Kindred
By Sweetprincipale
Set in early Season Five. When Dracula called Buffy 'kindred'', he was doing a bit more than just saying they had a lot in common. Hungry for knowledge of herself and her power, Buffy didn't realize what kind of connection he had forged with her until he left town, and the damage was done. Hoping to break his hold over her, Buffy requests help from Spike. However, the way you break the hold of one vampire is to let another one possess you more fully. But, it'll only be temporary, right? Simple business, that's all…
Dedicated to: The wonderful Readers, Reviewers, and Pat-reon Supporters. You get proper noun status in my world, my loves.
XL
Buffy woke up to the sensation of two hands rubbing down her back, stopping at her hips, and circling, moving slowly up with small squeezes.
"Morning."
Buffy's eyes flew open. Spike. Spike beside her. Two hands moving. She rolled over with a gasping laugh. "Your hands work!"
"Wanna see what I can do with 'em?" he hinted.
"In a minute," Buffy giggled as she sat up slowly. She surveyed his face. "A day and a half does a lot of good."
Yesterday had been a "hibernation day", at least for them. She checked in with Giles, who said he was disinfecting his apartment. Unexpectedly, her mom was there, too. The four witches/wiccas/spell-casters were meeting up. They were all perfectly fine if Buffy and Spike just wanted to stay home. They even used the word, home, like it was theirs and this was real. Why don't you two stay home and rest? Do you need us to bring anything?
Around five, her mother and Giles had shown up with a box of blood containers for Spike and pre-made stuff from Joyce and the deli-counter. They stayed for about twenty minutes and left. Her mother kissed Spike on the good cheek and Giles awkwardly coughed at him while nodding. That was like his version of a high five.
They see it. This is real. We are real.
Nightmare creatures, no longer in a nightmare, a good dream, waking up.
"You're staring at me. I've gotta be better!" Spike huffed, hands gently prodding his face. "For one thing, I can open both eyes all the way and it only feels like someone scraped the inside of my face with a rusty razor instead of running a chainsaw around it a few times.
"You look amazing." Her voice was stupidly deciding to show her emotions by sounding thick and sniffly.
But he was stare-worthy.
From the burnt and corroded-looking skin of yesterday emerged a glazed-white coat that looked raw, but perfect. The bruising all around his eye and nose hadn't gone down yet, but it simply looked like he'd been punched. "You could pass for someone who walked into a doorknob." Buffy kissed his forehead gently, trying to sound cheery and upbeat.
He sighed into her neck. The best part was that his brain must be functioning better. His limbs did what they were told. Right now, they were told to hug the girl close to him so he could keep inhaling her delicious scent, feel her warmth, hear her heart thudding away in his ear, the vibrations moving through him.
"My blood doesn't run," he murmured, almost dreamily.
"Hm?"
"Cuts make it flow. Doesn't have a heartbeat to pump it, send it shootin' along. Knows where to go, somehow." Blood rushed to his cock as she nestled into his lap, alerting him to soft hips just above his.
She instinctively moved herself lower, brushing his erection with her warm center, a thin layer of pink cotton between them. "Well, something of yours is sending it where I want it to go," she purred.
He laced their hands together with a silent stare, looking hard at her fingers. No more lines of blood, but they were there, he'd seen them.
"I saw it. I saw it, too."
"He talked to you in your dreams. Never made weddin' rings spontaneously spurt onto your finger, did he?"
"That's all you. And you come into my dreams, too. You just tire me out too much to remember." she winked.
"Maybe that was 'cause there was distance. My head next to yours," damn, his turn to get all maudlin and choked-up, "that's a dream come true, so, no point in ruinin' a good night's sleep."
"I love you. I love you extra 'cause you're secretly a softy."
"Oi!" Spike jutted up defensively.
"Mmm, hard shell, soft, yummy center." She teasingly bounced on his cock, still separated by fabric.
"Cream-filling."
"You had to say that." Buffy wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes.
"Ah ah ah— you love when I fill you up."
"I… do?" Well, yeah because it felt good, feeling him release and the energy he spent inside her made her have a little mini-climax and stuff like that, but…
"'Cause it puts me in your system. More of me inside of you. Why d'you think vampires' weddin' ceremonies have to be private, Slayer?"
"So, it's a bonding thing?"
"I think so. I also think," his hands were suddenly proving their dexterity had returned, yanking the cotton crotch aside to swirl his tip through her folds and sheath himself straight inside, "that you simply can't get enough of me."
