Taming the Vampire: Over 25 All New Paranormal Alpha Male Tales of Contemporary, Military, Shifters, Billionaires, Werewolves, Magic, Fae, Witches, Dragons, Demons & More

by Mandy M. Roth

  The din of voices and laughter washed over him, offering the welcome contradiction of companionship along with a comforting sense of anonymity. Heaving a sigh, he stretched out his long legs and took a hearty swig of the ale, which tasted strong and bitter, and just how he liked it.

  Setting the tankard down with a satisfying crash, he wiped the foam from his mouth only to be startled the next instant by a tall, elegant, dark-haired man sitting across from him at the table.

  Odd. He’d only looked down for the briefest of moments.

  “Good evening,” the stranger murmured with a graceful nod.

  “Aye, and a good evening to you,” Dorian replied easily enough, inspecting his companion curiously.

  The dim light played over the man’s handsome face, revealing a strong chin and carved lips, but exaggerating the scar trailing up his jaw. Wide-set shoulders. Lithe. And from the expression in his dark eyes, clearly keen-witted. The fine weave of his cloak along with the glimpse of the superbly fashioned leather hauberk beneath, announced the man a noble.

  Somewhat belatedly, Dorian tacked on a, “my lord.”

  The man chuckled. “No, just call me Jacques,” he said, dropping his eyes to take in the color of Dorian’s plaid before adding an excessively belated, “and thy tartan tells me to name thee Ramsey.”

  Ah. This Jacques clearly possessed a quaint sense of humor. Dorian grinned and introduced himself with greater detail and in turn discovered his companion to be a French noble with ties to Clan Bruce.

  Thus began a light-hearted conversation that only grew more entertaining by the moment until finally, the innkeeper arrived with Dorian’s rooster-onion pie. “And again, my lord, are ye sure ye’ll have nothing now?” the man pressed Jacques in a curious tone.

  Jacques’ lips creased into a mysterious smile. “I am well, fair innkeeper. I require naught from you.”

  The innkeeper hesitated. “I’ve a Burgundy wine,” he proffered. “’Tis a fine red fit for a noble.”

  “A fine red,” Jacques repeated softly, his lashes dropping as the corner of his mouth twitched. “Nay, fair innkeeper. I do not fancy wine.”

  “Aye, then,” the man grumbled. “No food nor drink for ye then.” He strode away, the set of his shoulders announcing his insult more than his tone ever could.

  Dorian shook his head. Whether his companion ate or drank mattered little to him. Digging into his tasty pie, he had his fill as their conversation resumed and Jacques shared the latest tidings from the continent.

  Time passed quickly, and before he knew it, they’d talked long into the night.

  “Ach, I must leave right early in the morn,” Dorian announced with regret, rising to his feet.

  “I as well,” Jacques said, joining him. “’Twas a pleasant evening, mon ami. Mayhap we will meet again, eh?”

  “Aye,” Dorian agreed. Reaching over, he clasped the man’s hand in a friendly farewell. Odd. His skin felt icy to the touch. Startled, he glanced into the man’s suddenly watchful eyes.

  “Farewell,” the noble murmured abruptly, seeming eager to leave. With a final bow, he whirled upon his heel and left the inn as though his horse was just set afire, leaving Dorian standing there in the smoke-filled room.

  “Odd,” Dorian murmured with a shrug. But he’d encountered many odd folks in his travels. Brushing it off, he stifled a yawn and stumbled down the narrow hallway to his assigned bedchamber. Softly, he opened the door and eyed the bed with a rueful smile. The thin straw mattress already housed five snoring travelers and most likely, a legion of fleas.

  “Floor it is,” he muttered under his breath. Striding back to the common room, he picked a corner and stretched out on the floor, his sword at his side and Elizabeth’s dagger upon his heart.

  Ach, his Elizabeth. But he’d scarcely let his thoughts wander to her curving hips, intoxicating lips, and creamy bare shoulders before sleep swept him away.

  Dorian rose the following dawn to find the storm had passed and no sign of the friendly but odd noble, Jacques. And after a hurried breakfast of gruel and a withered apple, he saddled his gelding and took to the road once again. The day proved an uneventful yet strenuous one. He spent countless hours plodding through freshly fallen snow, crossing tumbling burns snaking through the heath, and huddling under his plaid to ward off the bitterly chill wind.

