When Darkness Comes - By Alexandra Ivy

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Abby rolled onto her side to study the man who slept at her side. No, not man, she fiercely reminded herself. Vampire. Studying the wickedly perfect features in the dim light, it seemed impossible that she hadn't guessed the truth before. He was every woman's fantasy.

Barely aware of what she was doing, Abby silently lifted the duvet to reveal the lean, muscular form. Although the jeans rather disappointingly remained, he had removed his silk shirt to reveal a chest that was just as lethally beautiful as she had imagined in her heated dreams.

"Good morning, lover," a husky voice abruptly intruded into the silence.

Jerking her head up, Abby took in the slit of silver glittering beneath the heavy black lashes. She abruptly-dropped the duvet as if it might scorch her fingers.

"I… didn't realize that you were awake."

"I may be dead, but not even I can sleep while a beautiful woman ogles me. Tell me, sweet, what were you searching for? A horn and tail?"

"I suppose I was curious. You seem so… normal."

'You mean human?"


Without warning, she discovered herself rolled onto her back with Dante looming above her, his hands planted on either side of her head.

"Perhaps I don't possess three eyes or have acid dripping from my fangs," he said, his beautiful features unexpectedly somber, "but you should never make the mistake of pretending that I'm human. I am a vampire, Abby, not a man…"

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Books by Alexandra Ivy


Published by Zebra Books

*coming soon

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ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 2006 by Debbie Raleigh

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First Printing: January 2007 10987654321

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England, 1665

The scream ripped through the night air. Pulsing with a savage agony, it filled the vast chamber and tumbled down the vaulted corridors. Servants cowering in the lower halls of the castle clamped hands over their ears in an effort to block out the piercing shrieks. Even hardened soldiers in the barracks made the sign of the moon, the protector of the night.

In the southern turret, the Duke of Granville paced across his private library, his shadowed features lined with distaste. Unlike his servants, he did not cross his forehead in an effort to ward off the evil eye. And why should he?

Evil had already struck. It had invaded his home and dared to taint him with its filth.

The only thing left was to purge the infestation with a ruthless strike.

Tugging at the hood to his robe to ensure his marred countenance was fully hidden, he grimly squared his shoulders. Patience, he told himself over and over. Soon enough the moon would move into the proper equinox. And then the ritual would at last be at an end. The child he had

sacrificed to the witches would become their precious Chalice, and his suffering would he at an end.

Turning abruptly on his heel, he marched back toward the slotted window that offered a fine view of the rich countryside. In the distance he could witness the faint glow of fires. He shuddered. London. Filthy, peasant-infected London that was being punished for its foul sins.

A punishment that had spewed out of the ramshackle whorehouses and swept its way to his sanctuary.

His hands clenched at his sides. It was untenable. He was a just man. A godly man who had always been richly rewarded for his purity. To have that… vile disease enter his body was a perversion of all that was due to him.

That, of course, was the only reason he had allowed the heathens to enter his estate. And