by Ranae Glass
By: Ranae Glass
Crimson Tree Publishing
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the authors' imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Chasing Midnight
Copyright ©2015 Ranae Glass
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63422-053-8
Cover Design by: Marya Heiman
Typography by: Courtney Nuckels
Editing by: Cynthia Shepp
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To everyone who has been knocked down, only to get back up again.
You know who you are, and you are all heroes.
I ducked behind the brick wall just before a beer bottle whizzed past my head, exploding into shards of brown glass behind me.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I yelled, peeking over the wall. He was running. I caught sight of him just as he rounded the far corner of the alley. “Get back here, Gallas. Come hell or high water, I’m taking you in.”
I didn’t expect he would actually take me seriously enough to just let me throw the cuffs on him, but I was surprised at his decision to take off rather than stand his ground and fight. I mean, I was maybe 130 lbs. soaking wet, and a head shorter than him to boot. Did he really think his hulking frame had a better shot of out running me than just knocking me on my ass? Maybe my reputation was finally preceding me. I smirked at the idea as I bolted over the top of my cover, chasing after him.
At the end of the alley, there was a tall, barbed wire-topped fence. The sound of my boot heels hitting the pavement echoed down the dark street. He must have looked up and saw the fence because he turned, bursting through the back door of the antique shop at the end of the alley. I cussed and backtracked. Thank God, I was familiar enough with these back streets to know where most of the entrances would exit. Running to the front, I arrived at the glass picture window just as Dave Gallas, parole violator, three-time loser, and accused hit-and-run driver, threw himself into the window from the inside, breaking through in a shower of clear glass. I shrieked and collapsed downward, instinctively covering my head with my arms. He leapt over me and kept running.
I shook myself off. Aside from a few small scratches, I didn’t feel any severe pain, so I figured I was mostly okay. A frustrated growl built in the back of my throat. I wasn’t planning for Gallas to be so lucky. Out of breath and out of patience, I turned, watching him run into the night. Not human, I realized. Besides the idiocy of crashing through a plate-glass window and taking off without hesitation or harm—which any meth head could manage—his gait gave him away. I hadn’t noticed until now, but once I saw it, it was as if tiny cogs slipped into alignment in my brain. It looked almost fluid, as if at any moment he’d lean forward and run like an animal on all four limbs. I let myself watch for a moment, trying to pinpoint the flavor of it. I supposed he might have been some kind of cat offshoot, but they were rare. Odds were this guy, with his build, was of a more canine variety.
With a sigh that contained more than a little satisfaction, I drew the small, silver whistle from under my red T-shirt, stuffed it between my lips, and blew. Instantly, Gallasclutched his hands to his ears and pitched to the side, falling into the middle of the street. I kept blowing as I jogged up to him. Though I couldn’t hear it myself, I was shooting for a rendition ofTwinkle, Twinkle Little Star.
Just as I reached him, I heard some commotion and turned my head to see that we were less than a block from the seedy strip club, the Painted Lady. The bouncer at the door was mimicking Gallas’ stop, drop, and roll impression. Two men, who were probably vampires, rushed out of the club. Of course.It might not affect them the same way, but with their superior hearing, they could at least hear the dog whistle. I stopped blowing as they helped the burlywere bouncer to his feet. One of them pointed my direction.
Shit.
I was about to have company.
With fangs.
I looked down. Gallas’ hand was balled in a fist and coming straight for my face. I tried to dodge the blow, but he was too quick. The impact, though mostly a graze, still exploded along my jaw like a bomb. Stars burst in my eyes. I fell. He was instantly on his feet, standing over me with his arm drawn back to strike again.
I fumbled for the whistle, already knowing it would be too late. My puny human reflexes had nothing on him. Then, a shadow passed overhead, sending Gallas sprawling across the street. I closed one eye and groaned, straining to roll back to my feet.
When I opened my other eye, I saw that Xavier Ambrose, head of the vampire Conclave and my sometimes flirt buddy, stood between the now unconsciouswereand me. Dusting off his expensive-looking, charcoal-grey suit, he turned to me, holding his hand out.
“What trouble have you gotten yourself into now, Miss Stone?” he asked, sounding entirely too pleased to find himself in the position of white knight.
I actually felt my eyes roll. Of course, he would be here to witness my humiliation. Of all the gin joints in all the world…
Wait, why was he here? I caught sight of the pink and yellow neon sign over his shoulder, and it dawned on me. Most of the strip clubs in Charleston were Conclave owned. Vampire or not, Xavier was, at his core, a businessman.
I took his hand and let him help me to my feet. “Oh, you know me. The usual.” It hurt so much to speak that I winced at my own words, touching the side of my face tenderly. The jaw didn’t feel broken, thank goodness, but it was sore as hell.
Frowning, Xavier took my chin in one cool hand, turning my face to the side. “Does it hurt?”
I brushed his hand away. “Not as much as my pride,” I admitted through clenched teeth. “It’s nothing a big, fat paycheck and a bag of frozen peas won’t make better.” He looked confused, so I continued, “Gallas jumped bail. I’m collecting him for a piece of the bond.”
