This novella is dedicated to all those who serve or have served in uniform. For your bravery, sacrifice, and willingness, we remain forever grateful.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Eliza Gayle and Mike Cummings for helping with Marine Corps details. Thanks for responding to my Twitter call for help! Also, big thanks to my friend Seth Wilson for all the guide dog input. Also, thanks to Dr. Ken Tennant for the information about traumatic brain injury and blindness.
And with this 2016 reissue, I’d especially like to thank one of my personal heroes, Travis Pennington, who is forever swooping in to help right when I need assistance. I appreciate you and your friendship so much!
CHAPTER ONE
The room smelled musty, like old books and cobwebs. Dank like his parents’ basement back in Nashville. Dillon’s nose twitched from the dust, burned with the odor of forgotten things. His buddy Mason had described this cellar as the “room of secrets,” the moldering place where he and his demon-hunting clan kept their vast library of supernatural lore.
Unbeknownst to Dillon until only a few hours ago, Mason wasn’t just a crack shot with an M-16, but a fifth generation demon hunter, as well. And since Mason Angel was one of the most levelheaded dudes Dillon had ever known, inside the USMC or out, his revelations about the family biz meant just one thing. Evil was real and alive, and it hunted mankind from the squalid back alleys of Basrah to the downtown streets of good ole Savannah, Georgia, USA. In turn, Mace and his squad fought back, with this cellar serving as the main bunker for those organized campaigns.
It was hard to get a bead on the area’s actual size, but Dillon figured on a low ceiling because of the way their voices reverberated. Which marked three of them in the room—Mason and his older brother Jamie, and then Dillon himself. They’d left a few others from Mason’s wrecking crew upstairs. Or at least Dillon was pretty sure they’d stayed up there. He battled away the sudden urge to bark, “Sound off!” just to be sure.
Running his fingertips over the big bookshelf behind him, Dillon felt rows upon rows of cracked leather volumes, some with embossed lettering and others with bindings that had obviously been worn away by long-term use. Dust slipped beneath his fingertips, making his nose twitch even more. Leaning lightly against the edge of the shelf and assured that he wasn’t going to trip or stumble over anything, Dillon folded his cane neatly in his palm. Once a Marine, always a Marine, and he’d be damned if Mason Angel, his one-time commanding officer, saw him clutching the thing like a lifeline. He’d left his guide dog Lulu upstairs, and without her, he was dependent on the cane for doing recon. That and his friends’ description of the room’s layout.
Starting at the train station, Mace had narrated the sights and obstacles to Dillon with natural efficiency. Yeah, ole Mace had always had a sensitive streak, a big one, and he’d already proven himself more attuned to Dillon’s disability than most of his friends and family back home in Nashville. His mother had been a crier all through his recent ordeal of getting wounded and then shipped stateside to the naval hospital. He often wanted to remind her that he was blind now, not deaf, as he heard her sniffling.
Mace, on the other hand, acted as if nothing had changed, which was all Dillon wanted. To be the man he’d always been, with his friends treating him just as they always had.
Dillon shoved his cane into the back pocket of his cargo shorts, which Mace obviously noted. “Nothing on the floor around you, bro,” his friend said. “You’re good for several feet either way. The walls, they’re lined with bookshelves like the one you’re feeling right now. My dad’s old desk is over in the corner, nine o’clock to you. A big roll top that Jamie hogs most of the time.”
“Shut up,” Mason’s brother Jamie growled, but Dillon could hear the smile in his voice. Mason had often talked about how close he and his siblings were. If nothing else came from this little reunion, it meant a lot to Dillon just to meet Mace’s family after hearing about them for so many years.
Mason continued his verbal tour of the cellar. “Some of these books go back to ancient times, but we keep those in a temperature controlled case,” he explained. “We’ve had museums contact us and offer huge sums of money, but we can’t afford to let go of the collection. Not a single volume.”
“Yeah, too much power between the pages,” Jamie agreed, his voice filled with the kind of healthy, cautious respect Dillon had encountered plenty of times in the Corps when Marines discussed their rifles or an insurgent who proved particularly difficult to extricate. You didn’t underestimate the effectiveness of either one—friend or foe.
