Miracle at Midnight Read online

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  512 Forest Lake Drive

  Warner Robins, Georgia 31093

  Miracle at Midnight

  Copyright © 2007 by Stacia Wolf

  Cover by Scott Carpenter

  ISBN: 1-59998-710-4

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: December 2007

  Miracle at

  Midnight

  Stacia Wolf

  Dedication

  To the youngest members of my family: Dylen, Logan, and Duncan, my children’s children, and to all my nieces and nephews. And to Solomon David, my nephew’s son, whose early entrance into this world makes him all the more special. May all of you find your own miracles in your lives.

  Prologue

  “Enough!” Comtessa Amara de la Cortese shouted through a haze of anger at her advisors. Her deceased husband’s advisors, in reality. “I no longer wish to discuss this ridiculous proposal.”

  “But—”

  “I said enough!” She slammed her hand down on the massive desk. Although it made barely a sound, their slicing tongues ceased. “You don’t care that I’m to be sacrificed on the marriage bed to keep your worthless hides safe.”

  Her head throbbed from the argument that had been roaring in her ears for hours now, ever since Comte Chavre DeLeon showed up with his marriage proposal. His honey-sweet words had veiled a threat—refuse and he would lay claim to her lands as her protector.

  “I understand the risks. You’ve made that very clear—over and over. But now I need peace so I may think.” She waved her hand in dismissal, then turned her back on them. They bickered amongst themselves as they shuffled out, leaving Amara alone.

  Her maid entered, and Amara contained an urge to snap at her. Instead, she said, “I will eat in my rooms tonight. Let the kitchen know, then come help me out of this miserable dress.”

  She couldn’t stand the idea of sitting at dinner and having all those prying eyes watching her. She needed some peace, but knew it would be fleeting. She longed to be free of this place, of the tall rock walls, of her duty to these people who didn’t care whether she lived or died.

  Her restlessness chased her all evening, and nearing midnight, she found herself on her balcony, listening to a light breeze rattle through the sleeping trees’ branches. The icy chill bit through her opulent robes and nightgown, but her bitterness kept her blood heated, even as her stocking-clad feet protested being subjected to winter’s deep freeze.

  She should be in bed, warm and contented. But instead, she stood on the tiny balcony overlooking the deserted town center. Still no word from her brother, Ehren, who’d left nearly a year ago, promising to bring back her husband’s killer. She didn’t mourn her husband. He’d been older than her deceased father, and had shown little interest in her after receiving her dowry from Ehren.

  In the harsh night of December 24th, 1507, in the large town of Dupois, France, Amara felt the coldness seep into her very bones. Raised by a remote, brutal widower father, Amara had learned quite young that those who cared, those who loved, were weak fools who could easily be destroyed. Now twenty-four years old, she ruled her dead husband’s land with an iron fist, just as her brother ruled his own lands. Just that morning, she’d witnessed a beggar stealing food from the market. She’d called the soldiers, angry that anyone would steal from her.

  When the man had been captured, he’d cried out to her, “You condemn my children to death!” and Amara had covered her barren womb with her palm and replied, “Some do not deserve life.” Then she’d walked away.

  Restless, Amara stared out over the empty courtyard, as bereft as her heart. Her father had taught her that happiness was only achieved by power and domination. She’d learned not to show emotions or to feel anything. She’d been given one gift—her beauty. With long, dark hair the color of a raven’s wing, pale skin and luminous green eyes, Amara had discovered the power of her looks on both men and women. A smile, a frown, a whispered endearment—they were all weapons she used well.

  But the Comte seemed immune. He’d looked on her as a man would an inanimate object. He gave nothing away, which left her impotent to persuade him.

  A movement below caught her attention. Someone skimmed through the shadows—no, two someones. Using the darkness as their cover, they moved carefully through the courtyard, heading to the stockade. The stockade wouldn’t be heavily guarded. Instead, the soldiers manned the tall walls, to guard the village against the Comte’s veiled threat.

  Instantly, she realized the stealthy pair’s goal. They were to rescue the thief. Stupid, foolish men. She’d exact a harsh price for their treachery, one that would set an example throughout the land. She waited in the shadows, still as a statue, the cold seeping even deeper into her, turning her outrage into strong contempt. Then when two became three, when hushed whispers marked their retreat, she stepped out of the darkness.

  “Guards! Stop those men!”

  In moments, soldiers poured into the square. Amara rushed down several flights of stairs and out to where the three men knelt in the dirty snow, torchlight illuminating their defeat. She stood in front of them and felt as if her father and brother watched her, judging her.

  Her family had ruled for a half-century, and in that time they’d rarely shown mercy. These men, who defied her on such a sacred day, deserved no compassion.

  But that was exactly what one asked for. The thief, she believed.

  “Please, Comtesse, have mercy. My children—”

  “How old are your children?” she asked.

  “My daughter is twelve, my son ten. Their mother died long ago. Now they will be alone.” His eyes held hope mingled with despair; tears left dirty tracks down his face.

