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Excerpt from Believe In The Magic by
Cait Miller
Prologue
Two years ago
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Like the cover of a romance novel, the young couple lay intertwined with each other on a heart-shaped bed, modesty safeguarded only by the closeness of their bodies and the tangle of the red satin sheet. The gold of their hair and of the rings on their fingers glinted in the light from the candles that flickered over them. Clothes lay scattered around the room, and a table by the window held the remains of two meals. On the nightstand, an open bottle of champagne rested in a bucket of swiftly melting ice next to two empty champagne flutes.
They did not stir when the door opened, slept on soundly even when he entered the room. He regarded the scene with grief, anger and satisfaction. The drug had worked.
For a moment he felt regret for what he was about to do but he smothered it mercilessly as he raised the gun in his gloved hand. The woman—no, creature—before him was no longer the little girl for whom he had had such hopes and dreams. His daughter was dead, the male she was wrapped around had seen to that. She was like him now and they would both have to be put down. He knew there were others. They could only be the work of evil. No human could do what they did. And so it was up to him to free their souls from torment.
In the end the decision was easy.
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Today
The insistent buzzing of the dreaded alarm sliced through Megan’s brain, signaling her that it was time to start another day. Groaning softly she stuck an arm out from beneath the covers and slapped at the button on top of the clock until there was blessed silence. “Oh God…it can not possibly be time to get up yet.” It was warm and cozy under the quilt and she had had an unsettling night full of dreams she couldn’t recall. They had left her feeling unrested and groggy. Sticking her nose out from beneath the covers, Megan checked the digital alarm clock and saw that it was indeed six a.m. She flung back the quilt, swung her bare legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up, pulling the faded oversized T-shirt down over her backside as she rose and stumbled blindly to the bathroom and into the shower.
Home
Forty-five minutes later, Megan pulled her ancient car into the parking lot at the side of the beachfront Seaview Hotel, a two-story monument to Scottish tourism complete with the distinctive blue and white flag of Scotland on the roof. Painted the color of sand, the narrow building had thirty rooms stretching to the back. The restaurant with its large glass conservatory was at the front, and the main door leading to the reception area at the side.
It was early September and the sun was already on its way up, though a wispy mist still hung over the sand and only a few ambitious—or stupid—people were visible jogging or following jubilant dogs.
Megan swallowed the last mouthful of coffee from a travel mug before clumping it onto the dashboard. She could have made the drive to work in her sleep, which was probably just as well considering she almost did. “I am definitely not a morning person…which of course explains why I choose to work the breakfast shift,” she grumbled sarcastically to the tired blue eyes that looked back at her from the rearview mirror.
She climbed out of the car and headed for the staff locker room to stow her bag, pulling her damp curly dark hair into a ponytail, and checking her white blouse and short black skirt and tights as she went. Actually the seven-until-four shift wasn’t so bad despite the uncivilized time she had to get out of bed. It meant the rest of the day was hers to do what she pleased. Anyway, she had been tired for so long now she was almost used to it, it was her own fault for going to bed late nearly every night. Briefly she thanked the god of all waitresses that she was on holiday for two weeks after today.
Danny,
the brusque Irish chef, had already started cooking when she passed through
the hot kitchen with all its gleaming stainless steel appliances—someone
must already be down for breakfast. Short and nearly bald under his crumpled
hat, Danny had been there as long as she could remember. Faded blue amateur
tattoos climbed up his arms beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Megan turned
a blind eye to his teapot filled with dark beer sitting on the counter
behind him, as most of the staff did. Danny was an alcoholic, but he did
his job and was loved by customers and staff alike. They had stopped trying
to change him long ago.
“How is it going, Dan? Are we busy?”
“What time d’ya call this?” he growled without turning
away from the bacon sizzling under the grill. He was notorious for being
at least an hour early for work and it was his standard reply. Megan grinned
and walked on. If she was half an hour early he would still say the same
thing.
He loved her really.
As
she approached the dark wooden doors to the dining room she became aware
of a building sense of trepidation. Frowning, she pushed open the door
and froze. Sitting alone directly in front, watching as if he had expected
her, was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. He looked to be
in his early thirties, just about the right age for a twenty-six-year-old
waitress, she thought whimsically. Although he was seated she knew he
must be tall, but then, at five-foot-three everyone seemed tall to her.
In seconds her gaze ran over his short black hair and the sharp planes
of his clean-shaven face to his broad shoulders and a fantastic chest
covered by an indecently tight T-shirt. Through the shirt, a shadow of
dark hair was just visible. She suffered a small pang of disappointment
that the table blocked her view of what promised to be a lower half as
heart-stopping as the rest of him. When she brought her eyes back up to
meet his silver gaze, her head felt as if it were buzzing and the rest
of the room faded away from them.
The spell was broken when his mouth curved in an insolent smile as if
he knew exactly what she was thinking. She felt the heat rising in her
face and turned away to pick up an order pad.
Ah, but I do, Megan.
Megan’s eyes snapped back to his face as the deep American voice
floated through her head, but his eyes were on the newspaper on his table
and his face impassive. You have got to get more sleep, Meg, she thought,
shaking her head.
You had trouble sleeping last night? Me, too. Maybe we should try
together.
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him again but he seemed to be paying
her no attention. Get a grip, Megan. Telepathy is impossible, it’s
just lack of sleep…or too much television and far too many vampire
romance novels… You will go over there and take his order and he
will not have an American accent.
There was only one other table occupied in the dining room. She decided
to play it safe and headed over to the elderly couple to take their order,
ignoring the word coward following in her wake.