by Alix Adale
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2017 by Alix Adale.
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Individuals pictured on the cover are models and used for illustrative purposes only. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
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Published by Roselandia Press
Cover design by Melody Simmons Graphics
Editing services by Frostbite Publishing
First electronic edition, version 1.1
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Foreword
Thank you for trying Night is Magic, a vampire romance in the Hearts of Dagon series. Each book in this series is a complete, standalone story with a new couple, a happy ending, and no cliffhangers. The series can be enjoyed in any order.
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-alix
Night is Magic
A Vampire Romance
by Alix Adale
Part I: The World is Dark
Portland, Oregon
March 20th, 2017
My dearest Armando,
You and your House are commanded to appear before Us on the summer solstice, whence you shall renew your vows of fealty and obedience to Our crown. Should the weather prove favorable, we shall even picnic in defiance of our ancient enemy, the sun.
By sending an early reply you will oblige,
Your most devoted and loving liege,
Ursula R.
Queen of Dagon; Princess of Portland; Duchess of the Three Counties; First of the House of Eibon; Grandmaster of the Esoteric Order of Dagon; et. al.
P.S. Bring your entire house, including your failed protégée. Grim days lie ahead in this world of darkness—or have you forgotten the last two hundred years?
Chapter 1: Tonight She Died
Desiree
FEAR.
Desiree sprinted down a silent, suburban street before dawn, chasing fear.
The old man’s fright hung in the wind, mingling with the crimson sweetness of his wounds. He left a scent-trail so palpable, so easy to follow, she could have chased him blindfolded. She could have ditched her underworld senses and tracked him by the blood drops alone.
Her sister Cherise was toying with their victim, slashing at his heels, dancing around him, driving the old man past the point of exhaustion. Sis leaped from car to car, a vampire in black leather, smirking with delight. Boot heels clattered over car roofs and hoods. A knife glittered in her fist—because fang marks gave the game away.
Dez strained to keep up. Tennis shoes slapped on concrete. Her denim jacket flapped in the cold night air. Time to end this barbarous sport. This time, sis had gone too far.
Not ten minutes ago, Cherise had kicked the man awake, slashed his face with the knife, and told him to run. That act was so unexpected—so unspeakably vile and violent—it made Dez want to puke.
But there was a method to sister’s madness. Fear sweetened the blood. Fright pumped adrenaline into the bloodstream, giving it a powerful, almost intoxicating kick. Most vampires craved that terror buzz, but it was an acquired taste.
One she never picked up, thank god. Hunting people was barbaric, something she’d avoided for years. Even drinking medical supply blood made her queasy. She could only force it down by mixing it with tomato juice, red wine, strawberry ice cream—anything to kill the cloying sweetness of stolen life. Blood tasted like guilt, like death, even though it kept her alive. But it wasn’t a life worth living.
Now this. The thought of killing anyone—even someone on the fair game list—made her sick. But running someone down in the streets like a dog before murdering them in a vacant parking lot and drinking raw blood from their veins—it was monstrous. Unconscionable. Her stomach tightened and her throat gagged. “Cherise! Stop!”
The other woman spun about, glaring. The hunting knife gleamed. Though still a fledgling, Cherise was vicious and bloodthirsty, everything a vampire should be. Everything Desiree was not. Green eyes flared in the dark.
“What?” Sister’s words took on a cold sneer and the hunting knife blazed in her hand, save where blood darkened the blade. “Out of breath, Dez? Can’t keep up? Want to run home to daddy?”
As a matter of fact, going home sounded great. But first, this had to end. A weapon hung in her fingers too, a butterfly knife with a silver-gilded blade. It weighed cold and heavy against her palm. Their sire had given it to her only hours ago, marking the anniversary of her turning. She swallowed hard but looked Cherise straight in the eye. “We’re not killing this man.”
“Tonight you hunt,” Armando had said. His thirty-something, dissolute appearance—long, disheveled hair; silk shirt; grizzled face—gave him the look of a Hollywood golden boy hitting the party circuit a tad too hard, but looks deceived. Armando was on top of his game, controlling a number of Underworld enterprises, both legal and illegal, occult and mainstream, on the California-Oregon border. None of that stopped him from talking like an old-fashioned book.
But hunting? She stepped backward. “You never said anything about this. I never would have come to solstice. Never.”
“What would you have done instead, sat in your tomb?” He put the butterfly knife in her open palm. A scarlet ribbon made the gift look festive. Goetic runes etched the blade: sigils of warding, of destruction. “For too long, you’ve relied on others to provide your sustenance. Solstice is not a vacation, it is a duty, a sign of vassalage. Tonight, enjoy the bounty of our Queen and the pleasures of the hunt.”
Why was it so hard to understand? She pushed the knife back into his hand. “I don’t want it. Please.”
“You refuse my gift on the very anniversary of your ascension?”
“The night I died, you mean.”
Iron fingers seized her forearm. “Dez, it’s for your own good. You’re my spawn. I wish only your happiness.”
“You have a strange way of showing it!”
