by D. D. Miers
"You!" Gwydion snarled and grabbed Gil by the front of his shirt, dragging him the rest of the way out of the portal. "You stole from me! Again! You let me into the claws of the Seelie!"
"You got away!" Gil said with a grin. "I knew you would! You always do! Speaking of which…" He gestured rapidly towards the portal. "We need to go, now. You can't be here!"
"Why?" I asked. "Where are we?"
"Where doesn't matter," Gil said. "And why is because all of us will die. I don't even understand how you got here! Now let's go, go!"
"No, no more portals!" Cole said stubbornly. "I have had enough fucking portals! This looks like Earth, and I'm staying right here!"
Suddenly, the lights in the hall outside the hospital room went black. No light came from the windows. A deep, familiar voice echoed like sandpaper against my soul.
"How dare you come here..."
"Aethon," I whispered involuntarily, terror seizing my heart like a fist.
"Never-fucking-mind!" Cole shouted, chucked Ethan through the portal and jumped through after him.
Gil stepped into the doorway, looking out into the blackness.
"Old friend, dear friend, partner, if you would just give me a moment to—"
"HOW DARE YOU?"
Gil was clearly right. We needed to leave, immediately. But I wasn't leaving empty-handed, not after all of this. I turned, reaching for the Candle.
"Vexa, don't!"
I heard Gwydion's shout, the graze of his fingers reaching out to stop me, but it was too late. My hand closed around the Candle, and the absolute blackness of Death reached up and swallowed me.
So quickly I hadn't even felt it, so suddenly I barely recognized it.
I died.
Continue Reading Vexa’s story in Grave Magic
Coming September 20th, 2018!
Continue on for an exclusive sneak preview of Aurora: The Kresova Vampire Harems Volume One!
Aurora: The Kresova Vampire Harems Volume One
Sometimes, it takes a pawn to dethrone a queen.
The Kresova
Blood.
The source of life—and the emblem of death.
For humans and vampires alike, blood determines the difference between survival or doom. For the ancient race of Kresova vampires, blood spilled in a centuries-old feud has forever changed the course of their future.
Many may know their name, and books may tell their stories, but little truth is actually known about those who stalk the night—especially by the vampires themselves—and the vicious Kresova queen plans to keep it that way.
She kills without prejudice. Eliminates anyone whose existence threatens her rule. Through fear and violence and her unmatched ability to anticipate her enemies, she’s secured her reign.
She’s thought of everything.
Done everything.
But her plan is flawed.
She didn’t prepare for her . . . for them.
Prologue
The Chamber of Morana, Queen of the Kresova Vampires
Paris, France
Shades of crimson coated the walls of the small coliseum-like room. Smears of blood trailed along the steps like a winding river leading down to the dais. Every few feet, puddles formed in the crevices of the stone floor, staining the white grout a coppery brown.
The tangy scent of iron filled Carvell “Carver” Marceau’s nose, and his fangs descended.
He wished he’d eaten before he had arrived, but he never knew what the queen might demand. He doubted she’d ask him to slaughter thirty men—again—simply for her own delight, but he also knew better than to say “never” when referring to Queen Morana’s commands.
Many years had passed since his last visit, and he doubted she’d grown in patience or compassion. If she did demand such a thing from him, he’d have no other option but to oblige.
Corpses littered the walkway, sprawled haphazardly with their throats torn, lying in pools of their own blood. The rubber soles of Carver’s sable boots squished and squeaked as though he traversed through a rain-battered street. Rivulets of the thick liquid appeared in each crack that sloped downward toward her enormous marble throne.
At the base of the dais, he stopped. His face, often described by her majesty as regal, remained downturned until she deigned to acknowledge him.
He cast his eyes up, only once, to see she clutched a man in her arms. Her embrace wasn’t tender as she pulled at his jugular. When Morana’s eyes darted to Carver, she paused, then ferociously tore the man’s head from his neck and carelessly dropped his body. It landed with a thud. The crack of human bones shattering echoed throughout the empty throne room.
