Resurrection_Part One of the Macauley Vampire Trilogy

by Rebecca Norinne

  A Time Apart

  Book One of the Macauley Billionaire Vampire Series

  Rebecca Norinne

  Contents

  Part 1

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part 2

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part 3

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part 4

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  To be continued …

  Also by Rebecca Norinne

  Coming Soon

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Resurrection Copyright © 2016 by Rebecca Norinne

  All rights reserved.

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. 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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Part One

  Prologue

  Olivia

  It’d been nearly a year since the airplane crash that had killed my parents, and even though I’ve been told it was time to move on, the memory of the day I buried them remains fresh in my mind. Three shrinks and four prescriptions later … all that’s changed is I’ve become obsessed with death. It’s not healthy, but I don’t know what more I can do.

  The strange thing is, I’m not afraid of being dead; rather, I’m terrified of the process of dying—the knowledge that comes just before it happens, the regret that must come when your mind seizes on something you never had a chance to do. The moment, just before you take your last breath, when emotional and physical anguish override all other senses.

  Since I was a little girl, I’ve been convinced my death won’t be quiet or dignified, and the accident has me tormenting myself about it a lot more lately. Years ago, I’d wake up screaming from nightmares filled with all the horrifying and dreadful ways I might die. Afterward, I’d lay awake obsessing over the particulars. Would it hurt? Would I know what was happening? How badly would I suffer? These weren’t questions normal kids asked themselves, yet I couldn’t remember a time I hadn’t been plagued by these morbid thoughts.

  After the crash, the nightmares returned, both during sleep and in my waking hours. Only, now I have an answer to some of my old questions. The authorities said my parents died instantly—blunt force trauma from the plane smashing into the Atlantic. They told me they didn’t feel a thing, the crash over in an instant, but I have a hard time believing them because death is pain, for both the departed and those left behind.

  Chapter One

  Olivia

  In desperate need of a change of scenery, I’d rented out my Hanalei beach cottage and booked a one-way ticket to Dublin where I planned to write my next novel. I actually hadn’t written anything since the day the police showed up and told me my parents were dead. Now I wanted nothing more than to write until the words on the page consumed my thoughts, until my characters were the only people who mattered to me anymore. More than anything though, I hoped my time away would force me out of the fog I’d been living in.

  Decision made, I’d traded in my bikini and sarong for a new coat and gloves, and my sun tan lotion for an ungodly expensive face cream that promised to protect my sensitive skin from the hostile winds and pelting rain Irish winters were known for.

  “Good afternoon ladies and gentleman. This is the pre-boarding announcement for Flight 716 to Dublin. We are inviting our first class passengers to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately fifteen minutes. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Maybe it was because the thought of boarding a plane now filled me with dread, but taking one last look around I realized that if we crashed over the Atlantic, no one would mourn me or remember who I was or what I might have become had I lived just a little bit longer.

  With an unhappy sigh and a shake of my head to dislodge those macabre thoughts, I gathered my things and made my way down the gangway. I tried to focus on something not so ghoulish, turning my mental energies instead toward making it through the next 11 hours without having a panic attack (or three).

  With the exception of a young couple embarking on their honeymoon (the matching “bride” and “groom” t-shirts gave them away) the remaining first class passengers were traveling solo. A few businessmen had their laptops open to get in a few more minutes of work before they’d be forced to stow them for takeoff, while others were taking advantage of the perks of first class before long flight ahead. Because I’d purchased my ticket only a week ago, I hadn’t been able to secure an outer seat and was sharing the middle row with another passenger. She looked completely relaxed and happy to get the long journey underway, her expensive sparkling water, blanket, slippers, eye mask, and a new murder mystery sat the ready.

  Settling in next to her, I took out my iPhone and set it to airplane mode, and then pulled my own travel stash from my purse, including the one thing I needed more than anything else to get through a flight like this: Valium. I wasn’t proud of the fact that I depended on prescription narcotics, but given the circumstances I thought they weren’t the worst thing I could be hooked on. Opening my water bottle, I popped a pill and crossed my fingers that I’d be on my way to never, never land by the time the plane finished boarding and we were easing out onto the runway.

  Before the pills blunted my coherence, I caught my neighbor staring fixedly at me. From her pinched lips and narrowed eyes, it was obvious she was unhappy with me. With a self-righteous “harrumph” she opened her book and began reading, all the while casting me furtive glances. After only a handful of minutes, she slammed the book closed and rested it on her lap. That’s when I saw the recrimination in her eyes: she thought I was an addict and was disgusted to be in such close proximity. Looking me up and down, she zeroed in on my Louis Vuitton purse and Prada glasses, and scoffed while shaking her head. Before Judgy McJudgerson could say anything, I steeled my nerves and put on my best “woe is me” face.

