A Vampire's Seduction (A Dark Hero Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Vampire’s Seduction

  Fleur Camacho

  Contents

  Limited Time Offer

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Afterword

  A Vampire’s Seduction

  15. The Edge Sample

  Copyright

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  Prologue

  Ameena fingered the stake tucked in the back of her full skirt, considering her next step very carefully. The darkness threatened her from all sides, but she wasn’t scared. No. She reveled in it. She breathed it in, welcoming the stench of death.

  Checking behind her to make sure that she had followed the instructions given her to the letter, she pushed open the door. She ascended the stairs purposefully and, facing the locked door, she pulled the ornate brass skeleton key from her pocket.

  It glided into the lock and she twisted it sideways, pushing the door back. It slid an inch and then stuck in the door jam, almost as if it didn’t want to open. She shook the handle, thrusting the door back and forth until it finally ripped open, slamming it against the back wall. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her, allowing the darkness to swallow her.

  She trailed her fingers along the wall until she reached the ledge. Feeling it, she found a candle and matchstick. As soon as she struck it, the smell of sulfur drafted through the air. Her black hair curled in the humidity of the room, and the candle allowed her to see a glimpse of her pale face reflected in the crude mirror placed over the mantle. She smirked at her reflection, noting the deadly set in her eyes. Then she turned to face the middle of the room.

  An eerie music played in her mind as she approached the bed and, for a second, fear slammed into her heart so strong that she was tempted to bolt from the room. She gripped the edges of her black skirt, breathing in and out deeply, saying the words that she’d been instructed. Setting her lips in a determined line, she forced herself forward and pulled opened the curtains.

  The man was as still as death.

  The candlelight revealed his stark nakedness and she grinned, showing her blackened teeth. Oh the fun she could have with him. She dithered, trying to make up her mind. If only she wasn’t a woman of her word.

  Raising herself on her tiptoes, she climbed into the bed and straddled the man. Her full and lengthy skirts spread out under her and she tucked them in tightly. Then she blew out the candle, put it next to her on the bed, and let the shadows envelope her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of salt. Mumbling a few words, she spread the salt in a full circle around her and threw a pinch over her shoulder for good measure.

  Then her athame was in her hand, it was always within easy reach, and she called to it. It sparked to life, the etched runes glimmering a crimson red, like glowing ember eyes. It was warm and comforting in her hand, and she stroked the handle with her thumb.

  Her confidence growing, she grabbed the bag swaddled in between her breasts and pulled the drawstring open. The clipped feathers moved under her steady fingers as she pulled two of them out. She centered them in her hand and then sliced deep into her palm with her athame. The familiar metallic smell hit her nose and she bathed the plumes in the deep maroon liquid, soaking them until there wasn’t a speck of white in them.

  Satisfied, she raised them to her forehead and closed her eyes. She marked her forehead and sprinkled the man. Then she put the feathers to her mouth and, swallowing them whole, she began to recite.

  “Birdy audi accitem meam.”

  A slight trickle of blood slid through her lips and dribbled down her chin. She repeated herself, louder. “Birdy audi accitem meam.”

  A flutter in her stomach made her groan but she repeated the words, again and again. As her volume grew, so did the ache in her stomach. It traveled up from her stomach to her esophagus, choking off her breath until she spewed the dead bird onto the bedcover. The bird was a raven, coated in blood and as she swept it from the bed, it gathered bits of salt under its wing.

  Her voice rang out now, and echoed through the small room. “Cinerēs, exaudi accitem meam, cinerēs, exaudi accitem meam. Advenite mihi ante casurus.”

  His eyes sprang open, dark and obsidian.

  Before she even saw him move, his hand was on her neck, squeezing it tight. She choked and grasped his hand, trying to push it off as he pulled her to him. His grip was a vise on her throat, crushing her esophagus, and she struggled to push it away.

  Slowly she descended, and she counted the seconds it took to reach him. One. Her daughter, still enfolded in her blankets, safe and sound under her protective spell. Two. Her secret. The secret she’d guarded close. Too close. The one she never told anyone. And now she never would. Three. The woman buried under her house, that she hoped would never rise again.

  The man’s breath reeked of rot and lust, and it flit through her nose as he sat up, slightly loosening his hold.

  “Baash…” She pulled him close so that his lips were on hers, dropping the athame. “…Tard.”

  “I know your thoughts, witch.” He tasted like death as his tongue slid through her lips, searching for any remnants of the feathers. Finding none, he twisted his fingers, splaying her bare as his sliding incisors bit into her neck. Her breath caught in her throat, and she grinned as a warmth spread down to her privates. At least she would be satisfied in death.