  But this day, the snow-capped peak of Ben Nevis grew steadily closer—and with it, home.

  As the sun began its afternoon descent, a mysterious fog rolled down from the gray skies above, carrying with it the promise of yet more snow. But still, he pressed on. Darkness fell. His horse’s temper frayed at the lack of rest. Clearly, the beast would stage a full-on revolt soon. Finally, he heard the barking of dogs and minutes later, he rounded the bend to see the welcome sight of home.

  Home. At last.

  He galloped down the village road with renewed vigor, but as he passed by the houses, he couldn’t help but notice most stood eerily dark, as if abandoned. By the time he cantered past the smithy to the stone, vine-covered cottage of his childhood, his nagging sense of concern had blossomed into full-fledged worry.

  Not one glimmer of light flickered behind the shuttered windows or through the door.

  Feeling caught in a disturbing dream, he leapt off his gelding, ran to the door and, lifting its latch, knocked it back. The rusty hinges creaked as the door bounced off the interior wall, dislodging snow from the thatching above onto his head.

  “God’s Blood!” he swore, but more for the dark, dank emptiness of the cottage which greeted his worried eyes than for the cold wetness sliding down the back of his neck.

  “Ho there, Dorian, is that ye, lad?” a man’s voice called from behind.

  Whirling, he spied the blacksmith picking his way sprightly through the snow. The silver-haired man was old, but still boasted impressive muscles and a spring in his step.

  He didn’t wait for the man to arrive before hounding him with questions. “Gloria? Tell me, where she is, aye? And Moira? Catriona?” When he’d left six months ago, his sister, aunt, and cousin had all been hale and hearty. “What misfortune has struck? Tell me!”

  “Come to the smithy, lad.” The old man’s weathered face creased kindly as he dropped a heavy hand on Dorian’s arm. “Come and—”

  Dorian frowned and planted his feet wide. “I’m not moving, Ian. Not until I know what happened here. Gloria?” His voice caught on her name. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to continue, “Gloria? Tell me … is she well?”

  At her name, the old man winced.

  The movement cut Dorian’s heart like a knife. Fighting back his emotions, he choked, “How? How then did she die?”

  “Die?” the blacksmith cut in quickly. “Nay, Gloria dinna die, lad. Aye, Moira and her wee daughter, Catriona, passed last summer, but Gloria lives still.”

  Some relief greeted those words, even as he felt his heart tear upon hearing of Moira and Catriona’s deaths. “How did they die? ‘Twas it a fever?” Tears stung his lashes.

  The old man sighed and nodding at his horse, said, “Put your beastie in the barn, lad. I’ve a bit of soup that’ll do ye some good. Then we’ll speak, aye?”

  Dorian’s frown darkened. “But Gloria?” he asked, waving towards the abandoned cottage. “Where is she?”

  Again, the man winced. “Ye’ll see her in the morn,” he grumbled. “Mayhap ye can speak some sense into the daft lass’s head, no?”

  With that, he turned away and plodded back to his smithy, leaving Dorian standing there in the snow.

  He took a deep, calming breath. Right now, he felt so relieved to learn she was yet alive, he really didn’t care just what daft imprudence she’d embroiled herself in. She lived. Little else mattered. And with both Moira and Catriona gone, ‘twas just the two of them left now. The thought was sobering, and with a heavy heart, he tended his horse before making his way to the blacksmith’s cottage.

  Lifting the latch, he stepped inside to weave between the
braided ropes of garlic hanging from the rafters and joined the blacksmith at a table near the fire.

  “Barley mutton soup,” the old man said, nodding his chin at the black cauldron suspended above the flames. “And I’ve bannocks—”

  “I’ve no stomach now, Ian,” Dorian said gently. “Please. Tell me, now. Where’s Gloria?”

  Ian’s mouth twisted into a disapproving line. “With a man,” he grunted, refusing to meet Dorian’s gaze. “She wouldna listen to me, lad.”

  A man? Dorian blinked, surprised. “What clan?” he asked, and then noting just how censorious the blacksmith’s reaction had been, paused and gasped, “Surely, she’s not with a Douglas?”

  “If only ‘twere so,” the old man sighed. His shoulders deflated before he replied, “Nay, ‘tis a Sicilian.”

