by Elle Jasper
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
PREFACE
Epigraph
Part 1 - DISTURBANCES
Part 2 - THE BEGINNING
Part 3 - CHANGES
Part 4 - INTRODUCTIONS
Part 5 - TEMPTATIONS
Part 6 - UNDERGROUND
Part 7 - OBSESSIONS
Part 8 - MARTYR
Part 9 - QUICKENING
Part 10 - TENDENCIES
Teaser chapter
“Sizzling-hot vampires served up Southern style! Elle Jasper is a wicked-cool writer!”
—New York Times bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks
DON’T TEASE ME. . . .
“The monster in me is still there, just below the surface,” Eli continued, and his lips barely grazed the skin on the side of my neck. I shuddered, and I know he felt it. “Never forget that. Even with your Gullah magic inside you, I can smell your unique blood,” he said, his mouth next to my ear. He inhaled a long, deep breath. “You have no idea how much of a temptation you are to me, Riley Poe,” he said, the slight French accent making his voice erotic. “No . . . idea how much control I truly have not to simply taste what rushes through your veins, with barely more than a paper-thin layer of skin to stop me.” I shivered as his breath rushed over my neck.
With what strength I had, I pushed hard against him to escape; he easily turned me around, and now we were face-to-face, body to body, and panic etched into my brain. Exerting the slightest pressure, he bent me backward until I felt the cool iron handrail press against my back. I felt every hard ridge and muscle Eli possessed pressing into me. And I mean every one. His eyes searched mine, then dropped to my mouth, where they lingered. “Vampiric cravings aren’t the only ones I possess, but they’re the only ones I can halfway control, heightened times a hundred by what I am.” He dropped his head close, his lips a breath away. “Don’t tease me again, Riley, unless you mean it. I can’t promise that kind of control.” He lifted his head and stared, his eyes dark as he searched mine. “I don’t think you could handle me.”
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First Printing, November 2010
Copyright © Elle Jasper, 2010
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To Ben Burnley and Breaking Benjamin, this is for you.
Your lyrics echoed Riley’s thoughts, and your music
guided me throughout the writing of Afterlight.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Scores of people contribute to the birth of a novel, and so I’d like to thank the following for their time, friendship, encouragement, and hard work for the birth of Afterlight.
To my husband, Brian, son, Kyle, and daughter, Tyler, for their love, encouragement, and enthusiasm. You are all my love and joy! And for Kyle’s gorgeous Lyndsee, who always reads my books, and for Tyler’s adorable Jonathan, who genuinely wants to know the progress of whatever current project I’m on. Thanks, guys!
To my mom, Dale, who is my biggest cheerleader and best friend, and Ray, my dad, who chats my books up with any and all who will listen. I love you both!
To my beautiful sisters, Sheri, Tracy, and Nikki, and sweet brothers-in-law, Jerry, Jordan, and Will, who believe in me and always support me. To my brothers, Vince and David, and the rest of my enormous family who always chats up my books!
To my sister writer and pal Kim Lenox, who has encouraged me via phone, e-mail, and text endlessly throughout the years. We’re gonna kick BUTT!
To my crazy pals Betty, Chapper, and Grandmother, for traipsing around Savannah’s historic district in the rain with me, and Bonaventure Cemetery for those perfect, inspiring photos, as well as to Bunt, Mol, Walowee, Bhingaling, Vic, Lay-ha, and Anna—thanks to all of you for your treasured friendship and constant encouragement. To Kelly, for phrases like “Oh, Father.” I love you guys! You’re all so nass!
To my sister writer and pal Leah Brown, for the fabulous Strigoi aspect of Afterlight, and for the high-octane enthusiasm, friendship, and cheering. Mu-ah!
To my sister writer and pal Virginia Farmer, for all the support and great ideas and encouragement. Hugs!
To my Denmark Sisterhood, who are always cheering me on!
To Victorian and Valerian (yes, they’re brothers and they’re REAL!), for the use of their awesomely cool names.
To my agent, Jenny Bent, and my editor, Laura Cifelli, and to Jesse Feldman, for all the support and leadership. Thank you, and to everyone else at NAL who worked on Afterlight! Your hard work is appreciated!
To Oceana Gottlieb, fabulous designer of Afterlight’s cover. Thank you so much! It is PERFECT!
To the band Breaking Benjamin, whose music totally rocks! I love you guys!
Finally, to Mike Cummings, owner of Inksomnia Tattoo in Alpharetta, Georgia, for allowing me to use his wicked-cool shop name for Riley’s. Thanks!!
PREFACE
Savannah, Georgia
City Market
October
Afterlight. According to the Gullah, it meant two things. One: darkness or dusk. Two: death, the life after, or beyond. I’m familiar with both.
