The man’s blue eyes darkened and clouded, and just like that, he was mesmerized. Like a clueless deer caught in a blaze of taillights a split second before the eighteen-wheeler slammed into him and splattered him all across the pavement.
But right now, he was simply trapped, consumed, enthralled. Enough to follow her straight into an inferno, should she ask.
Oh, how well Lincoln knew the dilemma, and the destination. He’d spent years of his life fighting through the darkness, the agony, the servitude. Years he could never get back. Never trade in. Never forget.
He was free now, but that didn’t erase the past. The wrong.
Anger stirred, feeding the excitement as he watched the redhead take the cowboy’s hand. Like a dealer leading a meth head to the goods, she tugged him toward the rear exit. Hinges creaked. Footsteps sounded. The door slammed shut, the thud barely audible over the thump, thump, thump of a popular Florida Georgia Line song.
Barely.
Yet Lincoln heard; his senses as finely tuned as any of the predators that he hunted. More so, in fact, because he was greater than the scum teeming around him. More righteous. Just.
“What can I do you for?” The voice drew his attention and he turned to find the forty-something bartender staring at him expectantly. The man wore an impatient expression and a grimy white T-shirt that read “Austin City Limits.” His shift had ended hours ago, but he was stuck because his replacement hadn’t showed.
The truth blazed in his eyes and Lincoln read it the way he read everyone. Because of what he’d become. What he’d endured.
For his boy. For revenge.
“Nothing,” Lincoln murmured, pushing to his feet. “I’m fine.”
Or he soon would be. Fine and dandy, as a matter of fact.
He edged his way past several couples sliding across the scarred hardwood floor, through a maze of tables, toward the back of the bar where the vampire had disappeared with her prey. The metal door gave beneath his hand and he stepped out into the dimly lit alley that ran behind the run-down metal building.
A single bulb pushed back the shadows a few feet, revealing an overflowing dumpster and a stack of empty Dos Equis crates. Beyond that, a lone stretch of rutted land led to a thick patch of trees that bordered the nearby interstate.
He blocked out the frantic whoosh of cars in the distance and focused on the throaty laughter that carried on the breeze and tickled the hair on the back of his neck. His ears prickled and tuned into the glide of a zipper, the deep, raw groan of a man caught in the throes of lust.
Why, the poor, misguided bastard had no clue what was about to happen. That death was knocking on his door, sucking out his life, consuming him.
But Lincoln knew. All too well.
He rounded the dumpster to find the female vampire bent over the man, her mouth latched onto his chest while her hands worked up and down the rock-solid erection sticking out of his pants. Blood ran in rivulets down his tanned skin as he slumped against the edge of the garbage container, his head thrown back, his face caught in a look of pure ecstasy as she drank from him and massaged his bright purple cock.
Lincoln pulled the silver-handled stake from his back pocket and leapt forward. In that next instant, the point sank deep. The woman loosened her grip and turned, giving him a clear look at her face.
He knew then, as he stared into her eyes and noted only surprise and a sudden flare of confusion, that she wasn’t the one. His source had been wrong.
Disappointment ricocheted through him, but then her confusion turned to terror. A scream ripped through her, and the sound fed his waning excitement.
Maybe he hadn’t wasted his time, after all.
She wasn’t the one, but she was still guilty. Still a vulture picking away at the life around her. While she might not have taken his son from him, she’d undoubtedly robbed someone else of a loved one.
No more.
Her body trembled as she jerked away and staggered backward.
“What . . . ?” she managed to choke, her eyes shocked, accusing as she crumpled to the ground. As if he’d somehow wronged her when she’d been the one dealing death.
She started to shake, and then pooooof, her body burst into a cloud of dust.
He waved a hand to clear the rancid air before turning his attention to her victim. The man had collapsed, his body heaving with his last breaths.
Lincoln’s hands tingled and his heartbeat pounded a furious staccato. He knelt by the man’s body and touched his cheek. “Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”
The man gasped and his lids fluttered open. Barely. He was so pale. Too pale.
“What . . .” The cowboy struggled to swallow. “What just happened?”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’ve been delivered from evil.” He stroked the cowboy’s brow. “You won’t die a painful and tragic death at the hands of that wicked bitch.”
The ripe smell of life teased his nostrils and his gut tightened. Twisted.
“Instead,” he managed to say, his lips suddenly thick, “you’ll die peacefully.” And then he gave into his own hunger, leaned down and latched his mouth onto the gushing wound, sucking the final drops of blood from the man’s body.
Mercy, he told himself as he put the poor boy out of his misery. Tonight was about mercy for someone else’s son.
But tomorrow . . .
Tomorrow would be about justice for his own. He would catch up to the Ten and make them pay for what they’d done to his only child, and it would taste even more satisfying than the heat winding its way into his belly.
Chapter Two
ALL HELL WAS about to break loose.
The truth struck as Boone Jarrett jolted to consciousness. Adrenaline slammed through his body, his senses overloaded by the inevitable that was closing in on him.