She kept her gaze fixed on Carver, watching . . . waiting.
For what? Weakness, possibly contempt, but most of all—anything that spoke of treason.
It was a test.
Everything was, when it came to the Kresova queen. But Carver had become a master of self-possession in his long years away from her court, and his expression remained composed. Face still lowered, he waited patiently for her to speak first.
One didn’t talk to Queen Morana. Not unless a permanent death was planned. She hadn’t maintained her reign over the ancient vampire race of the Kresova this long with kindness and shows of mercy.
Morana’s beauty could not be denied, and though she appeared youthful and innocent, she was thousands of years old.
Most of the vampires in existence hadn’t been around long enough to remember she was not the first vampire—simply the most cunning.
“Ah, mon assassin, you’ve come to see me at last.” Her voice rippled through him like an electric shock to his nerves.
Carver couldn’t deny his draw to her. She had sired and turned him. Their connection would never cease to be until her death—or his.
“Oui, Majesté, I am at your service.” He bowed low, his gaze firmly on the blood-stained floor.
“Do you know why I have called you to my side?”
“Non, je ne sais pas, Majesté.” No, he wasn’t sure why she’d ask for him after a two-hundred-year absence. He’d assumed she’d found a new butcher, as she liked to call him, and moved on from the slight obsession she had formed.
Carver tensed as her slipper-covered feet entered his field of vision. She stood on the upper steps of her throne, keeping herself high above his six-two frame.
“Will you not look upon your queen?” Her blood-soaked hand reached for his chin and brought his face up only inches from hers
Her silver gown had drops of blood over the bodice. Thick liquid dyed the hem a dark gray. He took in her angular face, and their eyes met. Though her wide mouth was still smeared with fresh blood, it didn’t diminish the crystal blue of her irises.
He held in a shudder of distaste and kept his expression neutral.
“Ah, that is better, n’est-ce pas?” Morana clicked her tongue and stepped back toward her throne.
One of her recent meals lay slumped down into the seat, his blood leaving a puddle on the cushion. With a flick of her wrist, the man flew across the room. He crashed into the wall with a crack, his motionless body broken on the floor.
Carver nodded and waited for her to situate herself before she spoke. The back of his neck tingled as he sensed two bodyguards hidden in the shadows. He didn’t need to look to know they scrutinized his every move.
“Now, where were we?” She clasped her hands together in her lap. “Oh, oui, I need you to track down the Kresova responsible for turning new members without my permission.” A smile lit her pixie-like face.
“Of course, Majesté. With whom should I speak to get the details?” He was careful in his wording, his voice steady, sure to include her title.
“Speak with anyone you choose.”
“Oui, Majesté. Anything else you require?”
A smirk lifted the corners of her mouth, and she tilted her head. She didn’t move, but a vampire as old as she, didn’t have to. Suddenly, Carver felt the heat of Morona’s ha
nd as it caressed down his chest.
Hundreds of years ago, part of Carver’s purpose was keeping the queen’s carnal appetites satisfied. Even as a human, his stamina and mastery had been something to behold. They’d often referred to him as the Lord of Pleasure.
The gift he possessed had been both his saving grace and his ultimate doom. When the queen of vampires chose someone, there was no walking away.
She stroked the muscles of his stomach, her hands slowly easing down the V of his abdomen to her favorite part of his anatomy. If she asked him to please her again, here and now—whether he wanted to or not—he would.
As quickly as her desire had risen, it dissolved. “Non.” Morana waved a hand to dismiss him. “I want this problem gone. Compris?”
Carver nodded, already making a mental list of who to talk to. “Oui, considérez cela comme fait, Majesté.”
Morana smiled, showing her fangs, then shooed him from her sight.
Carver lowered his head and bowed. He walked backward a few paces, then turned and took the last several steps from her chamber.
