Dark Wine at Midnight (A Hill Vampire Novel Book 1)

by Jenna Barwin

  She shook her head. Not enough time. She looked at the trail leading past Gaea’s, and took it. No harm in leaving the van behind. Jayden could pick it up after sunrise.

  * * *

  Henry opened his eyes to see a gun pointed at his heart. “If you want something done right,” a woman said, “do it yourself.”

  She removed her mask and took out a phone.

  “Blanche,” Henry croaked.

  “It won’t be long. Just need to prove it was me.” Using her phone’s camera, she fired off a few photos of him lying on the Spanish pavers covering his porch, and then turned around to take a selfie standing over him.

  “There, sent.” She smiled at him, the same stupid, coy smile she’d used on him before. “What, didn’t ya want to see your girlfriend?” she asked, leaning over him. “I never took you for a chicken. But when you didn’t show up—”

  “You wrote the note?” Henry asked, his voice raspy.

  “I even stole a piece of Cerissa’s underwear from her laundry basket before I left Gaea’s. Rubbed it on the page—betcha it fooled even the great Henry Bautista.”

  He convulsed and doubled over on his side. He panted a few breaths to control the pain. “Why?” he gasped.

  “Don’t think by keeping me talking, Tig’ll show up to rescue you. She’s on the other side of the mountain by now, chasing some stupid mountain lion.” Blanche stuffed the mask and phone into her back pocket. “But the answer to your question is simple: revenge.”

  Then he caught a sound, the rustle of leaves in the oak grove by his garage. Someone was there. Why hadn’t Blanche heard it?

  “Revenge?” Henry asked with great effort.

  She laughed. “Don’t you get it? With your death, the wars will start again.”

  He started coughing, tasting his own blood on his lips. “Wars?”

  “Yeah, wars.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and shoved it into his bathrobe pocket. “Thanks to this email, everyone will believe New York is behind this. The shooters I hired were supposed to carry the same email from Leopold, but the stupid idiots couldn’t even get that right.”

  “Leopold ordered my death?”

  She spat on the ground. “You are dumb, aren’t ya? Leopold isn’t involved. I spoofed his email address, but everyone will think he ordered you killed. That email will make sure of it. I was gonna kill Cerissa too, make it look like she tried to kill you on his orders, but this will have to do.”

  “Who—”

  “Listen up. I’m never going hungry again. Not this girl. And I’m not going to work my ass off pretending to be mortal, playing by the rules you and the others like you forced on the rest of us. Hypocrites. You know what Leopold said to me when I came to him for a loan to try and dig myself out after losing everything to those stupid derivatives? He offered to give me a job. A job! Fucking asshole. Well, now he won’t be laughing.”

  “But he offered to help….” Henry stopped, the pain tearing through him.

  “Work? You think that’s help? You made your fortunes stealing from mortals, but no, we can’t. So tell me, how many humans did you kill to get rich before the treaty was signed?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone for money.”

  A twig snapped in the oak grove. She didn’t seem to notice it. Who was there?

  “Yeah, right,” she said. “Well, fuck you and your treaty. We’re going to shred the damn thing and replace it with something better.

  “We?”

  “I’m going to be one of the Brethren, one of the ones served by mankind.”

  Brethren. Not a name he knew, but something clicked, something Cerissa said. The vampire dominance movement—was it real?

  Blanche pointed her gun in the direction of the town hall. “What you built—you had the right idea. You just didn’t go far enough, you and the others like you, a bunch of weak, tame bloodsuckers. We were always meant to be in charge, not just inside your walls, but out there.” She swung her arm around to point at Mordida. “You might as well bring a cow into your house and give ole Bossy her own room. Mortals should be our prey, not our partners.”

  The woods were silent again. Who was in the oak grove and why didn’t they do something?

  “Will you allow me a final prayer?” he whispered, doing the only thing his fuzzy brain could think of to stall for time. With great effort, his hand moved to the chain at his neck. He pulled it out and displayed the crucifix.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “But make it quick, unless you’d rather roast to death when the sun’s rays hit you.”

