Alphas Unwrapped: 21 New Steamy Paranormal Tales of Shifters, Vampires, Werewolves, Dragons, Witches, Angels, Demons, Fey, and More

by Michele Bardsley

  How could it be possible?

  How could fate, Divine Providence, God, the universe—whoever—have played such a trick on him when all he wanted to do was help people?

  Savina, here. And she was married? To Liam Stoker? To bookish, eyeglasses-wearing Liam Stoker?

  And it was bloody damned Christmas.

  I have to leave. I have to do this alone.

  But it’s Christmas, Max. Can’t it wait?

  You don’t understand. I have to go.

  “Are you feeling quite all right, Dr. Melke?” Lady Glennington was standing quite close to him, with a concerned expression on her face.

  “Oh, yes. I just had a bit of a turn for a moment there,” he managed to say with admirable joviality. “Been a long day. Could do with a bit of a restorative—heh-heh—if you know what I mean.” Max smiled broadly and managed, he hoped, to add a twinkle to his eyes—though his thoughts were anything but twinkling.

  Now he was going to have to find the amulet, steal it, slay a vampire or two, and face Savina.

  Who was married.

  Of them all, it was that last task which could very well be the death of him.

  + + +

  Max was in the drawing room at precisely seven o’clock, despite his deep desire to stay away.

  He had toyed with the idea of employing influenza as an excuse to remain in his room—and then to use the opportunity to search through the private suites of his host and hostess, looking for the amulet—but somehow, before he quite knew it, he found himself dressing for dinner.

  He re-powdered his beard and mustache, which he wore in a Van Dyke style, and made certain to sweep up all evidence of the gray, ashy remains and dump it in the fireplace. His hair, which he had to pomade thickly to keep its curls sleek and straight, had been permanently streaked with gray hair dye.

  However, he had to reapply the tiny dots of glue near all four corners of his eyes. They stretched and wrinkled the skin, which helped to gently alter the shape of his eyes. He donned fingerless, skin-tight white gloves to hide the youthfulness of his hands, placed an amber-tinted monocle in his eye, and combed his untrimmed eyebrows in the opposite direction from which they grew so as to make them appear bushy and shapeless.

  He also slipped a slender lift inside one of his shoes, which gave him a slightly imbalanced walk and movement. Beneath his coat, shirt, and waistcoat, Max wore a man’s corset—but the purpose of this ridiculous contraption was to add padding to his middle instead of flattening his belly.

  These subtleties added up to an appearance that Max believed would fool even Savina, who had seen him in the most intimate and unguarded of situations. He didn’t intend to get close enough for her to get a good look at him anyway. He just hoped if she did happen to recognize him, she wouldn’t give away his true identity out of shock… or anger.

  That thought nearly had him turning around to remain safely cloistered in his room, but in the end, curiosity (but mostly, he told himself, indignation that the possibility of an encounter with a woman should have him hiding away) won out, and he left his chamber. Thus, by seven-oh-two, he stood at the window of the drawing room holding a generous pour of Scotch whiskey and waiting for the others to arrive.

  DeVos was right on his heels, fortunately, and the two of them stood discussing the weather as the other diners filtered in.

  Lady Glennington arrived next, slender and sparkling in a dark blue frock, with her great-aunt Cecilia—who was ninety if she was a day. The elderly woman moved slowly but with dignity, clearly overcome by the arthritis that curled her fingers and made her knuckles look like small bulbs beneath proper white gloves.

  Despite her shuffling walk, Aunt Cecilia was in no other way a shrinking violet. She settled immediately on one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace and stabbed a finger at the butler, who was serving. “Scotch, Rodney, and don’t you bloody dare stint me. I want three full fingers in that glass. And don’t even think of adding water to it.”

  Max exchanged glances with deVos, who grinned behind his broad blond mustache. “Aunt Cecelia—she insists everyone call her that—is always my favorite part of dining at Knotwood Abbey. A chap never knows what she’ll say next.” Then deVos’s attention slid to Lady Glennington. “And then there’s the lady of the house. She’s one hell of a live one herself.” His eyes narrowed and he chuckled meaningfully as the woman in question sashayed over to them. “Good luck if she gets you in her sights, old pal,” he murmured.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. I expect you found your rooms comfortable and in order?” said Lady Glennington with a warm smile.

