Fatal Allure Collection
Page 1
Fatal Allure Collection
Martha Woods
Contents
Martha Woods
The Vampire’s Desire
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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
Epilogue
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Martha Woods
The Vampire’s Blight
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
Martha Woods
The Vampire’s Curse
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
Martha Woods
The Vampire’s Infliction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
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The Vampire’s Desire
(Book 1 of the Fatal Allure Series)
Martha Woods
© 2016 Martha Woods
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. 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 or reviews.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For permissions contact: bookpublisher@protonmail.com
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Chapter 1
I am sitting at home sipping my glass of Shiraz and nibbling on cheese and crackers. I roll my eyes as the credits roll to a romantic comedy that ended with a stereotypical happily ever after. I scoff. I don’t know why I watched it. I knew the ending would be made up of a predictable plot where the characters’ love is the most important thing in this world and completely outweighed any rational logic for what would happen after the credits stopped rolling.
“Happily ever after,” I smirk. I know that there is no such thing. At least not when it comes to romance. Why did a woman need a man to make her life complete?
What happened to self-esteem? To know that you don’t need the stereotypical bad boy to change overnight and run off into the sunset with you? I always thought these movies would have a happier ending if right at the end when the man had “changed,” the woman laughed and told him it was only ever about sex and walked off into the sunset on her own.
Cara, my best friend, would describe me as cynical. She would say it’s a defense mechanism – if I don’t believe in love and romance, then I don’t have to admit that it’s just never happened for me.
I would describe myself as a realist. I just don’t think we’re programmed for monogamy, at least not long term. I have to agree with Cara on one point, though. It probably will never happen for me.
I’m a twenty-seven-year-old forensic scientist working for the LAPD. I am smart. I can hold my own in situations that would turn most people’s stomachs. Yet, here’s the kicker: whenever I find myself with a man who I find attractive, I turn into a clumsy thirteen-year-old who can’t string together a sentence. I’m the one who will trip up, knock something over, or say something really awkward.
One of my least disastrous recent dates, in fact, featured me getting so flustered when the guy bought me a bouquet that I managed to knock over the entire display of flowers, causing who knows how many dollars of damage. There went that week’s pay. Needless to say, I declined a second date.
Maybe that’s part of the reason why I’m a cynic. Sorry, a realist.
But I’m not heartbroken about it or anything. I have Bella, my adorable and loyal puppy, and right now, she’s the only housemate I want or need. She’s been my constant companion since the day I picked her up from the pound. With my crazy work schedule, she’s really the best partner I could ask for, and she doesn’t mind a good long run. I reach out and run my hand over Bella’s soft fur. She wags her tail and snuggles closer to my side.
I reach for the remote and flick through the channels. I’m looking for a horror movie, maybe a sci-fi at a push. No more icky love stuff. Sometimes I’m in the mood to leer at a Rom Com, but the inclination usually doesn’t last long. I know it’s all totally contrived. Real love doesn’t exist. And commitment just isn’t in our DNA. I’ve had enough personal experiences to know that – and worked enough cases that reinforced the idea. People would probably agree with me about my “cynical” outlook if they knew how many murders were perpetrated by lovers. Cheating spouses, insurance scams, arguments went horribly wrong…if that’s what love is all about, count me out. Something catches my eye, and I flick back a channel.
There. A good old-fashioned newscast. No fairytales here.
“We can confirm that the body of an unidentified female has been found just moments ago in the parking lot of The Watering Well.”
Great, I think. I count to five, and sure enough, as I hit five, my pager lights up. With a sigh, I lift Bella off my lap and set her on the floor, reaching for my cell phone. I call in and let the dispatcher know I’m on my way.
I grab my car keys and my purse and lock the door behind me. I get into my car and set my bag on the passenger seat. My cell phone, I place on the dashboard. My pager goes in the little alcove in the center console, where I can see the screen clearly without taking my hands off the wheel to pick it up. I have a system. Some people might call me obsessive, but I prefer organized. Obsessive, organized. Cynic, realist. Cara would say I’m just trying to justify my personality flaws. She’s a lawyer, but she likes to think she’s also my therapist. I don’t mind, though. If nothing else, she keeps my ego in check. I chuckle a little to myself at the thought. Cara would keep anyone’s ego in check. She’s gorgeous, successful, always at ease, and always kind. It’s hard not to compare myself to her and come up a bit short.
