My Immortal Cowboy (Hell's Cowboys Book 1)

by Victoria Zak

  He was yanked forward and this time he didn’t protest. Something stirred inside him, something he hadn’t felt before. Even though Selene and Thana were complete strangers, the urge to protect them overran all caution.

  Instantly he was assaulted by the sweet, pungent smell of cigar smoke. Where am I? The blindfold was ripped from his face. His vision blurred back to life as his eyes adjusted to the bright room. A broad-shouldered man stood at the far end of the room, where another man wearing a cowboy hat sat with his booted feet propped on a desk. Intensity poured off the man in waves, sending out a warning RC heard loud and clear. Whoever this man was, he was in charge.

  One thing was for certain; judging by the way the man rolled the head of his cigar across his lips as if he was kissing his lover, he obviously enjoyed a good smoke.

  Squinting through the acrid haze, RC studied the room. The walls were cushioned in red leather, probably for soundproofing, which didn’t bode well for him. Oak bookcases filled with leather-bound books lined the wall behind the desk. There were no windows. No natural light anywhere, which made RC want to run. Even though he had no weapons, he’d fight like hell when the shit went down, and judging by the looks of it, it was definitely going down.

  Selene threw the torture collar and rope on the desk. “He doesn’t care for the rope.”

  What the…? RC’s hands flew to his neck, wondering when she’d removed his restraints.

  “Russel Cage Reid,” the man from behind the desk drawled. “Welcome home.” He stood, removed his cowboy hat, and walked over to RC offering his hand in introduction. “Roman McCoy.”

  RC refused to shake.

  “Well, this wasn’t the warm reception I’d hoped for,” Roman confessed.

  RC’s stomach turned. How did this man know his full name? There was only one person who ever got away with calling him Russel, and that was his Charlee.

  Growing tired of all the secrets, RC struggled to control his anger. “I want to know what’s going on, and I want to know now.”

  Roman acted as if he had all the time in the world as he studied the cowboy, infuriating RC even more. “Son, you’re in no place to be barking orders.”

  “Show some respect,” the broad-shouldered man growled out, breathing heavily through his nose.

  RC glanced at the big man. Knowing he was outnumbered and outsized should have been enough to keep his damn mouth shut, but this whole situation sent him orbiting into pissed-the-hell-off space.

  He looked back at Roman. “Really? You abducted me and I’m the one breaking the rules? In case you didn’t hear me the first time, asshole, I want to know why I’m here.”

  Before he could blink, Roman was in his face; his hands fisted in his shirt collar, his nostrils flared and his hot breath poured over RC’s skin. “Let’s make this clear, son, I call the shots around here. Once you understand that, we’ll get along just fine.”

  Roman flashed his teeth and RC swore he saw fangs.

  “Now that we have that out of the way…” Roman fixed RC’s shirt. “I’ll tell you what I want you to know, when I want you to know it, and if you get out of line, Nash here will put you back in it.” He nodded to the big man behind the desk who was cracking his knuckles with a little too much enthusiasm for RC’s taste.

  Roman crossed his arms over his chest. “Russel, there’s a lot that you have been blind to. I apologize. Your maker should have better prepared you.”

  Selene leaned over and whispered something in Roman’s ear. Roman turned his attention back to RC. “Excuse me. Your father should have prepared you better.”

  “My father died sixteen years ago.”

  Thana offered RC a shot of whiskey, but he waved her off.

  “I’m going to hit you with the cold, hard truth, son. RC Reid died out there in the arena three days ago. My angel,” he pointed at Selene, “brought you home and nursed you back to health. You’re no longer a human. You’re dhampir.”

  RC froze and placed his hand over his heart. It was beating…racing, actually.

  Roman took a pull from his cigar, then stared at the burning embers.

  “Yes, I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “If I’m dead, then why is my heart still beating? You’re half human and half vampire. You have all the benefits of being human. You can walk in the sunlight and eat meat if you so choose.” Roman wrinkled his nose as if the thought alone gave him indigestion. “But your strengths and desires…your soul, is vampire. It’s been inside you ever since you were born.”

  RC couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It couldn’t be true. Vampires didn’t exist. “Is this a joke? Seriously, I’m not impressed.”

