Once Bitten: A Vampire Urban Fantasy Mystery (Order of the Dragon: Wolf's Den)

by Tina Glasneck

  I wasn’t one to stick around and see if the man needed help. Whoever and whatever he was, he was dangerous. Next time, I’d make sure he wasn’t here.

  What sort of mess had Sunflower gotten herself into this time? I have to find her. This won’t wait until tomorrow.

  Chapter Two

  Alistair

  Rumor had it, the rogue vampires would attack that night.

  And Alistair McLeod lay in wait.

  He’d like nothing more than to break a neck or two.

  But so far all he’d been able to snap was his attention back to the apartment of the woman he was sworn to protect.

  His dragon’s scaly darkness crawled beneath his skin as the minutes ticked on.

  On the surface, no one looking on might have noticed the war brewing inside of the brooding man on the rooftop. Alistair stood stock-still, staring down into the seer’s apartment. Decked out in all-black leather, he blended into the shadows. In the city that never slept, Alistair ensured that during those hours of darkness, Leslie remained safe, and would then slide away before the rising sun.

  He bided his time. His orders from the goddess Freyja were clear: observe, protect, and keep his distance until he received new commands. Usually this method worked, but the rogues who were after Leslie were getting bolder.

  This was Beau Charming’s area, and Beau ran his pack with a tight grip. But Alistair couldn’t risk something happening to Leslie. Not, when he as the head of the Order, the Dragon Commander in Charge, needed to keep her safe. If Hunter, one of the wolves from Beau’s pack, hadn’t been following Leslie earlier today, who knew what might have happened?

  “All clear.” Alistair spoke into his com and waited for the response. Thus far, the night had been uneventful.

  Always obedient, he did just that. What might the cost be should he recklessly make contact with Leslie—his fated mate as pronounced by the gods? Yet, what of free will?

  A part of him wondered about the variance between the dynamic mixture of truth and lies that slipped from the gods’ tongues. Was this, too, a tongue-in-cheek ruse to make him yield? A promise of companionship always denied to him, perhaps?

  Thick clouds moved in, covering the orange crescent moon. Lightning started to sizzle across the sky in the distance. The scent of rain hung heavy in the air.

  Just as he couldn’t count the droplets of water to soon fall from the sky, he had no way of knowing if the promise of fated mates might work to his advantage or not.

  A part of him almost felt guilty for walking this minefield between divine protection and growing infatuation.

  The whole process could end up killing him.

  Alistair’s skin vibrated. His beastly eyes scanned the area for any unusual and bloodsucker activity falling on the woman who held his heart, and she didn’t even know he existed. A sigh escaped. Even from afar, the pain he’d once held on to, that Arctic Circle of barren coldness within him, melted more and more as he watched her.

  There, across from him, with her blinds open, she danced lively. Her auburn coiled curls bounced and sweat trickled down her brow, and her bronze skin glowed. Magic poured out of her, but she hadn’t a clue.

  Her laughter rang out as she fumbled a move.

  If he didn’t get a hold of himself, he should be ashamed as this surely bordered on stalking. And it broke his number one rule: distance.

  But the situation was complicated. If things had been normal, he’d have approached her, told her how beautiful she was, and asked her out on a proper date. His sigh morphed into a half-smile.

  His earbud beeped. “We have movement, sir,” Beau Charming said. He and two of the wolf soldiers, Hunter and Goose, were located on the street level, ensuring that all parts of the apartment building were secured.

  Alistair scanned right and left. Lifting his nose in the air, he suddenly caught the whiff of death.

  These, however, were not normal times.

  And the lone vampire walking down the street cemented his point.

  Vampires sucked, and thankfully hadn’t evolved to be more than cockroaches that infested the night. The day-walking variety was a rare exception. They’d creak out of their holes and search for prey. Most of the time, the wolf-shifters would take responsibility to watch over the humans, but the seer was extremely delicate—special even.

  Rushing to the edge of the six-story building, Alistair jumped, landing right behind the creeper into the refuse-filled alleyway. His footfalls cracked the asphalt, and in one swift move, he struck out at the rogue vampire, picked him up, and slammed him into the brick wall.

