Vampires of the Caribbean

by Debra Dunbar

  “Not all of them,” she said before she could stop herself.

  “Thank the Fates for that at least.” He gave a bark of laughter.

  She moved past him, and was relieved that he allowed her to do so without stopping her. “I’ve work to do if we’re going to try and get closer to them before the storm.”

  “Carry on, then, captain,” he said with a gallant bow and sweep of his arm. “I’ll enjoy being out on the deck for the short time before the sun rises.”

  Chapter 5

  Raine had to curl his fingers into his palms to keep from touching her as she walked past. Between the luscious scent that was Arial Bonny and the fact that she carried a hint of fresh blood from her recent meal, not to mention the fact that merely kissing her made him lose his mind, he was in sad shape.

  It was probably best if he let her go back to the captain’s chamber alone, with that huge bed and tempting bath tub, while he remained in the moonlight.

  But even as he allowed her to pass on by, as he denied himself what he wanted most violently, Lucifer’s Mark over the back of his shoulder throbbed and twisted. Luce was not pleased with Raine’s sacrifice, and he indicated that displeasure through the rootlike brand that represented Raine’s damaged soul.

  But the pain was a welcome distraction from the wild fascination Raine felt for the female pirate, and so he focused on that as he stared out over the black sea.

  Now he could smell the storm brewing in the distance. Chilly, musky, and dark. At least if heavy clouds obstructed the sun, he’d be able to spend more time on the deck and less time—

  Raine stilled, his breath clogging as he felt the strength begin to leech from his body. Pine needles, a pine bough, something…somewhere nearby. Somewhere on this ship. But how, and—

  He turned as a shadow emerged from the stairway leading to the belowdeck. Glowing red eyes burned in the night, and before he even saw it, Raine knew the man was holding an evergreen branch.

  His Asthenia—his Achilles’ Heel. The one thing in the world that would weaken him, bring him to his knees. It wouldn’t kill him; the only way to do that was to cut off his head or stake him in the heart with a wooden pike. Or let him fry in the sun for days.

  But the proximity of his Asthenia—different for each member of the Dracule—made him helpless as a babe. Paralyzed. And in enormous, tortuous pain.

  “Who are you?” he managed to say, fighting to hide his growing weakness as the prickles of a thousand tiny knives cut into him.

  The man stepped into a shaft of moonlight, holding a thumb-sized piece of evergreen delicately in his fingertips. His fangs glinted in the moonlight. “You don’t remember me, St. Albans?”

  Raine’s thoughts wanted to turn to mush, but he battled back the encroaching weakness. He was still standing, and he might have one good lunge at the creature in front of him. If he could knock the pine needles from his hand, he might be able to survive…

  “I’m afraid not,” he managed to say with great disdain. As if the man wasn’t worth his time to recall. Though he did seem slightly familiar.

  “More’s the pity for you, there, since you won’t know who it was that killed you.”

  Before Raine’s thoughts could catch up with the need to react, the man rushed at him—and it all happened so quickly.

  Raine smashed into the railing, and then before he could catch his shaky breath, his attacker grabbed him by the shirt and wrestled him over the side.

  But as he did so, the evergreen finger slipped from his grip and tumbled harmlessly away. Raine felt the surge of his strength returning, and with a triumphant groan, caught the nose of one of the Lass’s cannon heads as he plummeted toward the churning sea.

  He held on for a moment, breathing heavily and catching his thoughts, and then fury galvanized him. He crawled along the cannon toward the ship and managed to squeeze through the opening safely inside.

  But his assailant had anticipated him, and no sooner had Raine’s hands touched the floor than the attacker was there, swinging at him with the cannon’s long, metal plunger.

  He rolled out of the way in the nick of time, receiving only a glancing blow over the back of his legs.

  “Who sent you?” Raine scrambled to his feet, ducking and spinning, and now, his own eyes blazing hot with fury and his fangs long and ready, he flung himself at the other man.

  “You don’t know?” hissed the vampire as they fought to grab hold of the other in a wild parody of embrace. The space was small, and they slammed into the wall, and grappled wildly—fangs flashing and limbs pounding.

  “Moldavi,” Raine guessed—it had to be. “How did he—” His breath was knocked out as the other man landed a punch to the gut, but when he doubled over, Raine reared back up suddenly and caught his opponent in the head with his own.

  Though his nameless attacker had originally had the advantage of surprise, Raine more than compensated with his anger and strength now that the remnants of the pine bough’s affect were gone. He dodged a fist, and, grabbing the man by his shoulders, whipped him into the wall, then spun around and crashed his head into the cannon.

  The other vampire cried out with pain and fury, and kicked out, catching Raine in the side of his torso, knocking some of the breath from him. But he was undeterred, and slammed his fist into the man’s face. Blood poured from his assailant’s nose, and the scent of it only fueled his rage.

  He tore and kicked, pummeled, and then went for the other vampire’s throat—plunging his fangs deeply, and goring him with his sharp teeth. Hot, thick blood rushed over his lips and tongue and drove him to further violence. He tore, punched, kicked, and drank. The blood from Moldavi’s make—his minion—was tainted with that of the evil vampire lord, but it fueled Raine and fed the inherent violent tendencies of his kind.

