The Phantom Queen Awakes Read Online Free Page A

didn’t touch her, every survival
instinct he had kept him from doing it. “Why did you kill
him?”
    She stood and looked at him with eyes darker
than the cloudless skies above and just as cold and unreachable.
“Death is a part of life. Everything that is born and all that
thrives will one day pass away. It will go better for you if you
simply accept fate, Severus.” She looked down at her laundry and
his gaze followed.
    There, in the cold black water, floated the
same tunic he wore. It had the same tears, the same rust-colored
stains. His blood icy and his limbs paralyzed, he watched it swirl
for a moment and then disappear, pulled under by the inexorable
current.
     
     
    ****
     
     
    Afterword
     
    I was immediately intrigued with the idea of
writing a story about the Morrigan, a figure in Irish myth that has
long captured my imagination. I have always seen the Morrigan as
having a lot in common with, say, the vulture. She’s doing a dark
job that needs to be done and she’s got a bad rep for doing it
well. I chose to depict her as the Bean-nighe ― the washer
woman ― in my story, because I love the idea of her as a harbinger
of death, especially as it is such a seemingly innocuous
guise.
     
     
    ****
     
     
    Biography
     
    Anya Bast is the national bestselling author
of numerous works of romantic fiction, mostly all paranormal and
mostly all scorching hot. She lives in the country with her
husband, daughter, and an odd assortment of rescued animals. To
read more about Anya and to find out more information about her
books, please visit http://www.anyabast.com/ .
     
     
    ****
     
     
    Lynne Lumsden
Green
    I Guard Your Death

    Maiden
    Hidden, Pwyll watched a young woman as she
washed clothes in the stream. Her hair was the color of a
newly-forged copper shield, with deep crimson shadows. Every time
she bent forward to scrub, her tunic gaped to reveal her perfect,
pink-tipped breasts. Her skin was a smooth, lustrous cream, and her
wet hair draped across her thighs, making the cloth
cling.
    The singular beauty of the washerwoman stirred
his blood, tugging at him; he was the compass and she was the North
Star. Pwyll made certain the girl was alone before he stepped out
from behind the rock. The woman stopped scrubbing when his shadow
fell across her and she looked up, but her eyes held no fear. “Who
are you?” she asked.
    Pwyll didn’t answer. Instead, he bent and
grabbed a double handful of her hair, pulling her to her feet. She
didn’t scream or struggle as he dragged her from the stream to a
grassy cleft. He nudged her behind the knees with his leg, while
pushing on her shoulders, and together they fell to the
ground.
    With one hand firmly entangled in her hair,
Pwyll reached into her tunic and groped her breasts. Still, she
didn’t fight but remained strangely, regally calm. He shoved her
onto her back and slid her skirt up to her waist, and their eyes
met. For a moment Pwyll hesitated, for through her eyes he could
see past eternity and into the infinite. Momentarily dizzy, he
dropped his gaze and his desire was renewed.
    “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she warned him.
Pwyll ignored her. Her thighs were as rounded and ripe as he had
imagined them and his need roared through him, stronger than
before.
    “I warn you again; I am not what I seem.” Her
voice was low, and if he had been listening, he would have sensed
the impatience. He looked into her eyes and saw the skin around
them pulled tight by her trapped hair. Her expression was still
unreadable, but she remained limp. Somewhere, a less primal part of
his mind was disturbed by her lack of fear, but he could not focus
beyond her soft flesh. She drew in a breath as he forced his way
into her body, and remained motionless while he sought his moment
of ecstasy within her. Her flesh was very sweet.
    Once spent, he collapsed on top of her,
crushing her. He tugged his hand from her hair, not caring that
strands of it came away with his fingers, not