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

by Tina Glasneck

  She’d taught him that love wasn't worth it, but maybe Leslie could teach him something else.

  On that thought, he turned away, not liking where those thoughts could lead, but he wondered if apologizing with a dance might be a good start.

  Chapter Eleven

  Leslie

  I took special care with my outfit tonight. The cruise required us to dress up as though we were headed to a prom dinner. Well, at least the special dinners required formal attire. So far, Alistair hadn’t dined with me, and that was fine.

  “It’s about time you stop looking so glum,” Gran said. “If I’d known you’d behave so, then I would have stayed home talking to Esmeralda. For a ghost, she complains about everything. That would be better than this. I swear, if you don’t get it together, I am going to head toward the light.” Gran dramatically plopped onto a chair.

  Eyeing her with a shake of my head, I pulled on my evening gloves, then Gran’s mourning ring. The Art Deco clock loudly ticked away the minutes. The night’s ball and dinner were soon to begin.

  My mauve silk chiffon dress was a perfect replica. With my hair pinned into a sophisticated chignon, my light makeup flawless, I checked my reflection, giving it a smile of appreciation. It had been a while since I’d felt pretty.

  Finally, reaching into my bag, I located the sheathed athame I’d retrieved from Sunflower’s apartment and attached it to my thigh, pulling pantyhose over it to ensure everything stayed in place. Finally pulling on my shapewear, I exhaled in relief. There was no way I could lose it like this..

  “Expecting trouble tonight?” Gran asked. “It is not like you to have a concealed weapon.”

  “Life isn’t fair, and something tells me I might need it. I promise not to stab Alistair, though. Plus, it would take forever to even reach it under these layers. No, I just want the feel of it with me.”

  Gran stuck out her tongue. “You can write this story however you wish. You and he are fated. I know that, and you recognize something special between the two of you, too.

  “I never told you any of this.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve known His Highness a bit longer than you.” I gasped in answer. “I am part of those under his rule of law. You could do much worse than him. Don’t you find him appealing?”

  I couldn’t trust any of my emotions, but I also couldn’t say that what I felt for him wasn’t indeed true. Still, tonight, I needed to be rid of the sadness. Leaning toward the mirror, I puckered my lips and patted my red lipstick on a tissue.

  “You’re breathtaking, Leslie,” Gran gushed. She snapped her fingers and reappeared, dressed in a black, satin princess-cut dress and long gloves.

  “There is nothing seductive about this Edwardian gown.”

  “He’s ancient. It is your heart he will learn to love. Your beauty is the cherry on top.”

  Gran’s words always held such wisdom.

  “You give this your blessing, knowing all that you know? You seriously wish for me to try to be with him?” I needed her to calm my nerves and help rid me of my doubts.

  “How many times have you blown dandelion fluff wishing for true love and happiness?” She took my hands in hers. “This could be your chance. Love is not an object to be claimed, but an action to work on daily. If you wish to have a connection with Alistair, then you must decide to do so. I cannot make such a decision for you. Remember, the gods’ will make their designs and plans clear, and despite how things might feel as though they are spiraling, they have sent him to catch you. He needs you just as much as you need him.”

  If I were to give him a chance, what might that even look like? I wondered. “I don’t want to get hurt.”

  “You are not only doing this for him, but also for you. You deserve love, and he seems like a man wishing to love you, if given a chance. Just think about it.”

  Thus far, he’d shown me a side of his being charming, and even a bit flirtatious. Attraction was there, and maybe that was a good place to start.

  We made our way to the assigned ballroom. Done up with a glass chandelier hanging overhead, the music from a string quartet floated. Lovely electric candlelight illuminated the dim room.

  Waving to the faces I now recognized, I made my way to a semi-full table. There, Claudine sat keeping Donovan occupied, while the other two authors, Florence and Beverly, their model escorts for the night, all appeared deeply entrenched in conversation.