  Dorian stared at him blankly. A Sicilian? “She wed a Sicilian?” he repeated, bewildered. “And in such haste?”

  “Nay, nay, lad. Aye, she’s with the man … but she’s not wed,” came the startling reply. “And I dinna know exactly where she is, but she’ll be here in the morn. This past month, she goes with him into the night, but comes back each morning to work at the inn … now that my Maggie’s passed along with the rest.”

  So much death. And Gloria with a man? ‘Twas difficult to digest it all.

  Dorian bowed his head. With so much anguish in the village, ‘twas no small wonder she sought comfort in a man’s arms, wedded or not. He couldn’t judge his sister harshly when he’d done a similar thing himself. Not that he wouldn’t be speaking with this Sicilian forthwith and demanding the man set the matter straight, of course. But for the moment, it could wait. “So many have died,” he said. “’Twas it a fever then?”

  Silence greeted this question. It took some time before the blacksmith seemed willing to answer. “A Night Viper,” he finally replied, his expression a pained one. “A snake of a kind I’ve never seen afore, lad. It struck them in the night, leaving them with skin whiter than snow and marks upon their necks. I ne’er even heard my poor Maggie strugg—” The old man’s voice broke off at the sad recollection.

  Dorian put a comforting hand on the widower’s shoulder, and arched a brow. “’Tis the first I’ve heard of a Night Viper,” he admitted curiously. “A snake so devilishly murderous in these parts? Has it been caught?”

  “Nay,” Ian said. “’Twas too dangerous a hunt once the wolves arrived. We mainly keep to our houses since, and with the wolves about, the Night Viper has stayed away.”

  “Wolves?” Dorian repeated curiously. “I canna recall wolves near the village afore.”

  “Nor I,” the blacksmith replied. “And these? Well, you’ll hear the howls, lad. Unholy. And the tracks they leave in the snow?” He shook his head and muttered, “’Tis strange times, lad. Strange times.”

  “Strange, indeed,” Dorian agreed under his breath.

  They lapsed into silence then, which was broken only by the sounds of the blacksmith ladling soup into a bowl and setting it down on the table.

  Dorian sighed. There was nothing to do but wait for morning to arrive. Fighting a deep sense of unease, he ate his supper and settled back to watch the smoke rise steadily from the peat burning on the hearth.

  Chapter 4

  The Sicilian

  Dorian awoke with a start, belatedly realizing that something soft and blunt repeatedly struck his chest. Fists. A flash of freckles and long, red braids pierced his bewildered state, and he sat up, beaming from ear to ear.

  “You took so long!” his sister wailed, pummeling his chest. “’Twas summer when I sent that message, you big oaf! ‘Tis midwinter now!”

  Chuckling, he rose to his feet and gathered Gloria close in a bear hug. “’Tis pleasing to see you hale and hearty, lass, after all that has happened here,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion. “And ‘twas no fault of my own, you wee hellion! I came as soon as I could, having only received your message three days ago.”

  Stepping out of his embrace, Gloria swatted his arms, even as a warm smile spread across her face. He saw then that she’d changed dramatically. She’d lost weight, and her white skin appeared even whiter than usual, rendering the freckles even more pronounced. But it was her cheekbones that he noticed most of all, standing out in her elfin face in sharp relief and making her blue eyes seem almost … haunted.

  Concern flooded through him. “Are you well? Has this Sicilian mistreated you now?” he gasped, the words erupting from his lips.

  His sister’s chin snapped up and she immediately stepped back. “Ach, Ian’s been blathering, aye?” she retorted, her voice harsh and her words clipped. “The old fool canna keep his tongue in his mouth.”

  The severity of her tone startled him as much as her words. Not the reaction he’d expected. Frowning, he reached down and gave her braid an affectionate tug. “The man cares for you, lass. He looked after both of us for years, aye? Sees us as his own. Ach, you know that well.” Indeed, after their parents had passed away, the blacksmith had always been there. Gloria had loved him as a father.

  But there was little love in her face now. “Meddled, Dorian,” she corrected, her voice hard and unrecognizable. “He’s a meddlesome old gossip.”

