Six weeks later ...

Brigid was a goddess, the mother of Ruadan, and the grandmother of Patrick and Lorcan.

She was also wrong.

She peered at me, her green eyes narrowed. Strange, gold patterns pulsed all over her body. They swirled and changed into different symbols and shapes.

The symbols were her magic, which constantly changed to accommodate whatever healing spells she needed.

Dr. Stan Michaels stood on the other side of me, writing on a chart.

He was wrong, too.

"I'm dead," I reminded them.

"You have a heartbeat," he pointed out. "And you're breathing."

Those two things I had figured out for myself. I could also shape-shift into a wolf, but that was nothing compared to the news I'd just received. "I have no uterus."

"Yes, you do," countered Dr. Michaels. "I just x-rayed you twice."

Gabriel sat next to me on the examining table. He held my hand tightly.

"Don't you believe in miracles?" asked Brigid in her lyrical Irish accent. "You've been given one."

"Three, actually," said Dr. Michaels.

"Triplets," I said.

"Triplets," repeated Gabriel.

We looked at each other and grinned.

Drinking Gabriel's blood had given me the gift of heartbeats and breathing and shape-shifting. My body had been made whole again.

We were doing all right in our new leadership roles, though getting vampires and lycans to play nice wasn't all that easy.

She shall bind with the outcast, and with this union, she will save the dual-natured.

I had never imagined that the prophecy meant I would literally save the dual-natured. Whether or not they liked it, the future of vampires and werewolves was growing in my regenerated womb.

The next generation of loup de sang.

A LETTER FROM PATSY

Dear Sean,

I'm sorry to hear that you are in jail. I hope you are doing well. And I mean that. We had a lot of years together and while they weren't all sunshine and roses, I think I'm a better person because of our marriage.

Wilson is in a program for recovering drug addicts. He's doing really well. You should be proud of him. I go to meetings, too, and that's why I'm writing to you.

I want you to know that I forgive you. I don't know how hard it is to live with the demons that drive you. Or what it's like to crave alcohol so badly you'd do anything to get it. Whatever you did, whatever you said, it's okay. I'm at peace with our past.

I hope that you can forgive me, too. I wasn't the easiest person to please or to live with. I know my flaws could drive a saint to distraction. All the same, I don't think we would've made it. It took me eighteen years to realize we weren't meant to be.

Now I know what it's like to be with your soul mate. It's not all sunshine and roses, either (ha, ha), but it doesn't matter, because love always smooths out the bumps in the road.

You don't have to write me back. But if you want to, that would be just fine.

I wish you so much happiness, Sean. And love. Good luck to you.

Sincerely,

Patsy

THE SEVEN ANCIENTS

(In Order of Creation)

Ruadan: (Ireland) He flies and uses fairy magic.

Koschei: (Russia) He is the master of glamour and mind control.

Hua Mu Lan: (China) She is a great warrior who creates and controls fire.

Durga: (India) She calls forth, controls, and expels demons.

Velthur: (Italy) He controls all forms of liquid.

Amahte: (Egypt) He talks to spirits, raises the dead, creates zombies, and reinserts souls into dead bodies.

Zela: (Nubia) She manipulates all metallic substances.

GLOSSARY

A ghra mo chroi: (Irish Gaelic) love of my heart

A stoirin: (Irish Gaelic) my little darling

A Thaisce: (Irish Gaelic) my dear/darling/ treasure

Cac capaill: (Irish Gaelic) horseshit

Damnu air : (Irish Gaelic) damn it

Deamhan fola: (Irish Gaelic) blood devil

Draba: (Romany) spell/charm

Droch fola: (Irish Gaelic) bad or evil blood

Gadjikane: (Romany) non-Gypsy

Fili: (Old Irish) poet-Druid

Ja: (German) yes

Liebling: (German) darling

Loup de Sang: (French) blood wolf

Mo chroi: (Irish Gaelic) my heart

Mulo: (Romany) living dead

Roma: (Romany) member of a nomadic people originating in Northern India or Gypsies considered as a group

Romany/Romani: (Romany) language of the Roma

Solas: (Irish Gaelic) light

Sonuachar: (Irish Gaelic) soul mate

Strigoi mort: (Romany) vampire

Vampire Terms

Revised and Updated by Lorcan O'Halloran

Ancient: Refers to one of the original seven vampires. The very first vampire was Ruadan, the biological father of Patrick and Lorcan. Several centuries ago, Ruadan and his sons took the last name of "O'Halloran," which means "stranger from overseas."