Death I’ve known for a long time. I’ve seen it firsthand, and
it left a gruesome imprint in my mind that will haunt me forever. But like most crappy things that have happened in my life, I’ve just dealt with it, and maybe death has made me stronger. One thing I’ve learned is no matter how you face it, and no matter the situation, there’s one constant present: finality. There’s no getting around it.
My vision blurred as I watched the rain pelt the window of the corner booth where I sat at Molly McPherson’s pub, and I blinked to see clearly through the evening shower outside. God, I wanted a smoke, but these days it made me want to puke, so I fished out a piece of nic gum from my bag and popped it into my mouth. October twenty-third, nine p.m., and it was rainy and warm—nearly seventy-five degrees. Nothing was the same anymore, and although the changes were subtle to most, to me they were in-my-face obvious. I knew things others didn’t, and to be perfectly honest, I’m as glad as hell. I’d much rather be totally prepared to face my fears and enemies head-on than be sucker punched because of ignorance—no matter how innocent. And trust me—I was ready. Beneath my short gauzy skirt, the weight of a pure silver blade rested against my bare thigh as a constant reminder.
“Hey, Riley, you want another pint?” The shout crossed the small pub and caught my attention.
I lifted a hand at Martin, the bartender, and shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m good.” He winked and grinned and went about his business. Molly’s wasn’t too packed tonight, but the constant mumble of patrons was a low drone inside my head. If I stayed much longer, my temples would start to throb.
With the palm of my hand I wiped the moisture from the window and scanned the busy, lamplit cobbled streets of Congress Street and City Market. I spotted him beneath the awning at Belford’s. Jesus—how long had he been standing there? Even though I couldn’t see his cerulean blue eyes at such a distance, I knew that Eli had absolutely no trouble at all seeing me, and that his gaze locked solidly onto mine. An unstoppable, relentless thrill shot through my veins, and I shuddered. He stood there for a moment, watching me, and when he stepped into the throng of people out on the wet Friday night, he moved easily through the crowd toward me, effortless and commanding—almost floating. His features were young, flawless, and ancient all at once. Dark brown hair swept tousled and sideways across his forehead, giving him an easygoing, sexy look. It stood stark against the palest, most beautiful skin.
As I watched him grow closer, his features became clearer, and I realized just how deceptive looks really could be. For instance, to most I probably looked like a total freak, with black hair and red-fuchsia highlights, tall leather boots, a fishnet tee, and pale skin with bloodred lips. And I’m pretty positive the dragon tattoos—visible beneath the fishnet—that crept from my lower back up my spine and down both arms made people do a double take, as did the ebony angel wing inked into the skin at the corner of my left eye. I didn’t mind—although an angel I was not. I may not look it, but I’m probably the most responsible person I know. Now, anyway. I’ve a successful business, I pay my bills on time, and after I cleaned up my act I did a pretty good job raising my little brother. So while I was scrutinized, Eli blended right in, and it intrigued me to see him interact with people; they were clueless, oblivious to what was right beneath their noses despite the faultless, boyish, breathtaking good looks and charm. I wasn’t. Not anymore.
The bad thing, and this I knew with complete clarity, was that I’d die for him. And if such a thing were possible, he’d die for me. Was that love? Obsession? Maybe it was both. But it was definitely something powerful, and I no longer had control over it. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once. Talk about a high. It topped any drug I’d ever done.
I scooted from the booth and stood, dropped a five-dollar bill on the table, and waved good-bye to Martin as I headed out into the now-constant drizzle. As the distance between us grew shorter, I could finally see the lamplight shine off his disturbing eyes as they searched mine, and my heart slammed against my ribs. I knew that there were much greater horrors, and sorrows, than death. Unimaginable things that just a few short months ago I would have vehemently disputed ever existed. Vampires. They’re real. They exist. And they’re so not what you think they are.
And I was utterly, irrevocably in love with one.
“You know, looking back now I can nail the
exact moment everything around me changed.
What’s funny is, I noticed it right away, but it
never really registered. I just didn’t get it. Not
until later, after I realized vampires existed.
Know what it was? Cicadas. The moment it
happened, the cicadas silenced. I’ve not heard
even one, much less the thousands that filled
every single summer night since I was a kid.
They were my white noise, and they’ve gone.
Fled. And it’s annoyingly quiet around here.
How effed up is that?”
—Riley Poe
Part 1
DISTURBANCES
I am not afraid to die having thought of the issues of a dying hour.
—Anonymous epitaph, Bonaventure Cemetery
Savannah, Georgia
Bonaventure Cemetery
August, after midnight
“Poe, you wiener, get your ass over here!”
