A Little Taste of Naughty (A Shattered Lives Short)

by Blakeley, Rissa

  “That’s what I came to tell you. James went home for the night. Do you need me to hang around while you do your final walk–through?” he asked, referring to the final check she did of the club every night.

  “No Danny, go home.” Morgan’s emerald eyes sparkled with laughter, and a smile curled her lips, revealing the delicate tip of one fang. “I know your girlfriend already wants to kill me because of your hours,” she strolled toward the bar area. Even in the deepest part of the night, light streamed through the stained glass, casting sections of the two bars along the walls in pools of color. She laid her sword cane on the bar, she wouldn’t need it for the walk–through.

  “Thanks. See you tomorrow night.”

  Morgan paused, hair falling over one shoulder as she looked back. “I thought you had the night off?”

  “James and I swapped. He’s covering on Friday so I can help with some of the newer pack members.” Danny replied, crossing to where his boss stood.

  “Right, full moon.” She nodded. “You’ve got people who can keep their cool scheduled for Friday?”

  “Of course.” He laughed. In the six months since the club opened, they’d had this conversation every twenty–eight days. They both knew that they were going to do it several more times before Morgan got over her concerns that everything was under control, whether or not she was there to clean up afterwards.

  “Great, now get outta here,” she laughed, nodding toward the door. “I can handle the final walk–through on my own.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” he yelled over his shoulder as he made his way toward the employee’s entrance.

  “Actually I did!” Morgan called out, laughing. She strolled across the dance floor, scanning the tall mahogany tables and barstools that surrounded it, making sure that each was in order. Harsh utility lights showed every nick and imperfection in the high–gloss lacquer finish as Morgan made her way behind the bar on the left side.

  Further down the wall, heavy burgundy velvet drapes concealed doors leading to private rooms where both wealthy and well–known patrons partied away from prying eyes. As she moved into the curtained hall, the bright utility light dimmed to the amber glow of emergency lights. Morgan paused and entered the code on a nearby control panel. The utility lights cut out, leaving the club shrouded in dim amber.

  “A right proper twenty–first century vampire.” Nicholas’s words echoed through Morgan’s mind, bringing a smile to her face. Goddess knows what he means by that. Too bad every time I ask for an answer, he finds some way to dodge it. In the eight years since the new century began, I haven’t gotten an answer. I might have one by the end, but I doubt it, she thought as she opened the door to the first private room. A cursory glance told her that the cleaning crew had done another fine job; the room showed no trace of the fight.

  Though it was, on the outside, a human–owned and operated business, The Dracul was a neutral zone for all manner of supernatural creatures. To stay in business, and on the right side of the Council of Ancients, Morgan had to keep the peace with an iron fist. My human life is proving to be much more useful than I thought, she laughed, remembering the way her father had taught all his children their clan’s warlike ways. In the centuries that followed, his lessons remained, though, as a woman, her place in society had changed.

  Morgan took another fifteen minutes to complete the walk–through and though she didn’t have to worry about it, she could feel the pull of sunrise in her chest, a dull ache that was more of an annoyance than pain. Satisfied that everything was in order, she left the club through the employee side entrance. Her car wasn’t more than a twenty feet from the door; nothing was amiss as she turned to lock the club for the day. When she turned back, someone was leaning against the sports car’s dark blue side. The vampire wore a fine, tailored suit and carried an ebony cane.

  “You know the dreads kill the refined look, Azreal,” Morgan said, gripping the handle of her cane just a little tighter. Her mind spun, turning options over before deciding that confrontation was the best.

  “Alas, they are what I have. Some of us don’t have the time,” he paused and shrugged one shoulder, “or inclination to worry about our hair every night.” His cultured baritone rumbled like a big cat as he pushed away from her Tesla Roadster. He took a few steps toward Morgan, punctuating each with a sharp rap of his cane on the asphalt.