Banning: (see entry: World-Between-Worlds) Any vampire can be sent into limbo, but the spell must be cast by an Ancient or, in a few cases, their offspring. A vampire cannot be released from banning until they feel true remorse for their evil acts. This happens rarely, which means banning is not done lightly.

The Binding: When vampires have consummation sex (with any living person or creature), they're bound together for a hundred years. This was Ruadan I's brilliant idea to keep vamps from sexual intercourse while blood-taking. No one's ever broken a binding.

The Consortium: About five hundred years ago, Patrick and Lorcan created the Consortium to figure out ways that paranormal folks could make the world a better place for all beings. Many sudden leaps in human medicine and technology are because of the Consortium's work.

Donors: Mortals who serve as sustenance for vampires. The Consortium screens and hires humans to be food sources. Donors are paid well and given living quarters. Not all vampires follow the guidelines created by the Consortium for feeding. A mortal may have been a donor without ever realizing it.

Drone: Mortals who do the bidding of their vampire Masters. The most famous was Igor, drone to Dracula. The Consortium's Code of Ethics forbids the use of drones, but plenty of vampires still use them.

Family: Every vampire can be traced to one of the seven Ancients. The Ancients are pided into the Seven Sacred Sects, also known as the Families.

Gone to Ground: When vampires secure places where they can lie undisturbed for centuries, they "go to ground." Usually they let someone know where they are located, but we don't know the resting locations of many vampires.

Lycanthropes: Also called lycans. These shape-shifters can shift from a human into a wolf. Lycans have been around a long time and originate in Germany. They worship the lunar goddess. Their numbers are small because they don't have many females, and most children born have a fifty percent chance of living to the age of one.

Master: The vampire who successfully Turns a human is the new vamp's protector. Basically, a Master is supposed to show the Turn-blood how to survive as a vampire, unless another Master agrees to take over the education. A Turn-blood has the protection of the Family (see: Family or Seven Sacred Sects) to which their Master belongs.

Roma: The Roma are cousins to full-blooded lycanthropes. They can change only on the night of the full moon. Just as full-blooded lycanthropes are raised to protect vampires, the Roma are raised to hunt vampires.

Seven Sacred Sects: The vampire tree has seven branches. Each branch is called a Family and each Family is directly traced to one of the seven Ancients. The older you are, the more mojo you get. A vampire's powers are related to his Family.

Taint: The black plague for vampires. Thanks to experiments with Lorcan's unusual blood, Consortium scientists have formulated a cure for the disease.

Turn-blood: A human who's been recently Turned into a vampire. If you're less than a century old, you're a Turn-blood.

Turning: Vampires can't have babies. They perpetuate the species by Turning humans. Unfortunately, only one in about ten humans actually makes the transition.

World-Between-Worlds: The place between this plane and the next where there is a void. Some people can slip back and forth between this "veil."

Wraiths: Rogue vampires who believed they were at the top of the food chain. After the defeat of their leader, Ron, aka Ragnvaldr, it appeared they had been disbanded. However, the Ancient Koschei was the true leader and he took up the banner of vampire domination.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

My research took me to ancient Egypt, one of my all-time favorite places. Do you know how many times I've watched The Mummy and The Mummy Returns? Okay, not exactly research, but I've watched numerous documentaries, bought many research books (and they're big and heavy, too), and I even have a small collection of cool Egyptian knickknacks. Nothing actually from ancient Egypt, but all the same, they're really cool.

