Paranormal Romance: Kiss Of A Vampire

by Woods, Martha

  Kiss of A Vampire

  (Book One)

  Martha Woods

  © 2016 Martha Woods

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  For permissions contact:

  bookpublisher@protonmail.com

  Part one

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  The street fair continued to buzz with the energy of people drunk on craft beer and artists making more cash than they would all year. Plastic white booths lined the entire lawn of Pack Square Park, filled with woodwork, paintings, metals, jewelry, quilts, and anything else you could sell for an exorbitant amount of money. Tessa’s table, a round stool with a purple velvet cloth and a glass paperweight that mimicked a crystal ball, was tucked well away from the main thoroughfare, but she’d had a steady amount of clients since she arrived that morning. They knew she came every October as the leaves changed and the air grew crisp. They came, nervous and full of questions about the future. She had no real answers for them, but she could sound convincing with the tumble of thoughts always pouring from their minds, a relentless current that pummeled her if she wasn’t careful.

  Her lower back ached from sitting so long, and her flask of bourbon had long run dry. It was about time to call it a day. She’d told at least ten widow’s their husbands loved them and wanted them to be happy. All she had to do was listen to the lament that played like a scratched record in their thoughts. Once a widow heard her husband’s name pass Tessa’s lips, they didn’t question her anymore. She overcharged several drunk jackasses and pretended to see a vision of adultery. The insecurity lay just beneath the surface, and she could usually string together two impressive names from their anxious thoughts. She’d also had a handful of giggling teenagers, an old man who simply hit on her, and a little boy who wanted to know if his dog would come back. She’d made several hundred dollars. The festival ran three Saturdays in a row. She’d stay one more before moving on. She hadn’t quite settled on where she wanted to go next. She was leaning towards Texas. She didn’t like snow much, and winter was already making an appearance in the early morning as frost clung to the grass and trees.

  Tessa moved to take down her small sign which only read Psychic. She did not display her name, her contact information, or her fees. Tessa preferred anonymity and flexibility. For the old ladies, she only charged twenty dollars. For the drunkards, forty. For the fervent believers of the occult, a hundred bucks or more. They were crazy. Tessa might be able to read minds, but these assholes believed in witchcraft and shapeshifting and vampires.

  When she turned back to the table, a man sat across from her. She jumped, startled.

  “Shit, you scared me,” she said. The man now sitting across from her smirked.

  “You don’t sound like a psychic,” he said. His voice was pitched low, and there was the tiniest bit of grit to it that she liked. He had chestnut brown hair that was cut short to accent a sexy widow’s peak. His skin was pale, almost too pale, and his eyes were a piercing emerald green. Even in the dim light, she could see the flecks of gold near his pupils. He looked delicious, and it had been awhile since she’d indulged in a passing tryst.

  “What the hell do you know about psychics?” she countered and sat down, offering a mischievous smile that was borderline flirtatious. His thin pink lips curved slightly in amusement. His thoughts flirted with attraction but predominantly felt condescending. He thought she was silly. She was going to overcharge his fine ass.

  “Enough,” he said. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a hundred dollar bill and put it on the table in front of her, raising an eyebrow as if in the challenge. That challenge echoed in his thoughts.

  “Two hundred,” she countered, sitting back and crossing her arms. Another hundred dollar bill appeared.

  “Fine,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Kristian,” he said.

  “Alright, Kris,” she said. He flinched at the informal nickname. “Let’s do this.”

  She put both of her palms down on the table on either side of her fake crystal ball and closed her eyes. She waited for his thoughts to unravel. When she first met someone, she could only make out energy and feelings with the occasional word or phrase breaking through. The more she got to know someone the more she could read, until eventually, she could hear every tiny thought that passed between the ears. She hadn’t been close enough to someone for years for that to be the case. And as far as her business went, if she let people sit in silence long enough, their thoughts would wander farther than she would ever need to pull this off.

  “You don’t need to ask me any questions first?” he said, surprise creeping into his gritty voice.

  “Shh.” She hushed him and continued to listen, suppressing a smile when she could feel his mild confusion. Most psychics needed to ask a few questions to cold read. She combed through vague feelings and a few random thoughts she couldn’t pull enough context from to be of use. She waited. He grew impatient. His knee began to bounce rapidly, shaking the small table against her own thigh. Then she pieced together something that could be useful.

  “I’m getting something,” she said. His knee stilled. “I’m picking up on a…Veronica. You’re close to her. You feel protective of her. You’re worried about her. You fear they are coming.”

  Before a breath had passed, he’d grabbed her wrist so violently she cried out.

  “The hell!” she cursed. He yanked her towards him, toppling the stool between them.

  “Who are you?” he hissed.

  “Jesus,” she said, breathless with the pain. It felt like he might snap her wrist off entirely. “Let go of me, asshole.”

  He didn’t. His eyes bore into her with such vicious, unveiled hatred she almost withered. But fuck this guy. She took a deep breath through the pain and brought up her other hand, intent on breaking his nose. She’d lived on the streets long enough to learn self-defense. He caught her other wrist easily, and suddenly he was pushing her into the brick wall. His enormous hand closed around her throat, and her feet dangled an inch above the ground. Her vision blurred.

