Some people just won't stay buried...
Zara Lain, narcissistic vampire and assassin, cleaned up after a crazy warlock tried to build a vampire army, made some cash when the North American covens were left in shambles, got away when framed for the murder of a Demon Hunter, and dealt with some idiots who tried to jumpstart Armageddon. None of that could prepare her, however, for the moment when her lover of the undead persuasion awakens...
And promptly tries to kill her.
She’s raised a handful of orphaned baby vampires during the past six years and she knows the score: if they don’t get sane again, they have to be staked. And even if she can fix her would-be boyfriend, he’s not the only formerly deceased one in town who wants to kill her. Old enemies are back to put a cramp in her love life, ruin a good pair of heels, and just maybe end the world.
An apocalypse is nigh...and it gets a lot worse than having nothing to wear to the occasion
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Warning: This book may cause you emotional turmoil and feelings of great pain. I'd apologize but it would be a lie; I feed on your tears. Keep 'em coming.
Exhumed
A Demons of Oblivion Novel
Skyla Dawn Cameron
Books by Skyla Dawn Cameron
DEMONS OF OBLIVION
Bloodlines
Hunter
Lineage
Exhumed
9 Crimes: A Nate O’Connor Novella
Damaged: A Zara Lain Novella
Oblivion (Coming Soon)
Whiskey Sour & Other Stories
Howl: A Juliette Aubrey Novella (Coming Soon)
Tales from Alchemy Red: A Vampire Walked Into a Bar
Tales from Alchemy Red: Hungry Like the Wendigo (Coming Soon)
Tales from Alchemy Red: Temptation (Coming Soon)
Soulless
Haunted (Coming Soon)
RIVER WOLFE
River (Coming Soon)
Wolfe (Coming Soon)
Exhumed
Copyright © 2012-2013 by Skyla Dawn Cameron
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Cover Art © 2012-2013 by Skyla Dawn Cameron
2nd Edition: October 2013
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9921281-7-3
SMASHWORDS EDITION
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
For those of us who are the heroine and the monster.
The past is not a package one can lay away.
~Emily Dickinson
Love is whatever you can still betray. Betrayal can only happen if you love.
~John le Carre
Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh?” he whispered.
“Yes, Piglet?”
“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”
~A.A. Milne
Ana
The forest is black at night. Black in the way many humans do not understand—cannot conceive of. Without a moon or stars above, it is impossible to find one’s way.
Unless you’re a vampire.
The lights are off in the house. I pass the mausoleum but continue on as if I can’t see it—as if I can’t remember it. Remember being there, in the dark. Remember waking unable to move. There’s a hole in my mind, memories I’m unwilling to recall, unwilling to process yet. Dragomir says it’s been years since I was killed. Murdered. It could’ve been years still since I awoke as well; I cannot be exposed to daylight now and tied down, locked away, deemed a dangerous monster after my awakening, I cannot say how much time has passed. So the mausoleum is nothing, just a large dark shape in my sharp peripheral vision, something I shall revisit after.
When I’m through with the task ahead.
My maker had me expecting change. The eight years I’d been gone had seen the turn of a century. Lost independence. My land weakened, made a territory of an empire. Dragomir had droned on and on, “preparing” me for the night they let me out of that tiny room in their basement.
But nothing seems different. Trees are a little larger. The grounds are mostly the same, seared into my memory as I’d traversed them many times.
I have a key to both doors of the house—my own, something small Dragomir had taken from my body when he assassinated me. Turned me. I take it to the servants’ door around the side and it slides easily in the lock. When I was the lady of the house, we kept only a handful of people as staff. Perhaps whoever the new mistress is, she’d provided a greater dowry, for now I hear the heartbeats of at least a dozen, all quiet in their beds.
Except for one.
Madelina had been a mouse of a thing. She kept a good house and I tried, but though timid when I faced her directly, I sensed something when I gave her my back—sensed sharp eyes, sensed dislike. I dismissed it then, but not now; now there is nothing nice of me left, nothing willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt. Madelina pads through the hall, the floorboards creaking softly, light flickering across the walls from the candle she carries in a brass holder, and I know it then.
She will be the first to die.
Her dark hair hangs in a braid over her shoulder, her long white bedclothes stark in comparison. She’s thin and bony after all this time, and her face is more gaunt than I remember, the hollows beneath her high cheekbones darker now.
I wait in the dark, pressed against the wall. Nearer and nearer, my gaze narrows on her throat, on the steady pulse of blood beneath her flesh. I hunger but I will not eat this one. This is my first kill in my “right” mind. My first kill without the full insanity of starvation and isolation. My first planned kill.
And it will be beautiful.
