The Fire Witch
A Zvi Jayden Novel Book 1
by Sasha Marshall
Genre: Paranormal Romance
A brutal murder by a reserved vampire brings a new case to Zvi Jayden. Perplexed as to why her friend met such a tragic end, she will stop at nothing to find the rogue vampire. An array of supernatural beings converge at The Bar to find the killer and other hidden truths. Killian Kavanaugh, king of the vampires is after the killer and Zvi's heart. Zvi will not only have to battle a killer vampire but fight her feelings and Killian's advances. Will Zvi catch the killer before it's too late?
Prologue
Karl
DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME AND winter combine to make nights longer, a blessing for a vampire—one I have cursed more than graciously accepted for over 600 years. As I reach up and push on the coffin's lid, the hinges squeak as it opens. I crawl out into the evening, refresh myself with a shower, and then I wander onto the front porch with a book in my hand, a collection of essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson. As I take a seat in my favorite antique, white rocking chair, I reach out into the distance, casting my senses beyond me like a net, searching for potential danger. The crickets chirp, the cicadas sing, and the smell of honeysuckle sweetens the humid, Georgia air. I sense another vampire eight houses down, another creature of the night assimilating into human culture.
The night is peaceful, just as I like it, and makes for the perfect evening to bury my nose in Emerson's Self Reliance and let the world around disappear. When the grandfather clock inside chimes through the screen door at the eight o’clock hour, I decide to move to the kitchen for my nightly cup of coffee, a habit I picked up in 1914, on the eve of the war. Coffee is the closest thing to sunshine a vampire can withstand.
As the beans brew, I take the time to appreciate the rich aroma, allowing the smell to waft over me. It brings back memories of days gone by when I was very much in love with Maribel. The love of my life has been gone for over fifty years now. I can’t seem to move past her, recreating the smell of our long nights together each evening with a simple cup of joe. If I listen hard enough, I can still hear her laugh as she guzzled caffeine to stay awake with me.
Lost in thought, I move back to the rocking chair and cast my net again, always on the lookout for danger. This time there are two vampires–one of the two ancient and powerful–and a witch. The hair on my neck stands on end as I wait for them to reveal themselves. Anticipation makes me anxious to discover their identities. It’s the witch that shows her face–a beautiful face, framed with mousy brown hair that would’ve deceived me if I’d not already smelled her dark magic.
“Mr. Ekman,” she greets as she climbs the porch steps, wearing a long, black, lacy dress that drags the ground.
“What do you want, witch?” I ask, in no mood to be bothered by a stranger in the middle of the night.
“They say you loved a human woman,” she says.
Most vampires would be ashamed of the fact, but not me. The thirty years I spent with my Maribel were the best years of my immortal existence. “I still do.”
She smiles at me, lifts one hand in the air, and unleashes a black cloud of dark magic with one target in mind. The small cyclone picks me off the porch for a few moments before it sets me back on my feet and crawls inside my lungs. I sink to my knees as I cough and sputter, choking on the thickness. It consumes me, painfully twisting my bones, contracting my muscles, and invading my mind.
The witch walks over to me with dark black shining eyes. She touches my forehead, and whispers an unknown language into my ear, with snarled, black words. A mental picture of a male human and his dog filters into my brain, and there’s one command along with it.
Kill.
I stand from the porch, feeling stronger than ever before. I begin my journey from my suburban home to downtown Atlanta, zipping through woods and streets at vampiric speed. I reach a parking garage off Decatur Street where my victim and canine have made a temporary home for the night. I’d been homeless many times in my mortal years, living on the streets of Granada. I try not to prey on those in the same position. But tonight, there’s bloodlust running through my veins. With each beat of the human’s heart comes a fresh wave of the copper scent that causes my fangs to protract in anticipation of tasting the sweet life force on my tongue.
In the back, dark corner of the garage, the sleeping dog wakes and lifts his head. A deep growl emanates from his throat, a warning not to venture closer to the human. Animals can always sense when they’re in the presence of a stronger predator. The man rouses from his sleep.
A vampire never has to take a life. It keeps our existence from being discovered. Once we make it past the first year of barely controlled hunger, we can make the experience quite pleasurable, even sexual, for both parties. Depending on the age of the vampire, most need little more than a sip of blood. But tonight, there’s no pleasure to be had. The magic coursing through me will ensure that I’ll devour the man’s soul down to the last metallic drop.
“I was here first,” the man says, clearly of the mind that a well-dressed vampire is here to impose on his makeshift bed.
I don’t want to kill the man. It’s a senseless loss of life. I’d rather go home and finish my java while reading Emerson, but the urge to fully consume the man outweighs all humanity left in my vampire soul.
I don’t respond to the man. Instead, I opt for an attempt at fighting the black cloud in my head. I tell myself to walk away, to leave the fragile human being, and allow him to live another day.
“Find your own spot,” the man says, his voice dripping with annoyance over being roused from sleep.
I try to turn around and walk out the way I came, but the hungry urge is too strong. I close my eyes and force images of Maribel into existence. If anyone can remind me of the man and vampire I am, it’s her.