"That's very true," she moaned softly.
"Again?" Daniela quirked an eyebrow.
"Yes." Wesley replied simply, lightly biting her shoulder, the nape of her neck, making her release that dark, lustrous chuckle he was in love with. The desired result was achieved. His sleepy lover rolled to face him.
"I've created a monster," she laughed as he pulled their naked bodies tightly together.
"You would love me as a monster." He laughed in return. But then the words were out and they hung there. He tried to smother them with kisses.
She turned her head. "You are a brave man. I know you do not truly fear death. You're not seeking an escape."
"Hm? No!" Wesley pulled back slightly, a frown line between his brows.
"You and I… We will part." Her eyes were bright and her throat hurt so much more than it should. How many funerals had she attended over the years? So many- all the ones that were at night anyway. The scads of men she'd had in the gay nineties, the dreary years of war, the free-spirited sixties… Those refined men in their forties and thirties, the heroic, muscular boys in their twenties… "I've been to so many funerals." She came to pay her respects if a friendship had been formed.
"Oh, my love. Don't."
"I shall come to yours, of course." It will be different. I will not just see him in his youth, then read of his death in the paper, hear of it from an acquaintance. I will be there with him. I'll hold his hand. I'll say goodbye. For I will not see him later. When I go… Where do I go?
"Because of you, I imagine it will be a long ways off. You'll help me, won't you?"
"Help you? Fight crime? Save the lost of Los Angeles?" She didn't mean to scoff.
"You and Cordelia could—"
"Hush, Sorcerer, you needn't entice me with tales of what my life could be here. I already see it." I could have a family. I could remember what it's like to see the same faces every day, to laugh and not hide. I could wake up with him beside me. "I don't want to let you go," Daniela heard herself confessing, to her horror. To her even greater shame, her eyes overflowed and she hid her face in his neck.
"Darling, please. Shhh, shh." Wesley found himself blinking back tears, too. "It will be years. If we live past this weekend, of course." His attempt at gallows humor failed dismally.
"If Dracula ever finds I have tried to make a bond with you, even thought of claiming you, he will kill you." Jealous, controlling, shadow-master.
"He'll be dead shortly, so we won't mention it until after we dance through his ashes."
"Don't underestimate him! He likes to play the courtly mystic, but non. He has another side. His pride is his greatest weapon."
"Then we'll use it against him. We could help Buffy, you know. Should he see not just one former conquest but two with new lovers, he'll be rattled, don't you think? Although, I suppose he wouldn't think I was anything special, but still. It could help."
Dracul had never seen her devotion to any other man. Daniela briefly wondered if he thought she was pining away for him, locked away in a pretty prison of her own making. "Do you think anyone looks at me, standing beside you, and doesn't know I'm yours? That you're mine?"
His heartbeat skipped. He felt it, something so powerful in his chest, it made him dizzy. Could be from quite a lot of blood loss lately. He preferred to think of it as something more. "Come here."
So much in such a simple phrase, a simple tug of her body to his.
He lay, pale and panting, head on her chest. "Eventually, I have to go to the office. I can only 'work' so much from home."
"I will stay in and tidy up." Daniela weakly looked around the room. "And place an order for a new mattress. A bigger apartment would suit you better. A bigger bedroom, bigger bed," she laughed into his mussed hair, stroking it with her fingers.
"It'll be too empty, too often." He nipped her breast.
Silence, thoughtful, not sad. "Mia and Stefan wouldn't like it here. They don't like the heat. Their children are all in France or —"
Wesley sat up sharply. "You cannot give up that beautiful place tofr me! I cannot move away from my work here. Yet. Perhaps I'll feel I never can. Not for lack of love, but for feeling like I ought to stay and help. I've gotten good at helping, in my own small ways." I cannot go selfishly from this Wolfram and Hart-controlled cesspool where demons are slowly sucking the soul and humanity out of everything they touch, simply because I'm in love. She wouldn't have much to love in such a selfish man. "I don't want to be the person I once was. I was too arrogant and pompous. You wouldn't have liked me."
Daniela shrugged, easing him back down. "Perhaps not. But I like you now. As long as the house remains in my name, as long as I travel home every few months—" she hesitated. "I would be happy, Wesley."
"I would travel with you. There must be demons of the seedier sort in Paris. Perhaps I could help there. Make the place safer."
He must play the hero. Ah, well. He is my hero. "Yes, I know there are. We do not bother one another."
