by Eve Langlais
As if in response to her cry, a car came racing around the corner less than two hundred feet away, its headlights like shining beacons of hope in the darkness of the night.
“Oh god,” she said, and stumbled out into the middle of the road, waving her arms above her head.
The vehicle raced toward her, the engine revving, and Alex finally found the courage to glance back behind her. The killer was almost to the stone wall; a few minutes more and he would have her!
Brakes squealed and the car slid sideways, turning broadside to her and coming to a skidding halt a few yards away. Her mind catalogued it as a black Mercedes even as the passenger door was flung open from the inside and a voice called out to her from behind the wheel.
“Hurry! Get in!”
She recognized the voice. It belonged to Cody Goodfellow.
What the hell is he doing here? she thought, even as she flung herself inside the car, mere inches ahead of the killer reaching grasp.
Goodfellow didn’t wait for her to close the door. The second her ass hit the leather seat he shouted, “Hold on!” and stomped on the gas, smoking the tires and sending the car into a spinning turn as he got them the hell out of there.
End of Volume One
The story continues in Volume Two of Lord of Misrule. Learn more here
About the Author
J.S. Hope is the pseudonym of two internationally bestselling authors with more than a million books in print between them. Visit her Facebook page for more information.
Lord of Misrule © Copyright 2014 by J.S. Hope
First Electronic Printing November 2014
Cover art by Lou Harper, © Copyright 2014
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
All books copyrighted to the author and may not be resold or given away without written permission from the author, J.S. Hope.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any and all characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events or places is merely coincidence. Novel intended for adults only. Must be 18 years or older to read.
Blood Deep: Vegas Vampires Book 1
Jessa Slade
A reluctant “News of the Mysterious” reporter whose mother went missing one Christmas finds herself in Las Vegas for the holiday, caught in a battle between light and dark fey armies. Only a 700–year–old soul–wounded warrior cursed with eternal life can save her–before his own time runs out. But the dangerous magic that made her fear for her sanity and made him a vampire isn’t done with them yet, and long–lost worlds are on a collision course on the deepest night of the year…
Prologue
“The phae will return to the sunlit realm.” Under its glamour cloak, the throne room had taken on the shape of a winter forest, dark and deep, but the king’s powerful voice echoed as if they all stood inside a metal drum. “While the Iron Age is long past, we stayed here, locked in the phaedrealii, and our court has withered.”
The phae had gathered at their new king’s command, but they remained half–hidden behind the black tree trunks. Some were tucked high among the needles, and others drifted unseen in the mist. They whispered amongst themselves, a sound like faraway bells. Restless, broken bells.
“To live,” the king said more softly, “we must be free.” He stroked his hand down the neck of the sleek, golden tigress at his side.
Unlike most creatures in the phae court, she was not masked in glamour. Her rumble of pleasure–a warm, earthy sound–melted a few falling ice crystals and softened the ruthless set of his jaw. The king’s mate was a wereling, a shapeshifter who had helped defeat the madness of the Undone Queen not long ago. Together, this usurper king and his wereling woman were changing the phae court from the inside out.
Hugo de Grava might have cheered the release of the phaedrealii, but he was the only one standing around in chains.
When the gathered courtiers were dismissed, Hugo remained. Not by choice. His guard had staked the end of his shackles into the ground. The iron circling his arms in heavy links didn’t burn him as it would have a phae, but the sheer weight alone bound him. Given time, he might break loose, but where would he go?
Nowhere.
So he stood unmoving as the king and his tigress circled him with the same predatory stride. When the wereling brushed past his thigh, Hugo caught his breath, and a faint scent tickled his nostrils: sweet and bright.
She carried sunlight in her fur.
Grim memory assailed him, a black reflection of the luminous temptation just beyond his grasp. He closed his eyes and tightened his fists against the urge to reach for her, to tangle his fingers in what–might–have–beens. If he tried to touch her, he had no doubt King Raze the Ruiner would kill him.
If only.
Instead, he held onto his leash, wishing for an end to his misery.
To his shock, the manacles slithered off his wrists. At the abrupt removal, his arms jerked up. Warm, strong hands caught his, and his eyes popped open to leave him staring at the tigress–who was now a naked woman with sun–streaked brown hair falling over full breasts.
The king made a low noise in his throat, very much like a growl.
“I’m sorry,” the wereling murmured. Hugo was uncertain whether she spoke to her mate or to him. “Our guards were overzealous. We asked them to escort you, not chain you.”
Hugo yanked his hands away from her, struggling to control his surging pulse. “Seeking someone to blame for smuggling our deposed queen out of the phaedrealii?”
Raze removed his short cape and tucked it around his naked mate. He turned to Hugo, tensed shoulders bared by a skin–tight vest. “What do you know about that?”
Hugo shrugged. “Rumors, nothing more. Even the Undone Queen in all her tyranny couldn’t stop courtiers from gossiping.” When the king’s expression darkened, he asked, “So I gather she is gone?”
