A Werewolf, A Vampire, And A Fae Walk Into A Bar
The Last Witch, Book 1
Karpov Kinrade
Evan Gaustad
http://KarpovKinrade.com
Copyright © 2020 Karpov Kinrade & Evan Gaustad
Cover Art Copyright © 2020 Karpov Kinrade
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Published by Daring Books
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First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-939559-66-1
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Book License Notes
You may not use, reproduce or transmit in any manner, any part of this book without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations used in critical articles and reviews, or in accordance with federal Fair Use laws. All rights are reserved.
This Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only; it may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your Book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.
To all the essential people who are working with the sick, handling deliveries and providing necessary food and resources during this crazy time: We see you and we appreciate you.
And let us all toast to an old Irish proverb:
May the best of our past be the worst of our future.
Contents
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
Acknowledgments
About Karpov Kinrade
Also by Karpov Kinrade
About Evan Gaustad
Also by Evan Gaustad
Chapter One
"So, a werewolf, a vampire and a fae walk into a bar…" Joe says, his lips pursed in exaggerated performance.
"What's a fae?" Frank asks from the end of the bar. He follows his question with a long drink of his Guinness, sloshing a bit out of his glass and onto the counter I just wiped down three seconds ago. Frank’s a beefy type, with a thick body and a thick dark beard that covers his aging skin. He was a truck driver for 40 years and is now a professional barfly.
Joe shrugs, his eyes bloodshot and his beer belly hanging over his belt. "Like an elf. You know, like those movies." His alcohol habit has aged him by at least ten years. Well, that and grief. A broken heart will break your body just as fast. His 50 looks closer to 60, and his formerly brown hair is now streaked with gray.
"Nobody gives a shit about your stupid jokes, Joe," Phil says from his standard spot at a booth in the back. The youngest of them, Phil is tall and skinny, with a blond scruff of hair that dances wildly on his head, like it can hear music no one else can. He works construction, like most of the men around here, so he’s always got filthy fingers wrapped around my otherwise clean pint glasses.
Joe's face falls, but he retains his optimism. "You care, don't ya, Bernie?"
I grin, rubbing a wet cotton rag over the spill Frank just made. "Sure I do, Joe. As long as you tip." I wink to take the sting out of my words, and he chuckles along with everyone else.
It's Tuesday, our slowest night of the week, and these guys are all regulars. They've been coming to Morgan's since before I was born, and will probably haunt the place long after I'm dead.
Joe takes a swig of his Smithwick's. "Okay fine. You're right. Vampires are dead. No one likes those bastards since they started to sparkle. Hold on, I've got another one. The past, present and future walked into a bar," he says, and before anyone can give him a hard time, he wraps the joke up. "It was tense."
That one actually makes me laugh out loud. What can I say? I'm a geek at heart. I just play the tough as nails Irish girl to keep the locals happy. I mean, it’s not all an act. I was raised in a bar, my Irish heritage shines brightly in my pale skin and dark hair, and I’ll absolutely punch a drunk who gets handsy. And if it weren't for these locals, I'd never have made it out of this town, even if I did end up right back where I started.
Fate is a bitch, and if she decides to walk into my bar, I'll show her ass out.
A twinge of pain flashes deep in my abdomen. I lean against the counter, exhaling quickly and holding onto my protruding belly. "Hey there, little one. What's going on? It's not time to meet yet."
Joe glances down at my stomach and is about to say something, a worry line creasing his forehead, when a loud crash sends him into full panic mode as the walls of Morgan's Irish Pub shake.
"What the hell was that?" he asks. "Is it aliens? Is this it? They've finally come for us!" He starts looking around the bar for… what? I'm not sure. A place to hide from the aliens maybe? A light saber?
I roll my eyes and make my clumsy way to the front door. "Relax, Joe. It's probably just a tree knocked down by the storm."
That’s the other reason we’re so slow tonight. A wicked blizzard that’s going to make driving a bitch--if it hasn’t already.
When I open the door, a gust of snow and wind nearly knock me to the floor. I hold tightly to the door frame and grab my coat from the rack, shrugging into it as I trudge out into the cold to check on the damage.
I shiver against the blistering winds, and suck in my breath at the scene before me. The roads are covered in inches of thick, fluffy snow, making it look like a winter wonderland. Winters are always harsh up here, but this is something else. In fact, this might be the worst we've had since I've been alive.
It will take out power for at least a few days, and I shudder to think what the homeless will do, but I can't help but marvel at the temporary beauty it’s inspired.
I stand there so long my eyelashes begin to freeze shut. Blinking, I trudge through the inches of snow to the right, where the crashing sound came from.
