Under Pressure
Moonlight Detective Agency™ Book Four
Isobella Crowley
Ell Leigh Clarke
Michael Anderle
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2019 Isobella Crowley, Ell Leigh Clarke & Michael T. Anderle
Cover by Fantasy Book Design
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
This book is a Michael Anderle Production
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
LMBPN Publishing
PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89109
First US edition, December 2019
eBook ISBN: 978-1-64202-621-4
Print ISBN: 978-1-64202-622-1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Author Notes from Isobella Crowley (AKA Ell Leigh Clarke)
Author Notes from Michael Anderle
Books written by Ell Leigh Clarke
Books By Michael Anderle
Connect with Michael Anderle
The Under Pressure Team
Thanks to the Beta Readers
Nicole Emens, Mary Morris, Kelly O’Donnell, John Ashmore, Larry Omans
Thanks to the JIT Readers
Dave Hicks
Jeff Eaton
Jackey Hankard-Brodie
Diane L. Smith
Dorothy’s Lloyd
Micky Cocker
Deb Mader
Lori Hendricks
If I’ve missed anyone, please let me know!
Editor
The Skyhunter Editing Team
To Family, Friends and
Those Who Love
to Read.
May We All Enjoy Grace
to Live the Life We Are
Called.
Chapter One
Taylor’s House, Harrison, Westchester County, New York
Silent and alert, she crept down the length of a long, dark tunnel. She knew she was in danger but exactly where the threat lay was beyond even her advanced perception.
The fog of malevolence—the increasingly less subtle vibes of haughty viciousness and murderous intent—had spread gradually over the entire city. It seemed to grow stronger as she moved south, across the island of Manhattan.
She had departed alone, not knowing quite what to expect and acting on a tip from Dr Alexander Thomas, the former vampiric thrall whose life she had spared in exchange for his aid. The residues of his deadly and burning link to his former mistress had granted him access to her mind, and he’d told Taylor that he’d seen this place in her plans.
Her experience stretched far beyond the limits of humankind. Despite that, it had been a long time since she’d seen anything quite like this.
Usually, she could sense when a powerful foe—especially another vampire—wanted her dead. Their hostile intent emanated like radio waves from their person to provide some clue when she was near them.
She normally only perceived negative vibes of this intensity when she was right on top of them. And in those cases, the signals clearly came from a specific point.
But now, in this subterranean labyrinth and not far from her own secret sanctuary, she felt that same malefic energy, only it was equally intense everywhere she turned. Her foe, the Egyptian elder vampire Moswen Neith, had somehow blanketed New York with something almost like a curse upon the very air.
Taylor knew her own capabilities and that she was far from helpless, even against adversaries who could easily crush most beings. She was also not readily given to fear, but this was unnerving.
It unsettled her because she knew without a doubt that she faced a degree of evil power beyond anything in recent memory—possibly beyond any she had ever dealt with.
And because the low, maddening buzz of her opponent’s aura was omnipresent, there was no shift and no waxing in its power when Moswen herself attacked.
A grasping hand came out of the darkness of an alcove that lay barely out of sight, its claw-like nails aimed at the white flesh of Taylor’s throat. Decades of combat experience and a sixth sense honed even beyond what vampirism granted were the only reasons she survived. She vaulted aside toward the opposite wall.
All her senses, already pulsing in a state of heightened alertness, now kicked up to the maximum as her larger adversary pressed after her with a powerful leap.
Moswen said nothing and made no snarl of rage but moved in almost total silence. There was only the miasma of her hatred, the flashes of yellow light from her eyes, the sounds—which would have been imperceptible to human ears—of her feet on the tunnel’s metal, and the air parting before her passage.
As Taylor impacted with the far wall, the other vampire was there on top of her and her hands clamped down on her shoulders. The smaller woman buckled, summoned all her strength, and fought back. The two half-crouched, half-stood on the wall, gravity ignoring them as they hung laterally into empty space.
She had hooked her arms under Moswen’s, seeking to break her grip, push her hands aside, and strike straight at her heart. But her adversary was stronger—and with not only the natural advantage conferred by her greater height and mass. She possessed an eldritch power that had percolated over centuries beyond even Taylor’s long experience.
Finally, she broke free, using her attacker’s own inertia against her to shove her against the wall and launch herself back.
