by Jess Raven
Published by Raven & Black.
Copyright 2014 Paula Black and Jess Raven
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the authors except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The Rousing is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents other than those in the public domain are the products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE ROUSING
A Celtic in the Blood novella
When unwelcome stranger Jack Pembroke arrives in Darcy McShane’s rural coastal village, the last thing she anticipates is falling for him, but a deadly storm, a night of unrestrained passion and the rousing of an ancient Irish myth conspire to change her life irrevocably.
From the authors of The Becoming Trilogy, The Rousing is an adult romance novella, set on the wild coast of Southern Ireland. The story blends mystery and eroticism with a paranormal twist on an ancient Celtic vampire legend said to have inspired Bram Stoker's Dracula.
Due to graphic scenes of sex and violence, The Rousing is recommended to an 18+ readership.
CHAPTER ONE
“Eyes right, Darcy.”
Liam nudged my elbow. I looked up from the clouds in my glass of Guinness and followed his pointed look to the blonde who’d just walked into our local bar.
A blonde walked into a bar. Sounded like a bad joke, right? Except nobody was laughing. A draft of cold air and expensive perfume billowed in the new arrival’s wake. The door swung shut behind her and the ambient noise petered out as all eyes settled on the strange creature invading our Thursday night routine.
She wore sunglasses, blood-red lips and vertiginous heels. With a waist like a wasp corseted in striped black satin and Veronica Lake hair, she fit into our rural village pub scene like a whore walking in a nunnery.
Vamp.
That was the word that came to mind.
“Jesus,” Liam breathed. “Would you look what the cat dragged in.” Along with every man in the place, he was openly gawking, transfixed by the sashay of those tightly-encased ass-cheeks as she sex-walked her way to the bar, seemingly oblivious to the attention she drew.
“Lady Gaga comes to Crooke?” I asked under my breath. “Or did I miss the posters for the dominatrix convention?” Maybe Paddy, the flat-cap wearing owner, had decided to spice up the entertainment with a little burlesque show. It’d sure make a change from the usual fiddle and penny-whistle trad music. “This should give the old-timers something to gossip about at Sunday Mass,” I laughed.
Ignoring me, Liam slid off the red-leather banquette, drawn toward the exotic stranger like his dick was some kind of divining rod. I couldn’t blame my brother. Our little village in the South-East of Ireland didn’t see a lot of action. Had it been a smoking hot guy, perhaps I’d have been the same, jostling with the competition to buy the newcomer a drink.
I sat up straighter and drained my glass, feeling inadequate, in spite of myself. Jeans and a sweater were perfectly acceptable pub attire for a weeknight, and it wasn’t as though there were any men here worth trying to impress. Any guy worth getting in a lather over had upped and emigrated years ago. Well, one guy in particular, but I refused to get drawn down that dark alley of loathing and regret.
Feeling like the plain bridesmaid at a wedding, I looked enviously towards the exit. Trouble was, I had to rely on Liam for a ride home, and he was otherwise occupied. I stood, began making my way through the crowd to get a refill, only to find myself detoured, mashed into a corner by a big flabby body in a blue Argyle sweater.
“Grab your coat, love, you pulled.” He leered drunkenly, smelling vaguely of sheep-dip and stale body odour. Beer breath hot on my neck, he pinged my bra strap and his slobbery tongue was probing my ear before I had a chance to push him off.
“That your idea of foreplay, John-Joe?” I demanded, shoving him away, repulsed by the lingering sensation of wetness in my ear. “Go home and try that out on your wife.” Feeling contaminated, I ducked into the ladies’ toilet before things got way out of hand.
A good ten minutes later I was still sat there, locked in the cubicle. Anything to escape the reality of my life out there in the bar. At twenty-seven years old, were these really my prospects? Nights out drinking with my twin brother as chaperone, staring at the same old faces? A disgusting affair with some married farmer whose idea of seduction was to tongue-rape your ear, followed by a fumble in your knickers and a knee-trembler up against the wall outside. The same wall the drunks liked to piss against.
I shuddered. That couldn’t be my life.
Outside, I heard the restroom door open, admitting the sounds from the bar, along with a click of heels on tile and a waft of distinctive perfume. Then it closed again, deadening the noise, but that scent lingered. The vamp.
I sensed her on the other side of the cubicle and for some stupid reason, was afraid to breathe. I waited, stock-still, just listening. I could tell she was at the bank of sinks by the clink of buttons or nails against the ceramic. Grooming herself, I imagined, re-applying lipstick, whatever it was these high-maintenance type girls did in bathrooms for interminable hours. I visualised myself stepping out of the cubicle, forced to stare at my own reflection alongside hers as I washed my hands, and the seconds ticked by with me hoping she’d just leave.
She didn’t.
You’re being ridiculous, Darcy. Can’t hide in a toilet for the rest of your adult life.
I flipped the lock across, swung open the cubicle door and immediately caught the woman’s reflection in the mirror.
I got just the briefest glimpse of her eyes when her gaze jerked up to mine in shock, and they didn’t look right. There was no pupil, no iris to speak of, all-white with just a burst of black veins across the surface.
What the …?
