The Tarot Prince Available from Total-e-bound

Since childhood Annalise has listened to the mystifying songs that float over the Devon Moors to her cottage window. Suddenly its lulling gentleness changes into an urgent plea- a glorious Queen has stepped from the mystical world of the Tarot- showing Annalise the figure of a cloaked man, his head bowed to a crippling despair of loss and regret, blinded to the imminent threat of a blood thirsty enemy. He is her chosen- and instantly Annalise understands her destiny is entwined with this tortured Nobleman. Only she can touch him. And warn him. But how could this be? She is a poor peasant girl with humble dreams of being a lace maker like her Aunt Sadie. Yet when she explains the vision to her aunt, Annalise learns of a dark and powerful Venetian Soothsayer who was rumoured throughout Europe to be immortal, a godless soul, lost to roam the earth without love or hope. His name: Medardo de Vale. The name alone unlocks her inner passion, produces memories of a past life that are not her own, and a love so profound its echo has survived the centuries. Annalise has no other choice but to find him and warn of an impending evil that draws ever closer, an evil that will stop at nothing to procure the secret elixir of Immortality. Will he believe what she says even though it makes no sense to her? And what perilous path might he take her if he does believe? It is a chance she must take. Medardo de Vale is The Tarot Prince, and the love of a simple peasant girl is his only hope for survival.

Excerpt

Prologue

Paris 1789

She knew him only as the Soothsayer, recommended by her aristocratic friends to cast a prediction, assure her that her choice of a wealthy husband had been wise. She had presented Medardo de Vale with crimson wine and rich foods in a lavish boudoir, all of which he’d accepted with courtly etiquette.

Her intentions, however, went far beyond an interest in prophecy. She meant to seduce him. He would allow her to do so.

“What will happen?” she asked softly.

Like all those before her, she’d asked the wrong question. She shouldn’t have asked what will happen, but what could happen. Fate’s path was not etched in stone. It flowed like a slim silvery stream, winding past obstacles and taking the path of least resistance. She was not to know this, and the Soothsayer, Medardo de Vale, was far too wearied by the philosophies of life to explain.

He removed the Cards from his jewelled gold casket, spreading out those that revealed her choice of husband had not been wise and foretold the strife that would soon befall those who wallowed in opulence and power. She, too, would suffer its consequence. Escape was possible but not probable. As she watched him with glistening blue eyes he lied about her impending fate as not to frighten on these, her last days of life. “You will reap what is owed,” he said. “Your every desire will be fulfilled.”

Her toe rubbed against his leg beneath the table. Painted lips curled to a wicked smile. “I desire you, monsieur.”

He had told her not what was true but what she wanted to hear. And now she would reward him. For one night, he would be her lover. If there was peril involved in such an indiscretion, Medardo de Vale was not concerned. He was unlike other men. Nearly three centuries of anguish had taught him to be fearless. No blade could sever his life from his body. No poison could afflict his blood. Age could not cripple him. Immortality and its twin eternal loneliness were his curse.

He graciously accepted her offer of an illicit tryst. For its duration he might be released from the pain that infected his timeless soul. Even if only temporarily.

Their first kiss was the last. He went to her bed, took pleasure from her pale flesh, but did not offer what wasn’t there to give—love.

The one woman he had loved was dust now. He was condemned to eternity without her. Fate had been unkind because he had learned far too late that he was arrogant man. The road he now followed was endless and barren. He had given the Dragon—the Beast—his soul in exchange for eternal life. The pain of endless life without love was excruciating. All joy had forsaken him. His Cup was empty. It was a cruel punishment, yet likely a justified one. Still, he could forget his trespasses while in a woman’s arms, while buried into the heat of an attentive body. There were only two avenues of pleasure left for Medardo—the passions of the flesh and inhaling the Dragon’s smoke. This night was for flesh. This night he would forget his curse.

In the predawn hour, he gently rose from her bed and dressed.

“Soothsayer,” she whispered. “Must you go so soon?”

He felt sympathy for the future he had seen in her Cards. The city was on the verge of vile upheaval, the barrier between opulence and paucity too vast. In the distance beyond the open shutters, he already heard angry voices, poverty’s cry, boiling into an inevitable revolution. He sat on the edge of her bed, stroked the shadowed line on her throat where the executioner’s blade would fall.

“I must,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”

She sighed and turned, returning to her dreams.

