Bane's Choice
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Praise for Alyssa Day’s
Bane’s Choice
“Don’t miss an Alyssa Day book! One of my favorite authors in paranormal romance.”
— NYT bestselling author Jeaniene Frost
“Vampires, motorcycles and magic! Bane’s Choice offers heart-pounding action and sizzling heat!”
—NYT bestselling author Gena Showalter
“Smoking hot! I couldn’t put it down.”
—NYT bestselling author Yasmine Galenorn
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Fury Unleashed, by N.J. Walters
The Rogue King, by Abigail Owen
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Alesia Holliday. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
10940 S Parker Road
Suite 327
Parker, CO 80134
Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Liz Pelletier
Cover design by Bree Archer
Cover art by Photographer Wander Aguiar,
DenisTangneyJr/GettyImages,
RuDVi/GettyImages and
draco77vector/Shutterstock
Interior design by Toni Kerr
Print ISBN 978-1-68281-475-8
ebook ISBN 978-1-68281-476-5
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition November 2020
Also by Alyssa Day
Warriors of Poseidon Series
Atlantis Rising
Atlantis Awakening
Atlantis Unleashed
Atlantis Unmasked
Atlantis Redeemed
Atlantis Betrayed
Vampire in Atlantis
Tiger’s Eye Mysteries
Dead Eye
Private Eye
Evil Eye
Eye of Danger
Eye of the Storm
A Dead End Christmas
Apple of My Eye
Poseidon’s Warriors Series
January in Atlantis
February in Atlantis
March in Atlantis
April in Atlantis
May in Atlantis
June in Atlantis
Heart of Atlantis
To Liz Pelletier, whose enthusiasm and
grace are an inspiration.
Chapter One
Bane raced through the night at the head of a band of thirty riders, the fury of a fierce territoriality burning through him.
Bent over his Harley, he hit a speed that would have been impossible for human reflexes and was almost too fast for most of the vampires on bikes behind him. He’d already heard the catastrophic sound of one of his club members smashing into the guardrail on that last hairpin turn. Maybe he or she would survive, not that Bane gave a fuck.
Club members were expendable.
Vampires were expendable.
Everybody was expendable.
Almost everybody, he remembered, just barely, to amend his thought. All but those he protected—those he could trust. He glanced to his right and then to his left and saw Luke and Meara keeping pace. Tonight’s ride was not a recreational ride, done like so many, for an attempt to recreate the memory of the joy of being alive. The joy of charging down the road on a bike on a beautiful night in Georgia’s sultry autumn.
Joy, like everything else in his life, had also apparently become expendable. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt any emotion but rage—and he was currently experiencing a metric ass-ton of that.
Tonight, the Vampire Motorcycle Club was on a mission—Bane’s primary mission.
Death.
Three warlocks had entered his territory, and he’d be damned to the most fiery level of Hell before he’d let them establish a foothold anywhere near Savannah. His intel had reported that they’d set up a base in the Savannah National Wildlife Refuge, just over the border into South Carolina, as if arbitrary state borders set up by humans meant anything to his kind.
The warlocks had already bound more than a dozen people to them with blood magic, and they’d killed over a dozen more in their rituals.
Not that he gave a shit about protecting any humans who were not his allies. No, this was about something far more important. Protecting what was his. His people. His land. He’d laid claim to territory that included Savannah long, long ago, when he’d burned out the warlocks who’d come to town. They’d fought back and destroyed most of the city doing it, but ultimately, he’d prevailed.
And he’d be damned if he’d let the evil blood-magic-wielding fuckers get a foothold now. What he didn’t understand was why it was happening. This was the third group in as many years to try to move in on him. After the way he’d destroyed the first two, he’d have thought everybody would get a fucking clue. Especially the Chamber, after he’d destroyed the last three delegations of “ambassadors”—read: conquerors—that they’d sent over the course of the past fifty or so years.
No Euro-trash group of dark magic practitioners was going to gain a foothold in his territory, no matter how powerful it was.
Edge, the club’s director of intelligence, had pinpointed the warlocks’ location to a shack bordering a freshwater marsh, all but hidden by the cypress trees surrounding it. Unluckily for them, nothing could hide from Edge for long. The man was lethal on two fronts—deadly as a vampire and equally dangerous as a brilliant computer hacker.