I tried to make the Turning of my vampires somewhat interesting. I know that Patrick Turned Lorcan, but let's just say after Lor killed him, Ruadan came along and did all the mumbo jumbo to make his other son a vampire. So I have written it, so it will be. Ta-da!

You may have noticed the emphasis on alcoholism in this novel. This is not a subject I had to research since I've lived with alcoholics all my life. Some people are ashamed about what goes on in their homes. They're afraid to get help or afraid of what others might think about them.

Let me tell you something: You deserve safety, good health, and happiness. Help is available 24/7. You just have to decide to ask for it. Pick up a phone, get on the Internet, or walk to a friend's house.

I highly recommend this Web site for anyone who is affected by alcoholism: http://www.al-anon.alateen.org.

You are not alone. You deserve love. You are worthy of a better life.

And baby, that's the truth.

Keep reading for a sneak peek of the

next novel in Michele Bardsley's

Broken Heart paranormal series,

Wait Till Your Vampire Gets Home

Coming from Signet Eclipse

in November 2008

I hugged the large oak tree as I tried to catch my breath. Sneaking around this creepy little town in the dark - and during winter, no less -  was not one of my better ideas. Especially after I'd been scared out of my wits by those ... those howls.

Shivers raced up and down my spine. What in the world had made those terrifying sounds? Surely not dogs. Coyotes? Wolves? Eek! My shivering turned into full-body shudders. My parents were convinced that real werewolves roamed the woods. They'd spent their whole lives trying to prove that paranormal beings, aliens, other dimensions, and all kinds of weird and wacky things existed.

Despite never finding a single speck of evidence, my parents still believed in all that hooha. As soon as I hit eighteen, I checked out of their world of insanity and entered wonderful, sensible, logical reality.

I listened for the howls, relieved when I heard nothing but the wind rattling the branches above me. Some reporter I was! Hadn't I come here on the trail of an arsonist? I wasn't supposed to let little things like rabid dogs (ack!) and bad weather stop me from getting the story. This was my chance to prove I was made of sterner stuff. I had to find this guy before anyone else, so I could ditch my piddling assignments. If I had to write one more obituary ... argh!

I pressed my cheek against the tree. No warmth there. Why hadn't I thought of a ski mask? The black parka had done a fair job of keeping most of me warm, but the hood offered no protection to my face. My skin felt scraped raw by the freezing air. And the rough bark wasn't exactly helping, either.

I let go of the tree, but stayed close. Okay. I needed to regroup. I let my thoughts drift around the information I'd accumulated so far. The arsonist was nicknamed Dragon. He always started fires on the roofs of buildings. He never used an accelerant, so the police couldn't figure out how he started such hot, fast fires. My contact in the police department said that detectives believed that Dragon was from Broken Heart.

I readjusted the strap of my purse, which clunked in protest. I was a big believer in being prepared. My parents might be a taco short of a combination platter, but they'd taught me many skills. MacGyver had nothing on me.

I inhaled, but didn't really appreciate the loamy smell of earth and the crisp scent of pine - mostly because it felt like tiny icicles were forming in my nose and my lungs.

I'd forgotten my gloves, but though my hands were Popsicles, I clenched the oak. Heart pounding, I peered around the wide trunk.

A man was burying a coffin.

It looked new, though the grave was not. The heart-shaped marble tombstone looked worse for wear; the top right corner had broken off.

Oh, this was much better than running away from the scary clamor of unknown creatures.

I was fairly close, but because my glasses were flotsam in the junk sea of my purse, I had to squint to read the inscription:

THERESE ROSEMARIE GENESSA

BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER

1975 - 2005

How he managed to maneuver the mahogany casket into the hole, I don't know. He was strong, even though he looked like a normal guy. Nice bod, but not one made by Bowflex. It was his apparent normalcy that perplexed me. Hmm. What kind of person buried a casket at nearly ten at night? Hey! What if he was a drug dealer or a gunrunner hiding the goods?

My excitement drained almost immediately. Neither of those scenarios felt right. He wasn't trying to be covert. And wouldn't someone burying something other than a body have a second guy watching? Or at least look over his shoulder more often?