She pauses as she turns the corner toward her room, right foot poised with her heel off the ground and nightgown fluttering about her legs. Her gaze moves toward the door, which I have left slightly ajar. She frowns, shifts the candle. She searches the darkness.
I move.
I’m fast now. It lasts for short bursts, but it’s enough. I’m alive, jittery, thrilled, nervous energy moving through my limbs; one hand locks on her throat, the other over her mouth, and I pin her against the nearest wall. Her eyes widen and the candle drops, striking the hardwood and blowing out.
“Spirit,” she hisses against my hand.
Not quite.
I bare my fangs and slam them into her throat. Bloo
d rushes past my lips—fresh, warm, unlike what Dragomir and his consort have been feeding me, funneling their leftovers down my throat while I’m tied to a chair. The blood sparks hunger but I resist and drag my fangs down, cutting deep.
I lean back.
Madelina sputters and chokes, blood nearly black as it pours down her neck, over her nightgown. She stumbles.
I cock my head to the side, watching. Detached.
She tries to suck in a breath. Blood gurgles. She might wake someone soon so I grab her face in both my hands and give her head a firm wrench. Spine snaps and the tear in her throat deepens. I’m drenched in blood. The body drops and I drag my hands over the walls as I walk towards the bedrooms.
I kill two in their sleep before the third wakes. This one I recognize: Almos served my husband well before my marriage. I can’t remember if he’d been kind or not.
I also don’t care.
The light is poor in his corner of the room, but he sees me; he backs up, huddled between two beds. I’m covered in blood and his gaze trails over my gown, up to my face and fangs. He murmurs more words about monsters and demons.
Strange, having someone see you as something else. The servants before glanced over me, Ana the wife. Quiet, obedient. Accommodating. Ana easily replaced. Forgotten. Now I am a monster. A demon, apparently.
Even if I don’t entirely feel it, I can grow to be that. Happily.
My nails are long and I slash them against his throat, cutting deep. My other hand juts out and snatches his hair, yanking his head back. He thrashes and cries. I cut with my nails again and blood arcs gracefully in the air, painting the walls. And I cut again. And again. And again, pouring rage into the movements, preternatural strength doing more and more damage. I pause at last, a fistful of stringy meat around my fingers, and turn my hand over to gaze at the mess. So easy. Ana had been nothing to them, and now they are nothing to me.
I discard the body and go in search of more.
Six go easily. And their children. I feel no horror in dissecting their tiny bodies. Innocence means nothing now. I was innocent and it hadn’t mattered. There is no justice, no right in the world, and I feel nothing at being a part of that unfairness. They are victims simply due to their parents living and working here; I was a victim simply due to my family’s choice in husband for me.
I am finished with the lower floor. Now I walk up the stairs. My steps are soft and the wood makes no noise under my bare feet; my gown is sticky against my legs, soaked through with the blood of my victims. My stomach is empty and hollow, twisting with hunger I will soon sate. My heart is...gone. I left it in the crypt when I died and I do not wish it back again.
No one has awoken in the upper level. I head straight for my bedroom, where I slept with my husband night after night, believing he loved me, trusting him. The door is shut and I ease it open, steeling myself even as adrenalin pumps through my veins, as my pulse pounds in my ears, as my vision tunnels. Knowing what I will see still doesn’t prepare me.
The bed is occupied. Two lumps under a sheet. A woman in my place. Her hair fans out across my pillow. Her pale, dainty hand is on my husband’s chest. If I look, I know I will find her clothes tucked away in my chest across the room. I will smell her in my spot at the breakfast table. I will see signs of her presence all over my home.
It isn’t rage anymore rising in me. Clutching me. Coating me in a cold sweat, burning behind my eyes. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m trembling, shaking, staring. There isn’t a word for this feeling, betrayal cutting so deep I feel cleaved through. The steady tattoo of my pulse hasn’t eased up but is beating harder, harder, so hard I see it pounding against my peripheral vision.
I want to flee. I want to cry.
Most of all, I want to wake up.
Monster. Demon. I remember myself then, remember what I am. Remember that I am here not to mourn—I can’t mourn now. Pavel betrayed a girl called Ana.
And Ana is dead.
I move silently to the candle waiting on a shelf. There ought to be light for this, so that they might see me. So that I might prolong their fear.
A soft breath draws my attention. I tilt my head, predatory gaze moving across the room in search of the source.
Then I see the bassinet.
Chapter One
There’s an App for That
“Do I really look like the kind of girl who would kill someone for just fifty grand?” I ran my fingertips up the stem of my champagne glass and tilted my head to the side, smiling sweetly. “And if you say yes, by the way, I’m going to punch you. Free of charge.”