I step into a small circle of light, illuminating myself.
“What the fuck are you?” the human asks.
I can barely manage words, but I have to give the man a real shot at escaping. “Run!” I growl.
The man quickly slides from his sleeping bag, crab crawls backward and jumps up into a standing position before he sprints across the garage. I fight like hell against the magic’s hold. The quick retreating footsteps slap the pavement in perfect timing with the human’s heart. The beat grows stronger, harder, and faster as the man overexerts himself as he runs for his life. If I can wait until the man is behind a locked door, maybe I can find some control. A lock won’t stop me, but a required invitation to come inside by a human will.
Maribel dances across my vision, a dark-haired beauty with high cheekbones, full lips, and sparkling blue eyes. I concentrate on her scent–a heady combination of jasmine and vanilla. It’s a scent that normally calms me quickly. I focus on the silkiness of her long locks, the way her long lashes touch her cheeks, and the smile made to bring man and beast to their knees. But the bloodlust, the sound of my victim’s quick breaths, and the stench of the street fill me instead of the beautiful spirit I hope against all hope will save me.
“Maribel,” I call out, hoping she’ll spare me from this terrible act.
Thought becomes more difficult with each passing moment. My soul fades, buckling under the witch’s power. I know what will happen if I give into the darkness–it will take over and I’ll rip the man to pieces.
“Maribel,” I plead one last time, my voice full of desperation. “Save me, my love.”
But her memory slips away, replaced with my only mission.
Kill.
I casually amble out of the parking structure, my senses locked onto my prey, and stalk down a dark alley on the trail of the scent. In the distance, the human bellows as he frantically knocks on alley doors for entry and safety. When I am but five feet away, I stop and wait for the man to turn around to see what awaits him. The moment before the kill is the sweetest moment of the hunt when the lamb finally realizes the blade is about to drop. There’s nowhere to turn and no one to cry out for.
As the man turns to face his death, I notice the dog tags around his neck–Patrick Russell. The fog of the magic lifts just enough to realize that the man is a veteran. “You served?”
Patrick puffs his chest out, pride overcoming the fear on his face. “Yeah. You?”
“In another life, being a soldier was the only option for an orphan.”
“That’s fucking great, man. Are you going to chill now?” Patrick asks warily.
A blackness fills me again, and a cloud settles over us. I reach out with my sixth sense for my Maribel, hoping she’s nearby and can help me overcome the forceful magic. It begins to choke me, filling my lungs with needles as I fight against it. My bones begin to buckle underneath the weight as I nearly collapse to the ground. My eyes fill with tears as I realize I’m seconds away from completely losing control. There’s nothing anyone can do for Patrick or myself at this point.
With supernatural speed, I close the distance between us. I wrap my hand around Patrick’s throat and squeeze as I lift him into the air. Patrick claws at my hands with wide eyes that beg for mercy, but there’s no mercy to be had. The human kicks his legs in an attempt to break free, but his fragile, mortal body is too weak to fight against the hold. There’s fear in his eyes until right before life leaves him, and then there’s the resignation of a soldier—a man who knows death is coming and decides to meet the end with dignity and bravery.
I lower him enough to connect my lips to the carotid artery. I hover above it for a moment, enjoying the vibration of the rapid pulse against my mouth. I possess no restraint as I tear into the neck. A blood-curdling scream escapes Patrick, which only invites me to drink harder and faster. Rivers of the crimson flow down our bodies, soaking the skin and clothing in the sweet elixir. I haven’t felt this kind of hunger since the night I first rose as a vampire. Patrick’s heart gives out, and as soon as I release the dead weight, the body crumples to the ground. I find myself unsteady on my feet, drunk from overindulging way past my fill. I lean over and vomit most of the blood back up, feeling sick from a combination of gluttony and putrid, dark magic. I purge the spell from my body, and when I’m finished, I look up to find Maribel’s ghost beside Patrick’s body. Tears stain her porcelain face. I squat over the man’s body and reach out to touch her face, but she vanishes into thin air.
I fall to my knees as I pull at the strands of my hair. Tears cascade down my face, and utter shame courses through me. The guilt threatens to pull me under. “I’m sorry, my love,” I whisper to her ghost.
1
Zvi
I TAKE ANOTHER SIP of Wild Turkey as I keep watch over The Bar. It’s creeping toward eleven. The bourbon isn’t curing my headache and neither are the patrons, who are as loud as the music. The place is dimly lit with the house lights turned down. Lighted liquor and beer signs adorn the walls along with music memorabilia. Dank smoke hovers in the air in billowy clouds from those who prefer herbal relief to alcoholic beverages.
The place is owned by my sister, Moe, and myself, and what The Bar lacks in originality in name, it makes up for with the character of its supernatural clientele. It isn't just another watering hole. It can only be accessed from a dark alleyway off Decatur Street in Atlanta, but there isn't a lighted sign above the door directing every Tom, Dick, and Nancy to spend their hard-earned dollars on booze and debauchery. As a matter of fact, no signage exists, but a spell warding off humans does. Humans don't need to discover our existence and ruin their precious little perceptions of their safe worlds, which means a person does not wander into our business by mistake. If a human is ever inside our walls, it’s because we want them there.