  At last his bloodlust eased, and he stepped back, chest heaving, and swiped a hand over his mouth. What was left of the vampire was hardly more than ribbons of flesh and muscle, and the gleaming hint of white bones beneath the mess.

  Raine heard a noise behind him and turned to see Arial standing there. Her eyes were wide and shocked, her face pale in the lantern light.

  Behind her loomed Bladsoe, casting a broad, wicked shadow, along with several other crew members.

  They were all staring at him, but the horror and disgust in Arial’s eyes was all that he saw.

  “Put him in the brig,” she said, her expression cold and hard.

  “Arial,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I need to speak—”

  “It’s captain,” she snarled. “And you need do nothing. Put him in the brig,” she snapped at her crew. “Now.”

  Raine couldn’t blame them for hesitating, considering the mincemeat he’d made of the vampire on the ground. And the fact that he himself was bloodied from head to toe.

  He considered making a break for it—he could easily fight his way through the five or six crew members; especially in this small space. But if he did that, he was announcing both guilt and regret—neither of which he possessed for defending himself.

  And he’d have to give up his mission.

  And he’d have to leave Arial Bonny.

  Instead, he allowed himself to be manhandled into the iron cage.

  Chapter 6

  Arial was numb.

  She couldn’t believe he’d done what he’d done.

  Though she herself had torn into flesh with talon and beak, it hadn’t been like that. It was a natural activity for the wild, it was required for the sort of creature she was.

  But apparently, pointless, horrific violence was part of St. Albans’ life as well. She’d almost believed otherwise.

  The smell of blood lingered from the death of one of her crew members. How dare he do such a thing? How dare he assault her sailor? How dare he lose control like that? How could he do that to a man?

  How could he?

  Thank God she hadn’t let him feed on her. Arial felt ill. Lightheaded and nauseated. And ver
y, very weary. And sad. She’d had such a connection to him, and now…

  She knew better.

  Arial paced her quarters, having dismissed a concerned Bladsoe shortly after returning from the brig. Somehow he sensed there was something more to this than the captain disciplining a man.

  The sun would rise soon, and she had a decision to make: did she continue on the mission Corvindale had asked her to take on—without St. Albans’ help—or did she call it all off and return to Barbados?

  And either way, what did she do with St. Albans?

  She was, she admitted to herself, shocked that he’d allowed himself to be jailed at all. The fact that he’d surrendered so readily seemed odd. The way he looked at her—without a hint of the ferocity that surely had fired him to destroy a man as he’d done—dug deeply into her gut.

  It almost made her wonder if —if there was something she was missing.

  She almost started for the door. Maybe she should speak with him. Let him explain.

  But she never allowed any sort of violence on her vessel. Any crew member who caused any problem was locked in the brig—just as St. Albans had been. It was a necessary, unbending rule for a vessel at sea.

  I should sleep instead, she told herself.

  Tomorrow—whatever she decided to do—would be a difficult day. She’d either be fighting through a storm, attacking the Devil’s Target, or betraying a promise made to the Earl of Corvindale that would help to bring down Cezar Moldavi.

  She would not think of St. Albans.

  He was there…in her dreams. Strong, warm, sensual. His mouth teased the corner of hers, nibbling at her lips, nuzzling her chin and along the bare expanse of her throat and shoulders.

  Arial sighed, shivering beneath the delicious, prickling sensations. Her body was hot and liquid, pleasure fluttered through her as his warm breath gusted over her damp skin.

  St. Albans, she thought desperately. Why did you do it?

  She planted a hand on his chest, felt the ridge of solid muscle there, the light covering of hair sprinkled over his pectorals…

  “Arial,” he murmured, and covered her breast with a large, warm hand. “My enticing captain.”

  St. Albans…how could you lose control like that?

  “Arial…you know I control myself. You saw me.” His mouth was doing amazing things to her in the dream. Hot, sleek, insistent.

  She moaned and shivered, and then, somehow, she slipped back into the lull of slumber…but now, she was accompanied by the remnants of the dream.

  When Arial awoke, it was to a knock at the door of her quarters. She opened her eyes to see the gray light of dawn filtering through the windows of her cabin—or perhaps it was merely the sun fighting through storm clouds.

  “Yes, Bladsoe. Come in.”

  He poked his head inside the door as she sat up. “The brig is empty. St. Albans is gone.”

  She stiffened with astonishment. “Gone?” she repeated, then sagged back onto her pillow.

  How?

  And then she remembered the dream. Her heart gave a little leap and she touched her lips, then her chin and throat where he’d kissed and nuzzled and licked. Surely he wouldn’t have come in here…surely he wouldn’t have risked it.

  It was a dream.

  But then, as she rose from her bed, she saw a finger-length brown and black feather on the table. It hadn’t been there when she went to sleep.

  And then she knew.

  Raine St. Albans might be gone, but she’d see him again.

  And then she’d have to decide what to do with him.

