The Slaughtered Lamb Bookstore and Bar (Sam Quinn Book 1)

by Seana Kelly

  “Actually, Sam already has a room in my home,” Clive said. He strode up behind Owen and Dave, his eyes on me and the bag I still stupidly clung to. The bag had become more than a bag. It was something rare and beautiful that had been taken, abused, and left scarred. I couldn’t drop it.

  “You’ll rebuild, right? The Slaughtered Lamb can’t just close,” Owen said.

  “Fuck no. The assholes don’t get to win.” Dave studied the configuration of the rooms. “As long as you’re remodeling, you should change whatever doesn’t work.”

  “It all works,” I said. “Worked.”

  “No way. That kitchen setup was shit. I want an island and an eight-burner stovetop. A double oven. And a pot filler over the stovetop.”

  “Now that you mention it, I’ve always thought the bookcases should be angled differently to make browsing easier,” Owen added.

  “Why don’t you two go make a list while I talk with Sam,” Clive said.

  Once they’d left, Clive gently pulled the bag from my hands and placed it on the ground, before pulling me into his arms, into an embrace I needed like my next breath.

  “We will rebuild. We’ll gut it and start again. All traces of what they’ve done will be burned away. You are a phoenix, Sam. You rise from the ashes.”

  I swallowed the sob lodged in my throat. He was right. When my home burned at seventeen, I’d moved to San Francisco alone, with only the clothes on my back, to start again. This was my crucible and I would rise from the flames. Again.

  Nodding, I stepped back, stood on my own and assessed the damage with clearer eyes. It was gone and I’d rebuild. Taking Clive’s hand in mine, I adjusted my thinking. I wasn’t alone anymore. We’d rebuild and we’d move on.

  I pulled at the collar of the dress again. It was perfect, gorgeous, but I wasn’t used to my scars showing. I was still dealing with a hardwired compulsion to hide them.

  Clive pulled my hand from my neck and held it. “You look beautiful.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I rolled my eyes while smoothing down the front of the dress. If anything around here was beautiful, it was what I was wearing. Owen and I had gone shopping, and when I saw this dress, I had to have it. It was a wrap-around of soft, thin cashmere. The color, though—I’d been staring at it all evening and the closest I could come to describing it was an antiqued peachy-brown. It was rich and warm, and I loved it. I didn’t, however, love the V-neck or the fact that my legs were visible, but I was working my way toward Clive’s opinion that scars were sexy. It would be a long and difficult road, but I was on it.

  “Our first date,” he said.

  I snorted a laugh, because I’m lady-like. “I’m pretty sure we’re doing this relationship thing backward. First date after the banging?”

  Clive grinned, kissing my cheek. “Whereas, I believe we’re doing it perfectly.”

  “Are we still talking about the banging?”

  Clive laughed, a sound that made wings flutter in my chest. He didn’t do it nearly enough. It was a source of delight and pride when I could prompt it.

  The maître d’ rushed over. “Mr. Fitzwilliam, I apologize for making you wait. Your table is ready.”

  Clive rested his hand at the small of my back as we followed the man through the restaurant. It was on the top floor of a building in the Financial District, with a wall of windows overlooking the city. The lighting was low, the carpet black, the walls almost as dark, but the tables were topped with stark white linens. What I loved about it was the illusion of privacy. Large floral arrangements in white, with accents of pale green, were scattered throughout the room, situated under spotlights. They glowed in the dim light and blocked the view of other tables.

  The maître d’ led us through the main dining area and down a short hall to a private room. I walked straight to the window and looked out. I felt like Batman, standing on a rooftop, surveying my city.

  A moment later, Clive slid his arms around my waist and rested his head on my shoulder. The shoes I was wearing made us closer to the same height. “Do you like?”

  I put my hands on my hips, superhero-style and said, “Yes, Citizen. All seems to be quiet in our fair metropolis this evening.”

  Tickling me, he kissed my neck. “They’ve brought the wine. Would you like to sit?”

  Being unused to wearing anything but sneakers meant that, yes, I was ready to sit. Owen picked out the heels. He was right. They were gorgeous, but they also hurt like hell. I didn’t know how women wore these things all the time. Women were frickin’ warriors.