How could she let evil exist without stopping it? He supposed that was part of survival. He supposed that was part of being defined as evil yourself. "I would likely bother them."
Silence.
"You must let me come with you. I will not pace the floors wondering if my lover is lying in pieces in some corner."
"I wouldn't want you to make enemies." She'll be living there long after I'm gone.
"I could perhaps talk to some of them. They don't kill all the time, not the vampires I know of. Some of the other sorts, I am sure they do, but the vampires… I'm sure they could be taught to see things my way."
"Willing donors?" Wesley's stomach twisted into a knot. After he was gone, would she give herself to others, hiding her tears in dark bedrooms, feeding for survival? Maybe she wouldn't miss him for too long. No soul, after all.
"So much to be said, Sorcerer," Daniela whispered softly.
He steeled himself to hash it all out, perhaps take some notes, consult some books, even the Council, in a discreet sort of way.
Daniela rose, her skin a rosier-tone from recent lovemaking and feeding, her nude curves swaying as she piled her long dark hair atop of her head. "But one thing is absolutely certain."
Yes. The incompatibility of their individual mortalities. Wesley nodded gravely as he put on his glasses.
"If you intend for me to stay with you for more than a few days at a time—"
"I do! Absolutely!"
"Then I simply must have more closet space and we need a dining room where your friends can sit down and eat a meal!"
"We usually eat take out whilst researching." Wesley followed her into the bathroom.
"Then a study. Or a library."
"A.I. isn't terribly prosperous at the moment."
Daniela turned on the water in the shower and smiled as Wesley hung up a towel for her use. "Perhaps not. But I am."
"I cannot allow you to pay Los Angeles prices for a flat you barely use!" he protested.
"Then I shall have to use it more often, n'est-ce pas? And… I shall have to give you the name of my investment manager." She stepped into the shower, water instantly making her skin shimmer, water coursing down her sides, over her breasts. Her hands slowly followed the path, seducing him. "Would you like to go make a call?"
Temptress. Practical, helpful, thoroughly seductive temptress. He got in after her. "It can wait."
"This is Buffy." Scuffle. Mumble. "Spike This is the third try, I'm not doing this again!"
"And Spike. Leave a message." Scuffle. "Happy?"
"Not yet!" "Please."
Cordelia hung up the phone, a frown replacing her normally broad smile. She wasn't really close with Buffy. Spike was a total stranger. She still blamed him for her fear of maggots and worms after that buggy cosmetic guy incident. Thinking of that, actually… That was a couple of years ago and Spike still didn't have a soul. Daniela doesn't have a soul, either, but she's also had like hundreds of years of playing nice to perfect her human interactions. Plus, Buffy had always been about that 'men I shouldn't have' thing. Unlike me. No one is out of Queen C's League… maybe below it.
Charles had kissed her. Charles Gunn wasn't below anyone, unless it was all the people he was lifting out of danger and into safety.
Gunn kissed me. Like he was hungry for me.
Well, I can't cook.
Maybe Angel had a little bit of a point. This was all happening way too fast and there was too much icky, not-really-free-will kind of magic going on. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to check on them. She'd tell Angel to call first, though, not just show up unannounced.
With a sigh of martyrdom that would have done her masochistic boss proud, she dialed the cellphone that he stubbornly refused to use half the time. "Angel… this is silly. Do I need to come find you?" She walked through the hotel slowly, listening for the telltale ringing.
Hmm. Nothing. He could have had it on silent.
He could have left the building, but where in the world would he go in daylight?
Maybe on a case? An underground, wallowing in the sewers kind of case that he would of course not tell anyone about because he was pissed at all of them?
"Angel. When you get this, call me back."
But he didn't call. Hours passed, people came and went, the phone rang dozens of times, and it was never him.
Could he have gone to Sunnydale already?
Well, so much for not barging in. With his current state of bugus-up-assus, he wouldn't hesitate to dive right in on the insulting and brawling. He was doing it with his best friends, at least the insulting part. Her heart ached and curled in on itself.
Just as quickly, it flared wide open, full of worry. Buffy could kick his ass and Spike… there was that whole torturing him for the Gem of Amara thing. Buffy had horrible, horrible taste in men.
Still, all the more reason not to crash at their new apartment or their party and tell both of them they're crazy. Shiksa-vamp, anyone? Like, it's not only stupid, it's rude.
One day, barring a total evil meltdown, she was going to teach Angel some manners.