“But it’s true. Others whisper about you. Some call you a weakling, a parasite, an anemic. It puts you at risk.” He drew himself up to his full height. “It reflects poorly on our clan and my leadership.”
It should reflect poorly on his ‘leadership’—or lack of it. He should point the finger at himself. She never asked for undeath, never wanted it, never dreamed anything like the Underworld even existed. Vampires. Before this reality kicked her in the ass, she laughed at campy vampire movies and TV shows. Now vampirism had become a never-ending nightmare. She shook free of his grasp. “Sorry I’m such a failure. You should’ve thought of that before you turned me.”
He ignored the jibe. “Hunt. It is my command, Desiree.”
Fine. One hunt wouldn’t kill her, but they would do it right. Her shoulders shrunk. “It has to be somebody deserving—a serial killer or someone like that.”
Armando clicked his teeth with impatience. “That is the Law of Dagon. The Eibons gave us a list of fair game and a map of approved hunting grounds. Stay away from the zoo and other forbidden zones.” His stern eyes fixed her. “Go with Cherise. She
has gained more skill in a year than you have in six.”
“Great. Thanks for reminding me.” Poor Armando. He must regret turning her, investing so much in such a disappointing spawn. The vampire who couldn’t kill. The whispers followed her from meeting to meeting, from club to club. Anonymous posters on dark web forums gossiped about the Braden’s infamous failure.
Her sire hugged her stiffly, slapping her back as if she were an invalid, and departed. Elders like him had more important business. He vanished up the ladder out of the tomb, his black cape billowing behind him.
George followed Armando, grizzled and wary, grabbing the brass rungs so hard his biceps bulged beneath his thin t-shirt. His stubble-covered, scarred face spared her not even a glance. He was old, strong, and gorgeous—and ignored her.
The third elder, Colin, paused and inquired in his warm, Irish brogue, “You all right, Dez?”
Of course she wasn’t all right. What did he think? But arguing with Colin wouldn’t help anything. He was almost her only friend. “Did you know he would make me hunt?”
Colin tried to laugh it off. “He mentioned it, but swore me to secrecy. What could I do?”
“You know I hate it!”
Colin lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not asking for much, you know.”
“Only to murder someone.”
“Someone who deserves it. The privilege of hunting is a great honor, a gift from our Queen.”
“What kind of birthday presents does she send, gift-wrapped brains?”
“Dez.” The circles under his eyes showed weariness. “Killing is in our nature. Yours too, once you accept this life. Six years is a long time to come to grips with it.”
“Oh god, Colin.” The smooth, cool wall of the tomb looked like the perfect place to bang her head insensate. “I can’t. I can’t kill someone.”
He winced. “Then let the barmy fledgling do it. Test her ability to follow orders, since she bloody well can’t—I keep telling Armando that, but he won’t listen.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Thanks.”
“If you want me to come with, say the word.”
God, that would be a relief. But maybe Armando was right about putting on her big girl jeans. “Thanks, but I need to do it. He makes sense, damn him.”
“You’re certain?”
No, not certain. Armando should have left her in Port Selkie. She’d begged to stay behind but Armando—damn him—refused. He didn’t even give a reason, but it was clear now. “I need to show the others I can hunt, that there’s no weak link in our clan.”
“That’s true, lass. Be safe and go with Dagon.” Colin gave her a brotherly hug before hauling up the ladder.
“Dagon.” Her voice echoed the blessing, lacking conviction. So this was it. Time to go hunting with her ‘sister.’ She couldn’t think of a more inappropriate word, but they shared the bloodline of an extinct vampire named Ferdinand Braden, so that’s the word the Underworld used. Otherwise, they were night and day.
After the others left, Cherise strolled out of her alcove. She held out a compact mirror, lined with cocaine. “So it’s official.”
Drugs. Great. Could this night get any worse? She made the stop sign, refusing to even touch that stuff. “What’s official?”
“Vampires suck blood, but as a vampire, you just kinda suck.”
“Hah, hah.”
The ragged derelict squatted on the ground, whimpering. By the fresh stink, he’d pissed himself in the last few minutes. He looked at least sixty, reduced to street-life by alcoholism and whatever other demons ruined his days. His hands trembled not only from fear.
This hunt was a horrible mistake. Desiree would not knife an innocent or stand by and watch her sister do it. That’s what their victim was, innocent. She folded up her butterfly-knife. Its bifurcated handles snapped together, concealing the blade with a crisp click. She snapped at Cherise. “You lied. He’s no serial killer, just some old drunk.”
“How would you know? You’re no hunter.”
“Then show me his name on the list.”
Cherise made no move to comply, staring at their prey. “We’re using knives! Nobody will know, so who gives a fuck?”
“The Eibons give a fuck. How stupid are you? If someone turns up drained, that will show up in the autopsy reports, maybe even the newspapers. The Eibons will know, Cherise. They monitor for that kinda shit when the clans are in town. What do you think the Queen will do to a fledgling that breaks her law in her city? If you piss off the Eibons, even Armando can’t protect you.”
