Dante’s Salvation

by Anna Leigh Keaton

  Dante’s Salvation

  Anna Leigh Keaton

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Dante’s Salvation

  Copyright© 2008 Anna Leigh Keaton

  ISBN: 978-1-60088-234-0

  Cover Artist: Sable Grey

  Editor: Melissa Darnell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Cobblestone Press, LLC

  www.cobblestone-press.com

  Chapter One

  Dante Rainaldi skimmed his hand over the piece of wood, its cool, smooth surface soothing against his palm.

  This would work. It had to.

  He touched the pad of his index finger to the pointed tip. Not quite good enough. It had to be lethal. Sharp enough to pierce through skin, muscle, cartilage and finally, the heart.

  Using the X-acto knife he picked up from the coffee table, he shaved a few more swipes, carefully designing a point as sharp as possible. The sharper the point, the easier it would be to accomplish his goal. Killing a vampire was a tricky feat. He had to be precise and get it right the first time or...

  Or the consequences would be unbearable.

  He had one shot at this. A mistake could not be made.

  Pressing his finger against the tip once more, he jerked back when the wood pierced his flesh. “Shit.” He sucked the tiny drop of blood from his fingertip and frowned. That hurt.

  Well, death wasn’t meant to be completely painless, now was it?

  It was time.

  He sucked in a deep breath, laid his stake on the coffee table, pulled off his T-shirt, and set it on the couch next to him.

  Looking between the stake and the steel mallet on the coffee table, he frowned. How the hell was he going to do this? The stake had to enter hard enough and fast enough to go all the way through. He shook his head and picked up the mallet. The stake was almost three feet long. There was no way to reach...

  As a thought occurred to him, he grinned and stood up. Lifting the stake, he set the flat end against the coffee table and leaned over it, testing the height.

  Just right.

  Excitement surged through him. Adrenaline pumped hard in his veins. This was it. He was finally going to do it. He’d waited three hundred years for this day.

  He gripped the stake in both hands, holding it steady against the tabletop. A smile curved his lips as peace settled over him. Finally, he’d be free. Leaning over until the tip touched his left breast, right over his heart, he felt around until he knew the point settled between two ribs. Having it deflect off a bone would be bad. He wanted death, not pain. God, he hated pain.

  Closing his eyes, he rose up and sucked in a deep breath. It was so close he could taste it. He let out the breath, slowing his heart rate and then—

  “Oh, bloody hell, Dante!”

  His eyes popped open as the stake was rudely jerked from his grasp.

  “What the hell do ya think yer about, you idgit? You think I wanna clean up yer mess?”

  Dante grabbed for the stake, but his roommate, Digger O’Toole, laughed and held it behind his back. “What a moron ya are. If’n yer gonna do yerself in, don’t do it in the livin’ room on the rug.”

  “Give it to me.” Dante bound over the coffee table and grabbed at the little Irishman, but Digger vanished, only to reappear across the room.

  “When will ya learn?” He winked. “Yer just hungry. Get dressed. We’ll go find some tasty young morsels to feed on.”

  “I’m not hungry. I want to end this now.”

  “Yer hungry. Ya always get suicidal when ya haven’t eaten in a while. When did ya last feed?”

  Dante went back to the couch and slumped onto it. “I had a sirloin last night.”

  Digger threw back his head and laughed, but then stopped abruptly as he examined the stake. “Bloody hell, mate. Ya...” He glanced into the dining room. “Ya cut off the table leg?”

  —

  “Come on, Wendy. Put this on. You look cute in it.”

  Wendy Schumacher curled her lip in disgust as she looked at the baby doll top her best friend, Candice, held in her hand. “You look cute in it. I look like I’m pregnant.”

  Candice rolled her big blue eyes and sighed. “It’s your birthday, honey. Lighten up and have a little fun. You’ll like this place.” She grinned and tossed the gauzy top at her, and she caught it. “It’s not a nightclub or anything. I swear.”