He could see it in the dark tunnel vision that outlined the figure of a man. A shadow moving from body to body. Slicing and dicing along the way.
He could hear it in the frantic beat of the latest victim’s heart, the sound a furious pounding that thundered through his head faster than any metal head drum solo.
He could smell it in the sharp, pungent scent of sweat and blood and fear.
He could feel it in the warmth that flooded across the ground and spilled over his feet as he stood in the shadows and watched. Waited.
For the danger that would surely come.
The destruction.
The death.
It was headed his way. A stake aimed straight at his heart. A surefire ticket to permanent annihilation.
The end.
But not just yet.
Reality fluttered through his head on the wings of a breathless, sexy moan. He became instantly aware of the soft warmth curled up next to him. A delicate arm draped over his chest. Sweet, luscious tits pressed against his side.
He blinked away the bloody visions and slowly, his surroundings came into focus. His attention shifted to the smooth, bare leg nestled against his, the curvy hip cradling his side, the dark silky hair spilling over his arm and shoulder.
His nostrils flared. The scent of sultry woman and hot, decadent sex filled his head and chased away the last remnants of the bad dream that had latched on and gripped him tight.
A dream.
That’s what he told himself.
What he wanted—needed—to believe.
Except . . . vampires didn’t dream.
Boone Jarrett knew that better than anyone—he’d been a card-carrying member of Club Undead for almost two centuries.
Every nerve in his body went on high alert as he slid out from under the seductive tangle of limbs and sheets, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bedsprings groaned and he pushed to his feet. A few swift steps later, he reache
d the window. Peeling back the edge of the heavy drapes, he let in the last remnants of dusk and scanned the shadowy street below.
It was early evening and the wooden walkways that lined the main strip of Tombstone, Texas, were alive with tourists taking in the nightlife of the ancient town. Gas streetlamps lit up the dirt road and revealed the hustle and bustle below.
Once a haven to the worst criminals in the Southwest, the town now stood as the ultimate vacation getaway for those eager for an authentic Old West experience. Boone and his partners had opened up to the public a little less than a month ago, and the spots had filled up fast. It seemed folks were eager to put on their western gear and step back in time to play cards at the nearby saloon, shop at the general store, or saddle up at the local livery stable. There were gunfights and cattle drives, and even the occasional lynching. All for show, of course, or so most thought.
What they didn’t realize was that the majority of cowboys who walked the streets of Tombstone were not actors, but the real deal. Ranchers. Outlaws. Lawmen. Vampires. Men who’d been turned in this very town a long, long time ago.
Boone himself had arrived in Tombstone back in the 1800s, along with the other nine members of his gang. And while he’d ventured elsewhere over the years, he always came back.
He had to.
He’d been turned right here in Tombstone when the place was little more than dirt and cedar trees and prickly pear cactus. They all had. At different times, of course.
Ike McCoy, Boone’s sire and the leader of the Tombstone Ten, had taken his time choosing the nine members who would complete his super gang of outlaws. Boone had been his first, but Ike had been sure to come back to Tombstone to turn the others. Because he’d wanted to tie them together, to strengthen his hold on them so that they could never escape him.
Like all vampires, Boone and the others were destined to return to the place of their turning every year on the anniversary of the change. On the exact date, at the exact moment, each was instinctively called back to the site where he or she had left their humanity behind.
Ike had made sure that, even if they went their separate ways one day, they would still have one common denominator. A way for him to find them. To hold on tight.
No more.
Ike was long gone. He’d walked away after fifty-nine years running the Tombstone Ten and had finally cut them all loose.
They’d been free of him, but not of the town.
Tombstone bound them together. They’d lost so much here, and found each other in the process.
The other vampires were his family now, the only real family he’d ever known. The kind that would have his back, no matter what. Tombstone was his home.
And that was why he didn’t climb back into bed, and lose himself in the feel of another quenching orgasm. The future of the town and the surrounding land depended on the success of this new business venture.
Up until last year, the town and the twenty thousand acres that surrounded it had belonged to the same family—the descendants of Maddie Reed, one of Boone’s fellow gang members—handed down through the years from generation to generation. But then the very last Reed had died, and the land had gone to the bank in lieu of back taxes. When Maddie had gotten word, she’d persuaded the remaining members of the Ten to come together, to pool their money, and buy the entire twenty thousand acres themselves.
They now had six months to turn a profit. If they didn’t, the bank would foreclose and they would lose their one tie to the past.
To each other.
It was Friday. That meant the arrival of a new group of guests. Fresh faces meant the start of a brand-new show. There would be the inevitable gunfight, a few bar brawls, and a dozen other things that he, as acting sheriff, would have to oversee.
But it wasn’t just the arrival of forty new tourists that had him abandoning Sara Something-or-other—the latest in a long line of one-night stands—to pluck his clothes from the floor and pull on his boots at record speed.
Someone else was headed for his town.
The nameless, faceless vampire who haunted his dreams.
And Boone Jarrett intended to be ready.