A little more than five miles out, Bane pulled into the parking lot of the Visit
or Center and turned off his bike, breathing deeply of the clean night air, his senses honed to battle-readiness. Edge had cleared the space so the guards would be off duty—they’d find themselves with mysterious car breakdowns—and, when they did manage to make it to work, they’d find that the security cameras had malfunctioned.
Bane almost smiled at the memory of Edge’s glee when he’d shown Bane the two-minute clip of baby otters playing with a ball that would loop continuously on the camera feed. In spite of everything he’d endured, the hacker still had a sense of humor about some things.
The rest of the group roared in behind him, until twenty-seven Harleys, parked in a rough circle, surrounded him.
“Samson’s crash turned to fire. He’s dead,” one of the club members called out, anger harsh in his voice. “Maybe you could have slowed on some of those turns.”
Bane pinned him with an icy stare. “Are you challenging me?”
The vampire immediately bent his head in submission. The rest of them froze in place, knowing what that look on their leader’s face could portend.
All but Meara, who’d never been afraid of him once in the centuries since they’d become brother and sister. And why would she? She was the daughter of the man who’d saved Bane’s life—Bane’s sister-in-blood, who’d been Turned at the same time as Bane, by the same vampire. He’d always protected her—she’d always protected him. Nothing was more important than family, even to a man who’d forgotten how to feel.
“We will compensate his people,” she said, a flicker of something crossing her eyes. Regret, perhaps? He didn’t know. Any softer emotions had long since been lost to him.
Bane focused on the mission and addressed the group. “The warlocks are mine. Luke and Meara will assist me, but they’ll also help you. The people camped there are all under the influence of blood magic, so they’ll be dangerous and very difficult to stop. They will also be completely unable to respond to reason.” Warlocks possessed powerful magic of the darkest, most evil kind. Humans in thrall to it were as close to invulnerable as humans ever got.
“The warlocks will know we’re coming when we’re about a mile out, so go hell for leather after that,” Luke, officially the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms, told the group.
“Warlocks? Guy witches? That doesn’t sound so bad,” said a vampire who’d only been Turned within the past year and had evidently been useless when he was human, too.
“Warlocks can be male or female,” Luke said. “Witches can also be male or female. The difference is that witches use benign, or earth, magic. Warlocks like to play with blood and death and worse things.”
“Blood magic,” Meara said. “It can be deadly to our kind. Let us handle the warlocks. We have experience at it.”
Normally, Bane would never bring so many untested fighters on a job like this, but he needed them to keep the humans who’d been bloodthralled by the warlocks out of his way.
Unless he just killed them all.
In the old days, he would have. These days, with technology, disappearing humans caused more problems than he wanted to deal with, so he tried to leave fewer bodies in his wake.
The warlocks, though—they had to die. And when they were dead, he’d burn their bodies and salt the ashes. It was the only way to be sure that they wouldn’t come back.
They were always worse when they came back.
“There’s still time to change your minds and get out of here. The warlocks might have spelled the humans to use fire,” Meara told them, looking around the circle. Somehow, shockingly, she still cared what happened to others.
Bane didn’t. All he cared about right now was the hunt. He could feel the muscles in his body tense, readying for the fight, and his innate magic swirled to life inside him, eager to be unleashed.
“Come or not. If you don’t show up, don’t come back to the club. Ever,” he growled. Then he raised one hand in the air and slashed it down, and every single one of them revved up their bikes and followed him to what very well might be their true deaths.
There were no cowards in the Vampire Motorcycle Club. A few were lunatics and sadists, maybe, but no cowards.
A flicker of something like satisfaction almost broke through his rage. The warlocks were in for a major surprise.
…
At the designated distance, Bane ditched the bike behind a tree and launched himself into the air. He couldn’t use any magic of his own—not this close—their wards would detect and nullify it. But flight was natural to him, and they certainly wouldn’t have warded against birds.
They’d just think he was a really big owl.
He soared over the canopy of trees, a rush of pre-battle adrenaline intensifying the fierce sensation of triumph that flying gave him. Turning vampire may have stolen the sun from him, but it had gifted him the sky. The sight of the more than twenty enthralled humans milling around didn’t even slow him down. His people would take care of the humans.
The warlocks were his.
He was still smiling when he smashed through the roof of the shack.
All three were there—two men and a woman, robed in scarlet velvet that matched the blood of the human woman dying slowly and painfully in the center of an enormous, glowing pentagram carved into the wooden floor. The warlocks had been chanting and dancing before the fire; he’d seen it through the cracks in the rotting roof.
