Henry drove back to his apartment and devised a plan while he sat and ate at the breakfast bar in his kitchen. He looked through the pictures with a careful eye and noted a gold-colored, older model compact car, possibly a Honda, in a few of them. He would look for that car when he went back to the bookshop later that day to see if she was still working.
He cleaned up his lunch remnants, neatly folding up the wrappings, and tossed them in the trash can. Then he grabbed the spray cleaner and a single paper towel. He scrubbed down the entire counter top, even though he only used a small section of it.
Henry decided to shower again and shave. He felt dirty after eating his greasy meal, and he wanted his beard cut down so he was less recognizable to her. He performed his usual washing routine, which was quick but efficient. He jumped out of the shower and meticulously toweled off. He wrapped the white plush towel around his hips and stepped up to the mirror.
A frown crossed his face. The bruising was light, but not all that noticeable. In general, he didn’t like what he saw in the mirror. He learned to not like the way he looked through the years of being in the program. They cut him down so many times, in so many different ways, that he almost hated himself and how he looked. He never understood why women threw themselves at him all the damn time. He grabbed his beard trimmer and took his beard down to his usual five o’clock shadow.
Henry grabbed his toothbrush and gave his pearly whites a quick polishing. He pawed through his damp hair and looked at his stitches. They looked good. He opened the jar of hair wax and gave himself his usual messy hair.
He yanked the towel off his hips, hung it on the towel bar, and walked through his bedroom, naked as the day he was born. He went through his drawers and pulled out his D&G black micro-fitted boxers, Diesel dark wash jeans, and a plain charcoal-colored t-shirt. Standing in front of his closet, he selected a dark navy zip-up hoodie. There was always a method behind his madness.
He grabbed the fully loaded Sig and his weapons vest off of his dresser. Then he walked out to the living room. He opened the out-of-place antique trunk and exposed the modern metal trunk with a keypad within. He entered the code and opened the lid. His eyes danced around the interior and was careful to select the tools that he felt he may need: an extra magazine and his favorite long-bladed hunting knife. He tucked his weapons discretely away on his body. With the hoodie on top, no one would know a damn thing.
Henry pulled on his Nike’s, then headed out to get the show on the road.
Henry pulled his truck around the side of the building where the bookshop was located. He looked around, and there it was.
The gold Honda.
He smiled. Besides the fight at the gym that morning, he was having a stellar fucking day.
As he jumped out of his truck, Henry looked all around, ensuring that his stunt would go unwitnessed, and pulled the knife out from underneath his hoodie. With a grin, he slashed her tire. After that, he just had to sit and wait. It was just too easy.
He sat in his truck, making it look like he was waiting for someone which, technically, was true. He kept checking the ridiculous expensive Omega watch that was wrapped around his wrist, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music on his iPod, reorganized all the compartments around him, read a little, and played a few time sucking, mind numbing games on his phone.
About three-and-a-half hours later, his patience finally paid off.
There she was. Henry noticed that she looked really upset, and she hadn’t even made it to her car yet. He wondered what had happened. After pulling off his aviators, he set them on the dash and sat back in his seat, watching her.
The black-haired beauty threw her arms up when she saw her flat tire. She began ranting. Probably cussing a blue streak, which caused him to smirk. He loved a woman with some raw edges.
“Patience, Daniels. Patience,” Henry drawled to himself. He saw her digging through her purse. “And there’s my cue.” He jumped out of the truck just as she dumped out her purse on the sidewalk. He squatted down in front of her.
“Do you need any help?” He knew his smile was warm. Then he locked eyes with her. Holy shit. She had the most beautiful eyes that he had ever seen. Wet, but stoic. They were the color of the sky. He wished he had eyes that were like that. He wanted to be able to stare into them every day for the rest of his so-called life. Her lips parted as she stared into his eyes.
Her eyes made him feel things he had never felt before. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed them when she waited on him in the bookshop. Probably because he was trying to be inconspicuous. Plus, he was too busy looking at her meaty ass then. Besides, locking eyes with her in the bookshop would have been detrimental to his plan.
Henry knew, at that moment, that he didn’t want to do the job anymore. He wanted out of the program.
For good.
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CAST IN BLOOD
Morgan Blackstone Vampires, Book 1
Excerpt Copyright © 2013 Michelle Rabe. All rights reserved.
Cover Art & Design by Covers On The Side
Cover Photos sourced from Dollar Photo Club.
1 – HOLLYWOOD – JULY 9, 2009
THE DRACUL WAS one of Hollywood’s hot spots, a place for the beautiful people to see and be seen. On any given night, Hollywood stars could be seen mingling among the crowd or holding court in one of the private rooms that dotted the periphery. The club’s owner, Morgan Blackstone, stalked through the center of the packed dance floor, rage rolling off her in frozen waves. She paid no attention to the loud music thundering through the converted church, or the mob parting to let her pass. James, the head of security, walked at her side, and it didn’t take them long to reach one of several doors that led to the employee–only sections. She entered a code on the small panel beside the door and pushed it open. James followed her into the maze of halls, letting the door thump closed behind them.