  “You don’t need to remind me that I’m thirty-seven today.” She held the top up and examined it. See-through arms, high waisted. “Ugh. I can’t wear this.”

  “You can, and you will.” Candice bounded off the bed and went to the closet. “And those cute jeans we got for you a couple months ago...a-ha. Here they are.” She pulled out a pair of jeans that fit Wendy like a second skin.

  She shook her head. “No. I won’t go out in these things. I’ll just throw on a sweatshirt and—”

  “No. You won’t. We’re going to find you a man tonight, and you’re getting laid.”

  Wendy’s lips parted in shock. “I most certainly am not.”

  Candice nodded. “Uh huh, you are. How long’s it been anyway?”

  “None of your business.” She pulled the towel from her head and let her damp hair fall over her shoulders.

  “None of my business, or it’s been so long you can’t remember?”

  “I remember just fine. April third.”

  Candice raised an eyebrow. “Of what year?” Then her eyes widened. “April? As in the April three years ago when you broke up with John the Jackass?”

  Wendy scowled. “He wasn’t a jackass. We just had different...goals in life.”

  Candice snorted. “Yeah. As in he had none.” She came up to Wendy and tugged the towel wrapped around her body.

  Wendy gripped it in her fist and squealed. “Stop it! Okay, okay. I’ll get dressed.”

  Her friend grinned. “You got ten minutes, and then I’m coming back in to do your hair and makeup.”

  Wendy sighed. No use fighting. When Candice got a bug up her butt, there was no stopping her. She’d put on the skanky clothes and go out and try to enjoy herself. It was her birthday after all. Maybe a few drinks wouldn’t hurt. But she was not going to look for a man. No way. She didn’t need a man. Things were much better on her own with no one to answer to.

  Candice flounced out of the bedroom, leaving the door open. Wendy slammed it shut and stuck out her tongue. Great. Thirty-seven years old, and Candice could make her act like a five-year-old.

  After retrieving a bra and panties from the bureau, she dropped the towel and pulled them on. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the back of the door. She cringed and swallowed hard. “Birthday resolution number one,” she murmured as she pulled the shirt over her head. “Join gym Monday morning.”

  As a medical assistant, she didn’t expend much energy during the day. The most exercise she got was walking to and from work. The donuts and lattes were adding up...all on her thighs, butt, and waist. She struggled into the jeans and flopped down on the bed to get them zipped—something she hadn’t done since high school. She laid there and panted, wondering if she’d be able to even sit up in the damn things. This was so not for her. She’d rather stay in, order a pizza, have a couple of beers—gain ten more pounds.

  “Ready?” Candice asked from the doorway.

  “That was
not ten minutes.” She struggled up to a sitting position, the jeans digging into her belly.

  “Ohh, you look hot. Come on in the bathroom and let me do your hair. I’m thinking something up and flirty.”

  Wendy made a face. “Flirty? I don’t do flirty.”

  Candice winked. “You will tonight. You’ll have no choice.”

  Forty-five minutes later, after walking six blocks through a warm, summer, Seattle evening, Candice pulled open the door to a brightly lit office with Dinner and a Date stenciled on the door.

  “What is this?” Wendy asked as she followed Candice inside.

  Candice grinned. “This, dear heart, is where you’re going to find the perfect man. Come on.”

  Wendy gripped the strap of her purse in her fist. She followed Candice to a desk where a matronly woman sat behind a low table. The scent of raw onions and peppers permeated the air. She tried to peer into the adjoining room, but too many men stood in the way. All men. Where were the rest of the women?

  “What is this place?” she whispered to Candice as her palms began to sweat. She didn’t like surprises. She thought Candice would take her to the new little jazz club that had opened down the street.

  Candice grinned. “Food and men. Your favorite.”

  Men were Candice’s favorite, not hers. Food, on the other hand... Her mouth watered, and her stomach grumbled. She could handle some food.