The sad truth was that I had probably stumbled upon an employee of the cemetery.

Well, poop.

The silence was ungodly. No chirping of crickets, stirring of little animals, or twittering of birds. In this odd quiet, the shovel rasped unpleasantly as the man thrust it into the pile of dark soil and tossed it into the grave. The earth thudded onto the coffin.

Rasp. Thud. Rasp. Thud.

I studied the rest of the cemetery. Nearly all the graves had fresh dirt on them. Their tombstones were tilted, broken, or fallen. The place looked as if it had been ravaged by an earthquake. Seismic activity in Oklahoma? Not exactly the scintillating news I was hoping for - although it would be a change from tornadoes.

My gaze returned to the man. It seemed wrong to get any closer. After all, he was completing an awful task. But I was curious. I also wasn't interested in retracing my steps. I might accidentally find the source of those hair-raising howls. He might not know it, but he was the closest thing to safety I had right now.

About five feet away was a lone pine tree with thickly covered branches. I shot out from my cover and raced to the pine, ducking under its flagging limbs. The needles poked at me, so I scrunched down and watched him. I was near enough to see his determined expression. He had brown hair, cut short. A nice, friendly face. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but pleasant.

I crouched next to the tree and froze my butt off while watching him fill up the entire hole. I don't know why I stayed. Watching a man do this heart-wrenching work wasn't exactly chasing down the big story. I guess I just didn't want to leave. I felt like someone needed to be there standing watch with him, even if he was unaware of my presence. Stupid, right?

You're too soft, Libs. That's why you'll never get far in this biz. Hah! What did my editor-in-chief know? He was jaded. Wearied by the job. Due for retirement. I'd gotten my degree in journalism because I wanted to find real news about real people. Squishing down people's major life moments into twenty-five words or less was still better than slogging through the Louisiana swamps looking for Bayou Boo, half man and half alligator.

Yikes! It was so cold! I clamped my lips together to keep my teeth from chattering. The man patted down the dirt with the flat end of the shovel. He wore a light jacket, jeans, and sneakers, not exactly cold-weather gear. Yet he didn't seem all that affected by the freezing temperatures.

He stared at the grave and I stared at him. Something about him niggled at me. His face was a shade too pale. I couldn't fault a guy who wasn't into baking his skin. No, it was his utter stillness that freaked me out.

Then I realized he wasn't sweating. Not a drop. After lifting a coffin and then burying it, he wasn't perspiring. He wasn't even out of breath.

"You can come out now." He leaned on the shovel and turned his gaze directly to the pine tree. To me.

How had I given myself away? Even though moments earlier I'd thought of him as my safety net, I wasn't going to stroll out and introduce myself. He was good at digging graves; I didn't want to be the next one he buried.

"You are not afraid. You will come to me," he said. His voice dropped an octave and went all seductive. A grave digger who wanted to put the moves on the lurking stranger. In a cemetery. Yuck.

I clutched the tree while my mind raced. Oh, to hell with it. I ducked out from underneath the unwieldy branches and raced toward the forest.

I heard the growls two seconds before I saw the animals issuing the threats. Two huge, pissed-off wolves loped toward me.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!

"Aaaaaaaaahhhh!" My scream echoed into the dense forest. Heart thumping, stomach roiling, fear prickling, I made a U-turn and ran back the other way. Their growls gave way to fierce barking.

REPORTER EATEN BY KILLER CANINES. That would be the headline. My boss would tell everyone at my funeral, I told Libby she didn't have the chops for the job, but I never thought she'd end up as chops. And he'd guffaw, that evil bastard. I was so putting salt in his sugar dispenser when I got back to the office.

I shot past the pine tree. He was still there! My grave-digging safety man! His puzzled expression switched to alarm. His eyes went wide and he dropped the shovel, which was a good thing, because I launched myself at him.

He caught me, staggered backward, and then tried to let me go.

"Pick me up! Pick me up!" I screeched. "Save me already!"

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