  “No, son, this isn’t a joke.” Selene handed Roman the Sunday special edition of the Diablo Tribune. “Here, read this.”

  “Congratulations, darlin’, you made the front page,” Selene drawled.

  Bile rose in the back of his throat as he snatched the paper from Roman. Holy Christ!

  Young Bull Rider Warrior’s Last Ride…

  Tragedy struck Sunday night at the Horns and Spurs Texas arena when the up-and-coming bull rider, RC Reid was fatally injured as he rode Hell’s Fury for a full eight seconds. Dr. Banks told reporters that Mr. Reid was pronounced dead shortly after arriving by ambulance at Diablo Medical Hospital Sunday evening, citing internal injuries after being trampled. Millions of fans watched the scene unfold during the live broadcast. “RC left his mark on the bull ridin’ world and will never be forgotten,” said longtime friend and fellow bull rider, Luke Michaels.

  The newspaper slid from his hands. He snatched up the bottom of his button-down and tore off the bandages around his ribs. He rubbed his hands frantically over his chest and abdomen. No evidence of even a scratch. Even though he remembered the events that took place that night, he was still clinging onto a shred of hope that it had all been a dream; that he would wake up and walk out of the arena. Instead he was stuck inside this nightmare, cursing his luck. The burning sensation surging through his veins was like nothing he’d ever experienced before and he couldn’t explain the sudden change in his strength. He ran his finger down one of his throbbing canines. It hadn’t changed, but his upper jaw ached like he’d been punched in the face. Could it be true?

  “Russel, do you remember a time throughout your life that you were ever sick? Does it strike you odd that you heal quickly and no scars remain?” Roman tapped out his cigar and walked back behind the desk.

  RC paused as childhood memories flashed scene by scene. He was never sick, not even a sniffle. All the times he’d been kicked, thrown, and bitten training horses, injuries had never kept him down for long. He’d thought he was just a healthy kid, growing up on the farm. And yes, he healed quickly from bull riding wrecks, and his eyes were sensitive to the sun, but it never dawned on him that he was different from the other cowboys. Adrenaline masked the aches and pains, while the excitement of traveling to the next bull ride consumed all thought.

  “Fact is, your father is a vampire and your mother is human. There’s no changing that fate, son.” Roman cleared his throat. “Think of it as a gift. Dhampirs are an extremely strong breed. You have all the benefits of a human…walking in the sunlight, though always protect your eyes from the sun. They’ll light up like firecrackers on the Fourth of July once the sun comes up.”

  “But my soul is forever damned to hell.” RC stuck Roman with a bitter stare.

  “I can’t change the past, Russel.”

  “My name is RC,” he bit back. “I don’t know who or what the hell you…” quickly he corrected himself, “y’all are.” He pointed to Nash, then to Selene and Thana. “But I’m leaving.” Tipping his hat, he nodded a goodbye.

  “You can’t go back.”

  The threatening tone of Roman’s words stopped him in his tracks. He turned and faced him. “I don’t care what that newspaper says. I didn’t die. I’m here, breathing and alive enough to want to kick your ass, but smart enough to know when I’m outnumbered,�
� he added when the man behind Roman tensed. “If I’ve been a damphir-vampire-whatever my whole life, then I’ll go on being one just fine without you.”

  “You can’t go back to your old life,” Selene interrupted before he could turn to leave. “No mere human could have survived that bull wreck and you know it. If you go back, you put us all at risk. The humans can’t know what you are.”

  The hiss of the elevator doors sliding open zipped through the room. A blast of cold air hit RC and he froze. Terror snaked down his spine. Everyone’s demeanor in the room changed, and that alone spoke volumes, as in, one wrong move and his ass would be grass.

  Slowly looking over his shoulder, three six-foot-plus, well-built cowboys stood like gods from the underworld staring him down. The one standing in front crossed his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging against the rolled up sleeves of his button-down shirt. They were dressed in blue jeans and steel-tipped boots that had done a lot of shit kickin’, all three donning Stetsons that shadowed their faces.

  One would think twice before messing with this lot.