Dillon trailed his hand along the shelf behind him. He couldn’t get a fix on how tall it was and out of habit, he blinked. It was hard to shake the sense, even now, that if he could just clear his eyes, he’d be able to see his surroundings. But the fact was Dillon lived in pitch blackness, had from the moment of the explosion over in Iraq. His eyes worked fine. It was the wiring in his brain that was fried to hell, rendering him sightless.
And nothing, absolutely nothing, annoyed a Marine more than working blind. That’s why the Corps relied on night vision goggles and infrared and every other tool of the trade to defeat the full darkness Dillon now lived with twenty-four-seven.
“These books, they’re our intel,” Mason explained. “Information is king, just like back in our recon days. We study what hunters before us learned and tried, we read firsthand accounts and religious texts. And all that’s in this room.”
Dillon folded arms across his broad chest, grinning in mild amusement. “In other words, this is where you plot to overthrow the forces of darkness, Super Bad.”
Mason made a low rumbling sound as he laughed. It reminded Dillon of old times. Better times. When there’d been plenty of reasons for all of their best friends to cut it up together.
“Make us sound like freaks, why don’t you, Foxy?” Mason said using one of about ten nicknames his friends had given him back in the day.
“Freaky is as freaky does, bud,” Dillon fired back, laughing, too. “But how do you fight these demons without any juice?”
“Dude,” Mace said. “They’re firepower of the printed kind. Haven’t you heard the one about the pen being mightier than the sword?”
“I don’t think Al Qaeda got that memo,” Dillon said, growing deadly serious. “And when I’m facing off with the enemy, I need the feel of a weapon in my hand. The kind that locks and loads. So I’m just wondering where you keep the real rock ‘n roll around here.”
Jamie walked closer, his shoes, likely loafers, clicking on the floor. “We’re fully outfitted, don’t worry. Everything’s in the adjoining cellar,” he explained in a voice that was at least as deep as Mace’s, but colored by a more pronounced southern accent. Mason’s years in the Corps must’ve blunted his own drawl. Same deal with Dillon himself. Few people believed he’d grown up in Nashville when he told them, but that’s what ten years’ worth of postings everywhere from Okinawa to San Diego to Anbar Province did to you. Dillon was a little bit of everywhere now, at least vocally. Even if most days he felt a whole lot of nowhere because of his blindness.
“Why do I have a feeling you won’t be showing me around that part of the installation?” Dillon laughed darkly. Yeah, who in their right mind would trust a blind man with any kind of weapon?
“We’ll show you whatever you want, Dillon,” Jamie said smoothly. “Cause Mace asked you here to Savannah for a very particular reason…” Jamie left the sentence trail off, an obvious invitation for Mason to finish.
Beside him, Mace sucke
d in a breath and blurted, “We want to recruit you, Dillon. For the Shades.”
“You what?” Dillon exclaimed in stunned disbelief.
“We want you to work with us as a hunter,” Mason answered evenly. “To learn our lore, the skills we possess in battling darkness.”
Dillon snorted. “I think I’ve gotten pretty good at battling darkness. Which is why I’m not cut out for your trade.”
Nah, it wasn’t too likely any of the Angel family’s books came in Braille. Not that Dillon would be able to make much out of them anyway. Despite the months he’d spent in therapy at Bethesda Naval, he remained a moron when it came to reading with his fingertips. “I can’t read for shit, man. And can’t sight a rifle, either. So I’m not really sure why your unit would want a broke dick like me.”
Mason sighed. “Jesus H., I asked you here for a reason, man. I need you. We all need you right now.”
Nobody needed a blind man. His girlfriend of two years had dumped him early and fast; he’d barely been out of the hospital when she’d pulled that maneuver. Something about his “having changed” during his two long deployments in Iraq. Yeah, right. No doubt her dump and cover routine was really about his fumbling awkwardness the first time they’d made love after he got out of the hospital. That, and his intense self-consciousness about his disability and his periodic memory loss issues. The main point was she sure as hell didn’t waste any time beating tracks out of his life.
