Table of Contents
Praise for D. B. Reynolds’s VAMPIRES IN AMERICA
D. B. Reynolds Vampires in America
Quinn
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Please visit these websites for more information about D.B. Reynolds
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise for D. B. Reynolds’s VAMPIRES IN AMERICA
“ . . . another can’t-put-down book, so clear your schedule and hunker down for a terrific read.”
—La Deetda Reads on RELENTLESS
“This is a power read, and fans will not be disappointed in the latest installment of Reynolds’s tantalizing series. Top Pick! 4 1/2 Stars!”
—RT Book Reviews of LUCIFER
“Captivating and brimming with brilliance, CHRISTIAN is yet another defining addition to the ever-evolving world of Vampires in America created by D.B. Reynolds.”
—KT Book Reviews
“Did I mention that the sizzling sex factor in this book is reaching the combustible stage? It is a wonder my Kindle didn’t burn up.”
—La Deetda Reads on DECEPTION
“D.B. Reynolds has outdone herself with this exhilarating story; and VINCENT is a worthy addition to Reynolds’ always excellent Vampires in America series.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Terrific writing, strong characters and world building, excellent storylines all help make Vampires in America a must read. Aden is one of the best so far.” A TOP BOOK OF THE YEAR!
—On Top Down Under Book Reviews
“In one of the most compelling vampire books I’ve read in a while, Reynolds blends an excellent mix of paranormal elements, suspense and combustible attraction.”
—RT Book Reviews on LUCAS
D. B. Reynolds
Vampires in America
Raphael
Jabril
Rajmund
Sophia
Duncan
Lucas
Aden
Vincent
Vampires in America: The Vampire Wars
Deception
Christian
Lucifer
Quinn
The Cyn and Raphael Novellas
Betrayed
Hunted
Unforgiven
Compelled
Relentless
The Stone Warriors
The Stone Warriors: Damian
The Stone Warriors: Kato
Quinn
by
D. B. Reynolds
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-861-5
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-875-2
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2018 by D. B. Reynolds
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites
ImaJinnBooks.com
BelleBooks.com
BellBridgeBooks.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Background (manipulated) © Burben | Dreamstime.com
Man (manipulated) © Anatol Misnikou | Dreamstime.com
:Mqws:01:
Dedication
To everyone who made Dublin 2017 such a wonderful adventure!
Prologue
Dublin, Ireland
5 years earlier
THE AMBULANCE rolled through the gates of Dublin Port, winding through stacks of huge containers before zeroing in on the blinking lights of the Harbor Police patrol, the two medical technicians unclear on what they’d find. The report had come in on two victims—one distraught female, one wounded male. Which could mean just about anything.
They slowed as they drove by an old warehouse and onto an older part of the dock. The woman came into sight first—slender, young, with long red hair that obscured most of her face as she hunched over the much larger man. He wasn’t moving. But then neither was she.
The passenger-seated paramedic jumped out of the ambulance first, ignoring his partner’s cautioning advice. “Slowly, lad.” But it wasn’t in his nature to go slow. Hell, it wasn’t his job, either. He hurried to the woman’s side, quickly drawing close enough that he could see she was alive. If just barely. He dropped to his knees and laid a careful hand on her shoulder. “Miss, are you hurt?”
Her entire body jerked at the touch, and she scrambled away, moving in a quarter circle to escape him, while remaining hunched over the man, as if protecting him. But there was nothing left to protect. It wasn’t an official finding, but the paramedic could see the truth at a glance. The man was dead, his throat a gaping wound so far gone, it wasn’t even bleeding anymore.
The woman stared at him from across the body, her brown eyes, red-rimmed with tears, devoid of expression.
“Are you hurt, love?” he asked again, gently.
Her hands clenched on the man’s jacket, but there was no other response.
The paramedic looked up when his partner joined him, along with a Harbor policeman. “We’ll take ‘em both,” he told them. “He’s”—he glanced at the traumatized woman and chose his words carefully—“severely wounded. She’s in shock. Let’s go.”
The woman cried out when they tried to pull her away from the dead man, hanging on to him as if she could hold back the truth. The paramedic exchanged a quick look with his partner, then slid a syringe into the woman’s arm. She collapsed into his arms without a word.
“JUST TELL ME WHAT happened, lass. Whatever you saw.”