  Chapter One

  Detrand

  The funeral began at dusk. I approached the church, keeping a leery eye on the other strigoi lined across the walk. They made to appear as casual observers but they were waiting until the funeral was over; they couldn’t enter the building. One in particular watched me closely from the bench nearby. Her honey-brown hair floated down to her mid-back and had eyes as dark as the murky skies overhead. I trailed my eyes to her legs which stretched from the slit in her skirt. She hissed at me, while positioning her skirt so that I could see right up it. Her eyes roamed over my thick body, entwined with rippling muscles and olive skin that wrapped around my physique, and then up to my face where my dark hair masked my sharp eyes, and smirked. I showed her my teeth and she slunk back into the shadows, hiding behind the bulky male strigoi sitting beside her. I would find her later.

  The door to the church creaked loudly as I opened it, and the sound reverberated off the high ceilings of the inner chamber. As I stepped inside, there was a collective gasp behind me. I entered, and turned to shut the door. Forgetting all pretenses, the group of strigoi, or vampires, huddled together at the
entrance to the church. Their eyes were wide as they stared at me and as I stared them down, their expressions turned from shock to fear. The woman with the honey-brown hair fell to her knees and bowed her head, showing the milky whiteness of her cleavage. As I shut the door, I envisioned the satisfaction I would feel as my fangs latched onto her.

  I walked down the middle aisle of the main sanctuary and studied the intricate details of the ceiling, ignoring the fact that all eyes were drawn to me. Traveling from Italy on a ship was perilous, especially for a strigoi such as I, and I had not arrived comfortably. I was the only one who was late. Even in death, the living did not disrespect the man in the wooden box at the front of the room: the ‘young,’ rich bachelor, and the most powerful man on the coast.

  Or, the man that they thought was in the box.

  There was no body, it had blown away with the winds of death. But we paid well for the illusion of death, and the church was happy to take our tokens. Women lined the pews, their handkerchiefs to their eyes, their thoughts on the fortune they would never have. As I passed, they peeked at me, wondering if I was just as profitable as the dead man. One of them waved her handkerchief, her grief exaggerated, hoping to catch my attention. I grunted and turned my head.

  The priest, his hair silver with age, called for prayer and he closed his eyes. I continued up the aisle and stood before the box.

  Suddenly, grief struck me. I lay my hand on the casket and stared woodenly at the priest.

  His hand waved in the air, stirring the incense, and his empty words crowded out the cries of grief of the audience. He peeked at me and his face paled as I stared him down. He ended the prayer quickly and called for the casket to be taken to the graveyard. The living stood out of respect as I led the pallbearers, their faces stoic and somber, towards the yard.

  The strigoi followed the end of the funeral procession and, as they lowered the empty box into the ground, I stood back, watching. Real tears were spent now, mostly from the strigoi, and I noted the ones who contained their grief. I recognized the pock-marked one, standing off to the side like an outsider, yet I knew that he knew my master the best. His eyes glistened, wet with tears but he held them in as he stared silently across the bay.

  A handful of dirt was thrown onto the box and the wails grew louder. Then the priest stepped to my side and we watched as single red roses were thrown and finally the crowd began to drift off.

  “I see my handiwork has stood the test of time,” I said to him.

  “Yes, among other things.” The priest didn’t like to speak much, but when he did, there were always layers of meanings. “You were young when you carved that ceiling.”

  “No I wasn’t. You were young back then.”

  The priest laughed. “Yes, I guess that’s true.”

  “I remember when you had that crude cross erected. It seemed to diminish my work.”

  The priest eyed me. “Your handicraft was commissioned as a gift to God. And while beautiful, it only holds a candle to the Glory of the Savior.” He watched as the mourners began to drift away, pausing to let his harsh words settle. “Things were simple then. When my understanding of the world was only seen in terms of good and evil.”

  I turned away from him and watched as a single woman stood silently at the grave. Her hair was tucked tightly under her hat, her black veil hiding her face. But I knew that under that hat, long tresses of black hair waited to be unfurled and curled under my willing hands. Her body, ready to be stroked under the caresses of my trembling fingers. I gripped my hand in a tight fist and brushed that image from mind. She was mine no longer. She had given herself willingly to him, and, because of that, I would never cross that line again.

  I tried not to hear the words she mumbled at his grave, her hands clasped tightly at her chest and her body so rigid and tight. If only I could—

  “I am glad that you have come to pay your respects.” The priest put his hand on his chest and bowed slightly. “And I wish you safe passage home.”

  “I will not be returning home.”

  He stood back up, his eyes fixed on mine. “I would that your interests at home not become neglected. You know that I pray for your success always.”

