Damek's Redemption: Legacy, Book 6

Dedication

To my husband, my everything.

Prologue

Luther Kostas rested his elbows on the worn arms of his leather chair and steepled his fingers together as he contemplated his next move. His dark brown eyes roamed over the vast array of artifacts mounted on the wall. Crossbows, ancient swords and extremely sharp daggers all used for one purpose—to slay vampires. Wooden stakes, some darkened from years of handling, others stained with the blood. All lethal. All deadly.

His family had been ridding the world of the vile creatures since medieval times, and Luther took the responsibility very seriously. The vampire was a dangerous creature, mindless in its pursuit for blood. It killed indiscriminately, living only to hunt and claim the victim’s blood. Most vampires he’d come across were little more than animals and, like any wild beast, they needed to be put down before they hurt anyone.

He closed his eyes and pictured his last kill. He’d found the creature just as dawn was breaking over the horizon and, like all of his kind, the vampire had succumbed to the power of the sun and fallen into a stupor. It was then Luther had drawn his sword and beheaded the vampire. Then he’d dragged the head and body into the sun and burned it. There was no coming back this time.

Luther relished the hunt, but lately there was something missing. Vampires were few and far between, and those he’d killed the past few years had been weak, barely a few years old. He’d searched for their sire, but all indications were that the three-hundred-year-old vampire had fled back to Europe. Good riddance to him. But still. Luther sighed and tapped his fingers together. Think of the challenge it would be to hunt one of the old ones, a vampire who could think and reason. His blood hummed at the mere thought.

Then there were those vampire wannabes, the kind who sharpened their teeth, wore leather and makeup and hung out at Goth clubs. He’d slain one or two of them by mistake but, really, it was their own fault for idolizing such vile creatures to begin with. He didn’t lose any sleep over them.

The phone rang and he answered it on the first ring. He made it a policy always to be available to his men. They were a small group, but a dedicated one.

“Kostas.”

“Hey, Luther. It’s John. I’m in Chicago like you asked. Can you tell me why I’m tailing some university professor?”

John Barnes was one of his best. The man was strong, both physically and mentally, and relished the hunt just as much as Luther did. “Because she writes about myth and legend, including werewolves and vampires, and she’s traveled all across Europe in her research. She teaches in New York and has no family in Chicago. She’s not attending a conference or giving a lecture there. I want to know what’s so important that she’s headed for the city at this time for no apparent reason.”

He had a computer program that kept track of various academics and writers around the world, those that delved into the paranormal and bizarre. The program flagged them when something unusual popped up. This trip was certainly out of the norm.

“Her name is Sonia Agostino, and I want to know every move she makes. It’s probably nothing, but it doesn’t hurt to watch her. Just in case she stumbles on to something interesting.”

“I hear you. It’s been quiet lately.”

Luther knew John was getting as impatient as himself, waiting to find the next vampire. Slaying was in their blood. It was who they were.

“Stay sharp,” Luther warned. It was easy to get complacent during the downtimes. “In the meantime, I’ll keep scanning the papers and Internet for articles on any strange deaths or ritual killings.” That was the way the media and police almost always portrayed a vampire’s kills. No one believed such creatures existed and they always put the blame elsewhere. But Luther knew better.

“I’ll be in touch,” John promised and then hung up.

Luther tossed his phone onto the desk and swiveled his chair around to face his computer. It was time to get to work. There were vampires out there in need of killing.

Chapter One

It’s good to be King.

Damek stood in a dark corner of his club, Inhibitions, and watched the patrons gyrating on the dance floor to the heavy bass thumping out of the speakers. Bodies rubbed together, hands groped and clothing was being pushed away to find the warmer flesh beneath it.

Blood pumped through their veins, a siren’s call to him, and he licked his lips as hunger rushed through him. It would be so easy to wend his way through the crowd and cull one or two for his own use. His fangs punched downward and his vision started to turn red. He could practically taste the warm blood in his mouth, sliding down his throat. It would be delicious. Powerful.

And it would be wrong. Damek turned away from the dance floor, making certain to keep his mouth closed and his eyes downcast until he had control of himself once again.

Business was booming tonight, as it always was. Inhibitions was one of the favorite hot spots of the rich and famous and wannabes in Chicago, and Damek intended to keep it that way. At any given moment patrons might find politicians, musicians, actors and millionaires rubbing shoulders with one another. Its very exclusive nature kept the lineup outside the door long and never-ending.

He glanced toward the chrome-and-glass bar where people were standing two deep while all three of his bartenders worked as fast as they could to fill orders. Waitresses moved among the tables, watched carefully by the large contingent of security that Damek employed. People could do whatever they wanted as long as it was consensual. But his staff was off-limits, and anyone who harassed the waitresses or bartenders soon found themselves barred from the premises.

Alcohol, pulse-pounding music, dark shadows and the promise of sex—was there anything that could make a person lose all their inhibitions faster? If there was, he hadn’t found it yet. And he’d been alive for a very, very long time.

He was king of all he surveyed and much more. Quite a change from the small village where he’d grown up so long ago in an ancient kingdom no one remembered. But those days were centuries past, and he’d made peace with his existence.

Vampire.

The mere word made some laugh in jest, while others cringed in fear. The latter ones were the smarter. Many of his brethren were an undisciplined bunch, treating humans as though they were nothing but game to be hunted and devoured, which was why many of those vampires were dead. It never paid to underestimate the determination of the human race. Having been human once, Damek was always surprised when newly made vampires forgot such a basic lesson in survival.