Eve gazed around the hospital room, picked fitfully at the tape securing the IV line to her arm, and tugged the sheet higher over her chest. Anything to avoid dealing with the police officer’s very polite request. She snuck a glance at him, her heart pounding a drumbeat of fear in her chest. She could tell him what she saw. Every tiny detail. Every time she closed her eyes, she was right there all over again. The oil and brine scent of the port, the giant trucks spewing diesel fumes as they powered by, carrying stacks of containers. The weather-worn wood of the warehouse that had left splinters i
n her trailing fingertips. There’d been bright lights beyond the warehouse, and she’d hurried toward them, knowing that her brother, Alan, was waiting, knowing she was late.
And then she’d heard men’s voices, arguing. The ugly sound of a fist hitting flesh. One voice rising above the others—just as angry, but with enough fear to raise the normally deep pitch of his voice. Alan.
She’d run forward, panic drying every ounce of spit from her mouth. But this was Alan. His safety was everything. She’d crouched down to peer around the corner. And had bit back a gasp of utter terror.
Eve blinked back into the reality of the hospital room and stared fearfully at the kind policeman. Had she spoken any of that out loud? Told him the truth? She didn’t think so. If she had, he wouldn’t be looking at her with such calm patience. He wouldn’t want to hear the truth of what had killed her brother. Wouldn’t want to learn that when she’d peered around that final corner, two men had been standing over her brother’s motionless body, men with eyes that had burned as red as the very fires of hell. And in their mouths . . . fangs, just like in the horror movies. Not men at all, but vampires.
Everyone knew vampires existed. It was hard not to these days, what with paparazzi stalking them like rock stars. But that didn’t mean people wanted to deal with them, especially not normal people like the Harbor Police.
“I’m sorry,” Eve said, the words coming out on a choked sob of guilt. For being late, for getting her brother killed, and, finally, for betraying him with her lies to the police. “It was already over when I got there. My brother—” Her voice broke, and she had to start over. “Alan was already on the ground, bleeding from everywhere. I held him. I tried . . .” Hot tears filled her eyes, and she looked down at her hands, surprised to find them clean. “There was so much blood,” she whispered. “I tried, but I couldn’t stop it.”
“It was a serious injury, love. There was nothing you could have done on your own. I’m sorry to put you through this.”
She swallowed hard, rubbing away her useless tears, as she fought for control. “What happens next? When can we—” She couldn’t say it. The cold words that would seal her brother’s fate.
“You have a mortuary? Someone your family uses?”
Eve blinked. A mortuary?
“A priest?” he prodded gently.
Oh. Oh, God. She nodded. She didn’t go to church much, but her mother went every Sunday.
“Call him,” the officer urged. “He’ll guide you.”
“Do you know . . . do I have stay here?”
“Not at all. They’re just waiting for the doc to sign off on your paperwork, but you needn’t stay for that, if you don’t want to. Is there someone I can call for you?”
“No,” she said softly, then saw his look of consternation and knew it was the wrong answer. “I called my boyfriend,” she lied. “He’ll come for me. Does . . . does my mother know?”
He nodded. “She was informed.”
Did he wonder why her mother wasn’t there with her? Why she hadn’t even called, much less rushed to her daughter’s bedside? Eve would like to have been surprised by that, but she wasn’t.
“Thank you,” she said, and meant it. If the police hadn’t informed her mother, then it would have fallen to her. And she couldn’t deal with that right now. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, grabbing the sheet, embarrassed by her bare thighs beneath the hospital gown.
“Careful there. Let me get the nurse for you. She’ll remove that IV.”
“Right,” she said absently. “Thank you. Um, my mobile?” she asked.
He stood, then opened a long, narrow cupboard, and handed over her purse. “It’s there.”
She gave him a smile. He was so kind. But she didn’t want him to hear her phone call. “I need . . . my boyfriend,” she said, gesturing with her phone. A silent plea for privacy.
“Of course,” he said quickly. He even blushed a bit, before handing her a business card. “My number, in case you remember anything more. Or if you need . . . anything.”
She glanced at his name as she took the card, certain he’d already told her, but she couldn’t remember. She made a point of meeting his eyes. “Thank you, Desmond.”
“Des,” he corrected quickly.
She smiled. “Des. If I think of anything, I’ll call.”
“Or if there’s something I can do. I’m happy to help.”
“I’ll remember.”
His blush deepened. “I’ll be going, then. The nurse should be in shortly.” He jammed his hat on his head and rushed out the door, closing it behind him.
Eve waited until he’d been gone a few minutes, then called for an Uber. She’d have rather used a cab, but if anyone saw her, the Uber service could easily pass for a friend picking her up. The app said 7 minutes. Perfect. Pulling out the IV from her arm, she slapped a piece of tape over the wound, then stripped off the hospital gown and got dressed.