  He wrapped his hand around the cross and closed his eyes. He began David’s Psalm, the one about shepherds and not fearing death. He no longer feared death.

  By the fourth verse, the Psalm on his lips became blurry, his brain struggling against the effects of the silver, the pain in his gut cutting the words from his mind. He heard the rustle of movement again, followed by a low growl. A gun fired. Blanche’s scream told him all he needed to know. Someone had come to his rescue. Perhaps too late to save his life, but at least Blanche would die, too. He took a breath, just to know what it felt like one last time, and commended his soul to God.

  * * *

  “Henry, wake up, please, wake up.”

  Cerissa’s voice. What was Cerissa doing here? If Tig catches her here, the council will cast her out for good. I can’t let—

  The searing pain reached his brain, stopping all thought, waking him to the present. His eyes blinked open, and he focused on the wrought-iron chandelier above him. No memory of being moved to his foyer. Cerissa knelt next to him, naked, her bare arms streaked with blood. My blood.

  He turned his head. Blanche lay on the tiles nearby. Bloody drag marks led from the open door to Blanche’s body.

  “Please, Henry,” Cerissa said, her voice finally making sense. “What should I do? I removed the bullets. Will that be enough? They don’t teach this kind of thing in medical school. What do you need?”

  Henry lifted his head—his bathrobe was open and someone had played tic-tac-toe with a knife on his stomach. The incisions, made where each bullet entered, still burbled blood, coating his skin. A thin, sharp kitchen knife, one he used to gut fish, lay next to him on the floor. His silk boxer shorts, the ones with the pink flamingos, were coated dark red. He’d never intended for Cerissa to see them. Oh well, too late now.

  Her bloodstained fingers held up a silver bullet. “I took out all five slugs. I counted the shells just to be sure.” She placed the bullet on the floor next to Blanche. “What do I do now? Will your skin close on its own, or do I need to stitch the holes?”

  At first the words wouldn’t come out. She must have sensed what he needed, and looked at her own wrist. She hesitated—her front teeth bit into her lower lip and her face struggled with some unspoken emotion. Why didn’t she want to give him her blood? Whatever caused her uncertainty, he knew she’d come to a decision when her green eyes met his again. She wiped off the knife on his bathrobe and opened a vein in her wrist, holding it over his lips.

  Not exactly the way he’d planned to take her blood, but right now he couldn’t be picky. He sucked deeply, gratefully, feeling the metallic tang wet his voice.

  “Call Yacov,” he whispered against her wrist. “I need his blood.”

  “Rolf is closer.”

  “Rolf is too young. Yacov’s blood is stronger; it will heal silver necrosis. Bring me my cell phone…kitchen table…I should make the call.” He pushed her wrist aside, and Cerissa sprinted toward the kitchen.

  He looked over at Blanche. The teeth of a large animal had ripped out Blanche’s throat, the claws splitting her body open from neck to belly. Blanche’s still-beating heart had been scooped out, and lay on the tile floor next to her. The sinewy organ gasped with each pump like a waterless goldfish. The jagged edge of the aorta’s floppy tube jiggled with the effort. Until someone put a stake through it, Blanche wouldn’t die her final death.

  Cerissa rounded the corner at
a run and skidded on the slick blood, dropping to her knees next to him again. She handed him the phone.

  The call to Yacov didn’t take fifteen seconds.

  “He’s on his way,” Henry said. He held out the phone for her to take, but it slipped from his fingers. She caught it.

  “Where is Tig?” he asked, assuming she had been the one who butterflied Blanche’s chest.

  “She’s not here.”

  “She left?” He continued to stare at the damage done to Blanche’s body.

  “No,” Cerissa said, hesitating. “Tig’s up on the mountain.”

  Then who attacked Blanche? And what brought Cerissa here in time to perform surgery? He couldn’t figure it out.

  “Why are you here?” he asked weakly.

  “I received a letter from you.”

  “It wasn’t from me,” he said. Pain shot through him, and he held his breath until it passed. “Blanche sent it. I got one, too.”