  Ambrosia, in her Victorian-era black and red ball gown, also with evening gloves, I watched her gracefully dance with her model partner for a moment. She so looked the part of a gothic vampire.

  In the author world, it wasn’t anything new for an author to take on a persona from their writing, and Ambrosia Dusk melted hearts with her Gothic vampire romance series. I should know after all. I’d devoured her Dusk Until Dawn Series set in 1888 London.

  Finally seated, I took in the sights and sounds, enjoying the activity around me, all the while scanning the crowd in search of a pair of broad shoulders with thick black hair that made me want to run my fingers through it.

  Suddenly, my body flushed with overwhelming heat. I spun around in my seat and found Alistair’s smoky gaze trained on me.

  There he was, in a tailored black tuxedo, and I waited with bated breath for him to cross the room. My breathing came out in spurts.

  “Tonight isn’t billionaire romance night,” Donovan remarked snidely.

  “Ms. Love.” Alistair stretched out his hand, and I gave him my own. A spark zinged between us. What’s happening to me? “Will you grant me the honor of this dance?”

  By dancing, he meant the reenactment of the Austen dances.

  “Historical romance is your thing?” I whispered.

  “I’ve loved a ball or two during my time, but of course, should you not enjoy such—”

  “Yes, we will need to talk about that—all of that. I’ll happily give it a go.” With all of the research and even classes to learn the difference between the noble minuet and the country jig, it would take more to get me out of dancing with him and having his attention, than a bout of Regency dancing mixed with English Country Dance, with its quick turns and bouncy skips.

  We moved to the dance floor, through the crowd of dancers all dressed in historical wares, to find space. Women in colorful gowns, wide enough to sneak out large flat-screen televisions, took the floor alongside those in slim-line A-cut dresses.

  The men also kicked up their heels, some literally, wearing traditional nobleman high heels with tights, breeches, and stylish waistcoats. Alistair stood out in his modern-day tuxedo, but that didn’t distract from his appeal.

  I tried to push down my attraction, remembering the hurt. He’d lied to me.

  Sure, a white lie to supposedly keep me safe, but was his use of his sex appeal done genuinely or just to override my hesitancy?

  Abruptly, the music changed from Scottish airs to a rousing Waltz.

  Alistair pulled me closer to his body, his hand splayed on my lower back, and his nearness melting my resolve.

  “You know, the Waltz was imported to England in 1815,” I said, searching for something to say.

  “Scandalous, I say.” His voice was rich and inviting, with a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke.

  Sure enough, the waltz was known to be so exhilarating many might even have considered it foreplay—the turns, the closeness, without changing partners as had been normal prior to this popular dance’s inception. Even more, the way one might get to see a glimpse of the woman’s ankle. Back then, that was seen as truly shocking and scandalous. Now, not so much.

  “Play your cards right, and you just might see a bit of my calf.”

  “Mm, I dare say that such could prove delightful.”

  I simply giggled in response as he spun me out to bring me back in to the safety of his arms.

  “You know, Leslie, my dear, this dance would have arrived in England a lot sooner, but the Napoleonic Wars sort of had all of England in an anti-Waltz craze. Too bad that
it originated in Vienna and not in Paris. It is said that the waltz actually brought peace to a war-torn Europe. Maybe dancing can lead to the creation of treaties.”

  A beautiful mind made me swoon on most days, and a man who could go toe-to-toe with me on historical details brought an added spring in my step.

  As we whirled around the room, the other people melted away, and it was just me and him. I couldn’t deny that I liked the way he held my hand safely in his, how he smelled like saltwater with a hint of pine, and his pleasant touch on my back. A warmth spread throughout my body, and all of the anger once simmering between us was now gone. He led at an expert speed, guiding us with surefooted grace. Could this all be a dream?

  “You are awake,” he answered, unasked.

  I frowned.

  “Sorry, you inquired, and I wanted to confirm you were indeed awake.” He took my arm and led me back to our table.