“Is work so slow you have to resort to chasing criminals through the streets?”
His voice was steady, but I couldn’t help feeling the implication behind it. It was true. Times at the detective agency had been tough lately, which was why I’d taken a few odd jobs collecting bounties for the sheriff’s office. But there was no way I was going to share that information with him.
“A job is a job. We can’t all be fabulously rich vampires, you know.” I tried to smile, but it hurt, so I settled for a half smirk with the non-bruised side of my mouth. Xavier looked at me, his emerald-green eyes searching mine. It was uncomfortable. As if he were somehow
looking right through me. It made me feel… naked.
“Speaking of which, where is Shane? Isn’t he supposed to be your assistant?”
I cringed. I hadn’t exactly told Shane about any of this. For one thing, I didn’t want to burden him, and for another, I still wasn’t exactly sure where we stood since he’d basically become the Conclave’s in-house spy.
“You didn’t mention it to him,” Xavier guessed.
I tried to play it off with a shrug. “Not really his business. He doesn’t exactly work forme anymore.” I said a little more bitterly than I meant to, making Xavier frown at the implication.
Behind him, Gallas began to stir. I pushed past Xavier and pulled the whistle from my shirt, blowing on it just long enough to get him secured in the silver handcuffs I carried on my belt. He hissed as the silver grazed his wrist, immediately turning an angry, raw red. I looked up. His eyes swam with tears, the stubble across his face and the bags under his eyes made him seem so lost… haunted and hopeless. I sighed, this time with resigned empathy, pulling the sleeves of his shirt down and wrapping them around the metal cuffs so they weren’t directly on his skin. He hadn’t really attacked me, at least not in the way he could have. He’d tried to run away, and then to defend himself. For all his supernatural strength, he was more a runner than a fighter. I felt a small pang of guilt.
“I’m sorry I have to do this,” I whispered. He nodded and looked down, hiding his expression from me.
I turned to Xavier. “Thanks for that, er… helping. With the, um…” I made a whooshing sound.
He smirked. “Of course. This is quite fortunate, running into you like this. I want to discuss hiring you to look into something for me.”
I raised one eyebrow. Was this about his earlier comment about my financial state? I shook my head. “I don’t need any charity, Xavier. But, um, thanks again.”
I turned to walk Gallas to my car, which was parked only a few blocks away, but Xavier kept pace with me, quickly waving his guards back to the club. “You don’t have to walk with me,” I said stubbornly, one hand on Gallas’ burly arm. “I can handle myself.”
“I never underestimate your ability to handle yourself, Miss Stone. And my offer is far from charity, I assure you.”
“Isabel,” I corrected him. He made a gesture with his hands like,as you wish.
“Besides,” Xavier said cheerfully, “David here is a gentle giant, as they say. I doubt he would hurt a fly.”
I snorted. “I’ve got a black eye that says differently.”
“Touché. Perhaps I should rephrase. He wouldn’t hurt a fly that wasn’t chasing him down the street with a dog whistle and a Taser.”
Point taken.
“It’s not up to me to decide if he’s guilty, Xavier. He runs—I catch and return. That’s how this works.”
Now it was his turn to snort. “Isabel Stone, bounty hunter. Perhaps they will give you your own television program?”
Beside me, Gallas chuckled.
I rescinded my pity.
Standing balanced awkwardly on one foot, I stared at the open closet in disgust. I was disgusted with myself for agreeing to go in the first place, disgusted with the fact that I hadn’t bought a new dress in nearly a year, but mostly, I was disgusted that some small part of me was excited about tonight. So I just stared, at war with myself, while water dripped off my freshly showered body and puddled onto the wood floor.
Procrastination was a beautiful thing sometimes.
It wasn’t even a date, not in the strictest sense of the word. Yes, Xavier had been sending me flowers regularly for the last three months. It was gratitude, or at least, that was what I kept telling myself. But even I couldn’t deny that whenever we got within three feet of each other, sparks flew like the Fourth of July. I had no desire to get serious about anyone, especially the formerly deceased, but that didn’t stop me from admiring his considerable, um… assets. Xavier was the essence of tall, dark, and handsome. Plus, he was strong, mysterious, and broody. A bad boy blue-plate special with a side of yummy. But I knew better than anyone that some heated glances and racing pulses did not a relationship make. Ironically, his being undead wasn’t even the biggest hurdle to his having boyfriend potential.
Xavier Ambrose was the irritatingly suave Chancellor, the head of the Charleston Vampire Conclave. It was a fancy title that came with an equally fancy estate just outside of the city, and about a hundred local vampires who he was responsible for, including my ex- fiancé Shane.
A crash of pots and pans from downstairs gave voice to Shane’s frustration with the situation. I smirked. I’d had to deal with his psycho girlfriend Mercy for months before she finally tried to kill me, earning her a face full of holes and a stint in the vault—Conclave’s version of a time-out. Turnabout was fair play, after all. Besides, I hadn’t been out in ages—at least not anywhere with a dress code that didn’t include paper shoe booties—and a date night might be exactly what I needed to get out of my current rut.