He watched her, refusing to judge the morality of either an individual or the society in which they lived. He had drifted through Europe, venturing far, always on the move. He had seen much, the evil in mans’ heart as well as the virtues. But he was not one who could judge any of what he witnessed. He could judge only himself and his own pitiful weaknesses.

This day he would pass from the city, travel farther north to obey an unspoken urge to seek out London. Evil lurked in those streets as well, but if he kept moving, kept hiding, it would not touch him. Only that within him could. That dark void he could never escape.

He fastened his hair behind his head and shrugged into his velvet coat.

Soundlessly, he crept to the table where he picked up the small gold casket that housed his precious Cards. Clutching it to his chest, he closed his eyes. If he inhaled the Dragon’s breath, rapture would open his mind. With the smoke, he could venture inside the Tarot’s mystical domain, sit with the Queen of Chalices and stare at her beauty while listening to her words of wisdom.

Since learning to unlock the door to the Card’s royal realm, he had always been welcomed and given the freedom to move amongst each picture, conversing with every character, great and small. They were his friends. Of late, however, he was too despondent to seek out any, including royalty. Yet by holding the Cards he sensed the Queen’s presence.

Loneliness was at its deepest during the hour before the dawn.

“Forgive me,” he prayed.

“Dardi, my precious Prince.”

He squeezed the box as though clinging to the last fraying threads of hope. “My Queen, I am not worthy of a royal title. Close your Chalice for I am but a pauper in this world. I am less in yours.”

“Lips that are dry more so need the sweet kiss of wine.”

His breath caught. Her poetry had always touched his heart. She presented an ancient wisdom simply, beautifully and eloquently. He had been an eager student of the unseen long before he discovered the path inside the Tarot. He had sought alchemists, teachers, philosophers, sorcerers, and he had walked a dangerous path with the collection of knowledge gained from each. He understood that secrecy was of the utmost importance and that his charm and good looks opened many doors. As a dedicated student he had heard much, even what was unsaid, and quickly combined all he had learned into powerful concoctions. He had discovered that by chasing the Dragon his mind opened even further, guiding him to the feet of the greatest teacher of all—the embodiment of virtue—his Queen. He had vowed to her then that he was her faithful servant. She had accepted his offer. And she had taught him ancient wisdoms in a voice both musical and pure. Her poetry had filled his spirit and swelled in his heart.

But it could not do so now.

Time had darkened that first purity of enthusiasm. Time and, the greatest burden of all, travelling through each day without his one true love.

He bowed his head in mourning. “Dames de Coeur, la foyer est perdue.”

“No, Dardi. Faith is not lost. And Hope is a cherished friend.”

A streak of anger slashed through his breast. “I have no hope,” he protested. “Love lies buried in a Venetian crypt, and I wish to lie there, as well! I am condemned without her!”

“Love never dies. Its echo goes on.”

“I cannot hold an echo! I cannot kiss an echo! I can no longer trust what is beyond my eyes!”

“Faith does not have eyes.”

“Leave me,” he whispered. He was doomed. Surely she saw his plight.

Instantly a white dove fluttered onto the window’s casement. Its pure colour glowed against the darkness of the dimming night.

“Then open your eyes.”

His anger melted. Yet the stain of anguish remained. Through his tears, he watched the dove. “What does this mean?”

“Peace is at hand.”

“Death has found a way to take me?”

“No, Dardi. The River of Life can only flow in one direction. It may dip beneath the Earth, for a time, far from the eye’s reach, but it surfaces again farther along its course.”

“I have no patience for riddles. I have no strength for answers.”

“A new day begins. Go, precious Prince. Your heart has been reborn. You still have much to learn.”

The dove spread its wings and vanished.

“My Queen, I can no longer believe,” Dardi whispered, slipping the casket into his velvet coat’s pocket. “Forgive me.”

With that, Medardo de Vale stole silently into the night.

Excerpt #2

The night whispered.

It always had. Soft, gentle, incomprehensible pleas drifted on an endless wind that swept the outer edges of the purple, heather-covered moor. On nights when the moon slept beneath the horizon, the voice ventured across the stream, across the garden, rising and falling within the darkness. And when the moon lifted, the droning song bled, begging to be heard. Never had the call been defined, never urgent or severe. Never.

Until now.

"Annalise. Help him."

