolorations of age, the hideous liver spots on her hands.
She had the vampire blood spell found in one of her mother’s ancient grimoires to thank for her renewed youth. When Verah had first read the spell, she had dismissed it as nonsense. Surely something so quick and easy could not be effective. But as age had continued to take its toll on her youth and her beauty, as her body began to break down, she had gone in search of a vampire. No easy task, she mused, remembering how long it had taken her to find one. The fact that he was young and handsome had been a nice bonus.
Determined to put the age-old spell to the test, she had located the requisite golden chalice, filled it with the required amount of fresh vampire blood, and chanted the necessary words before drinking from the cup. The taste had been vile. Not knowing what to expect she had been amazed by the results, which had been immediate and undeniable.
Best of all, Gideon was virtually immortal. He would serve her purpose, willing or not, for as long as she wished, and that would be a good, long time.
The changes in her appearance were quickly noted by her acquaintances. Verah ascribed it to a miracle elixir she had stumbled upon, the ingredients which were, of course, tightly guarded.
Word of her miraculous elixir spread across the Internet like wildfire and soon wealthy women were ordering it online, willing to pay whatever she asked for a bottle of the remarkable tonic that was guaranteed to shave ten years or more off of a woman’s appearance.
Of course, Verah couldn’t let it be known to anyone—mortal or witch—that she had a vampire in her basement, or that, combined with the spell she had found, it could guarantee good health and long life indefinitely. Vampires were notoriously hard to find. And witches notoriously clever. She couldn’t take a chance on someone spiriting Gideon away. After some consideration, she tore the spell out of the grimoire and burned it, thereby assuring that no one else would ever duplicate it.