by Sonya Clark
Back Cover Copy
Only a vampire can own the night.
If there’s one thing Jessie hates, it’s going after her own kind. She may be used to taking a bite out of human killers, but she leaves her fellow immortals alone. It’s only after a series of gruesome murders have her suspecting vampires and werewolves are going after innocents does she set out to put a stop to it.
It’s not long that Jessie finds herself racing against the waxing moon to stop an ambitious gang of monsters with a sinister agenda.
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“Or are you one of those guys who want to take what you want, but you don’t want to put the hurt on? Huh? You too tender-hearted to listen to some poor girl scream and cry and beg for mercy?”
“But that’s not how I roll.” She laced the fingers of one hand in his hair and pulled his head back sharply, black eyes boring into his. “I like to put the hurt on, and I want you to remember every second of it when you wake up.” She leaned closer, close enough he should have been able to feel her breath on his face. “If you wake up and you go looking for more girls to drug, you might want to think of tonight as a cautionary tale.”
She opened her mouth. He watched in horror as two teeth began to elongate into sharp, curved fangs. He began to scream as she lowered her mouth to his neck, struggling in vain to free himself. Her fangs sank into his flesh like hot knives, ripping and tearing as she jerked her head. The blood began to flow, followed by the echo of his screams.
Bring on the Night
978-1-61650-176-1
Copyright © 2010, Sonya Clark
Edited by Nerine Dorman
Book design by Brian Hunter
Cover Art by Renee Rocco
First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: May, 2010
Lyrical Press, Incorporated
17 Ludlow Street
Staten Island, New York 10312
http://www.lyricalpress.com
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE:
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated
Dedication
To Joey, the best husband, friend, and beta reader a woman could have.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my editor, Nerine. Thanks to all my friends and family who have been so supportive. Thanks to my husband for every time he’s read a work in progress and said, “What happens next?” That’s the best motivation of all.
Chapter 1
He’d been in the club not half an hour when he picked out tonight’s girl, a tiny blond sitting at the bar. He’d seen her walk in alone and order a drink. Now some guy he’d noticed around the clubs who sometimes forgot to take his wedding ring off sat next to her trying to chat her up. It didn’t look like he was having too much luck. He watched their reflections in the mirror above the bar. A heart-shaped face, full lips and wide eyes, she was pretty in a perky, upbeat way. He could imagine her in a cheerleader outfit. It looked like she was trying to give the guy the brush-off in a nice way, but the dude was too dumb and too drunk to get the message. He decided to play the charming hero just as the guy started getting handsy, draping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to him. She came right off her bar stool, giving him the perfect opportunity.
He stepped up to the bar and grabbed her before she fell, careful not to keep his hands on her longer than necessary. He’d learned not to seem too eager. “Hi, Lisa. Didn’t think you’d make it.” Pointing behind him, he added, “The gang’s all at the table. Let’s go.” He gave her an expectant look.
She looked confused. “Uh...”
“Unless you’d like to stay here with your new friend.” He looked meaningfully at the drunk, hoping the girl wasn’t too dumb. If she didn’t catch on, he’d blown it, a risky approach, but one that had worked in the past.
The drunk helped him out by smacking her on the butt and leering at her. “Yeah, babe, stay with me. You, ah, wanna ’nother?” Trying to gesture at her drink, he knocked it over. “Whatever that was?”
“No! Thanks, but I’m going to go see my friends.” She looked up at him with such gratitude, he knew he’d scored.
He smiled. “Everyone’s waiting, let’s go.” He led her away from the bar to the other side of the club. He found a small round table for two, pulling out a chair for her like a perfect gentleman.
She leaned forward to talk to him over the din of the music. “Thank you for getting me away from that guy. What a sleaze.” She smiled, brushing her hair back off her shoulders.
“Oh, hey, you’re welcome.” He offered his hand and she shook it. He mentally skimmed through his list of aliases. “I’m Ray.” Yeah, I’ll be Ray tonight. “What’s your name?”
“Chloe,” she said brightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Ray.”
It didn’t take long before she was willing to let him buy her a drink. All he had to do was sit there and listen to her talk, pretending to listen, anyway. He used to try to pay attention and remember the details—where they worked, went to school, whatever...their favorite drink. Did they have some fluffy pet they talked about incessantly, or some loser ex-boyfriend? He’d stopped caring. This was not the part he wanted to remember, the part he wanted to savor and linger over. That would come later. For now, he gave the impression of listening to her prattle on, smiling, nodding and making the occasional appropriate comment. By the time she’d finished their first drink together, she was willing to dance with him. Halfway through the next drink, he could tell she was past the tipsy point, laughing louder, leaning over further, heedless of her dress slipping to reveal creamy white cleavage. He didn’t even have to work for an opportunity. She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room, leaving him alone with her drink.
