Taste the Dark
When something’s worth dying for, one taste is never enough. After a lost soul crosses over, a vampire prince becomes the mentor he needs—and the lover he’s always craved.
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Half-human and half-vampire, Akito James just wants to be a hero. But after taking a little initiative in the fight against a dangerous coven, he’s banished for his troubles—and not even his best friends will stand up for him. Tormented by the voices in his head, Akito throws himself into Boston’s Charles River. He awakens to a solitary vigil held by a specter only he can see: a tall, dark, and leather-clad vampire who gives Akito a warm welcome to the shadow realm.
In a city this old, even the dead must be careful at night. No one knows that better than Lyandros Dragoumanos, brother of the War King, doomed to wander the streets of Boston unseen, unheard, and alone—until a spark passes between him and a troubled stranger with shimmering eyes and inky black hair. After witnessing the young man’s suicide, Lyandros seizes a tantalizing opportunity. Akito may just hold the key to his salvation—and his touch promises untold pleasures.
Praise for Tibby Armstrong
Taste the Dark
“This close-proximity M/M tale is indeed hot. [Tibby] Armstrong builds a forbidding landscape, encompassing themes of family betrayal and scars masking emotional connection.”
~ Library Journal on Surrender the Dark
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“The romance between Benjamin and Tzadkiel is one born of inherent, visceral difference. . . . Readers who enjoy heavy sexual tension and angst will especially like the way their narrative pans out . . . and those who enjoy paranormal world-building will be eager to see where [Tibby Armstrong] takes the series next.”
~ RT Book Reviews on Surrender the Dark
“Top-notch . . . Armstrong is a talented writer, and the world she created is amazing.”
~ Gay Book Reviews on Surrender the Dark
“[Surrender the Dark] kept me on the edge of my seat.”
~ The Novel Approach on Surrender the Dark
“A force to be reckoned with.”
~ Sinfully Gay Romance Book Reviews on Surrender the Dark
“Magnificent . . . This is a great enemies-to-lovers story. . . . The world-building is extremely attractive and the writing is remarkable.”
~ Dirty Books Obsession on Surrender the Dark
“Freaking explosive!”~
MM Book Escape on Surrender the Dark
Also by Tibby Armstrong
Covert Attractions
Sheet Music
Undercover Lover
Hard Target
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Wells Brothers
Front Page Gossip
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Hollywood
No Apologies
Acting Out
Full Disclosure
Outtakes
Numbers Game
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Boston After Dark
Surrender the Dark
Taste the Dark
Claim the Dark
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Taste the Dark
Boston After Dark
Tibby Armstrong
Illustrated by
Bianca Sommerland
Taste the Dark
Copyright © 2019 Tibby Armstrong
Edited by Bronwyn Green
Cover Art by Bianca Sommerland
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Published 2019
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This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, actions and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact or recommendation of the activities herein. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, in any manner by any method, existing or not yet envisioned, without the written permission of the author.
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WARNING:
This book contains adult language and themes. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws in the country of purchase. Store books and secure devices where they cannot be accessed by under-age readers.
To Bianca Sommerland,
for showing up.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acting Out
About the Author
It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell.
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~ Buddha
Prologue
Time was a hollow tube, stretching and elongating Akito James’s body until he seemed to float in a void. Darkness folded inward, condensing to a point that pressed against his eyes. Under the floorboards of the Chinatown shop where he hid, he blinked repeatedly to remain awake. If he’d kept count correctly, it was little past two hours to midnight on New Year’s Eve.
Fragments of overheard conversations, snippets of plans his captors hadn’t thought necessary to keep from him, peppered his awareness, focusing him. Lives were at stake. Friends—Benjamin and Nyx—depended upon his success. With only two people in the world to claim as a surrogate family, he wasn’t about to let them down by falling asleep.
A switch snapped on in the space above. He jolted, then blinked against the intruding slices of light. Floorboards creaked by his ear, and dust rained onto his face. His fingertips twitched with his desire to brush away the grime, but he remained otherwise still. He knew he could do still—had been doing it for days to avoid the notice of his tormentor. Not that the ploy had worked much, but it had beat screaming.
The gloss of spit-shined boots appeared. Akito swallowed bile at the memory of their taste. Hatred burned within him, a beacon that focused his attention away from the places the owner of those boots had violated. Huddled under the floor, he had the perfect view of the witch—the head of the Boston coven, known as the Morgan—as he approached his hulking safe.
