here, in the light of day?"
Happiness bubbled up inside of her. "I think so," she replied in a voice trembling with love and joy and excitement.
"And will you spend the rest of your life with me? Bear my children? Grow old at my side?"
"Yes," she promised fervently. "Oh, yes."
Jason sighed as he wrapped his arm around Leanne's shoulders and watched the sun climb in the sky, proclaiming the birth of a new day.
It was a day of miracles, he thought, and Leanne's love was the greatest miracle of all.
She had been the sun in his sky since the first night he had seen her emerge from the theater.
Now, standing beside her, with the sunlight on his face and the warmth of her love shining in the depths of her eyes, he knew he would never dwell in darkness again.
Epilogue
Five years later
Jason leaned forward as his daughter made her entrance on stage. Facing the audience, Kristi Lynn began to sing, her voice pure and clear.
His daughter. Another miracle that Leanne had wrought in his life. And soon they would have a second child. And after that, a dozen more, if God and his wife were willing.
"She's wonderful, isn't she?" Leanne whispered.
"Indeed," he said. "She has her mother's talent."
Leanne grinned at him. "And her father's charm."
Jason took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. The last five years had been the happiest he had ever known. He had stood beside Leanne and watched the sun rise over the Grand Canyon, sat beside her on a sandy white beach in Hawaii and watched the waves lap at the shore. He grinned at the memory. He had sat there so long he'd gotten one hell of a sunburn. But even that had felt good.
He had watched Leanne's body swell with new life, stood at her side the morning Kristi Lynn had been born, felt his heart swell with awe when the doctor had placed his daughter in his arms. He had been there when she took her first steps, said her first word; ran alongside her the day she had learned to ride a bike.
He had turned to writing again, surprised and pleased when he sold his first book, a novel about a vampire. He had written three others since then, each of which had received rave reviews. His favorite hung on the wall behind his desk. "Jason Blackthorne's vampires are so real, so vivid, one would think he drew on personal experience."
He applauded loudly when Kristi Lynn finished her song.
Later that night, standing beside his daughter's bed while Leanne tucked her in, he thanked a generous, forgiving God for granting him a second chance at life.
DARK DREAM
Christine Feehan
Dark Dream
Christine Feehan
Dark Series - book 7
Prologue
The night was black, the moon and stars blotted out by ominous swirling clouds gathering overhead. Threads of shiny black obsidian spun and whirled in a kind of fury, yet the wind was still. Small animals huddled in their dens, beneath rocks and fallen logs, scenting the mood of the land.
Mists floated eerily out of the forest, clinging to the tree trunks so that they seemed to rise up out the fog. Long, wide bands of shimmering white. Swirling prisms of glittering opaque colors. Gliding across the sky, weaving in and out of the overhead canopy, a large owl circled the great stone house built into the high cliffs. A second owl, then a third appeared, silently making lazy circles above the branches and the rambling house. A lone wolf, quite large, with a shaggy black coat and glittering eyes, loped out of the trees into the clearing.
Out of the darkness, on the balcony of the rock house, a figure glided forward, looking out into the night. He opened his arms wide in a welcoming gesture. At once the wind began to move, a soft, gentle breeze. Insects took up their nightly chorus. Branches swayed and danced. The mist thickened and shimmered, forming many figures in the eerie night. The owls settled, one on the ground, two on the balcony railing, shape-shifting as they did, the feathers melting into skin, wings expanding into arms. The wolf was contorting even as it leaped onto the porch, shifting easily on the run so that a man landed, solid and whole.
"Welcome." The voice was beautiful, melodious, a sorcerer's weapon. Vladimir Dubrinsky, Prince of the Carpathian people, watched in sorrow as his loyal kindred materialized from the mist, from the raptors and wolves, into strong, handsome warriors. Fighters every one. Loyal men.