Taming the Vampire: Over 25 All New Paranormal Alpha Male Tales of Contemporary, Military, Shifters, Billionaires, Werewolves, Magic, Fae, Witches, Dragons, Demons & More

by Mandy M. Roth

  “Then I must go,” Dorian said, rising to his feet. “My sister—”

  “Please, please,” Jacques appeared behind him in a flash, moving in a blur to press him back down to the log. “Please, sit,” he said. “Sit.”

  “How do you move so quickly?” Dorian gaped in astonishment, sinking back down to the log. “You move faster than sight, just as Emilio—”

  A hissing sound greeted this name, and Dorian glanced up to see the Frenchman crouched before him as if appearing from thin air, his lips curling in disdain. “Emilio. Emilio Marchesi.” Jacques’ nostrils flared in disgust. “We share an enemy, you and I. I’ve been tracking him for many weeks, attempting to ascertain just what manner of evil he spins at the Mindbreaker’s behest. ‘Tis too great a story to tell here, mon ami, but know simply that the Mindbreaker is a creature evil-incarnate, and I believe Emilio Marchesi will lead me to him. The world truly is not as it seems.”

  On that, at least, Dorian could agree. He studied the Frenchman a few minutes before asking, “Then what is this world? A world in which wolves speak and men move faster than sight?”

  “Nay, not men,” Jacques replied, cracking a smile.

  That reply disturbed him, but he would know the truth. “And if not men, then what?” Dorian pressed. “I weary of riddles. Nay, I have little time for them.”

  Jacques tilted his head to one side as if measuring him before answering softly, “A vampire moves faster than sight, Ramsey. A creature of the night. A Chosen One.”

  “A vampire?” Dorian repeated, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve heard naught of such a creature.”

  “A vampire, an eternal creature who may not walk in the sun, but lives in the night,” Jacques continued, his eyes taking on a distant look. “A creature of immense strength and varied talents, and … one who feeds only on human blood.”

  That made Dorian’s brows disappear into his hairline. “A death by hanging is too good for such a foul creature,” he growled, wondering if Jacques spoke in ghoulish jest.

  But there was little amusement about the man. “Nay, mon ami,” the Frenchman said with a long sigh. “Hanging would not harm such a one. Emilio Marchesi is one such creature … as am I."

  Dorian leapt to his feet, his eyes searching once again for his sword. “Night Vipers!” he gasped, recalling Ian’s tale.

  Jacques cocked a brow his way. “Ah, so your village has quaintly named our kind,” he acknowledged with a nod. “But ‘twas Emilio who murdered those women, not I. And from what I could tell, he did so to gain complete access to your sister, Gloria. For a reason I’ve yet to discover, he finds her blood most precious—”

  Dorian lunged for his sword, but Jacques reached it before he’d scarcely moved an inch.

  “I am not your enemy, Dorian Ramsey,” the man swore, blocking his path.

  “How do I know ‘twas not you who slew my aunt and cousin?” Dorian choked.

  The Frenchman shrugged and, bending down, retrieved the sword from the snow, offering him the weapon’s hilt first. “I serve your lady, mon ami, the Lady Elizabeth.”

  Dorian blinked, astonished.

  “And I am certain these words have strayed across your ears afore,” Jacques continued with an easy smile. “Honor. Justice. Forever. Never fading throughout the long march of time.”

  Dorian froze, recognizing the words of Elizabeth’s parting message.

  “’Tis by no strange coincidence that she gave you that dagger, the one you hold so close to your breast. ‘Tis a dagger of pure silver, is it not?” Jacques asked, cracking a smile. “Vampires may die in only two ways, mon ami. With a stake of wood driven through their heart or by the blade of a silver dagger piercing the same. Silver … allow me to show you what havoc silver wreaks upon the flesh of my kind. Please, draw your silver blade and touch my hand with it.” He extended his palm in Dorian’s direction.

  Slowly, as if mesmerized, Dorian fumbled in his shirt and unsheathed Elizabeth’s small dagger. The instant the metal grazed Jacques’ skin, the flesh sizzled, peeling back.

  Startled, Dorian jerked back. To his utter amazement, the wound on the vampire’s hand healed almost instantly. “Immortal, indeed,” he gasped, wiping sudden sweat from his brow.

