Grave Debt

by D. D. Miers

  "Gwydion," Julius repeated. "That's his true name, or part of it. It gives you a little power over him, which he hates, but frankly I think he could use a few more people in his life with the power to stop him doing stupid things. And you could help him if you like, assuming you can figure out which is which. But I'm sworn not to interfere as long as they aren't in my bar or hurting my guests."

  "Ah, shit, there they go," I muttered as the badger became a monkey, scrambling away over the rooftops, and the fox became a leopard to chase after it.

  I ran after them, struggling to keep up as I climbed over gaps between the buildings and slid on shingles and tiles. I should have fallen a hundred times . . . broken my neck or at least an arm plummeting into a dumpster from the third or fourth story. Parkour was not a skill I'd ever really pursued. And yet, every time I thought I was about to slip, my foot steadied on the wet tiles. Every time I thought I was about to fall, I managed to catch myself just in time. But I didn't have time to question my sudden luck.

  Before the leopard could catch the monkey, the monkey skidded to a stop in the middle of a neglected rooftop garden, the dry beds and dirty, empty pigeon cage an oddly domestic background for the exotic scene. The monkey turned as the leopard closed on it and became a crocodile, jaws wide. It caught the leopard with a slam of its powerful teeth and twisted, throwing the big cat toward the pigeon cage. It landed with a clatter, turning back into a man as I watched. For a moment I still couldn't tell who it was.

  "For fuck's sake, Gwydion!" the man, who I now assumed was Gilfaethwy, complained, sitting up. "I thought we agreed on no crocodiles last time. They aren't fair and you know it."

  He looked winded, sweaty, and sore, which was a strange look to see on a face so like Greenwood's, usually so composed and refined, even when he was murderously angry.

  The crocodile turned back into Gwydion, and for a moment I didn't recognize him, either. His face was still the same, but his hair was paler, more silver than gold, and his eyes were evergreen dark, not the bright summer green I remembered. He looked tired as well, his breathing shaky.

  "To hell with fairness!" Gwydion shouted. "You've already thrown all the rules of our little arrangement out the window!"

  "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Gilfaethwy said, looking anywhere but at his brother. "I've been nothing but faithful to our agreement. I've kept my head down, done no magic—"

  "Then why do I have a werewolf in my house with your signature on his curse?" Gwydion snarled. The temperature on the roof dropped several degrees as a cold wind answered Gwydion's anger.

  Gilfaethwy winced, then laughed sheepishly. "That's the one you found, is it?" he said.

  "There's more than one?!"

  "Of course not."

  "You lying, backstabbing, miserable little—"

  As Gwydion took a step toward Gilfaethwy, he turned into a ferret and darted for the edge of the roof. Gwydion became an owl at once to fly after him.

  "No more stupid animal shit!" I shouted in frustration, lashing out with my powers. A swarm of dead insects rose before the ferret, driving it back into the waiting claws of two desiccated rats, leaving Gwydion's owl floundering in the air. The ferret twisted, turning into something larger, a bear I think, but I was already closing the distance between us, slamming both my hands into his fur. The animal screamed and flailed to get away as necrosis spread across its back. I smiled in grim satisfaction as it turned back into Gilfaethwy and the Fae fell onto the ground, clawing as his own skin in horror.

  "Get it off!" he said, horrified. "Get it off!"

  "I will," I said, my hands at the ready to do more. "The minute you tell me what you did to Ethan."

  "Insect!" Gilfaethwy hissed at me, the hate in his eyes like a wildfire, the roof suddenly midsummer hot, the air boiling. The dry flower beds heaved and burst, overflowing with sudden green life, thorny and twisted. It grew with terrible speed, heaving its way toward me as he crawled across the rooftop, face twisted in unfathomable rage and contempt. "How dare you put your filthy hands on me? You flea, you worm, you pale shivering ape! I could take you apart one molecule at a time! I could burn you for eternity and deny you even the right to howl in pain! I am a god to you!"