  “Whew, you go, Sis,” Claudine said. “I knew those dance classes would help with something.”

  For a moment, I thought she might stand up and clap.

  “Thank you for the dance, Ms. Love.” He placed a chaste kiss on my gloved hand and walked away.

  “Mm.” Florence turned to me. “You don’t find men like that too often.”

  “He’s the best one I’ve seen here,” Beverly chimed in.

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t let him go.” Claudine interjected. “He’s yummy.”

  I glanced up and saw Donovan’s enraged face.

  “You’re right, Claudine.” Quickly, I rose and went in search of Alistair.

  Chapter Twelve

  Leslie

  Unable to locate Alistair, I made my way to the boardwalk. The ship rocked and careened as the waves continued to crash against the sides. My dinner gown swirled around me from the breeze, just as my head swam from the constant movement. On the starboard side, I held on to the deck railing. Music from the Top ’40s blared, people laughed, but where I stood, no one was around, not even the waiter who'd been plying me with drinks.

  The star-filled sky offered me a moment of relief. They twinkled, and so far away from city lights and land, I appreciated the different constellations.

  The boards creaked behind me when someone appeared. I hoped it to be Alistair. The disappointment must have been etched across my face.

  “My dear, are you okay?” Donovan asked.

  I turned to see the cover model that had been on Claudine’s to-do list tonight.

  “You look quite dashing in your finery,” I said, ogling him in his Scottish regalia.

  “I've also worn it as it has historically been depicted.” He winked at me. That should have told me something was off. “You appear a bit tipsy.”

  “No, Shirley Temples don’t do that.” I raised my glass, still filled with the five maraschino cherries I hoped to devour. “Is this about the next book?”

  “Good, I’m happy that you’re bringing it up, for the publisher has told me that it appears you’ll no longer require me on your books.” He came closer. “Don't you think I’m handsome enough to cover your hard work?” His voice lowered to an intimate whisper. He pinned me against the railing, his arms on either side of me. His breath spiked with the odor of alcohol, warmed, and too close to my face.

  I stared at him. He was handsome in his own right, and if I’d had a thing for men in kilts, he'd have been right up there, but something in me cried out. I wanted a bad boy—a genuine historical bad boy. No matter how attractive Donovan might be, he didn’t compare to Alistair.

  I cleared my throat, unable to move. Instead, I batted my eyelashes. “You know, it’s an interesting thing with the Scots and their tartans. Each one represents a clan. Which clan are you supposed to be from?”

  “Surely, the only thing that matters is whether or not this Scot's sword shall pierce you.”

  “Pierce me?” I laughed. “Did you just say pierce me? I know you’re trying to play a part, but that’s not something to joke about. A historical man wouldn't talk like that.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Are you laughing at me? There is a pretty price on your head, dearie.” The nice cover model had been replaced by one who wished me physical harm.

  I turned away and watched him clench his fingers around the metal railing.

  “I'm not the first, nor will I be the last.” I truly had a problem with being too blunt in the worst of times.

  He leaned in as if to place a kiss on me. I pushed against his chest, and said, “No.”

  “You know you want it. I've read how you've talked about my body being on yours and how you've desired nothing more since seeing me.”

  “You are just the cover model. You’re not my character.”

  “I’m the man behind the muse.” He took his hand and reached down as if to pull up the hem of my dress.

  “No,” I repeated, more forcefully this time, and pushed as hard as I could at his chest.

  “Isn't this just like you want it? Rough.”

  Closing my hand, I jammed my fist into his face. I didn't have five brothers for nothing. “I said, no!”

  “My face!” he yelped and grabbed his nose.

  He'd get fewer covers now for sure. Anger marred his features just as much as his broken nose.

  “There’ll be no blue ribbon below from me, dear lad. Why don't you go get some sleep? Evidently, being around all of these women has gone to your head. Better yet, why don't you just go?” I pointed back toward the lounge area.