  “You are not defenseless against me, noble Scotsman,” Jacques said with a grin. “Come, sit. You must have many questions. I will answer as many as I may in the time we have, mon ami. Come.”

  Slowly, Dorian sat and not caring what any might think, closed his eyes and cradled his aching head. Yes, he had many questions. And Elizabeth? Just what did she know of this? Emilio? Vampires? Wolves that spoke? Just where did he begin?

  Fortunately, Jacques seemed inclined to start on his own. Returning to the fire, the vampire stretched his long legs out as a wolf joined him, settling down at his side. “Traditionally, vampires and wolves are enemies,” Jacques mused aloud as he ran his fingers over the tawny wolf’s fur. “But some form uneasy alliances.”

  That made Dorian lift his head. “Uneasy?” He frowned, licking his dry lips. There seemed nothing uneasy between the vampire and wolf sitting so cozily near the fire.

  “Ah, but I do not speak of myself. I am a Night Hunter,” Jacques answered, laughing as the wolf by his side nuzzled his hand. Turning to the beast, he murmured, “Yes, my beauty. I shall. I promise.”

  The wolves ringing the fire opened their mouths in what appeared to be wide grins but there were so many teeth showcased, Dorian couldn’t truly be sure.

  Suddenly, Bianca streaked past him, melting into wolf form as she moved. But once changed, she stood alert, lifting her head and sniffing the wind.

  A moment later, Dorian heard the howl, faint and distant.

  The wolves leapt to their feet. One of them nudged his arm with a wet nose.

  “Come,” Bianca said in a low, growling voice. “They have found her.”

  “At last,” Jacques said with a grin. “It begins.”

  Chapter 6

  The Horror of Night

  Dorian galloped with the wind, but compared to the pace set by the wolves and vampire, he moved with the speed of a snail. The second time they circled back to wait for him, he waved them on instead.

  “I will meet you there, Jacques,” he called into the chill night air. “See her safe.”

  “Soon, then,” came the reply.

  He no sooner heard the words than the elegant vampire disappeared in a blur with the wolves on his heels—all save one. The young ebony-haired Bianca bounded up to Dorian’s side instead.

  “I will show you the way,” the wolf growled, exposing her sharp canines. “Follow me. ‘Tis time to ride.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, praying it wasn’t already too late.

  Kicking his horse’s flank, he galloped after Bianca as she streaked away over the mountain. The full moon hung overhead as they dashed over treacherous ridges and fields of fallen rock, until finally, they entered a narrow glen covered in silver birch, their slender trunks gleaming in the moonlight.

  With each step, the forest thickened and the path grew treacherous, forcing Dorian to slow his horse to a walk. There was little he could do, save fume at the delay.

  Suddenly, Jacques stepped out of the shadows and grabbed the gelding’s bridle. “The remainder of your journey must be on foot, mon ami,” the vampire greeted softly. “Leave your horse here. The wolves will protect him.”

  If Dorian hadn’t been so concerned over Gloria’s safety, he would have found the statement rather perversely amusing. Dismounting, he asked, “And have you found her?”

  The vampire hesitated. “Yes, but ’tis not so simple a thing. Come. I will show you.” Without waiting for a response, he vanished into the trees.

  Frowning, Dorian followed, but within a few yards, lost sight of the vampire’s trail. Once again, he relied on Bianca to lead the way.

  A few minutes later, they came upon Jacques kneeling behind a clump of saplings. He didn’t look up as they arrived. Instead, he pointed and mu
rmured, “There.”

  Crouching slowly, Dorian followed the line of his finger and cautiously pushed a branch aside for a better view.

  A narrow stone croft perched on a rocky ledge scarcely more than a stone’s throw away. The slate roof tiles and the steps leading up to its door appeared weathered and worn by time, but the stones used to cement the windows shut seemed new. Dorian frowned. Who would seal the windows and why? He eyed the place curiously and then noted it stood dark, silent. Not one glimmer of light could be seen.

  “’Tis abandoned,” he said, growing impatient. “Pray tell, preciously what is not so simple a thing here? Where’s Gloria, now?”

  Over his shoulder, a wolf growled in reply, “The moon weeps blood over the croft this night, human. ‘Tis an evil omen.”