  I grabbed him by the neck and leaned in. “If you have something to say to me Father, I recommend you speak plainly.”

  “I only wish,” he choked on his words, but I did not let up. “To keep you safe.”

  “What do you mean?” I growled, my voice menacing.

  “This land is cursed. Agosto’s power waned, and every man was at his neck. They mean to crucify any who dare interfere. There is no one you can trust.”

  I raised my eyebrow. “Not even you, Father?”

  “You would be crazed to take on his businesses.”

  I released my hold and he gasped in a breath. “I have no intention of taking on his businesses.”

  He put his hand to his neck, rubbing it, his breath still raspy. “You are wise then.”

  I shot him a dirty look. “No one who knows me would consider me wise. I do intend to find his killer.”

  The priest was silent for a moment, considering my words. “I’ve heard the rumors that have drifted across the ocean. The things you’ve done, the way you’ve done them.” He looked up at me. “You have changed.”

  He eyed me silently, his eyes fearful and cautious. I turned my back to him and walked towards the grave as the darkness settled in my bones, comforting me. I recognized the sound of the priest as he stumbled away and I blocked out the noise. With a quick glance at the gravediggers who scrambled away, I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath.

  Biting my wrist, I held it over the grave, letting my blood drip onto the casket. “With the blood of my fathers, I swear to you Agosto Romano that I will discover your killer and avenge your death.” Letting go of the grief that I’d been holding back, I allowed it to flow through my body and into my words, sealing the promise.

  My grief poured through the graveyard in waves and the sound of a flock of flustered crows in flight caught my attention. I turned. It was Sophie, the woman at the grave. I quickly turned my face, hiding my surprise that she’d been watching me. Silent as the grave itself. Then I strode away, motioning for the gravediggers to begin.

  The night was beginning to turn, and many of the weaker strigoi had returned to their graves. The living long having left the gothic mansion as the night developed, instinct warning them for survival, and only the older strigoi delayed leaving the wake. Glasses with the liquid of the damned cluttered every counter, filled by the living whose instincts were feeble. Or by those already in the service of the strigoi.

  I lounged in the chaise, watching the woman across the room from me. The same woman from the church. My intoxicated eyes, filled with need, took in the curves of her body and the way she caressed the shoulder of the gentleman next to her. She glanced towards me and lowered her eyes, looking up through her long lashes. I raised my eyebrow but did not invite her to me; it wasn’t time yet.

  The pock-marked man stumbled towards me, drunken with too much blood. The idiot. I stood and grabbed him, pulling him into a hug. Rowan pushed back, eyeing me carefully. A grin spread across his face and his dull eyes lit up. Throwing his glass over his shoulder, he fell into my arms.

  “Master, you’ve come home.”

  “You saw me at the grave.”

  He laughed. “That I did. But so torn up with grief, I couldn’t approach ya.” His slurred speech was barely understandable. “Besides, I hardly recognize ya.”

  I shook my finger at him. “I don’t look a day older.” I grinned and threw my arm around his shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”

  “And I, you.”

  I stood back, holding him at arms length to study him. “Did you serve our Agosto faithfully?” I’d left Rowan in the care of Agosto, my maker and friend, now dead.

  He bowed his head, his grief weighing him down and now I understood. He drank too much because of his grief. “I did, sir. And the
others will witness for me.”

  “I know you did. And you shall be rewarded for it.”

  He looked up, his eyes sparking with hope. “You are too kind.”

  “I am a man of my word.” I gripped his arm and nodded towards the woman from the church. “Tell me. Who is that?”

  He turned towards her. “Lily is her name. Stefano is her sire.”

  “And is he attached to her?”

  Rowan shook his head. “She has been forgotten.”

  “Send her to me, then.”

  “Master?”

  “I will be in my old room.”

  He bowed. “As you wish.”

  I moved to stop his approach. “And Rowan, I have a present for you also.” His fangs extended; he was never good at holding back. “She is in the master’s room, waiting for you. I’ve held her there for a while, so she will be ready and willing. Go to her after you have spoken to Lily.”

  His nostrils flared, anticipating his reward. Hopefully he had not drunken too much, or he would be sick when he awoke.

  I waited in the corner of the room, invisible to the eye. I could feel Lily’s presence as she glided towards my room but I made myself wait. She drew closer and I vibrated with need as I anticipated her taste on my lips. The smell of her hair, bathed in honey, covered up the stench of her rot and I breathed it in deeply. It reminded me of days long ago when I worked in the field and could allow the pleasure of the sun on my back.

  I sensed her outside the door now and she hesitated. She would not deny me. Her hand trembled as she raised it, and she knocked softly.