Life in Moonlight
The Primigenio Tales: Book 1
By
Alison Beightol
A Schattenseite Book
Life in Moonlight
By
Alison Beightol
Copyright © 2016 Alison Beightol. All Rights Reserved.
Kindle Edition
No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the authors.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design: Ihor Tureh
Editor: James Millington
Interior Design: Paul Salvette
ISBN 13: 978-0-578-18460-9
Dedication
For Mom and Madeline
Acknowledgements
Special thanks go to my wonderful family who provided me with unending love, support, and plenty of caffeine while writing this book. Thank you for understanding my craziness.
Thanks to my editor James Millington whose eagle eye saw what I didn’t.
And thanks to my husband Scott Baker. You gave me sanity, read and reread this book, and loved me even when I was pretty tough to take. I love you!
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
PROLOGUE: The Silly Thing Didn’t Realize She Was Going to Be a Late Night Meal
ONE: I Guess I Don’t Understand the Mind of a Vampire
TWO: I Suppose We Could Dine On Some Tourists
THREE: Oh, Shut Up, Anthony, You Analyze Everything to Death!
FOUR: The New Owner Must Like Us
FIVE: He’s Very Excited to Have You. Dancing in His Company, I Mean
SIX: Isn’t That What’s-His-Name?
SEVEN: Nothing Like Make-up Sex and Blood
EIGHT: There Aren’t Vampires in Real Life
NINE: You Can Just Suck It, Eamon!
TEN: Let’s Face It, Your Social Skills Suck
ELEVEN: None of That Hollywood Crap About the Sun Reducing Us to Ashes is True
TWELVE: You Started to, but You Just Went with the Theory That My Soap Held Some Aphrodisiac Power
THIRTEEN: Your Image Is That You’re an Aloof, Pompous Snob
FOURTEEN: Prince Charming is a Monster
FIFTEEN: The Last Words Were Difficult to Say
SIXTEEN: Holy Crap, What’s Wrong
SEVENTEEN: Stupid Spy of Eamon’s
EIGHTEEN: The World as a Vampire Is Much Wider Than You Think
NINETEEN: You’re Living. Like It or Not.
TWENTY: Can’t You Just Find Her Using Your Own Ways?
TWENTY-ONE: As Long as You Aren’t a Pervert
TWENTY-TWO: He Was the Oldest Living Vampire and He Seemed Lovesick
TWENTY-THREE: It’s Not Funny to Me. It’s Ironic.
TWENTY-FOUR: Sometimes I Wonder What You Think of Me
TWENTY-FIVE: We’re Just Human
TWENTY-SIX: Get the Highest Ranking Vampire Up Here
TWENTY-SEVEN: I Think You Are Experiencing What Humans Call a Midlife Crisis
TWENTY-EIGHT: The Things I Do for My Primigenio
TWENTY-NINE: With a Wink and a Taunting Smile, She Was Gone
THIRTY: You’re for Real. You’re Really a Vampire
THIRTY-ONE: Eamon Must Have Put a Little More Energy in Playing Vampire Last Night
THIRTY-TWO: She Wasn’t a Vampire. Yet.
THIRTY-THREE: Choosing to be a Vampire Wasn’t Like Choosing to be a Democrat or a Teacher
THIRTY-FOUR: Gosh Eamon, I Want to be Like You When I Grow Up
THIRTY-FIVE: I Did Have Rare Periods When I Did Like You, You Know
THIRTY-SIX: I’m Pleased That This Has Gone So Well
THIRTY-SEVEN: I Can’t Lose Another Person in My Life
THIRTY-EIGHT: I Would Like You to Stop Speaking Until I Specifically Speak to You
THIRTY-NINE: Suicide by Vampire
FORTY: I Love You, My Lovely, Little, Gothic Doll
About the Author
PROLOGUE
The Silly Thing Didn’t Realize She Was Going to Be a Late Night Meal
Who to eat, Eamon Rutherford thought as he studied the capacity crowd of Seattle’s Marion Oliver Mc Caw Hall. A few of the women he saw were tempting. They were young, beautiful and sexy, exactly what he looked for in a feed.
While he looked, the marker of another vampire, a much younger vampire, somewhere in the audience caught his attention. The mystery vampire wasn’t a newborn, one not yet a century old. Its marker had a quiet dignity intertwined in it, something that came with age. Usually, Eamon ignored random vampires. Being almost eleven centuries old, he had long ago learned to tune out the markers other vampires unless they were older or were a threat to him. But now that he was the oldest vampire in the world, there weren’t any vampires to threaten him or match his power. From what he sensed of this vampire, they also seemed intimidated by the fact that he had noticed them. He scanned the audience with greater intensity but his phone vibrating in his jacket pocket distracted him before he could identify them. He looked down at his phone.
Irina.
That dancer, what do you see in her? There are plenty like her here, the text message read.