  Dorian glanced back at the night sky to see the full moon indeed hanging low, its surface tinted a slight, dull red. “Balderdash!” he snapped. “’Tis simply a full moon. I’m not one to believe in omens. Is Gloria there? ‘Tis a simple question that begs only a ‘yay’ or ‘nay’.” His fingers flexed over the hilt of his sword.

  “’Tis Wolf Blood Moon this night, and a Blood Moon is dangerous, mon ami, when a warlock is involved,” Jacques explained, cocking his brow at the croft.

  This time, it was Dorian’s turn to lift a brow. “A warlock?” he repeated, startled. Not only vampires and wolves, but warlocks and witches as well? Licking his suddenly dry lips, he added, “Be quick, man, ere I lose my patience.”

  The vampire tossed him an understanding look but continued smoothly enough, “And ‘tis not just any warlock that lurks inside. ’Tis Lord Rowle in that croft, Ramsey. One of the most powerful warlocks to walk this earth.”

  Lord … Rowle? Lady Elizabeth’s foul husband? Dorian caught his breath, taken aback on many levels. Was there no end to it all? Astonished, the words fell from his lips. “What world is this that hides in plain sight?”

  “A world that will take much too long to explain here, mon ami,” Jacques granted, drawing his lips in a sympathetic line that passed for a smile. “Both Lord Rowle and Emilio hold your sister inside, but the difficulty lies in the fact the warlock set wards that prevent any wolf from approaching. As long as those wards stand, ‘twill only be you and I, Ramsey. No matter which scoundrel I attack, ‘twill leave you with the other, a mighty warlock or an ancient vampire who—”

  “Nothing will stop me from saving my sister, Frenchman,” Dorian cut him short. He found little value in waiting. Most likely, Jacques would only seek to dissuade him. Steeling his resolve, he spat, “You’d best pray to keep up with me then.”

  He rose to his feet and drew his sword in one swift motion, and spraying snow in all directions, burst from the trees to sprint across the clearing. He closed the distance to the croft in seconds, but still, Jacques arrived first.

  “A covert attack it will not be then,” the vampire announced with a wicked gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.

  The next instant, he whirled and kicked the door back with a crash.

  Nothing could have prepared Dorian for the macabre scene inside. Horror met his eyes, a horror that would forever etch itself upon his soul.

  The croft was dark, lit only by a handful of wax tapers melting in an iron candelabra near a small table at the back. Next to it hung a large, metallic, hollow ring suspended from the ceiling, a ring large enough for a horse to jump through.

  But it was the dark pool staining the flagstones beneath the ring that caught Dorian’s eyes.

  Blood.

  And on the edge of that pool, he spied something that made his heart stop. The Ramsey clan colors—Gloria’s plaid.

  “Jacques,” a deep, distinguished baritone observed from the shadows close by. “You show your face to me, at last. Have you finally come to pledge allegiance?”

  The Frenchman slouched casually against the door and crossed his arms, for all the world looking like he’d just come to chat about the weather. Yet when he spoke, his voice held a deadly thread of anger. “Alas, Lord Rowle, but I fear I do not come as a friend, much less a servant.”

  “A foolish choice,” the warlock’s voice snaked through darkness.

  Their voices faded from Dorian’s consciousness as he recovered enough from the shock to dash towards the Ramsey plaid. Falling to his knees, he stretched out his hand, but at the last moment, he couldn’t bear to lift the material. Aye, he knew a body lay underneath. Gloria’s. He saw the slim outline of shoulders and hips. And was that a hand, pushing out from under the Ramsey green? The pit of his stomach dropped. The fingers were limp. Lifeless. Marble white.

  His heart shattered.

  “Nay,” he gasped in denial.

  Gloria was not dead. His wee, trouble-causing sister couldn’t be.

  Tears burnt his lashes but he forced them back. Nay, he couldn’t weep. Not yet. Not until he set things right. Burying the soul-sweeping sadness threatening to overwhelm him, he focused on rage instead, and springing to his feet, raised his sword and roared in a thick, highland brogue, “Nay, ‘twill not be so! I’ll slay the both of ye myself! Ye’ll die in agony this very night, knowing a Ramsey planted his blade atween your ribs!”

  The soft murmur of voices paused, and the shadows near the door moved.

  A man stepped into the dim candlelight, a tall, arrogant man with a magnificently crafted, black velvet, gem-studded cloak falling from his broad shoulders. His black hair glistened with a light dusting of silver and his jaw stood out, harsh and forbidding in an ageless face. Dorian knew who he was. Lord Brian Rowle, a warlock … and Elizabeth’s cruel husband.

