The Heiress Rises From The Mud

The smell of rotting garbage and copper filled her nose before she even opened her eyes.

Rain hit her face like freezing gravel. A violent tearing sensation ripped through her chest. This body did not belong to her. It belonged to an Appalachian girl who had just died.

A stray cat near her stiff fingers let out a sharp hiss. It jumped away from her hand and vanished into the heavy rain.

Anne tried to push herself up from the mud. Her arms gave out immediately. Her ribs ground together with a sickening crunch. Her lungs burned, desperate for oxygen, but her severely malnourished muscles refused to work.

She closed her eyes and searched her internal energy pool. It was empty. The ancient nature spirit inside her was completely drained. If she did not find a source of life force right now, this broken human shell would be dead in ten minutes.

A low engine rumble vibrated against the wet pavement.

Anne's heightened senses caught something else. A massive, freezing, yet incredibly intoxicating wave of dark biological energy was rolling in from the mouth of the alley.

Survival instinct took over. She bit down hard on her tongue. The sharp taste of fresh blood and the spike of pain forced her nervous system to wake up. She dragged her broken body through the mud, inching toward the streetlights.

A bulletproof Maybach sat idling at the curb. The rear door was wide open. A driver stood in the rain, arguing frantically with three men in black suits. For exactly three seconds, their defensive line broke.

Anne used the shadows of the dumpsters to hide. Through the sheets of rain, she locked her eyes on the source of the energy.

A man sat in a wheelchair right outside the open car door.

Cristofer Barrett turned his head slightly. The harsh streetlamp illuminated his pale, flawless face. His dark brows pulled together. He stared directly into the black alley, sensing the shift in the air.

The heavy pressure in his gaze made Anne's heart skip a beat. It was a fatalistic pull. But the burning need to survive crushed her fear.

The lead bodyguard turned his back to answer a static voice in his earpiece.

Anne lunged.

She exploded from the shadows. She stumbled wildly toward the wheelchair, bringing a gust of cold wind, rain, and the heavy scent of blood right into Cristofer's personal space.

Cristofer's pupils shrank to pinpricks. His paralyzed legs made it physically impossible for him to stand or dodge. He reacted with brutal efficiency, raising his large hand to crush her throat.

Anne ducked under his arm like a dying animal. She grabbed the lapels of his custom suit with both hands. She pulled herself up and smashed her freezing lips hard against his.

The second their mouths collided, a dam broke.

Thick, dark energy flooded out of his body and rushed into her dry, cracked spiritual veins. The freezing power acted like a violent stabilizer, forcing her shattered ribs to hold together.

Cristofer let out a harsh grunt against her mouth. His entire body went rigid. The cursed energy inside him-the Barrett Curse that destroyed anyone who touched him-was actually obeying this filthy girl. It poured into her, leaving behind a strange, hollow sense of peace in his chest.

"Hey!"

The bodyguards spun around. They saw the attack, drew their firearms in unison, and charged the wheelchair.

Anne had enough. She shoved her hands against Cristofer's solid chest and broke the kiss violently.

Color rushed back into her pale cheeks. Her green eyes glowed with an unnatural light in the dark rain. She stared straight into his shocked black eyes.

"Thank you for the... warmth," she whispered. Her voice was raw and raspy, carrying an ancient rhythm, carefully hiding the technical precision of her thoughts. "I will come find you."

Cristofer's hand shot out to grab her wrist. His fingers only caught the wet, cold fabric of her hem as it slipped away. A violent shiver ran through his chest.

Anne pushed all her stolen energy into her legs. She launched herself off the ground and vaulted over the high iron fence next to the alley. Her movements were entirely too fast for a bleeding girl.

The bodyguards reached the wheelchair. They aimed their guns over the fence.

"Stand down."

Cristofer's voice was a low, gravelly bark.

He slowly raised the back of his hand and rubbed his lips. He stared at the empty space over the fence. His chest rose and fell heavily.

Anne landed hard on a pile of discarded cardboard on the other side. She clutched her chest, panting heavily. The dark energy was aggressive. It burned in her veins. She needed a safe place to digest it.

"Sir, do we need to call the NYPD to lock down the grid?" the lead bodyguard asked, his voice shaking with panic.

Cristofer dropped his hand. He glared at the guard.

"Drive back to the estate," Cristofer ordered coldly. "And lock down everything that happened here tonight. Not a word."

The Maybach's doors slammed shut. The engine roared and faded into the distance.

Anne stood up from the trash. The rain washed the mud and blood off her face. She stared at the towering steel and glass buildings of New York City.

She turned and began the long, painful walk toward Queens. She had a basement apartment to reach, and a war to prepare for.