  “I knew something wasn’t right.” She used a finger to hook her hair behind one ear, leaving a smear of blood on her jaw in the process. “I was on the mountain, waiting for you, when Blanche arrived with a rifle. After an hour, she left, hiking in this direction. That’s why I followed her. When she took the trail to your house, I came down the dirt road by Rolf’s vineyard so she wouldn’t see me.”

  “You hiked that distance? I don’t see how….” His throat dried up again. Reaching for her arm, he reopened the wound with his tongue and drank the precious liquid again until his voice returned. He didn’t understand what had happened—the mountain range was ten miles of steep trails and rough terrain. Cerissa couldn’t have hiked that far.

  “Explain,” he finally whispered.

  “Tig is tenacious. I couldn’t hang around to warn you. She kept following me, so I led her near Blanche’s hiding spot, but Tig didn’t sense her presence.”

  “Tig was consumed by the hunt—it blocks out all other scents.”

  “Tell me about it. I finally gave her the slip and flew down here. I wish I’d gotten here sooner.”

  “Flew? You flew?” He took a few more pulls on her wrist.

  “Then I had to change back to being a cougar—I couldn’t attack her in my native form.”

  His eyes widened as he understood what Cerissa was telling him. He released her wrist. “You were the puma? You said you aren’t a werewolf—”

  “No, Henry, I’m not a were-anything. I’m your guardian angel.” She smiled down at him. “Third time I’ve saved your life now.”

  “Do not joke. Tell me the truth.”

  “I am.”

  The sky, visible through the open doorway, turned lighter—no time to discuss it now. “You should leave before Yacov arrives,” he said.

  “Not until I know you’re all right.”

  “You have done all you can. Yacov—his blood—he is old. It will cure my wounds.”

  “What if the silver had gone through your heart?”

  “We would not be having this conversation.” He glanced over at Blanche, whose disembodied heart still pulsed. Why hadn’t Cerissa rendered the death blow?

  Cerissa bit her lip again. “I should stay until he arrives.”

  “No. I can explain this somehow, but not if you’re here. The ban, it complicates things.” Why had she dragged Blanche in here? Now the tiles would have to be scrubbed clean. “We will not turn the body over to Tig. Yacov will accept my white lie, but Tig would not. So you must be gone, and Yacov will destroy Blanche’s heart.”

  He closed his eyes. His head spun, his focus fading. Had she said she flew here? Or had he imagined that part? Nothing made any sense. It didn’t matter. Her blood was inside him—she was his now. The council couldn’t take her away.

  “I love you,” she said, squeezing his hand tightly. “Henry? Open your eyes.” She patted his cheek, her voice rising. “Are you okay? Henry? Please don’t die. Please.”

  His lids slowly fluttered, until he was looking into her beautiful eyes again. “Don’t fear, mi amor. I will live forever.”

  “You’d better.”

  That brought a weak smile to his lips. He reached up to touch her face. “In two weeks we will be together, and no one will be able to separate us.”

  “You better believe it,” she said. “I didn’t save you to lose you.”

  He raised her wrist to his lips and kissed the red wound, tasting her blood on his lips one more time. He released his grip, and she held up her wrist so he could see. The cut began to fade, the skin smoothing out, the blood disappearing.

  She smiled at him, her sunny smile that meant everything to him.

  The sound of a car turning from the road to climb his driveway—she couldn’t be here when Yacov arrived.

  “Go. Now,” he commanded with all the authority he could muster. “And leave the door open for Yacov.”

  She leaned over him and kissed his forehead. A sense of peace washed over him, warming him to his core.

  “Be well,” she said.

  He watched her walk away. Still naked, she paused at the door and looked back at him. Then she was gone. Long white wings trailed to the ground behind her as she strode off.

  Wings? No, not possible. She’d called herself his guardian angel— No, my mind must be playing tricks on me.

  He tried to sit up so he could see her again, bracing himself on his elbow. If he did die, he wanted the last thing he saw to be her.

  There she was, walking across his lawn. Gracing her shoulders were beautiful, long white wings, just like the angels wore, the angels painted by the Renaissance masters. She raised them, took another step, and was gone.