She sat up, lighting the candle beside her bed. The flame did little but deepen the shadows within the small room. A twinge of fear touched her breast, for she had only known the voice to be a lulling hum. Clearly her name had been spoken, her aid called upon, but why? For whom was this urgency needed? The shadows remained muted and motionless. She clasped her hands and waited.

Only the beat of her heart marked the passing seconds.

The shutter tapped. Once, twice, three times, then four, methodically uncommon for nature. She would not deny the invitation to investigate. She could not. The hint of destiny had strengthened her resolve.

This night was different. The call had been clear.

She approached the window. The voice had never frightened her, yet her fingers trembled because of the unknown. Beyond the shutters awaited providence. The urgency was contagious. She worried that it might cause her great pain.

Then the worry was gone.

"I am here," she said quietly, surprised at her tone of confidence. "I have always been here."

In response the shutter rattled, the violent quake robbing her breath. Quickly, she reached out, unlatched the hook and submitted to what must be.

The candle went out. Walls fell to the ground like black wrinkled cloth. The night sky opened. So, too, did the expanse of moor.

Depression descended through her like a wave. Not hers. His.

He stood, chin bowed, staring at three delicately carved goblets, all tipped, the contents soiling the earth crimson. A breeze curled the edges of the heavy dark cloak he pulled tightly around his neck. A waterfall of thick black hair coiled to his waist, several curled strands obstructing the features of his face. His gaze never faltered. He saw nothing except what was lost, and she dared not speak, so oppressive was his meditation.

"The wine of life has been spilled, Annalise. Do you see how he mourns?"

The familiar voice, no longer a chant, floated under her ear, the sweetness wracked with pain. "Yes," Annalise answered. "I see."

"He is lost and alone. The disease of despair has begun to soil his soul."

The shoulders beneath the mantle shivered. Silent sobs vibrated through the emptiness. "He wishes that Death's chariot would ride close and take him away from this suffering."

"Yes, you understand. You have the sight."

"The horseman never comes for him. His suffering never ends."

"No. Immortality courses through his veins. Yet he has lost the will to live."

"What can I do?"

A feathery touch on her cheek broke her mournful gaze. The whisper lightened. "Behold, Annalise."

Her eyes were instantly drawn to the two goblets, upright and full, near the heels of his boots.

"The malaise has blinded him. He is too weak to turn, but all is not lost. Promise waits. Yet he cannot see. He cannot turn. Help him, Annalise."

Fatigue bore down on her. Mixed with it was hopelessness. Both wielded mighty swords.

"Who is he?"

"Our Prince. Your chosen."

The words were uttered with such exaltation that Annalise finally found the ability to shift her gaze. The cold inside her breast melted, for the tall elegant woman who stood beside her glowed. The hazel eyes that returned Annalise's silent questions were filled with compassion, happiness, and dreams of pleasure. The crown adorning the woman's mass of blonde hair twinkled with jewels. Annalise had the sudden compulsion to bow and worship this daunting figure of sheer nobility.and virtue.

"Your Majesty," Annalise said, finally catching her elusive thoughts. "I think you hold great love for this man."

The image smiled. "I love him, yes, but I am unable to please him. My body is of the water. Yours is of flesh as his is of flesh. Only you can help him. Only your spirit can show him what is not lost. Your love is stronger."

"How can I help him? He hears nothing. He doesn't even turn to look at us."

"You have the sight, Annalise. You will find the way. You have the strength to heal. Your soul alone holds this gift."

Annalise curtsied, the burden at such a daunting task almost too great for her to bear. "You have sung to me for over twenty years. I have heard you in the garden, on the moors and at my window at night. Why is it that on this night you reveal his pain so clearly?"

"He no longer seeks companionship of either spirit or mortal. Despair is seducing him with the poisoned kiss of insanity. And an enemy approaches."

The impact of the warning panicked Annalise. The man was mourning, weakened and vulnerable. Releasing him from the web of depression would become her only goal.

"A mighty and evil woman," she said, not knowing why she knew.

The crowned figure nodded. "Wet his lips with wine of renewal. Dance with him. Flesh on flesh. Bathe him with pleasures. Speak to him of the history you share. Remind him of the dangers that follow. Then he will turn to see the goblets. Then he will know all is not lost. Then he will fight."

"Where is he? How will I know?"

The crown grew transparent and light sparkled. Myriad miniature stars, yellow and gold dissolved into the air, and the woman's gown flowed as a thin stream through stone crevices.

