by Raven Hart
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Letter from William, a Vampire
Letter from Jack, a Vampire
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Praise for The Vampire’s Seduction
Also by Raven Hart
Copyright
To my readers.
Thanks, everyone!
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Chris Schluep, Claudia Cross, everyone in Georgia Romance Writers, Jennifer LaBrecque, Berta Platas, Rita Herron, Kelley St. John, Rhonda Nelson, Elena Pedri, Donna Sterling, Sandra Chastain, Julie Linker, Caridad Pineiro, L. A. Banks, Michele Moore, and Richard Tuft. Thanks also to my other writing buddies—Mike Roberts, Melissa Carver, Joanne Bullington, Clarence Jones, Dorothy Northrip, Mark Jackson, Ginger Carter, Carrie, Frank, Leslie, Tricia, Sonya and bro Mike. Thanks to Madee James for the great website, and to the pink-pencil-wielding copy editor who did such a great job on the manuscript. As always, thanks to Mama and Daddy and the home folks. Sorry if I missed anybody.
Letter from William, a Vampire
I am William Cuyler Thorne, and I have been a vampire for five centuries or so. For most of that time, I’ve had what you moderns would call a death wish.
You may well ask why I’ve yearned for death. Why would an immortal creature, forever young and strong, with a vast fortune at his disposal and an endless supply of beautiful women to fulfill his every carnal need, wish to end his existence?
My fascination with my own extinction was born on the night I was made. The night I became a blood drinker I witnessed the slaughter of my wife and child, whom I loved more than life itself. The pain of that memory has seared me like a firebrand for half a millennium. I longed for a final death to snuff out the agony, even though it meant damnation for all eternity, since my soul had been taken when I was turned.
I cannot honestly say how I have managed to stem the desire to bring on my own demise. I suppose the semblance of family that I have managed to cobble together over the centuries has helped me more than I know. A royal line of strong, beautiful women—descended from Lalee, the greatest voodoo priestess ever to grace the shores of the New World—have been my daughters. My immortal offspring is one Jack McShane, whom I made into a vampire as he lay dying on a Civil War battlefield. The rest of my household consists of two loyal retainers in the form of twin half-canine/half-human bodyguards, Reyha and Deylaud.
And now there is Eleanor. My beautiful, raven-haired madam seductress whom I made into a blood drinker so that she could serve as my companion for the rest of my nights on earth. Her devotion, not to mention her ravenous sexual hunger for me, had finally eased the pain of my hellish memories and made me want to live to be with her.
And then the impossible happened. My mortal wife, Diana, my goddess, returned to me as a vampire. She whom I had thought dead and buried for the last five hundred years came to me—along with the son she had borne me.
My joy was tempered with anger, for she arrived in the company of another man, a powerful blood drinker whose life and bed she had shared for these centuries. My son, now a vampire created by this same evil monster who had taken my wife, did not even know of me—and still to this day does not know I am his mortal father. With that, my anger turned to rage.
A pox of the undead, an awful, rotting scourge, overtook my son in Savannah. The only treatment proved to be the voodoo blood that I carry inside myself. A drink from my own veins strengthened him, but the cure could only come from a purer form of voodoo blood. That is, blood taken from the descendants of Maman Lalee. From the daughters of my heart.
Hugo and the others took the smallest and most vulnerable of them, my precious little Renee, for her life’s blood. And with her fled the sanity of her mother, Melaphia, my treasure, now left with a broken heart and shattered mind.
I gave Melaphia my most solemn vow that I would move hell and earth to get her daughter back. I left her and my beloved city—Savannah—in the tender care of my trusted offspring, Jack, who, for all his erstwhile humanity, is a very fearsome creature indeed.
But not as fearsome as I, a vampire betrayed in the cruelest way imaginable, left distraught by the two women that he has loved most in his life and in his death. Eleanor led Diana to Renee, and together they kidnapped her.
My rage rises within me, as powerful as the tide. As I pursue these women I can smell the blood of those who stole from me as the wolf can smell the hare. When I find them they will wish they had never drawn breath as humans, much less drawn blood as vampires.
As my dear Jack would say, payback is a bitch.
Beware the vampire betrayed—for his kiss is death.
Letter from Jack, a Vampire
You know those country songs about some down-and-out bastard whose woman just ran off with his best friend and his double-wide? Somebody who just lost his job and his dog done up and died, he’s out of money and liquor, and his TV flamed out right before the Daytona 500 came on?
I feel like that guy. Only worse.
Things were perking along real fine for me until a few months back. Yes, I had about everything a vampire could want—my own auto repair business, a handful of loyal human and not-quite-human pals, a cozy place to park my coffin, and a budding romance with a hot Latin lady cop. And, last but not least, I had my sire, William Thorne, the baddest vampire on the continent, to watch my back.
Me and William didn’t always get along, I admit. He bossed me around for the hundred and fifty years since he made me, and it seemed like we were at each other’s throats a lot. But we always needed each other. Mostly we worked together to keep the undead and otherwise unhuman inhabitants in the city in line and under the radar of the police and the public. But the tension between us was always there.