When his feet hit the pavement outside Morana’s chateau, Carver released the breath he’d been holding. A sweet, creamy vanilla scent enveloped his senses from the wide array of flowers lining her enormous property.
He’d prepared himself to witness her openly vicious behavior, but this new, quiet ferocity had Carver questioning his queen’s true plans. She’d never been one to hold back, so why now?
Carver climbed into his Ferrari Enzo, pressed his finger on the button, and the engine growled to life.
Tension bloomed in Carver’s chest. Whatever Morana had in store, it was big, and when Morana did big, the body count was always high.
Chapter One
New Orleans, Louisiana - French Quarter
Mardi Gras, Fat Tuesday
Fuck if I don’t go blind.
Neon lights flash against the painted black walls in colors like Crayola on crack. Everywhere I look, light glints from heavy metal chains hanging from leather and faded denim. The reflections cast beams on the floor like a disco ball.
The sweet scent of hookah mingles with cigarettes permeated through the open side door, leaving a smoky film over the crowd. Bodies glisten with sweat as they writhe together on the dance floor. Wrinkle-proof Dockers and pastel-tinged polo shirts grind against flesh marred with piercings, symbols, and obscenities.
This is what I love about the French Quarter.
The vibrant mix of sinners and wannabe saints melds into one delicious pot. Walk the streets on any given day, and you could go from sniffing the most delicious fried beignets to being assaulted by the scent of fresh vomit and human waste. There’s no real beauty in perfection—and Louisiana doesn’t hide her scars.
That’s what drew me here.
I’m a transplant. An outsider who arrived six months ago. In all this time, I’ve never regretted leaving California.
Not until seven days ago.
I lean back against the bar on my elbows, watching the masses. They move to the heavy beats of the music, heads thrown back in rapture exposing the smooth flesh of their necks.
The simple movement ensnares me.
Getting bitten by a vampire in New Orleans is about as cliché as it got. I can’t even say the words out loud without feeling like I’ve landed in some badly written Twilight fanfiction.
Each night, I fall asleep hoping I’ll awaken and discover that the crazy shit which transpired just outside of Bourbon Street couldn’t have been real.
I’ve come to the conclusion there are two options: I’ve been attacked by a psychopath and am now going through some form of toxic blood poisoning clearly affecting my mind, or the vampire was real and now life, or more correctly death, is about to get complicated as hell.
But my heart continues to beat. I draw breath. I want food. All of it. I even walk in the daylight. So, what does this mean?
Fuck, I don’t know. I’m still trying to process.
The last two days, nothing but need and want plagues me. I suffer from an insatiable thirst for something I can’t understand. A want for satisfaction. Desire. My skin doesn’t even feel like my own anymore. I hover over myself, watching helplessly as the pendulum drops.
Is Aurora Hedvige dead? Or do I still exist?
After hours on google researching “vampire transformation,” morbid curiosity got the best of me, and I’d indulged the crazy. I drove to the twenty-four-hour market and purchased a package of beef organs soaked in raw blood and a Twinkie so the clerk wouldn’t look at me like a total freak.
I took two bites, then forced myself to drink the blood.
Did I get the satisfaction I sought? No, instead I spent the entire night barfing over the toilet with severe stomach cramps.
I’m out of options and about to do the most desperate and ridiculous thing I can do. I came to The Yowlin’ Wolf looking for answers. Answers only one person can give me. When she’s not creating voodoo dolls and selling magic candles to the drunken tourists, Mama Lisette rents the third-floor kitchen for her catering business.
It seems absurd to imagine a woman whose flyers proclaim her the Madame of Black Magic cooking pork shoulder and corn bread with an apron on. But as my best friend Reina says, “Even voodoo queens have to pay their bills.”
At the very least, she’ll laugh at me. At the very worst, she’ll take my money, and I’ll see shit for it. All I know is, if Mama Lisette can’t help me, my second stop is the emergency room where I’ll beg for a psychiatric hold.