Her reflexes were lightning fast. The shades were back in place before I could even be sure I’d seen what I thought I had.
She turned to me, twitching her full mouth into a forced smile. “I thought I was alone,” she said, moving uncomfortably closer, making the toilets seem too small to fit us both.
“Sorry, I was just leaving,” I said apologetically, heat flooding my face as I tried not to cringe back into the cubicle.
I felt the urge to run, but her back was to the door, impeding my exit. There was no place to go that didn’t involve physically tackling her aside or actually spending the rest of my life sat on a toilet seat.
“Oh,” she said huskily, in an accent that was hard to place, “how pretty you are, such beautiful skin. The blood in your cheeks. I was so much like you once.”
She touched her manicured nails to my jaw and I visibly flinched, my skin recoiling from the cool tap.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” she said. Her smile widened and panic flared in my chest.
“Was that man out there bothering you?”
“Pardon?” I stammered.
“Darcy! You in there?” We both startled towards the sound as Liam’s head appeared around the door.
I could have kissed him, brother or not.
“Been looking everywhere for you, sis. Thought you left without me.”
I sagged with relief as my bathroom companion went back to teasing her hair in the mirror, as though nothing at all had passed between us.
“What is it you ladies do in here that takes forever?” Liam asked, oblivious to the strange tension he’d broken up.
The blonde pressed her
lips together suggestively and grinned at him through the mirror. He dug his hands into his jeans’ pockets and grinned back, like some lovesick puppy.
“We really should go now,” I said.
"Leaving so soon?" The other woman pouted, her dismay clearly directed at my brother.
“Yeah, we have to work tomorrow,” I said, hustling Liam out of the ladies room and back into the bar.
He failed to hide his disappointment.
“Please,” I wheedled, “I can’t handle any more of John-Joe’s groping tonight.”
Liam’s brows knitted together and his body tensed with aggression. “You want me to set that fecker straight? I’ll fix it so he never touches you again, sis.”
“That’s sweet of you Liam, really, but we’re not in the playground anymore. Your sister’s a grown-up who can handle herself. Right now, I just want to go home.” The last thing I needed in this village was a reputation as a home-wrecker, and John-Joe’s wife was actually a nice person, as was John-Joe, when he wasn’t drinking.
I steered Liam out front where his Ford was parked. I half-expected to see a sleek sports car to match the killer heels and corsetry, but there was only the usual collection of muddy trucks and hatchbacks, and I could have told you who drove each one.
“Strange woman. Where'd she come from?” I asked.
“She said she was looking for the Regency hotel, but her GPS led her down a wrong turn.”
“Weird,” I said, scanning further down the road for any sign of a car and finding none.
“Was she planning on leaving tonight?” I asked.
“Hope not,” Liam said, popping the locks on the Ford. “I got her number.” He waved a beer-mat scrawled with digits.
"Probably fake,” I laughed. “Anyway, I think she might have some kind of eye condition,” I said, sliding into the passenger seat.
Had to be. How else could I explain what I’d seen in that mirror?
"Huh," Liam said, belting up and starting the engine, "maybe she’s an albino. It’d explain the shades."
"Yeah." Still no sign of any car though, and she wasn't exactly dressed for a hike. "An albino, for sure," I said doubtfully.
Liam smiled over at me. "There are things I might like to hold against a woman like that, sis, but that ain't one of them." He laughed, driving us off into the night.
CHAPTER TWO
“Bronach is up for sale.”
Liam barged his way into the tiny back office of our village real estate agency, while I hurriedly clicked the red ‘x’ on the wedding announcement and snapped down the lid of the laptop. I’d stared at the damn thing so long, I wondered if he’d be able to see it, burned into my retinas, as I still did.
“Don’t you know how to knock?” I demanded, cutting him a death-glare. I ruffled papers to distract from my ruffled self, willing that tell-tale salt-sting to retreat back down my tear-ducts.
“Didn’t you hear what I said? I thought you’d want to know,” Liam said, landing himself in the wheelie office chair opposite me with a bounce.
“Know what?” I asked.
“Bronach Lodge is going up for auction.”
“You can’t be serious. The old lady’s still warm in her grave.” I’d caught the lingering scent of incense from Lady Pembroke’s funeral on my scarf just this morning. It had been a solemn, impersonal, rain-drenched affair; she’d had no family left to mourn her.
“I’m deadly serious,” Liam said. “Just got off the phone with the executor. He's flying in from New York this evening for a valuation. Insists on being there in person.” Liam scooted closer. "This could be really good for us. The commission on a big house like that-" His smile fell at the corners as he finally did a double-take on the blood-shot eyes and smudged mascara I was failing to hide through the fall of my hair. “Are you crying, Darcy?” he asked.
“No, of course not,” I lied. Fortunately for me, my twin brother wasn’t the observant type. Not unless it involved particular attributes of the female variety, and those did not include tears.
My ex-fiancé might have officially moved on with his life, but I was far from ready for the pity-party that was bound to follow. One sympathetic word from Liam and I'd be a hot mess of pathetic, bawling woman.