Thursday night is bike night and heavy rock and roll pours from the speakers. The dress code consists of leather, boots, doo-rags, and patches sewn onto vests. The place is overrun with wolves who like their pipes as loud as they do their music. I’ll never admit it aloud, but I like Thursday nights only slightly better than I like Friday nights, when the vampires and demons come out in droves for 90’s night. I love the 90’s. It was a great decade for music.
I don't prefer one supernatural species over another though. They’re all assholes as far as I’m concerned, and there doesn’t exist another being like me. It confuses the hell out of everyone I come into contact with and annoys the shit out of me when I’m bombarded with probing questions.
The bar is packed and the crowd is reaching an eight on my internal drunk-o-meter. If trouble is going to rise, it usually begins at an eight. Moe and two other bartenders are still pouring beer like it’s water, while some of the customers show off their stellar dance skills in the middle of the room. Members from different packs congregate around the pool tables and dart boards, but I pretend not to see the money wagered on each game. Wolves love to gamble, and I don’t care as long as they aren't hurting anyone. But I keep watch over the gambling since four different packs are in attendance tonight. They love to fight as much as I do, but I don’t fight in my bar where I have to pay for broken shit. I understand that dogs will be dogs, and they just have to be the last one to piss on a spot, but they can do that shit outside in the parking lot.
My job is to knock heads together if a fight breaks out. Most people know not to cross me, but alcohol makes them forget sometimes. I’m coiled tighter than a rattlesnake on a good day and wait for someone to step out of line to justify me putting my fist through their face. Otherwise, I'll go to jail for assault and battery, and Moe said she isn’t bailing me out anymore.
I scan the bar from one side to the other and catch the glint of chrome in the middle of the room. An unfamiliar man wades through the dance floor and sticks out like a sore thumb in his gray, fitted slacks and black, button-down shirt. He has to be law enforcement and a supe since he's able to walk through the door. Being a stranger or a lawman doesn’t necessarily get your ass kicked in The Bar (most of the time), but the gun at his side is about to put him in a very problematic position. No weapons are allowed in here, except mine, per state law and my decree which is why every head in the place turns to him as he marches toward my dark table in the corner.
I don't care if he has a badge, he isn't special. We don't need a pissing contest in the middle of the place because half of these wolves have priors and claim they’re allergic to the police. This stranger might not be the brightest crayon in the box. We aren’t off to a great start. Strike one.
He pulls out the chair across from me and dumps my feet from their perch. Strike two. I cock a brow at him as he helps himself to the seat. He’s good-looking, a good 9.5 on the scale because a ten just doesn’t exist. I’m waiting for Moe to cut the jukebox and holler “dibs" across the joint.
My phone vibrates, and I turn it over to discover a text message from my sister.
Moe: Dibs on that tall drink of water!
Zvi: Damn it! I thought about it first.
Moe: You know the rules.
Zvi: You're a sasshole.
I met my sister when I was too young to remember it. She's the same age and lived in the same foster home some fifty miles south of Atlanta. Neither of us remember our parents, and we instantly bonded over our disgust for our foster parents. We lived with a couple who cared more for our monthly government draw check than our well-being. They weren't abusive, just neglectful which was a blessing when we hit puberty. To our surprise we turned into other beings. Moe’s a witch who possesses too much magic for her own good. On a blue moon, I turn into a... well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. We always knew we were different, but orphans never suspect their differences will be about creatures written in myths and fairytales.
I place my phone face down on the table and look across it to find the man grinning at me like he knows something I don't.
“Zvi Jayden,” he greets.
I school my face. “Well, now, you have me at a disadvantage, because I have no idea who you are.”
He rests his large hand on the table and opens it to reveal a shiny badge with a black star in the middle. “Deputy Hendri Connor, Black Star Division.”
Black Star doesn’t exist as far as the world knows. It's a secret division of the CIA. Their deputies are supernaturals in charge of bringing in violent magical fugitives. When they can't get the job done, they come to me. I like the extra income and the workout. It’s cheaper and more productive than therapy.
“A fur-ball and a cop?”
He continues to grin at me. “Feisty and displays an unwillingness to cooperate.”
I shrug. “My reputation precedes me. What else did you hear?”
“Creative with insults, supernatural, nobody can pinpoint your species. You’ve got a notorious temper on you, and you’re as strong as an ancient fanger. Rumor says you heal faster than most supernaturals, and you’re suspiciously good at capturing rogue creatures Black Star can't seem to apprehend. You refuse to work with anyone from the Black Star office and slip every detail we put on you.”
I lace my fingers together and then crack my knuckles. I chance a look around the Black Star Deputy and find the entire bar looking back at us.
“Mind your own damn business!” I yell over the music and slap my palm down on the table. They all quickly find something else to look at, and rightly they should. I'm hard to handle on a good day and if it weren’t for Moe, I’d likely be locked up in Black Star’s asylum for all of eternity. I help them catch bad guys and in return, they tend to help me out when I get into trouble… again. “Sounds about right,” I reply.