Precise fingers, deceptively elegant and capable of administering the most diabolical of tortures, pressed a pattern of buttons Akito carefully memorized. Jaw clenched, he watched as well-oiled hinges silently supported the door’s opening, and the Morgan secreted a black satin bag inside. The safe door thudded shut, and the hated boots retreated. The light switched off, entombing him in darkness once more.
He allowed himself to envision the Morgan’s rage when he discovered his prizes—both Akito and the contents of the safe—were missing. A grin that felt more like a grimace stretched his lips, and he settled in to wait until the building emptied. Imagining Benjamin’s welcome and Nyx’s indignant relief at his impending triumphant return nibbled away exhaustion’s threatening haze.
Benjamin, a one-time vampire hunter turned ally to his nemeses, and Nyx, a half-fae/half-witch, were out the
re right now. Waiting. Just like him. If what Akito had overheard yesterday had been true—a battle between the witches and the vampires would be fought on Boston Common tonight—his friends were outmanned, outmaneuvered, and had lost whatever element of surprise they might have thought to claim.
He pictured Benjamin, his blond hair falling about his shoulders in a messy tangle, crouching in wait with the vampires. Nyx, being the most familiar with the Morgan and his diabolical ways, would be employed as a scout. Images of their bodies, broken and dying, surfaced. Fists clenching and unclenching, Akito attempted to keep his ragged breaths shallow and even. What he did tonight, he did for them.
The shop fell quiet, and far off a clock chimed thirty minutes to midnight. Cramped muscles screaming in protest, he pressed his fingertips against the loosened floorboards and climbed out of his hiding place. In the soft glow from a stolen penlight, he worked the safe panel. The lock disengaged with a meaty click, and the door swung open. Satin slipped coolly against his fingers as he dragged the bag from its iron nest and gently closed the safe door.
He approached the rear of the little shop, bag clutched to his chest, and pressed his ear to the door. His deep inhales were the only sounds that broke the silence as he contemplated his choices. Exit through the door to the street, or implement the rest of his plan. The back of his neck tingled, and he touched fingertips to the raw place at his nape where the Morgan had branded him with his mark.
Dropping his hand, he straightened his shoulders and pushed open the door and peered into another slice of darkness. Silent, like a ninja or a wraith, he slipped up a stairway to the coven’s attic for what—one way or another—would be the last time. One bulb lit the low-ceilinged room. In the far corner, on a bier, lay a vampire. Its reposing form reminded Akito of a male Sleeping Beauty awaiting the magical attention of a future paramour. Except Akito was no prince, and waking the vampire was not his quest. Stealing a kiss was the last thing on his mind. Blood, however, was another matter.
He loosened the bag’s drawstring. The satin flowed across his fingertips, and the material slithered downward to reveal a giant bronze cup. Its bowl and pedestal-like base showed a scene from Greek mythology. Though he didn’t recognize the reference, he knew a god when he saw one—a god and a hero with a laurel wreath crowning his head. He fingered the frieze-like scene, and breathed deep.
Hesitating, he looked around for the knife he’d seen the coven use in their blood rites. It lay on a rickety iron table nearby. He lifted it, breaths coming in shallow gasps, and eyed the vampire. During his captivity, he’d never once seen the vampire move or breathe. He lifted its wrist and positioned it over the bowl. A quick nick to pale skin brought blood blooming to the surface, and he dug harder until it flowed freely.
A door downstairs slammed. His heart jammed up against his ribs. Hands shaking, he studied the flow of blood into the cup. It hit the metal in a sing-song pitter-pat. Not nearly fast enough.
“C’mon…” he muttered.
Footsteps sounded at the base of the stairs.
With shaking fingers, he widened the gash in the vampire’s wrist and sliced open his own. Blood heated his skin in sticky spurts. He jumped at the surprisingly strong pulses. Pressing his wrist to the vampire’s lips, he hesitated. Was he supposed to feed the vampire first? Or was the vampire supposed to feed him?
Deciding upon simultaneous action, Akito hoisted the kylix in the crook of his free arm and drank. Warm, salty, filled with iron that had gone stale with rust, the vampire’s blood filled his mouth. He swallowed as the vampire’s lips animated, working at his wound. The strong, sucking pulls reminded Akito of sex. He gasped at the intimate sensation, a kick of arousal rocking him back on his heels.