The king didn’t answer, but his wereling–her name was Yelena; oh, yes, the phae gossiped about that too, how the shapeshifters shared their true names without fear–nodded. “The queen escaped from an iron cell,” Yelena said. “Which means she had help, presumably from someone untouched by iron, like you. She took dangerous phae with her, and we don’t know where she’s gone.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Raze said. “The wards that kept the phaedrealii locked–and protected–are failing. Catastrophically. We couldn’t have contained her forever.” Hugo’s huff of surprise earned him a wry glance from the other male. “I take it that rumor hasn’t yet made the rounds.”
Hugo swallowed hard, tasting sunlight again. “How long?”
“Until some oblivious human stumbles into the phaedrealii? Or until the phae wander out? Or until the once–upon–a–time queen returns to kill us all?” Raze shrugged. “The court has always stood outside the flow of centuries, but now… Our time is up.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Hugo tucked his aching arms into the folds of his rough tunic. His kind had always haunted the fringes of the phaedrealii, mostly ignored, suffered to remain only because of a peculiarity in their condition that happened to balance a need in the court.
“If the phae are going to come out in the world,” Yelena said, “they need someone to go first. A scout.”
Hugo stiffened. Judging from her meaningful glance, she knew he’d been a scout once.
Perhaps she didn’t know how his spying had brought ruination upon himself and everything he loved.
But even as Hugo shook his head, the king continued inexorably, “You were human. You know them. They need to be readied for our return. For our good. And theirs.”
“You think I care to help you?” Hugo’s voice sounded harsh in his own ears. “Or them?”
“You care,” Yelena said. Her eyes shone with the beast’s gold. “Or you would not still be here.”
He stared at her. If she knew his past, she must know all his desperate wishes had not saved anyone. “If I do this for
you, that is the boon I ask.”
The king tilted his head. “What boon?”
“Let me go. Lift this dark curse from me.”
The tigress–woman sucked in a startled breath. “You think you can just abandon your magic?”
Of course she couldn’t understand. Shapeshifters had no magic as the phae knew it; the werelings’ verita luna–their so–called Second Truth–made their animals forms as fundamental as their human attributes. Yelena pulsed with a powerful life force that would not be denied, that tempted even him. No wonder Raze the Ruiner was willing to rip apart the phaedrealii to be with her, abandoning the phae’s millennium–long taboo against deep emotions.
But Hugo had lost his desires, all paled to cold and gray like the shadows in this place. He wanted nothing from any of the three worlds–phae, wereling, or the sunlit human realm–now set on a collision course. To be freed from all of it forever… Well, perhaps he could dredge up one last desire.
“Let me go,” he repeated, “and I will be your spy.”
Despite Yelena’s murmur of protest, Raze nodded slowly.
Hugo straightened. For the first time in a very long time, his heart felt light. His lips curled in an almost–smile, though the sharp points of his incisors pierced his flesh.
“Very well,” the king said. “We’ve already found a place known for its indulgence, and among the humans, this is a season of peace and reflection, so your revelations will be less of a… shock.”
Yelena shook her head. “Peace on earth, good will toward fairies, werewolves, and vampires? Some things even I have trouble believing.”
Chapter One
Nothing was sadder than Christmas in Vegas.
The red and green and white twinkle lights dimmed pathetically in the neon glare. The stink of desperation that too often accompanied the winter holiday was its own thick layer under the cigarette smoke and relentless clang of the slots. And even fat Elvis couldn’t make the Santa suit convincing.
Then again, a reporter for Conspiracy Quarterly storming out of her shrink’s office on the eve of Christmas Eve probably shouldn’t complain about credibility.
“I’m not crazy.” As she said the words–well, more mumbled than said–Avery Hill knew the act of speaking such a thing aloud made it more likely she was card–carryin’ crazy indeed. Or at the very least, teetering on the edge of it. “I’m not ready for meds, though. Or voluntary commitment, dammit. I just needed to talk.”
She tried not to remember that shrinks and medication, even incarceration, couldn’t help everyone. But this time of the year, the memories were harder to stuff down. As the nights grew longer and the pulse of light and life were low, the barriers between worlds thinned…
Okay, that was definitely crazy talk.
But it was true.
Ugh, no wonder her doc had backed away slowly. She’d been trying to explain what her mother always thought, but the words came out garbled, and now…
“Whatever. With a hefty dose of fuck–it–all.” Avery flipped up the lapels of her hip–length burgundy coat and stalked down the street. This far from the bright lights of the Strip, the city didn’t have much to offer. Even the exotic palm trees and the serene pastels of the architecture seemed washed out under the slanting winter sun, dulled to fifty shades of zombie.
Her cell chimed the ominous, descending organ roll from Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. She reflexively checked it even though she knew the warning was for the 4:30 sunset, less than an hour away.
Things came out at night…
“Skeevy dudes, bachelorettes, and grandparents heading for the buffet,” she muttered. “That’s what comes out at sunset in Vegas.”
Despite her words, she picked up her pace, her heeled boots clacking three–inch conviction with each step.
She shouldn’t have wasted a minute with the shrink. That time would’ve been better spent chasing down the story that would get her out of this damn city. A city that reminded her too painfully of the long–lost good times. But if her mother had ever returned to Vegas–maybe seeking the same happy memories as Avery–she was gone. And for once, it seemed like the woman’s schizophrenia had made the sensible choice. Avery would do well to follow her footsteps on this one.