As for his beloved Marines, well…they’d given him a Purple Heart and an honorable discharge, along with his one hundred percent disability. Sayonara, Gunny Fox.
So much for brotherhood, right?
“Brotherhood,” Dillon muttered under his breath, blinking at the darkness.
Mason made an exasperated sound low in his throat. “Damn it, Dill Weed, you’re such a jackass, you know that?”
Dillon tilted his chin upward defiantly. “I don’t wanna be anybody’s pity fuck.”
“Fuck you, too. You’re not even my type.” Mace said that last bit a lot more quietly, clearing his throat after making the remark.
Awkward.
Dillon’s face heated. He’d said too much. Mace had dealt with his own loss in the past year, but that was another story altogether, one they’d agreed never to discuss—in that non-verbal, silent avoidance way that fellow warriors were only too good at. Their comrade Kelly O’Connell’s death over in Iraq had led to Mace’s own discharge from the Corps, only two months after Dillon was nearly blasted off that fucking Iraqi rooftop. But Dillon was well aware that he’d been lucky; they’d lost two fellow Marines in the same attack. Although when you got right down to it, luck didn’t have anything to do with it. He’d been spared, period. Dillon couldn’t help feeling guilty, wondering why he’d been tapped to survive when better men, ones with kids and wives and lives back home, had died. That feeling hounded him, locked on his guts like a missile.
Dillon rubbed a palm over his short hair, thinking. Maybe they were serious about needing him. It couldn’t hurt to at least learn a little more, right? And it wasn’t like he’d found anything to apply himself to, not since his discharge.
Mason must’ve seen Dillon’s expression change, become more receptive, because he plunged ahead. “I’m not blowing sunshine up your skirt, Dill. We really need your help.” His tone was serious, a little intense and urgent.
“Okay…okay,” Dillon said, reaching for his cane on instinct. “But why me? That’s what I don’t get.”
“You’re one handsome motherfucker. That’s why,” Mason said with a grin in his voice.
“Ah, a beauty contest. No wonder you exempted yourself and entered me for top prize. Natch.” Dillon smiled in the direction of his friend’s voice. “Now give me the real answer.”
Mason sighed, a long, slow exhalation, the kind that sounded worn out. Like maybe he’d been after this particular target for a long while, without success. “We’re all obvious, that’s why,” Mace said. “The enemy would suspect us going in. This is an old guard Savannah family I’m talking about, people who know us and are very aware of what we do.”
“What you do,” Dillon repeated, still not sure exactly what the Shades did to battle evil, but also finding himself increasingly curious.
“What we hunt,” Jamie clarified on his brother’s behalf. “And how we do it. Our particular brand of expertise is no secret around town.”
Mason added in a rush. “But you, Dillon? You’re new blood. A handsome guy with spot-on instincts and a warrior’s skills. We need you to infiltrate their ranks, and confirm our suspicions about this family…about what we think they are. See, there’s a party tonight, out on Tybee. You and I go, drink a few beers and you move in on the target. Who just so happens to be a really hot female, by the way. One who’s got a thing for Marines and warrior types in general. She dated one of my buddies when I was at the Citadel. So, yeah, in you walk with your GQ face—”
“I’m not that good looking.” Dillon rolled his eyes.
“I can think of several dozen women around Camp Lejeune who’d disagree with that one, Dill. You were a babe magnet…”
“Good times,” Dillon muttered, embarrassed by the attention. When you could no longer see yourself in the mirror, it became harder to believe you were still hot. “So…I hit this party with you and what?”
“Yeah, man. We just, like, drive out to the beach this afternoon, have a few brewskies. That sorta drill. Nothing but a regular relaxing time on Labor Day weekend. Just a couple of regular guys.”.”
When Mason rambled that much about just getting a few beers? Shit was up. Impatiently, Dillon waved his hand in his friend’s general direction. “And?” he prompted. “Spill it, dude.”
“And, like I said, you chat up the mark,” Mason replied easily, unaware of just how far Dillon had fallen from his game. “Dazzle her with your dimples. Charm her with your wounded hero routine and bam. She’s all in. And that makes you, my friend, our ultimate secret weapon…”
“Secret how?” Dillon knew the answer before he asked, but he was as blunt as he’d always been, and wasn’t about to start sparing anyone’s feelings now. “Because I’m a blind son of a bitch, you think she won’t suspect I’m one of your anti-evil operatives?”