“You get your knickers in a twist every time these old estates get put up for auction," Liam said, totally misreading the source of my distress, "but you can’t take each one like a personal blow. Times change, sis. People move on.”
“Yeah,” I exhaled. Except somehow I got left behind. My smile was fake.
“An auction will attract international interest. Not like any of the locals would touch that place with a shitty stick.”
“True,” I conceded. Bronach was aptly named for the Gaelic word for sorrow. The house had seen its share of it, and though these days the village had broadband and satellite TV and all the mod cons, not even the invasion of twenty-first century technology could completely douse the flame of local superstition.
“So -” Liam pushed.
“So what?”
“So,” he said, trying to ply me with that same rakish, raised brows and twinkly-eyed look I’d seen him use to melt many a girl’s panties down the local pub, “you’ll take the client? He’ll meet you at the property at five.”
“You’re shafting me to work Friday night, again?” I said, incredulous.
“I would never shaft you, sis,” he laughed, brows wagging, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper “but there’s this killer blonde I’m hoping to run into again down the pub tonight.”
“Seriously, you like her?” Damn. That woman gave me the creeps with her weird eyes and her sunglasses and the inappropriate touching. “Don’t you ever think outside of your crotch?” I asked.
“You should try it some time, Darcy. Cut loose. Getting ‘shafted’ once in a while might do you a world of good.”
I glowered at him, refusing to rise to the bait.
Christ. Was that my reputation now? The frigid, abandoned spinster? I was still on the right side of thirty, for God’s sake, and it wasn’t as though the laughable, fumbling seduction techniques of the village idiots round here were even remotely tempting.
“Do I need to remind you I’m your boss?” Liam prodded.
I balled a sheet of paper and tossed it at his head. “You know if you weren’t my brother, I’d be slapping my hand across your face and a sexual harassment charge on your arse.”
Liam’s grin widened. “I knew you’d come good, sis.”
“You owe me. Big time,” I said, stabbing a finger in his direction,
“Sure.” He rubbed his hands together as he rose from the chair, smug in his victory. “Who knows, maybe this executor fella will turn out to be a real catch.”
The look I gave him was withering. “Oh yeah. Another paunchy, pasty-faced, cigar-sucking fat-cat from the U-nited States of America, come to rape what little is left of our dwindling heritage. What’s not to love?” I said drily.
CHAPTER THREE
An hour on the road, navigating the winding, dusk-cloaked country lanes with my camera, phone and notepad my only companions on the passenger seat, and I was still berating this stranger I was yet to meet. I hadn’t laid eyes on my client, but already I hated him. I knew the type all too well: pseudo-Irish wannabes with more money than sense. They bought up ancient family estates like they were just any other commodity. Then they stripped out their souls: marble fireplaces, mirrors, bathrooms, family heirlooms, all destined for the swanky New-York antique shops, while they installed their obscene swimming pools and their libraries of fake books and faker furnishings and swanned around playing fake lord of the manor. Who said the pillaging of Ireland had ended with the Vikings?
“And when did you become so bitter and twisted?” I said to myself. All I needed were a few cats and a bobble-hat, and my eccentric old bird credentials would be sealed.
I knew I was being crabby. I knew it was unreasonable, but damn it, it was that or dwell on
that salt-in-the-wound, picture-perfect, kissing-in-the-sunshine wedding announcement I couldn’t get out of my head. That depressingly apropos Adele song came on the radio and I punched through the stations, hoping to lift my mood. I paused, catching the tail end of a storm warning on the shipping news. There hadn’t been a breath of wind all day, but here on the coast, the weather was fickle.
Let’s hope the American's not a talker, I thought, driving on, singing along to angry rock anthems at the top of my lungs. As though the landscape was tuning into my dark mood, slate-grey clouds roiled on the horizon. A wind whipped up out of nowhere, buffeting my little car as I approached the remote headland on which Bronach Lodge had perched above the waves, unmolested for centuries. A bit like you, Darcy, I thought, laughing at myself. John-Joe’s groping didn’t count.
My client’s car was already there, staking a claim outside the property, when I pulled up a short distance away. A huge, sleek, racing-green gas-guzzler of a sedan, I recognised it as a Jaguar from its animal insignia. How predictable. I felt my upper lip curl. The black-out windows ticked yet another box on my douche bag checklist. Assuming he was watching me through all that dark glass, I flashed him a megawatt smile whilst simultaneously flipping him the bird, unseen behind the dashboard.
I slid the vanity mirror open and glossed my lips a dark red. If I was going to defend Ireland’s coastline against invading marauders, a little war-paint was definitely in order. My fraternal twin, Liam, and I shared the same colouring: almost black hair, blue eyes and porcelain-pale skin that didn’t take the sun. Nothing exotic in this neck of the woods, nothing as overtly sexual as the blonde bombshell in the bar last night, but foreigners seemed to find it alluring, and I wasn’t above using all the weapons in my arsenal to secure this deal. It was no secret the country was in an economic slump - why else would these bald-headed vultures in business suits be circling? - and since my father's diagnosis, the bills were mounting at the little estate agency that had once been his pride and joy. So game-face on, I gathered up my camera and notepad, slung my bag over my shoulder and exited the car.