  He lay back down on the cold tile floor, satisfied over seeing Cerissa one last time. Or would sunrise be the last thing he saw? He watched the sherbet-pink glow begin over the garage buildings. He had missed seeing the sun.

  The lingering tranquility brought on by her kiss began to fade. Perhaps Yacov wouldn’t make it in time and the sun’s rays would reach him here on the floor, ending it all. There were many reasons he deserved to die. If he just let go, he would fall into the dark abyss for all eternity.

  But what will happen to Cerissa?

  Cerissa. His heart expanded and gave a slow ka-thub. He loved her; he couldn’t lose her now. His mind took a step away from the edge, away from the darkness, away from oblivion, and he whispered a short prayer of gratitude.

  After all, with Cerissa in his life, his final walk through the valley of death could wait.

  Chapter 58

  Cerissa didn’t go far. She had to make sure Henry was all right. Perched in one of the large oak trees by Henry’s garage, she watched Yacov arrive and enter, pulling the door closed behind him, shutting out the impending dawn. A few quick flaps of her wings and she stood on Henry’s porch, her ear pressed against the heavy wooden door.

  “What happened?” Yacov asked.

  “Blanche shot me. Silver. I need your blood.”

  “Of course, my friend.”

  Silence fell. Yacov must be feeding him. She ran her thumb over the place in her wrist where Henry had taken her blood. She brought her wrist to her mouth, kissing the spot his lips had wrapped around. Sure, she’d used the knife instead of letting him bite her. What if fang venom sent her into a deep sleep or made her ill? She couldn’t take that risk, not with his life on the line.

  There would be plenty of time later to experiment. They were blood mates now. No one could change that—not even her people.

  But her immediate concern was Henry’s recovery. Would he really be all right? Yacov was the only person with him. The house wasn’t monitored, or someone working for Tig would have arrived by now. If Henry followed his usual pattern, he’d sleep in the basement. She had stayed in cougar form to follow Blanche. While she was sans clothes, her wristwatch had stayed on during her trek across the mountain. She glanced at it. Another twelve minutes before the sun fully rose. There was time.

  * * *

  Henry took another de
ep pull, feeling grateful for his close friendship with Yacov. A sizzling-cold energy zapped through him, his skin tightening as the wounds closed and the pain in his abdomen muted.

  “Are the bullets still in you?” Yacov asked.

  Henry didn’t stop gulping the savory fluid. His fingers swept the cold floor on which he lay, encountering the sticky pool of his own blood. He pointed to where the bullets lay on the floor next to a knife.

  Yacov nodded. “Perhaps you should stop now. I don’t need any more offspring.”

  His friend was right. He couldn’t risk going through the turn again and ending up a weak fledgling. He released Yacov’s arm. “Thank you,” he said. “The sun is almost up. You should sleep here.”

  “Have you called Tig?”

  He had no intention of reporting this to the chief. “I cannot.”

  “But it was self-defense.” Yacov looked uncertain, and his eyes slid toward the knife on the floor. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Cerissa was here. Tig cannot know.”

  “Aha,” Yacov said. “I thought I smelled the scent of another person.”

  “Tig knows Cerissa’s scent.”

  Yacov’s face bore a look of gentle reprimand that Henry knew all too well. “My friend, you must do the right thing and report this. Cerissa’s presence is a small matter, one that Tig will overlook.”

  Henry didn’t think Tig would forgive him that easily, but that wasn’t the real reason. “I do not want Tig seeing the body.”

  “You shouldn’t be ashamed,” Yacov replied, patting Henry’s shoulder. “The beast comes out when we’re threatened. I know all too well.”

  Henry shook his head. Yacov may think he was the one who ripped out Blanche’s heart, but Tig wouldn’t be as easy to fool. She’d test the fur on the body, find no corrupt vampire DNA, and want to know why. He couldn’t explain it—hell, he didn’t understand it himself.

  “Tig cannot see this,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Hmm.” Yacov leaned over Blanche’s body, looking more closely at the teeth marks. “You don’t want anyone knowing that you can still transform into a wolf?”