  But Amara felt nothing. He’d dared to steal from her and needed to be punished. She looked up at one of her soldiers. “Find these children. They will be sold to pay for this man’s crimes.” She only waited for his nod before turning away.

  “Comtesse! May you be judged as harshly as you judge your own people!”

  Amara didn’t even break stride. The doomed thief’s words meant nothing. She entered her chambers and shut the door, then closed her eyes, calming all her thoughts. No use letting some lawless man and his stupid curses upset her. She didn’t write the laws of the land. “Thou shalt not steal” was a commandment of God. She only upheld it.

  Is mercy not also one of God’s traits?

  The soft voice startled her. Her eyes flew open, and she looked wildly about her. “Who’s there?”

  I am who you refer to as Pere Noel. I prefer Nicholas.

  A man stepped out of the shadows. He wore the robes of a priest and held an ornate staff. He was very old, his white hair streaming over his shoulders. Somehow, he glowed and didn’t seem solid.

  Pere Noel. Father Christmas. It couldn’t be. She had to be dreaming.

  “Who are you really and what do you want?”

  You are very demanding. He watched her, his bright blue gaze never wavering. I want you to answer me this question. What is your heart made of?

  He mo
cked her. This apparition in her own chambers mocked her. All the hurt and pain of her father’s hatred, her brother’s disdain, filled her. Amara replied, “My heart is of stone, to survive this world.”

  Pere Noel nodded, his eyes seemingly saddened. So be it.

  He pointed his staff at her. Comtessa Amara de la Cortese of Dupois, for your crimes against children, you have condemned yourself by your own words to a life of stone.

  Incredibly, the staff began to glow, and Amara felt herself grabbed by that light, frozen into place. She tried to cry out but she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The lights lifted her up, and she dangled, helpless.

  I will grant you a boon. His eyes snapped at each word. Every fifty years, the same length as your family’s despotic reign, you will be granted two days to discover the answer to this question—what is the true meaning of love?

  Give me the correct answer, and your life will be your own. Give me the wrong answer and you will return to being a statue. You will have ten chances.

  Then the light exploded, and Amara found herself outside, in the frigid cold, but she couldn’t feel it. She knew where she was. In front of the little church, still under construction. And she understood several things at once.

  She was made of stone, to match her heart.

  She’d been cursed with a task—to find the true meaning of love.

  And she’d been inscribed with the following words,

  In tribute to those who have lost heart.

  Then consciousness faded away.

  Chapter One

  Samantha Gamble couldn’t sleep. The clock in her bedroom said eleven fifty-six, but she didn’t feel tired at all. She couldn’t remember being so sad at Christmas before. She missed her mom and her baby brother and their dog, Busby. But Mom had said she had to go. She’d told her all about fun stuff to do in New York at Christmastime. Sami didn’t really care, she just wanted to stay home, but she’d heard her mom talking to her step-dad and knew she didn’t have a choice. She rarely saw her dad, and usually she loved coming to New York, but Christmas was a time to be with family, and Daddy didn’t feel like family any more.

  She’d arrived in New York City this morning. Usually Daddy worked. As a doctor, he was pretty busy. But this year he promised to take time off and spend it just with her. Tomorrow he said he’d take her ice skating at Central Park, then they’d go see Santa at Macy’s. Supposedly he was the best Santa around. Daddy hadn’t been too excited about that, but he’d told her mother he’d take her. Sami’s mom called Daddy a “big cynic”, and although Sami wasn’t supposed to hear, she’d listened as her mom told her dad to “lighten up and enjoy the holidays with your daughter”.

  She glanced toward her window that overlooked the church across the street and saw fat snowflakes falling. Some of her sadness faded. A white winter in New York City! And tomorrow she’d be skating in real snow. Her friends back home in Rhome, Texas, would be so jealous! It never snowed there.

  Scooting out of bed, she ran to the window bench her daddy had put in just for her and crawled onto its princess- and fairy-covered fabric. She gazed outside, watching the snowflakes appear under the street lamp across the street. She followed them down to the ground, where they coated the three statues that adorned the open courtyard at the church. Sami loved the statues. One of them, a woman with flowing hair that stood next to the statue of Jesus, seemed to be reaching out to someone. Daddy said she didn’t have a name, but he said her plaque read “In tribute to those who have lost heart” in French.

  She pressed her nose against the glass and puffed on it, laughing when her breath fogged up the window. She wiped it away. Then a bright light flared outside, and Sami stared hard, trying to find where the light came from.

  Her statue—it glowed bright as a headlight.

  The light grew and flared, blinding her. She shielded her eyes and yelled, “Daddy!” before she remembered her door was shut and he probably couldn’t hear her. Then the light died as swiftly as it had appeared—and with it, went her statue.

  In its place stood a woman with long black hair and a fancy bathrobe. She looked like one of those Christmas angels her mother put on the tree every year, except her hair was messy and she didn’t have wings. Then she yelled.