Damek had lived more than a thousand years precisely because he never forgot what he’d been like as a human—ruthless, determined and dangerous. Those characteristics had only been deepened after his conversion.

“Boss, there’s a woman asking about you.” Byron, his head bouncer stood beside him, his gaze wandering over the crowd. “There, by the far end of the bar. She doesn’t belong here.”

Damek often wondered what the man’s parents had been thinking to name the man beside him George Gordon, after the infamous poet, Lord Byron. Damek had met the poet in England several hundred years ago and spent a glorious weekend in debauchery, lost in women and wine. No, this man was nothing like the poet.

This Byron, who much preferred that nickname to being called George, stood about eight inches over six feet, shaved his head and wore leather pants and a vest, which showcased his impressive physique. He was intimidating, to say the least. That was why Damek had hired him, but not why he’d risen to be Damek’s right hand here at the club. No, Byron was loyal to his core, and Damek valued that trait above all others.

Not that Byron or any other of Damek’s staff knew what he was. No, he wasn’t that trusting or stupid. They all believed him to be a powerful businessman, which he was, but he was simply much more.

He followed Byron’s gaze to the end of the bar. Alison, one of his best bartenders, had her head bent and she was talking to another woman. Byron’s assessment was right on target, as usual, the woman certainly didn’t look as though she belonged here.

His preternatural vision allowed him to see easily in the darkness, cutting through the flashing lights on the dance floor to the woman in question. She had her head turned away as she spoke, so his eyes drifted down her body and he examined her clothing. No high heels or short dress for her. No, she was wearing sensible shoes, pants and a tailored jacket.

Damek’s curiosity was aroused. “Did she say who she was?”

Byron shook his head. “Nope. Just that she was hoping to talk to you.”

He looked back and all his senses tingled. Her hair was caught at her nape in some kind of decorative clip. It was curly and wild and the color of the night. He wondered what it would look like released from captivity.

His body stirred for the first time in a long while. Months, years, he wasn’t sure. Time lost all meaning when one lived as long as he had.

But it was her face that captivated him. It was heart-shaped, with a pert nose and full, inviting lips. Without seeing them up close, he knew her eyes would be gray.

He’d watched that face from afar many, many years ago, seen it grow wrinkled with age as youth gave way to old age. But that woman had died four hundred years ago. He shook his head, certain he was seeing a ghost.

“You okay, boss?” Byron’s question brought him back to the present, but he was unsettled. And not much unsettled him these days.

“Tell her I’m not available and escort her out of here. You were right. She doesn’t belong.” And if another man made a move on her, Damek would be tempted to rip his head from his shoulders. Literally.

He felt Byron’s gaze on him, but the bouncer did as he was instructed. Not that Damek had any doubt that he would. Byron could be counted on to carry out his orders. He watched as Byron wound through the crowd and stood beside the mystery woman. He hadn’t even asked her name. Probably better that way.

Elizabetta. He still remembered her name from long ago. She’d been no more than a peasant, living with her family in the remote countryside of Transylvania but, to him, she’d been more beautiful than a queen with her bright laughter and quick smile. He’d tarried for years there, leaving but always returning to watch her.

It had almost killed him when she’d married and had children. She’d aged fast, as people had back in those days, and been dead by the time she was in her early forties. She’d left a husband, seven children and six grandchildren to mourn her passing.

Damek swallowed back the pain and rage threatening to undo his ironclad control. He’d wanted to kill her husband for not taking better care of her. Oddly enough, it had been the sight of that man dangling one of his grandchildren on his lap that had stopped Damek. The child had looked so much like her grandmother that Damek hadn’t been able to move. Frozen outside the window to the cottage where Elizabetta had lived and died, he’d watched and known a part of her still lived on.

That had been enough.

Was this woman a descendant of hers? Or was the resemblance nothing more than coincidence?

He wished he were close enough to hear her voice above the heavy music and drunken laughter. Was it softly accented or was it clipped and precise, more American than European. He leaned forward before he realized what he was doing.

Cursing himself, he cloaked his presence and glided along the shadows, moving ever closer to his goal. He stopped just beyond the bar, only feet away from the woman. She was fairly tall, about five
-
seven and slender. But it was hard to tell much else about her physical attributes without stripping her out of the unflattering suit she wore.

“When will he be in?” Her low, sultry voice sank into the very cells of his body and he closed his eyes and simply basked in it.

“Don’t know.” Byron’s answer was short and concise. “You should leave.”

He went to put his hand on her arm and Damek hissed with displeasure. A wave of pure menace shot out of him before he could control it. Bryon froze, his hand hovering in the air about four inches from her arm. The woman sucked in a breath and glanced around, her gaze falling briefly on Damek before sliding away and continuing around the rest of the room. All the patrons of the club froze on the dance floor, as though some unknown force had control of their motor functions.

Damek silently cursed himself and reined in his emotions. A woman laughed and a glass hit the bar, making the ice inside it tinkle. The music played on and the club gradually returned to normal, but there was an edge to the atmosphere that hadn’t existed before, and Damek knew the club would probably clear out early tonight unless he left the premises. His mood was permeating the place, making everyone here nervous and restless. The woman’s presence here had unsettled him, a dangerous proposition for a vampire.