  For a moment, seeing that sudden hate, I believed him. I scrambled away, my fear intense, but a second later a cold breeze banished the heat as Gwydion planted a heel in Gilfaethwy's back, right where my necrosis was worst. Gilfaethwy cried out in pain, falling prone. Gwydion did not remove his foot. Behind him, frost killed off the wave of greenery Gilfaethwy had summoned, withering it to nothing again.

  "Had you the power to do any such thing, neither of us would be here," Gwydion said, looking down at his brother in mild disgust. "Tell the woman what she wants to know, or I will let that poison on your back devour you. A little taste of mortal death."

  "You would condemn us both," Gilfaethwy hissed into the bitumen of the rooftop.

  "You seem content to do the same," Gwydion said coldly, twisting his heel into Gilfaethwy's back. "Besides, I doubt it would kill you. But I am certain it would hurt."

  "Why did you curse Ethan?" I demanded, stepping closer again. "And how do we break it?"

  "I didn't curse him," Gilfaethwy claimed.

  Gwydion dug his heel in again.

  "I didn't!" Gilfaethwy shrieked, voice shrill with pain. "I swear it by everything sacred!"

  "As if you ever held anything sacred," Gwydion scoffed. "Swear it on your right hand and know that I will take great pleasure in removing that hand if you lie."

  "I swear it on my right hand," Gilfaethwy said with a bitter growl. "I did not curse him. The curse was already there. I just . . . gave it a little push."

  He laughed, a nervous, hysterical little giggle, and Gwydion kicked him.

  "You idiot!" he shouted. "You lying, worthless—"

  "It was only a tiny push!" Gilfaethwy said through his delirious laughter. "I had to! I couldn't bare not to! Oh, if you'd seen him, all that hate pulsing in his chest, all twisted up into a knot the size of your fist. You would have done it, too! I had to see what would happen!"

  Gwydion flinched and I remembered his words to me earlier, certain he remembered them, too.

  "And it was only a little power," Gilfaethwy said. "Less than we've used here tonight! No one noticed!"

  "It doesn't matter how much power you used, you miserable, spineless waste of magic!" Gwydion said, tearing at his hair in frustration. "You used it on a human! Direct interference, the one thing our entire arrangement hinges on, the only thing forbidden! It was noticed. I guarantee you, and they are waiting, holding it over our heads like the sword of Damocles, for the perfect moment to destroy us both!"

  "Oh, don't be such a pessimist," Gilfaethwy said, rolling over onto his back and looking like he regretted it. "What is it with your type being so dour all the time?"

  "I am not dour," Gwydion said. "I simply do not want to be wiped out of existence because you could not control your impulses!"

  "Whatever!" I interrupted, confused and out of patience. "Just tell us how to undo it! How do we break the curse?"

  Gilfaethwy only laughed more—loud, crazed cackling. I looked toward Gwydion for some kind of explanation, but he shook his head.

  "There's got to be something he can do!" I said, stepping over Gilfaethwy to grab Gwydion by the arm. "He caused this! There has to be a way to fix it!"

  Gwydion pursed his lips, brows furrowed, and rubbed at his temples.

  "He's telling the truth," he said. "There's nothing he can do. He didn't curse your werewolf."

  "Then who did?" I begged. There had to be something, a lead at least. Anything to give Ethan even a scrap of hope.

  Gwydion pinned me with those dark eyes and hope dissolved.

  "The curse is self-inflicted. He did it to himself."

  Continue Reading Vexa’s story in Grave Mistake

  Coming August 23rd, 2018!

  Continue on for an exclusive sneak previe
w of Aurora: The Kresova Vampire Harems Volume One!

  Aurora: The Kresova Vampire Harems Volume One

  Sometimes, it takes a pawn to dethrone a queen.

  The Kresova

  Blood.

  The source of life—and the emblem of death.

  For humans and vampires alike, blood determines the difference between survival or doom. For the ancient race of Kresova vampires, blood spilled in a centuries-old feud has forever changed the course of their future.

  Many may know their name, and books may tell their stories, but little truth is actually known about those who stalk the night—especially by the vampires themselves—and the vicious Kresova queen plans to keep it that way.