  A bright shine coming from the trio’s belt buckles grabbed RC’s attention. Matching silver skulls with blood-tinged fangs eerily glared back at him. Words were engraved around the skull, but were hard to make out. Wait…there were two words that stood out.

  “Hell’s Cowboys?” RC whispered.

  Their intimidating stance filled the room as they stepped out of the elevator with long confident strides. The man leading the pack looked RC up and down as he passed by, chewing on a toothpick.

  RC met his stare, never showing an ounce of fear. It took all his resolve not to ask the bastard what his problem was.

  A strong slap on his back knocked RC forward, testing his balance. “That’s right, sweet cheeks,” a second man said as he walked past, flashing a wicked grin. The third said nothing.

  “This is him?” the man with the toothpick drawled.

  “Russel, this here is Clay Holiday,” Roman began the introductions.

  Clay leaned against the desk, folded his arms across his chest, and nodded, giving the impression he wasn’t amused.

  “This is Kit Garrett, and this one here is Tibbs Randall.”

  Tibbs stood with his feet apart and his hands on his hips. The bastard smiled the brightest, shit-eating grin and tipped his straw cowboy hat. “Howdy.”

  Two things RC had learned long ago: never let them see you sweat, and never mess with a bull, or you’ll get its horns. Well, he was two-for-two, now. Even though he knew these men could beat him into next week, maybe even next year, he’d show no fear. If they were here to put a hurtin’ on him, he’d take it like a man and ask questions later.

  As RC sized the cowboys up, he planned his next move. “Roman, you still haven’t told me why I’m here. It better be a damn good reason.”

  “Well, I’ll be.” Tibbs laughed. “Boys, we have a feisty stallion here.” He cracked his knuckles.

  “Stand down,” Roman said. “He has every right to know why we called on him.” Roman paused. “We need you. There’s a world out there that won’t make sense to you. But in time you’ll adapt. Once I lived in peace with my vampire coven, governing our people with respect and integrity. We welcomed your kind, because the fact remains, dhampirs are our children and we take care of our own. But not all of my coven brothers felt the same. They started a war against dhampirs and ordered all vampires to restrain from fathering anymore half-breed children. This did not set well with some of us, so we broke away from the corruption and went into hiding. It was the only way we could help our…” He paused as if he’d almost revealed something he should keep to himself. “Dhampirs.”

  RC stood silent. For a man who didn’t believe in the supernatural, he was getting a quick history lesson and taking mental notes.

  “The coven has made it perfectly clear. Anyone aiding a dhampir is considered a traitor and will be put to death. We’ve been in hiding for quite a long time, living like outlaws. Though I have many people guarding these tunnels, our brood is small.”

  “Then why do you need me?”

  “First, it’s only a matter of time before they find you, and you’ll need our protection. Secondly, you’ve been recruited to train and become one of the underground’s most feared and elite, a brotherhood of powerful dhampirs. Think of it as...” He snapped his fingers, “the Army. You’ll train with the best.” He nodded to Clay, Kit, and Tibbs. “You’ll hone your vampire skills, and in two years, if you show promise, you’ll earn your buckle and become one of Hell’s Cowboys.”

  “So what, I sign my name on the dotted line and serve Hell for eight years like a good underground solider?” He crossed his arms. “I appreciate the offer, but I decline.”

  “Son, this isn’t Hell. There’s no option here. You’re in or you die. It’s that simple.”

  RC glared at Roman, then to the trio standing in front of him. Vampires? Looked like he had no choice if he wanted to remain undead.

  “Good.” Roman said. “These boys will be your shadow for the next two years.”

  “Can’t wait,” RC bit back.

  Clay scowled at RC. Removing the toothpick from his mouth, he took two long strides and stood eye-to-eye with the new recruit. “I’m going to have fun breaking that disrespectful mouth of yours.”

  RC scowled back, his nostrils flared.

  Clay broke their stare-off first and walked to the elevator doors, the other two following in his wake. As Tibbs walked by, he pointed at the silver doors—get your ass moving implied. RC knew better than to fight; the battle was lost before it had begun.

  “Wait,” Roman called. “I almost forgot.” He took the rope and threaded it through his hands until he reached the end. It was coiled to perfection. “Every Cowboy has a special, powerful weapon forged just for them. Since you enjoyed your leash so much, you’ll be needing this.” He tossed the rope to RC.