What makes tonight so do-or-die?
Plenty. This morning, I lunged for my best friend’s throat. She had to fight me off with all her strength, and I still didn’t stop. Not until she smacked me over the head with my favorite lamp.
When I finally awoke five minutes later, Reina was crouched on the floor crying. I’ve never had a propensity for violence, and I’m not about to start.
Coming to see Mama Lisette is Reina’s idea. She told me when her boyfriend’s ex had gotten out of control, Mama Lisette had helped her create a protection spell which seemingly worked.
Did I believe that? I’m not sure, but I’m also not in the position to be choosy.
A hand taps my forearm, and I turn to see Reina. “Hey, chickadee! Sorry, I’m late.” She leans in and gives me a half hug. “How are you feeling?” She flips her long bluish-black hair off her shoulder with her free hand. Reina is your typical gothic girl. She likes skulls, any shade of black, has a sharp tongue—and a hugely hidden heart.
Tonight, she’s wearing a tight black dress, which flares at her hips. The material changes from solid to swaths of gossamer material trailing behind her like a train. Her pale arms are covered in fishnets, and her dainty hands are covered by clunky silver rings and bracelets.
No one ever expected the two of us to be acquaintances—let alone best friends. Between my love for pastels and flip-flops, long, blond hair and California beach tan, visually, we scream opposites. Together, we look like a yin-yang symbol.
Even if our conversation isn’t secretive, the volume in this place requires us to huddle our heads together and yell.
“Considering everything?” I shrug. “As good as can be. I haven’t attacked anyone—yet.”
Reina frowns. “We’ll figure this out, Aura.”
Aura was the nickname Reina had given me when we’d first met.
“I should be the one asking you.” I lean back and look at her neck. Faded purple marks, which will likely deepen over the next few days, mar her ivory skin. “Are you okay?”
Reina orders a vodka soda from the baby-faced bartender and turns her attention back to me. “I told you, I am.”
“And you promise to uphold the plan, right?”
The plan to get me admitted, by force if necessary, if this last-ditch effort didn’t pan out.
“I told you I would.”
Reina refuses to state whether or not she believes me. Instead, she only claims she believe
s I believe. Whatever the fuck that means.
“Good.” I turn my head, and my nose twitches. Tendrils of different smells tantalize me. Desire mixed with sweat and blood formulate the perfect cocktail. The coppery tinge stops my perusal, and I narrow my eyes. Searching. Just as quickly as the scent torments me, it escapes my grasp like a plume of smoke. I continue my search and wrinkle my nose as a strong draft of too much aftershave hits me.
“Aura?”
Reina’s concerned eyes study me. “What?”
“I was talking, and you didn’t even hear me.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, “It’s getting worse.”
“I know.” She grabs her glass off the bar and downs it. I think she is feeling less confident than she wants me to believe. “All right, let’s do this.”
Reina drops a twenty on the bar and starts toward the back hallway.
Two flights up a creaky wooden staircase, a right turn, and we reach the third floor. A scratched-up door sits at the end of the hall and the sounds of Spanish music echo from a window. A white, handwritten piece of paper with the words Mofongo Mama is taped to the outside. My stomach growls as the aroma of pan-fried garlic and plantains floats through the frame.
I haven’t eaten since the organs incident.
Reina raises her fist to knock, and I catch it with my hand before she touches the wood. “Do you really think this is a good idea? I’m starting to genuinely regret this.”
“It will be fine. I promise.” She tugs herself free and knocks three times.
Dishes clatter from inside and the music lowers. Footsteps snap against the squeaky floorboards until they stop on the other side of the door. The deadbolt clicks before the door cracks open.
“Yes?” A young girl in her mid-teens with curly brown hair stands on the other side of the threshold.
Reina says, “We’re here to see Mama Lisette.”
“For?” The girl pivots on her hip, as though she’s done it a thousand times.