  She kills without prejudice. Eliminates anyone whose existence threatens her rule. Through fear and violence and her unmatched ability to anticipate her enemies, she’s secured her reign.

  She’s thought of everything.

  Done everything.

  But her plan is flawed.

  She didn’t prepare for her . . . for them.

  Prologue

  The Chamber of Morana, Queen of the Kresova Vampires

  Paris, France

  Shades of crimson coated the walls of the small coliseum-like room. Smears of blood trailed along the steps like a winding river leading down to the dais. Every few feet, puddles formed in the crevices of the stone floor, staining the white grout a coppery brown.

  The tangy scent of iron filled Carvell “Carver” Marceau’s nose, and his fangs descended.

  He wished he’d eaten before he had arrived, but he never knew what the queen might demand. He doubted she’d ask him to slaughter thirty men—again—simply for her own delight, but he also knew better than to say “never” when referring to Queen Morana’s commands.

  Many years had passed since his last visit, and he doubted she’d grown in patience or compassion. If she did demand such a thing from him, he’d have no other option but to oblige.

  Corpses littered the walkway, sprawled haphazardly with their throats torn, lying in pools of their own blood. The rubber soles of Carver’s sable boots squished and squeaked as though he traversed through a rain-battered street. Rivulets of the thick liquid appeared in each crack that sloped downward toward her enormous marble throne.

  At the base of the dais, he stopped. His face, often described by her majesty as regal, remained downturned until she deigned to acknowledge him.

  He cast his eyes up, only once, to see she clutched a man in her arms. Her embrace wasn’t tender as she pulled at his jugular. When Morana’s eyes darted to Carver, she paused, then ferociously tore the man’s head from his neck and carelessly dropped his body. It landed with a thud. The crack of human bones shattering echoed throughout the empty throne room.

  She kept her gaze fixed on Carver, watching . . . waiting.

  For what? Weakness, possibly contempt, but most of all—anything that spoke of treason.

  It was a test.

  Everything was, when it came to the Kresova queen. But Carver had become a master of self-possession in his long years away from her court, and his expression remained composed. Face still lowered, he waited patiently for her to speak first.

  One didn’t talk to Queen Morana. Not unless a permanent death was planned. She hadn’t maintained her reign over the ancient vampire race of the Kresova this long with kindness and shows of mercy.

  Morana’s beauty could not be denied, and though she appeared youthful and innocent, she was thousands of years old.

  Most of the vampires in existence hadn’t been around long enough to remember she was not the first vampire—simply the most cunning.

  “Ah, mon assassin, you’ve come to see me at last.” Her voice rippled through him like an electric shock to his nerves.

  Carver couldn’t deny his draw to her. She had sired and turned him. Their connection would never cease to be until her death—or his.

  “Oui, Majesté, I am at your service.” He bowed low, his gaze firmly on the blood-stained floor.

  “Do you know why I have called you to my side?”

  “Non, je ne sais pas, Majesté.” No, he wasn’t sure why she’d ask for him after a two-hundred-year absence. He’d assumed she’d found a new butcher, as she liked to call him, and moved on from the slight obsession she had formed.

  Carver tensed as her slipper-covered feet entered his field of vision. She stood on the upper steps of her throne, keeping herself high above his six-two frame.

  “Will you not look upon your queen?” Her blood-soaked hand reached for his chin and brought his face up only inches from hers

  Her silver gown had drops of blood over the bodice. Thick liquid dyed the hem a dark gray. He took in her angular face, and their eyes met. Though her wide mouth was still smeared with fresh blood, it didn’t diminish the crystal blue of her irises.

  He held in a shudder of distaste and kept his expression neutral.

  “Ah, that is better, n’est-ce pas?” Morana clicked her tongue and stepped back toward her throne.

  One of her recent meals lay slumped down into the seat, his blood leaving a puddle on the cushion. With a flick of her wrist, the man flew across the room. He crashed into the wall with a crack, his motionless body broken on the floor.

