Devil's Cut: Immortal Keeper Vampire Paranormal Romance Series

by L. A. McGinnis

  Devil’s Cut

  Immortal Keeper Vampire Series

  L.A. MCGINNIS

  Copyright L.A. McGinnis 2021

  All rights reserved

  Editor: Arran at Editing720

  Cover Design: Glowing Moon Designs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form or by any means, without express permission from the author or publisher. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Please contact the author for any use in a review.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, including businesses, companies, events or locales is purely coincidental. This author acknowledges the trademarked status of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-970112-28-3

  ISBN-13: 978-1-970112-32-0

  Published in the United States of America by Fools Journey Press, 2021

  Please visit my website at www.lamcginnis.com

  “Whisky, like a beautiful woman,

  demands attention.

  You gaze first, then it’s time to drink”

  Haruki Murakami

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Queen of Swords, Book 1

  Also By L.A. Mcginnis:

  1

  Langston-Forge Distillery’s boardroom

  “Selena, you must sign these,” Emerson urged gently, leaning in so the other men couldn’t overhear. “There’s no options left.”

  I looked at the documents my lawyer had set in front of me, then lifted my gaze high enough to skim the faces of the board of directors seated around the table—a table my great-grandfather brought from Scotland—while trying to rein in my anger.

  I was so goddamned pissed at the whole situation. At my father. At the board for pushing this takeover, right when the company—and me—were at their most vulnerable. But mostly, I was pissed at my brother.

  I was twenty years old with the weight of the world on my shoulders, and everything was about to come crashing down. I picked up the pen, set the point to the paper, then hedged, as if I believed there was a chance—

  “What if I ask for another extension?”

  I knew that’d never happen, but I wanted to hear my lawyer say it out loud, because once I heard there was no hope, I could move forward with my crazy—maybe suicidal—plan. Someone across the table impatiently cleared his throat as I hesitated. I’d never learned to play chess, but I did know how to read a room, and these men were glad I’d failed.

  “You know as well as I do that the bank won’t grant another extension. They’ve already given you far more leeway than usual.” Emerson Holloway had been Granddad’s lawyer, then Dad’s, and now he was mine. He might be old, but he knew his shit, and always told me straight. Unlike the rest of the vultures gathered around this table, practically salivating at the prospect of the company going under.

  While my mind grappled with the utter finality of signing away my family’s company, my mouth desperately bargained. “Three days. Give me three more days and I’ll fix this.” God, I sounded like an addict. Maybe I was. “If I can’t raise enough working capital, I’ll sign the agreement and you’ll never see me again.” My desperate bargaining brought faint smiles to their faces, since they thought I was coasting on my family name and had no real business experience. Worst of all, I was a girl, and girls don’t run distilleries. At least, not in their eyes.

  Three days wasn’t a lot of time, but I’d either save the company that I loved, lived and breathed, or I’d sign the fucking papers and hand everything over to the jackals around this table. Something inside of me rebelled at the thought of my company in the hands of these men. They’d sell it off piece by piece, starting with the copper stills.

  Holloway studied my face carefully, then laid his hand on my shoulder as he made his recommendation. “I say we give Selena three days. As hard as she’s worked to keep the distillery afloat after her dad’s death, we owe her that.”

  From the way their faces fell, you’d have thought I was asking for the moon, not one last chance. At least there was one good thing about the board—they always listened to their lawyer.

  “All in favor?” Holloway’s lined face relaxed slightly as the board members reluctantly lifted their hands, surety written in their faces that I would fail at this, just like I’d failed at bringing the company back from the edge of bankruptcy.

  I didn’t care about their derision. They were just a bunch of old men who wanted to continue feeding off my family’s hard work like a bunch of starving lampreys. I didn’t care how much I had to debase myself. I didn’t care if I had to lie. I would save this company, and I’d do it by defying my father’s number one rule:

  No matter what happens, Selena, don’t you ever contact Bastian Forge.

  Yeah, contacting a two-hundred-year-old vampire was probably risky, but choosing between my life and my family business… I’d do anything to save this company that had been in my family for over two hundred years.

  Because without it, I’d be nothing.

  2

  Langston-Forge had been in my family since 1771, and we still did business in the same building in downtown Philadelphia that we did in those early days. My office was the same one my great-grandfather occupied, and I’d always felt the sense of history—and responsibility—of that bond especially deeply.