The stranger leans forward where I can see his dark green eyes, brown hair, and tanned skin. He has a nice jawline covered with a five o’clock shadow and an even nicer smile with perfect teeth. His legs are so long his knees touch mine. I'd put him at 6’4 which means he stands a whole foot taller than me. He’s attractive in a rugged way, and the scabs on his knuckles tell me he isn't afraid to throw down.
My phone vibrates again, and I chance another look knowing it’s likely my sister.
Moe: Why haven't you sent him to the bar yet?
Zvi: Because you're not a bounty hunter.
Moe: I like a lawman. Maybe he'll show me his gun.
Zvi: Why don't you just ask him to whip it out instead of beating around the bush?
Moe: Because some of us know how to soften the blow.
Zvi: I see what you did there. Nicely done.
“Interrupting something?” the Deputy asks.
I place my phone back on the table. Moe still acts like a boy crazy teenager at twenty-eight. I just want someone to take home who’ll shut up and take care of business, but everybody wants to know my species. Twenty-one questions kills the mood.
“What do you want?” I ask.
"There was a vampire attack tonight.” He runs his hand through his hair and sighs. He looks like he’s running low on sleep. "The victim is male, 32, and his body was found in an alley two hours ago about a mile from here. Half an hour ago, we confirmed that a vamp named Karl Ekman is responsible, and he's now Black Star’s number one fugitive.”
The hairs on my neck stand on end. I don't care too much for killers in my backyard, vampire or human. “What’s special about this vampire attack?”
“It was very public, sloppy, and overkill. Something doesn’t sit right with me about how it all went down.”
“So he’s the number one fugitive now?”
“You didn’t see the amount of blood at the scene.”
Vampire attacks happen, not often, but they do occur. “Any leads on him?”
He avoids my question with one of his own. “So, what are you anyway?” The million dollar question. Moe can have him. I don't need to be nagged anymore than I already am about my fucking species.
I raise two fingers in the air to signal Moe to pour me a double. Killer vamps and too many questions make me drink…more. There’s always a lot of gore when the vamps go crazy. I don't have a weak stomach, but there are some things eyes are not meant to see.
“If Black Star wants my help, get to talking or get to walking. Doesn't matter much to me either way.”
My sister, Moe, walks two shots over to our table.
We’re like night and day in both appearance and personality. She's a free spirit and that’s due to her earthly magic. I'm all hard edges. Moe is optimistic to my rampant pessimism, or as I like to call it, realism. She tries to see the good in people. I believe 99% of the population are self-serving assholes. Her idea of a great day is filled with blues and folk music, thrift store shopping, and wine paired with a romantic comedy to unwind at the end of the night. I might smile if I'm on my Fat Boy with rock and roll turned as loud as it can go, and the wind whipping through my hair. Or, if I get the chance to open a can of whoop ass. I wouldn't be caught dead drinking wine if hard liquor can be found within a fifty-mile radius.
My hair is dark purple. I have baby blue eyes. Her hair is a dark auburn and reaches the middle of her back with a fair complexion and bright green eyes. She's taller than me by four inches.
She walks a double shot of Turkey to the table for me and a double shot of something else dark and likely top shelf for the poor unsuspecting soul that Black Star sent my way. “Johnny Walker for the Deputy and Turkey for the sister.”
The handsome man looks between the two of us several times, no doubt assessing our many physical differences. “You're sisters?” There’s a hint of disbelief in his voice.
Some people ask dumb questions. “Isn't that what she just said?”
My sister glares at me for a moment before she smiles down at the deputy again and sticks her hand out. “Moe Jayden.”
I motion to him with indifference. “Deputy…” Then I swallow my shot because I've already forgotten his name.
He stands from his seat and takes her hand gently in his. “Hendri Connor.”
That's his name! Huh. “Right. What he said.”
She smiles up at Hendri. “I hope there's no trouble.”
He and I speak at the same time.
His voice is kind and gentle. “Nothing to worry you with, ma’am.”
I mumble, “There's a crazy vampire on the loose. Dropped a body a mile from here. I hate when the vamps go crazy. They make my gut churn. I need more alcohol.”
Moe ignores me. “Are you from Atlanta?” she asks him.
“I transferred from the Seattle office,” he answers. “I've been here a week, but I’m originally from Louisiana.”
She bats her lashes. “I thought I heard southern Louisiana when you spoke. I'd love to show you around our city sometime.”
He grins down at her. “I might take you up on that.”
“Her bedroom is on the second floor if you two would like to get to knocking boots and get it out of your system, or you can tell me what I need to know to put down psycho Karl,” I say.
"Don't mind her. She can make a preacher cuss!" She says and touches the side of his bicep. He looks down at her hand and gives her a look of approval.
He looks at me then back at her. "She's going to make my life a living hell, isn't she?"
My sister, the only person on this earth who gets me, casts a gentle expression in my direction. "She's just a Care Bear."