That ought to scare the little sicko. Portland belonged to the Eibons and they guarded it with ferocious jealousy against unsanctioned kills. Queen Ursula would break Cherise without a second thought. It would almost be worth it to let that happen to get this little monster out of their clan—but not at the cost of this innocent man’s life. That price was too high.
The drunk cowered, mixing a Hail Mary with the Lord’s Prayer. He showed no signs of having heard or understood their conversation. He might in be shock or having a seizure. He was in that much stark terror.
Cher waved her knife, the blade catching moonlight. “The Eibons aren’t here.”
Desiree tensed, watching the glinting metal. Sis could be … unpredictable. “I’m here.”
“And who the fuck are you? You lie in your tomb, drawing shitty comics. No wonder daddy turned me. I’m useful. You’re a failure, a lazy shoe-gazing nerd.”
“I’m still senior to you and I’m commanding you, as a Braden, to put that knife away.”
“It’s not a knife, it’s a ceremonial dagger.” The other’s eyes flared with defiance, green pupils almost incandescent with occult intent. The sheen matched the runes on the sharpened blade. In a flash, her blade stabbed outward.
Dez jumped back, twin hearts pounding. Was Cherise crazy enough to attack a clan mate? And why oh why was her own knife tucked away?
Cherise whirled and threw her dagger with demonic strength—at the crouching man. The blade screamed end-over-end and sank into the homeless man’s chest, piercing dirty flannel and skin, punching through muscle and sternum with a sickening thwack. A perfect cast.
The old guy stared at the jutting handle, eyes wide. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us…” His words trailed off as he slumped. His eyes went glassy with death. Blood oozed from his chest, darkening his shirt with a growing stain.
With a forward rush, Cherise leaped atop the man and yanked the knife out. More blood gushed forth, pumped by the dying heart. The blade had hit a major artery, maybe even the vital, red organ itself. The gaping wound disappeared as Cherise bent her lips to the crimson flow. Sickening slurps filled the alley. Hot blood scented the air with the bittersweet allure of death.
Dez staggered back, horrified. That scent. That damned, addictive scent. Even after all these years, it proved irresistible. Her fangs slotted in automatically, drooling a subtle poison. Her stomach rumbled with need. Neither of them had fed before this hunt, a deliberate choice. The better to hone the senses, to stoke the hunger. A mistake.
Goddamn it. Goddamn Cherise. Her clan mate was breaking the Law of Dagon and defying a senior. Dez wanted to smack her. Goddamn this. This so-called hunt, this mockery of life they called undeath—it was a travesty. Her whole existence had become a horror show. She wanted to grab Armando by his long hair and scream in his ear, “Why?” Yet no matter how many times she demanded an answer, he always evaded the question with half-truths.
Their last fight had come three months ago. “Why did you turn me?” she’d screamed in his face, close enough for saliva. “You didn’t know me. You didn’t owe me anything. I don’t deserve this. Why didn’t you leave me in the coma? Why didn’t you let me die?”
Armando’s too-handsome face only stared back, his ageless brown eyes flicking with annoyance, nothing more. He grinned and gave the same half-assed answer he always did, an answer that was no answer at all. He reeked of aftershave and cigarettes, red-eyed from constant part
ying. “Show some gratitude—and thank your lucky stars I decided to play hero that night.”
Decided to play God was more accurate.
A gust of wind sent a wad of crumpled newspaper tumbling toward the fence. Then night grew silent, save for the horrific sounds of sister feeding on the dying man.
The butterfly knife appeared in Dez’s hand again, its blade open. Her fingers trembled. She didn’t remember drawing it, let alone unfolding it again. The freshness of the kill overwhelmed her, driving better judgment away. The stink of blood filled the air, intoxicating and hypnotic. A strange sound beat the air like a drum, like the wings of Camazotz, lord of the night-drinkers. It was the tick-tock beating of her two hearts, the dead and the stolen.
A dark, sick desire filled the night—the siren song of the hunter’s feast. This is why she hated hunting: the guilt, the lust, the blood madness. She dropped the knife and staggered forward, falling to her knees in the crimson pool. Blood ran in rivulets across the filthy pavement.
Hating herself, hating undeath, hating Armando, Cherise, the Eibons, the Bradens, and the whole damned Underworld, she bent her head to the scarlet river. Her tongue lapped the dying man’s blood from the concrete like a dog.
Cherise glanced over. Blood coated the lower half of the fiend’s face like red paint. Scarlet-washed fangs dripped beneath glowing eyes. Her mouth cracked open in a skeletal smile, drooling crimson.
Dez growled in warning, claiming her share of the kill. The warm, rich corpse-blood tasted of copper and fear and rotgut alcohol. And every drop went down so sweet.
Afterward, they stood in silence on the rooftop of a nearby condominium complex. Down the block, medics raised a body onto a stretcher while a solitary policeman unfurled yellow crime scene tape. A chalk outline near the chain-link fence faded in a light drizzle. The roll-bar atop the police cruiser blinked red and blue, a lighthouse in the pre-dawn pallor.