  To read more about Colleen Gleason’s

  Draculia Vampires

  in 19th Century London

  (including the broody Earl of Corvindale

  and vampire hunter Chas Woodmore)

  download

  Dark Rogue

  for FREE!*

  Click here to download the full-length novel, or go to:

  http://cgbks.com/VampireAtSeaFREEBIE

  Raine St. Albans and Arial Bonny return

  in the special story collection titled

  Taming the Shifter

  coming October 2017!

  Sign up for Colleen Gleason’s newsletter for pre-order and release information:

  http://cgbks.com/shifternews

  *newsletter subscription required

  About the Author

  Colleen Gleason is an award-winning, New York Times and USA Today best-selling author. She’s written more than forty novels in a variety of genres—something for everyone!

  She loves to hear from readers, so feel free to find her online.

  Subscribe to Colleen’s non-spam newsletter for updates, news, and special offers!

  http://cgbks.com/news

  Connect with Colleen online:

  @colleengleason

  Colleen.Gleason.Author

  www.colleengleason.com

  books@colleengleason.com

  Also by Colleen Gleason

  The Gardella Vampire Hunters

  Victoria

  The Rest Falls Away

  Rises the Night

  The Bleeding Dusk

  When Twilight Burns

  As Shadows Fade

  Macey/Max Denton

  Roaring Midnight

  Raging Dawn

  Roaring Shadows

  Raging Winter

  Roaring Dawn

  The Draculia Vampire Trilogy

  Dark Rogue

  Dark Saint

  Dark Vixen

  Spooky Romantic Mysteries

  The Shop of Shades and Secrets

  The Cards of Life and Death

  The Gems of Vice and Greed

  Stoker & Holmes Books

  (for ages 12-adult)

  The Clockwork Scarab

  The Spiritglass Charade

  The Chess Queen Enigma

  The Marina Alexander Adventure Novels

  (writing as C. M. Gleason)

  Siberian Treasure

  Amazon Roulette

  Sanskrit Cipher (forthcoming)

  Writing as Alex Mandon

  The Belle-Époque Mystery series

  Murder on the Champs-Élysées

  A Vampire’s Life For Me

  by Nikki Jefford

  Chapter 1

  The holidays were over and with them color had leached from the sky leaving behind a solid gray that entombed New York City from every angle. Not to be outdone by the vault of gloom, the wind and rain surged sideways against the apartments at Central Park West, scattering heavy raindrops across the windowpanes.

  Two white porcelain mugs were centered on placemats at our small square table. A hardbacked tome, two inches thick, rested beside a cup of tea with steam rising, like breath fogging the winter air. I seated myself opposite the book to drink warmed blood from the most boring mug on the planet. In this day and age there was simply no excuse for a cup without character, but Joss stubbornly refused to serve my a.m. snack from the Mornings Bite novelty mug I’d been so thrilled to find. The design included bite marks below a clever font that dripped like blood.

  Joss had not found it amusing, but then, nothing amused so much as annoyed my nineteenth century British friend. Being buried alive in a mass grave had given Joss a sour taste for humanity—so much so that he only drank their blood when reaching the point of collapse. As a result, Joss looked pale and gaunt near constantly, appearing more like a sickly young man on his last legs than one who would live forever.

  Drinking blood had never been a problem for me. I’d always been a “grab life by the teeth” kind of vamp. Carpe the death out of diem!

  Joss and I made an unlikely pair. Our New York friends called us the Odd Couple. The melancholy British vamp and the living-it-large Italian, Francesco “Fane” Donado.

  But as Joss took a seat, head bent, mind on his book before his eyes had even hit the page, it struck me this was all beginning to feel maddeningly mundane . . . the very antithesis of being a supernatur
al being.

  As Joss sipped, eyes ever on the page, the unrest began to build inside me as surly as the rain clouds high above the city haze. Seven and a half years in New York City. Way past overdue for a change of scenery. I would have departed years ago if it hadn’t been the first place Joss seemed somewhat content. But Joss knew what life with a restless Italian vamp entailed. That didn’t stop him from complaining, but he’d pack it all up if I told him to. He’d been following me around since the moment he crawled out of that body pit in England and looked up to see me searching the stinking mass grave for anyone like me.

  Undead.

  The change didn’t involve biting as popular fiction portrayed. It involved something far less romantic. Disease. I’d spent the better part of two centuries trying to get to the bottom of it. After searching the world over, I’d found a commonality. Blood type. All the undead had AB negative or AB positive blood. We had contracted diseases that should have been fatal but had instead triggered something altogether different in our biological evolution.

  For me it had been the plague in Venice.

  I would have thought there would have been something about it in the news by now, but the secret remained buried or, more likely, covered up like those bodies from long ago.

  Joss turned a page of his book without looking up while I lifted the mug to my lips.

  The first sip of morning blood sang down my throat and zinged through my veins, quickening my pulse.

  As Joss kept his narrow nose pointed at the pages opened over the table, I scrolled through emails on my phone, coming across one from my friend Cassie with a link to an article in the Bermuda Sun.