  The chairs were upholstered in a tone on tone black jacquard that matched the carpet and walls. Two large urns with magnificent sprays of flowers sat to the sides. Clive held my chair for me and then was pouring us both glasses of a deep red wine.

  I held my glass to the light. “This is wine, right?”

  He held his glass toward mine, and we pinged them together. “To new beginnings.”

  Nodding, I echoed, “To new beginnings.”

  We drank. When he leaned toward me, I gladly met him halfway, leading with my lips. The kiss was soft and slow, promising everything.

  Flustered, I took another sip of wine. “Which reminds me, do you guys eat? I’ve been living in your house for a few days and have yet to see anyone besides me eat.”

  Clive took a moment to answer. “Can we? Yes. Do we? Rarely. Our bodies don’t need it and sometimes process it poorly. It’s easier not to.”

  Worried, I thought about the whiskey he always drank when he visited the bar, the wine in his hand. “Does it make you sick? You don’t have to eat and drink to make me more comfortable.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “No. I’m one of the lucky few. I lost interest in it long ago, though. Before you came along and started changing things.”

  Stomach flutters. “So, how do you get what you need?”

  He leaned in and whispered, “Are we talking in code?”

  Grinning, I smacked his arm. “We’re in a restaurant. I’m being discreet.”

  “Ah, of course. A paragon of discretion is our Sam.”

  “A-ny-way, back to my question.” I pinned him with a look while I sipped my wine.

  He stared back, one eyebrow raised. “You know what I am. Becoming missish, are we?”

  Was he right? Instead of talking around it, I asked what I needed to know. “Is there sex involved when you drink their—” I glanced back at the closed door, before lowering my voice. “Blood?”

  Brow furrowed, Clive studied me. “Come again?”

  “I’ve read books, seen movies. I know all about your kind, mister. You can just forget about that kinky vampire crap if you expect me to stick around.”

  “This ought to be good,” he mumbled. “Exactly what do you know of vampires?”

  Granted, my knowledge came from popular fiction, but still. “I know you drink blood, and may or may not turn into bats—”

  “Not.”

  “I know you can mesmerize women.” God, I loved it when he joined in the silliness. It was as though a heavy mantle had slipped from his shoulders, if only for a moment.

  “I could do that long before I became a vampire.” He smirked. “Have you seen me?”

  Snickering, I countered. “I know you can fly and that you’re strangely fixated on Jim Morrison and coastal towns.”

  Confusion colored his expression for a moment before he rolled his eyes. “Lost Boys was not a documentary.”

  “Says you. I know your kind sparkles in the sun. Or turns to ash. Not sure which.” I took a sip. “The learning curve on that one is pretty steep. Imagine that poor sap who went out into the sun, hoping to sparkle like a disco ball and instead burned to a crisp.”

  “In his case, we’d consider it a necessary thinning of the herd.”

  “Right?” I sniggered.

  “But back to your original question. No, I don’t have sex with the people I take blood from. Regardless of what you may have read, that’s not a common occurrence. When we�
��re having sex, do we take a sip? Possibly. But none of it is a given, other than needing blood to survive. At this point, I rarely drink from people. We have bagged blood we drink in glasses. We’re not heathens.”

  Oh. “Okay.”

  “Can you live with that?” Clive slid his glass away and took my hand, grave expression back in place.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you live with me?” His hand gripped mine, tighter than I’m sure he was aware. It was okay, though. I could take it.

  “I am living with—”

  “Permanently. Will you stay with me, Sam?”

  “Oh.” I thought about my home, about the life I’d led there for the last seven years. It’d been a good one. Did I want to give that up? Live with vampires? Be drawn into all their political intrigue and bullshit? Not to mention, I still had Abigail to deal with. Maybe a demon, too. My life was a mess. I looked into the eyes of the man I loved. Could I live without him? Probably. Would I want to? No. So…

  “Yes.”

