Heart of a Vampire, Book Bundle (Books 1-3)

by Amber Kallyn

An immortal Viking vampire, Brandon Wulfgar knows something is strange the moment he sees Celeste valiantly fighting for her life against a group of rogue vampires. When he’s asked to work with her—solve the crime while keeping the mortal woman safe—he figures no problem.

  But as the undeniable connection between them grows and danger appears from every side, they will have to trust one another not just for their lives, but for their very souls.

  Chapter One

  Brandon Wulfgar sat stiffly on the icy metal chair. He took a hefty gulp of his drink—a mix of blood and whiskey—never glancing away from his twin brother. Eric lay in the bed, facing the stone wall of the dungeon room. He mumbled in his dreams, the quiet mutterings occasionally punctuated by short, guttural screams. Was he reliving the painful past they’d shared, or that of Eric’s own more recent tortures?

  The room stank of cold sweat, permeated by fear and agony.

  Brandon’s hands clenched and the mug cracked. It crashed to the floor, shattering.

  He stared at the white shards of ceramic covered in crimson. The sight mirrored how he felt, unable to help his brother pick up the pieces and leave the darkness he’d descended into.

  With a sigh, he stood and headed for the hall. His king’s new wife was going to be pissed he’d broken yet another cup. He snorted, the sound lacking any amusement. Dalia would just have to deal with it.

  He opened the door, then stopped short.

  Dalia stood in the hall, arms crossed, tapping her foot. Her short pink-streaked blonde hair settled around her pointed chin and her green eyes flared, vampire-red circling the irises. “Again?” she demanded.

  It didn’t matter he dwarfed her with his six-foot-four height, nor that he was ten times stronger. All she had to do was shoot that look of hers and even the strongest of the vampire warriors living in the castle crumbled as if facing a disappointed mother.

  Brandon merely shrugged. “I’ll clean it up.”

  “Yeah, right.” Her gaze softened as she looked past him to Eric. “No change?”

  “None.”

  She straightened, rubbing her hands together. “Jordan wants to talk to you. I’ll sit with your brother. And I’ll clean up the poor cup. Again.” Shooting him an ironic look, she added, “We’re almost out of dishes.”

  It wasn’t true, but she had a point. He’d gone through an awful lot of mugs lately. But it wasn’t on purpose.

  As the older twin, albeit only by five minutes, he’d been raised to protect his brother. To fight the world, side-by-side. Yet he was failing miserably, unable to draw Eric from the cocoon of sleep where he’d escaped.

  Dalia entered the dungeon room, and leaving the thick metal door open a bit, sat in the chair Brandon had vacated. She leaned back, hands folded in her lap and started humming. Her voice was soft and airy, a sound guaranteed to get soul-deep inside anyone listening and make them feel better.

  As an Omega, she could calm people’s ragged emotions. More recently, with her magic growing, she no longer needed to look into their eyes to gain that connection. Her voice could suck anyone in when she tried.

  Brandon’s shoulders tightened when her voice brought no reaction from Eric. It took most of his will to leave, but he forced himself to walk down the icy hallway, and upstairs to his king’s chamber.

  Inside, Jordan reclined in a chair, facing the fireplace. The man held a glass of amber-colored liquid. A second full glass sat on the table beside him.

  “Sit for a while,” Jordan stated, his Scottish brogue thicker than normal.

  Brandon twitched at the tension in Jordan’s voice, and crossed the room to the waiting chair on the other side of the table.

  “Any change with Eric?” Jordan lifted his drink and sipped, trying to act casual as he ran a hand through his short blond hair.

  Taking his own glass, Brandon gulped it down. The smooth whiskey burned his throat, then settled warmly in his gut. “No.”

  Jordan sighed, shifting to face Brandon fully.

  Trepidation filled him. The man was normally direct.

  “The ‘cult killings’ have started once more in the city,” Jordan said, his gaze dark with anger and confusion.

  “But Connor killed the demon behind them just a few weeks ago,” Brandon protested.

  “Aye. Yet, here we are.”

  Brandon set his empty glass back on the table before he broke that one too. “So is Connor returning?”

  “He’s busy with something else.”

  “What? His refound family?”

  “Nay. Something for the Magic Council.”

  Considering the man was a Judge for the council, it shouldn’t be surprising. “So they’re not sending him back?”

  “Not now.”

  A sinking suspicion crawled into his gut. “Then who are you sending to investigate?”

  Jordan just stared at him.

  Jumping to his feet, Brandon paced to the fireplace. “I can’t go. Eric needs me—”

  Jordan’s voice broke through his agitation. “Needs you? He hasn’t said two words in the last month. He doesn’t respond to anything we try.” He stood, arms behind his back, as Brandon paced. “Someone has to take care of the problem. If it’s another demon, you’re the only one I can send.”

  Anger turned his stomach, bile burned up his chest. “I can’t leave my brother.”

  Jordan’s voice cracked like steel. “You’ll tell me no?”

  Stopping short, Brandon slowly swung around and met his king’s blazing red gaze. He’d never told Jordan “no,” since the man had rescued both him and Eric from living agony. But to leave his brother...