2
BEFORE I CAN ISSUE a snarky reply to my sister's comment, someone cuts off the jukebox in the middle of a song. It’s a crime to cut a good tune short. The Bar is as quiet as a library, except for the multitude of whispered “what the fuck’s". It prompts me to leave my seat in a hurry to investigate and hopefully zero in on the asshole responsible for interrupting the flow of revenue to our establishment.
In the middle of the dance floor stand ten men in perfectly tailored suits. I can smell vampire in the air. Wolves and vampires don't congregate very often or very well. The wolves don't care to get along with other species and need to be contained more than any other type of customer. It's why Thursdays are for wolves, and Friday through Sunday is for the witches, demons, vamps, and other shifters.
“I'm looking for Zvi Jayden,” says a man in an Irish lilt, but I can't gauge which man spoke.
I march up to a beast of a man, one of the largest I’ve ever seen, with long, dark brown, sun-streaked hair, and honey brown eyes. He’s pretty. He smells old, but not quite ancient. That means he’s strong, and he'd be a great sparring partner. I always have some pent up aggression in need of alleviation. I detect a rare, ancient bloodsucker somewhere in the vicinity, and said vampire would be an even better man to fight. The older the bloodsucker, the stronger they are.
“I'm Zvi,” I say with as much attitude as I can muster in a half-drunk state. “Who's asking?”
The beast takes a step to his left, and then the ancient vampire steps forward. He stands at about 6’0 with a strong body, short, brown hair, and fair skin. Large, unique, light blue eyes stare back at me. His face is perfect and a work of art that mocks even the most magnificent works crafted by celebrated and gifted artists. His oval-shaped face holds prominent brows, full lips with a small cupid’s bow, a perfect nose, and a strong, angular jaw. The bone structure and chiseled features of his high cheekbones are sharper than the sharpest blade. Half-closed, clear, marbled, light blue orbs are deep-set with thick, long, upper lashes that appear to have been painted with a fine line of liquid liner and a heavy dusting of lower lashes. I’ve never seen a man I would qualify as a ten, but I’d give this one an eleven.
“Forgive my intrusion,” he politely says. “I’m Killian Kavanagh. Is there somewhere private we may speak?” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the vampire has dazzled me with his vamp superpowers. I know who Killian Kavanagh is, although I’ve never met him. Meeting him seems to suddenly make me stupid. I’m blaming the bourbon for my unusual behavior.
Fortunately, Moe elbows me in the ribs and rattles my words loose. “Everybody get out! Settle your tabs! See you next Thursday! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
Don’t drink and drive, or I’ll kick your ass. Remember to remove your beer goggles before making any decisions you’ll regret in the morning. Have a nice night!”
At once, the patrons grumble but jump into action and head for the bar to settle their checks. I continue to stand in the middle of the dance floor with the vampires, staring at Killian Kavanagh like he’s a goddamn unicorn. Moe nudges my ribs once more.
“Right. You can follow me,” I tell him as I rub a hand over my ribs.
I head back to my reserved table in the corner of the bar. The overhead lights flash on and nearly blind me, so I yell at the bartenders to cut them off. Half of these people fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down, and I don’t need their homeliness to be illuminated.
Deputy Connor is still seated at my two-top table. I slide into my seat and let the vampires find their own chairs. I’m hospitable like that.
Mr. Kavanagh sits at the four-top beside me and looks the deputy over before asking, “And you are?”
I almost chuckle at his rudeness. I might like this guy, but not likely since I only like Moe and that’s pretty much it.
Deputy Connor is a werewolf, and I know he can smell an ancient vampire as well as I can. “Mr. Kavanagh, I’m Deputy Hendri Connor, Black Star.”
The vampire seems unimpressed by Connor. “Deputy, please call me Minister. I believe we may share a common interest this evening. I’m here regarding Karl Ekman.”
The Deputy looks as confused as a fart in a fan factory. “We just identified him thirty minutes ago. How do you know about him?”
Kavanagh appears bored. “Your office identified him because of me. The reward money also came from me and my associates. I have many resources at my disposal. Atlanta is my home, and I stay informed of supernatural fugitives, especially when they bring unwanted attention to my species or yours. I assume we’re both here to procure Miss Jayden’s bounty hunting skills?”
Did I mention how creeped out I am by fanger killers? I’m equally disturbed that this hoity-toity vampire knows of me. I don't exactly advertise my services.
The wolf crosses his arms over his broad chest. “And you’re telling me your interests are purely about public safety?”
Kavanagh looks down his nose at him. “There exists a legion of vampires with interests in public safety and keeping our existence a secret, as is the purpose of your Black Star Division.”
“Le Ambrogio?” Hendri asks.
"He’s a top-level, delta five bloodsucker, or whatever they call him," I confirm.
Kavanagh speaks with an air of insolence and self-importance. “I'm a founding member of Le Ambrogio.”
Isn’t he special?
It isn't like we can Google the super secret vampire society and read the history section on its founding and purpose. It’s a global vampire government, and they don't like their kind causing trouble. I've had contact with members of their society, but never someone of apparent importance.