  “Who are you?” he repeated, the grit in his voice no longer sexy but terrifying.

  She couldn’t breathe, much less answer him. Fear gripped her, and she could not tell if it was her own or his. He glared at her. The golden flecks burned like a flame. It was the last thing she saw.

  #

  Tessa opened her eyes and groaned as a sharp throbbing reached her temples. She blinked a few times, her vision tilting. She sat up slowly. She found herself on a leather sectional in front of a blazing fire in what appeared to be in the center of a penthouse studio complete with kitchen, bed, and claw foot tub hiding partially behind a beautiful screen that looked authentically Chinese. Artwork warmed otherwise white walls and cold, hard lines created by concrete and granite.

  Her attacker sat on the other side of the couch, watching her with an intense gaze. His tall, lean physique looked at ease.

  “You fucking kidnapped me?” she said, flinching as her head responded to her own raised voice with a sharp piercing pain. “Dick move, man.”

  “You didn't answer my question,” he said, apparently unimpressed with her vulgarity.

  “My name is Tessa Burch,” she said, glaring at her assailant. “What’s it to you?”

  “Why didn't you fight back?” He asked, standing and approaching her with a gracefully controlled movement that surprised her. He was tall. Tall men often appeared gangly.

  “I tried,” she said. “And I will again if you get any closer.”

&nb
sp; “You’re just human, aren't you?” he said, eyes suddenly thoughtful.

  She gaped at him. Shit.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said. “I didn't take you for one of the crazies. My mistake. Look, I’m not a psychic. I might read minds, but that’s not indicative of–“

  “You read minds?” his eyes were alight with curiosity. Those beautiful, goddamn eyes.

  “I plucked the name Veronica out of your head like a raspberry from a bush. I could feel your anxiety. And some vague external threat. My prediction was shot in the dark.”

  He ignored her request to stay away from her. Suddenly, he was sitting next to her and reaching a gentle hand to observe the bruise quickly forming on her neck.

  “Don’t touch me,” she growled and moved away.

  “I’ve never met a human who could…” he drifted off, his thoughts revealing more than he probably intended. Like the fact, he didn’t believe he was human.

  “If you’re not human, what are you?” she asked, skeptical. This guy could think whatever he wanted. He just needed to leave her the hell alone.

  He cocked his head as if considering whether or not to indulge her request. This annoyed her.

  “The undead,” he said, that smug smirk she’d seen before replaying across his features.

  “Zombie?” she scoffed.

  “Vampire,” he corrected.

  “Right,” she said and gingerly stood up. She didn’t feel dizzy anymore. It was time to get the hell out of here. “I should go. Good luck with that.”

  She took confident steps towards the door. She didn’t even blink, and suddenly, he was in front of her.

  “I cannot let you leave,” he said, almost apologetically, but not quite. He was curious. He was eager. He was attracted. He was still condescending. But he wasn’t sorry. Fear rose in her chest again.

  “What do you want?” she asked, wary of tipping the crazy too far.

  “You don’t believe in vampires?” he asked, chuckling. She expected his laugh to be deranged, but it was a pleasant sound. “You literally read minds, but you don’t believe in vampires?”

  “I consider my…ability…an evolution of the human brain. It was bound to happen at some point. We can only access, what, four percent of our brains? But vampires are…vampires,” she said. She backed away from him slowly. She wondered if the best tactic was to feed into his delusion or call him on it.

  “If you’re a vampire, prove it,” she said. If this went poorly, she had a knife tucked into her boot at least.

  He met her fierce gaze with an unsuppressed amusement.

  “Move in front of the fire. Back to the flames, please,” he instructed.

  “Are you going to push me in?” she asked, not moving.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Indulge me.”

  She huffed, annoyed, but did as he asked.

  “Observe,” he said, pointing to her shadow as it danced and flickered over the area rug.

  “So? What’s your point Peter Pan?” she said, crossing her arms. He came to stand next to her. She edged away as he approached. He took her place in front of the fire. No shadow appeared. She sucked in a breath. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Not exactly,” he said, smug and satisfied. “I would show you my fangs, but it would put me in a hunting mood, and your pulse is already racing.”

  She eyed him suspiciously as she digested the information. He was right. She could read minds, and although she’d assigned this ability to a freak glitch in DNA, something inside of her quickly accepted the supernatural alternative. It strangely made her feel better–less isolated.

  “Right,” she said, sitting back down on the couch. “Well, are you going to kill me?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head and offering a seductive smile. “It has been years since I killed. With the financial means…anything can be bought on the black market. It is a more bitter taste, but it is preferable to living in the shadows to avoid persecution and death. Humans are quite upset when their own get killed. Besides, humans aren’t the only ones who have evolved. Killing is a pointless, animalistic pastime. We have long outgrown its necessity.”

  His thoughts reflected his words as truth.

  “Fine,” she said. “So can I leave?”