  Sneak Peek at THE DEAD DON’T DRINK AT LAFITTE’S

  Sam Quinn, Book 2

  ONE

  Wherein Sam Understands That Hogwarts Letter Is Never Coming

  I liked ghost stories as much as the next werewolf. I’d assumed, though, they were just that. Stories. Something to make your heart beat faster and your skin prickle with unease. Tales told by the fireside, evoking ancient, unnamed fears and causing our eyes to seek out shapes in shadows. Turned out I was wrong.

  A colorless, almost transparent woman who seemed vaguely familiar glowed in the moonlight. She gesticulated wildly, blocking the dark path to The Slaughtered Lamb, my bookstore and bar currently under renovation. Silently shouting, eyes filled with urgency, she flickered in and out of existence. I moved forward and strained to read her lips, more concerned than scared.

  Cold air chilled my skin, damp from running. I caught ‘no’ and ‘vampires.’ Mostly, I was onboard with that sentiment, but my boyfriend—a stupid term for a gorgeous British man who appeared to be about thirty but was actually hundreds of years old—was a vampire.

  While I contemplated how I was supposed to refer to Clive, even in my own head, the woman shot forward and clamped a hand around my wrist. She was a ghost. I’d swear it, and yet I felt her cold fingers digging into my skin. Her filmy image became a shade more solid at the contact and I heard a whisper of words.

  “They’re coming! He’ll be killed. Go!”

  Understanding, without a doubt, she meant my manfriend Clive, I tore my arm away and sprinted the four miles to the vampires’ nocturne in Pacific Heights. There was unrest amongst the vamps. One of Clive’s people had recently shown herself to be an enemy, working against him, trying to exact revenge for a dead lover. Clive had been investigating, trying to determine if others in his nocturne were plotting a coup attempt. He’d routed out two with an allegiance to her but suspected there were more.

  Dodging trees and startled rabbits, I raced through the Presidio, a fifteen-hundred-acre park that was a former military post. Why had the ghost looked so familiar? I couldn’t put my finger on it. They’re coming, she’d said. Emerging from the park onto Pacific Avenue, I had to slow to human speed. I was almost there, four minutes tops.

  Rounding the last corner, I slowed at the looming wrought iron gates. The vampire standing guard gave me a strange look, but stepped out of the way, allowing me to speed across the courtyard. Before I had a chance to touch the door, it swung open, Clive’s butler already there.

  “Where is he?” I shouted, racing past and skidding to a stop in the foyer.

  “Who?” he responded after a moment.

  I knew the vampires hated me, considered a werewolf little more than a stray mongrel, but I wasn’t putting up with his bullshit. Long, razor-sharp claws sprang from my fingertips as my eyes lightened to wolf gold. “I will shred you, you pompous ass! If anything happens to Clive, I’ll be back to slice the smug off your face.”

  “Sam?”

  I spun and there he was, burnished hair glowing in the light, chiseled features, cool gray eyes assessing me. The door closed behind me as Clive waited, amusement coloring his expression. Retracting my claws, a skill I’d recently mastered, I walked to him.

  “You’re okay?”

  “As you see. Why did you think I was otherwise?” Taking my hand, he led me over a marble floor toward the library. “And how was your lesson with Lydia?”

  My shoulders slumped. “Miserable.” Lydia was my right-hand-man Owen’s mom. She was a powerful wicche who had trained all her children. I was coming into my magic late in life, but we were hoping she’d be able to teach me, as well. So far, I’d proven to be a failure at all things wicchey.

  He closed the door of the library behind us and waited for me to explain. I crossed the room to my window seat. He’d it built for me. It was mine.

  “Tell me all about it and why you raced home looking for me.” He followed, sitting next to me.

  Studying him, I made sure he wasn’t hiding an injury. “You’re really fine?”

  He kissed me softly, tenderly, until I’d forgotten all about my horrible magic lesson and the ghost who’d scared the crap out of me. “I am,” he finally said.

  “I don’t understand what that was about then.” That’s what I got for believing random apparitions.

  “Tell me what you were up to while I slept.” He leaned back and pulled me to him.

  “Before or after I ruined another of Lydia’s pots?”

  Taking my hand, he squeezed. “I’ll have a new set of cookware delivered tomorrow.”

