Crimson Midnight (A New Adult Dark Urban Fantasy Series) (The Crimson Series Book 1)

by Amos Cassidy

  “That’s what I’ve been saying!” Kris looked smug. “But will these guys listen? Oh no! They’re only here because you said the band was good too, so my opinion counts for squat!” He sat back, his arms crossed across his chest looking every bit the sulky rock star that Rose had the urge to reach out and ruffle his blonde, artfully tousled hair. She resisted it though because that would have sent the wrong message.

  “Oh come on, Kris. We would have come eventually. They just haven’t played so close to home before that’s all.” Damon soothed.

  “Would you rather we have already have seen them play and not come today, so you could have Rose all to yourself?” Roman asked.

  Thistle, who had been playing with a strand of Roman’s hair, twirling it around her finger, suddenly sat up a little straighter.

  “Oh, Kris, do you like Rose too?” she asked

  “Too?” Damon sat forward eagerly, always one for a juicy bit of gossip. “Who else likes Rose?”

  Thistle’s gaze flicked down to Roman but it was so quick no one caught it. Roman tensed imperceptibly, his gaze locking and holding Rose’s. Kris saw the exchange and he froze, pint of beer halfway to his lips.

  Rose decided it was time to diffuse the situation. “Just some muscle bound freak at the gym. I was just telling Thistle about him actually.” She took a casual swig of her whiskey.

  Kris seemed to visibly relax but still looked unconvinced. Damon seemed unaware of the subtext.

  To be honest she wasn’t really bothered about hurting Kris’s feelings. In fact, it would be better for him to get over his crush sooner rather than later. But there was no way that she wanted to be linked with Mr Play Boy.

  Her eyes met Thistle’s over the rim of her glass and the punk-Barbie had the gall to raise her own glass in a silent toast. Bitch! Yeah, they were going to get on just fine.

  “TESTING! TESTING! ONE. TWO. ONE. TWO.” The lead guitarist of Funk This tapped the microphone, tossing Rose a wink when he noticed her looking. She shot him one back, which made him grin harder. He was kinda hot with deep chestnut hair held up at impossible angles by wax, and sparkling oceanic eyes. Yum.

  “Watch out, Rose. You look like you want to take a bite.” Damon chuckled.

  “I’m single and he’s hot.” She fanned herself with a beer mat.

  Kris glared at the guitarist.

  Thistle giggled. “I’ll get his number if you’re willing to share.”

  “Oi!” Roman protested.

  “Oops, hang on. I think my phone’s vibrating.” Thistle reached into her tiny handbag, withdrawing her tiny phone. She flipped it open and scanned the text, then flipped it closed again. Her expression was suddenly very serious.

  Roman looked up at her enquiringly.

  “Its home,” she said. “I have to go.” She slipped off Roman’s lap.

  “You think you’ll make it back?” Roman asked.

  “I’ll call you later.” She pecked him on the cheek. “Give Rose my number,” she instructed Roman. “We have to do a girl’s night soon,” she said to Rose.

  Rose nodded and waved goodbye as she walked away.

  The lights dimmed further and a cheer went up in the bar.

  The band began to play.

  10.

  HEART

  Jacques-Henri stood bound by the will of his maker. He couldn’t run and he no longer wanted to. Jacques-Henri Rene was no coward for having wanted to run at first, he was just a slave to his survival instincts. Fear and the need to stay alive had kicked in when they had found him, hunted him down like game pheasant. Running from vampires was impossible as a whole, even if you were a vampire yourself. And Jacques-Henri was fast. But not fast enough. The number of his hunters greatly outweighed his being alone. The escape plan was over before it started, he knew it would be, but he had to throw everything in the fire and go for it.

  When they caught him it was over. He didn’t fight, he didn’t protest. Freedom was not to be his. His life would be extinguished– the consequence of failure and the consequence of breaking vampire law.

  “My love,” the soothing voice of his maker washed over him, commanding him to stay and calming him into a state of faux bliss.