  Puzzled, Dorian combed his fingers through his unruly hair. Aye, Gloria clearly wasn’t herself. ‘Twas time to cut to the heart of the matter. “I would meet your Sicilian. Where is he now?” he asked, striving to keep the timbre of his voice light and gentle.

  Her eyes narrowed into suspicious slits, but finally, she replied, “He canna come now. He suffers from an illness and canna walk in the sun.”

  Dorian’s brows ascended to his hairline. “Pah! What foolishness is this?” he demanded, his patience vanishing in a heartbeat. “If he canna walk in the sun, then take me to him, and at once!”

  “No!” Gloria retorted angrily. “You’ll not insult my love and name him a fool, Dorian. He’s my soulmate—”

  “Your soulmate?” he interrupted angrily, swallowing a violent expletive with the greatest of difficulty. “Did he wed you now?”

  She raised her chin. Tears of pride glittered in her eyes. “Ach, but he will. He—”

  “Dinna be daft, lass,” he grated, grasping her by the shoulders. “’Tis no fault of your own. I canna fault you. But ‘tis clear this man lies.”

  “What would you know?” she challenged, defiant. “You left. You don’t know him. And why do you think you’ve a say in the matter now?”

  “I’m your brother!” he inserted, his astonished voice ringing in the rafters.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he stopped her with a finger upon her lips.

  “Keep your breath to cool your porridge, now, aye?” he said in a softer tone. “Enough. ‘Tis my duty to see you safe, wee Gloria. I am bound by oath, by blood, and by my heart to see it so. Aye, for you, I’d even fight a battalion of kinswomen with crossed arms and puckered brows!”

  They stood there, chests heaving, and then all at once, her face crumpled. Was that fear flickering in her blue eyes? His heart tugged.

  “Ach, I’ll see you safe, Gloria,” he whispered again, drawing her to his chest. She clung to him almost desperately, weaving her fingers through his plaid as if anchoring herself.

  For a time, they simply stood there, until he finally expelled a long, deep breath and murmured, “Aye then, when the sun falls, I would meet this man.”

  “Aye,” she agreed, closing her eyes and burying her face in his shoulder. “Aye, and you will.”

  By sunset, deep lines of worry etched Dorian’s face. Within an hour of their reunion, he’d learned enough about the Sicilian to know that by dawn, he’d be riding away with Gloria in tow—willing or unwilling.

  The mysterious Sicilian had arrived in the village on midsummer’s eve with the cloak of a nobleman and a leather sketchbook tucked under his arm.

  “He’s an artist,” Gloria explained, moon-eyed. “He’s drawn so many lovely sketches of me.”

  Dorian win
ced. “An artist?” he grated. “Charcoal on paper provides little food or warmth on a cold night.”

  When her lips thinned into a line, he swallowed the remainder of his criticism, and it took a fair amount of cajoling to get her talking once again. When she did, he panicked all the more.

  Only a mere three days after the man’s arrival, the first Night Viper attack had occurred.

  “But my love had naught to do with that,” she insisted, reading his alarm. “Faithfully and each night, he joined the village men to search for the viper. He even valiantly battled the wolves. Wolves, Dorian. Huge white and gray ones.”

  “With his charcoal?” Dorian muttered acidly under his breath.

  That made her walk away, delaying the conversation yet again. He spent the remainder of the day wheedling himself back into her good graces, all the while fretting over her blindness on the matter.

  Finally, as the sun fell, he found himself again in her peaceable company.

  “He should be here soon,” she promised, slipping her arm through his as they left the barn and headed towards their childhood home. “I’m so glad the two of you will finally meet.”

  Dorian ran his hand along the back of his neck, wishing he could say the same, but a flock of birds exploding from the nearby trees distracted her from his silence. She watched the birds disappear into the gathering gloom before turning back to him.

  “He must be there,” she said with an eager smile. “He always startles the birds so.”

  Dorian arched a brow at the bizarre statement. “I canna wait to meet him,” he said, trying his utmost to mask any trace of mockery in his voice.

  Aye, he couldn’t wait to meet the man. ‘Twas clear he was a lily-livered fool, idly passing his days in sleep and his nights in the sketching and seduction of innocent women. He deserved a sound thrashing—maybe even more—before being sent off with haste.

  He took one look at his sister’s face and clenched his jaw. Apparently, he hadn’t disguised his true feelings as well as he’d thought.