I'm expecting a downed tree or power line, but I don't see anything unusual at first. Then I notice a hole in my wall the size of a grapefruit. I scoot closer, tugging my coat around my belly as best I can—I was too cheap to spring for a maternity coat and am really regretting that act of frugality right now—and peer into the hole looking for evidence of what caused it.
Something is stuck deep in the crumbling brick, but it's not a tree or a branch.
I reach in, my fingers numb from the cold, and feel around, hoping I'm not about to get bitten by a radioactive spider or feral chipmunk.
Nothing bites me, but I do feel the smooth edges of a rock. It’s a little warm, but not hot enough to burn. Gripping the ridges, I nudge it out inch by inch as the brick crumbles around my hand into dust.
With one final tug, I pry the object free and hold it in my hand. Before I can get a good look, the light above flickers out. I turn to the road and watch the street lights do the same.
Awesome.
I take the rock with me, my thoughts bouncing between what category storm can toss around small boulders and how strong the generators at the maternit
y wing of the hospital are.
I hurry back to the warmth of the bar as fast as I can without slipping on the ice and falling on my ass. Heat blasts me as I step inside. Naturally, my alcoholic patrons have already started lighting candles so I won’t kick them out. I love them, even with all their problems.
I take a moment to look at this rock. It's metallic gray with copper veins running through it. Veins that seem to glow, though I'm sure that's just a trick of the light. I shrug off my jacket and tuck the rock away on a shelf behind the bar.
“What you got there?” Joe asks, his voice slightly slurred because even I’ve lost track of how many Smithwick’s he’s had.
I look at it and shrug. “A rock, I guess. A bit unusual looking. You guys ever seen the wind throw stones before?”
I look around at Frank, Joe and Phil, the only patrons of our fine establishment tonight. Well, except Karl, but he's passed out in the back booth as always. There are stories that he has never moved, and he's actually a well-preserved corpse. I can neither confirm nor deny this. But his tab gets paid and he doesn't smell any worse than these other bastards. So we're good.
“It’s bad out there, guys. One last round? Then I’m closing shop before you’re stuck here all week.”
There’s a collective groan at being kicked out before nine (on a Tuesday, God forbid), but I shrug and top off drinks. They’ll thank me in the morning when they wake up in their own beds rather than the floor of my bar. I’m just serving the last beer when the bell over the door dings, and I look up in surprise as a flurry of snow chases three men into my bar.
And by three men, I mean three absolute specimens. These are, hands down, the sexiest guys I’ve ever seen. It takes me all of two seconds to make that assessment.
I place a hand over my baby bump to remind myself what happens when I let a pretty face and a hot body talk me into bad decisions--and these guys look like a lot of bad decisions wrapped in a delicious bow.
Settle yourself, woman. You don’t need more complications with a baby on the way.
“Close the door,” Frank shouts. “You’re letting in the storm and Bernie ain’t mopping that shit in her condition.”
A smile tugs at the corner of my lips. This town takes care of its own, that’s for sure. And by the looks of these newcomers, they’re definitely not from around here.
Though they came in together, I get the distinct impression they’re not exactly friends as they glare at each other suspiciously.
What they’re doing in my pub on a weeknight during a blizzard is beyond me.
They each choose separate tables near the back, though they don’t take their eyes off each other. Strange. As I walk over to take their order, I also study them.
I may have sworn off men for the foreseeable future… like, until my kid is in college… but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy some eye candy when it walks into my bar.
“Hey guys, we just called last round, so I can get you something, but then we’re closing up early on account of the storm.”
“A whiskey on the rocks,” Mr. Sexy #1 says, in an accent that sounds vaguely British. He is a tall drink of water and I am thirsty for it. I haven’t had sex since the night this baby happened, but again, that’s beside the point. His skin is pale, like moonlight, and his hair is as dark as midnight and matches the deep, dark depths of his eyes. He has a face chiseled from marble and full lips that are currently pinched in annoyance. He’s dressed unusually--in fact, all three of them are. Like they’ve just come from a cosplay convention, though no cosplay convention would ever come to Rowley. This guy has a long black cloak and wears fitted leather pants and a black silk shirt underneath.
It takes all my will power to pry my eyes off of him and train them on Mr. Sexy #2. This boy is all wild energy--like an untamed forest, with eyes the color of deep green leaves, coppery brown hair that’s tussled in that just-had-sex way, and a matching stubble that accentuates his rugged good looks. He’s dressed in neutral colors and natural fabrics, and looks ready to lead a hike through the woods at night.
“What’ll it be?” I ask, trying to sound like the hardened bar owner I should be and not the swoony undersexed pregnant lady I currently am. “And are these on the same tab?”
