A Taste of Twilight

A Taste of Twilight

Aubrey Ross

Crimson Carousel, Book One

When a string of apparent suicides leads Jessie Curtis to a famous rock band, she’s convinced nothing can shock her anymore. Then she comes face-to-face with Rafe Steele, the enigmatic lead singer and centuries-old vampire. He’s darkly charismatic and sensually compelling in a way almost impossible to resist.

Rafe is infuriated when an old enemy’s barbaric actions lead a nosy investigator to his door. Jessie is persistent and shrewd, and he wants her with obsessive intensity. She already knows too much. He can’t let her walk away. He must seduce her, control her, claim her as they unravel the mystery.

Publisher’s Note: This book was previously published under the same title, however, has been modified and edited for Ellora’s Cave.

Reader Advisory: In order to stop the killers, the incredibly decadent Faelon from Aubrey’s upcoming
Crimson
books provides the needed third when Jessie and Rafe create a powerful blood bond through a sexual ménage.

Prologue

Baltimore, Maryland

“Well, hello, little lady. It’s nice to have you back.”

Jessie Curtis laughed. “Coming from a crotchety M.E., I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”

Hank McElroy stepped away from the autopsy table and pulled off his plastic gloves. “What’s up?”

“She needs a closer look at my Jane Doe,” Dalton Auster replied.

Lumbering across the morgue, Hank grabbed a fresh pair of gloves and winked at Jessie. “I thought they ruled Jane a suicide.” He pulled on the gloves with a distinct snap, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Why do you insist on spitting into the wind? Don’t you have enough to do without manufacturing work?”

“You don’t believe it any more than I do, so why are you busting my balls?”

Jessie returned Hank’s wink as they approached the body lockers. Provoking her ex-partner was a long-standing pastime for her and Hank. This easy camaraderie was one of the few things she missed about her job since leaving the police force two years before. Dalton jerked open one of the silver doors and pulled out the sliding tray. The insubstantial shape beneath the sheet made Jessie’s mouth go dry.

“Cause of death was loss of blood from wrist lacerations.” Hank lifted the sheet and exposed Jane’s right arm. Carefully rotating the slender limb, he displayed one of the wounds. “Each end of the laceration is curiously rounded as if two puncture wounds have been joined. Someone was playing connect the dots and I don’t think it was Jane.”

“What caused the puncture wounds?” Jessie asked. “The curve is much too pronounced for a needle.”

“More like a nail,” Dalton agreed.

“I don’t know, and no one is curious enough to let me find out. She’s a nameless suicide, case closed.”

Jessie stepped closer to the extended table and lowered the sheet covering the victim’s face. Her breath hitched and her stomach knotted.
Two years in the ‘burbs has made you soft.
Jane’s smooth skin stretched over delicate features, beautiful even in death. Mid-teens if she was lucky, her life snuffed out before it fully formed.

“She didn’t look like this when they brought her in,” Hank said.

“She was all gothed out. Black lipstick, heavy eyeliner, makeup so pale it was almost gray.”

Jessie grinned at Dalton. “When did you become an expert on fashion trends?”

He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Hank brings out the smart-ass in you.”

“One of my finer qualities.” Hank chuckled and headed back to the autopsy table.

“Give me a few minutes with Jane and I’ll meet you upstairs.”

Dalton shoved his hands into his pockets and averted his gaze. At six foot four, it was hard for Dalton to look boyish, but this expression rolled thirty years off his street-roughed exterior.

Jessie easily guessed the cause of his discomfort. “No one knows I’m here.”

His bright blue gaze shot back to hers. “This case is
closed
. I’ve been ordered to move on. It’s best if no one but Hank knows you’re back in town.”

“No problem.” Dalton was the self-appointed champion of lost causes. She’d always loved that about him. “I’ll take a cab to your apartment and start digging through the file.”

“You’re the best.” He glanced at the body, his brow furrowed, lips tight. “I’ve worked homicide for eight years. Why won’t this one leave me alone?”

“They’re taking the easy way out and that pisses you off. Now get back to work.”

He nodded and left her alone with Jane.

Clairvoyance, intuition, ESP, there were many labels for Jessie’s ability and she wasn’t comfortable with any of them. She didn’t consider herself psychic. She didn’t talk to the dead. Years of mental discipline and arduous physical conditioning had made her more sensitive to certain things than other people. It was nothing more metaphysical than that.

Yeah right. You picked this up at the police academy. Admit it, Jessie, you’re a freak.
A smile curved her lips. Dalton was right, Hank brought out the smart-ass in her.