“Yes,” Mason told him with unflinching frankness. “We believe that the people we’re talking about would naturally discount you and your skills. That this female target would take you at face value.”
Dillon cleared his throat, turning in the direction of his friend’s voice. “Mace. Dude. I’m not worth my salt for any man’s battle. Not like this.” He pointed toward his sightless eyes with a significant gesture.
Mason took a few steps closer, his shoes making a squeegee sound on the floor. Nikes, probably. “This isn’t a man’s battle,” he said smoothly, but his voice was like cold steel. “In fact, it isn’t a war against men at all.”
“You said this was an old guard Savannah family,” Dillon pointed out, frowning. It was like Mace and Jamie were talking in circles, everything as clear as the darkness that Dillon lived with every day. “Are they a Savannah family or something else entirely?” Dillon pushed, starting to feel annoyed and frustrated. “Straight shot here, boys. Lay it out for me.”
There was a few more seconds of silence, and then it was Jamie who stepped to the plate. “They’re not like any humans you’ve ever met. Not like any family you know, trust us,” he said somberly.
“Fuck me,” Dill said, whistling under his breath. “Are you saying they’re demons, then?”
Mason and Jamie spoke in unison, their similar voices perfectly in synch. “Vampires.”
Dillon wrenched his arm free from Mason’s grasp, stumbling sideways. Demons were one thing—he’d done his time in the pews of his parents’ Baptist church growing up and seen enough shit in the warzone. Yeah, demons he could buy wholesale, but vampires? He didn’t know any book or passage of the Bible where you’d find mention of that.
“You�
�re punking me,” he said, wishing he could see his way out of the room. The darkness was closing in on him, becoming claustrophobic. Jerking his head toward the doorway, he started feeling along the shelf, wanting to bolt. “I don’t know what kind of dumb shit you think I am…”
“Is this room real?” Mason asked, voice intense.
“Yeah, like I don’t see that one coming.” Dillon stopped his awkward steps, pressing his hand against the bookshelf, steadying himself.
“Dillon, is this room real?” Mason repeated.
“I’m blind, not stupid, butt suck,” Dillon hissed angrily.
Mason punched his arm. “Answer the goddamned question.”
“Yes, Captain Angel, sir! This goddamned room is real, sir,” Dillon barked back at his friend.
Mason’s breath was right against Dillon’s face, warm, urgent. “So are vampires. So is darkness. It’s real, all of it. And it’s around us, whether we see it or not. So the question isn’t whether vampires exist, Dillon, cause they do,” Mason continued intently, his voice hushed, electric. “And it’s not whether you’re still a warrior. That heart’s always gonna beat inside you, my friend.” Mace flicked the center of Dillon’s chest significantly. “No, Dillon Fox, all of that was settled long ago. There’s only one real question now. Whether you’re still willing to fight.”
“You know that I am,” Dillon whispered fiercely, blinking at the darkness.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Mace clasped his shoulder with a strong, reassuring grip. “It’s what I knew I’d hear, too.”
“Tell me what it is you want me to do. I don’t think I get it. It’s got to be more than charming her panties off…literally.”
Mace didn’t say anything, the long pause more than a little weighty.
“Right?” Dillon repeated more sharply. “I mean, hell, you wouldn’t recruit me to just go seduce some poor little vampire chick, would you?”
“Nothing poor or sad or pitiful about this one, dude. Trust me there.” Mason whistled low. “She’s more like danger incarnate. And, yeah, as a matter of fact, I’d love for you to get close to her tonight, and frankly, I don’t care how you pull that off. But we need you to find something in particular. It’s more than confirming her identity—if she’d even let you. It’s about a family heirloom. Their family’s mating ring, which by our calculations…she’s supposed to need sometime soon for her ritual mating ceremony.”
Red Blooded: The Gods of Midnight Series, Book 3.5 (Paranormal Romance) Page 1