  She was his maker and his lover. Vanessa Darling, the most beautiful creature to have walked this Earth. How he loved her, oh how he loved her. Her scent was the sweetest perfume, her eyes pools of warm amber, her hair as black as onyx, her lips crimson and her skin so soft, so luminous, so everything. How he’d miss her, how he’d cry for her in oblivion.

  It had been 1891 when his English Rose had come to Paris. Jacques-Henri was a loner, a rogue, an artist, a hearty drinker of absinthe and lover of women. No one appreciated his painting or his philosophy on life. Life was for love and enjoyment. He believed that God had granted us life so that we may live it. So many people were missing the point– even today they still missed it. He couldn’t understand it. Life was about art, love, good food, good absinthe and a good lover. He expressed it all in his paintings and they were ignored and would barely sell. He lived a poor life in Paris, but a richer one than any of the noble men and women that passed him every day.

  Then she came to him.

  He remembered that night more than any other night, the memory he cherished above all others. It was the beginning of things.

  It was raining and he was sitting along the Seine on his favourite secluded spot, a small shelf on a wall, which he always climbed down to, letting the rain soak him. The day had been stifling, unbearably hot and smelly. The rain was a joy, a chance for everything to be cleansed. He was in a good mood. He sat and drank, enjoying the solitude and the sound of the rain hitting the surface of the river.

  “Bonsoir, Monsieur.” A lady greeted him and climbed down to sit beside him.

  He was aghast at this. No one who ever saw him acknowledged him sitting on his own, drinking absinthe. Ever. Not even the authorities.

  The lady introduced herself and started talking in his tongue, and not very well. He stopped her, picking up her accent. “English,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Oui,” she said. “Can you speak English?”

  Jacques-Henri nodded.

  “May I join you in a drink?” Vanessa asked courteously.

  “It is raining,” he said. “Do you not mind the rain?”

  “I love the rain, it is highly stimulating.”

  “But your dress is so lovely, are you not concerned about ruining it?”

  Vanessa Darling pushed the dress off her shoulders, pulling it down to show her cleavage. Jacques-Henri was transfixed.

  “I love the rain on my skin.” Vanessa moaned softly. She slid the dress down further to reveal nothing else beneath her dress but her breasts.

  Jacques-Henri took a deep swig of absinthe, its burn on the back of his throat making him cough but he didn’t take his eyes off the lady beside him. She was stunning, her pale skin glistening with droplets of rain. Her breasts were spectacular, full, round, perfect, the nipples erect and ready to be tasted. He licked his lips. He wanted to taste them.

  “May I?” Vanessa gestured to the absinthe bottle.

  Jacques-Henri handed her the bottle.

  “Merci.”

  She poured a little absinthe over her breasts, the green liquid trickling over them.

  “Drink,” she said.

  He looked at her, bemused and slightly wary.

  “Drink,” she said again. “Drink from me.” She tweaked her nipples, breathing heavily. “Drink.”

  He slowly leaned in to her chest, cupping a breast gently in his hands. He licked the nipple, tasting his favourite beverage and her delicious skin. That was it. Once he got the taste he devoured it. He kneaded her breasts, massaging, licking and sucking them, kissing them, making love to them with his mouth. She groaned with pleasure, her hands moving down to his trousers, undoing them and pulling out his erection. She started to fondle it, pulling it back and forth, stroking his hair as she did.

  “Rip o
ff my dress,” she whispered.

  He did so, pulling the dress hard and tearing the fabric to reveal more naked flesh. He drank in the sight of her splendid nude form. He’d paint her. He’d make love to her and paint her. And then he fell off the shelf and into the river. It was cold on impact but his head did not break the surface at all. Vanessa was also in the water and held him against the wall, the current against them but their bodies still.

  “How are you doing this?” he cried, startled by her unnatural strength. She had caught him and was holding him without effort, the river unable to move them at all.

  She kissed him hard in response. He was erect again in an instant despite the cold water. She was naked against him, grinding her hips. Cold was not a factor, he could only feel heat.