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be holed up at the compound? Why darken my doorstep?” she asked in quick succession, not allowing him the chance to respond. Why did I wear these boots tonight? She thought cursing her inability to step out of the three–inch heels.

  “You and I both know that maintaining permanent residence at the compound is not required.” He chuckled, the yellow parking lot lights throwing a strange jaundice shadow over his face. “Besides, I have a proposition that you might be interested in.”

  “Talk to the Enforcers. I’m certain they’ll be much more interested in what you have to say than I am,” she snarled, a vicious sneer curling her lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she flashed him a false smile. “I have had a long night and would prefer to be home before the dawn.” She moved to step past Azreal, but he flicked his cane up and to the left, blocking her.

  “You will want to hear what I have to say.” He punctuated each word, enunciating them with care.

  “I know what you are,” Morgan whispered, closing the distance between them. “You manage to hide your true nature from the Council and the Enforcers, but I have seen you kill. I have watched you toy with your victims.” She moved so close that from the outside, they might have been mistaken for a pair of lovers. “I know that someday you’ll get sloppy. And when you do, you can bet that I’ll be there when you are executed, or entombed.”

  “You are a killer yourself,” he bowed his head, tilting it to the right as he continued. “I know it as do you. We all take lives, admitting it isn’t a sin or crime. It is what we are, what we do.” Azreal bared his long canines, bending toward her throat.

  Morgan tracked his movement with just her eyes. She knew he was trying to dominate her, to get her to back down. When his fangs were less than half an inch from her flesh, and Morgan could feel his breath on her throat, and smell decay on the air, she planted her hand in the center of his chest and shoved. The elder vampire rocked back on his feet and let out a hearty chuckle. Smiling, he met her green eyes with his almost black ones.

  “I thought you might respond like this.” There was a small, self–satisfied smile curling Azreal’s lips.

  In the back of Morgan’s mind, her father’s voice floated out of the past, reminding her that there were times when retreat was the only option.

  “Look, I don’t have the time or the patience for playing your sick games tonight.” She turned away and dismissed him with an imperious wave of her right hand. “Go darken someone else’s doorstep.” She took two steps toward the safety of the club and walked right into someone else.

  The hell? She thought, taking in the vampire in front of her. Tall, gaunt, flesh stretched tight over his skull, making every angle stand out. Pale blue eyes gazed out of shadowed sockets filled with disdain. This is impossible. Why didn’t Nicholas tell me that he had escaped?

  “Alexander.” A memory flashed, showing Alexander bound in chains, being locked away in a heavy steel coffin, and sealed into one of the Council’s tombs deep in the catacombs. He’s been locked away for over four centuries.

  The skeletal vampire smiled, his lips cracking as the skin stretched further than it could handle, with red–black sluggish blood welling up in the fissures. A shudder of revulsion and fear ran through Morgan, and she pulled her sword free from its sheath. She dropped the hollow cane to the ground with a loud clatter, echoing in the early morning. Before she could raise it to strike a fatal blow, she felt a sharp pain at her throat, followed by slight pressure. Morgan slapped at her neck, knocking Azreal’s hand away as she stumbled toward the club. The scent of Azre
al’s designer cologne drifted up to meet her. Her sword slid from her fingers, and she pulled a syringe from her neck. She glanced at it. The plunger had been pressed, and whatever had been inside it was now coursing through her system. Liquid numbness began slithering through her veins. Shit, shit, shit. She could feel her thought processes slowing; simple decisions took several moments to make, and her focus narrowed to the door of the club. If she could get inside, she could bar the door and, with a little luck, be safe until the drugs wore off or dawn came.

  “Why do you fight?” Azreal asked from a few feet away, with a hint of incredulous laughter in his voice. “You should have listened to my proposition. This would have been much easier if you had.”

  Morgan leaned on the wall beside the door for support, focusing all her attention on finding her keys. She reached into her pocket and came up with her cell phone, and let it slip from her fingers. She needed The Dracul’s keys.