  “Ramsey, is it?” Lord Rowle queried in thoughtful tones, lifting a long, slow brow before glancing up at the rafters to ask, “This is the one?”

  “The Second Sight runs strong in him,” Emilio’s voice floated down from the gloom above. “Unusually strong. Vigoroso.”

  At the sound of the Sicilian’s voice, Dorian whirled, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. “Come down and meet the vengeance of my blade, foul creature,” he hissed.

  Lord Rowle’s eyes glittered. “Foolish man, but yet, I must thank you for saving me the trouble of fetching you here,” he said with a chilling smile. “Come, Emilio. Our quarry has so kindly arrived on its own. Perhaps all is not lost this Blood Moon.”

  “And if it fails?” Emilio’s voice echoed through the darkness behind. “Che succede? What then?”

  Dorian whirled but saw no sign of the vampire as from the corner of his eye, he caught the warlock’s shrug.

  “Then Elizabeth’s blood shall spill,” Lord Rowle said with a careless laugh. “I weary in waiting for my heir.”

  At the sound of her name, Dorian’s heart threatened to stop once again. Could he not keep those he cherished safe? He glanced over at Jacques still lounging in the door. As their eyes met, the vampire flicked his gaze to the rafters with a barely perceptible nod.

  Dorian squinted in unspoken agreement.

  Aye, ‘twas decided then.

  Gripping his sword tighter, Dorian focused on Lord Rowle, his designated foe.

  The warlock’s eyes had narrowed into slits. “You flinched when I spoke of Lady Elizabeth,” he said coldly. “Do you know my wife?”

  With another roar, Dorian charged, swinging his sword wide as Emilio dropped from above. But Jacques was there as the vampire landed on the croft floor, flashing past to strike him hard in the chest and sending him crashing against the croft’s opposite wall before Dorian’s blade had scarcely finished arcing upwards in the warlock’s direction.

  But as Dorian’s sword began its downward swing, the warlock simply … vanished.

  Startled, Dorian froze and then whirled, turning in all directions.

  There was no sign of the man.

  Astonished, Dorian kept turning, searching in all directions and half crouched at the ready.

  Around him, Emilio and Jacques engaged in a heated battle, dashing through the croft in blurred streaks of dark shadows pu
nctuated here and there with moments of clarity. Each time, revealing one or the other gaining the upper hand. First, Jacques tossed Emilio into the rafters. Next, Emilio threw him across the croft. Again, Jacques threw Emilio against the wall. Then, the blurring began again.

  All the while, Dorian searched the shadows, sword at the ready.

  He was entirely unprepared for the sharp metal of a dagger abruptly piercing his ribs from behind. The searing, lancing pain rendered him momentarily speechless.

  “Foolish mortal, you cannot fight me,” Lord Rowle hissed in his ear, giving the dagger a sharp twist before thrusting it deeper.

  Dorian drew a ragged breath—or tried to. In the middle of it, his lungs ceased breathing entirely.

  Suddenly, Emilio appeared before him, grasping Jacques by the throat and swiftly punching him in the gut, which sent him flying across the croft as easily as if one had tossed a child’s ragdoll.

  Ach, they didn’t stand a chance with these unholy creatures. How quickly the tide turned.

  Again, the warlock’s dagger bit Dorian’s flesh, unleashing a new haze of pain. He frowned. ‘Twas so unlike him to simply stand there and let someone use him as a pincushion. He felt strangely lethargic, almost drunk, just like he had with Emilio earlier.

  “I’ve spelled him,” Lord Rowle said, sounding as if he spoke from far away. “Take him to the ring, Emilio. Let’s not waste one drop of his precious blood, shall we?”

  Emilio appeared before the warlock’s words even finished, and a second later, Dorian found himself draped over the ring.

  “How does it feel, imbecille?” the Sicilian grated in his ear. “So easily caught in the spider’s web?”

  Still, Dorian struggled to understand. Spelled? Was he under some unholy influence? He hung on the ring, bent at the waist, and frowned, bewildered, as the warm trickle of his blood slid over his flesh to join Gloria’s pooled below.

  Pain danced over him. Then, in the silent agony of his suffering, he heard the rustle of the plaid nearby.