Eamon put the phone back in his pocket without responding. “That dancer” was the reason he delayed his return to New York and there were not any others like her. Lauryl Mellis had been the pride and problem of the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis School of Dance at the American Ballet Theatre. Once, at a cocktail benefit for the school he attended, the student dancers were selling signed dance shoes of some of the school’s notable graduates. Lauryl asked one patron in her Georgia twang, why he wanted a smelly shoe and did he plan on “jizzing” in it when he got home? Her dismissive attitude and scorn of the patrons amused Eamon but not the administration. The school powers that be often bent the rules for her, giving her chance after chance because of her talent.
Her talent and what he had seen of her stormy personality was magnetic. She would back up whatever insult or harangue with a lovely smile or a toss of her auburn hair. He’d enjoyed her from a distance, though. He never missed a performance or fundraiser when he was in New York, but he never approached her or introduced himself. She was young, still in her teens, so he waited. Then he’d lost track of her. To his good fortune, here she was on tour in Seattle.
Eamon studied the crowd a few more minutes and then flipped through the stage-bill. He passed ads, the story synopsis for the ballet, and then found what he wanted, Lauryl’s picture. Gone was the teen he remembered. Instead, he saw a radiant, young woman with a dazzling smile and bright eyes.
His phone vibrated again. It was Irina but he saw no need to acknowledge his former companion. He switched it into airplane mode and returned it to his pocket. He looked back at the picture of Lauryl. The change was remarkable. She was stunning. The idea of a dancer for a companion intrigued him. All of that beauty and grace amplified as a vampire. It was a perfect combination. The image lingered in his mind for a moment and then the framework of a plan materialized.
The house lights dimmed and Eamon closed his stage bill. He tossed it onto the empty seat next to him in the box and waited as the orchestra tuned up. The cacophony of instruments merged together into a more harmonic air but the familiar sensation of a woman studying him turned his gaze back to the audience.
A young woman with light brown hair watche
d him from a seat below him. She was seated with two other women so he knew she would be available after the performance. She rubbed her hand over her thigh and crossed her legs. The slit in her skirt revealed a tantalizing preview of her legs. Eamon followed the line of her legs back up to her ample breasts. Her body reinforced the silent invitation in her expression. He nodded acceptance of her naïve request. The silly thing didn’t realize she was going to be a late night meal.
* * *
The house manager had gladly granted Eamon access after the performance but it took more time than Eamon expected to work his way through the backstage crowd. He stopped twice to speak with business acquaintances but soon found himself outside of Lauryl’s dressing room. Or close to outside of it. A throng of her admirers blocked the entry. The ones that couldn’t fit in her dressing room hovered around the doorway, waiting for their opportunity to get in. He stood for a moment with the crowd but became bored. He looked at the mass of people and focused on their collective thoughts.
Leave, he told them silently.
One by one, they filed away and he entered the dressing room. Other dancers, all drinking champagne and chattering, surrounded Lauryl. She was seated in a chair with a blanket over her shoulders and a champagne bottle tucked between her thighs. Eamon could smell blood and his eyes tracked down to a bucket of ice water that her feet were soaking in. He looked at the bucket a moment longer and then at her face. She was lovely; lovelier than in the program picture by far.
Her pale skin was flushed pink and her green eyes sparkled with excitement. Her full lips turned in a smile for one of the dancers before she waved at them. The mass of curly hair he remembered from when he saw her in New York was scraped back in a tight bun. She laughed at something a dancer whispered to her and Lauryl pulled the pins holding her hair back out. Auburn curls dropped down and framed her face. Eamon smiled inwardly and took a few steps toward her.
“Lauryl Mellis,” he said as he extended his hand to her. “It’s such an honor to meet you.”
Lauryl turned to him and her expression changed. Her smile withered and her eyes narrowed as the happiness disappeared from them. She took his hand like it was covered in filth and shook it. “Thanks.”
Her boredom with him was apparent but he continued on, intrigued. “I’ve followed you since you were a student at ABT. Your talent has certainly blossomed, as well as your beauty.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, thanks again.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her frown and rigid posture intensified and Eamon knew she viewed him as one of the ballet school patrons that she scorned back in New York. He bristled slightly but his expression didn’t change. As he looked into her eyes, his irritation faded into amusement. He’d play along with her. Besides, the delicious aroma of her blood continued to drift up from the ice bucket in front of him. Lauryl pulled her hand away and intensified her dismissive stare. The fact that she wanted him to leave fascinated him. Never had a woman reacted that way to him. He concentrated on her thoughts for a moment. She thought he was a rich asshole looking to get laid.
A dancer kissed Lauryl’s cheeks and hugged her and then Lauryl shifted in the chair. She looked at him and then looked at the door.
Eamon almost laughed. A not-so-subtle hint, he thought. He’d comply. After all, he had the young woman from the audience waiting for him. “I just wanted to tell you how talented and beautiful you are. Thank you for the engaging conversation.” Eamon bowed his head.
“I’ll remember it always.”
“So will I,” Eamon said before he walked out.
Six Months Later
CHAPTER ONE
I Guess I Don’t Understand the Mind of a Vampire
“Is that the final offer?” Eamon asked. He didn’t bother to look up from the text message that informed him that his suits were ready in London. He fired a text back to the sales manager that he’d be in next week to get them.