IT WAS THE perfect place to hide.
Not that Riley Davenport was hiding.
Not anymore.
But it was her job to seek out those obscure map dots off the beaten path. A cool and kitschy getaway from the ordinary and the mundane. A quirky spot where someone could escape the real world.
If only for a little while.
She grabbed her bag from the stagecoach driver and stepped aside while the other guests filed out of the ancient vehicle. The sun had already set, but the town was alive with lanterns that illuminated the dusty street and weathered buildings. She’d bet they were the original structures, if she had to lay money. The town itself was shaped like a giant cross with the center at the point where the two main streets intersected. A headstone sat in the middle of the main square, two dueling pistols carved into the stone above the name of the legendary outlaw Ike McCoy, who’d founded the place back in the early 1800s. It was quaint and exciting and a tad dangerous—and she found herself instantly intrigued.
By her surroundings.
By him.
Her gaze zeroed in on the man standing across the street in front of an old brick building, the words CITY HALL painted on a sign that hung to his left.
He looked as if he’d stepped out of an old western with his black Stetson and full-length black duster. A black button-down shirt peeked from beneath the edges, and fitted black pants outlined his long, muscular legs. He appeared every bit the lawman that his gleaming silver badge indicated.
But even more than the outfit, it was the way he wore it that screamed hard-as-nails sheriff. An air of strength and control surrounded him, along with a ripple of danger that told her he didn’t just deal with troublemakers. No, he was a bona fide badass himself.
And sexy as hell.
Brown hair streaked with the faintest hint of gold brushed his broad shoulders and drew attention to his rugged features. A day’s growth of stubble darkened his jaw and outlined sensuous lips. Green eyes as bright and mesmerizing as the endless acres of rain-fed pastures that surrounded the small town collided with hers. Her breath caught.
For the next few moments, she simply stood there, drenched in heat. Her heart beat a frantic staccato. Her pulse raced. Her nerves hummed. Images whispered through her head, and she found herself wondering how good it would feel to press up against him and relish all that hard muscle and raw strength.
Good? Was she insane?
Pressing up against a man like that would be bad. She knew the type. He was alpha to the core. Strong. Controlling. Suffocating.
The exact type of man she’d sworn off of when she’d walked out on her ex three years ago.
“Welcome to Tombstone, Texas, and the ultimate interactive vacation.” The voice came from a few feet away, drawing her back to the small crowd that she’d traveled with from the Austin airport.
She turned to see a young woman wearing brown pants stuffed into knee-high brown riding boots. A white peasant’s blouse was tucked into the waistband of her britches, and a brown leather vest hung from her narrow shoulders. Her long blond hair had been pulled back into a tight ponytail.
“Whether you’ve wondered what it would be like to strut on stage at the local saloon or ride lead in an honest-to-goodness posse, we can make it happen. Here we breathe life into your wildest fantasies.”
If only.
The sentiment tiptoed through her head, followed by a vision of a hunky cowboy with tousled hair and tanned skin and arms strong enough to throw her over one broad shoulder and carry her away.
Her mouth went dry and her stomach hollowed out and she damned herself for not buying a donut back at the airpor
t kiosk.
A chocolate glazed. That’s what she needed now.
All she needed.
She stiffened and kept her gaze fixed on her hostess.
“The name’s Kit Holloway and I’m the manager of this fine establishment where you’ll be staying for the next seven days.” The woman motioned to the whitewashed clapboard building behind her. “I came to work here after I left the trick roping circuit where I rode with the likes of Wild Bill Hickok and Annie Oakley.” She fingered the pearl-handled guns strapped around her waist. “So rest assured, I’m more than capable of keeping you all safe while you’re here.” She paused for effect. “Once you venture out into the streets, however, anything goes.”
“Will there be a gunfight?” a man asked excitedly.
“A bank robbery?” asked another.
“Cattle drive?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.” She winked. “As most of you know, Tombstone is not only the ultimate getaway, it’s also home to the infamous Tombstone Ten, the most notorious band of outlaws to ever terrorize the Southwest.” Her voice lowered a notch as if she were sharing a careful secret. “Why, you could run into any one of the Ten just walking up and down these streets here. Though none of them are likely to draw on you the way they used to . . . Not unless you cross ’em, that is.” She winked. “They’ve traded in their wicked ways and settled down right here in town to give you the vacation experience of a lifetime.”
She pointed toward the nearby saloon. “Right inside there, you’ll find Maddie Reed, once the most notorious female bank robber in history. She’s got the voice of an angel, folks, and spends most of her time belting out songs every night at our very own Dead Man’s Saloon.” She turned and indicated a large building with several scantily clad women on the upper balcony. “Belle Cassidy, history’s first female hired gun, has given up her Colt to run the local cathouse, which seems only fitting since it was in just such an establishment that she started her life of crime. She pulled her derringer on a man who tried to stiff her for her fee and gut shot him sixteen times.”
The Quick and the Undead: Volume 1 (Tombstone, Texas) Page 2