Lately, though, we came to what you might call an understanding, and he started treating me almost like an equal.
That was about the time all hell broke loose.
See, William’s own sire—a nasty piece of work named Reedrek—came to town to settle some old scores with his offspring. First he murdered one of William’s best friends and then he murdered one of mine.
That really pissed me off. Me and William took care of him, locking him away in the cornerstone of a hospital wing under construction. Just when we were starting to relax, even more horse hockey hit the fan. William’s long-lost wife and kid showed up with an evil vampire named Hugo.
It was like Peyton Place for bloodsuckers around here, what with the catfights between William’s wife and girlfriend, William taking on Hugo, and me mixing it up with Junior, a punk with a foul attitude to go with his fangs.
If that wasn’t bad enough, a vampire-rotting plague broke out, I accidentally raised my murdered buddy from the dead as a zombie, and my by-the-book cop girlfriend, Connie, found out I was a bloodsucking fiend.
Talk about a bad week.
And then the most awful thing happened. The new vamps left town in a hurry—pulled up stakes if you’ll pardon the expression—and took our beloved nine-year-old Renee with them. I say “our” Renee because William and I had helped raise her as we’d raised her mother and her mother
’s mother and so on.
When Renee was taken, a piece of my heart went with her. And the rest of my heart broke when I looked into the eyes of her mother, my beautiful Melaphia, and realized that her daughter’s disappearance had driven her to madness. She is like a wild thing made of loss and sorrow.
William has gone off alone to bring Renee back or die trying, leaving me to take care of Melaphia and keep Savannah’s denizens of the dark from making the city into some demon’s feeding ground.
How long do you think it will take for an upstart bloodsucker or opportunistic shape-shifter or three to try and take me on once word gets out that William is out of town indefinitely? Pretty much any time now, I figure.
But what the hell. William may be the baddest dude on the continent but good old Smilin’ Jack ain’t too far behind. Besides, maybe a good rumble would take my mind off my troubles.
All I’ve got to say is…bring it on.
One
William
I stared across the frozen landscape and watched the flames lick at the mansion I had just set on fire, consuming it bit by bit, much as I had consumed its inhabitants. I’ve never been much of a flesh eater, preferring instead to drink a creature’s blood, as I am a man of refinement. But I can make an exception now and then.
My offspring Jack has been known to run down a buck from time to time, wrestling it by its antlers and delivering a killing bite to the jugular before feasting on its flesh. Only in season, of course. I believe it has as much to do with his ideas of southern machismo as it does with a sincere craving for the flesh of a living creature. Still, for decades it has kept at bay his lust for the human kill to which we vampires are born.
Ultimately, my Jack is a civilized blood drinker who knows how to keep his baser needs in check. As do I, for the most part. But tonight was different. Tonight was special. I indulged in a kind of savagery I had not allowed myself in centuries. One by one I ripped out the throats of the vampires inside the now-burning manse, sampling the blood and flesh of each one in turn. And I enjoyed it.
My fangs to their throats, I bade each of them tell me the whereabouts of their leader. I heard the names of several cities, but I could smell the lies on their lips, so I ripped out their throats. I severed the heads of some, and I even staked one with a spindle ripped from a wooden chair. I knew I would discover the truth before the night was done.
It was pleasing to vent my wrath on the small band of blood drinkers, especially since I’d been forced to come all the way to this wild and most frigid part of Russia to find Renee. The ones who fled with her had not returned to their home, however. Hugo and his clan would not have wished to lead me to the rest of their “family,” or to expose them to the rotting disease the traitors could all now be carrying.
Ironic that the pox had been developed on this very site as a form of biological warfare against us, the peaceful vampires of the New World. But the plague had escaped Hugo’s control, and one of their own—my son, Will—was stricken half a world away.
As I reflected on these matters, one of the mansion’s magnificent domes collapsed upon itself in a shower of sparks, making a sound like the hinges on the gates of hell creaking open to collect its due. A figure scrambled out of the burning shell of what an hour ago had been an impressive example of Russian baroque architecture.
I smelled a lone survivor of the carnage before I left the mansion, but it would have been too tiresome to ferret him out of the massive building with its surely inexhaustible variety of hiding places. I simply torched the place and waited for the rat to desert the burning ship.
I stood in the shadow of a giant fir tree and watched him run, half-staggering, from the structure, beating at his burning hair with his bare hands. He looked so comical that I briefly thought of letting him live; there are certain advantages in leaving an individual to tell the cautionary tale to others.
But I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable.
I was on him in an instant, dragging him down to the snow-covered ground. I forced his head around to face me, nearly breaking his neck in the process, and let him see my fangs, which still held shredded bits of his comrades’ flesh.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“Vanya.”
“Where is your master, Vanya?” I asked him. “Where has he gone?”
“I don’t know,” he whimpered. “I swear it.”