“What happened?” she asked, her words clipped and precise.
“Apparently the two we are about to see, decided it was okay to harass a regular about his job.” James answered, being cryptic, since it was possible that a human staff member might hear.
“Was it one of the VIPs?”
“Yes. Christophe is taking care of him,” he answered, all cool professionalism.
Morgan nodded. She trusted her Blood Son to see to it that the situation was defused.
“The other two are in the security office,” James continued. “A couple of my people are making sure that no one goes in. Danny and the rest of the team are out on the floor making sure that nothing else happens.” He finished as they stopped in front of a door marked ‘Security.’
“Good,” she answered. She stepped into the room, feeling the emotions of the two men inside permeating the air. “Idiots,” she muttered under her breath and crossed to the table where the pair sat on opposite sides. The door closed, and James leaned against it, arms crossed over his chest.
The vampire was dressed in unrelieved black. His hair fell in long lanky shanks, and he looked as though he’d forgotten to feed for the past few days. His flesh was pale and drawn tight over his bones. The werewolf was just as bad, in a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off, and tattered jeans.
“Goddess! Could you two be any more cliché?” Morgan rolled her eyes and set her cane on the end of the table. “Do either of you have any idea of the trouble you caused?”
“That poser started it,” the vampire insisted in a high pitched whine that sent a spike of pain through Morgan’s skull.
“That poser, as you call him, happens to be a regular, but that’s beside the point.” Morgan reached down and slipped the blade free of its cane sheath. “Do either of you morons have any clue how many hoops I had to jump through to get this establishment cleared by the Council?”
“An insane amount of paperwork, not to mention upholding a strict set of rules at all times,” James answered from where he leaned on the door, sounding bored.
“There are advantages to slogging through all the red tape though,” Morgan continued. “It does afford the owner some…” she paused and examined the edge of her blade, “…latitude when it comes to dealing with rule breakers.”
“I really didn’t expect to be dealing with corpses tonight.” James sighed, looking down at the faded jeans and white t–shirt he wore.
“C–Corpses?” The werewolf stuttered. “I–it was just a fight!” Desperation pushed his voice into a high falsetto squeak, and his breathing sped up.
Morgan turned and moved closer, invading his personal space. “Here’s the thing. The guy you decided to mess with is one of my regulars, not to mention the fact that he is well–known among humans.” She shook her head, dark curls falling over one shoulder. “Had my people not intervened, you might have drawn the attention of gossip hounds. I cannot allow that to happen.” She took a half step back from the table and tapped the toe of her high–heeled boot. “So, what do you think?” She looked over her shoulder at James. “Quick?” she smiled. “Or slow?”
“Club’s pretty packed. We don’t have the time to drag this out, as much fun as slow would be.” He let a feral smile curl his lips.
“You have a point.” Morgan sighed. She turned back to the miscreants at the table, and smiled widely enough to reveal the tips of her fangs. They both shrank back, trying to become one with their chairs. “You are both hereby banished from The Dracul. Do not return, on pain of death.” Her tone had taken on a stiff formality that overrode her anger. “This will be reported to the Council.” She slid her blade back into its sheath while watching the vampire, and turned to the werewolf. “James will make a similar report to the elders. Do not get the idea that I might be lenient should you get it in your head to return. James will escort you off the property. Do not return.” She dismissed them with a wave of her right hand. Morgan waited until the room was silent and the door thumped closed before she reached into the folds of her skirt and drew a cell phone from a hidden pocket.
She dialed Nicholas’s office in Ireland. As the phone rang she started pacing the room. Her high heels clicked in a quick staccato rhythm while she waited. After the fifth ring, an automated voice came over the line, informing her that no one was there to take her call. She hung up before the voice had the chance to tell her that she could leave a message after the tone. There’s a distinct advantage to being married to the Lead Enforcer, she thought as she dialed Nicholas’s cell phone. She continued pacing. The line had rung three times before there was a soft pop, when the connection was made.
“Well, hello love. I didn’t expect to hear from you. To what do I owe the honor of this call?” His voice was a smooth chuckle.
“You’re not in the office.” Morgan answered, feeling her anger and frustration begin to melt away.
“No. There was a minor situation at the estate. I needed to take care of it.”
“So, what happened at my estate?” she asked, trying to hold in an unexpected laugh that threatened to bubble up from her chest.
“Since I am your husband, it’s technically our estate,” he teased.
“Are you ready to admit to the rest of our kind that we are, in fact, married?” Morgan asked, hoping that Nicholas would take the hope she heard in her words as teasing. He has a good point about my safety but damn it! I want to be able to tell everyone he’s my husband!
“You win,” Nicholas conceded before adding, “this time.”
“Good.” Morgan laughed. She closed her eyes against the usual pang of regret that she felt when he won this particular argument. “Now, back to the original question, if you don’t mind, what happened at the estate?”
“According to the authorities, there was…” he paused, “a weather event.”
“I love how they say things like that,” Morgan groaned.
“This particular event,” he put emphasis on the last word, “caused one of the older trees to fall.”
“How much damage was there?”