  “Yes, quite comfortable,” Max replied as deVos did the same.

  “Excellent. Now, I should like to draw your attention to the decor in that corner, Jelle. And you most particularly, Dr. Melke,” she said, edging closer to Max. “For one wouldn’t want you to be taken by surprise.” Though clearly in her fifth decade, Lady Glennington was an attractive woman who seemed to have no qualms about standing very close to a man who was not her husband. Max’s nostrils were thus overwhelmed by the scent of lilies and face powder. He edged his foot away from her shoe.

  “That small nosegay hanging from the doorframe” —she continued in a low voice— “is mistletoe. And there are several more of them distributed throughout the house.”

  “Forewarned is forearmed,” Max managed to say as he eased away from the cloud of flowery powder. “I am in your debt, madame.” He gave her a polite smile.

  Lord Glennington entered the chamber at that moment, and Lady Glennington excused herself to speak with the harried butler. As soon as Glennington was fortified with his own drink, he turned to be introduced to Dr. Melke.

  “We’ve met before, I believe… have we not?” Glennington tilted his head as he lifted his glass in greeting.

  Max wrinkled his brows in thought, taking care so as not to dislodge the small bits of glue at his eyes. “Perhaps we have,” he replied vaguely, hoping the man didn’t recognize him beneath the beard, mustache, and aging. “Memory’s not what it used to be, if you know what I mean. Was it at the Claremont in London? Last March? DeVos, you introduced me to several people. Was Glennington there too?”

  “Might have been,” replied deVos. “Ah, and who is this?” His voice dropped low as he looked across the room. “Must be the celebrity photographer.” His words turned into something like a low, breathy inhalation.

  But Max had already noticed Savina, for even though he wasn’t facing the doorway, his eyes had been drawn there just before she walked in. As if he’d known she was about to make her appearance.

  Perhaps he’d heard her voice in the hall as she approached and that was what had brought his attention to the entrance. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he manage not to meet her eyes directly, and that the mad thudding of his pulse and the tension in his belly should cease.

  For walking in the door just behind her, with a hand positioned just above the curve of her arse, was Savina’s new husband.

  Max found it safer to look at Liam Stoker than at the woman he was manhandling across the room with a broad, freckled, ungloved, and capable-looking hand. Not the hand of a Venator—unless something had changed and no one had informed Max, which was an irritating and unpleasant possibility—but Stoker’s was a powerful hand nevertheless.

  A hand that, Max realized grimly, had done and would continue to do a lot more than simply rest just above the gentle swell of her bottom. A hand that had, more than likely, been the one to fasten the glittering diamond choker around Savina’s throat, and then perhaps—oh, most certainly, for that was how he would’ve done—had slid around to the front of the beaded frock she wore. Those hands surely would have covered her breasts and then eased down the curve of her hips as he pressed a hot, moist kiss on the side of her neck.

  Max stopped those thoughts and shifted his eyes to somewhere else in the chamber—he had no idea what he was looking at now; something large and dark and imposing that
appeared to be a sculpture tucked in a corner. He focused his attention on deliberately lifting the drink to his lips, taking a very large drink, and then lowering the rock glass as he swallowed in one large, hot, burning gulp. Max’s eyes watered and he gritted his teeth as he fought to keep the burn from turning into a cough. Damnation.

  “And over there is our dear friend Mr. deVos and his colleague Dr. Melke. They’re art and antiquities collectors, and are visiting from Amsterdam,” Lady Glennington was saying as Savina and Stoker waited for their respective drinks to be poured.

  Max—now that he’d decided to engage instead of avoid—took the bull by the horns. He lifted his drink in the direction of the newcomers and, from a safe distance, said, “Pleasure to meet you. Newlyweds, I hear? What was the name again?” His voice sounded slightly querulous, as was his intention, and his salutatory glass shook a trifle, which was not his intention, but probably added to his deception.