  Carver nodded and waited for her to situate herself before she spoke. The back of his neck tingled as he sensed two bodyguards hidden in the shadows. He didn’t need to look to know they scrutinized his every move.

  “Now, where were we?” She clasped her hands together in her lap. “Oh, oui, I need you to track down the Kresova responsible for turning new members without my permission.” A smile lit her pixie-like face.

  “Of course, Majesté. With whom should I speak to get the details?” He was careful in his wording, his voice steady, sure to include her title.

  “Speak with anyone you choose.”

  “Oui, Majesté. Anything else you require?”

  A smirk lifted the corners of her mouth, and she tilted her head. She didn’t move, but a vampire as old as she, didn’t have to. Suddenly, Carver felt the heat of Morona’s hand as it caressed down his chest.

  Hundreds of years ago, part of Carver’s purpose was keeping the queen’s carnal appetites satisfied. Even as a human, his stamina and mastery had been something to behold. They’d often referred to him as the Lord of Pleasure.

  The gift he possessed had been both his saving grace and his ultimate doom. When the queen of vampires chose someone, there was no walking away.

  She stroked the muscles of his stomach, her hands slowly easing down the V of his abdomen to her favorite part of his anatomy. If she asked him to please her again, here and now—whether he wanted to or not—he would.

  As quickly as her desire had risen, it dissolved. “Non.” Morana waved a hand to dismiss him. “I want this problem gone. Compris?”

  Carver nodded, already making a mental list of who to talk to. “Oui, considérez cela comme fait, Majesté.”

  Morana smiled, showing her fangs, then shooed him from her sight.

  Carver lowered his head and bowed. He walked backward a few paces, then turned and took the last several steps from her chamber.

  When his feet hit the pavement outside Morana’s chateau, Carver released the breath he’d been holding. A sweet, creamy vanilla scent enveloped his senses from the wide array of flowers lining her enormous property.

  He’d prepared himself to witness her openly vicious behavior, but this new, quiet ferocity had Carver questioning his queen’s true plans. She’d never been one to hold back, so why now?

  Carver climbed into his Ferrari Enzo, pressed his finger on the button, and the engine growled to life.

  Tension bloomed in Carver’s chest. Whatever Morana had in store, it was big, and when Morana did big, the body count was always high.

  Chapter One

  New Orleans, Louisiana - French Quarter

  Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday

  Fuck if I don’t go blind.
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  Neon lights flash against the painted black walls in colors like Crayola on crack. Everywhere I look, light glints from heavy metal chains hanging from leather and faded denim. The reflections cast beams on the floor like a disco ball.

  The sweet scent of hookah mingles with cigarettes permeated through the open side door, leaving a smoky film over the crowd. Bodies glisten with sweat as they writhe together on the dance floor. Wrinkle-proof Dockers and pastel-tinged polo shirts grind against flesh marred with piercings, symbols, and obscenities.

  This is what I love about the French Quarter.

  The vibrant mix of sinners and wannabe saints melds into one delicious pot. Walk the streets on any given day, and you could go from sniffing the most delicious fried beignets to being assaulted by the scent of fresh vomit and human waste. There’s no real beauty in perfection—and Louisiana doesn’t hide her scars.

  That’s what drew me here.

  I’m a transplant. An outsider who arrived six months ago. In all this time, I’ve never regretted leaving California.

  Not until seven days ago.

  I lean back against the bar on my elbows, watching the masses. They move to the heavy beats of the music, heads thrown back in rapture exposing the smooth flesh of their necks.

  The simple movement ensnares me.

  Getting bitten by a vampire in New Orleans is about as cliché as it got. I can’t even say the words out loud without feeling like I’ve landed in some badly written Twilight fanfiction.

  Each night, I fall asleep hoping I’ll awaken and discover that the crazy shit which transpired just outside of Bourbon Street couldn’t have been real.

  I’ve come to the conclusion there are two options: I’ve been attacked by a psychopath and am now going through some form of toxic blood poisoning clearly affecting my mind, or the vampire was real and now life, or more correctly death, is about to get complicated as hell.