The Veiled Series Collection
Page 1
Copyright Stacey Rourke 2017
Copyright 2017.
All rights reserved.
Published by Anchor Group Publishing.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Cover and Interior Design by Melissa Stevens, The Illustrated Author Design Services
Table of Contents
Copyright
Veiled: Book One Copyright
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
Scientific Theory
Vlad: Book Two Copyright
Prologue
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
Vendetta: Book Three Copyright
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Titles
Copyright Stacey Rourke 2017
Copyright 2017.
All rights reserved.
Published by Anchor Group Publishing.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Cover and Interior Design by Melissa Stevens, The Illustrated Author Design Services
Disclaimer:
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
Make note of the experiment days to line causes from the past to their effects in the present.
Chapter One
Formulated Hypothesis
Hypothesis – The proposed explanation for a phenomenon that requires testing.
Oh how I missed the reoccurring dream that used to haunt me with its mundane regularity. In it, I took a running start over worn and splintered boards to throw myself off the end of a pier. Anticipating the rush of the icy water, my plummet downward lasted longer than I expected. Instinct screamed for me to tuck my body into a tight ball to brace for what was to come. Fighting that impulse, I straightened my spine and held firm. Plunging in with a spray of white foam, the chill of the sea shocked me to the bone. Still, despite that harsh bite of cold, I smiled and tipped my head skyward … because in my innocent, isolated world, I knew I was okay. I would break the surface of that watery tomb. The hands of my loved ones would encircle my extended wrists and draw me back into the light, cradling me in the warmth of their embrace.
That little bit of subconscious self-soothing came before I knew what a heartless bitch fate could be.
Now, I spiraled deeper and deeper into a realm the darkest, most vile minds couldn’t fathom. Sinking into a toxic sludge from which there was no escape.
Here, no hands of salvation could find me and no hope could survive.
This was no dream behind the fluttering lids of a sweet and sheltered co-ed.
It was an ugly, gruesome death … and I was its harbinger.
Experiment Day 366: Effect
Cause & Effect – The basic principle of causality determines whether results and trends in an experiment are actually caused by the manipulation or whether other factors may underlie the process.
There’s something truly liberating about walking into a room and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that you are the baddest bitch there. That undeniable truth struck me as I sashayed through the palace of designer duds and dripping diamonds.
“Get those wallets ready, ladies!” The evening’s hostess—a retired television star from the 70s—pursed her lips coquettishly. “The next bachelor coming to the stage is none other than on-air vamp correspondent, Mathieus Vaughn. Mathieus was sired two hundred and seventy-six years ago, which has given him plenty of time to perfect his art of seduction, ladies. And remember, bidders, if the Nosferatu Presumption of Innocence Bill passes, he’s planning to run for Congress. Play your cards right, and you could be a congressman’s wife!” The stage lights glistened off her shimmering gown, which clung to her surgically maintained figure as if she had been dipped in gold-plating. “The bidding will start at one thousand dollars. Do I hear one thousand?”
While the bidding opened to the horny and rich, Mathieus posed and preened like the prize show pony he was. Flipping his hair, he puffed his chest and slathered on the charm.
Frustrated with their husband’s long-since flaccid penises, the women in the crowd ate up his showy antics by the spoonful, driving the bids higher and higher. Their anxious giggles bounced off the ballroom walls, masking the loathing they harbored for each bitch that dared to outbid them.
The monetary equivalent of his charisma topped out just under the six-thousand-dollar mark.
Giddy with the power of her position, the nipped and tucked hostess twirled the gavel between her fingers. Once, she was idolized by teenage boys everywhere. Her bare midriff—absent of obscene flashes of belly button—and bright smile earned her the spot of America’s sweetheart. Now, she got her much needed rush of attention with guest appearances, and high-paying events such as this. “We have five thousand, nine-hundred, and seventy-five. Do I hear six thousand? Going once … going twice … sold! Sold for five thousand, nine-hundred, and seventy-five dollars to the lovely lady in
blue in the back!”
A smattering of polite applause emanated from the mass of women and their bitter libidos. The least he could have done, after working them all up into a lather, would have been to throw the active bidders a sympathy bone into their creaky, cob-web covered coochies. Be that as it may, only one lucky lady rushed the stage, frantically waving her arms as if her name had been called on The Price is Right.