  They stepped up to the counter when the woman in front of them moved out of the way, and Candice withdrew two tickets from the pocket of her skin-tight jeans. Wendy’s own pants had stretched enough to let her breathe—as long as she stood up. Sitting might still be a problem.

  “Right through the door,” the woman behind the counter said, pointing in the direction of the other room blocked by men. “Pick a table. You have a choice of chicken, fish or beef. Dinner preparations will begin in about ten minutes.”

  “Thanks.” Candice grabbed Wendy’s hand and dragged her toward the throng of men.

  She thought she might be sick. Her friend pulled her through the group with a few “excuse me’s” and a flirty look or two toward a couple of guys.

  Wendy ducked her head and followed. They entered into a room set up with tables. Two chairs per table. On each one stood a griddle, and bowls of meat and mixed vegetables sat in tubs of ice. There were also bottles of a variety of oils and sauces. Most tables were already taken up with women, but they found two side-by-side toward the back.

  “I want the chicken,” Candice said as she plopped down into a chair.

  Wendy glanced around the room, at the backs of the fifteen or so other women sitting at tables, each one at their own table with an empty chair next to them. She sat down at the vacant table next to Candice’s. She got the beef.

  Her stomach curled in unease as she stared at the faces of the men hovering in the doorway. The ages ranged from twenties to fifties. Handsome to not-so-handsome. The women in front of her—she hadn’t really looked at their faces—but based on what she could see, the ages ranged just as widely as the men.

  “Okay, gentlemen. Pick your flavor.”

  Wendy jumped in surprise at the voice coming over speakers hanging from the ceiling behind her head. Then she saw the woman up in front of everyone, behind her own table but facing the group. She had a small microphone clipped to the strap of her apron.

  The men surged into the room like spawning salmon. A handsome guy in his early thirties sat down next to Candice, and her friend sent her a wide, pleased grin and wink.

  And then... Wendy swallowed hard. All the men were seated, and she was the only woman alone. Even the white-haired granny lady in the front row had a man next to her.

  Humiliation heated her cheeks, and she ducked her head. It was sixth grade dodge ball all over again. The last kid picked for a team.

  Candice’s laugh rang through the room, and Wendy scrunched down in her seat. Too late to make a run for it. If she got up and left, it would only draw more attention to her. That was the last thing she wanted. Thank God she was in the back row.

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” the blonde with the microphone said. “Ten minutes to introduce yourselves, and then we’ll start cooking.”

  Why, oh why, did the floor not open and swallow her when she needed it most?

  She was going to kill Candice when they got out of here.

  —

  “Yer dressed to go to a funeral, not a club.”

  Dante shoved his hands in the pockets of his Armani slacks as he and Digger walked down 4th Avenue toward The Starlight, the club they frequented to find willing candidates from which to feed. “There is nothing wrong with dressing nicely. At least I don’t look as if I came from a Hell’s Angels rally.”

  “The boys like the leather. Hey, ya know what? I know a good vampire shrink. I think ya should see ’im.”

  “I don’t want to see a shrink.”

  “Ya were gonna stake yerself, my friend. And what about trying to fry yerself last month?”

  Dante snorted. What a bumble fuck that had been.

  “Ya knew ya were too old to try that. Only young vamps turn to dust in the sun.”

  He shrugged. “I thought if I stayed out there long enough...”

  Digger shook his head.

  Dante had suffered third-degree burns over every bit of skin he’d exposed to the sun. Oozing blisters. If Digger hadn’t brought home a woman and fed him, who knew how long he would have suffered?

  Suffered. Not died. He shook his head. “It was much easier to get killed when the humans believed we existed and hunted us. I should have let VanBueren kill me when he had the chance two hundred years ago instead of ripping his heart out.”

  “Ya did what ya did because ya had to for all of us. If he hadn’t been stopped, he would’ve systematically hunted us down and done away with the entire race.”

  “And what a shame that would have been,” Dante mumbled.