She focused on Jane and a shiver raced down Jessie’s spine. Could she really put herself through this again? She’d chalked up her first few impressions to instinct and experience, but the images became too predominant to explain away. So, she’d accepted her gift. And her fiancé bled to death in her arms. Two days later her brother died from injuries sustained in the same shootout. Jessie tendered her resignation. No cop could be effective if they continually doubted themselves, and Jessie had lost faith in her abilities.

Pushing back the past, she placed one hand on Jane’s forehead and the other hovered over the wound on Jane’s wrist. Jessie closed her eyes. Darkness enveloped her. This utter nothingness had become familiar. Often the vacuous space was all she’d sense when she touched a victim, but sometimes there was more.

Who were you? Who did this to you?

Stubbornness drove Jessie deeper. She searched for echoes, fragments of the life now absent from this empty shell. A pinpoint of light appeared in the darkness and with it the faintest tingle of awareness. She heard shallow, panting breaths as a vanquished soul surrendered.

The breathing grew stronger, deeper. The struggle intensified.

Sensation vacillated from pain to pleasure then back to pain, a sustained burning agony that dragged a groan from Jessie’s throat. Her nipples tightened and her core clenched, empty and aching. Jessie shuddered violently. Primal sexual hunger pounded through her veins.

Frenzy. Lust. Overwhelming and ravenous.

Woven through the demanding emotions was a delicate thread of despair. Images swirled and tumbled, remaining muddled and unfocused. Naked and trembling, Jane wrestled in a tangle of bodies and grappling limbs. Terror gripped her, yet she was undeniably aroused. Hands, fingers and mouths skimmed her flesh and incited her desire.

Golden haze burned through the darkness, enveloping Jane’s body in a sparkling cloud. Suspended within the glistening fog, Jane writhed and arched. Agony or ecstasy, Jessie couldn’t tell. The mist divided, swirling around Jane’s arms, encircling her wrists. Faster and faster the vapor spun as Jane’s screams echoed through Jessie’s mind.

Pounding.

Music distorted within her mind; a rumble more vibration than sound. A velvety voice caressed her. She focused on the elusive, familiar timbre, the seductive rasp. She knew that voice, didn’t she?

Laughter and the roar of a crowd. Not a crowd, an
audience
…

Jessie gasped and stumbled back, pressing her hand to her throat. Her pulse thumped against her fingertips, echoing the tempo of the song. The sound receded before she could identify the artist, but the exercise hadn’t been in vain.

She opened her eyes and whispered, “Bellita.” Jane Doe’s real name was Bellita Viejo.

* * * * *

“Her mother didn’t report her missing, said she runs off all the time,” Dalton muttered as he stormed into his apartment later that evening.

“Then I was right about her name?” Jessie looked up from the file spread across the kitchen table. The compact arrangement of Dalton’s apartment allowed her to see the front door from the eating area where she sat.

“As always.” He tossed his suit jacket over the back of a chair and removed his shoulder holster before joining her in the kitchen.

“Why are you still scowling?”

“The new information only reinforces their suicide theory. According to Ms. Viejo, Bellita threatened to slit her wrists every time they had an argument. Ms. Viejo said Bellita probably expected to be found and miscalculated the
stunt
. Her word, not mine.”

“When was the last time Ms. Viejo saw her daughter?”

“Friday night.” He pulled out the chair across from her and sat. “Apparently Bellita won tickets to a Pyrite concert and—”

“Pyrite! Of course,
Hide and Seek
. I’m not losing my mind.”

Dalton shook his head and smiled. “You’ll never convince anyone with outbursts like that.”

“I could hear this song resonating through the…” She tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed. Dalton had no problem with her ability, so why did she still stumble over the concept? He’d encouraged her to push herself and trust the images long before she was ready to accept them herself.

“Vision.” His brows raised a bit as he persisted. “Come on, you can say it. You have visions.”

“Impressions.” Jessie shot him a rebellious look. “The song was
Hide and Seek
.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“That’s why she was all gothed out. The perp must have picked her up at the Pyrite concert.”

“I was curious, so I ran a search for suicides with any similarities to our Jane—err, Bellita. I found four.” He paused as she absorbed the implication. “A young woman has taken her own life by slitting both wrists after each of the last five Pyrite concerts.”

“And no one spotted the pattern before now?”

“You have to be looking for a pattern to find one.” He shook his head with obvious disgust. “We’ve got a serial killer stalking Pyrite fans.”

“Or a member of Pyrite with a taste for murder.”

“I’m not ruling anything out.”

“Was the similarity enough to get the case reopened?”

“What do you think?”

Judging from his mood, they were on their own. “What do you intend to do?”

He chuckled and held out a small packet. “I’m so glad you asked.”