The dry business details his attorney, Grant, recounted about the last meeting with the dance company’s board of directors were of no interest to him. The deal would happen. He knew it. Eamon stretched his legs out in front of him and relaxed his six-foot frame.
“Can I be honest?” Grant pushed a portfolio across Eamon’s desk. “Buying the controlling interest in a dance company isn’t a smart investment. They’ve never turned a profit and they have personnel issues.”
Three secretaries came into the office and prepped the large conference table across the room for a meeting. They deposited agendas, portfolios, and water glasses in front of the seats. After they finished, two of the women walked out. One lingered at the door, waiting for Eamon’s acknowledgement.
“Yes, Rebecca?” Eamon asked his personal secretary.
“Can I do anything else, Mr. Rutherford?” The smile she gave Eamon revealed the tiniest invitation.
“No, thank you,” he replied with a wink. She closed the door behind her and the almost imperceptible scent of her spicy perfume lingered in the air. It was faint enough that only he could smell it and it triggered the memory of her soft skin and the taste of her blood. He turned back to Grant and frowned.
“This is more than a business venture, Grant.” He glanced toward a neat stack of newspaper clippings and reached for one with a picture. The photo was of a young ballerina holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a pair of toe shoes in the other. He held it toward Grant.
“This is why I want the dance company.”
Grant leaned in closer and studied the picture. “Lauryl Mellis?”
Eamon nodded.
“She’s not exactly at the top of her game. She just got out of rehab.”
According to Eamon’s conversations with the dance company’s general manager, Lauryl had turned into a party girl after a serious bout with mononucleosis. She had used cocaine to keep her energy up so she could keep dancing without losing her spot as a principal dancer. Her drug use mushroomed from there. Or so Eamon had been told.
“I realize she’s had some problems in the past. However, the director and general manager of the dance company assure me she’s clean. Besides I want her for myself, not for the dance company.”
“You?” Grant asked. He adjusted his wire-framed glasses.
Eamon narrowed his brown eyes at him. “You disapprove?” He placed the picture down with the others and drummed his fingers on the desk. Eamon’s fangs slid down through his gums and he absently ran his tongue along the point as his irritation simmered.
Grant shifted in his chair. “Sometimes I think I understand you, Eamon. Even after all of these years.” He rubbed his pant leg and held his breath a moment.
Eamon’s lips turned down in a frown and his fangs retracted. His irritation lessened, but only somewhat. Grant’s familiarity annoyed him. His skill as an attorney and advisor didn’t entitle him to irritating behavior. He had yet to earn that privilege.
“I guess I don’t understand the mind of a vampire. Or at least how you decide to find a companion,” Grant admitted.
“You won’t until you are one. If you ever are one.”
Eamon rose from his chair and allowed Grant to ponder his future. He walked over to a large parcel leaning against his desk and ran his hand over the thick, brown paper covering. Eamon removed the protective paper, revealing a gilt-framed, Degas oil painting. The pastel colored painting, Two Dancers at Rest, featured two ballet dancers in blue tutus relaxing together.
“Where did that come from?” Grant asked.
Eamon faced the painting and chuckled. “Philadelphia and a nasty divorce.”
“I didn’t know you were looking.” He placed the portfolios and papers in his briefcase.
“This isn’t for me. It’s a gift for her. I thought of her immediately when I saw it.” His tone of voice softened. Eamon leaned in closer to the painting, studying each of the dancers.
Grant sat forward and slammed the briefcase closed. “You’re going to give her that? A painting worth m
illions of dollars?”
Eamon clasped his hands behind his back and focused on a red-haired dancer rubbing her foot. “Not now. After.” He turned back to Grant. “And what if I did? I can’t give a gift?”
A few moments passed as Grant stared at his feet. He swallowed hard. “I’m only thinking about the restructuring you’d been planning. Now with all this about that dancer, I think you’re losing sight of that.”
Eamon considered the restructuring Grant was referring to. It had been Eamon’s desire to turn some of his executive staff into vampires in order to increase his corporation’s profit margin. Having a board of vampires, with their ability to read thoughts and manipulate the minds of competitors would lessen the risks in investments. It would also allow the business entity to make even more risky investments. But it was more important to turn Lauryl so she could be his companion.
“Time isn’t an issue with me. I can make those decisions anytime.” Eamon shrugged and walked over to the windows. He looked down at the tiny lights far below. The streets of New York City hummed with life, life that fed his kind. “I don’t like my decisions and actions questioned, Grant.” He glanced up, saw Grant’s faint reflection in the window glass, and smirked at the absence of his own. Grant looked over at the painting a few times before looking back at him.
“All I meant was—” Grant’s grip on his briefcase tightened until his knuckles turned white as moment of silence passed.
“You do your job well. I’d hate for you to leave my service.” Eamon looked down at his watch. It was close to ten. He was hungry and bored with Grant. Rebecca would be an effortless feed. It was also time to rein Grant back in. “Everyone can be replaced.”
CHAPTER TWO
I Suppose We Could Dine On Some Tourists
“You’re impossible, Eamon,” Irina said.
Eamon poured himself a glass of eighteen-year-old Glenlivet scotch and sat down next to her on the dark leather sofa in his New York City mansion. “I disagree.”
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