By the time she was climbing into the Uber guy’s plain gray sedan, she was back to her usual self. Except for the bloody, gaping wound in her heart, where her brother used to be. There was not enough tape in the world to make that better. But she knew what would.
Justice. No more university for her, no more exams. The guilt was so thick, she could barely breathe. That’s why she’d been meeting Alan last night, to celebrate her acceptance for graduate school. He’d been so proud, and she’d been so happy.
No longer. She was a hunter now, a killer. She was going to take from the vampires what they’d taken from Alan, and from her. Their bloody, fucking lives.
Chapter One
Kildare, Ireland, present day
QUINN STEPPED OFF the helicopter, bending slightly as he hurried out from under the blades, shielding his eyes against the dust to look around. He’d thought Lucas Donlon was bullshitting when he’d talked about his Irish “castle.” Turns out he wasn’t. The damn vampire really did have a castle. A gray stone monstrosity, complete with a fucking turret clinging to one side of the two-story main building, and a wall around the whole thing—at least twelve feet high and crenellated, for fuck’s sake. As if anyone was going to be firing off arrows to repel invaders. The place had to be a few hundred years old, but the warm light spilling out from perfectly clear glass windows gave away the modernization inside.
He couldn’t fault Lucas for making improvements. Castles were drafty affairs, with vermin in the walls and bad plumbing. Quinn had never lived in a castle, but his mother had grown up in one, courtesy of his grandfather who’d been the head groundskeeper for a property that had been turned into an expensive hotel—a fate far more common to old castles than what Lucas had done to this one. It took serious money to upgrade an old building of this size. That Lucas had done so spoke to two things, only one of which mattered to Quinn. First was that Lucas Donlon had a lot of money. No surprise there. All vampire lords had money, especially the old ones. But, second, and most importantly to Quinn, the money and time that had gone into the renovation told him that this castle mattered to Lucas. He’d been up front with Quinn about that, and about his intention to reclaim his lands, no matter who became Lord of Ireland. Quinn had a feeling Lucas would have claimed it long ago, if not for the consideration of vampire politics that had been pressed on him by Raphael. Even his brief acquaintance with the two vampire lords had made it clear to Quinn that Raphael was someone—maybe the only one—whom Lucas listened to. Of course, Raphael was also the guy who’d blown vampire politics all to hell just a few days ago, when he’d flown into France and taken out Laurent Pierre, the Lord of Nice, along with every vampire who’d been sworn to him. Apparently, even Raphael threw politics out the window when someone tried to kill his people and blow up his house.
Ostensibly, Raphael’s French incursion had been designed to draw attention away from Quinn’s far more discreet a
rrival in Ireland. It had worked. No one had paid Quinn any mind when he’d flown into Dublin and then on to Kildare, even though he’d been traveling on Lucas’s private jet, which should have drawn at least a cursory notice. But the vampire grapevine had been buzzing like a Wall Street banker on a cocaine high, and all they’d been talking about was Raphael and France.
As the helicopter lifted off behind him, Quinn noticed a woman striding through the open gates and walking with purpose toward him and his cousin Garrick, who was the only vampire he’d brought along on this journey. The only person he trusted absolutely.
The approaching woman, also a vampire, headed straight for Quinn. He reacted as a vampire first, weighing her power against his own. It wasn’t a particularly aggressive move—that comparing of powers—it was simply the way things were done in the world of Vampire. Power was everything. Quinn had it. Most vampires, like the female approaching him, didn’t. But what she lacked in power, she made up for with a killer body and the unconscious seduction of a woman who knew her own appeal.
She was slightly above average height, dressed casually in skin-tight jeans over long legs, and a red sweater that hugged the swell of full breasts. She walked effortlessly over the uneven ground, despite a pair of high-heeled boots, and gave Quinn a smile of warm welcome.
“Lord Quinn,” she said, offering a slender hand. “I’m—”
“Imogen Cleary,” he said, meeting her eyes with a return smile. “Lucas’s . . . butler, I believe.”
“I’m flattered, my lord. As for the title, it’s somewhat dated in this day and age, I know. But it fits the task.” Her head tilted as her smile widened, and Quinn knew he was being charmed. It was no accident that Lucas’s only female staff member was the one greeting him. He grinned, deciding to play along. Who was he to spoil a good seduction?
“Quite the opposite, Ms. Cleary,” he said, raising her hand to his lips for a courtly kiss, and adding a touch of Irish lilt to his words. “A good butler is an invaluable asset, especially when combined with such beauty and grace.”
Quinn (Vampires in America: The Vampire Wars Book 12) Page 1