  “It’s not for you to replace. I’m the one whose potion turned to a toxic sludge that hardened into volcanic rock.” Thunking my head against shoulder, I continued. “Owen walked in, wondering what the horrible smell was, and I saw it. A look of horrified pity passed between Owen and his mom. I’m a failure of a wicche.”

  “Nonsense. We just haven’t found your gift yet.”

  Snorting, I flopped back on the window seat cushions. “A kitchen wicche, I most assuredly am not. Owen and his mom even did this cool incantation over me to open up my powers and make them manifest. P’fft. That worked real well.”

  I’d learned recently that I, like my father and grandfather and many male grands before me, was a born wolf. I hadn’t been mauled by a werewolf and turned. Well, I had been, but the reason I’d survived prolonged torture was due to the werewolf genes that my mother, a wicche, had kept suppressed with a protective amulet. The necklace had been stolen a few weeks ago. Latent talents had begun appearing. Or not, as the case was clearly becoming for any inherent wicchey skills.

  “Just as well as I rarely eat, and kitchen magic would be wasted on me.” Lifting my hand, he pressed his lips to my palm. “I still don’t understand why you thought I’d been hurt.”

  Oh, right. “I was jogging home by way of The Slaughtered Lamb to check on progress.”

  “I wish you’d just borrow one of my cars. There are many and you’d be better protect—”

  I kissed him quiet. “Nope. Those are your cars, not mine. I’m already living in your house while mine is being remodeled,” I said, in reference to my small apartment in the back of The Slaughtered Lamb. “I even went along with you calling the fortune you spent on this necklace a gift,” I added, patting the stunning, spelled replacement for my mother’s stolen one.

  This one didn’t hide me, though, as hers had. It protected my mind from my psychotic aunt hell-bent on retroactively aborting me. My mother was a Corey wicche—a ancient and powerful family of wicches—who had fallen in love with and married a werewolf. My aunt considered that union a blasphemy and their daughter an abomination that needed to be destroyed. She’d been doing her damnedest to turn my own mind against me, ergo the new protective necklace around my neck.

  “Hell, you bought me a whole wardrobe to make up for the crappy jeans and t-shirt collection I lost when the wolves destroyed my home. I draw the line at expensive sport
scars I don’t need. I have legs and I like to run. Werewolf, remember?”

  “Vividly.”

  Smirking, I continued. “Anyway, I was jogging down the path to Land’s End and ran into a ghost.”

  Clive furrowed his brow, studying me. “A ghost?”

  “Yep. At first, she just flickered in and out, waving her arms. When I got close, she—” Like a flash, I remembered where I’d seen her. “She was the second wolf. The one I’d gone out into the ocean to rescue. When I got shot?”

  “Yes. I remember.” His hand convulsed around mine. “This was the ghost of the woman who had been murdered and dumped in front of your bar?”

  “I think so. She’d been torn up before she’d been murdered and her body had been in the water for a while, so I can’t be positive, but it feels right. Anyway, she grabbed my arm and said ‘They’re coming. He’ll be killed.’”

  “We’ll come back to the ghost sighting in a moment. How do you know she meant me?”

  I opened my mouth and then stopped. Huh. “No idea. She never said your name. Your face popped into my head and I ran back to save you.”

  “Thank you for that,” he said, grinning.

  I shrugged, feeling stupid for racing in, ready for battle, only to find everyone safe and sound.

  “Back to the ghost,” Clive said, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. “Have you ever seen a ghost before, communicated with one?”

  “Nope. First time. Maybe she was grateful I’d tried to help?”

  “Perhaps.”

  A knock sounded at the library door. I tried to extract my hand from his before one of his vampires saw us. They’d never show me the disdain they felt for me in front of Clive. They feared him too much. All bets were off, though, when Clive wasn’t around.

  He didn’t let my hand go, freakishly strong vampire. “Come,” he called.

  Russell, his second, stepped into the room and closed the door. He was a tall, handsome Black man, who seemed born to the formality of vampires, until you got to know him. “Sire, I’ve just received a call from a visiting party from New Orleans.”