1 Chapter 1

The war between the former colonies and England had been raging for almost three years, and now, once again, it was early autumn. The leaves had turned to red and gold, and had started to fall

Gabe Granger made his way cautiously through the forest. He had been sent out to reconnoiter the British encampment about twenty miles to the north. One of his greatest accomplishments was his ability to retrieve information with no trouble at all. In addition, he was a good tracker, one of General Washington’s best.

That was why he couldn’t understand how anyone could sneak up on him without his being aware of it.

And even though the night was moonless, it seemed as if a shadow flowed around him, blotting out the stars.

“You’re quite attractive for a barbarian,” the owner of the shadow murmured. And while the voice was feminine, French, cultivated—the grip was as powerful as any man’s. “Shall I make you even more so, my pet? Would you like to belong to me forever?” She didn’t give him the chance to say no. She twisted his head and the pain came as a shock as she sank her fangs into his throat.

He’d heard of these creatures of the night. Even the Tuscaroras, who had raised him for a time after his parents had been killed by renegade white men, had tales of them.

Gabe had always been able to depend on his body. Now he was frightened by how easily she seemed to overpower him. He couldn’t even cry out for help.

He felt her draining the blood from his body, and he knew the best he could hope for was to die. The worst was for her to complete what she was doing and have him return as one of the undead.

“Stop!”

Gabe would have whimpered in relief, but not a single sound could get past his lips.

The suction at his throat ceased, but the woman didn’t remove her fangs. It hurt

“You know we have need of him as a spy. Will you make him your childe?” This voice was male and was equally cultivated, although it was British.

The woman withdrew her fangs but her lips remained fastened to his throat and she stroked her tongue over the wounds she’d made in his neck. In spite of himself, Gabe felt his prick harden. Oh God, what was wrong with him?

She raised her head. “A colonist? A Yankee? No.” Scorn filled her words, and she tossed him aside. “Besides, his blood isn’t in the least what I would want to sample again.”

“Did you hurt him? I told you I needed—” The Redcoat spat out a curse, and Gabe realized the woman must have left. “Stupid Frenchwoman, wasting food. Just like her queen.”

Gabe had the impression the man objected more to her nationality than to her sex.

The man cut his wrist. “I don’t have time for the entire procedure, little Yankee. This will have to suffice. Drink.”

Gabe didn’t know what the man was talking about, but the scent of blood was intoxicating. He latched onto the wrist that was offered to him and began to work the wound to obtain what he needed.

“I know you were General Washington’s spy.” The man chuckled and stroked Gabe’s hair with his free hand. “You’ll spy for me now, won’t you, little Yankee?”

Gabe froze. “What?”

“Washington won’t want you—no normal person will. You’re too dangerous. He won’t be able to trust you around his men. But I? I’ll give you free rein—feed from all the Yankee soldiers you’d like. You’ve stopped drinking.” There was a frown in his voice. “Continue. Once this melding is complete, you’ll belong to me. You’ll do whatever I ask of you.”

“And that includes betraying my country?”

“You’re British.”

“I’m American.”

“Don’t be tiresome.” He nudged Gabe’s lips with his wrist. “Do as I say.”

“I won’t.” Gabe shoved aside the arm and spat out the blood.

“Then die, foolish Yankee.” The voice had grown so cold, Gabe couldn’t prevent a shiver from running down his spine. The Englishman tossed Gabe aside much as the Frenchwoman had, and then Gabe was alone in the forest.

He wanted to weep. He’d failed in his mission. Soon it would be sunrise; he was going to die. From what he had learned, he knew the sun’s rays would melt the flesh from his bones. He sank back onto the bed of leaves and felt his heart stutter and slow. But he was a loyal American. He would not feed on men who trusted him—trusted that he’d find the information that would get them through another battle.

He prepared to meet his Maker…

No, goddammit, he wasn’t going to lie down and die like a…a Macaroni. He could hear the faint scrabbling of some small creature—possibly a squirrel or a raccoon. He’d find it and drink its blood.