  Sami opened her window by pushing the button and moving the latch, then giving it a hard heave upward—just like she’d learned last summer. Now she could hear what the statue said.

  The woman stepped off the pedestal, her hair streaming about her. She stumbled, then turned back and picked something up, some sort of package. She didn’t even open it, but whirled about instead, as if looking for someone. Then she yelled again. Sami could hear her clearly, but none of her words made sense. Then she heard one word she understood.

  Jumping off the window bench, she ran to her door and jerked it open. “Daddy! Come quick! The statue’s alive and she’s yelling for you!”

  “Nicholas! Where are you?” Amara couldn’t believe she’d woken up alone on this, her last chance. Nine times she’d awakened and tried to escape this curse, and nine times she’d failed. This, the tenth time, she’d expected him to be there, to maybe give her a hint or a clue as to where to look. Instead, she was alone. She had only two days to discover what he wanted, or she’d become a statue again. And this time, it would be forever.

  She whirled about again, and then it struck her. The church behind her, although old, wasn’t the church from Dupois. And there were other statues. The street felt too close, the buildings surrounding her weren’t right, either. Where was she?

  She saw the bundle he always sent her. She snatched it up, but didn’t open it. She needed some answers, and the bundle never contained those, although it probably had that horrible wafer she’d eaten the last few times. It granted her understanding of the language, since French had changed so much over the last few hundred years.

  Heaven knew if she was still in France.

  “Nicholas!” she yelled again. “What have you done? Where am I? You owe me answers! Nicholas!”

  But she knew he wouldn’t appear. Sometimes he’d be there when she woke up, and sometimes not. There were times she’d call out to him, out of fear, out of anger, out of need. But he never answered her summons. He appeared only when he chose to, never when she called. There was only one time she could be certain she’d see him. He would summon her back to the statue’s base at the end of her time, at midnight on Christmas Day, and he’d ask her the same thing every time.

  What is the true meaning of love?

  And always she failed to satisfy him.

  Yet still she called. Because maybe this time, the last time, would be different. Maybe something she’d done over the last nine times would have softened him to show her some mercy.

  Then she remembered. She’d never shown kindness to another person. Very ironic she’d expect some now.

  A movement caught her eye. A window across the street stood open, and a little girl pointed at her. Another figure appeared. A man. He leaned forward and looked right at her.

  Amara stared. He was very handsome, with short dark hair, a style she’d not liked when she’d been “home”, but had grown to appreciate during her last couple of awakenings. His face was long and lean. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she imagined them to be chocolate, a delicacy she’d discovered about three awakenings ago.

  She mentally shook herself. This wouldn’t help her, standing here staring at some stranger. “Nicholas! How am I to learn this mercy that you spoke of if I never experience it myself?”

  Shaking her head in frustration, she untied the silver cord wrapped around the cloth bundle and looked for the cursed wafer. She’d need the knowledge it brought her, but she hated the feeling it gave her. Like her bones were being shredded. And the pain—the last time she’d nearly passed out.

  Re-tying up the bundle and setting it down, she put the wafer in her mouth and immediately tasted the bitterness. She couldn’t stop now. This was her last chance; she ne
eded to do the best she could.

  She bit into the wafer and writhed in agony as the pain ripped through her.

  This time, she did faint.

  “Daddy!” Sami screamed as the woman tumbled to the ground. “She’s hurt! Daddy, go help her!”

  Nick Gamble looked at the woman, probably homeless and mentally disturbed, who moments before had been shouting at an invisible someone. “Honey, I’ll call the police. They’ll come help her.”

  “No, Daddy, you need to help her. She yelled for you. By the time police get here, she might be dead.”

  “She was calling for a Nicholas. Only your grandmother calls me that.” Nick stared out the window. At this distance, he couldn’t tell if she still breathed. “Baby, it’s not our problem. We need to handle this the right way, by calling the police.”

  “She’s not a bad person, she’s a sick person. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Help sick people?”

  He saw the hope in her face, and a desperate belief that her parents could do anything. She seemed so young, so vulnerable. She’d grown up so much lately and had become almost a stranger to him. He longed to find a way to get closer to her.

  He couldn’t disappoint her.

  “All right, I’ll go look at her. Go grab my medical bag out of the hallway, and I’ll get my shoes on. But you’re to stay up here, with the door locked, understand?”

  Sami nodded enthusiastically, and Nick sighed as he pushed away from the window. She raced off, and he reluctantly followed. He didn’t mind helping people down on their luck, which was why he volunteered at a clinic. But spending any of his time off helping a mentally imbalanced person didn’t seem like much of a vacation.

  He glanced at his daughter as he left the apartment. She seemed too innocent for a six-year-old. Maybe in Texas they stayed younger longer. Not in New York. And she still believed in all that make-believe garbage. Like Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. He worried about how to teach her reality without bursting her bubble too cruelly.