As I drive towards The Watering Well, I sigh. I can’t believe a reporter heard about this before I did. I’m the chief forensic officer for the LAPD, and I found out about a murder through a newscast! Heads would roll if people found out about this.
I push the thought away. It’s not as if Rick doesn’t already have enough on his plate with
out me making trouble for him.
I know before I’m even close to the scene that it will be Rick. Rick Gordon. And I know before I arrive exactly what I’ll find. Rick is the lead officer investigating a series of grisly murders in the city. They have happened over the course of the last month. All of the victims are women. All of them turn up in parking lots, alleys and other outdoors places. And all of them are mutilated.
The bodies look as though a wild animal has been on them, but there is never a trace of forensic evidence to back up such a theory. These murders are very much manmade. I find that fitting. The things human beings do to each other are far worse than anything a wild animal might do.
The public is becoming restless, spurred on by the unrelenting media coverage calling for action. A resolution. You know, in case the LAPD actually have solved the case but don’t want to reveal it until public pressure builds. Because of course, that’s how it works. Not.
It’s hard not to get irritated with the media during cases like this, but I know it’s not really they that frustrate me. I’m frustrated because my job, my purpose, is to find the evidence that will allow Rick to do his job, that will see justice done, that will give some measure of peace to the families of the victims. But the murderer is meticulous. He must be. I haven’t found as much as a hair, a skin particle, to trace back to the killer. I feel useless. And after seeing these women, bloodied and torn, I desperately want some closure for them. I don’t really believe in ghosts or spirits or even the soul, but I still feel compelled to help the victims, even in death. How can I do that if I can’t find a shred of evidence at the crime scenes?
I arrive at The Watering Well. I park curbside and get out of the car, quickly grabbing my kit from the trunk. I never leave it in the car – it looks too conspicuous and Rick worries it will make me a target. He’s overprotective. Usually, that would drive me nuts. I don’t need anyone looking out for me, and I’ve worked hard to make my coworkers see me as an investigator, not some potential damsel in distress. But he’s one of the most important people in my life, so I cut him some slack.
The parking lot is full, even though it’s after 1 am and the pub has been closed for an hour. Even at a quick glance, this couldn’t be mistaken for revelers spilling out of the pub. The parking lot is also crawling with LAPD. The yellow crime scene tape flaps in the light breeze. The flurry of activity that would have arisen when the officers first arrived on the scene has died down and most of the officers stand in small groups, awaiting further instruction.
Awaiting me. Once I have trawled the scene and collected the forensic evidence – not that there will be any, I think to myself – the officers will be able to have the coroner called to the scene and the body removed. Okay, maybe I am a bit cynical.
I cross the road and duck under the tape, making my way to the largest group. Rick spots me at the same time as I spot him. He breaks away from the group and heads towards me.
Rick is somewhere in his early fifties, although he looks younger. He’s tall and muscular. His buzz cut hair has the tiniest hint of gray at the temples, but other than that, it’s jet black. He cuts an imposing figure. Poised, mean. Until you look at his dark brown eyes. They sparkle with warmth. And when he smiles, his face changes. It becomes soft and kind.
“Amy,” he says. He isn’t smiling now.
I nod a greeting. Rick looks calm, yet I know that actually, he’s anything but. Inside, he’ll be concocting a hundred different ways his team can solve this crime. A hundred ways to find potential witnesses and gather evidence. His mind constantly whirring, looking for the break this case needs. But on the outside, he’s calm. And his appearance of calm works on two levels. It keeps his team calm. And it gives the impression of a man who has everything under control. I personally believe that this calm exterior during the press conferences is the only thing that has given the public even a tiny hope that he is well on the way to solving this case.
“Same MO?” I ask.
Rick nods grimly. “Yeah,” he confirms. “She’s one of his all right.”