“What good is the oath of the damned to me? Besides, you do know where Hugo and his mate are. I can smell it on you like I can smell your terror.”
“You’ll just kill me anyway.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Know one thing for certain: If you don’t tell me you’ll be dead sooner than if you start speaking the truth.”
I saw the decision in his eyes. “London,” he said.
A less powerful vampire than I would not have known if he was lying. But I knew in my blood and in my bones that he was telling the truth. Tightening my grip on him, I pressed his throat to my mouth, almost like a lover, and delivered a killing bite that half severed his neck. I left him staring sightlessly at the stars.
“London,” I breathed, feeling myself smile for the first time since my beloved Renee had been kidnapped.
It would almost be like going home again.
Jack
“Ta-da!” Werm stretched out his skinny arms and twirled around the abandoned shell of a room like he was showing off the Taj Ma-freakin’-hal. The one bare lightbulb overhead illuminated a dingy, dirty hovel with peeling wallpaper and rats’ nests in the corners. I didn’t need my super-duper vampire sense of smell to tell me that some of the homeless people of the city had been making it their home. Or at least their toilet.
I looked at my little fledgling vampire friend in his usual getup of black leather and silver bling. His hair was an inky black, thanks to the modern miracle of Miss Clairol. “This is where you want to start your own goth bar?” I asked. “With my money?”
“It’s perfect!” He gestured to one side of the room. “We’ll have the bar over here, and back behind me we can have the stage.”
“Stage?” I wondered just what kind of shows Werm’s weird friends could come up with. Probably something like those crazy performance art pieces you hear about coming out of New York. I could see in my mind’s eye one of Werm’s little pals stuffing dimes up his nose while he recited the Gettysburg Address.
“Yeah, we can get some bands, some spoken word artists—”
“Whattaya mean ‘we,’ white boy?” I was planning to be a silent partner only. Silent as in never setting foot in the joint if I could help it. I had only agreed to the loan to help Werm get on his feet financially and keep him out of trouble. In the movies, vampires never seem to have to make a living. Welcome to the real world. Besides, idle hands are the devil’s workshop, as my poor sainted mother used to say. And when the idle hands belong to a bloodsucking demon to begin with, well…
“C’mon, Jack,” Werm wheedled. “You’re gonna love this place once we get it fixed up.”
“There’s that ‘we’ thing again.”
Werm continued to ignore my skeptical tone and splayed out his hands in front of him. “This is going to be the most happening place in town. Everybody who’s anybody is going to want to hang out here. I’ve hired a decorator who knows just what I want.”
Being a country music fan, I thought about that song “I’m Going to Hire a Wino to Decorate Our Home.” I wondered what a bar would look like after Werm’s goth friends got finished with it. A funeral parlor, most likely. Not altogether inappropriate for a vampire, I reckoned. After all, Werm would be settling his coffin in the cellar of this place if this was where he wound up. His society parents were on the verge of kicking him out of the house.
“Aren’t you putting the cart before the hearse?” I asked him. “You’ve got to get the thing built out before you decorate. Did you get bids from that list of contractors I gave you?”
“I did better than that.” Werm beamed.
“I have a great idea about how to get the work done around here and save money at the same time.”
Werm and “great idea” were not exactly two things that went together hand-in-hand. “Lay it on me,” I said. “I’m keen to hear this.”
“I’m going to hire Eleanor’s whores to do the work. Think about it. They’ve been unemployed for weeks and this will let them make some money and keep them off the streets.”
“That’s the craziest damn fool idea I ever heard! They’re used to being on the streets. They’re whores. If they could do carpentry and drywall, they wouldn’t have to be whores.” I wasn’t expecting an awesome display of brainpower from Werm, but by dang.
“Just because they’re whores doesn’t mean they can’t learn. If they ever decide to go legit, they’ll need to know a trade. If they applied themselves they might even learn to do something high-class.”
“You’re forgetting that old saying,” I told him. “‘You can lead a whore to culture, but you can’t make her think.’”
“I know what your problem is. You’re thinking of stealing them away from Eleanor. Maybe I should call you ‘Jack, the killer pimp.’” Werm busted out laughing. “I can just see you in a purple suit and a hat with a big feather in it.”
“Laugh it up, fang boy,” I said. “Babysitting a bunch of homeless hos is not as much fun as it sounds.” I’d had to find temporary accommodations for five working girls while Eleanor’s house was being rebuilt at William’s expense.
Reedrek had torched the classy brothel just for the sake of meanness. I’d financed the prostitutes’ new housewares and wardrobes, held their hands and listened to their troubles. Hell, I’d even painted their toe-nails and braided their hair.
“It sure looks fun,” Werm said. “I’ll bet the girls are offering you all kinds of perks for being nice enough to help them out, you lucky dog, you.” He punched me weakly on the shoulder.
It was true—they’d all offered to show me their appreciation in various ways, but I’d decided to keep things on a professional level. “I’ve got enough stress right now without having jealous catfights break out.”