"Doesn't even make sense. He was all poofy shirts and ascots back in the day. He had to have some manners…" she muttered. Severely annoyed with the thought of having to re-house train someone old enough to have diapered Emily Post, she stalked off to send out bills, her cell phone still clutched in one hand.
Anya rifled through bills, completely without Joyce's permission. "Joyce? I was doing some calculating."
Joyce sighed. She'd given up on telling Anya to stay out of her office. It was more functional and organized in three days than it had been in three years. "Anya, I told you, this is for my only daughter's engagement party. Very likely her only engagement party." Another sigh, a different type. "I want everything to be just perfect for tomorrow. Oh! That reminds me. Buffy told me that man who replaced Rupert temporarily might be coming? Wesley Weaslham-Pryce?"
"Wyndham-Pryce."
"He's coming with a guest. I know we're not having anything formal or sit down, but do you think we have enough appetizers?"
Anya considered. "Probably. His girlfriend isn't going to eat much."
"Oh, you've met her?"
"Kinda. She's Dracula's ex."
Joyce knocked over a Limoges vase she was planning on filling with artfully arranged sprays of pink roses. As she caught it with a gasp, she managed to ask, "Does that mean she's a—"
"Vampire? Yep. I was thinking maybe we should put out some blood. Well, not out-out. You wouldn't want Buffy's aunt to accidentally grab the wrong kind of punch. Is her aunt coming?"
"No, she sent a gift card. It's not a quick little trip and my brother-in-law broke his ankle so she's taking care of him." Joyce blinked rapidly. How this conversation could bounce between the normal and utterly bizarre so easily was beyond her. But she kept doing it. "How is that possible?"
"Is he clumsy?"
"No! Dracula's ex is dating Wesley?"
"Under the glasses, he's kind of cute. She's a total knockout! If I wasn't into Xander, I would kiss her." Anya complacently fluffed a large white cloth out over the table that would hold the assortment of hors d'oeuvres.
Joyce decided to abandon this line of questioning. It made her head hurt and she wouldn't be seeing Rupert until very late, if at all. She smothered a smile. He'd proved to be excellent tension relief. "What about your calculations?"
"You could absolutely pay off your refinancing loan by the end of the year if you rented out this room a few times a month, charging about five hundred dollars per reservation, not to mention any additional income earned from purchases generated by all the extra gallery guests. I'd say that's fair if we provide the space, the linens, paper and plastic goods, not to mention the seats and tables." Her eyes scanned the room. "What would you think? Thirty people maximum occupancy? Do we have the fire code for that? Oh, and you would totally need them to sign a waiver about any damages."
"Anya… that's… how did you know I had a loan, I… That's brilliant." All the strings of conversation and confusion snapped abruptly. Joyce simply smiled at the eager-looking twenty-year old. "How come you're so much more practical than Buffy is at your age?"
"Oh, well, a couple centuries of watching financial markets will do that to you," Anya shrugged modestly. "Speaking of practical? That vase? Might get broken. Do you have anything that looks nice but is really cheap?"
Joyce scanned the room. "I think I have to go to the craft store. Wanna come?"
"Yay! Spending other people's money! Can we pick up the balloons, too?"
"They'll be delivered tomorrow by lunch." Joyce turned to Anya as the girl finished placing one of the dozen folding chairs ringing the small back room. "Should I be doing all of this?"
"Well, she's your only daughter and her dad's not around. Spike's parents aren't around. I'd say not only should you do this, but you're the only one who can." Anya hesitated and then reached out and tagged Joyce's shoulder lightly, almost as if she weren't sure if it was the right gesture. "Go you!"
"I mean, should I be doing this since it's turning into something public? Some of my old friends from LA are coming and now some other… old acquaintances are showing up. This could be dangerous, but—"
"Well, she's your only daughter and she's the Slayer, so… yep. I would say you should still do this. You're doing a good job. Although, you might want to get some extra long tablecloths. It'll be a good cover if Buffy wants to stash some weapons under the buffet table."
Joyce nodded in a daze. "I'll ask her. She and Spike were hoping to come over for dinner before catching up with everyone at Mr. Giles'."
It was Anya's turn to nod. "That's good. I'm glad they're up and around."
"I told them to take it easy." Joyce locked the gallery's back door as they exited. "Do you think there's even a chance that they're listening?"