  “You know better than to be around these parts.” Alistair sneered.

  “So, it is true, then,” the vampire hissed, his fangs elongating, filling his small mouth. “This seer must be useful to call out the dragon prince from his perch in Scotland.”

  “And they’ve sent you, fool, a newling, to do reconnaissance.”

  “The battle is already lost. You don’t know what she is and have not been taught the truth.” The sanguisuge bastard leaned back his head and cackled. “We know she is the one. There is nothing that can be done to protect her from us and our master.”

  “Who do you serve now?”

  “In the days of the grand resurrection, the gods will fall, and the truth shall rise.” The vampire removed a lighter from his pocket. “We are legion.” He flicked the striker, and his shirt lit up in orange, blue, and purple flames.

  Alistair snatched his hand back and the magical fire grew, engulfing the body in an inextinguishable blaze. He cursed himself for not retrieving the answer he needed. This vampire’s death confirmed the Order’s activation.

  “Bollocks,” he roared when Beau came around the corner. “We have to move to phase two. We’ve been made, and the vamps are going to try something soon to get her.”

  “Wasn’t this their move?” Beau asked.

  Alistair shook his head. “No, this was them getting confirmation, even if it meant sacrificing their own.” He stared down at the ashes. “Grab what you can and get everything to Sethos so he can run an analysis.”

  “Yes, sir.” Beau bowed and snapped on gloves to go about sweeping the ashes into a small baggie.

  This was one time Alistair would have liked none other than Killian to be in New York. The vampires, once a mere irritation, now pushed a new agenda.

  The wind started to blow, picking up the ashes and sending them in a spiral.

  He watched as Beau’s task became like trying to capture grains of sand in his large palms. In that twisting wind gust, the ashes formed a pentagram shape that flashed brightly, holding the same purple color of the magical fire for a full second before quickly disappearing.

  The air tasted cotton-candy sweet. Magic moved through his divine blood, bringing forth a sweltering heat. Alistair’s dragon roared to life within him as the oxygen around them grew thinner. His skin puckered, producing black scales on his human hands and face.

  “Bloody hell! Hold your breath. It’s going to blow.” Alistair dove and tackled Beau to the ground, shielding the wolf-shifter with his body.

  In a bright bulb of purple and blue hues, the windy spiral imploded, sucking in the trash, the large garbage dumpster, and the ashes.

  Time stood still. Alistair could control nothing except his shapeshifting appearance. He had to wonder who and what he’d become. A god by blood, but not enough of one? His status was ever-changing. A minor god? Maybe.

  A lonely deity stuck on Earth? Absofuckinglutely.

  He pulled himself up, ignoring the stinging on his arms and back.

  “Your coat, sir,” Beau said.

  He didn’t need to take stock of what had happened. He could feel the cool breeze on his burnt skin. Instead, he pulled back his shoulders. Warriors remained focused on the task at hand. A semblance of control was all that rested in his hand, if nowhere else.

  With him injured, the enemies would strike. It would be the smart thing to do.

  Bea
u raised his com unit. “Hunter, get Sethos here. We need medical.”

  A bit stunned, Alistair shook his head and his gaze rose to land back on the apartment window where Leslie would be dancing and laughing, maybe. He teetered on shaky feet. Even as a mighty dragon-shifter, he couldn’t force love any more than he could make the world stop turning, but he could protect his unknowing beloved from the supernatural threats.

  “What the hell was that?” Beau asked.

  “The first glare of war. Leslie,” Alistair whispered, when a black unmarked van rolled up, and out stepped four more snarling vampires. “We have to protect her. Go.”

  He found his footing, and Beau dashed off.

  Alistair ripped off his burnt clothes, baring his bruised, battered, and dragon-scaled chest. He could feel his monster rising. Cracking his neck from side to side, he reloaded his arms for hand-to-hand combat.

  “You’re outnumbered.” One of the vampires sneered. He had to be the leader of the group.