  “Yes indeed,” replied the bespectacled Stoker, standing so close to Savina it appeared as if he were attempting to merge into her side. Max couldn’t blame the man, for his wife had never looked lovelier… except perhaps in the morning under rumpled bedding, with the sun spilling over her bare, tawny skin and her thick, dark lashes underscoring her closed eyes… her full, dusky lips pouted in sleep… her hair tousled in ebony curls around her throat and face. He gritted his teeth and smiled.

  “Four months now, isn’t it, luv?” Stoker looked down at Savina with a tender expression that made Max feel ragey.

  “To the day,” she said and then smiled at Max. “And, to answer your question, the name is Stoker. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Melke, did you say?”

  Again, Max allowed his eyes to sweep impersonally over her face without snagging her gaze, lowering himself into an abbreviated bow. “Elton Melke, madame. At your service.”

  When he straightened, Savina had already turned her attention to deVos, which relieved Max to no end. Not a flash or a flicker of recognition from either of the newlyweds. Excellent.

  Now he could turn his attention to the reason he was actually here. Ridiculous that he’d been more concerned with an old love affair than the life and death matter of the amulet… and where the vampires were.

  For though the back of Max’s neck and shoulders had remained eerily chilled since his arrival at Knotwood Abbey, he hadn’t yet determined who or where the vampires were. This was unusual and slightly disconcerting, for he’d always been able to identify an undead since his very first slaying at the age of seventeen. That familiar, unpleasant chill crept over the nape of his neck, and as it grew stronger or weaker, he could determine how close an undead was and how many were about. And he had an innate sense as to who, for example, in a room of people, was the vampire.

  But here at Knotwood, things were not quite so simple. There were undead about, of that Max was certain… but either they were not one of the obvious people—meaning, the lord or lady of the manor—or something was wrong with his abilities.

  Which was ludicrous.

  Or… perhaps something was wrong with his ability to sense the undead because the undead were somehow masking themselves from him. It had happened before, a hundred years ago, when Victoria Gardella was at the peak of her career. There had been a “day-time” vampire, whose presence was undetectable and who had been able to go about in the daylight.

  But if that were true, if the undead were somehow obliterating themselves from his notice, then the vampires would have to know to do so. To obstruct their undeadness from him somehow, they’d have to know or suspect a Venator was present. And Max was certain no one had seen through his disguise or he persona he’d developed over the course of the last eighteen months.

  The fact was, Max still hadn’t been staking vampires, and his weapon hand was getting itchy. He’d had to continue to refrain from dusting any undead (except for random thugs he accosted late at night in the likes of Whitechapel and Seven Dials) for fear he’d compromise his identity.

  He felt like a tightly coiled spring, ready and needing to find a way to release the anger and tension that steeped inside him. And now Savina had showed up to make things even worse.

  “You! I say, young man! Do you have cotton in your ears?”

  A demanding voice penetrated Max’s thoughts, and he suddenly realized he was the one to whom the peremptory Aunt Cecilia was speaking.

  He recovered immediately and gave a short chuckle. “Young man? How very kind of you—if not flattering, Mrs.—erm, pardon me, but I don’t believe we were properly introduced.”

  “Call me Aunt Cecilia. Everyone does. Don’t even remember my own surname anymore.” She cackled in an open-mouthed manner she surely would have considered uncouth if someone else had done so. “That’s what age does to a body. Too much to remember. But my ears seem to be working better than yours at any rate. Sit down here, young man. I want to talk to you.”

  Max laughed genteelly, and did as he was bid. “The last time anyone called me a young man was far too long ago, but thank you for the compliment, Mrs.—er, Aunt Cecilia.” He settled himself in the chair and was just about to lean back and cross his long legs when he realized that was Max Denton’s habit and not that of Dr. Melke. Instead, he used his walking stick to prop up his folded hands atop each other as he leaned slightly forward in an ungainly position in which he would normally never be seen.