Flicking a half–hearted middle finger at two “hey–baby”ing dudes cruising by in a rusty Celebrity, she cut down a side street and emerged at a bus stop on Fremont. At the other end of the route was downtown Las Vegas. And in its lurid heart was her story: the reclusive owner of the newest Vegas casino, Deon Barrows.
Which definitely sounded like an alias to her journalistic spidey senses. If she could prove that–hell, if she could get one lousy picture of the man–she’d command the front page of any business section she chose.
Of course, first she had to find him, and then maybe convince him to spill his life secrets…
“A little Xanax wouldn’t go amiss right now,” she mused.
An older woman waiting at the bus stop sidled away, nearly bumping into a tall, dark–haired man in a long trench coat coming up behind her. Avery sighed. Now she was scaring the locals, and in this town, that took some doing.
When the mostly empty bus arrived, she hustled away from her fellow passengers–for which she was sure they were grateful–and settled in the back corner seat where no one could read over her shoulder. First, she checked her bank balance. Yeah, that was almost as bad as her emotional equilibrium. She needed some quick cash if she was going to be moving on.
With another, longer sigh, she pulled up her list of potential assignments, already typeset in handy headline form, just waiting for her copy.
Chupacabra in Flagstaff Stormwater Tunnels. Ugh. Chupacabras were so 2008.
Lights over the Mojave: ETs or EMPs? The only two choices, obviously.
Death in Death Valley. A lot of brainstorming had gone into that one.
My Magical Vegas Christmas.
She let the blanked screen fall into her lap and stared blindly ahead, running the tiny gold heart charm on its chain around her neck. Her stomach churned at how low she’d fallen. Her former colleagues at the Times would just die. Where did Ho even come up with these ideas? She was supposed to be the crazy one. Ho had once told her he was part Native American and had taken the name Howahkan–”It means ‘mysterious voice.’ I think. Something like that.”–to symbolize his tireless search for the “truth”, but she’d done enough digging to know he was nothing but a very white boy living in a spare room over his mother’s garage in Omaha. Still, Conspiracy Quarterly: Explorations of the Uncanny & Inexplicable brought in shockingly good money through subscribers and advertising. Poor Ed Murrow would be rolling in his grave.
She snorted to herself. “Now there’s a story fit for CQ.”
In the sideways seats at the front of the bus, the dark–haired man angled his head to glance her way. He couldn’t have heard her over the rumbling engine, but she tucked her necklace away, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment.
And something that went a little deeper. Though she averted her gaze immediately, his glittering obsidian eyes seemed burned into her mind.
He was lean and hungry looking, like the street–hustling “magicians” who disappeared coins (and sometimes wallets) and reappeared them (the coins, not the wallets) with a flourish and a sly smile. She sneaked another glance, but the man was staring straight ahead again. Not pretty enough to be a performer in one of the many casino shows, his features in profile were severe: his jaw and cheekbones hard, his nose aquiline. Only the heavy sweep of his hair softened him, and even then, the color was relentlessly black.
Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and what was that saying about beggars and horses? She’d gone a long time without wishing or riding.
Avery leaned her forehead against the window, letting the cool glass soothe her hot skin. No point in getting worked up over nothing. The man was nothing, and her future was nothing. She glanced down at her phone again. Magical Vegas Christm
as. Fuck that.
It wasn’t as if she believed any of the crazy stories she wrote for Ho. Hell, half of them she didn’t even remember writing, cranking them out after questionable midnight leftovers and too much coffee. Every once in a while, though, when Ho sent her to grab a photo or some video or to talk to a “source”, she’d get a strange tingle down the back of her neck that told her maybe…
Whatever. Ho was willing to pay her to run around the country, and he didn’t mind if she suggested places. Places she and her mother had stopped so many years ago, leaving their own mark of crazy on a journey she’d never understood.
Not that Avery had found any signs of her mother. Maybe she’d been hospitalized somewhere. Or, more hopefully, maybe she was stabilized, just not quite stable enough to remember Avery’s name.
Or maybe she was dead.
Avery straightened in her seat, her throat constricting. Nope. So not going there when there wasn’t proof. She wasn’t giving up, not on Mom and not on sanity.
Good thing she was all about finding the truth. Most of the time.
***
Avery stepped off the bus at the end of Fremont into the clotted bustle of holiday tourists. Many weren’t dressed for the desert in winter, and they bunched together to escape the chilly wind coming down from the mountains as the sun set. She pulled a fringed scarf from her backpack and was glad for the over–the–knee fuzzy socks she had on under her plaid skirt.
She crossed the street, dodging cars and gawkers, to join the throng filtering into the pedestrian–only mall of the Fremont Street Experience. Between the casinos and all the bodies, not to mention the millions of light bulbs in the signs all around and in the arched canopy overhead, the temperature went up by a few degrees so she unbuttoned her coat. With her heeled boots and wind–tossed hair, she looked flirty enough to tease her way into an interview. And she could always put on her glasses when she needed to look serious.