Offering her a hand, Mathieus pulled the robust woman on stage like she weighed no more than a feather. His alabaster face didn’t even redden at the strain—granted, blood hadn’t pumped through his veins in a few hundred years, but the gesture was still a potent one to the romance deprived crowd which hooted in response.
The moment their palms touched, the lucky winner blushed a bright carnation pink. Fluttering her fake lashes, which had slipped awkwardly askew, she beamed up at his strikingly handsome face. Every romanticized vampire movie she ever double-fisted popcorn to flashed across her face as she stared into the sapphire pools of his gaze, wishing for their poetic eternity.
Side by side, they flirted and posed for pictures. Mathieus even went so far as to pantomime a vicious vampire sneer for a few clicks of the camera, pretending to bite his date’s neck, much to the audience’s uproarious delight.
Riding the high of their moment in the light, the couple was reluctantly ushered off stage to settle up her payment for one evening in his company.
“Next up …” Positioning her bedazzled bifocals on the bridge of her nose, the once idolized starlet squinted to read the tiny print on an index card. “Oh, this is a good one! Our next eligible bachelor is the infamous newsman, Carter Westerly. Carter is very much a human, ladies, and came into fame as a hunky reporter for VNN, who then reported on the vampire initiative in a series of fun, risqué broadcasts. This guy isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, ladies. And, let me assure you, that can be a very, very good thing! Please help me welcome Mr. Westerly to the stage!”
To say he was received by a smattering of applause would be a kind over-exaggeration. A few palms found their way together, out of habit more than respect.
A room full of waning interest, yet I had found exactly what I came for.
Carter stumbled out on to the stage as if pushed, fumbling forward to get his feet under him. Someone had taken the time to dress him in a tux. It was an adorable gesture, really. Not unlike garnishing a Thanksgiving turkey before devouring its helpless carcass.
At a distance, he might almost have passed as dashing with his disheveled blond hair and sharp, chiseled jawline. I knew enough to look deeper than that—to the bruise-colored shadows lining his eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks gaunt with dehydration. His gaze didn’t flick to the exits, as I anticipated. Instead, he stood with his arms swinging akimbo at his sides, scouring the room for who among them would free him by offering the mercy of a clean death.
“Isn’t he a dish, ladies?” the hostess rasped into the mic. “The vamp mistresses in the room maybe interested to know that, rumor has it, our boy is virgin to the fang. With that in mind, how about if we kick the bidding off at one thousand dollars. Do I hear one thousand?”
Silence fell.
The only sounds echoing through the grand ballroom were the clink of champagne flutes meeting stainless steel trays and crystal baubles from the chandeliers clacking together as the central air blew through the overhead vents.
Clearing her throat, the hostess shifted her weight from one Jimmy Choo to the other. Batting her impossibly long lashes, she struggled to keep her plastered smile firmly in place. “How about seven-fifty? Do I hear seven hundred and fifty?”
Someone in the back coughed, only to quickly shake their head in affirmation it wasn’t to be confused with a bid.
“Come on, ladies,” the starlet would have cringed, if Botox allowed that caliber of facial movement, “he’s an attractive guy. Imagine how good he would look mowing your lawn. At this price, it would be cheaper than most of our gardeners.”
Her comment earned a light titter of laughter, yet still no bids.
“Five hundred? Any takers at five hundred?”
“One point four million.” The ice of my tone sent shudders through the room, every gaze swiveling my way with fascinated interest.
“I-I’m not sure I heard that right.” Cupping her hand behind her ear, the former bombshell inched to the edge of the stage. “It sounded like someone said—”
Draining the last of the Moët & Chandon Don Perignon from my glass, I set it on the table behind me and dabbed at my lips with a napkin embroidered with twenty-four karat gold.
Striding forward, the fabric of my gown shushed around my ankles. The crowd parted for me in breathless anticipation.
“One point four million,” I clarified, stepping into the stage footlights which eagerly shifted in my direction.
Head held high, I allowed them a moment to take me in. The black mermaid-style dress clung to my skin in a lover’s whisper, its plunging neckline hinting at my perfectly pert tits hidden from view. Under the glow of the lights my porcelain skin shimmered like freshly fallen snow, exposing me for what I truly was—flawless as a diamond, and equally indestructible. My short-sheered tresses were slicked back in a punk-coif. Full lips stained a delectable candy-apple red. I was a vision. An immortal goddess among lowly mortals. A … complete and total fraud.