  He slinked away, and at that moment, momentous relief rained down on me. I hadn't had to defend myself since the sixth grade, where I'd been called an epithet, and it hadn’t set so well with me then, either. Just as attempted sexual assault made me want to beat the shit out of someone—Donovan in particular.

  I turned around again and stared out at the sea in front of me, watching the dark water. The only light came from buoys in the near distance, and that was all right with me.

  I closed my eyes and drifted to the thought of what it would be like if Alistair had shown up just now. Maybe then I would have been more interested in knowing if the railing could have held me up or not…

  But that was when Donovan came back and tossed me overboard into the cold Atlantic Ocean.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Leslie

  With one piercing scream, I flew over the side of the deck railing and plunged into the dark, frigid waters. My dress tangled around my ankles and legs, pulling me down farther and farther from the surface as I attempted to propel myself upward. Its heaviness acted like weights.

  Time wasn’t on my side, I knew, for the longer I stayed in the water, the higher the chance that hypothermia would set in.

  For a moment, I could hear uilleann pipes playing as I attempted to move. My lungs burned, fighting to breathe, while invisible needles punctured me. My heart contracted and hiccuped.

  Briefly, my mind drifted to the Titanic and all of those souls lost on that ship. I wished I had a raft or a life vest. Like giving birth, I finally broke through to the surface, and as in the movie, in the dead of night, only stars lit up the sky. In the distance, I saw the ship’s lights moving away, growing more distant.

  “Help me,” I screamed, splashing the water around me.

  I was wearing a dark gown, and too far away. They didn’t even know I was gone. In the grand expanse of ocean, this was akin to being buried alive. No matter how loudly I screamed, no one heard me.

  No one would come for me.

  Holding on to hope, shaking uncontrollably, I made myself float. I knew exactly what was happening. The longer I stayed exposed, the more of a chance that this was a one-way trip. Only what seemed like minutes before, I’d hopefully gazed at the night sky, but now that sky seemed almost suffocating. My breathing hitched, white puffs of breath barely visible in the blackness.

  Was this what I’d done all of this for? To die alone at sea?

  Waves lapped against me, and I struggled to remain above them. For the briefest of m
oments, my life flashed before me: regrets, missed opportunities, unhappiness. I’d been given a chance at greatness and had thrown it all away.

  A rush of heat pushed at me, and I longed to disrobe, to remove the burdensome clothes.

  With every small movement, the urgency grew. This felt like death by a thousand cuts.

  My eyes welled with tears, and as the waves rocked me back and forth, I thought about Gran. She’d been right about her premonition.

  We were miles off the East Coast, I knew. The current would push me southward. But again, the more I behaved like a fish, the higher the chance I had of becoming shark or fish food. I gulped. And a fresh shiver of angst raced through me.

  One long minute elongated to several more. Teeth chattering, pain clawing against me, my mind seemed to numb, my movements slowed.

  The darkness wrapped around me, invisible hands threatening to pull me.

  “What are you doing out here? I’ve been looking for you for the last ninety minutes,” Gran said, appearing at my side. Her eyes were wider than saucers. Her mouth formed into a large “O.”

  “I fell overboard,” I sputtered.

  “Fell or thrown? I told you that model wasn’t any good.”

  Between my teeth’s chattering and inflamed muscles, I couldn’t think. My head ached. “I’m not ready to die, Gran. I’m so tired. I have to go.”

  “And die you shan’t, you hear me? Stay here, and I’ll go get help.”

  I wasn’t sure where she expected me to go, but the more the waves moved back and forth, the more I longed for rest.

  An overwhelming feeling of numbness finally subdued me. No matter how much I tried to remain calm, anxiety peeled me like an onion, ripping away layers at a time. My muscles exhausted, failed to follow my brain’s commands.

  And the invisible waves’ hands pulled me under, again.

  Again, I fought to break back to the surface.