Moswen was, somehow, already on her again.
Everything became a flurry of pain and rage and violence. Taylor clawed at her assailant’s throat, punched her face, wrenched her limbs, and kicked at her legs and stomach.
The Egyptian responded in kind. Fierce, battering blows rained down on the smaller vampire, knees struck her ribs and jaw, and the long and terrible fangs bit at any vulnerable flesh they could find.
The blood of both women, dead and yet not dead, soon flowed, then gushed and splattered. Both began to take amounts of damage that slowed them, yet a rage that had seared its way through entire generations of humankind drove them on in their struggle.
Taylor had, for a time, not even felt or truly registered the damage she sustained in the battle. Instead, with the blind fury of a trapped animal, she had devoted every
thing to simply ripping Moswen apart.
Her nails raked strips of flesh from the other vampire’s back and shoulders, her fangs briefly tore a chunk from her neck, and when the Egyptian knocked her down with an elbow, she sank all ten fingers, as well as her teeth, into the calf of the other woman’s leg and peeled most of the muscle from it.
That was when Moswen screamed with such bestial anger that Taylor was momentarily shocked and drew back. The pain of her own various wounds swamped her all at once.
The howl wavered, then formed itself into words. “You know not!” Moswen shrieked. “You know not what you’ve done. I’ve only been toying with you.”
“No—you’re finished.”
She hissed defiance and braced herself. Her black eyes, already large within her small white face, grew huge as Moswen reared, trembling, and seemed to summon a dreadful power as if out of the depths of the earth. Sinister golden light shined from her eyes and played about her body.
Taylor knew what was happening now. She’d wounded her foe badly enough that she would soon have to retreat, but this development meant that she needed to kill Moswen now.
The other vampire had changed. She no longer resembled a tall, regally beautiful Egyptian queen. Her appearance now perfectly reflected the tomb-spawned monstrosity she was.
She had grown in height and bulk, and her dusky skin had taken on a leathery, almost scaly quality. Hair had sprouted from her neck and shoulders and appeared in the center of her palms. Her jaw had distended and elongated while her nose had flattened, and her ears had risen to points high on her head. The black pupils of her brown eyes had changed from orbs to slits.
Many vampires, particularly old and powerful ones, possessed the ability to shift to a more bestial form with even greater strength at the cost of their reasoning abilities. Moswen, horrifyingly, was now an awful hybrid of woman, serpent, and jackal.
“No!” Taylor cried and flung herself at her enemy, totally committed to taking her head, or her heart, or both and sending her to the abyss before she could take full advantage of her powers.
Somehow, she wasn’t fast enough. Moswen’s hands were now outright talons, clusters of five knives, and one of them sheared into her midsection.
The smaller vampire doubled over, spitting blood, and harnessed all her strength and self-control. The pain was overwhelming and unbearable.
Her eyes flew open. Black within white, round and staring at the ceiling of the cave above her with the mindless intensity that only a nightmare can bring.
“Oh,” she gasped, her lips parted slightly to permit the faint expulsion of air and sound. “My God. I would never have thought…”
It was rare for her to have nightmares. For a while, in her early days, she had not even realized that vampires could have them. But as time wore on and the months and years and decades spun away into the oblivion of the past, the function of dreaming had returned to her.
When it happened, it usually portended something. Or, at least, served to remind her of some fact of massive importance.
She closed her eyes again and allowed her usual frosty calm to return. The tension shook its way free of her slight, slender body to dissipate amidst the darkness. Here in the real world, there were no signs of immediate danger and she had healed her wounds from that fight.
Satisfied with the control she’d regained, she rose to a standing position within the rectangular niche dug into the earth.
Most days, she slept in her coffin. But at times, she could not rest as well and did not feel as secure, guarded as she was only by the stone sarcophagus within her mansion’s cellar which enclosed the wooden box.
So, years before, she had added a trapdoor to the bottom of the coffin and dug a hole in the floor to the cave below. She’d added carved stairs for good measure although it was a simple matter to float to the ceiling and push her way through to the basement.
The vampire did so now and the air parted as she levitated and the horizontal portal opened before her hands. She climbed through the coffin and emerged into her cellar.