  Deeper than my brother, who signed a five-million-dollar promissory note with a local loan shark and then had the nerve to die before he paid it back. Which wouldn’t have been the worst thing ever, except he took my dad down with him. Asshole.

  Leaving me in charge of a multimillion-dollar distillery that was struggling, even though we were the oldest one operating in the United States. We’d beaten Prohibition, rising costs and increased competition and survived. But nothing, it seemed, would survive my brother’s mistake. I spun in my chair, my gaze landing on the dusty painting hanging on the brick wall, conveniently spotlighted by new LED lighting.

  I strode to the picture and blew away the dust clouding the air. The artist had depicted a cruel-looking man of about thirty with a classically sculpted face, shadowed eyes and dark, swept-back hair. Added together, the effect was mesmerizing—falling somewhere between classically beautiful and smolderingly sexy.

  To me, he was neither of those things. For me, Forge only represented
hope.

  I’d stared at that painting for longer than I cared to admit, especially since I’d taken over the company. I’d been toying with finding Forge and asking for a loan for months now, and every single time I considered it, my emotions warred between intrigue and fear. According to family legend, Bastian Forge’s reputation had always fallen somewhere between a savior and a devil, with emphasis on the latter.

  Truthfully, I knew little about him except for cautionary tales. But every generation of Langstons knew the family secret, then passed it down to the next. We’d founded our company on a generous loan from a reclusive vampire, which was why his name still appeared on the company stationery, as well as the front of the building.

  Still, it was easy to forget he existed.

  No one had seen him in the flesh, not since our ancestor took the money and signed the agreement, which hung right next to the painting. The penned accord had almost faded away, but the signatures were still clearly legible—Adolphus Langston and Bastian Forge—in a dark, aggressive scrawl that I knew was blood.

  “I can’t believe you still have those relics hanging up. I told your father to put them in storage a long time ago.” Holloway’s voice still carried a touch of Southern honey, even after all this time in the north.

  I shrugged as I turned to him. “Family tradition, I guess.”

  Emerson Holloway, Esquire, was the only person I trusted these days, and to that end, I didn’t mince words. “I’m going to find him and ask him to bail out the company.” I didn’t add the word again, even though I was thinking it. “That’s why I asked for three days.”

  His already pale face went sheet white. “Selena, you know…”

  “Yeah, I know.” I waved my hand around, but only managed to stir up the dust still hanging in the stagnant air. “He’s dangerous, we swore an oath, he’s impossible to find, blah, blah, blah.”

  Part of the original deal was that no Langston, however desperate, was to ever seek him out. But the company going under and being sold off piecemeal was definitely worse than desperate. This was end-of-the-world shit. Besides, he probably wasn’t even alive anymore, so this was most likely a total waste of time.

  Except…someone had left a note on my desk two weeks ago.

  It was signed Bastian Forge, in the same angry scrawl as the agreement.

  The security cameras came up blank, as if he’d materialized in and out.

  “Selena.” Holloway’s voice took on that gentle, let-me-talk-some-sense-into-you tone that I’d grown so fond of over these past six months. “Maybe it’s time to let this place go. After what your brother did, I don’t think we can bounce back from that. I’ve done everything I can think to do to save this place. I’m sorry.”

  He wasn’t lying. Holloway had dedicated his life to this company, and my family. The inside joke was that our blood flowed eighty proof, unless we were having a bad day, and then it flowed a hundred and fifty, and nobody had better light a match.

  Unfortunately, my brother never believed in family, or blood, or loyalty. His passions leaned more toward cocaine and gambling, hence the sketchy multimillion-dollar loan. When Dad tried to help Brandon out of his situation, they’d both ended up dead in a car at the bottom of the Delaware River, each with a single shot to the head. I’d never forgive Brandon for that, never forgive him for allowing Dad to get caught up in his troubles.

  By the time the police had wrapped up their investigation, I was running the company and didn’t have the luxury of grieving. But I could still hold on to my anger.

  After Dad—who was also our master distiller—died, distributors stopped ordering. They were worried about quality control and delivery issues, and I didn’t blame them for doubting. Who was going to trust a twenty-year-old with no apparent business sense to run a respected company?

  “I’m going to save Langston-Forge, Emerson. Any way I can.” I didn’t know if Bastian Forge was still alive—the note not withstanding—but if anyone knew where he was, it would be Holloway.