  The tension in his shoulders ached. His chest tightened and he gave his king the only answer he could. “When do I leave?”

  * * *

  In the lingering heat of the evening, Celeste Wilder strode from her unmarked car towards the flashing lights shining from the alley. Near the yellow police tape, cameras flashed as bystanders tried to capture anything interesting they could put online or sell to the news.

  Whipping back her long black hair, she muttered under her breath, “Mierda! Gotta start keeping a damn hair tie in the car.”

  One of these days, she was actually going to remember, so when she was called into a crime scene unexpectedly, she didn’t have to deal with the looks she was getting now. It was difficult enough being a female detective without flaunting her femininity. More importantly, it got in the way.

  Like usual in Arizona, the weather had bypassed spring entirely. Sweat dampened her neck, making her loose curls cling uncomfortably to her skin.

  “Daily, let me in,” she growled at the nearest officer blocking the alley.

  He hurried to pull back one of the sawhorses. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She pushed past him, taking in the scene. Phoenix PD officers guarded the sight from the lookie-loos, while the coroner hunched over a body only partly hidden behind a rusty dumpster. Overlaying the scent of rotting garbage, she caught the distinct coppery odor of fresh blood.

  “Who was first on scene?” she demanded from an obvious rookie as he nervously flicked his notepad open and shut.

  “Um, I was, detective, um, ma’am.”

  She read his name-tag. “All right, Portensky. Details.”

  He fumbled open the notebook, nearly dropping it. “The call came in at 8:02 p.m. I was dispatched, and arrived at 8:09. I didn’t see anything at first.” The kid paled, swallowed hard, then continued. “Then I smelled it.”

  “Any information on the caller?” She studied how the dumpster had been pulled away from the wall. Black and red lines of wax snaked from the brick to the center of the alley.

  “No, ma’am. Distorted voice, barely clear. Dispatcher said she wasn’t sure she’d even heard the address right.”

  “Make sure your report is on my desk by morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He hustled toward the street, as if trying to put as much distance between himself and the body.

  Unfazed
, Celeste headed right for it.

  Hovering over the body, the coroner, Frankie, glanced up. Weariness dulled her dark eyes. “Hey, girl. Rough night?”

  “About to get worse.”

  Frankie sighed, pushing her long bangs from her eyes with the back of her hand, then waved at the body. “No name, no ID.”

  “I assume that’s why I was called in. These are my streets,” she replied.

  “Sad state this last month, with all these killings.”

  Shrugging, Celeste stepped closer. The woman lay mostly exposed, tattered remains of her clothing spread back from her chest. A small piece of red cloth had been draped over her face. Bleach-blonde hair spread around her head, the tips soaked with blood. The killer had taken a knife to her throat and chest.

  “Time of death?”

  “Her temp is still high. I’d say in the last hour.”

  Considering Portensky had been dispatched less than a half-hour ago, it was possible the rumors were true. This cabrón was calling it in before his victim was dead.

  Frankie pulled off her gloves. “What kind of sicko mutilates young girls? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “Aren’t they all sickos?” Celeste replied, forcing her emotions away. The victim’s wounds were ragged, as if caused by a serrated weapon. They still hadn’t figured out what the killer was using.

  “We’re ready,” Frankie said.

  Nodding, she replied, “Go ahead.”

  Frankie lifted the red cloth from the body to seal it in an evidence bag.

  Celeste’s breath caught, hitching in her tightening throat. “La madre que te parió!” she cursed.

  No woman, just a girl.

  Baby had been fifteen, max. She’d worked the streets, saying it was better there than at home.

  Trying to get these girls into shelters was a trial. Every time Celeste got one off the streets, five more took her place. But Baby had been sweet, mostly clean, not the hardened type Celeste was used to dealing with.

  And next week, there was an opening at one of the shelters Celeste worked with that Baby had agreed to enter.

  Three damn days.

  Swallowing hard against the dark, useless emotions trying to choke her, Celeste forced herself to move, to get on with the job. She noted the wounds and the bruises covering the girl’s face and upper arms. A broken necklace of cheap, brightly colored glass lay discarded near her left hand.

  A dark smudge against Baby’s pale skin caught her eye. “What’s that?”

  Frankie bent closer, snapping some photos, then gently turned the girl’s hand over.

  A black mark had been drawn on her wrist. A question mark with a bar crossing the center of the straight line. Celeste drew a replica in her notebook.

  “Didn’t see anything like this on the other bodies,” Frankie said as she took more pictures.

  “I didn’t either. They were only left on the walls.” She continued to note the details of the crime scene as the morgue techs wheeled away the body, along with the scattered trash on the ground. They took it all. Anything could hold a clue.

  As the other officers dispersed, Celeste stood back and watched. Waited for the scene to clear so she could search for clues. See if she could find more of the strange markings, some sort of runes, like at the other scenes.

  As she waited, tapping her foot impatiently, her anger burned hotter.

  These “Cult Murders” as the press called them, were supposed to have been solved weeks ago. They had disbanded the taskforce on her captain’s orders.

  The city began to breathe easier.

  Until a few nights ago, when they’d started up again.