“Shut up! I ain’t a wiener!”
Broken, adolescent male laughter echoed through the night air, and if I hadn’t been so damn mad, I’d have laughed, too. Something about hearing a group of idiotic pubescent fifteen-year-old boys say wiener just cracked me up. But right then, I wanted to strangle all four of them—especially the wiener. My younger brother, Seth. That little butthead knew I’d check up on him—especially when his plan included sleeping over at Riggs Parker’s house. Yet there I was, after midnight on a Friday night, peering through the fence surrounding Bonaventure Cemetery. After I’d worked all day. With the moon a waning crescent, shining through the canopy of trees, I could vaguely see their skinny little Levi’s weave and dart through the aged headstones and shadows.
Sleepover at Riggs’ house, my ass. They probably all told their parents they were sleeping over at each other’s houses. Didn’t they realize you can’t con a con? Guess not, because here I stood in the middle of the freaking night, just to make sure my little brother kept out of trouble. I watched them edge toward the back of the cemetery, and I followed down the fence line toward one particular live oak, stepping over several gnarled roots—not easy for those inexperienced in six-inch-heel boots. But I’d managed that fine art during my partying days on the cobbles of River Street. I was a total pro. Finally, they got within earshot once again, and they were so busy shoving and calling each other perverted names that none of them even knew I was around. Good. I’d sneak up on them, scare the crap out of them, then drag them all home before someone called the cops.
I gave my outfit a quick glance and then gauged the challenge before me. It just figured that the day I wore my leather miniskirt and spike-heel boots to the shop, I had to scale an eight-foot chain-link fence. If Riggs’ mom had called a little earlier, I would have changed. But I’d locked up and hurried out, and when I’d caught sight of them on Victory, I never would have thought the goofballs would sneak into Bonaventure. It wasn’t as easy to do as it’d been when I was a teen. So there I was, skirt, spiked boots, and all. Good thing no one but the dead would see my hiniesca (high-nee-sca is a juvenile, made-up word for ass, and I use it frequently) when I shimmied over the top. I drew a deep breath and gripped the bars with both hands. Even in hot, muggy August, the dew-covered steel felt cool beneath my palms. I found the old notches in the oak—the same ones my friends and I had used back in my wild days—dug the toe of one boot into the gash, and stretched my other leg out until it hooked the top of the fence. I used to hate being so tall, but once again my five-foot-nine-inch frame came in handy. Using my stomach and arms, I braced myself and eased my other leg up and over, then slowly slid to the ground. My skirt caught on the damp stee
l and inched completely up around my waist, and my heels sunk into the mossy dirt as I landed. I swore silently, pulled my heels free, yanked my skirt back down, and crouched, listening. Those little pecker-heads would pay for this.
A crash followed by a string of swears cut through the still air and drifted to my ears. What in the hell were they up to? Easing through the damp moss and fallen oak leaves, I made my way to the far back corner of the cemetery, close to the river; I followed their voices silently. I probably knew every single headstone at Bonaventure—my friends and I used to camp out here on a regular basis back in the day. Sick, I know, but true. Smoking joints while jumping headstones wasn’t my proudest moment in life, but neither was having sex against one. For the record, I gave up joints and grave jumping a few years back. Sex I still had, just not against headstones. As I crept closer, I dodged and toed my way around pinecones and cockleburs, pushing aside the long hanks of Spanish moss that dangled from the branches. Finally, beneath the shadows and moonlight, the boys came into view, and I stared, dumbstruck, as Seth and his pals disappeared into an old crypt.
That explained the crash. Damn—even I’d never done that, and I’d done a lot of crazy crap. But knowing what I knew from the Gullah? Hell and double no. I couldn’t believe Seth was going along with it. The name on that particular crypt was ancient; the words were nearly sanded flat with the stone, the rest covered by sap, moss, and age. Couldn’t read but maybe one or two letters at best. Preacher—a well-respected Gullah elder, herbalist, and conjurer, as well as a practiced hoodooist—had been a grandfather figure to me and Seth since Mom’s death. He’d called it da hell stone and told us a long time ago to stay away from it. When a Gullah conjurer warned you about something, you’d better believe it was nasty-bad. If you had even a scrap of gray matter in your crane-cap, you’d listen. They were descendants of the Africans brought to the eastern seaboard during the slave trade, and they knew some wicked-bad magic. Dark stuff. Some voodoo, some hoodoo, some traditional root medicine and herbal cures, some conjuring. All of it highly respected in the Gullah community. Jesus, Seth must have lost his friggin’ mind. I listened for a few seconds; the deafening cacophony of cicadas nearly drowned out the boys’ low chatter inside the old tomb. Damn, those bugs were loud.