  RC caught it and cursed under his breath. Nice joke asshole; he hated that rope. As he draped it over his shoulder, it started to glow. Tiny fibers woven into the threads lit up like a strand of white Christmas lights. What the hell?

  “What’s wrong, sweet cheeks? It’s not like it’s a snake. It won’t bite ya.”

  RC shot a glance behind him at a snickering Tibbs.

  Yeah, he’d better get used to being the butt of a long line of jokes—this guy was relentless.

  The Cowboys piled into the elevator, and one jerky stop later, the doors slid open to a long corridor. Their heavy boot steps pounded a steady rhythmic march down the hallway. As they reached the end, Clay stopped in front of a door, a rusty five-pointed star mounted in the center. Without him touching the doorknob, the door swung open and Clay walked in like he owned the place.

  RC entered, inspecting his surroundings. In the middle of the room, two white leather sectionals wrapped around a large black coffee table. The walls were painted in muted tans giving a fresh and clean, inviting feeling.

  Tibbs wasted no time in making himself comfortable, falling into the cowhide couch and plopping his legs on the table—steel tips shining. “Home sweet home, sweet cheeks.”

  From out of nowhere, two white towels were launched at RC from Clay’s direction. And wouldn’t you know, they were billowy soft and smelled like an ocean breeze. Clay shoved a bottle of shampoo into his chest as he made his way to the couch.

  “Get your damn feet off the table, Tibbs.” Clay smacked his boot. “Maudeen will have your ass for dirtyin’ her table.” Sitting down opposite of Tibbs, Clay studied the new recruit. “Your room is on the right. You’re bunking with him.” He tipped his chin at the grinning bastard in front, the one wearing the straw hat.

  RC glared his response.

  “You’d better rest up,” Clay warned. “Training starts at oh-four-hundred.” His tone cautioned anyone who dared argue otherwise.

  RC went along and kept quiet as he walked toward the bedroom door. With these cowboys as roommates, there was no chance of esca
ping—not tonight.

  “Hey,” Tibbs called. “My room is the door on the left.”

  “Got it.”

  “Oh, and if you need a little somethin’, somethin’,” Tibbs winked, “you know, to help you relax. There’s a stack of Hillbilly Delights under my bed.”

  At that moment, Kit entered the room and threw a pillow at Tibbs, smacking him in the back of the head. “Is that all you think about?” asked Kit.

  “Fuck you, you’re just jealous,” Tibbs shot back.

  “Seriously, I’ve seen the type of bunnies you attract.” He sat down next to Clay, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s a good thing we’re immune to human diseases or you’d have things antibiotics couldn’t cure.”

  Tibbs shot him an eat-shit-and-die smirk.

  The obnoxious bantering intensified RC’s headache. He needed somewhere quiet to absorb all this shit. Shaking his head, he opened the bedroom door and walked into another room, which opened up like a fancy hotel suite. He found a shared living area that held two brown leather couches arranged in front of a state-of-the-art media center. Dark wood beams lined the ceiling and large flat gray stones covered the walls.

  There was a different odor in the room. A mixture of pine and—yep, saddle soap. He picked up the jar of soap from the coffee table, then noticed a saddle perched on a stand next to a chair. Running his fingers over the horn, he hoped he’d get to ride again someday soon.

  Putting the jar back, he saw two black doors behind the couches on opposite sides of the room. Between the doors, a framed picture of the same image he saw on their belt buckles stared back at him. What disturbed him the most was the blood dripping from the skull’s fangs. He ran his finger down his canine—another reminder of what he was born to be.

  “Room on the right,” he reminded himself. So, he picked the door to the left.

  If he was going to be within spitting distance of Tibbs, he needed to know a little more about him. RC cracked open the door and turned on the lights. A strong whiff of pine penetrated his senses. For fuck’s sake, the room looked like a frat house. Video game controllers lay next to a big screen TV. A poster with a naked blonde holding her tits occupied the wall above the bed. Tipped-over beer bottles were stashed on his night stand with a tube of lube within grabbing distance.