Craig shifted, gaze darting around the restaurant. I’d picked a nice place I knew, all swanky and expensive. Low candlelight on the tables, classical music playing at just the right volume in the background, wait staff who seemed to disappear into the background and only reappear if something was needed. The hum of voices and occasional brief, lilting laughter from the other patrons was nonintrusive and no one could follow our conversation from the plush burgundy booth where we made our deal. Or attempted to make our deal. Tension had Craig’s shoulders hunched up and he glanced behind him again.
Icky, packed coffee shop or biker bar? Yeah, he probably would’ve thought nothing of it. But you don’t hire an assassin on behalf of your boss in a five star restaurant with the current face of Italian Vogue sitting three tables over next to her NBA boyfriend, and an up and coming director whose film was buzzed about at Sundance sitting in the corner.
Well, most people don’t. But I like to be on my own turf during negotiations so I have the upper hand when some douchetard tries to lowball me.
Like right about now.
I leaned back, plucked my champagne from the table, and took a sip. Sweet, dry, and bubbly. I watched my companion over the rim of the glass. Cocked a brow. Waited for him to finish fidgeting, which might take a while.
Craig was short, square-shouldered, with very closely cropped dark hair and dark eyes that tried to be hard but failed utterly. A lightweight. He’d dressed well in steel gray Armani for our meeting but the sleeves of his coat were a touch too long and the pants didn’t sit right—bought off the rack, nothing custom tailored. Way over his head.
I set down my glass. Crossed my legs under the table, expensive dress pants shifting over my skin. Smiled again. The flickering candlelight played off the champagne bottle, danced between us. I was quite comfortable and could sit here all night; Craig, I suspected, had no such ability. That he hadn’t left when I said no to fifty grand told me he’d been given a lot more leeway. And that he hadn’t a clue what he was doing.
Of course, I hated it. My secretary had her own place with her girlfriend and while she put me in touch with people, she did fuck all to organize contracts for me now. Over a year of not having to do it and I forgot how much it totally sucked.
At least I was getting good champagne out of it.
Finally my companion leaned forward, table rattling under his elbows in a way that likely had the maitre d’ wringing his hands and prepping to run over. “I can offer up to five hundred.”
Once in a while I did a charity case for that now. Rarely, though. “What are the particulars? Higher risk to me, higher the pay.”
The phone buzzed in my slim black clutch next to me. Lips twitched, hand clenched, but I held still. Whoever it was could wait. If it was Nic, I’d chew her out and fire her ass for not taking care of this herself.
“Look.” His voice pitched low as he leaned forward even farther, close enough that I thought he might lose his balance and flop on the table. I got a whiff of his cologne and it wasn’t pretty. “I can’t give out anything until you agree.”
Jesus H.— “I’m not agreeing to anything until I know the particulars. Especially not for that paltry sum. Five million? Ten? Hell, I’d do just about anything for numbers like that, including put my very fine person at considerable physical risk. But five hundred thousand doesn’t even cover the property tax I pay in a year. Try again
.” I lifted the bottle of champagne from the bucket, ice clanking against the metal, and refilled my glass, then returned it. Took my glass stem. Sat back once more. Sighed dramatically. “Now. Let’s talk target. Who is it?”
Craig, I knew, was from a special organization. I wouldn’t go so far as to say mafia and all the images that idea incurred, but they were involved in crime and they had cash. Otherwise my contacts were all hushed about it. Craig was shit for brains, but his boss wouldn’t have sent a lackey to see me about it if it wasn’t serious.
“Clearly you want it untraceable to your boss or you’d get someone from within the organization,” I offered. “Is it a bigger boss? Someone higher up? Father, maybe?”
Craig’s mouth flapped wordlessly, sweat beading on his brow. He leaned back, shoulders deflating. “Older sister.”
My phone buzzed again. Irritation rose but I smoothed it back. “And what’s so tough about her?”
“She’s...special. Not...entirely human.”
Better and better. “Supernatural kills start at one million. Surely my secretary explained this to you.”
“But—”
“They’re higher risk. Again, my secretary would have told you all this.”
“But my boss—”
“You do not approach Zara Lain, attempt to procure her services as a killer-for-hire, and then punk out on your end of things”—Buzz. Fucking phone—“and continuing the conversation in this direction will, at best result in me leaving here without having a business arrangement with you, and at worst, result me in sending your head back in a box to your boss for insulting me. Now, why don’t you call your boss back—” Buzz. Oh, for fuck’s— “Just hold that decapitation thought for a minute.” I reached for my clutch, popped it open, and plucked out my phone. If it was Nicolette, I was going to—
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