Eternal Life.
Endless Love.
Infinite Cost.
Amaranthine
by Delia Strange
Genre: SciFi Time Travel Historical Paranormal Vampire Romance
Eternal life comes
at a cost
For centuries, Amaranthine has walked through time—an
immortal bound by a gift she never asked for. From the opulent halls of the
Roman Empire to the decadent jazz clubs of 1920s London, to the futuristic
floating city of New Francisco, she has lived countless lives, loved deeply,
and lost more than most could ever bear. With each new era comes new faces:
lovers, rivals, and those drawn to the mystery of her eternal existence. But
immortality comes with a price, and as the world changes, so too does the weight
of the centuries she carries.
Torn between living for the future and haunted by the
choices of her past, Amaranthine must confront the question that has followed
her for an eternity: What does it mean to live forever when everything and
everyone else fades away?
“This is the
first book in a while that I have continued to mull over even after I'd
finished reading it as it's definitely a story that gets you thinking.”
~ Lynne Stringer, Goodreads Review
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The olive trees stood like shadows in the distance, swaying in the night
breeze. Amaranthine’s steps were cautious, her eyes scanning the darkness, but
as she reached the edge of the grove, there was no sign of him. Her breath
hitched in her throat, a sudden pang of doubt freezing her where she stood. Had
she waited too long? Her heart sank as she looked around. She’d been foolish to
think this was possible, that someone like her could step outside the
boundaries of her life, if only for a moment.
But then Marcellus stepped forward, his form
emerging from the darkness and appearing in front of her like a dream. His
smile was slow, knowing, and when his eyes met hers, she felt that rush all
over again, more powerful this time for the waiting.
“I thought you might change your mind,” he
said, his voice cutting through the night.
Amaranthine exhaled, the tension leaving her
body in a soft, trembling breath. “I almost did,” she whispered, her voice
barely audible, but then she smiled, feeling the same reckless pull that had
brought her here. “But I’m here.”
Marcellus took her hand, his touch warm, and
without a word he led her deeper into the olive grove. The trees closed in
around them and the world outside the grove disappeared, leaving only the two
of them beneath the cover of night. The air smelled faintly of the earth and
the lingering sweetness of ripening fruit, but all Amaranthine could focus on
was the heat of his hand against hers, the certainty in his steps as he drew
her farther away from the villa, away from everything she knew.
When he stopped, she nearly stumbled, caught
off guard by the sudden stillness. Marcellus turned to face her, his gaze
sweeping over her with an intensity that made her catch her breath. His eyes
roamed her face, her body, lingering as though his look could somehow touch her
skin. It wasn’t just a glance; it was deeper, heavier.
Slowly, deliberately, Marcellus ran his
fingers up her arm, light as a breeze. The touch sent a shiver down her spine,
thrilling and delicate all at once. His hand traveled over her shoulder, warm
and sure, before brushing against her neck, where her pulse raced beneath his
fingertips. He cupped her face, his thumb grazing her cheek as his other hand
slid into her hair, gently cradling the back of her neck. The closeness of
him—his soft breath against her skin, his scent unfamiliar and
intoxicating—made her dizzy.
When he pressed his body against hers, she
didn’t hesitate. Amaranthine’s arms wrapped around him as though it was the
most natural thing in the world, her fingers curling into the fabric of his
tunic. She could feel the heat of him through the thin cloth, the steady rise
and fall of his chest, and the thrilling, terrifying anticipation that hovered
in the air between them. He leaned in, his lips so close to hers that she could
feel the warmth of his breath, and her body instinctively tilted forward, closing
the last distance between them.
The kiss began softly, their lips brushing
with a delicate hesitance, as though both of them were testing the boundaries
of something new. It was sweet, tender, like a whispered secret exchanged in
the dark. Amaranthine’s heart fluttered, the warmth of his mouth against hers
sending gentle waves of pleasure through her body. Her hands tightened their
grip on his tunic, pulling him closer, and for a moment, everything else faded
away—her worries, her fears, even the nagging sense of not belonging. Here, in
this kiss, she felt connected, as though they shared something deeper than
words.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the kiss
deepened. Marcellus’ arms wrapped around her waist, his hands pressing her
closer, and the softness between them gave way to something more intense, more
urgent. Passion overtook them both, their lips moving with a fervor that
surprised her. Amaranthine had never kissed anyone before, but she felt as
though she’d always known how, the way their mouths fit together, the way their
breaths mingled in the cool night air. Her heart pounded faster, and a strange
heat pooled in her chest, spreading through her veins in a way that made her
feel alive.
Then something within her awoke. At first,
she didn’t recognize it, mistaking the growing intensity for the natural
progression of a kiss. There was a pull, a sensation inside her, almost like
the drawing of breath, but deeper, fuller. She thought it was part of the magic
of kissing, the way it could make someone feel as though they were floating,
untethered from everything. No wonder people kiss, she
thought, her mind hazy with the thrill of it. It’s wonderful. She
let the sensation sweep over her, unaware of what she was truly doing. But
then, after a moment, she noticed something different. Their lips had stopped
moving. The rhythm they had found, the tender push and pull, had stilled.
Amaranthine opened her eyes, confused, and
pulled back. Her breath caught in her throat. Marcellus staggered away from
her, his face ashen, his once bright eyes dull and clouded. He looked gaunt,
hollow, as though something had been drained from him. His skin sagged against
the bones of his cheeks, and before her eyes, he aged—twenty years, maybe
more—his youthful vibrance withering into something frail and brittle. He
gasped, his hands reaching out toward her as though for help, but no words
came. Then, with a final shuddering breath, Marcellus crumpled to the ground,
motionless.
The world around her seemed to tilt, the ground beneath her feet suddenly unsteady as she stared at Marcellus’ lifeless body. Her chest tightened, a wild panic rising inside her, but she couldn’t move. Her legs felt rooted to the spot, her mind unable to comprehend what had just happened. Only moments ago, they had been so close—he had been so alive. Now, the boy who had held her in his arms, who had smiled at her like she was a secret worth keeping, lay motionless at her feet, his face hollow and pale, drained of life.
An only child with an active imagination, I
created many stories in my head. My bookcase was overflowing, and I loved
visiting the library. I'd always been a reader, but I hadn't considered
writing until a childhood friend said we should write our ideas down. Once I
started writing my stories, I couldn't stop.
I
gravitated to stories of peculiar places and happenings. I loved twists and
dark reveals, so my writing didn't stray far from that. I was a fan of
fantasy—of ancient Greek myths or contemporary paranormal stories. They
captured my imagination and opened me to worlds of possibilities. There
were no constraints on fantasy, no wrong or right answers; anything I dreamed
up was acceptable. And then came H. G. Wells and science fiction, which also
opened the door to paranormal and speculative fiction, my three favourite
genres.
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