Anya imagined that they might possibly be making love slowly and gently. She didn't know much about Buffy's preferences, but she knew Spike seemed sexually well-rounded. He was trapped inside during the day, recovering, and he probably knew a few positions that wouldn't create too much strain on his recently injured body. She could ask him later, when Xander wasn't around to have a panic attack as he listened to the liberated-exchange between reformed-demon and ex-demon.
"Anya, I said, 'Do you think—"
Anya quickly interjected, distracting herself from thinking about Xander and sexy times. "I think they will. Until it's dark, anyway."
"I don't know if you're up for this." Buffy bit her lip.
"I was up pretty much all day, Pet."
"Stop that!" she chided, cheeks matching her engagement party dress, a shade of dark, bruised-rose pink.
"No one can hear us out here. Besides, I gotta get back in shape. Fighting shape, not just shaggin' shape. Who knows what that chip-ectomy did to my timing and reflexes?" Spike put his duster on a headstone and leaned against the shadow-soaked exterior of his crypt, watching the sunset from relative safety.
Buffy remembered their post-lunch activities. Spike had moved to catch her effortlessly, rolling with her, catching her hips from the front, sheathing himself inside her, letting her roll to get on top of him, seamlessly bucking up to meet her on each downstroke.
Spike inhaled, catching a sweet scent that he was oh, so familiar with. "Oh, Slayer. Not those kind of reflexes. Not yet. After, maybe."
"No! There will be no after. I mean, yes, after but not in the middle of the cemetery. Back home."
"This is our second home. Weekend chalet. Or we could call it our office. It's close to work, init?" Spike chuckled, but then his eyes narrowed as the sun flashed its final rays.
Darkness and two nights off didn't do anyone in Sunnydale any favors. Well, not anyone human.
Spike loved to watch her work. Of course, it had a negative drawback at times. Like right now, when his beloved was screeching at him.
"That guy bit my leg!"
"Well, I cut his bloody hands off and you took his head for a good fifty-yard pass, Pet. He's not a werewolf, you'll be fine."
"I have to wear a dress tomorrow!"
"You'll be all healed by then. Look at me, I'm a walking poster for Dr. Red's Lobotomies."
"That was different. And not a lobotomy. And don't call her Dr. Red, it makes her sound like some old toothless doctor in a cowboy hat!"
"What are you on about?" Spike allowed himself a smoke since they were out in the open and he was feeling slightly winded, even without the need for air. That demon had been very muscular and hard to subdue.
Buffy made mincemeat out of him, but with some slight expense to herself. "Spike, this is deep and it's right on my calf. It tore my pants!"
"We've got plenty of dosh, Slayer, we'll get you a new pair. Oh, you've got those pink leatherette trousers I like. Makes you look like a real bad girl." He pressed up to her affectionately, hungrily, hands rubbing appreciatively over her hips.
"More on that later." She reluctantly wriggled free, mentally playing with a little role reversal in her head. Bad girl Buffy. Sweet virginal William.
"Really?" Spike watched her cheeks flush and her eyes shift self-consciously.
"Well… yeah. Are you gonna be the bad boy to my bad girl?"
"Mmm, of course. Right until you want to see my good side," he winked.
"Oh, honey. I think all of your sides are good. Definitely good looking. If you didn't have a good heart, though, we wouldn't be in this situation." The stinging pain in her leg temporarily erased lust as they stalked off in search of their next "practice Dracula."
"You mean needing to find our way home right now?" Spike hinted. "Or we could revisit the early days of our courtship." He jerked his head back toward the crypt.
Buffy snorted. "No! An engagement party tomorrow. I'm not wearing trousers—I mean pants!— to my engagement party. I just bought that dress." She pouted.
"You're worried about a tiny little cut that'll probably be scabbed over tomorrow—"
"Eww. Scabs in the photos. Wait, we're taking photos aren't we? I want photos! Full-length photos, with my head on your chest, your arm around my waist ala prom pics." Her eyes were starting to get that starry, far away look.
"Slayer, focus. We have to practice our daily double decapitation and mutilation."
"Not until you say yes to the pictures!"
"Of course we'll take pictures! Get a big glossy one to put in the living room and one for the bedroom as well." He paused as Buffy put her hair in a high, swishing ponytail, loving the smile that played over her lips as she watched him watching her. "You know you might have a few other little reminders in the photos." He tapped his neck pointedly.
"I'll ask Willow to do a glamor. Spike! You're a genius!" Buffy whirled and kissed him enthusiastically, knocking the cigarette right out of his hand. "She can do a glamor on my leg, too!"
