From the Publisher

Three new stories in one delicious volume of horror and romance

Her Best Enemy by USA TODAY bestselling author Maggie Shayne

Kiley Brigham refuses to believe there's a ghost in her house, but when an unseen hand leaves a bloody message on her bathroom mirror, she's forced to turn to local psychic Jack McCain. As the two work to uncover a long-buried secret, Kiley finds that she's haunted not by spirits, but by thoughts of Jack. . .

Someone Else's Shadow by Nebula Award-nominated author Barbara Hambly

Maddie Laveau worries about her young roommate, Tessa, when she stays late to practice ballet in the old Glendower Building. . .and when Tessa goes missing, Maddie enlists mysterious tenant Phil Anderson to help. But is Phil the white knight she needs, or the predator she fears?

Dancers in the Dark by Anthony Award-winning author Charlaine harris

Layla Rue Le May is no ordinary dancer-her partner, Sean McClendon, is a three-hundred-year-old redheaded vampire. So when Layla Rue acquires a stalker, she's forced to face the music. . .and wonder if this will finally be her last dance.

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Night's Edge

Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.

Chapter One

Had late Halloween week in Burnt Hills, New York, turned suddenly bitterly cold? There hadn't been any warning on the weather report. And even if there had been a sudden cold snap, the furnace would have kicked on. According to the overall-wearing, toolbox-carrying guy she'd hired to inspect the hundred-year-old house before agreeing to buy it, the heating system was in great shape. True, she hadn't run it much in the three days since she'd moved into her dream house, just once or twice during the late October nights when the mercury dipped outside. But it had been working fine.

She tilted her head, listening for the telltale rattle of hot water being forced through aging radiators, but she heard nothing. The furnace wasn't running.

Sighing, she rose from the water, stepped over the side of the tub onto the plush powder-blue bath mat and reached for the matching towel. Her new shell-pinkand-white ceramic tiles might look great, but they definitely added to the chill, she decided, peering at the completely fogged- up mirror and then scurrying quickly through the door and into her bedroom for the biggest, warmest robe she could find.

As soon as she stepped into the bedroom, the chill was gone. She stood there wondering what the hell to make of that. Leaning back through the bathroom door, she felt that iciness hanging in the air. It was like stepping into a meat cooler, she thought. Leaning back out into the bedroom, she felt the same cozy warmth she always felt there.

Kiley shrugged, pulled the bathroom door closed and battled a delayed-reaction shiver. She closed her eyes briefly, just to tamp down the notion that the shiver was caused by something beyond the temperature, then turned to face her bedroom with its hardwood wainscoting so dark it looked like ebony, its crown molding the same, its freshly applied antique ivory paint in between. Her bedroom suite came close to matching: deep black cherry wood that bore the barest hint of bloodred. The bedding and curtains in the tall, narrow windows were the color of French cream, as were the throw rugs on the dark hardwood floor. Ebony and ivory had been her notion for this room, and it worked.

"I love my new house," she said aloud, even as she sent a troubled glance back toward the bathroom. "And I'm going to stop looking for deep, dark secrets to ex-plain the bargain- basement asking price. So my bathroom has a draft. So what?"

Nodding in resolve, she moved to the closet, opened the door, then paused, staring. One of the dresses was moving, just slightly, the hanger rocking back and forth mere millimeters, as if someone had jostled it.

Only, no one had.

She could have kicked herself for the little shiver that ran up her spine. She didn't even believe in the sorts of things that were whispering through her brain right now. And had been ever since she'd moved in.

I jerked open the door, it caused a breeze, the dress moved a little. Big deal.

In spite of her internal scolding, her eyes felt wider than she would have liked as she perused the closet's interior. Her handyman-slash-house-inspector had asked if she'd like a light installed in there. She'd said no. Now she was thinking about calling him tomorrow morning to change her answer. Meanwhile, she spotted her robe and snatched it off its hanger with the speed of a cobra snatching a fieldmouse. She back-stepped, slammed the closet door, and felt her heart start to pound in her chest.

B-r-e-a-t-h-e, she thought. And then she did, a long, deep, slow inhalation that filled her lungs to bursting, a brief delay while she counted to four, and a thorough, cleansing exhalation that emptied her lungs entirely. She repeated it several times, got a grip on herself and then felt stupid.

She did not believe in closet-dwelling bogeymen. Hell, she'd made her career debunking nonsense like that. More precisely, putting phony psychics, gurus and ghost busters out of business in this spooky little tourist town. And no one liked it. Not the town supervisor, the town council, the tourism bureau, and least of all, the phony psychics, gurus and ghost busters.

But thanks to the Constitution, freedom of the press couldn't be banned on the grounds that it was bad for tourism.

She pulled her bathrobe on, relishing the feel of plush fabric on her skin, and then drew a breath of courage and turned to face the bathroom again. Her hairbrush was in there, along with her skin lotions, cuticle trimmer and toothbrush. And she still had to tug the plug and let the water run out of the bathtub. She was going back in. A cold draft was nothing to be afraid of.

Crossing the room, one foot in front of the other, she moved firmly to the door, closed her hand on its oval, antique porcelain doorknob, and opened it. The air that greeted her was no longer icy. In fact it was as warm as the air in the bedroom.

She sighed in relief as she stepped into the room. But her relief died and the chill returned to her soul when she saw the mirror, no longer coated in fog, but something else. Something far, far worse.

Written across the damp glass surface, in something scarlet that trickled in streams from the bottom of each letter, were the words "House of Death."

Someone screamed. It wasn't until she was down the stairs, out the door and about fifteen yards up the heaving, cracked sidewalk, that Kiley realized the scream had been her own.

She stood there in the dead of night, barefoot, clutching her robe against the whipping October wind and staring back at her dream house with its turrets and gables and its widow's walk at the top. Such a beautiful place, old and solid. And framed right now by the scar-let and shimmering yellow of the sugar maples and poplar trees at the peak of their fall color.

Swallowing hard, she lowered her gaze, focusing on her car in the driveway beside the house. Leaping Lana was an '87 Buick Regal - a four-door sedan in rust-brown that ate gas like M&Ms and sounded like a tank.

Kiley squared her shoulders and forced herself to march over there - even though it meant moving toward her house when every cell in her body was itching to move away from it instead. She opened Lana's door and climbed in. She couldn't quite keep herself from checking the back seat first, the second the interior light came on. It was clear. The keys were in the switch, because if someone was brave enough to steal Kiley Brigham's car, she'd always thought she would enjoy the vengeance she'd be forced to wreak on their pathetic asses, and besides, who would steal an '87 Buick, anyway?

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Night's Edge by Maggie Shayne Barbara Hambly Harris Charlaine Copyright © 2004 by Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.. Excerpted by permission.
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