“That's just spiffy,” I tell the highfalutin Killian Kavanagh. “Mind if we get on with this? You two already ruined bike night, butchered AC/DC, and took away revenue from our bar.”
The beast from earlier finally speaks. “What’s bike night?”
Moe jumps in. “A bunch of loud, like-minded people who enjoy riding equally loud motorcycles congregate to show off said motorcycles and measure their dicks and pipes while listening to rock music.”
“I resent that,” I protest.
“You would.”
I roll my eyes. “Can someone give me a lead on Ekman before he kills again?”
The beast hands Kavanagh a thick folder, who then hands it to me. “You'll find updated photographs, contact information, and his history. He was a quiet, law-abiding citizen until a few hours ago. Something doesn’t add up,” Killian advises.
People come to me for help taking down hard to catch supernatural criminals, and I'm good at what I do. The Black Star Division isn’t the only organization that seeks my skills. Moe is my partner-in-crime. It’s her magic that allows me to fly in the sky, swim in the waters, and change on land undetected by technology or people. Magic chose her at birth and the force is strong. She can manipulate or draw power from any element of this earth, including blood, which happens to be a rare gift. Most witches can't manipulate blood. She might be able to use the victim's blood and trace it back to the killer. If the vamp ingested even a drop, she'll be able to find him.
“I need the deceased’s personal effects,” I tell them.
The wolf lifts a brow. “It’s at the coroner’s office.”
“I need it here.”
“I can’t take unprocessed evidence from the coroner and bring it to you.”
“Then I can’t fucking help you. Have a nice night.” I leave my seat and head for the bar, leaving eleven men looking after me in bewilderment. Bless their hearts.
“She’s serious?” Hendri asks.
Moe nods. “She means what she says.”
She follows me to the bar and begins to clean behind it with the other bartenders. I make work of wiping and bussing nearby tables. Kavanagh approaches me alone while the other men remain in their seats. “Deputy Connor will bring the items you requested within the hour.”
“The quicker the better. I'd like to find him before he goes underground at dawn." We still have about eight hours to find him since it grows dark earlier this time of year.
Hendri walks by us in a huff, no doubt pissed off that he was strong-armed by a vamp to bring the evidence to The Bar.
“Did you hear that, wolf?” Kavanagh asks.
Hendri turns around with a pissed off glare aimed at Killian. “I have excellent hearing, fanger. ”
And with that he leaves, and the Minister saddles up to the bar in front of my sister.
“Can I pour you or your friends something to drink, Mr. Kavanagh?” Moe asks as I watch the encounter closely, ensuring he doesn't get too close to Moe.
“Would you by chance have a Midleton?”
Of course, he’d drink expensive Irish whiskey.
“And for your friends?”
He smiles one of the sexiest smiles I’ve ever seen. If Moe didn't look so terrified of him, she'd call dibs on him too. “They needn’t a thing.”
She pours the man his whiskey and places it on the dark, wooden bar. I duck in the back with an arm full of dirty glasses, but my hearing is as precise and sensitive as Kavanagh’s.
“She’s not quite vampire,” he says, and I can hear the swirl of liquid against his glass.
“What do you mean?” That's Moe. She's ride or die. She's the only person who knows what I am, but she'll take that to her grave.
“She has vampire in her and something I’ve not smelled in many years… I can’t quite put my finger on it. Does she require blood?”
“She's not a vampire,” Moe argues.
The thought of drinking blood temporarily grosses me out, but his line of questioning intrigues me since neither of us know our parents.
“Vampires can’t breed”, she reminds him.
“On a rare, blue moon, an ancient can father a child.”
“Do you mean a seasonal blue moon?” she asks.
“Yes.”
I can change at will, but I'm forced into transformation on a blue moon. Is there any truth to what he’s saying?
“I’ve never heard of a vampire fathering a child.”
I can hear the smile in his voice. “I said it was rare.”
“You did. How often have you seen this occur?”
“Rarely.”
He’s frustrating me.
"How rare is rare?” she asks.
He chuckles lightly. “Once in a blue moon.”
“You play your cards close to the chest,” she says.
“Always.”
“A man of few words?”
“I speak when necessary. The world is too full of misunderstandings as it is.”
“Ancient and enigmatic. Most of the vampires who come in here won’t shut up.”
“If it is to be known about you or your sister, I know it. Else, I would’ve never walked in here. I don’t believe in being unprepared when interrupting multiple packs of wolves.”
He’s unnerving me with his observations and knowledge. I like it low key. I don't want people, especially powerful vampires, in my business.
Moe turns the jukebox back on to drown out the silence and lift my spirits. I continue to clean the tables until they’re all clear and the chairs are turned upside down on top of them. Killian Kavanagh sits at the bar alone slowly sipping his drink, while his acquaintances remain eerily quiet and still across the room at a table. I don’t like them lurking.
Forty minutes after his departure, Deputy Hendri Connor returns with several clear plastic bags sealed with red tape. He throws them on the bar carelessly. I see he has the same attitude problem he did when he left. For about thirty seconds, I wonder if I should rectify it for him.
