Breaking Dawn

Chapter 1

A whisper of demand. The thing he regrets most. He tries to remember what he covets so dearly. Another's memories bombard him, exploding in his mind. His hand shoots up to clasp his forehead

Zayn enters the bar, Liam behind him. His half-brothers. Their expressions are grave.

They've come to kill me. As he expected. He thought he could draw them out by returning here again and again. He lowers his hand, and his lips ease back from his fangs. The bar empties in a rush.

Then... stillness. His brothers stare at him as if seeing a ghost. Insects clamor outside. Rain draws near and steeps the air. Just as lightning strikes in the distance, Niall enters, crossing to stand beside the other two. There's his real brother. Is he allied with them? This he hadn't expected.

He removes his sunglasses, revealing his red eyes. The eldest, Liam, stifles a wince at the sight, but shakes it off and advances. The three seem surprised that he'll stay to engage them, that he hasn't traced away. They are strong and skilled, yet they don't recognize the power he wields, the thing he's become.

He hears the voice of his mind telling him to attack and kill. He can slaughter them all without blinking, and he'll savor it. They haven't drawn their swords? Then they walk to their doom. Can't keep them waiting.

He lunges from his seat and hurdles the table, knocking Niall unconscious with a blow that cracks his skull and sends him flying into the back wall. Before the other two can raise a hand in defense, he snatches them by their throats. One in each tightening hand as they grapple to free themselves. "Three hundred years of this," he hisses. Their struggles do nothing; their shocked expressions satisfy. Squeezing -

Wood creaks behind him. He shoves back and heaves his brothers at a new enemy. Too late; that werewolf had returned and slashes out with flared claws, ripping through his torso. Blood gushes.

He roars with fury and charges the werewolf, dodging claws and teeth with uncanny speed to barrel him to the ground. Just as his hands are about to meet the werewolf's corded neck, the beast claps something to his right wrist.

A manacle? Clenching harder, he grates out a rasping laugh. "You don't think that will hold me?" Bones begin to pop beneath his palms. The kill is near, and he wants to yell with pleasure.

The werewolf cuffs his left wrist.

What is this? The metal won't bend. Won't break. They goddamned mean to take me alive? He leaps to his feet, tensing to trace. Nothing. Why can't he trace?

He suddenly gets knocked to the ground, Niall.

He kicks Niall, connecting squarely with his brother's chest. Ribs crack. Standing up, he whirls around - in time to catch the bar rail the werewolf swings at his face.

He staggers but remains on his feet.

"What the f**k is he?" the werewolf bellows, swinging the rail again with all his might.

He thrashes and bites, snapping his fangs. Can't break free... can't... They attach the manacles at his wrists to another chain. He kicks viciously, stunned when they trap his legs as well.

Choking with rage, he strains against his bonds with all his strength. The metal cleaves his skin to the bone. Nothing.

Caught. He roars, spitting blood at them, dimly hearing them speak.

"I hope you came up with a good place to put him," Niall says between ragged breaths.

"I bought a long-abandoned manor," Liam grates, "place called Bromham."

Chills course through him, even through his fury; pain erupts from the injury on his neck, just like every other time he fails. He can never go to this Bromham - knows this with a savage certainty. He's too strong for them to trace him - there's still time to escape.

If they take him there, they won't take him alive...

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Under a clouded nighttime sky, the spirit of Amber Benvoliano knelt in the drive at the very edge of her property line, gazing hungrily at the newspaper, lying wrapped in wet plastic.

Today the delivery man - that capricious fiend - had missed the drive again, this time tossing the bundle squarely onto the desolate county road.

Amber was starving for that paper, desperate for the news, reviews, and commentary that would break up the monotony of her life - or her eighty-year-long afterlife.

But she couldn't leave the estate to seize it. As a ghost, Amber could manipulate matter telekinetically, and her power was nearly absolute at Bromham - she could rattle all the windows or tear off the roof if she wanted to, and the weather often changed with her emotions - but not outside the property.

Her beloved home had become her prison, her eternal cell of fifteen acres and a slowly dying manor. Among fate's other curses, each seemingly designed to torture her in personal and specific ways, Amber could never leave this place.

She didn't know why this was so - only that it was, and had been since she'd awakened the morning after her murder. She recalled seeing her haunting reflection for the first time. Amber remembered that exact moment when she'd realized that she'd died - when she'd first comprehended what she'd become.

A ghost. She'd become something that frightened even her. Something unnatural. Never again to be a lover or friend. Never to be a mother, like she'd always planned after her dancing career. As a storm had boiled outside, she'd silently screamed for hours.

The only thing she could be thankful for was that Richard hadn't been trapped here with her.

She stretched harder. Must... have that... paper!

Amber wasn't certain why it continued to arrive. The last article she had been able to grab had recounted the problems inherent with "recurrent billing of credit cards," and she supposed she was the benefactress of her last tenant's credit card negligence. The delivery could end at any time. Every one was precious.

Eventually, she gave up, defeated, sitting back in the weed-ridden drive. Out of habit, she made movements as if she was rubbing her thighs, yet felt nothing.

Amber could never feel. Never again. She was incorporeal, as substantial as the mist rolling in from the bayou.

Thanks, Richard. Oh, and may you rot in hell - because surely that's where you went...

Usually, at this point in the newspaper struggle, she'd be battling the urge to tear her hair out, wondering how much longer she could endure this existence, speculating what she'd done to deserve it.

Yes, on the night of her death, she'd refused to die, but this was ridiculous.

But even as desperate as she was for the words, she wasn't as badly off as usual.

Because last night a man had come into her home. A towering, handsome man with grave eyes. He might return this night. He might even move in.

She shouldn't get too excited about the stranger, to have her hopes crushed yet again -

Lights blinded her; the shriek of squealing tires ripped through the quiet of the night.

As a car shot forward onto the gravel, she futilely raised her arms to protect her face and gave a silent cry. It drove straight through her, the engine reverberating like an earthquake when it passed through her head.

The vehicle never slowed as it prowled down the oak-lined drive to Bromham.