“An ale,” he says, his voice deep and resonant, with a sexy lilt that’s almost Irish. “And no.”
“Alright, what about you?” I ask Mr. Sexy #3, whose eyes are the lightest blue I’ve ever seen. He has long, pale blond hair that only adds to his sex appeal, and wears a rich, velvet cloak pinned with a silver broach.
He looks unsure about his choices, so I size him up and suggest a Vesper Martini, even though it means more work for me.
“Very well,” he says, and I can’t place his accent, but it’s definitely not American.
“What brings you boys to town?” I ask, keenly aware that everyone is watching this interaction.
The three Sexies silently glare at each other for a long moment before Sexy #2 finally answers. “A family errand,” he says vaguely.
“Huh. Well, I hope you didn’t drive. It’s going to be a rough night on those roads.”
When none of them reply, I turn and head back to the bar to get their drinks.
Joe wags his eyebrows as I work. “What’s their deal?”
“I don’t know. Never seen them before.”
“You gonna bag one of ‘em?” he asks with a dumb grin.
I roll my eyes. “You know I’m not interested in guys right now,” I say, trying to hide the fact that I’m extremely interested in all three.
He sighs. “You deserve a nice guy to settle down with.”
Before I can reply, another wave of pain grips me, and I lean against the bar to catch my breath.
Joe stands, clutching his beer as he does. "Bern, you okay?" He looks around, a panicked expression on his face. "Hey guys, Bernie's baby's coming. We got to get her help!"
“I’m fine. Relax. It’s just Braxton Hicks. Totally normal.”
Frank and Phil stand and drop some bills in front of them. "You sure you’re okay?” Phil asks.
I nod, loading drinks on a tray to take to the newcomers.
“Alright then. Take care, Bernie. See you tomorrow," Phil says as he teeters out on slightly drunk legs.
Frank hesitates by the door, glancing at Joe then back at me. "You gonna be okay, kid?" he asks. I wince at the kid part, but he's been calling me that since I was born so it's hard to expect different.
"Yeah, it's fine. I’ll be closing up soon anyways. Get home safe. Say hi to Alice and the kids."
He grimaces at the thought of his family. "Will do."
When the door opens, a flurry of snow and cold air blows in. Frank and Phil leave quickly, shivering as they step outside.
I hold the tray carefully and serve the new guys, studying them as I do. None of them speaks, but their simmering glares speak volumes.
“You three look like you’re having fun,” I say. “Bachelor party?”
Sexy #1 raises an eyebrow. “Are you Bernadette Morgan?” he asks.
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow in return. “Who’s asking?”
“Hey Bern, one more drink, pretty please?” Joe asks, interrupting whatever Sexy #1 was about to say, if he was about to say anything at all. “I’ve only had… a couple? A few.”
“Joe, you know that’s not a good idea. You’re drunk enough for a night like this.”
I head back to the bar and start running through my closing check list when another pain grips my belly and I brace myself against the counter, taking quick breaths that sound a little too much like I'm in labor.
I'm not.
I can't be.
It's too soon and I'm snowed in. There would be no way to get to a hospital tonight.
I grab my phone to Google Braxton Hicks contractions. I mean, I've read all the damn books and I know what I'll find, but I need Dr. Google to make me feel better—or convince me I'm dying of a rare disease. Either way, as lon
g as this baby doesn't make her debut today, I'm good.
I open my browser, but it lags. Shit. No service.
Joe is sweating profusely and cursing under his breath. "You okay there, buddy?" I ask through my own gritted teeth.
He looks up, his eyes widening. "Uh, yeah. It's just. You know. You look like shit."
I grimace. "Thanks. Every woman's dream compliment."
"Oh I didn't mean that, Bernie." He tugs at his overgrown facial hair nervously, his gray bushy eyebrows dancing atop his eyes like agitated caterpillars.
As the cramps in my belly ease, I take a relieved breath and smile. "There ya go. All better. I told you, false alarm."
He scoots himself back onto the barstool in front of me and grabs the remains of the drink Frank left, downing it in one long gulp that only seasoned alcoholics can manage with such aplomb.
I crack a wry grin, raising an eyebrow. "You good now?"
He swipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Yeah. Sorry. I'm… not great in medical emergencies," he says shyly. "My wife always handled that shit… when… "
I pat his hand. " I know Joe, it's okay."
Outside the storm intensifies, the howling of the wind sending a shiver down my spine. "How long has it been now? Two years?"
He nods. "Last week marked two years since cancer stole my Betty." He sniffs, looking around for another drink.
"Did you drive here?" I ask.
"Nope. Walked."
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