Free Nightfall by Joey W. Hill and Desiree Holt Page B

leathered by the sun. Piercing blue eyes looked Quinn
up and down when he rode up as if he was the stranger.
    Then the stranger rose gracefully and held out his hand.
    “I’m Sam,” he said in a voice that, hand to God, sounded as
if it rolled out of the deep earth where centuries of his ancestors might be
buried.
    Quinn’s grandfather had told him stories of men like Sam Red
Elk. Not shamans, but Native American philosophers. His grandfather had died
when Quinn was very young, no more than seven or eight, but he’d made an
indelible impression on him, a stark contrast to his own father. Maybe for that
reason and some inexplicable others, he’d sneaked out and camped overnight with
Sam more than once. On that handful of nights, Sam had taught Quinn what peace
and serenity was. He’d helped Quinn let go of his angers from his many clashes
with his father and helped him find the quiet he’d needed to center himself,
decide what he wanted to do with his life.
    Ironically—given how much he’d always thought he hated this
life—what he’d realized he’d wanted was to own his own ranch.
    But it wasn’t necessarily those memories of Sam that were
dogging Quinn’s mind today. It was the glimpse of a different world where
outlandish things were possible, and the stories Sam had told him that
supported that idea. Stories so unbelievable Quinn had to believe they were
true. No one could make up such fanciful things.
    A land so big and open as this, with so many empty spaces,
made a man consider things other people scoffed at. But he’d had a real live
piece of it up close and personal. After Quinn had bought the Last Chance
Ranch, Sam had come back into his life, camped out on the edge of the property
for nearly a year. He’d said he was monitoring some kind of magical fault line,
one of the things that had made him recommend the place for Quinn. It has
good energy, haitsi . You’ll be happy here.
    Quinn hadn’t known how to process that, at least not until
he’d seen firsthand what Sam had meant about “monitoring”. He could say it was
tricks played by the dusk hours, but he still vividly remembered the night he’d
stayed with the shaman on the spring solstice. Sam had laid a hand on him while
his eyes were closed and Quinn had felt the energy of the earth beneath them.
That fault line was a living, breathing snake the size of a river, coiling and
moving, carrying them. It filled Quinn up, held him under, held him still in
every part of him and told him the world was way damn more than he’d ever know,
even if he lived a thousand years.
    Sam had opened his eyes at one point, and Quinn had looked
deep into the center of the earth. Maybe the man had spoken, maybe he hadn’t,
but he’d heard the words as if they were writing themselves across his soul.
    You will find your heart in the otherworld, Quinn. The
world men deny because they fear its strength. They fear losing control of what
they know. Be brave, Quinn, and find your heart.
    If Selene was a vampire, that would qualify as the
otherworld, wouldn’t it?
    He wanted to scoff at himself, but he remembered those
energies uncoiling beneath his feet, in Sam’s eyes, inside of Quinn himself.
Damn, he sure could use some advice from Sam. He lived in Nevada now. Quinn
missed him, but he knew the man was as close as a phone call or a day trip in
his plane. The line with Sam had always felt sure and strong.
    Lifting a hand, Quinn touched the bite mark on his neck. He
could easily dismiss it as a love bite. Other women had marked him that way
before. But this one appeared more detailed and precise. That had been no nip,
but a full, locking penetration that set a tingle to his balls just thinking
about it. Had she actually drunk his blood? When her silky skin had pressed
against his and her sensuous lips caressed his neck, he’d felt lightheaded.
Last night he’d chalked it up to the incredible intensity of the orgasm, but
was it more than that?
    Maybe she was