Judging by the faint reddish glow of the window slits at the tops of the walls, it was barely dusk. The nightmare had woken her early. Her house was designed to be dark, though, so she ought to be safe from what little remained of the sun.
When Taylor ascended the stairs and stepped into the hallway, her loyal butler was already prepared to wait on her needs. Presley was a werewolf who usually wore the form of an elderly English gentleman and dressed the part in a black tuxedo, complete with white gloves.
“Good evening, Miss Steele,” he greeted her. “Shall I warm up one of your cars? The 2017 Tesla, perhaps?”
She knew why he asked. Usually, if she rose before full dark, it meant that she intended to drive to the Brooklyn offices of the Moonlight Detective Agency without delay in hope of arriving there before the day staff went home. The agency’s business hours were officially listed as ending at 6:30 but in practice, it was open twenty-four hours a day.
“No, Presley, but thank you,” she said. “I will be here for now. Bring my tea to my bedroom, if you would, please. I would benefit from privacy right now.”
The old man nodded. “As you wish, madam.” He turned and strode back toward the kitchen.
The vampire, her black silk robe trailing along the wooden floor, climbed to a room at the end of the hall on the second floor. It was where she spent much of her time when staying in at night unless she chose to read in the first-floor sitting room.
Now that Remington had moved into the guest room on the upper story, however, she found that she preferred the first floor more and more.
But he did not seem to be there and was likely still out working. She’d assigned him a messy if only minimally dangerous case that ought to keep him busy.
Taylor entered the room and sat on the bed for a moment. She did not sleep in it, of course, but simply having one in her “bedroom” seemed appropriate. It created a cozy sense of normalcy and would throw off suspicion in the unlikely event that uninvited, uninitiated humans gained entrance to her home.
Within her brain were vast stores of information, and over the many long years of her preternatural existence, she had learned how to organize the stores, sort through them, and re-order them as needed.
Her mind rapidly produced a list of everything she would require for her trip. There wasn’t much, really. It would be better to travel light, and she could pick up some things at John F Kennedy International or at her destination.
She stood up to begin packing.
Presley’s footsteps, so regular and familiar, climbed the stairs and he knocked gently on the door.
Taylor paused, flitted over, and opened it. “Thank you, Presley.” She accepted the cup and saucer from him. Within it was her breakfast, known for reasons of traditional politeness as red salt tea.
She, like most vampires who preferred discretion and had adapted to the more civilized modern world, had an under the table arrangement with a blood bank. She paid them very reasonably for their goods and services.
Not to mention that, in exchange for their silence, she had put the word out on the street that any vampires—or their servants—who might try to raid or attack their establishment could expect swift and merciless retribution.
Her nature was not overly vicious and she was willing to be reasonable with those who extended her the same courtesy. But swift and merciless retribution was something she did rather well when the situation called for it.
She sipped her tea and found it good. Before the butler could ask if she needed anything else, she spoke.
“I have some things to contemplate, so please do not disturb me. And when Remington comes home, especially if soon, relay the message to him.”
Presley inclined his head forward, the movement half a nod and half a curt bow. “Of course, Miss Steele.” He turned to leave her in peace and closed the door himself.
She retrieved a single suitcase from her closet, into which s
he began to fold a few clothes, for starters. It was easiest to eliminate the simple tasks first and quickly leave herself with a smaller number of chores.
Midway into the process, she paused. Before she completed gathering and packing her things—even though it would only take perhaps an hour at most—she decided that she ought to do something very important. Book her flight.
Airline tickets were always bothersome to secure on short notice. If absolutely necessary, she could call in a favor or two from some of her contacts or use her powers of command on the airport’s personnel. It would be easy to compel them to give her someone else’s seat on her desired flight.
But there was no reason to use her valuable favors or to cause a public scene and inconvenience some unfortunate humans when instead, she could simply check the flight availability.
She turned her laptop on and reviewed her paper receipts from the blood bank while the device booted up. When it was ready, she sat in the black leather chair before it and immediately checked for any flight going to her desired location within the next twelve hours or so.
Her brain took in and processed information more quickly than a human’s could. It took only a minute or two to locate what she sought—a single first-class seat on a plane departing New York in four hours. The cost was considerable but perfectly doable.
Under Pressure (Moonlight Detective Agency Book 4) Page 1