They weren’t dancing now.
He saw in a glance that the human was beyond saving. They’d tortured her, of course, and undoubtedly eaten some of her internal organs while she lived, because their magic drew power from pain as well as from blood. Her death might end the spell, or it might make things worse by increasing its power.
The woman’s agony broke the tie, because torture pissed him off. Kill if you must, but inflicting pain for its own sake was an offense against the laws of nature.
“Not in my territory, you nasty fucks,” he snarled at the warlocks, who were still scrambling back and away from him. And then he snapped the dying human’s neck.
Instantly, the reek of putrefaction and despair began to lessen. Their spells had been tied to her agony, then. The magic must have had an element of sound dampening, as well, because now the shouts and screams of the battle raging outside the cabin broke through.
“Marta, Otto, to me,” one of the men—the tall, cadaverously thin one—shouted, holding out his hands. The other man and the woman rushed over to him and clasped his hands in theirs and began to chant. Tendrils of foul-smelling magic slithered up from the floor and started to coalesce in the corners and curl around the warlocks’ feet.
Nausea swarmed up from Bane’s gut to his throat, almost choking him—his body’s automatic reaction to the blood magic.
But the fire of his rage burned through the nausea—burned through everything but the driving need to see their blood splashed on the ground.
To end them.
“No doubt casting a spell that will do truly horrible things to me,” Bane said, his lips pulled back, fangs fully descended, not that he’d drink the blood of abominations like these. “You must be more powerful when you join hands. I can fix that.”
With that, he blurred through the air and grabbed each man by an arm, and then he ripped them off at the shoulder, ignoring the black blood that spattered in dual arcs across the room. He threw the arms into the old stone fireplace, where they immediately caught fire.
It was barely enough to slow them down.
Marta screamed out her hate and threw a spell at him that probably would have eviscerated him if he hadn’t warded himself, Luke, and Meara before they came. His protection spells would have persisted even in the face of wards that blocked his battle magic, but depriving the warlocks of their victim had destroyed their wards.
Which would make the next few minutes a lot more fun for Bane and a lot less fun for the warlocks.
&
nbsp; He grinned and flicked a stasis spell at Marta that knocked her back and pinned her against the wall of the shack. Just then, Luke and Meara burst in from windows on opposite sides of the room, blood dripping from a scrape on Meara’s forehead.
“Starting all the fun without me,” Meara said, leaping to his side and then whipping her daggers out of their sheaths and hurling them into Marta’s throat. The warlock’s spilled blood broke Bane’s stasis spell, and she fell, but then she started crawling toward the dead woman in the pentagram. Horribly, she gurgled out laughter with the knives still in her throat, black blood bubbling out around the edges of the blade.
Luke, meanwhile, grabbed the tall man, who must have been the leader, by the back of the robe when he tried to flee. “Not this time.”
A stinking, sulfurous wave of dark magic more powerful than any Bane had felt in three hundred years of existence hammered into him from behind, smashing him across the room and into the wall next to the fireplace so hard the entire cabin shook from the blow. He managed to turn in midair, though, and landed on his feet, immediately falling into battle readiness, his gut twisting in rebellion to the unnatural forces swirling through the air.
He’d known this would be bad.
He hadn’t realized it would be something far, far worse than bad.
His skin tried to crawl off his body in reaction to the power stabbing into him—an unholy tidal wave of magic so foul that it could only come from a necromancer.
Luke was down, unconscious or dead, and Meara lay sprawled on the floor, eyes staring, unseeing, at the ceiling. Whatever the warlock had done, it had decimated Bane’s wards, leaving Meara and Luke, who had no natural immunity to magic, at risk.
If the bastard had harmed them, he would die.
If he’d killed them, he would wish for death.
Bane started toward Meara, but an invisible force ripped a chunk of stone from the fireplace and hurled it at him, forcing him to dodge aside.
“Move again, and the next one crushes her head.” The cold, dead voice that spoke the words preceded the speaker into the room. Unlike the three in the room, this warlock emanated power from his physical presence as well as his magic. He was tall and heavily muscled, with a gleaming bald head and a jutting nose. His thin lips were pulled away from his teeth in a sneer. “The Chamber sends its regards, bloodsucker. And our demand that you vacate the territory to your betters.”