  “What are you doing here, young man? You tell me what brings you to Knotwood Abbey at Christmas time. Don’t you have a family of your own?” Aunt Cecilia’s whiskey was nearly gone, but her eyes were still sharp and lucid. She crooked her finger at the hapless Rodney, who leapt to refill the glass.

  “My wife is long dead,” he replied, and the layer of grief in his tones was genuine. “I prefer not to spend the holidays at home for that reason.”

  “It must be very difficult to lose someone you love. Especially around the holidays.” Savina’s throaty voice settled over him like a warm blanket, sending prickles over his skin and causing his fingers to tighten involuntarily.

  She’d come to stand just behind his high-backed chair. He felt the warmth of her hand when it settled at the top, just a few inches from his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he could see a strip of her dove-gray frock that sparkled with pink beads and silver sequins. The rest of her image had been impressed on his memory the moment he’d first seen her, with pink gems shining from a comb in her short, curling dark hair, large almond eyes, and wide, rosy lips.

  Max craned his head just enough to be polite, looking up and around to respond. “It’s been many years,” was all he said before returning his attention to Aunt Cecilia. “Aside from that, I find it more interesting to travel about and experience other forms of celebration than to remain in the same rut, so to speak,” he said, focused on the elderly woman in an effort to continue the conversation with her instead of Savina.

  Yet the presence of the woman he’d once loved continued to insinuate itself around him. Not only her scent—the same flowery-spicy perfume she’d worn when they were together—but also the warmth of her body… and very simply, her nearness. It was like an electrical charge in the air, vibrating against him from all sides. To his horror, Max realized his palms had gone damp beneath their gloves and his heart was thudding sharply.

  Damn and blast it. What the hell was wrong with him?

  He was saved from having to consider that question further as an elegant chime tinkled. Dinner was served, according to Rodney. Thank God.

  Max resisted the desire to bolt to his feet. Instead, he took his time rising, as befitted his late-fifties persona, and held back as each gentleman offered his arm to one of the women by order of rank. Fortunately, Dr. Melke would be at the lowest societal rung of those present.

  Lord Glennington offered to Aunt Cecilia, deVos to Lady Glennington, Stoker to his own wife… and that left Max to follow at a leisurely distance. He’d sit as far from Savina as possible, get through the meal, and once that was over,
the men would repair to the study for cigars and brandy. After that, he’d be home free and could excuse himself for the evening…

  And then the real work could begin.

  But when he entered the dining room, which was festooned with holly, pine boughs, and ribbons galore, Max had his first stopper. For Lady Glennington was directing everyone to their particular places, and somehow, in some hellish world, the seating arrangement included the unassuming, boring Dr. Melke sitting next to the lady celebrity photographer—and newlywed—Sabrina Ellison Stoker.

  This was going to be an interminable dinner.

  THREE

  ~ Trapped ~

  MAX COULD SEE no way out of the situation and took the chair indicated by Lady Glennington.

  This placed him between Savina and his hostess. Across the table from Savina was her husband Liam, and across from Max, Aunt Cecilia was settled. DeVos was across from Lady Glennington, and the lord of the manor sat at the head of the table.

  Max made certain there was a generous space between his chair and Savina’s. The last thing he needed was for her arm to brush against his—or worse, her skirt or even her knee to be near enough for him to feel the warmth. He was well enough aware of the brush of her shoe against his foot and her bare arm and the sleek movement of her toned muscles as she shifted next to him. He studiously ignored the way her hair—which she’d cut much shorter since he’d seen her last—left her neck and shoulders bare and curled enticingly around her ears and chin. Instead, he turned his attention to adjusting his chair, straightening it in position against the table as he slid it further away from Savina.

  This jockeying put him slightly closer to Lady Glennington, who seemed delighted with the situation.

  “I was so hoping to have the chance to get to know you better, Dr. Melke,” his hostess murmured as she made a show of adjusting her skirts and napkin as the footmen poured wine for everyone. “Aunt Cecilia was monopolizing you earlier, but now she will have to be content with Jelle and Mr. Stoker.”