Looking around carefully to make sure no one saw, he took the small vial from his pocket and dumped the contents in her drink, giving it a swirl.
She returned from the bathroom, swaying slightly. As she plunked down into her chair, she picked up her drink, downing the last of it. Grinning, she said, “I feel like dancing again. Come on!”
He led her back to the dance floor, no longer worrying about keeping his distance. As the music pounded away, he let his hands run lightly over her body, pulling her to him to grind himself against her. She offered no resistance. Her limbs started getting heavy, her eyes growing glassy. When she stumbled, slumping against him, he asked, “Are you okay?” Right on schedule.
“I’m not feeling so good. Maybe that second drink wasn’t such a good idea.”
“How about some fresh air?” He led her through the maze of people, out the door and to the parking lot. As they reached his car she passed out, falling right into his waiting arms.
He got her in the passenger seat fairly easily. One reason he picked small girls was they were much easier to move around, but even a small girl felt heavy when doped up and unconscious. Glancing at his watch, he walked around to
the driver’s side. Another thirty, forty minutes.
Driving home, he hummed along happily with the radio.
He carried her inside, through the house to the bedroom, where he placed her on the bed, carefully arranging her limbs. He sat beside her for a moment, stroking her soft blond hair. She had a real sweetness about her. Would it still be there, later, or would she somehow sense what had been done to her? He didn’t really care, he was just curious. He’d stopped caring about the girls a long time ago.
All these thoughts were a waste of time. Looking down at her inert form, with nothing protecting her from his touch but a thin silk dress, he felt the familiar thrill of desire course through him. Standing, he stripped off his shirt and kneeled over her to remove her dress then remembered the camera still on the living room coffee table. He tamped down his eagerness, knowing he’d regret it later if he didn’t take pictures. It took seconds to jog to the living room, grab the camera, and run back.
She was gone.
He stopped short, nearly dropping the camera. There’s no way she could be conscious so soon. Looking around the room, he found no sign of her. He set the camera on the dresser and stepped just outside the bedroom door to peer into the bathroom. The door was pulled most of the way to, so he pushed it open and flipped on the light to see clearly. Empty. What the hell? He stepped back inside the bedroom, glancing around again nervously. His gaze fell on the closet door, slightly ajar. Was she hiding in there? Say she woke up, she’s in a strange bedroom, no idea how she got here, she’s probably hiding in the closet. His mind turned to thoughts of how to salvage the situation and keep himself out of jail. As much as he hated to, it looked like he was going to have to do without this one.
“Hey, Zoe,” he said. “Are you feeling better? If you think you’re up to it now.” He crossed the room to the closet. “I can drive you home.” He put his hand on the doorknob. “Or call you a cab.” He flung the door open, finding nothing but his clothes. This is beginning to freak me out. “Come on, Zoe, where are you?”
“Up here,” called a cheery voice. He snapped his head up to find her holding herself in the corner of the wall, high above him, smiling. He gasped, frozen in shock. She dove at him, knocking him to the floor and pinning him down effortlessly. “And the name I gave you was Chloe, not Zoe, you idiot, but I’m guessing Ray isn’t your name either, huh?”
“Wha-what?” She straddled his chest, leaning over to hold his arms down with her hands, her golden hair falling around her like a curtain. He should have been able to throw her off easily, even as unconscious dead weight. Now she felt solid as a slab of marble on top of him, her small hands securing his arms like steel shackles. And her eyes...he didn’t know what color they were before, he hadn’t looked or cared. They were black now, a deep, flat fathomless black.
“So what’s your story?” she whispered, her mouth inches from his. “You guys who like to roofie your dates always have some story after I wake up. Someone else put that stuff in your drink. I was just trying to help. Trying to help yourself, that is. Is that what you were doing, Ray? Helping yourself to some tender...vulnerable...flesh?”
She sat up, releasing his arms while still keeping him trapped beneath her. “You know what I don’t get? Do you?” He stared at her in fear and disbelief, unable to move. She snapped her fingers in his face. “Hello?” she said. “Waiting for a response.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Panic began to boil up a storm in him.
“I don’t get why guys like you prefer to have your victims unconscious when you take them. Are you afraid they’ll fight back?” She took his face in one hand, squeezing. “Afraid you might not be strong enough? Is that it?” She released his face, back-handing him so hard he couldn’t see for several seconds. “Again, waiting for a response.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.” Panic clawed at him, threatening to smother him.
“Or are you one of those guys who want to take what you want, but you don’t want to put the hurt on? Huh? You too tender-hearted to listen to some poor girl scream and cry and beg for mercy?”
She put her hands on his shoulders, her steel fingers kneading his flesh. Pain shot through him, white-hot and piercing. He cried out, the cry turning into a scream as he felt his collar bone snap.
