Summary: Beth Dawson is a sophomore at Rosewood Hill College. She works part time as a DJ at the college radio station, and on weekends as a waitress in downtown Rosewood. New student Jasper Hale takes the radio shift after Beth's, and before long she realizes there's something different about him. And by the way, Beth's dorm building is a converted Civil War hospital, and she's begun hearing strange noises at night.
Author's Note: First, I'm not breaking up the Jasper/Alice pairing, so don't worry about that. Second, I've expanded on the back-story from Eclipse that so many people seem to be intrigued by, so some chapters (including the first one) will be from that era instead of the present. Third, I know it seems kind of like a cheesy coincidence, but believe it or not, I really did used to live in a converted Civil War hospital. And boy, did it have some interesting closed doors! (Rating subject to change—keep your eyes open!)
"The Night Shade"
1
"Is that everyone?" Major Jasper Whitlock checked the names on his list one last time—all the women and children he'd been assigned to evacuate from Galveston—just to be sure no one was missing.
"I b'lieve so, Major," said one of his subordinates, drumming the butt of his bayonet against the ground. He was one of those cheerful drawlers who left out most of his vowels when he spoke. "Might be a few mor'n the road, thar." He gestured with his gun. "Stragglers."
Major Whitlock nodded. "Possibly," he agreed. "I'm heading back to the embankment. If I see anyone, I'll send them this way."
"Yessir."
The subordinate saluted as Whitlock mounted his horse and rode off down the road to the bay.
It was an hour journey on horseback. In some ways easier than the evacuation itself, because Whitlock did not have to wait for his troops and charges. In other ways, it was harder. With no one to give orders to, Whitlock's thoughts turned inward, towards the dim ruminations he couldn't avoid in the quiet of night. It was just December now. He wondered how much longer this stalemate at the bay would last, and if he would see his family for Christmas. The Union armies outnumbered them by far, although with the bay, the Confederates had the tactical advantage. Whitlock expected a victory here, but he was beginning to doubt what difference it would make to rest of the South. And what if there was no victory? Would the Union soldiers sweep through the bay and take the whole of Texas?
Whitlock flexed his fingers and took a better grip on the reins, urging the horse into a trot. His mount tossed its head; steam rose from its sweating flanks, and from its mouth as it chewed around the bit. It was getting colder. Whitlock pressed his hand against the horse's neck and spoke softly—not using real words, just soothing nonsense noises as he stroked the shining coat—until the horse calmed again. Just a couple more miles; Major Whitlock could smell the salt from the bay.
Suddenly the horse reared back and whinnied shrilly. "Whoa," said Whitlock, petting the mane again. "Whoa, boy." The horse snorted and stamped its hooves, dancing in place. It would not move forward, and its haunches had gone rigid. "What's wrong now?"
Whitlock searched the road ahead of them. There, a patch of movement in the iridescence of the pale moon. Three women, standing abreast across the road, just a few yards ahead of them. No—two women, both very tall, with long, fair hair, and one black-haired girl no older than thirteen or fourteen. All three had skin as white as snow, and bright eyes that glowed like amber. They were dressed in white gowns. They were staggeringly beautiful.
Stragglers, thought Whitlock. But he did not remember seeing them at the bay, with the other civilians. Still, three females alone at night on the path to Houston must surely be lost, and in need of assistance. Whitlock dismounted, petting and murmuring to the horse as he did so that it would not bolt and leave him stranded, then approached the strangers.
Their faces stopped him. Beautiful, yes, but something else as well. Something alien and unnatural. The hems of their gowns were torn and tattered, and dark stains peppered the fabric. The tallest of the blond women laughed—a high, musical sound, like a glass bell. "He's speechless!"
The other blonde came forward so quickly Whitlock did not have time to react, and sniffed him. A contented noise came from deep in her slender throat. "Lovely," she breathed.
Somewhere behind him, Whitlock heard hoof beats pounding further and further into the distance; his mount was gone.
"Concentrate, Nettie," said the little one, the dark-haired girl. There was something authoritative in her tone; she was clearly the youngest of the group, but somehow she was also its leader.
Whitlock swallowed dryly. The others were still speaking, but the sound of his own heartbeat rang in his ears until he could barely understand the words.
"Patience," the little one was saying. "I want to keep this one." Her voice was so innocent, so childlike, like a young girl begging her parents to let her adopt a lost puppy. Whitlock knew without asking that she was talking about him, and the knowledge made her words horrible and strange.
"You'd better do it, Maria," said the tallest one, "if he's important to you. I kill them as often as I keep them."
"Yes, I'll do it," said the little one, called Maria. "I really do want to keep this one."
Do what? Whitlock wondered anxiously. A thousand possibilities riffled through his mind, each more unpleasant than the last.
"Take Nettie away, will you?" said Maria. "I don't want to have to protect my back while I'm trying to focus."
And the two flaxen-haired beauties disappeared. That is, they moved too quickly for Whitlock to see. A rush of icy air passed him, and they were gone. He wanted to run after them, to warn the others at the compound, but he could not turn his back on the dark-haired Maria.
Maria stared at him, her pale face glowing, her yellow-gold eyes bright with a demonic intelligence. She smiled. Whitlock no longer found anything remotely childlike about her.
"What is your name, soldier?" An unmistakable, irresistible, command.
"Major Jasper Whitlock, ma'am." Whitlock's voice sounded far away and frightened.
Maria took a step closer; Whitlock was struck by the smoothness of her skin, her mouth a black gash in an otherwise perfect sheet of stone cold marble. "I truly hope you survive, Jasper," she said. "I have a good feeling about you." No one addressed a Confederate officer by his first name, especially not a woman. She reached for him, lips parted as if to kiss him. The tongue inside that black mouth was too red, too vivid against the whiteness of her face. And the teeth behind her lips—small, but sharp.
God save me! Perhaps Whitlock spoke the words aloud; perhaps not. It did not matter.
Maria's tiny hands tore into the fabric of Whitlock's coat, and the next moment he was flat on his back. Cold ground beneath them, hard nails like ice picks digging into his shoulders, through his coat. And a hot, shooting pain that began at his throat, and swam through his veins like liquid fire. Whitlock's mouth twisted open in a silent scream; he could not move. He could not see. He didn't know whether his eyes were shut or the pain had rendered him temporarily blind. A million little venom-filled needles seemed to strike him over and over, starting at the wound in his throat and circulating through his whole body. Then the venom reached his heart, and Whitlock saw nothing but blackness.