"Don't go," Annalise cried. "I can't be alone." She reached out just as the light vanished. A borderless shadow crawled along the earth beneath her bare feet. Cold curled around her ankles like gnarled fingers. She tried to scream, but her throat was dry and tight. She couldn't move. Both ankles had been swallowed by the putrid bog.

"Help me." The scream came from inside her head. Outside, the air was thin, and she struggled for breath, her breast stinging. Weakening quickly, she lifted her eyes to the cloaked figure as he continued to mourn his loss, selfish self-pity, but her plight was real. "Help me!"

She struggled impulsively, not knowing what would happen next. She could not run, only watch as something inside her leaped to life. The need for help was instantly forgotten. Held fast to this one place, her gaze transfixed on his shadowed face as he slowly turned towards her. The cloak shifted, folds of black within black. His hand rose, stretching out. Without realising, she reflected the gesture. A penetrating devotion, as eternal as the night sky above them, encased her being. She desired to touch the extended hand, but she could not move. A strange empathy increased rapidly within her, becoming more and more complete with every non-existent second. Her excitement wildly pushed for freedom.

"I am here," she whispered. "I have always been here."

A cry of forlorn agony vibrated through him. His arm shivered, still held out to her while he collapsed to the earth, the dark robe ballooning around him where he knelt. A mass of hair shrouded indistinguishable features, yet she witnessed the deep contortion of pain twisting his whole body. She had to reach him. Her weight doubled as she too, fell on bended knees. Fighting fatigue, she inched forward slowly, one palm after another on the wet earth. Desire fed every burning muscle. She blinked, clearing the tears of her own pain, so she could keep his extended hand within her sight. The chasm between them narrowed. His fingertips were a mere breath away.

"I am here," she cried, her heart expanding in success. She clutched his hand, shivering in her weakened state of exertion.

A warmth of rejuvenation flowed up her arm, cascading through her like a river of warm water. The weight dissolved. If he let go of her, she might float heavenward and be forever lost amongst the stars. But he did not let go. He opened the robe, as though it was the wide wing of a great bird, and she was pulled inside to the safety of his muscular embrace.

No thought swept through her mind, nothing other than the sheer ecstasy of being held so tightly, so tenderly. Fingers wound into her hair, pressing her cheek into his wide shoulder, every gesture motivated by affection she had never known. Her palms explored the solid mass of his body. Velvet skin, a thin coating over the rock rippling beneath. His masculine sensuality exploited by his nakedness. Hard shoulders, a solid waist, the curve of each firm buttock. He was a statue created by a Master, yet living.

Wild abandonment seized her. Inhibitions lost. Her palm arched over his hip. He shifted slightly, welcoming her touch and inviting it lower. The breath against her hair was saturated with hunger. Delicately she wrapped her fingers around his erection, her palm slowly caressing the velvet skin, back and forth. He shuddered, pulling her hair as his fingers held her captive. And he swayed in rhythm with her stroking.

The strange murmurings whispered in her ear were incomprehensible-either in a language she didn't understand or so saturated with emotion her reasoning blurred. Not that it mattered. She prepared to give herself to him, as a woman does for the man she has chosen to love for eternity. Her soft sigh gave him permission to occupy her body, because she cherished him and the kiss upon her neck told her his love was honoured with sincerity.

She felt his twisted cry before it escaped his throat. It ricocheted within his chest, and in a sharp panic, she clung to him with as much strength as she could wield. To no avail. He dissolved, as quickly as a room dissolves when the last candle is extinguished in the dead of night.

She screamed, her own anguish a flash of crippling despondency.

"Anna, my poor sweet girl, wake up!"

The scent of heather, damp earth, and cleansing rain filled the air. Annalise staggered, falling into her aunt's consoling arms. "Sadie," she whispered, so exhausted she could barely think.

"All right now, flower. It was just a dream. Just another bad dream."

"This was different," she sobbed, wracked by a tumultuous storm of emotions she couldn't put into words. "This was different from all the others."

Sadie wrapped a shawl around Annalise's shoulder. "Hush now child. Come back inside. I'll make us some tea."

Annalise hesitated, glancing once more to the place where the cloaked figure had stood with her in his arms then to where the majestic woman had floated. Morning light eased its way over the craggy moor, white sheep dotting the paths, bleating a welcome to the new day. The familiarity of the scene was a comfort but not enough to ease her trepidation.

The call had come.

And she knew she had no other choice than to follow.