  “You never were one to make things simple,” Azreal chuckled, his voice getting closer.

  Morgan ignored him as her fingers hooked around the cool metal ring. Her vision swam in and out of focus as she came away with the keys, swinging from one finger. Her heart beat faster as adrenaline kicked in and her body tried to counter the sedative.

  “Now, now,” Azreal chuckled, “we can’t have any of that.” He snatched them as Morgan’s vision narrowed further.

  She opened her mouth to scream, hoping to catch the attention of some humans, force Azreal to retreat, but Alexander was behind her. One hand clamped over her mouth while the other’s long fingers squeezed her windpipe. Bright tracers skimmed through her vision as tendons shifted in painful ways. Unable to expel the breath in her lungs or draw anymore in, Morgan choked, a painful raspy croak, the only sound she was able to make. Frantic, she clawed at Alexander’s hand, but at the same time whatever had been in the syringe worked its way into her nervous system.

  “I always wanted to drive one of these,” Azreal mused as he turned to face Morgan’s car. “I must remember to repay the favor.” He hit the button that unlocked the doors and strolled over to where Morgan’s sword cane had fallen.

  The darkness that had been playing around the edges of Morgan’s vision rushed forward. As it pulled her under, she heard Azreal say, “Bring her.”

  Read More

  Tempted

  A Nightshade Novel

  Excerpt Copyright © 2014 Brenda L Tetreault. All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior express, written consent of the author. All characters and events in this book are fictional; any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is intended for mature adults only.

  Cover photo © Croisy

  Licensed through Shutterstock

  Cover Art and design by Mark Tetreault

  Prologue

  Then

  The first time Roman Arceneaux felt true anger was the day his mother took him to live with strangers.

  He was five years old, and he loved his beautiful mother with all of his heart. From her dainty toes that made nary a sound as they tread the polished wooden floors of their comfortable cottage, to her dark hair that shined silver in the moonlight, his mother was the most beautiful creature he’d ever encountered in his handful of years. And because he loved her so very much, Roman strove to be the kind of son such an angel deserved. He was kind, considerate, always thinking of others before himself, and never sulky or rebellious as many boys were at his age.

  The evening his mother awakened him was chilly. There had been snow during the daylight hours, and the land lay under a pristine winter mantle.

  “Come, Roman,” his mother had said softly in his ear, her fingers tickling his ribs gently, “Tonight we go and find adventure!”

  His heart rate had kicked into gear at the word ‘adventure’, and he was soon dressed and sitting down to eat a bowl of porridge sweetened with honey and dried berries. As he ate, he watched his mother move around their small, cozy cottage packing backpacks for them both. Occasionally, he heard her mutter under her breath, and he frowned as a thought struck him. In the clear soprano of a little boy, his question rang through the small, warm room.

  “Why are you so worried, Mother?”

  For he knew, she was; he could see it in the way she rushed through their home, her motions growing increasingly agitated.

  Adrianna Arceneaux paused in her hurried preparations and tried to give her son a reassuring smile. “I am simply anxious for our adventure to begin, my love,” she lied as smoothly as possible, even though the bitter taste of the lie burned her throat and caused her stomach to churn unpleasantly. Her smile faltered as Roman continued to regard her with a speculative look in his dark eyes. She held her breath, silently willing him to accept the falsehood at face value, and to not press the issue. Finally, after what seemed an endlessly long wait, her son finally nodded and returned his attention to finishing his breakfast.

  Adrianna sighed inwardly. How was she to explain to her handsome little boy that after today, they would no longer be together? That after today he would never see his mother again? How did she explain to him that because of his mixed parentage others wished to harm him? She turned away, squeezing her eyes shut against the ruby red tears that marked her race. If Roman saw her weeping, he would become upset, and that was the last thing she wanted at this moment; there would be time aplenty for tears and upsets later. So she stifled the urge to cry and within moments, her tears dried. With strength of heart born of a determination to see her child safe, Adrianna finished packing for their journey.