  “I had no idea I’d signed up for a playdate,” Alistair quipped.

  “We don’t have anything to worry about,” the lead vampire said. “A dragon is useless on land.”

  “I’m never alone or useless,” Alistair countered.

  They flashed their teeth, and with magic gathered into the palm of his hand, he quickly morphed into a massive, scaled dragon with razor-sharp claws, serrated teeth, and a deep bellowing akin to a crocodile’s.

  The vampires took a hesitant step back. Growling wolves stood behind them, and the angry dragon moved ever closer, snapping his powerful jaws. He pulled the water droplets from the air, absorbing them into his skin.

  Alistair swung his massive tail, knocking down a nearby light pole. The transformer zinged and popped, causing the light to flicker. Suddenly, the block fell into blackness.

  It wouldn’t be long until people piled out into the streets. They had to make this quick. With one last loud roar, he made the ground shake and quake. Car alarms beeped, drowning out the excruciating screams of the dragon’s mark as the alleyway filled with a firework brilliance of his deadly alkali metal fire.

  This time, the undead would not rise.

  Chapter Three

  Leslie

  Magic wafted around the small New York apartment. Pure evil stared back at me, decked out in black leather.

  Three snarling vampires flashed their sharp fangs. Their flicking gazes filled with a maniacal hunger as they panned the apartment to land on me and Sunflower, who cringed, too. With every passing heartbeat, I scooted farther away from the three undead. Smashed vials rested on the floor with Sunflower’s sun-dried potions, the spell we’d only just performed broken.

  Yet, the face of one of the vampires I recognized as the Hollywood hunk, Sam Dolomite. His smile was almost charming, danger dripping off him as he moved toward Sunflower with a predatorial gait.

  “All magic comes with a cost, even for the seer,” Sam, the lead vampire, said. Disdain caused his angular face to wrinkle. He could have been a rejected extra from The Lost Boys, a cult vampire ’80s movie. Leather? Check. Glassy bugged-out eyes? Check. Hairband punk mullet? Check.

  A part of me wished only to chuckle at how ludicrous it appeared.

  “What are you doing here?” Sunflower asked, her voice slurred.

  I watched her hand move toward the athame, the ceremonial knife, which rested only an arm’s reach away.

  “The grimoire called us, and we came.” Suddenly, the lead vampire had Sunflower in his clutches, and before I could respond, he bit into her neck.

  Her piercing scream made my ears ring. “Nooooo!” I cried out.

  She dropped lifeless to the ground, and the vampires rapidly closed in on me, pinning me up against the crimson-colored wall. “We’re coming for you, seer, and not even the Order will stand in our way,” one of the vampires said, grabbing a fistful of my hair, and yanking.

  Pain ricocheted in my head like an invisible hatchet slicing into my skull. My vision doubled, blurred, and blackness entombed me.

  I gasped awake.

  What a dream? Again, almost like a suppressed memory. Hazy images of a supernatural battle quickly drifted away, leaving behind only a foreboding heaviness on my chest. Shuddering, I struggled to inhale, commanding my lungs to work. Just like the prior night, I roused trying to find my bearings.

  But I couldn’t shake it. Something rested there in the shadows. Something was coming.

  Tucked in my queen-sized bed, I reached over to grab more lotion to rub my warm terracotta-colored hands that ached still from yesterday’s writing. Nevertheless, these hands wished to be busy.

  Before I could grasp that thought, a new set of fireworks popped and pinged outside of my bedroom window like it was the Fourth of July.

  Throwing back my thick covers, I plodded over to the window to glance out. Manhattan never slept, but this was different from anything I’d seen of late. Pulling back the heavy brocade curtains—which were older than my thirty-five years—I peeked outside, knocking over the thousand-piece heart-shaped puzzle that shattered to the floor, broken.

  “Crap on a stick.” It had taken weeks to get that done.

  Bottle rockets squealed across the night sky, while professional-grade cannons boomed, to only then light up the navy-blue sky in a red glare, followed by the spitting of gunfire or firecrackers. A war zone? In this city, one never knew. Unfortunately, these fireworks should have been illegal. Surely, soon blue lights from police cars would replace those of a fake celebration.