  Vanessa took his cock and slid it into her, straddling him while pinning him on the wall. He didn’t think or fear her strength any longer. He was inside her and his train of thought was in only one direction.

  She rode him, sliding up and down. The rain was still falling. His back was scraping against the wall but he could not feel the pain as it tore his shirt and grazed his skin. He sighed deeply, exquisite sensations pulsing through him, drowning any other sensation. Jacques-Henri ran his hands all over her, her buttocks, her breasts, her face, her wet hair…he noticed her teeth as he explored her body. They were pointing out of her mouth like two sharp barbs. They had not been there before.

  “My turn to drink.” She bit his neck.

  That night he was turned into a vampire and made hers. He discovered so many things. He had found Diana, the Moon Goddess. He had found love. They married a year later in a moon ceremony in London and started their lives in the vampire colony of that city. He would always be hers. No matter how far away, oblivion was not going to divide them.

  “My lone shadow,” Vanessa said, still maintaining her hold on him. That was what she called him. He was the lone shadow that she loved, her lone shadow, the lone shadow she had been intrigued by on the night in Paris that had changed their lives. “I wish you could have escaped. I wish there had been enough time.”

  “I failed,” said Jacques-Henri, “and I do not deserve freedom. I drank from a human.”

  “It was instinct, my love.” Vanessa stroked his hair.

  “Instinct? It is always instinct, deny the instinct and suppress the hunger. I failed at that. I know the law and I understand the law. Drinking from a human is a crime. Drinking and killing a human is a severe crime. The punishment is death. I killed three.”

  “But I do not accept it.” Vanessa protested gently. “We are what we are, why should we be anything else? Why did we have to stop the drinking of human blood?”

  “Yet you do not drink from them.” Jacques-Henri smiled fondly into the face he loved. “Because you know it is wrong. You know Diana, our beloved goddess, forbids it. She does not look kindly upon it. The blood of humans is what we drink, but not from their bodies. It is, as we have seen, Diana’s way.”

  Vanessa bowed her head. “Praise her.”

  “I would have liked to have been embraced by the Goddess of the Moon, but I know it is nothing for me that waits. Oblivion is what I face, not the peace that the fade brings, or a righteous death. Diana has condemned me. I pray that she can forgive me, but I accept my fate.”

  Vanessa did not slump, did not break her perfect poise. Yet Jacques-Henri felt her crumble. “Then she is cruel.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You must not say that. She is divine and right.”

  “You tried to run.”

  “It was my instinct.”

  “And now you don’t want to run?”

  “No.”

  “Because your instincts tell you not to?”

  “Because my heart tells me what is right.”

  Vanessa kissed him.

  A vampire guard walked into the prison cell, the metal door clanging as it opened.

  “It is time,” the guard said.

  In Camden there is a block of flats. They look old and dull, not a spectacular architectural achievement. They are secure and not accessible to any passer-by. An iron fence surrounds them, tall and covered in mounds of barbwire. The main doors are always locked and only open for a vampire who belongs there.

  Beyond the entrance hallway that is a shrine to Diana, the Goddess of the Moon, are flats of gothic grandeur, modern minimalism, retro chic– every flat of the London vampire colony is decorated differently and eclectically to reflect the personalities of its inhabitants.

  It is a happy place.

  But beneath the happiness is the darkness.

  The flats are blessed with darkness in the day, the powerful blinds blocking out the lethal rays of the sun. The darkness below is of a grim kind. It is where the court is to enforce law, to punish. It is where the prison is to hold the condemned until trial in small stone cells where the moon cannot reach. It is where, in the court of the vampires, that Jacques-Henri stands, bound still by his maker, awaiting the head of the colony, Jeremiah, to sentence him to death.

  The oval room was full with the entire colony. Everyone wanted to see their fellow vampire for the last time. Jacques-Henri was well loved by all and his crime was a shock, a betrayal. And they wanted to see him pay for what he had done.

  Jeremiah, clad in a long black robe, was seated on his throne presiding over the court. Next to him was his consultant and below him on a podium was Jacques-Henri.