No, not a date, I reminded myself. Abusiness meeting. At a jazz club. Over dinner. I rolled my eyes, plucking a classic black dress off its hangar, tossing it over my shoulder, and onto the bed.
Maybe I should have called in the sister squad on this one. Phoebe could make anyone look like a Hollywood starlet with her makeup tricks and Heather might have been a bit helpless in the wardrobe department, but she was an assassin with a flat iron and the only person outside a salon who could coerce my unruly brown waves into obedience. Plus, it might be nice to have someone to talk to about all of this butterfly-inducing insanity. We hadn’t done a sister makeover night since my senior prom.Then again, maybe not. I cringed, remembering the fluffy, pink taffeta dress mom had sewn for me. Besides, Heather had developed a disturbing habit of dropping psychic revelations into random conversation, Phoebe was so preoccupied in her new relationship that it was all she talked about, and Sarah was off in her second semester of college. Plus, all my sisters were wholeheartedly on team Shane, when push came to shove. Back when Shane and I had been engaged, they’d come to love him like a brother, and not even the fact that he left me at the altar or his joining the ranks of the living dead had ended that for them.
But it had for me. I still remembered the first time he ever looked at me with the blood lust in his eyes. I shuddered at the memory.
Yet, there I was, getting ready to go on asort ofdate with Xavier Ambrose.What the hell was I thinking?
In my defense, the only reason I’d agreed to the dinner was because Xavier had dangled a carrot in the guise of a case. The detective agency Shane and I ran had been slow this month, as it always seemed to get in the withering heat of autumn, and we desperately needed the extra cash.
So I agreed to hear him out, over dinner, at his newest acquisition, The Inferno, a jazz club downtown. Truth be told, it was a raving hit and the waitlist to get in was three months long, plus a meal would cost about as much as a car payment. Between the lure of work and food, I never really stood a chance.
Another crash of dishes brought me back to reality.
“Don’t make me call Gordon Ramsey over here to kick your ass, Shane,” I yelled down the stairs. “He will no longer tolerate your culinary mediocrity!”
The only reason Shane was once again living in my attic rather that at the cushy vamp mansion was because he’d gotten in trouble. As his punishment, he’d been sent back here to be the Conclave liaison with the local police and, I suspected, to keep an eye on me. Thanks to the events earlier that year, I’d been in a situation that had given me an unprecedented glimpse at the inside of the Conclave, which made me a potential problem. Add that to the fact that I kept certain details of the events quiet to protect the Conclave from a media blowup, and suddenly, I was walking that fine line between asset and liability. Nothing makes you walk that line like knowing that if you fall, you are probably going to have your face eaten off.
Not that I’d ever done anything solely to protect the Conclave. To be hones
t, if I believed for a moment that they deserved it, I’d personally throw the whole lot of them under the bus. What could I say? I was fair that way. Plus, I was a big fan of self-preservation.
When I glanced at the clock and decided I couldn’t put it off any longer, I slipped into the little black dress. It was simple, knee length, and elegant, the perfect combination of sexy and sleek without being over the top. Basically, it was perfect. I pulled a pair of my favorite black heels from the closet—equally sexy patent leather spikes—and sat them on the bed before heading barefoot to the bathroom to begin the grueling hair-and-makeup regimen that would take me from wet cat to at least publically acceptable.
By the time I made my way downstairs, I looked and felt like a million bucks. Any woman who didn’t own a pair of black, patent leather heels should really consider getting some. They did wonders for your self-esteem. I grabbed my silver sequin clutch purse from the hall closet and stuffed it with lipstick (the kind that wasn’t supposed to wipe off but always did), mints, my cell phone, a BC powder in case Xavier gave me a headache (something that was always a good possibility), and my Taser.
The Taser was a gift from my sister, Phoebe, last Christmas. Yes, while most people got ugly sweaters, I got weapons. It was smallish, palm sized, but would shoot thirty feet and had enough juice to take down anything short of a rhino. The question was—would it work on a vampire?
I held up the Taser indecisively. “Hey Shane, come here. I wanna see if this will work on a vampire.”
Shane leaned out, hanging onto the doorframe with one hand. “You know, I don’t actually know if it would. You could always try it out on Xavier,” he suggested, wagging his eyebrows.
Shane was tinkering around in the kitchen, as he did most evenings, setting up the archaic popcorn machine. The smell of old oil and butter made my stomach rumble.
He wiped his hands on the hem of his dark blue T-shirt. The band logo had long since faded off, and it stretched across his broad chest as if it were actually two sizes too small. But I knew better because I was the one who bought that shirt for him on our third date, and it had fit perfectly until the day it accidentally got washed in hot water. A flash of memory took hold. Me, wearing that shirt, curled up next to him on his old sofa while we did the Sunday crossword together. It was like a punch in the stomach.
