The heat of his palm seeped through her skin, the hot width of it penetrating her fingers, branding a path up the length of her arm.
Their gazes held. She stared into his silver eyes, stark against thick black lashes. His eyes were cold, sheen-less bits of granite, the color of that strange moon tonight. She couldn’t find one glimmer of human vulnerability in them. And they were too direct, too bold, hiding something behind them. Coupled with that deceptively smooth voice, he could be lethal around women.
His head turned into the light and she noticed a faded scar that spread small talons over his right jaw.
His nearness made her feel vulnerable somehow. She wasn’t one to lose her cool over a guy’s touch. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at him as she found her voice. “You must be Agent Winter.”
CONNIE HALL
Award-winning author Connie Hall is a full-time writer. Her writing credits include six historical novels and two novellas written under the pen name Constance Hall. She’s written two Silhouette Bombshell novels and is thrilled to now be writing for Nocturne.
An avid hiker, conservationist, bird watcher, painter of watercolors and oil portraits, she dreams of one day trying her hand at skydiving.
She lives in Richmond, Virginia, with her husband, two sons and Keeper, a lovable Lab-mix who rules the house with her big brown eyes. For more information, visit her website or email her at [email protected].
The Guardian
Connie Hall
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
Imagine a world where supernatural beings exist, where good and evil forces clash. Far stretch, you might say. But ask Fala Rainwater what she thinks. She’ll tell you evil thrives among us in many forms because she’s a shape-shifter and a detective and she battles it every day.
And not just any shape-shifter. She is in line to become the Guardian, keeper of white magic, defender of goodness, destroyer of evil. But is she thrilled by her fate? No. She thinks it’s ruined her life.
That is, until she meets Stephen Winter, a dark warlock who is out to destroy her. He works for a highly covert government agency and knows how to keep a secret.
Bye for now and happy reading!
Connie Hall
Special thanks to
Camelot McAren and Sandra Greenman. I don’t deserve such good friends. Always to Norm and the boys. And to all American Indians, past and present. May your Trail of Tears fade, but never be forgotten.
Foreword
This Patomani Indian legend has changed little over the centuries. It goes as follows:
Long ago, the Creator formed Mother Earth. He sent the Maiden Bear to rule over all Earth’s creatures. Steam and brimstone spewed from the newly formed bowels of the Mother, and from that fiery brine emerged all evil, along with a race of sorcerers. Tumseneha was the father of them all. These sorcerers fed upon the misery, gluttony and lust of mankind, using humans as fodder for power.
The Maiden Bear saw that she could not control Tumseneha’s hunger for war, blood and souls, so she prayed to the Creator for help. He blessed the Maiden Bear and made her a god. She in turn fashioned the underworld to trap Tumseneha and all his kind.
As eons passed, the Maiden Bear grew weary of seeing man’s destruction of Earth, her tears forming the great rivers and oceans. She knew she must depart this sphere or drown it in her sorrow. But she could not leave her post unprotected. So she gifted her powerful magic to the first Guardian and gave the courageous female brave dominion over Earth’s evil. This perpetual honor is passed down through the first Guardian’s bloodline. After the Maiden Bear knew that the world was safe, she returned to her celestial throne to prepare a special place for each Guardian when her work here is done. She resides there with the spirit guides where she can be seen in the sky to this very day, watching over Mother Earth and each Guardian.
Contents
Prologue
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
Prologue
Patomani Indian Reservation, 1927
Tumseneha struggled within the human vessel, but couldn’t break free. Staked leather bands trapped the human’s wrists and ankles to the ground. The physical pain wasn’t his to feel, though he perceived it through the young man’s physical awareness; the stinging heat of the fire in the nostrils and lungs, bowed spine bent over the mound, tearing of skin beneath the leather bindings. No, what he felt was on a higher
