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 Azreal’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.”
2 – UNKNOWN – UNKNOWN
She is enveloped by numbness, falling, into oblivion.
She drifts to the edge of awareness, shoulders, wrists and elbows aching.
She twists, seeking relief from the painful position.
She drowns in a black sea.
PAIN. MIND–NUMBING, searing, agony shoots through Morgan’s body. It rips the vampire out of the empty sanctuary where her mind has retreated. Darkness surrounds, and sounds are strange, as if someone has filled her ears with cotton. She shake
s her head, trying to clear her eyes, to no avail. Panic’s talons slip into the base of her skull, worming their way into her consciousness. She takes a deep breath and the scent of leather fills her nose. Her thoughts are slow, befuddled. When she tries to remember how she’s gotten wherever she is, there is nothing but a blank expanse. She knows she is in trouble and tries to move but something is holding her down. The talons rip deeper into her psyche. She thrashes, but the bindings hold fast. Something cold is clamped over her upper arm, holding it in place. A sharp stabbing pain brings numb oblivion.
HER EYELIDS DRIFT open, and bright white light sears her vision. A man, with what she thinks is a kind face, smiles at her. Morgan’s eyes drift closed. She knows that they are no longer moving. She doesn’t feel the slight rocking of the car or hear the crunch of tires on the gravel, and the air is free of exhaust fumes. She can hear two people speaking; one is Azreal and the other, she assumes, is the man with the kind face she saw moments before. Kind face my ass, she thinks. They talk about her; she knows it but can’t seem to connect the missing synapses. Azreal calls the second man ‘Doctor’ and they talk about her reaction to something. Whatever they mean, she doesn’t think it can be good. Morgan’s mind races, sending frantic commands to her limbs, urging flight but there is no response. Her limbs feel as though they’ve been remade with wet clay. The Doctor says something about giving her a few days’ rest to let something clear out of her system before they can begin the real work. As darkness reclaims her, as Morgan hears two sets of footfalls moving away from her.
TRYING TO MAKE sense of what her situation, Morgan focuses on the last thing she can remember. In her mind she sees the club, as she finished the walk–through. She steps outside herself and watches. Then she steps through the employee exit and turns to lock it. Images flash through her mind in rapid succession: Azreal outside The Dracul, a pair of frozen blue eyes, a silvery spike plunging into her neck, bright light burning the back of her eyelids. A last memory clings to her psyche like a cobweb, a man with a Southern accent, gushing over something that she never caught before the memory ends. There is a soft hiss, as more sterilized air rushes into the room, followed by two sharp footfalls on the hard floor. She remains still, and can feel someone watching her from behind the glass wall. She waits, hoping they’ll get bored and leave her alone.
HER CLOTHES ARE in tatters, the sleeves hanging in strips, the bodice is torn in several places, yet she stands defiant, ripped stockings the only thing between the soles of her feet and the frigid floor. She doesn’t know how long she’s been held, but she hasn't seen an opportunity to escape. Her muscles vibrate with the effort of holding herself upright. Morgan wants nothing more than to collapse and rest. The human, the one Azreal called ‘Doctor,’ steps into view and tosses a bundle at her. The fresh, clean clothes fall to the floor at her feet. This is a game they’ve played before, and she isn’t about to give him the satisfaction. At first he’s silent, waiting for her to move. When minutes pass and she remains an unmoving statue, he shakes his head and turns to Alexander.
“SHE’S ALL YOURS.” There is no emotion in the Doctor’s genteel voice, but Alexander’s feral grin speaks volumes. She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for what is to come, and knows that fighting will only make things worse.Morgan wakes, curled on her side, shivering on a hard floor that’s a few degrees colder than she is. She rolls onto her back, feeling ceramic tile beneath her flesh. There’s a thin, coarse blanket thrown over her. She clutched the blanket to her chest and shifts to a sitting position, while preserving as much of her modesty as possible. As she looks around, she assesses her surroundings. The first thing visible is the neat stack of clothes sitting a few feet from her. Snatching what turns out to be a set of hospital scrubs from the floor, she shakes them out. She dresses so fast that she rips the neck of the shirt, and pushes herself to her feet, legs unsteady. It feels as though it’s been days since they’ve been put to use. Morgan turns in a slow circle. The air hums with electronic life. Bright overhead lights reflect off three pristine white walls. The fourth is made of glass. She takes a slow deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, sterile air she equates with hospitals. But, all of the sterilization protocols in the world aren’t enough to mask the scent of blood.
Goddess, I’m starving. As soon as her mind wraps itself around the concept, the scent of blood fills her nostrils but there is something wrong with it.