  Readying myself for a standoff at the Aer Lingus Corral should my gambit not pay off, I smiled morosely and told her why I’d popped the pills. It wasn’t any of her business, of course, but I was trapped next to her for the next several hours and didn’t want her ratting me out to the stewardess. The last thing I needed were Irish cops waiting for me at the gate.

  “My parents died in a plane crash and I really shouldn’t be flying but I have
to for work.”

  Not really a lie, all things considered, I thought, making sure my anguish came across loud and clear. If I suffered a momentary sense of guilt for the ploy, it didn’t last long.

  Judgy’s mouth relaxed. “Oh sweetie,” she cooed, reaching over to pat my arm. “I’m sorry. Of course you need those pills.”

  Pat, pat, pat.

  I shook my head mournfully and my big green welled up with tears. “Thanks,” I sniffed. “I took one look at you and just knew you’d understand.”

  “Of course I do, dear. You just relax and try to get through it. We’ll be in Dublin before you know it,” she answered, giving my arm one final pat and a squeeze before moving back into her own territory.

  It was usually at this point in the boarding process that my panic well and truly kicked in. Since passengers in the far recesses of the plane were still loading, I crossed my fingers and hoped the drugs kicked in soon. I sipped on the champagne the flight attendant had given us and felt the combination of the Valium and fizzy alcohol begin to work its magic. More and more frequently it wasn’t just plane rides that had me mixing booze and pills; most days I wrapped myself in a hazy blur of alcohol that acted as a security blanket, protecting me in a cocoon of mental fuzziness. My doctor had recently cautioned me about mixing my prescriptions with alcohol, but I’d decided to ignore his directives. He didn’t have to live in my head.

  When the stewardess closed the doors at the front of the plane, my pulse quickened and my breathing accelerated as my heart knocked against the inside of my chest. I stole a quick glance in Judgy’s direction only to find her already engrossed in her novel, my neurosis the least of her concerns.

  At least I’ve gotten better at hiding my attacks, I thought with a strange mixture of sorrow and pride.

  Not too much time later, the captain came over the loud speaker to share the flight path with us and soon the whirring of the aircraft’s engines lulled me into a stupor that led to a fitful slumber. I was out before we’d taxied the full length of the runway.

  For the next ten hours I didn’t exactly sleep, but I wasn’t fully conscious either. My mind seemed to float between a dreaming and wakeful state, and I wasn’t sure if the strange snippets that danced through my head were dredged-up memories or pulled from my imagination.

  I saw the face of a man I knew for certain I’d never met, yet at the same time felt like I’d known him all my life. With sharp, unnaturally piercing blue eyes, it seemed he could see deep into my soul. He spoke but I couldn’t make out the words. He reached out for me, but his hands slipped through mine and he sighed and shook his head mournfully. As his image faded, I was transported to a field of rolling green hills that stretched far and wide, each undulating peak dotted with sheep and lined with stacked stone walls. I saw myself as a strangely dressed child who chased a puppy nearly as large as I was as I laughed a high-pitched squeal and spoke a language I didn’t understand but which somehow felt familiar. Then, a few years older, I watched that puppy—now a fully grown dog the size of a small horse—gambol into the lake before racing back to me, dripping wet and covered in mud.

  And then the reel took a dark turn and at once I was assaulted with visions marking all the ways I might die: fatal car accident; mugging gone horribly wrong; my house on fire, the flames licking at my feet as I tried to run; my body weak and broken, ravished by cancer; or my heart stopping as I lay in bed, blind from old age and hunched with the rigors of time.

  And in these dreams I was ready for it—any of it—almost as if I welcomed the vast blackness that would follow.

  And then I saw his face again, the man I didn’t know but felt so deeply that I should. When he whispered my name longingly, I woke with a start, trembling and grasping at a thread I couldn’t capture.

  To calm my mind, I practiced the breathing exercises my therapist had taught me and when I opened my eyes the flight attendant was watching me. I hoped I hadn’t called out in my jumbled sleep but when stewardess stared at me with sadness and pity mingled in her expression, I knew I had. She hovered, as if she had wanted to say something, but thankfully she decided against whatever it was she’d thought to say to me. I didn’t want to be pitied any more than I wanted to be condescended to. I stared at her retreating back and released the pent up breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  I must have drifted off, because some time later I jerked awake as the plane skidded to a halt on a cold, gray Dublin morning.