Growling, he sent a mental fuck you very much to the Morgan for this new and unwanted fixation on perversion and vice. Reasserting his control, he yanked his wrist away from the vampire’s lips, and the vampire immediately went inert. He held up fingertips to the weak light. Digits that had seemed substantial enough before, seemed almost translucent. As he watched, his flesh faded to paper thinness, then nothing.
The room pulsed around him, receding until only a pinprick of blue-white remained. The blue light grew brighter, hotter, whiter. He brought up his forearm to shield his face and heard a muffled rolling clatter. Then, the light dimmed. He dropped his arm and blinked open his eyes. He’d expected to see the coven’s attic, instead, he encountered a place he hadn’t seen in twenty years, and had hoped to never see again.
A scrawny boy he recognized as himself perched atop a rooftop’s edge. Red billowed behind his child self—the faded cape he’d made from a threadbare bath towel, fastened by a giant safety pin at his throat. It was as if he stood outside himself a little to the left of a reality that had once been his own.
This was his childhood.
A crowd of faces peered up at his boyhood self from the schoolyard two stories below.
“Jump…”
The mutterings started quietly at first. As more and more voices joined, they formed a chorus, incongruously bright for the menace of their refrain.
“Jump… Jump… Jump… Jump! Jump!”
Then came the clapping.
Watching, Akito willed his eight-year-old self to do it—to jump. Death would have been preferable to the years spent in and out of mental institutions. Except, he wouldn’t have died. He would have taken to the air in swooping flight and shown them all. He was the hero he knew himself to be.
Sirens bleated in the distance. They were coming to get him, with their gentle words and rough, restraining hands. His child-self spread his arms to his sides. Akito recalled the feeling of the wind rushing through his spread fingertips. He looked so fucking innocent.
Paramedics burst onto the roof.
Run!
But he hadn’t run. He’d stepped down from his ledge and crumpled to the roof’s tarry surface. The paramedics swarmed around him and eventually carried him off the roof. Unlike his child self, Akito remained.
Decades of recurring dreams surfaced in which pin-wheeling arms and kicking feet brought him up-up-up so he could ride the thermals in slow spirals to the ground. After years of therapy, he understood what his boyhood self hadn’t grasped. There were some things that even a superhero couldn’t change. Flying wouldn’t help his parents now. The plane crash that had taken their lives and inexplicably left him alive was a done deal. Back in Boston, however, his friends fought for their lives. He needed to go back and save them.
Staring down at the schoolyard below, he watched the paramedics carry him on a stretcher through the crowd. The air sparkled, beckoning, and Akito walked off the ledge and down a tunnel of light. Down-down-down, until the tunnel narrowed and he impacted the attic floor boards with a sickening thwack.
He sucked in oxygen and gasped against the burning pain of air and light and glass—it had to be glass. The stuff shredded too viciously to be anything else. Beneath the pressing weight of the coven’s steeply pitched roof, he sat up and retched, then retched again. Black blood coated the warped wooden floorboards, his chest, and dripped from his chin. On all fours, he vomited until there was nothing left for his aching muscles to expel.
Heaving breaths gradually slowed to a normal rhythm, and he ran his tongue around his gums experimentally. The points of his canines felt as dull as they always had. Certainly, they wouldn’t threaten the Morgan—hell, they’d hardly ever been able to tear anything but his fingernails and a nicely cooked fillet mignon. Continuing his physical inventory, he examined his forearms and flexed his muscles. They were the same lean and unimpressive ropes he’d sported his entire adult life, no matter how hard he’d pushed himself to increase their mass.
He frowned. Maybe the transition took longer than he’d been led to believe? Except, the wound in his wrist had closed. Other than that, and a splitting headache, not a single thing had changed. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he hauled himself to his feet. As he did, the muted refr
ain in his head—jump, jump, jump—morphed. The children’s voices warped and blended.
Poor Akito. Laughter walked its bony fingertips up Akito’s spine. You’re not a vampire. You’re barely a man.
Whipping around, Akito looked for the source of the voice. Only the still-inert vampire had occupied the cramped attic space with him.
Fists up, blood drying on his wrist, he searched for the voice. “Show yourself.”
No need. Now, I will always be with you.
Akito went cold all over. The voice—that horrible voice that had seemed to suck the marrow from his bones—belonged to the Morgan.
“No. It can't be.”
Would you like a demonstration?
The brand at the back of his neck burned and he hissed with the pain, biting his lip to keep from crying out. With shaking fingers, he snatched up the cup and bag, stowing it away as he ran down the stairs and out of the shop.
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