“Actually very little, all things considered. We lost a couple of windows, and the structure around them will need to be assessed, but from what I can see, that’s about it.” He paused for a moment, letting the information settle into her mind. “So, back to my original question, to what do I owe the honor of this call?”
“There was an incident at the club tonight,” she answered, though she didn’t want to. She knew that once she spoke the words she wouldn’t be talking to her husband, but to The Council’s Lead Enforcer.
“Define incident.” His voice had taken on a hard edge.
“There was a scuffle between one of our Hollywood regulars and a pair of Neanderthals.”
“I assume that one of our kind was involved, since you called me.”
Nicholas was all business. Every trace of warmth or humor was gone.
“Yeah. Some I–just–cut–my–fangs–yesterday punk,” Morgan said, not bothering to hide her disdain.
“Tell me how you really feel about him,” Nicholas teased, his harsh tone melting away.
“I should have ended that little cretin,” Morgan growled. “Harassing a human in my club. Not to mention the fact that the human is a well–known regular.” She shook her head and sighed.
“How did you handle it?” he asked in a low whisper.
“Banished, on pain of death.” Her answer was flat, lifeless.
“Send me an official incident report?” Though phrased as a question; his tone made it clear, this was an order.
“As soon as I have a chance,” she answered.
“Look on the bright side,” Nicholas countered. “He might be dumb enough to try to return. Then you’d be well within your rights to end him.”
“A girl can dream,” Morgan sighed, “though I doubt he’ll be that dumb.”
“You never know. I’ve seen renegades do some downright idiotic stuff in my time, I’m sorry, love I’ve got to go. I have to listen to another insanely high estimate.”
“You don’t have to do that Nicholai.”
Morgan hoped to keep him on the line longer. She hadn’t realized how much she missed hearing his voice until she’d heard it.
“There’s staff at the manor which are paid quite well to see to things like this.”
“I know, but I had to get out of the compound.” He sounded exhausted. Morgan heard him take a deep breath before he continued. “There’s something going on. More than the usual politics and I can’t stand it. So this turned out to be a great excuse.”
“I won’t argue with you.”
“So, unless there’s something else?” There was an air of distraction as he spoke.
“No, that’s it,” Morgan lied, wanting more.
There was another, indistinct voice over the line for a moment before Nicholas spoke. “I’ve got to go,” His voice was soft and full of regret.
“I’ll talk to you soon,” Morgan assured him.
“Later love,” he said, just before the connection was cut.
“I love you Nicholas, but sometimes your manners leave something to be desired.” She spoke to the empty room, slipped the phone into her pocket, and continued to pace, letting time and movement soothe the frayed edges of her temper.
A short time later Morgan walked back out to the club, and spent the next few hours mingling among the patrons. She made certain that the regulars were well–cared for, and sent most of them their favorite drinks, on the house. As she moved through the crowd, she issued subtle reminders to the not–quite–human clientele that the rules would be enforced. Once she was satisfied that everything was under control, Morgan made her way up the spiral staircase to the converted choir loft that now housed The Dracul’s offices. She had to file a report.
Hours later, Morgan strolled out of her office and crossed to the wrought iron railing. She sighed and looked out over the now empty club. At just after four in the morning, the shadowed lighting design had been changed in favor of bright working lights, after the last patr
on had been ushered out the door two hours before.
The building had been scheduled for demolition, and another rectangle had been planned to join the Los Angeles skyline. Unwilling to see the architecture destroyed, Morgan rescued the property. The inside had been gutted and remodeled while keeping the architecture; in spite of human beliefs about vampires, she kept the religious themed windows. Such iconography had no power over her, though it might affect other younger vampires.
The room was silent as Morgan surveyed the large dance floor with its high gloss lacquer, scuffed in several places, leaving long scars in the hardwood below.
That’s going to need refinishing soon, she thought, committing the note to memory.
She took a deep breath, letting the cacophony of scents fill her senses. Reading everything, from the sharp pungent peaks of sweat, lust and betrayal to the constant soothing deep undertone of beeswax left by decades of prayers sent to God on flickering candle flames. Curving Gothic arches soared toward the peaked roof reminding her of flight. Morgan’s laugh echoed through the converted church as she vaulted over the railing. She closed her eyes and flung her arms wide as the air rushed past, blowing her long black hair away from her face and neck. The sensation of flight had lasted for a few moments before her boots slammed into the dark gloss wood of the dance floor. She dropped into a crouch, letting her knees buckle to absorb the impact.
A man’s laughter broke the silence. Danny, the other head of security, walked toward her with a wide smile spread across his cute face. It would take a few more years before his features made that slight shift from boyish and cute to handsome, but when it happened, he was going to be a fine specimen of masculine beauty.
“Not exactly subtle there, boss. No human could have managed to make that drop without screaming in pain in the end,” Danny laughed, his accent pure southern California, ocean blue eyes sparkling.
“Hey, the humans are all gone. No one here but the vamps and wolves,” Morgan chuckled, rising to her full five foot eight inch height with practiced ease, smoothing the line of her skirt over her hourglass frame. “Are you and James almost done closing?”
A Little Taste of Naughty (A Shattered Lives Short) Page 7