Each night, we walk our employees to their cars to ensure they’re safe. Kavanagh insists on accompanying us as we walk them out.
Once the two women drive off, he turns to Moe. “Do you use your magic out in the open?”
“Moe doesn’t get involved in this shit,” I answer for my sister.
“You both live above the bar, yes?” he asks.
“You know entirely too much about us, and I'm warning you, it's pissing me off,” I caution.
"Le Ambrogio maintains a file on all known supernatural beings. Please do not be alarmed as our purpose is only to preserve order.”
“The stories I've heard about your organization don't exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy, Captain.”
“I can say the same for you,” he counters.
“Best you stick to managing vampires, fanger.”
He ignores my comment. “I will accompany you upstairs while my associates entertain the deputy.”
“Nope.” I pop my “p”. “I don’t work with anybody. You can keep your ancient ass in the bar, and if you have an inkling that you might come up those stairs, I’d warn you against it. You don’t strike me as a man who would walk into a bar known to be full of werewolves without knowing a thing or two about me and Moe. I’m going to assure you that everything you heard about me is true. So help me if one hair on my sister’s head is harmed, I’m going to kill your bloodsucking ass.”
He grins at me. “I understand."
Moe releases a sigh of relief. She's probably thinking I was considering roasting him in fire, and she'd be right.
I grab the evidence bags where Hendri left them on the bar, and we march upstairs to Moe's second story apartment. My sister stops a few steps up and casts a spell to seal the door. Most witches used latin in their spells, but she uses Gaelic to be sure others can't unravel her magic. It isn’t widely spoken, especially in America.
“Séala ó gach duine eile!”
We enter her apartment with the evidence, and I get to work on rolling up an area rug from the living area to uncover the casting circle. Moe collects the quartz crystals she needs for a spell. Next, I light candles around the circle as she sits cross-legged in the middle with the evidence bags. The victim’s shirt is drenched in blood, but the pants have very little. She pulls the jeans from the bag.
Her eyes lift to mine with surprise inside them. “I feel another witch’s magic pull at me. The magic is weak because it’s been hours since the magic touched the item, but I can tell it’s a woman who’s practicing dark magic. Am I looking for the witch or for Ekman?”
“Why would a vampire transfer dark magic to a victim?” I ask.
She allows a crystal to drop from a necklace over the clothing, and then she chants to draw the magic from the fabric. “Ceangailte agus Ceangailteach. Ceangailte Ceangailte. Féach an Radharc. Éist an Fuaim. Cad a cailleadh. Faightear anois. Ceangailte agus Ceangailteach. Ceangailte Ceangailte. Solas an méid a cailleadh.” The candle flames grow taller and brighter as her magic surrounds the clothing. Black smoke begins to rise from the jeans and quickly fills the room until we’re choking on the magical fumes.
“Holy shit! It’s a compelling spell!” She shouts excitedly between fits of coughing.
I motion for her to follow me as I gasp for air and quickly head for the front door of the apartment.
“I thought only vampires could compel,” I say.
Moe’s eyes widen in fear. “This isn’t good. A witch shouldn't have access to this much power. I have no idea how one woman can contain so much darkness inside her. It’ll drive her absolutely mad.” “So you’re saying Ekman was compelled to kill?”
She nods. “Likely. I can’t think of any other reason that spell would be attached to a vampire.”
“Fuck. There’s a witch compelling a quiet, law-abiding vamp to kill?”
“Yep,” she answers.
I put my hands on my hips and try to sort through the new details, but I still don’t have enough information. “How long before this witch goes bonkers and compels every vampire in Atlanta to slaughter half the city?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “It depends on how long she’s been practicing on this level with this type of magic. Most witches will go crazy within three or four months of crossing over to the dark side.”
“Find the vampire. We need to get him off the street before the sun rises. Then we can concentrate on the witch when the vamps go underground.” I chance a look back inside to find smokey clouds swirling around. “I’m going back in to open your windows.”
I don’t wait for a reply as I zip through the apartment with a speed vampires would envy. Once the windows are open, I turn on a few fans to push the cloud outside into the early morning air. When the room is aired enough that I can see my sister, we go back inside. She returns to the casting circle, and begins to chant again. Dark red droplets of blood rise from the pants and dance in the air in front of Moe. And then the tiny drops merge together and move through the room and out the window with lightning speed.
“It’s done. You’ll find a blue glowing light attached to the vampire. Grab your go bag. I’ll meet you on the roof.”
I climb the stairs to my third floor apartment and find my go bag in the bottom of my closet. Then I climb the stairs again, this time past the third floor to the roof. Before I can open the door, I hear Kavanagh’s Irish accent. ”Nice touch with the door. What is she?”
“My sister,” Moe answers, a smile in her voice “How did you get up here?
“Where is she?” he asks, ignoring her question. He’s throwing a kink into our ritual, and I have to think fast on my feet. I need her to cloak me before I walk onto the roof.