  “Contacting Bastian Forge is not the way to save anything. You can rebuild…”

  “Twelve years, Emerson. That’s how long it will take to rebuild from scratch.” And in the meantime, my whisky—the best I’ve ever made—will be bottled and sold by someone else. Or, worse yet, thrown into a blend where no one will ever taste it.

  “You’re young, Selena. Twelve years is not that long.”

  “We only need enough operating capital for six months,” I countered evenly, watching his lined face for a sign he’d help me instead of talking me out of this.

  Holloway took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, leaving them red. He’d put hours into negotiating this deal, from petitioning the bank for more time, to maneuvering the board to make me a handsome buyout offer. I didn’t want the money. I wanted to run a world-class whisky distillery. All I needed was a chance.

  Holloway’s face seemed haggard as he said, “You sure have a lot of faith in those barrels in Warehouse Seven.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Warehouse Seven held eight thousand barrels of my father’s last batch of whisky. We fondly called it the platinum batch, and in six months we could bottle and distribute it. I’d been a kid when I helped Dad mix this batch twelve years ago, and it had aged well. If I could hold on to the company for six more months, our worries would be over.

  “We have over fifty million dollars in that warehouse, Emerson,” I insisted. “I’ll see it distributed under the Langston name.”

  “And Forge,” Emerson reminded me wryly. “Don’t forget him.”

  “Trust me, I’m not.” I wasn’t used to asking for favors, so it took me a moment to spit it out. “I wasn’t kidding about what I said. Tell me how to contact Bastian Forge. I’m asking him for a short-term loan.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Before Dad died, he said you knew where he was.” I was bluffing, but Emerson didn’t know that. He only knew that I’d been at Dad’s side ever since I was little, especially after his stroke. It was a plausible enough explanation that he’d told me this secret.

  Of course, I left out the part where Dad warned me to never try to find Forge, since I figured that would only give Emerson more ammunition to deny any knowledge of the vampire’s existence.

  “I’ll go to the bank and negotiate another extension. I have a few favors I can call in,” Emerson said, his voice soothing.

  Sorry, Emerson, we’re way beyond that now. We need cash.

  “You’d be wasting your time. How do I contact him?” I said, sensing his reluctance. After six months, he should know how stubborn I was. “I won’t be put off. Forge is our only chance to save the company.” I scanned his exhausted face. “You know what the board will do. They’ll sell this place off and Langston Forge will be forgotten. We could be a great company, Emerson, one of the best in the world. You know it and I know it. We only have to hang on for six more months.”

  Emerson searched my face and, apparently, saw I was telling the truth. Also, he knew I’d just badger him until I got what I wanted. “I’ll have to find the letter. It’s in the safe somewhere. I’ve never even opened the envelope.”

  Joy tugged at my heart before I told it not to get too excited.

  The mysterious note had only contained one line, other than the signature, and I sincerely hoped he meant what he said.

  Find me if you need my help. Bastian Forge.

  That sentence—his offer of help when I was drowning—had been echoing in my head for weeks. And now he was my last hope.

  “Do it.” My eyes strayed back to the painting. “I want this resolved, one way or another, before my three days are up.”

  3

  Six hours later, I stood in front of a pair of intimidating gates and debated my sanity.

  “He left me a note,” I reminded myself softly. “He practically asked me to come.”

  As it turned out, Forge wasn’t that hard to find, once I had his address. And Google.

&nb
sp; Now all I needed was a shot of liquid courage and I’d be good to go.

  As tempted as I was to sneak a sip from the bottle of whisky in my sweaty hand, I refrained, reminding myself of how stories were born. Bastian Forge might be painted as the devil, but like with any good story, every one of my ancestors had probably exaggerated Forge’s threat. Multiply that by ten generations, and the man took on the aura of an evil monster.

  “Ridiculous. He’s just a guy who loaned my ancestor money,” I told myself. “Once he tastes this, he’ll be all in. I know it.”

  The bottle clutched in my hand held a distilling of Dad’s final batch. Six months early, yet…the whisky was outstanding. It was the perfect balance of smoke and burn, a touch of citrus and a bit of spice. I’d never tasted anything like it, and after all that had gone wrong in my life, this was the one thing I knew was right.

  This whisky would propel L&F to the top.

  Besides, I reasoned, all I was asking for was a short-term loan. Surely the vampire wouldn’t refuse to save his own company, preserve his good name and cement Langston-Forge’s reputation as one of the world’s finest purveyors of small-batch whisky. I couldn’t see a downside for him.