  An hour later, they left their home. Adrianna carefully closed and secured the door, and with a bright smile for her son, took his hand and led him into the moonlit brilliance of the winter’s evening. The snow that had fallen throughout the day was soft, but not deep, and they made swift progress as they travelled by foot to the end of the small valley that sheltered their home from the worst of the mountain’s winter fury, and made it possible for Adrianna to defend them from anyone wishing to encroach on their small bit of territory, and yet, it was close enough to the main settlement, that they were never completely isolated from Adrianna’s people.

  She set a brisk pace, but made sure it wasn’t pressing enough to exhaust her young son. They needed to be away from this place; Roman needed to be away from this place, and it was that impetus that made her keep going even as the winter wind bit at her face and tried to sneak through the folds of her outer garments to the warm skin below. As they trudged through the wintry night, Adrianna gazed up at the sky, marveling at the sheer brilliance of the cold, distant stars, allowing her eyes to adjust to the silvery light they cast on the snow covered land around her. As her eyes adjusted, her ears picked up something on the wind that further chilled her already cool blood; the distant baying of dogs and the excited, rough voices of the human thralls her clansmen employed for various tasks they were unequipped to perform. Fear shot through her, lending strength and speed to her legs and she rushed forward, pulling Roman with her through the snow. “Come,” she urged him, over her shoulder, “We must hurry now!”

  Roman felt a thrill of anxiety at the fear he glimpsed in his mother’s eyes. He opened his mouth to gasp out a worried question, but the sound of barking dogs and the resultant shiver of fear froze the words in his throat, and he only managed a strangled croak instead.

  “It’s not far,” his mother gasped, and Roman heard the labored rasp of her breath, and felt the growing exhaustion in the grip of her hand on his; she needed to feed, and the longer she pushed herself at this sudden, intense pace, the weaker she would grow.

  “Mother,” he gasped at her back, “Mother, stop, you must feed!”

  Adrianna gave a short, abrupt shake of her head. “Not un
til we are safe, my son,” she said grimly.

  The wind picked up then, colder, more insidious than before, and with it came an increase in the barking dogs’ volume; the hunters were closer now, and Adrianna imagined she could smell the stink of the hounds and their handlers. Panic surged through her nerves, giving her muscles another rush of adrenaline-fueled strength. The men who pursued them were ruthless, granting no mercy once they’d run their prey to ground. They had their orders, and they would give no quarter. It wasn’t for her own life that Adrianna feared, however. No, she had nothing to fear from these harsh, homicidal males.

  But Roman did.

  It was her son they hunted. Because of his mixed blood, because of his perceived weakness, because of his implied danger to the clan, he was marked for death. She stifled a sob in her throat, allowing it to burn through her chest if it meant not showing any fear to her son. Calm. She had to stay calm. Their way to safety wasn’t too far now, and once they crossed over the invisible boundary between her world and Roman’s father’s, they would be safe. The thought warmed her, and she smiled grimly; her son was different, yes, but he was not weak. Just because he had human blood mixing with her kind’s in his veins, he was not an abomination, as the elders of her clan maintained. Someday he would grow into the strongest, fiercest warrior her kind had ever seen. But she had to save him now to insure that the future she saw for him came to fruition.

  She pushed on, her determination driving her forward and lending her strength. The boundary was just over the next rise, and safety lay just beyond that. The sunrise would find them both warm and snug within the sheltering bosom of Roman’s father’s family. Her calf and thigh muscles burned and strain left them aching and she felt the deep pull of her hunger, as exhaustion lay in wait in the wings, lingering, awaiting its moment to pounce and drag her down, kicking and screaming as her son fell beneath the snapping, rending jaws of the hounds that pursued them. Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs and the cold, crisp wind made her eyes burn and tear, but she pressed on, one word echoing through her mind with each foot she put in front of the other: Sanctuary.