I turn away from Rick, nothing else needing to be said, and head to the far end of the parking lot. The corner that is consciously untouched and deserted.
“Amy?” Rick calls after me.
I turn and look back at him.
“Find me something I can use.”
I hear the tiniest trace of desperation in his voice. I nod, although I’m almost certain I’m making a promise I can’t keep. There’s been nothing of any use at any of the crime scenes so far, and I’m far from hopeful this one will be any different. From what we’ve gathered so far, all we really know for sure is that there have been no signs of an animal being present. That doesn’t entirely rule it out, but it makes it extremely unlikely. An animal would make no attempt to cover its tracks, so to speak, and we would have found something.
Rick’s team believes that the murderer is a man who lures unsuspecting women into deserted areas with him. They think that this scenario often comes about as part of a first date. They’ve trawled all of the popular dating sites, and as many of the unpopular ones as they know about and have found nothing. None of the women have had profiles on the sites.
Their friends and family have been less than useless. It seems that these women have all been very secretive about their plans for the night they were killed.
It is odd, to say the least. And with several of the victims, the secrecy was jarring given their usual open natures. And Cara wonders why I don’t try dating sites.
I sigh. I feel a rush of sympathy for Rick. Honestly, I’m glad none of this is my problem. I only have to worry about the initial mess, not the fallout.
I have almost reached the body when I spot a man standing on the edge of the parking lot. I briefly wonder why he isn’t standing in the crowd at the other end where the officers are questioning potential witnesses. Maybe he has something to hide?
I veer off my course slightly and head for the man. He looks as though he is about to flee, but something stops him, and he stands his ground as I reach him.
“Evening,” I say. I cringe inwardly at the greeting. Evening? I might as well have done a curtsey, actually gone for the full period drama effect.
The man nods to me, seemingly unfazed by my awkward greeting. Of course, it was going to be awkward. Look at him. He’s tall, and I can see the outline of his muscles through the long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing. He looks like someone who could keep me safe, someone who I would like to be held by. His messy dark hair falls across one eye, and it’s all I can do to not reach up and brush it aside. His blue eyes are piercing but neither warm nor cold. Intense is the way I would describe them.
The man smiles in amusement. He obviously caught me looking him up and down. I clear my throat.
“Amy McCartney,” I tell him. “I’m the forensic officer. Did you see anything out here tonight?”
The man shakes his head. “No. I saw a crowd and came to see what was going on. By the time I realized it was a murder, the cops were here, and I figured if I tried to leave, it might look suspicious.”
His voice is low and warm. And I know he’s lying. I don’t know how I know, but I do. But something also tells me I don’t have anything to fear from him.
I clear my throat again. “A likely story,” I say.
What? Where the hell did that come from? It’s like I want to sound like an awful cliché. And I have just informed a witness I don’t believe them. What am I doing?
The man, rather than being angry, just smiles. His eyes sparkle, and I see that they are in fact warm. I could easily get lost in those eyes. But I won’t, dammit.
“Joke,” I tell him. “Seriously, though, did you see anything on your way over here? Anyone who looked suspicious?”
He raises an eyebrow when I tell him it was a joke. Of course, he does. Who makes jokes when a fresh corpse is within ten feet of the conversation?
“It’s L.A,” he shrugs. “Everyone looks suspicious.”
I have to give him that one.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Why? Are you going to ask me on a date?”
He’s so calm. So confident. And I get the distinct impression he’s playing with me. Probably because in comparison to him, I am a hot mess. I am an easy target. I don’t trust myself to speak, so instead, I fix the man with my most cutting glare.
“Damon,” he says after a moment. “Damon.”
“Well, Damon,” I say, cringing again at my use of his full name. “Here’s my card. Please call me if you remember anything else.”
I hand him my card. He takes it, smiles and slips it into his pocket.
“And I thought the glare meant you didn’t want that date.”
With that, Damon turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone, my mouth hanging slightly open. A witty retort comes to me as he rounds the corner at the edge of the parking lot. Should I chase after him and tell him? Of course, not, I chastise myself. It’s a crime scene, not a bar crawl.