MANIC HIGH–PITCHED laughter echoes through Morgan’s consciousness, she is strapped to a metal table. The heat in her veins gives way to pain as something slices her flesh. Her body begins to heal, but the wound is reopened and something that feels like it’s all sharp edges is shoved into the cut. She bites back the scream, knowing that this is just the beginning. Laughter gives way to soft humming. More cuts are opened, bits of metal left inside, for her flesh to heal around.
SHE FLOATS ON an ocean of blood and fire, flames licking her back, legs and arms. They curl over her torso in sinuous lines, flicking searing paths over her flesh. In the back of her mind, Morgan wonders if the flames leave marks on her pale skin. With that question chasing its tail in her mind, she slips into the ocean’s black expanse.
THE SOFT RUSTLE of cloth brings Morgan back to her senses. She feels the sleeve of the scrubs slide up and the doctor’s warm fingers probe the inside of her elbow, while muttering something under his breath. She lies still, waiting for the inevitable; this has become routine. A few moments of poking and prodding then he runs his hand down to hers, tracing the veins. He ties a piece of rubber around her wrist, cutting off circulation. Thousands of needle sharp points of pain spring up. After a few moments, the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol fills her senses and the air on the back of her hand feels like it has dropped several degrees. She relaxes her hand, knowing that if she's tense, it will hurt more. As if drawn by her thoughts, the needle slips into her flesh. The doctor continues talking to himself and removes the tourniquet. The transfusion begins, new blood dripping into her vein. Morgan hears footsteps as the doctor leaves.
FLAMES SLITHER THROUGH her veins; if someone asked, she could map every capillary from the back of her right hand to any point on her body. The transfused blood flows through them, being drawn ever closer to her heart. There is something different, wrong, about this blood. She can feel it pulsing with a life of its own, a phantom heartbeat. She tries to scream, but all that comes from her ruined vocal chords is a raspy squeak. Heat sears as the blood makes its way into her lungs. She draws in a long, harsh breath hoping that it will dampen the scorching heat. The flames are fanned by the influx of oxygen. They pour out of her lungs in a wave, crashing into her heart. White–hot agony flashes through Morgan’s body. She strains against her bindings.
A voice she knows and trusts assures her that everything will be just fine. The voice promises that the pain will pass, and she will be more powerful than before.
As the flames course through her she knows the voice is lying.
This will kill her.
3 – NEW ORLEANS – SEP 4, 2009
THE NIGHT AIR was heavy with the promise of rain; Marcus tasted moisture thick on his tongue. Even though he’d lived in New Orleans for several decades, he knew he’d never get used to the city’s weather. There’s something unnatural about it being almost eighty degrees and the air heavy with rain, at almost three hours past midnight. Marcus thought, as he stepped out of his nineteen fifty–five Corvette into the night, that rain should come with cold, and wind. He paused half a block away from where his Blood Daughter, Elizabeth, knelt over the latest victim of what the human authorities were calling a serial killer. Marcus’s hazel eyes scanned the area, his preternatural senses searching for clues that the human authorities would miss. Other than its proximity to the French Quarter, the alley was like any other, a dark corridor cutting through the city. It was a place to hide, to forget, and be forgotten.
Marcus shivered, and reached into the convertible’s interior for his sword cane, his gaze
drifted back to Elizabeth and the body. It had been a human female with dark hair, fair skin and ample curves. This victim was dressed in casual business attire, and as he’d expected, there was a strand of pearls nestled at the hollow of her throat. What he didn’t expect was the strange angle of her head, indicating that her neck had been broken. In another break from the killer’s pattern, there were several scrapes and cuts on this woman’s arms.
At least this one seemed to put up a fight. Elizabeth doesn’t think this is a human serial killer, and I am inclined to agree. Marcus frowned and shook his head. There’s more to this monster than a mere mortal with a taste for savagery. He closed his eyes and let other heightened senses take over. Despite the distance, he caught the scent of blood drying, metallic, like rust, in his mouth, from the victim, lifeless. Deeper than that, was a biting sweet woodsy scent, clinging to something far older. It’s a vampire, which I expected, but a member of one of the Dynastic lines? I recognize the scent, like it’s in the back of my mind teasing, taunting. Almost as though I should know the vampire it belongs to, but I just can’t place it.
Marcus opened his eyes and caught sight of Elizabeth. A slight shift in her weight signaled like the neon on Bourbon Street, that she was going to come check on him. He shook his head a fraction of an inch, and gestured with his right hand, ordering her to stay. Not wanting to let it go, he took another deep breath, but the scent had faded to the point where his vampiric senses couldn’t detect the cologne any longer. Swearing under his breath, Marcus walked to where his Blood Child waited, her milk chocolate eyes studying him.
Cast in Blood (Morgan Blackstone Vampires Book 1) Page 2