  Digger heaved a sigh of annoyance. “We’ve got to get ya outta this slump, man. Find a woman ya can really sink yer teeth—and yer cock—into.”

  The thought turned his stomach. He hated feeding, and it certainly didn’t turn him on. The whole drinking blood thing... He only did it when absolutely necessary, which was about every two weeks. If he went longer, he got weak. He was on the edge of the hunger fatigue now and had been for a couple of days. He’d find a woman, mesmerize her, and feed tonight. Then he could go about his life for a while and not think about it again. Until next time.

  He swallowed hard and suppressed a shiver of disgust. Three hundred years as a blood-sucking vampire, and he’d never acquired a taste for it.

  A door opened, and out barreled a short redhead onto the sidewalk, running smack into Dante. He caught her by the arms to keep her from falling, and a scent assailed his senses that made his stomach growl. Onions, beef, green peppers...and lilacs. She looked up at him with startled, brilliant green eyes.

  “Oh...I’m...sorry.” She jerked out of his grasp, and her purse slipped from her shoulder to the sidewalk. In her other hand she held a plate covered in tin foil. “Shit,” she murmured and bent to retrieve the fallen purse, giving him a splendid view of her ample backside in skin-tight denim, and a flash of pale flesh at her lower back as her blouse slipped up a bit.

  His mouth watered.

  When she stood, the sloppy knot holding up her hair slipped to the side of her head, giving her a rumpled, sexy look—as though she’d just been thoroughly kissed while a man ran his hands through her hair. She was the most stunning woman he’d seen in years.

  She ducked her head and took off down the street. He turned to go after her, but Digger grabbed his arm, stopping him with a chuckle. “Guess her date didn’t go so well.”

  Dante watched the pretty little woman scurry away until she disappeared around the corner at the end of the block, and then he turned a frown on his friend. “What do you mean, her date?”

  Digger pointed his thumb at the door the woman had
exited in such a hurry. Dinner and a Date it said.

  “What is this place?”

  Digger headed off toward The Starlight again, and Dante followed, but what he wanted to do was go after the woman. To find out why she seemed so flustered and in such a hurry.

  “A couple women at work were talkin’ ‘bout it,” Digger said. “Apparently, the women buy a ticket, and men get in free. It’s kind of a cooking class fer singles. Ya pair up in there. The men pick the women they wanna share dinner with, and then they make it together.”

  Dante shook his head. “Sounds stupid.”

  Digger chuckled. “I’d say the chunky redhead thought so, too.”

  “Hey. She wasn’t chunky. She was...” Beautiful. Gorgeous. Soft. And she smelled like heaven.

  They approached The Starlight and bypassed the line of humans waiting to get in. They were regulars and were never forced to wait. The bouncer—one of Digger’s favorite lovers—nodded at them and unhooked the velvet rope to let them pass.

  Digger waggled his eyebrows at the African American with bulging muscles. “Good on ya, Jesse.”

  The bouncer winked. “Nice seein’ you, too, Dig.”

  “Think you’ll be up to joining me later?”

  Dante brushed by his roommate to let him flirt in private, and pushed open the heavy metal door to the club. He would swear the only reason Digger kept him around was because he was straight and didn’t compete for the Irishman’s male lovers.

  Not that Dante had any lovers in recent memory. Hell, it’d been over a decade since he’d bedded a woman. He’d once longed for love but could only find one-night stands—so he’d given up even looking.

  As he walked down the hall to the inner bowels of the club, the heavy beat of the music resounded through his body. The scent of alcohol, perfume, cologne and sweat permeated the air. His stomach soured. God, he hated this. If he had a woman who loved him, one who accepted who he was, he’d never be forced into these places. He could feed at home when he needed and not have to worry about...

  He knew from experience that would never happen.

  He swallowed hard and pushed open the door. Another bouncer, this one a testosterone-laden white guy named Willy, nodded at him as he passed.