  “What is all of that noise tonight?” Gran asked. In a shapeless nightgown with a matching robe, she floated over to my side, as ghosts did, and leaned against the wall without falling through it. “Go back to bed, Myrtle,” I grumbled at my ghostly grandmother. I believed in ghosts. Gran had fluttered around here ever since I could remember, despite the scientific method explaining that ghosts didn’t exist.

  “Oh, you must be having a bad night if I’m Myrtle and not Gran,” she chastised.

  I let the curtain fall closed and moved toward my bed to remove my suitcase from beneath it, which I still needed to pack. Popping it open, dust sprinkled the air from disuse.

  “Do you plan on swimming on the cruise ship?”

  I’d have rather attended the romance conference in the city, but Maurice, my agent, was sure that the best way to get a better foothold with readers was to party with them. My sales of the old Highland series had dwindled, and my newest search for paranormal romance with vampires and dragons—well, no one seemed interested in my take on ancient lore.

  Maybe the bad dreams served as a warning from the great beyond? A cautioning that my career was about to die due to my desire to pivot to paranormal romance.

  I couldn’t help it, though. The paranormal called to me, no matter how much I tried to deny it.

  So now, instead of mingling with other editors and agents, I’d spend the next seven days on a transatlantic cruise.

  “The cruise is so you can do things you couldn’t usually do on land, I think,” Gran said. “I once heard of a woman marrying a ghost on international waters. Maybe I should give it a whirl. There are a couple of ghosts I need to summon.”

  Gran often came up with the most giggle-worthy excuses for things, from reasons to run rum up and down the coast during Prohibition to correcting me on vampire lore. The way she sometimes spoke, surely, she’d dealt with a vampire or two.

  Gran’s laughter cut through my solemn thoughts, only more punctuated by another whistling rocket outside.

  “I’m not searching for love right now, neither with a human nor a ghost.” I placed a stack of clothes I thought I’d need in the suitcase and then turned to grab another sweater.

  “That is the thing about love,” Gran said. “It comes even when we don’t want it. What if you were to meet a handsome lord?”

  “Will he be wearing a kilt? Will I get to ask him questions about it?” I shook my head. Still, I could feel Gran’s scrutinizing gaze on
me.

  “It’s a readers’ conference, dear,” Gran said and snapped her fingers, changing from her nightgown to her day wear. “I’m surprised you haven’t planned a special day around your research.” Gran pulled back her black lace veil, which completed her depression-era mourning ensemble. Her bobbed black hair framed her heart-shaped face and ruby red lips. She tugged at her black gloves as if they were beginning to slip down and plopped theatrically onto a seat. “Oh, my, woe is me.” She placed her hand across her face as she leaned back in the chair and gave a loud sigh. “Who is going to take care of the apartment once you’re gone?”

  “You’re such a ham.” I snickered. “Dad had thirteen children. If I’m not here, one of the boys can stop by the apartment.”

  “The apartment must stay in the family,” she quipped, and I watched her peek out from beneath her arm. “And I know my child sired a little bit more than a football team, but you are special.”

  I never understood what she meant by that. Still, recalling the rising full moon, I reached into my bedside drawer and withdrew my crystals. They needed to be recharged. Padding across the floor, I placed them on the edge of my desk where the moon was sure to shine.

  “You can open your eyes now.” I crossed my arms as if I were the mother and she the child. “If I didn’t have to go, then I wouldn’t.”

  “I can feel it from the ether. Something bad will happen if you go. Do you have all of your vials with you?”

  I shook my head. “That was all research.” So much more implied by those words than I wished to share. I’d played pretend and tried to be a witch. The key word was “try.” Research led me to Ouija boards and esoteric shops for altar candles and enchanted stones. Heck, I was sure I had a set of tarot cards and rune stones in my bedside table. Yet, to believe in it … truly, I wasn’t quite ready to answer that question. Faith in things and people had hurt me enough before.