“Ní féidir léi a fheiceáil. Ní féidir í a mheas. Ní féidir éisteacht léi. Ní féidir é a smelt, ag aon duine a lorg. Cloaked mar go bhfuil sí, i bhfeidhm mo thoil. Tá sí cosanta ó litriú, droch-mhianta, agus dochar. Ní thagann aon olc níos gaire ná teacht a lámh. Níl aon fhéachaint léi ach iad siúd a bhaineann le gach solas a fheiceáil. Agus mar a labhair mé, mar sin beidh sé anois,” Moe chants.
“You realize I’m Irish and two millennia old. I speak Gaelic,” he says.
“How nice for you.”
Moe sends me a quick text, unaware that I can hear their conversation.
Moe: Kavanagh is on the roof, but you’re already cloaked and protected against magic.
Zvi: I had a feeling he’d be a thorn in my side. I got something for his nosey ass.
Moe: Do not blow your cover, or I will lock you in a magical bubble again until you’ve learned your lesson.
Zvi: I hate when you do that. Have I mentioned that you’re an asshole?
Moe: It’s easier than convincing you to go to anger management.
Kavanagh speaks with an air of certainty, “So, you’ve cloaked her and protected her from evil and magic. What will she do now?”
“You speak Gaelic,” she counters with a smart-ass tone.
“Earlier you heard that I am a founding member of Le Ambrogio?”
“I believe I did.”
“You two have been on my radar for about ten years. I make it my business to know which creatures reside in the capital of my territory. I will find out what she is, and you two can be helpful or we can do things the hard way.”
“Zvi only does things the hard way. Best to learn that lesson early on.”
“I’m an ancient vampire tasked with the supernatural ongoings of the country. I’d be wary of frustrating me.”
“Well, touch you. Aren’t you important?”
“Very,” he replies.
Narcissistic much? Vampires are the ultimate a-holes. They think they’re glamorous and at the top of the food chain, but no one ever is. There’s always something larger, better, or faster.
A werewolf’s bite is toxic to a vampire, a vampire’s bite can rip the throat out of pretty much anything, a demon’s bite is venomous to any creature, and if a witch is strong enough, she can wreak havoc on all of them with magic.
This particular vampire is pissing me off.
My sister sends another text.
Moe: I take back what I said about the magical bubble. Somebody needs to knock His Highness down a notch or two.
Zvi: Consider it done. Coming up to the roof now.
While not another soul can see, hear, feel, or detect me, Moe can. We’ve been bound to each other since we were twelve. If she feels pain, I can sense it. If she’s in trouble, I know it, and I can always see her no matter who used magic on her. I can always find her in this dark world.
I emerge from the stairs with a black backpack on my shoulders. I walk straight up to an unknowing Kavanagh and throw a punch to his jaw that knocks him back about ten feet. He lands on his ass and looks a little dazed for a moment before he grins.
“Hello, Zvi. You throw one hell of a punch, Macushla.”
He jumps to his feet and looks around attempting to ascertain my location, but he won’t find me.
“If he wouldn’t figure me out, I’d fly him to the Atlantic and drop him in it,” I tell Moe.
“Please don’t,” she pleads.
“Oh please do.” Kavanagh laughs in utter delight. “Whatever she has planned for me, I’m sure I’d rather enjoy it.”
“Are you insane?“ Moe asks the vampire.
“Rather fascinated,” he answers.
Great. He’s enchanted with me. He won’t be the first or last man to be so, but I don’t think a meddling, rich, ancient, vampire king is going to scare away as easily as the rest. I have a feeling he’ll be a problem for quite some time. I’m already regretting that he walked into our bar tonight.
“I’m changing,” I warn.
I strip out of my clothing, and pack it in my bag. I concentrate on the constant burning in my gut, and slow my breath. Claws grow from the tips of my fingers and the skin on my underbelly changes to an iridescent color. My bones break, but I don’t make a sound. My muscles contract and then expand, ripping and bulging at my flesh until I’ve morphed forty feet into the air. The rest of my skin changes into dark purple, bony scutes that protect me. I flap my wings in the air and feel the warm breeze against my scales. My wings are colored lilac and fade into a Caribbean blue.
I purr, enjoying the feel of being in my supernatural form. I’m happiest when I shift, something I don’t often find in my human form. I look over to find the vampire watching Moe as she looks at me with her neck craned back.
“She’s a dragon,” Killian guesses. His eyes are open wide in absolute joy. The confidence in his voice almost stops my heart, then my purring ends.
“Shit,” Moe curses.
I lean forward and pick up the backpack with my giant left hand, and then I pick Killian up with my right.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” my sister chants. “Don’t kill him!”
Even as a dragon, she can read my facial expressions, and the one I’m wearing right now is fifty kinds of pissed off. I flap my wings until I gain enough speed and air to lift from the top of our building. I fly into the night with the vampire king dangling precariously in the sky.
Award-winning author Sasha Marshall, a concert photographer, toured with legendary bands such as The Allman Brothers Band. A self-proclaimed free spirit, she’s most often found outdoors, or painting a canvas, capturing a photograph, people watching, reading a book, or writing a new book. Sasha makes her home in the beautiful state of Georgia and loves to hear from readers.
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This sounds like a great read. Nice cover!
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