Spike pushed himself upright after her near-tackle. "Ahh. A woman who loves me for my brain and my body."
"Speaking of your big brain, do you know what kind of thing that was that bit me? Once, I absorbed some demon essence that made me read minds. Not as fun as it sounds." Buffy shuddered.
"No, we wouldn't want that. If you could read my thoughts, you'd never be able to get out of bed again."
"I think you'll get past this honeymoon phase eventually."
"Oi. That's not true." Spike grabbed her arm suddenly, turning her to face him. "Buffy… I could never get enough of Dru. Over a century, I could drink and never even begin to quench that thirst for her. What I feel for you makes what I had with her seem like …" Spike paused. His feelings for his sire were complicated. Affection and hurt, longing to be loved, to be chosen.
Slayer chose me. Over and over, Down to the wire. Each time she could've run to save herself from Finn, she didn't. Each time she calls me Kindred, lets me in her thoughts, her body, her head, her bed. Our bed, our life. Every bite. Every drink. "God, Buffy. I'm so in love with you. Dru was a single star. You're my universe, endless. Eternal."
"Eternal." Like all the dramatic, moody romances say. Buffy bit her lip.
Sometimes, the monsters are the ones you should send to save the princess. Sometimes the princess is supposed to kill the prince. Or the count, in this case. "I love you, too. Spike," she swallowed hard. "We have to practice more. It's getting close. I can't imagine he'll leave us alone for much longer."
He nodded, hand slipping back in hers. "Wanna go find the head of the that thing? Take it Rupes to identify?"
"Oh, ewww. Do we have to?"
"I'll carry it for you, Slayer."
"Ah, true love."
"Exactly. True love."
True love.
Are they insane? Is she insane?
Of course, she's insane. And Spike is just the master con artist with nice lips and soulful eyes. But no soul!
Engagement party?
Engagement?
"What the hell is going on here?" Angel crushed his cellphone into a plastic and circuitry-filled pulp in one furious fist as he slowly rolled up the window on his black convertible. Oh well. He'd been ignoring it all day.
He knew he shouldn't be skulking around Sunnydale, haunting the cemeteries, waiting for a glimpse of her. He was a master stalker, especially when it came to Buffy. For nearly a year he'd been around the newly called Slayer without ever making contact.
For once, his tricks weren't working. He'd stayed in the shadows of the campus, Giles' flat, Joyce's home, the Bronze, and several cemeteries. Nothing. He couldn't very well ask one of her friends where she was because then that would alert her to his presence. He wanted to see things for himself, not hear a spin put on it.
Well. He hadn't really seen anything, down in his car behind the cemetery walls and hedges, but he'd heard a lot in the still twilight, first attracted by sounds of a growling battle. He'd briefly considered getting out of the car before he heard her voice.
Angel told himself he should just go and confront them. They wouldn't be hard to track. The scent of them filled the air, a rich, sweet scent that made him sick with longing and made his worst instincts come out, too. Spike had helped Buffy with her "problem" when he couldn't. He owed him a pass for the woman he loved.
But brainwashing her and simpering over her like that…
"Oh, Buffy, you're the sun, the moon, the stars, the galaxy!" he mumbled in a mocking tone. "What is he, a Trekkie?"
Well, clearly the hold with Dracula was broken.
Now he just had to break the other one. He couldn't remove it himself, not like Spike had, "taking over the lease", so to speak.
"Oh, damn. I'm gonna have to kill him." He groaned, briefly sinking back against the seat. Buffy'd be mad at him. At first.
So why couldn't he stop smiling?
To be continued…
Up next, an engagement party, complete with an assortment of party crashers.
Thank you all for being so patient! I juggle too many things, but I think some of them are worth sharing, lol. But, in case you were asking yourself, did Sweet fall off the edge of the world and take the ending of this story with her?! The answer is no.
Sweet wrote a Christmas short, a naughty contemporary romance, is reading Finding Faith as Healing Hope, and most of all... Sweet wrote a Victorian-era mystery/romance with a spunky heroine who challenges gender conventions of the time and who will meet a sweet, clever doctor to solve a Jack-the-Ripper-like killing.
It's a "pound dreadful" (too big to be a penny at 24K words) and it's free on Kindle Unlimited or cheap if you don't have that. I would love to share it with you!
The Undertaker's Daughter: Dearly Departed by M. Culler. (And the whole trilogy is out now!)