Michele Hauf - The Vampire's Protector

That was creepy. And not in the good way.

“Nope. Not going to play it.”

She inspected the end of the bow, wondering if she should loosen the hairs a few twists because it wasn’t good for it to be kept tightened when not in use. Yet she’d found it in this condition. Obviously, this was some sort of magical violin.

Placing the bow in the case, her wrist suddenly twisted and the bow glided across all four violin strings in rapid succession.

“Oh shit. I did not do that.”

She dropped the bow, but it landed on the strings, and again, drew out a series of notes.

“No, no, no. It’s not me. I didn’t do it!”

She looked around. A weird feeling that someone was watching and would finger her as the culprit crept up her neck. A strange silvery whisper tickled her ear, and she shook her head and slapped at her long blond hair near her ear.

The tones from that weird, accidental bowing of the strings had sounded incredible. As if the violin had been waiting ages, endlessly, ceaselessly, for someone to come and release that sound.

“But not me. Oh no.” She took a step away from the open violin case. Staring hard at the bow, she waited for it to move of its own volition. It didn’t flinch.

Dashing to the case, she slapped the lid down and rebuckled the latch. Then, tucking the case under her arm, she raced down the dark hallway, fleeing toward the cool morning daylight.

For once, she’d creeped herself out. And the last thing she needed was to be accused of playing a violin that would put her in league with the devil Himself.

Chapter 2 Contents Cover Introduction She wanted to bite him, to taste his blood and learn if it was as rich and exciting as the man. But there was a certain danger in that. Summer had no idea what Nicolo was. What would she impart in Nicolo’s mind if she drank his blood? If he were merely human would she drive him mad? Couldn’t risk it. He needed her. And she wanted him to trust her. “Don’t let this happen,” Summer muttered. But they were only words. Her heart had already made a leap. And while that scared her, she was always one to follow adventures. Even the kind Summer had never pursued before, like the adventures of the heart. Title Page The Vampire’s Protector Michele Hauf www.millsandboon.co.uk About the Author MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries usually populate her stories. And if Michele followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries and creatures she has never seen. Find her on Facebook, Twitter and at www.michelehauf.com . Dedication To all the orchestra geeks. You rock! Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Extract Copyright

La Villetta cemetery; Parma, Italy

“Hexensohn!”

At the sound of the guttural accusation, the man sat up—and banged his forehead on the stone directly above him. He pressed a hand to the flat surface. Solid and cold. He pushed. It didn’t move.

He opened his eyes to...no light. Darkness muffled. And cold, so cold. Sucking in a breath, he couldn’t feel his heartbeats.

But he didn’t panic. The realization that he was trapped inside a container was only a minor distraction. What disturbed him was that he was aware of his thoughts. And that he was thinking. Again. After...

His death.

Sitting up in a panicked lunge, this time his forehead did not connect with stone, but rather, he felt a sludgy resistance as he rose upward and moved through the stone. His body ascended with little effort until his hands and shoulders felt the warmth of sunlight on them. Slapping a hand onto a hard surface, he levered his body up and out until he sat upon a stone monument.

“What in all...?” His shoulder bumped a stone pedestal, and he leaned against it. Not relaxed, by any means, but more getting his bearings. He sat up off the ground a few feet, one leg dangling over the edifice. Columns surrounded the area, and around that, a black wrought iron fence. Had he just risen from a sarcophagus?

Hmm... Looked like a fancy monument to someone long dead. Could it be his own? He had died. The knowledge was instinctive and ingrained. A certain fact. And he recalled that last, painful, gasping breath so clearly. Had it only been just yesterday?

A deep breath took in his surroundings. The air smelled of mildew and jasmine flowers. Birds twittered nearby. And the weird rushing sound of something unfamiliar not far off. Gasping out a breath, he pressed fingertips to his chest and realized his lungs were taking in air. He breathed? But how? He— Wasn’t he dead?

Something had sung to him. Called him. Summoned him with that vile curse hexensohn. It meant witch’s son, and he’d hated it once and already hated it again. Yet accompanying the curse he had felt the music. The pure and rapidly bowed tones from an instrument that had once facilitated his very livelihood.

Glancing about, he took in the close-spaced tombstones and nearby mausoleums. He sat in a cemetery, upon a large tombstone. And that startled him so that he slid off the stone sarcophagus, stood, wobbling as he stepped a few paces, and then turned to study the bust placed upon the pedestal where he had just risen. He narrowed his eyes. The face and hair on the bust looked familiar. Though it wasn’t life-size, perhaps a bit bigger. Had he ever appeared so...regal?

“Not me. Can’t be,” he muttered. “I’m dead. This is a dream. Some means of Hell torture. It has to be. No one comes back from...”

His eyes took in the area. The entire monument he stood within was about ten feet square with eight columns, two supporting each corner of a massive canopy. Wandering to the edge and stepping down onto the narrow strip of loose stones circling the structure, he turned and looked high over the front of the canopy.

And he read the name chiseled into the stone above. “‘Nicolo Paganini.’”

He grasped his throat, marveling at the sound that had come from him. Because... “I could not speak for so long.”

Years before his death he’d lost the ability to speak. It had been miserable, and he’d to rely on his son, Achille, to press an ear to his mouth so he could hear the barely imperceptible sounds he’d made and then interpret to others.

“Achille?” Where was he? How many days had it been since his death? Had his son buried him? How had he come to rise from the grave?

What was happening?

The brimstone bargain? No. He had not fulfilled his portion of that wicked bargain. And yet...the sound of a violin had woken him from his eternal slumber.

He tapped his lower lip in thought and then was surprised at the feel of his skin and—he opened his mouth. He had teeth! All of them, in fact. They had all fallen out in the years before his death.

Looking at his hands, he marveled that the age spots that had once marked his flesh were not there. He pushed fingers up through his hair. It was long and tangled, but it felt soft, not dry from years of sickness. His face, too. The skin was smooth and taut. Had he grown young in his death? Impossible.

Again, the steady heartbeats prompted him to touch his chest. And then he beat a sound fist against his body. When had he ever had such firm, well-developed muscles as he now felt beneath the clothing?

What foul magic was this?

Was he alive? Was this his body or that of some creature? What diabolic magic had been enacted to conjure him from his very grave?