“That’s just fantastic!” the hostess gushed, her face brightening with a peaches and crème glow. “Thanks to you, The Vampire Society has surpassed its goal for this year’s donation to Food for the Poor, a charity for orphaned and abandoned children. Let’s give our bidder a round of applause while she makes her way to the stage!”
I was donating enough to charity to cancel out their need to do so. By the thunderous ovation I received, it became clear they saw me as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the fucking Tooth Fairy all rolled into one.
“Aren’t you lovely,” the hostess muttered through her plastic smile as I lifted the hem of my gown to step onto the stage. Up close, I could smell the toxins in her blood. If I had to guess, I would say a Vicodin and gin cocktail. “I’m sure our audience would love to know what plans you have for the delectable Mr. Westerly after placing such a generous bid on him?”
“That depends,” I mused, hitching a brow in the direction of my bewildered prize, “on how well he takes direction.”
The crowd responded with appreciative hoots and saucy catcalls. I fully intended to make them choke on them.
Whitewashing my face of all emotion, I let the chill of death seep into my tone and vine around each word in an audible threat. “Get on your knees.”
The audience sucked in a shocked gasp, exchanging glances between them in their hunt to make sense of this sudden, taboo spectacle.
Carter’s cerulean stare fixed on me, undoubtedly seeing me as just another vampress flexing her power to impress the weak and fragile humans. Despite the exhaustion weighing heavy on his sagging lids, one corner of his mouth tugged back in an arrogant half-grin. “I’m in a tuxedo. Such a thing would be as lowbrow as you flashing fang in front of this regal crowd.”
“You think I need to show fang to gain your submission?” A snap of my fingers and a tablet was delivered into my waiting palm by a nameless face in the crowd, there solely to do my bidding. A careful click and swipe, and I showed Carter the screen. “Tell me, Mr. Westerly, do you know this young lady?”
Carter took a tentative step closer. His stare narrowed to focus, then widened with horrified realization. “That’s my niece, Harper. If you lay one hand on her—”
“Harper,” I interrupted, bored by any and all idle threats. “Quite the cutie, isn’t she? I especially like her Pooh Bear pajamas. Now, if you would please direct your attention to the French doors behind her, and tell me what you see.”
Zooming in the screen, I swiveled it back in his direction. I b
it my lower lip, watching with delight as the tendons of his neck tensed, and his hands balled into defensive fists.
“Call them off,” Carter snarled, nostrils flaring like a poked buffalo.
“Ah, so you do see my friend!” I declared in a victorious chirp. “That vamp prowling by the back window is a colleague of mine. He posed as a pizza man earlier at your sister’s home, and she invited him in while she fetched the money. Can you imagine such blind trust in the world we live in? You really should have a talk with her.”
No longer playing to the crowd, Carter dropped his voice to a raspy whisper. “What do you want?”
Arms falling to my sides, I reduced the shocked gasps and horrified sneers of the crowd to the meaningless drone of background noise they were. “One word from me and my man will rip out Harper’s throat while I pry your eyes open and make you watch. Now, with all due respect, Mr. Westerly, take a knee.”
Pressing his lips into a thin white line of vengeful hate, Carter did as directed. All the while he made a point of glaring murderous daggers in my direction.
“Good boy,” I purred. Spinning on the ball of my foot, I snapped my fingers to my crew waiting in the wings. “Bring him.”
Chapter Two
Experiment Day 1: Cause
Control Group – A group that receives no treatment in order to compare to the treated group.
Spare me your shocked gasps. Yes, I know in that last snippet I come across as an unlikable bitch. But, before you get all judgmental, there’s something you should know. I don’t give two-shits about what you think. If that kind of spectacle gets your panties in a twist, you need to take another look around. There are far worse monsters than me in this world. How do I know? I’ve met them all, and done shots with more than a few.
No, I don’t need your empathy. I know I’m the only one to blame for my plight in this miserable afterlife. Even now, thinking back to where it all started, I have a hard time drumming up even an ounce of self-pity. Oh, poor Vincenza. What could have possibly happened to blacken her young heart so? For starters? Love. Star-crossed, Hollywood contrived, Montague and Capulet bullshit. The media spoon-fed me stories of vampire hotties that wanted to love and worship their chosen mortal for all eternity, and I strapped on a bib and gobbled that romanticized crap right up. The fact that my parents were adamantly anti-vamp registered with me as nothing more than icing on the cake of my rebellion.