  Standing on the curb waiting for my driver, I made the snap decision that the six weeks I’d allotted for my stay weren’t sufficient. Instead, I decided to remain in Ireland for as long as it took to get my book written, edited, and in bookstores. I couldn’t go back to San Francisco, that much was clear. What came next, only time would tell.

  I’d never been a superstitious woman, but there was something electric in the air I couldn’t put a name or description to. My body hummed and the dewy air caressed me in a welcoming embrace. Standing in the misty morning, I was overcome with wonder and an even stronger sense that I was on the verge of something major. I had the overwhelming feeling that I was standing on a precipice and if I just stepped forward and grabbed ahold of it—whatever it was—I’d experience something so life altering and profound that I’d walk away from it a changed woman.

  If I let life simply happen to me—if I were to go where I should go, do what I should do—I knew I’d continue to live in a murky haze I might never escape. Straightening my spine, I welcomed the sensation, knowing I’d already faced the worst of what a person could endure and had come through the other side. While the feeling was thrilling, it was also terrifying. Who knew what these monumental changes would mean for me, or what direction my life would take from this point on? Vowing not to let self-doubt and apprehension get the best of me, I pushed aside these thoughts before paranoia could take over.

  I didn’t know where she’d found him, but when the driver my editor’s assistant had arranged arrived at the curb and jumped out of the town car, he was looked all the world like a happy little leprechaun.

  Paul, as he’d introduced himself, would hear nothing of me loading my own luggage into the trunk of the sedan and when I attempted to haul the largest of the bags to the edge of the curb, he admonished me for it.

  “Now you look here, missy. You won’t be lifting your own luggage, you hear me,” he scolded, laughter shining in his eyes. “That’s man’s work, and no pretty young gal around me is going to be caught dead lifting and stooping.” He turned to smile at me. “Now in the car with you.”

  He was a born and raised Dubliner who claimed to know the roads better than any other driver on the road. As he regaled me with stories of his youth and his days driving visitors to and from the airport, he also explained Dublin’s economy was on the upswing, fueled by technology dollars from overseas, as well as a strong tourism industry. Eventually, as was nearly always the case when I spoke to someone over 60, talk turned to my marital state, or lack thereof. Since

  “You meeting any girlfriends here, or maybe a fella?”

  “Nope. Just me I’m afraid.”

  “No nice young man waiting for you back at home then?” he asked, looking into the rearview mirror and sizing me up.

  “He wouldn’t be a doctor,” he continued, taking in my chaotic red curls and dark, smoky eye makeup. “Maybe a film or rock star? Bono—you know him?—he’s got a wife though and he’s probably too old for you, but there’s a great lad named Glen who plays with him sometimes who might be worth chatting up. He’s in town tonight for a big show and since I got some connections with me grandson, I could probably figure out where to find him afterwards if you’re interested?”

  It was a question more than a statement and I laughed heartily. I wasn’t interested. I’d once met the lad in question when his band played San Francisco and while he was charming and fun, there’d been zero chemistry between us. Great storyteller though, I thought to myself.

  “Sorry to s
ay, Paul, I’ve dated ‘em all—doctors, rock stars, and actors—and none proved good enough,” I answered with a wry chuckle.

  If it hadn’t been their insane schedules getting in the way of our relationship, it had been a severe God complex. Regardless of the profession, I couldn’t deal with the egos, celebrity or otherwise.

  He chortled. “Of course they weren’t lass.” He shook his head in disapproval, the gesture so pronounced I took it to encompass all the men the world over who would never be good enough for the women in their lives. “I bet you’re used to doing what you want, when you want, and no man is going to tell you right from wrong.”

  “You pretty much hit the nail on the head with that one, Paul, and why would I have it any other way? I come and go as I please and never answer to anyone but my own conscience.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, that’s true,” he replied noncommittally. Then, “What do you do at home when something needs fixing?” he asked apropos of nothing.

  “Ah,” I remarked, understanding dawning. “A woman can’t know how to fix things in her own house? She needs a man to do all that for her?” I asked, somewhat more sharply than I’d intended.

  “It doesn’t hurt, especially the dirty or messy work.”

  “I’m rich Paul. I hire people to do those sorts of things for me.”

  “Aye, that you do, I’m sure.” He flicked his eyes to mine in the rearview mirror again, his prolonged stare disconcerting.

  “But don’t you ever get lonely at night?” he asked eventually, his voice gentler and all trace of teasing gone.

  I paused before answering, deciding between a quick-witted retort that would end the conversation, or the honest, heartbreaking one. I went with honesty.