“But that’s not how I roll.” She laced the fingers of one hand in his hair and pulled his head back sharply, black eyes boring into his. “I like to put the hurt on, and I want you to remember every second of it when you wake up.” She leaned closer, close enough he should have been able to feel her breath on his face. “If you wake up and you go looking for more girls to drug, you might want to think of tonight as a cautionary tale.”
She opened her mouth. He watched in horror as two teeth began to elongate into sharp, curved fangs. He began to scream as she lowered her mouth to his neck, struggling in vain to free himself. Her fangs sank into his flesh like hot knives, ripping and tearing as she jerked her head. The blood began to flow, followed by the echo of his screams.
* * * *
An hour before sunrise found Jessie climbing the stairs to her apartment at a leisurely pace, idly swinging the little pink purse on its short strap. Glancing at it and the matching dress that reached to mid-thigh, she thought with longing of the soft flannel pajama pants and cotton tank top waiting for her. Warm and drowsy, she was sated with the fresh blood coursing through her body and the feeling that she’d done some good tonight. She sang softly to herself, a few lines from an old Police song.
Jessie reached the landing leading to her hallway. Already she smelled the fresh flowers she’d bought the day before, half a dozen confetti roses. Taking a deep breath as she approached her door, she drank in the floral scent. As she reached inside her purse for her keys, another scent made itself known, dank and cold, like something that lived underground and rarely came out in the fresh night air. She stopped, one hand clutching her keys, the other spread out against the door. She listened for a long moment, taking another deep breath. Then, sure of who was there, she rolled her eyes and unlocked the door, swinging it open with a slight push.
“Trent, you smell like that cave you live in.” She kept a light teasing note in her voice, announcing her presence, though he’d probably known it as soon as she had stepped into the hallway. “You really need to get out more.”
“I get out often enough to suit me,” came the reply. The kitchen light flicked on and he stood in the doorway. “You know I generally prefer the company of my books.”
He spoke with a soft voice at odds with his appearance: medium height, dark blond hair and average build. Except for his face he would not have stood out in a crowd in the slightest. Half his face showed the bland good looks he’d been born with. The other half bore three long scars stretching from his forehead to his jaw line, interrupted only by the black patch where an eye used to be. The old injury looked like the claw marks of a large animal. The scars gave him a sinister air. He wore all black: trousers, shirt, tie and shoes. He held himself with an air of reserved aloofness. No doubt to most people he looked intimidating, if not downright scary, but not much scared her, and certainly not one of the few people she called friend.
She closed the door behind her and crossed the room to greet him with a soft kiss on the cheek—his scarred cheek. “What brings you here, Trent?”
Trent gave her a look that let her know what he thought of the blond wig and unsuitable pink. His voice taking on a somewhat formal note, he said, “His Majesty the King of Vampires, Regent of the Court of Monsters, sends greetings and a request for your services as his emissary.”
She snorted rather indelicately. “And what services does our king require of me? Am I to steal hundred-year-old absinthe, or eighty-year-old scotch?” She’d done both for the king in recent years.
Trent quirked an eyebrow, his lips pulling slightly in the barest suggestion of a smile. “Unfortunately, nothing so...what’s the word you used once?”
&nbs
p; “Whackadoodle?” she offered, pulling the wig from her head and tossing it on a counter. She ran her fingers through her thick black hair, glad to have the confining wig off her head.
He pointed to a manila folder on the bistro table. “I’m afraid this is rather serious. Would you like to talk now, or would you prefer to rid yourself of that ridiculous pink first?”
She put one hand on her hip and with the other gestured at her outfit. “You mean bubble gum pink isn’t me?”
He refused to answer, keeping his face inscrutable.
“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t think so, either. Be right back.” She left the room. Halfway to her bedroom she turned in mid-stride and called out, “There’s a couple of bottles of good wine in the rack, if you want to pick one out. Or you can make coffee.”
A few minutes later she returned, face scrubbed clean of makeup and the pink dress replaced with dark green flannel pajama pants and a dark blue tank top. Bare feet with crimson toenails peeked out from under the flannel pants. Trent sat at the small round bistro table. He moved the blown glass vase with the confetti roses in the center of the table to one side, making room for two cups of coffee and the manila folder he’d brought.
She sat. With a pointed glance at the coffee, she said, “So I take it whatever’s brought you here is too serious for a glass of wine?”
He opened the folder and removed the contents. From across the table and upside down, it looked to her like photocopies of newspaper articles and possibly even police reports. “Have you heard about the murders taking place in Concord?”
She shook her head and took a drink of coffee. Concord was four hours away, a midsized river town that had seen better days. “What’s happening in Concord that’s any different from what normally happens there?”
He pushed the small stack of papers to her. “Police are finding corpses at the waterfront that suggest...well, just take a look.”