  Only, there were differences this time. Captain Michaels was adamant it was some sort of copycat, but then the question became how the perpetrator had learned so many details about the original murders.

  Celeste didn’t buy it. There had been no arrests, no one found guilty. All the captain would say was the man responsible fled to some little town up in the mountains and had been brought down, killed during a fight with the local cops.

  It didn’t satisfy her at all.

  Especially now.

  “Detective Wilder?” Officer Daily called. She glanced back at Baby, one last look at a vision that would haunt her forever.

  With a quick, silent prayer for the girl’s soul, she headed over to the cluster of cops, all staring at the ground.

  Daily glanced up, his Irish complexion reddening from excitement.

  As the others stepped back, her gaze fell on the pentacle drawn in what looked like blood. She recognized the symbol, same as at the earlier murder scenes.

  As she studied it, another mark, further down the alley, caught her eye. “Daily, with me.” He followed her to the second mark, this one a triangle with an eye in the center. They found a third rune and followed it like a trail of breadcrumbs.

  This was new. “Call this in. Get someone taking pictures,” she said, drawing the symbols in her notebook.

  They spent three minutes finding the next mark, then another.

  Celeste realized she could no longer hear the crime scene. An itch crawled down her neck. She opened her mouth to tell Daily to call for backup.

  Three men dropped to the street with loud thuds. She glanced up. Her mouth dried and her heart thumped loudly.

  The only place they could have come from was the roof, but the buildings were both over forty feet tall.

  Impossible.

  “Hey, little pig. What we got here?” one man crooned.

  Smoothly, ignoring her confusion and the growing, deeply rooted fear, Celeste drew her Glock. “Freeze, all of you.”

  Reaching for her belt, she studied the three men. Something was off about them. She clicked the radio, shouting, “Officer needs assist—”

  The radio was jerked from her hand. Something sharp raked over her fingers. She bit back a hiss of pain.

  “Stop right there,” she called, trying to come up with an explanation of how her radio had disappeared when she hadn’t even seen them move.

  Tall and over-muscled didn’t intimidate her. It was when one of them smiled, revealing a mouth full of teeth sharpened into points, that made the itch on her neck explode down her spine.

  One man shot out his hand, nearly too fast for her to follow. Daily flew through the air, slamming into the brick wall on the other side of the alley.

  Crumpling to the ground, Daily moaned weakly.

  “Back up against the wall, away from the officer,” she ordered.

  The men smiled at her, their eyes freaking glowing. Some trick.

  Her stomach quivered as the hair on her nape stood straight up. “Now.”

  “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” a gravelly voice came from behind her.

  She spun, sidestepping to put her back to the nearest wall, cursing herself that she hadn’t even heard the fourth man coming.

  “All of you, against the wall. Hands above your heads.”

  The newcomer, this one a redhead, raised his hands high and spun in a circle like some demented ballerina.

  The other three guys inched closer to Daily.

  “Last warning. Get away from him and backs to the wall.”

  Before she could blink, one man lifted Daily. The rookie screamed as his head was slammed against the brick wall, then fell silent.

  She fired at the man holding him.

  He disappeared, only to reappear further down the alley, Daily still dangling from his grip like a rag doll.

  Red Hair stepped towards her. She turned and fired in one smooth motion. She missed. Not possible. She shot again, this time catching a wavering motion as the man stepped out of the path of the bullet.

  “Impossible,” she whispered. Her stomach flipped.

  “Try again, piggy. Pain is such a wondrous feeling. See if you can hit me.”

  She fired. Missed, as he once more moved faster than the bullet.

  He ripped the gun from her hands so fast she didn’t eve
n see him reach her.

  Pain exploded over the side of her face and she spun, falling against the wall. Clutching the brick, she inhaled deeply against the grayness edging into her sight.

  Something sharp dug into her shoulders, spinning her around and slamming her back against the wall. Red Hair stared at her, leering as his gaze traveled down her face and chest. “Yummy. Never knew bacon looked so good.”

  “Back the fuck away,” she gritted out through the pain.

  “Ah, no.” He tilted his head. “Don’t think I will.”

  She fisted her hands, striking his nose. Bone crunched. He howled, hands cupping his face as he stepped back.

  It gave her an opening. She slammed her boot into his groin, then grabbed his wrist, twisting it violently.

  Before she could blink, the others were on her. Nails dug into her skin, ripping her clothing. A fist tangled in her hair, jerking her head back and bringing tears to her eyes.

  She bit her lip, tasted blood, held back the cry of pain.

  Red Hair drew closer, his face only inches from hers. Blood dripped from his broken nose, but he merely grinned. His eyes were pure red, shining with unholy light.

  “Madre de dios,” she whispered a prayer to the Mother Mary, her heart skipping a beat. “What the hell are you?”

  He leaned closer, whispering, “Your nightmare come true, piggy.”

  Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed your time with the Heart of a Vampire heroes and heroines as much as I did. If you liked this book, would you please leave a review for me? Reviews are what help authors sell more books, which in turn means I get to keep writing more for you.

  Also, I’d love to hear from you. You can find me at the following:

  www.AmberKallyn.com

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