  “You have no more questions?” he asked. He still stood in front of the fire, regarding her as if he were actually seeing her for the first time. His eyes lingered on her short, muscular legs and her narrow torso. She was wearing skinny jeans, a tank top, and a gypsyesque pashmina. His eyes continued, traveling over her breasts and finally landing on her olive face, dark coffee eyes, and thick black hair braided intricately and hanging nearly to her waist. She let him look. She couldn’t help but like the hunger in his eyes. She often had men stare, but never quite like that.

  “Do you want to leave?” he asked, raising a perfect eyebrow.

  She considered. She generally camped just outside the city. She had an old hatchback that carried the teardrop trailer she’d purchased a few years ago. But she hadn’t had a proper shower in weeks or she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d slept in a real bed.

  “Why do you want me to stay?” she asked.

  “You fascinate me,” he said and took a step closer to her. His eyes devoured her. His thoughts did too. She felt drawn to him in a strangely dynamic way.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen, Dracula,” she said. “I need a place to stay, and you kidnapped me. So, I’m going to stay the night. I’m going to start by taking a bath.” She pointed to the claw foot tub. “And you are either going to order or cook dinner. Then…we can get to know each other a little better.”

  He grinned, and she thought her chest might crack from the pressure of her heart breaking rhythm. Damn him for being so beautiful.

  #

  She lingered in the bath longer than she intended, but the salts she’d found sitting on the edge of the tub created a tingling on her skin that felt glorious and being so immersed in hot water tempted the soul to drown. But when her stomach growled loudly, she finally relented and stepped out of the tub. She dressed again, leaving the pashmina draped over the screen, and stepped out barefoot in her jeans and tank top. He appeared by her side immediately and offered her a glass of red wine, which she accepted.

  “Thank you,” she said and made her way to the table. He’d cooked for her while she bathed. He’d barely made a noise in the kitchen as he did so, but she’d smelled the bacon. She sat down in front of a beautiful display of Eggs Benedict, asparagus, and fresh fruit.

  “Do you eat human food?” she asked, picking up a fork.

  “I do not,” he said and watched her intently as she took her first bite. She refrained from moaning in pleasure. She did not want to offer him the satisfaction. “It has no taste for me.”

  “And yet you cook?” she said, taking another large bite. She hadn’t eaten all day.

  “I do not. I find ways to occupy my time,” he said and moved to sit down next to her.

  She nodded and paused long enough to take a sip of her wine.

  “Where did you come from?” he asked. Even sitting next to her, his body was aimed at her as if he could not pull away. His knee touched the outside of her thigh and sent a different tingling sensation over her skin.

  “California initially,” she said. “But I left when I was sixteen. Been traveling ever since.”

  “How old are you now?” he asked.

  “Twenty-five,” she said, observing his reaction in her peripheral vision. He did not react, he just continued to stare at her intently.

  “When did your powers manifest?” he asked. She noticed how still his hands were, resting in his lap. He did not fidget. He did not shift in his sleep. He was like a statue, a very chiseled, beautiful statue.

  “As a girl. I didn’t know what was happening,” she said, weighing how much she wanted to share. “I told my parents, and they had me committed.”

  He frowned sympathetically. She hated sympathy
.

  “How old are you?” she countered, shifting the focus away from her.

  “Almost two hundred,” he said.

  She gave a little whistle.

  “And what happened after you were committed?” he said, returning to her. She shifted uncomfortably.

  “My parents were in a car accident. They both died. I became a ward of the state. I pretended to get better. They released me into the foster system. I ran away at sixteen,” she said. “And that wraps up my tragic little story.”

  He caught her hand. Without adrenaline coursing through her, she noticed that his hands felt as if they were formed from marble; icy marble. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her softly, not on the top of her hand but on her palm.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said.

  Pity she could not handle, but seduction was familiar territory. He let go of her hand. She cleared her throat, attempting to regain control of her rapid heart. He smiled, smug as ever.

  “Are you finished?” he asked. She nodded and finished the last of her wine.

  “It was delicious, thank you,” she said and attempted to take her plate to the kitchen. He put a hand out to stop her.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Leave it.”

  “Would you like more wine?” he asked. She accepted a second glass and without asking permission, she made her way to the couch.

  “How does one become a vampire?” she asked, tucking herself into the corner of the sectional. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, but his body still pointed toward her like he was a compass and she was due north.

  He cocked his head in amusement. Beneath the surface, his thoughts bled pain and regret. His feelings were becoming more distinct to her, but it would be months before the words are formed. And she did not plan on knowing this man–this vampire–for months, a fact she strangely regretted. This would be one hell of night, and then she would be gone. That’s what she did. That’s who she was. It was too hard to know everything. Too painful.

  “I met a woman. I was easily seduced. She kept me in her bed as a human for several months. She grew attached to me, like a pet. There were others. When she grew tired of them, she killed them. Knowing this would be my own fate, I fashioned a rudimentary stake with plans to kill her in her sleep. She grew tired of me more quickly than I anticipated and bit me after a hunt that proved unsatisfactory. I killed her before she could kill me, but it was too late,” he said. His face grew darker for a moment, but then he shook his head and added, “It is a rather painful transformation.”