  “Jacques- Henri Rene,” Jeremiah said. “We have heard the facts and grim account of your crime. You have taken from humans and killed them. Three you have murdered in the name of thirst. You have betrayed this colony and your goddess, praise her, with your actions. You told this court how you understand the law. Can you please confirm that statement?”

  “I understand the law,” Jacques-Henri said.

  “And you understand the nature of the sentence I will soon put on you?” Jeremiah said.

  “Yes,” said Jacques-Henri.

  “For the murder of humans by the name of David Williams, Sarah Lewis and Rachel Dalanna, for taking their blood, for breaking vampire law and defying the teachings of the Goddess of the Moon, I hereby, as head of this colony, sentence you to death by stake to the heart. Your maker will escort you to the execution chamber where the colony will all gather.”

  Thistle, now in a traditional black robe, was waiting in the execution chamber. As the executioner, it was her job to prepare everything for the execution. The binds were ready. The condemned’s maker would be there to bind him, but the straps were required to hold him in place to enable a direct hit. His sentence was death by stake. Thistle was the best shot with the crossbow used to fire the stake into the heart. A vampire dying by non-fade means – the fade being the way a vampire dies a natural death after approximately one thousand years - was a violent spectacle, and it could kill other vampires nearby when the staked vampire exploded. So execution from a distance was the best and safest measure.

  The crowd was gathering and the condemned was being fixed into place by two vampire guards, his maker beside him. Thistle felt terrible for them both. They were in love, had been for years. And she loved the story of how they met. It was an erotic tale that she would have to try and re-enact with Roman sometime– although she didn’t really like the idea of getting it on in a polluted river.

  But Jacques-Henri had killed and drank, he had broken the law, a law brought in not long after Vanessa had sired him, and for that there was no room for pity. He had to be punished. To set him free would send the wrong message, condoning what he had done and this could not be. Their survival depended on following the laws the elders had put down, in praising Diana and living in harmony as much as possible. Yet he was being taken away from his true love. It was a mixture of emotions. She hoped Vanessa would be all right. Thistle didn’t enjoy her job as executioner, but her spot-on accuracy was the curse that made it hers.

  The vampires were gathered and silent. Vanessa was ordered away from Jacques
-Henri, but still maintained her hold on him.

  “Goodbye, my lone shadow,” she whispered and Thistle heard it.

  Jeremiah stood by Thistle. “Fire when ready.”

  Thistle aimed the wooden crossbow, holding it steady. She clicked a lever to ready the stake, like removing the safety on a gun. She counted backwards from ten in her head. It helped, it eased the pressure. It prepared her for it, calmed her and always aided her in getting the shot.

  She fired.

  Jacques-Henri, the artist, the rogue, the free thinker, the absinthe drinker… The wooden stake pierced his heart. His body exploded in flame and dust. His English Rose wept quietly as justice was done.

  And then there was silence.

  11.

  INFATUATIONS

  Brandon Sonnet hadn’t seen Raven Stonewall since he’d planted a drunken kiss upon him at the Rainbow Rave. And he was glad he hadn’t. Okay, so he wasn’t glad that he couldn’t see Raven’s perfect face, his perfect body and perfect smile while drowning in the waves of his perfect baritone. However, he was glad that he hadn’t had to deal with the consequences of the kiss, the awkward questions that came with doing things under the influence of alcohol. He didn’t quite know how he’d been able to avoid Raven since the Rainbow Rave, especially working on reception at USL, but he had succeeded in doing so.

  Until now.

  “Good morning,” that baritone washed over him.

  Brandon froze, painfully aware of the presence at his desk. Suddenly the piece of paper on his desk that had a memo written in short hand on it, one he had to type and circulate to all staff at some point in the afternoon, was the most fascinating thing in the world. Despite his growing mortification he knew he couldn’t avoid a confrontation forever and Brandon was not a rude person. He looked up slowly. “Good morning.”

  Raven smiled. “I’ve come to pick up my list of students I’m mentoring today.”