Silent Cravings

Silent Cravings

by

Jess Haines
&
E. Blix

An Imprint of

Silent Cravings
by Jess Haines and E. Blix
Copyright © Jess Haines and E. Blix, 2013

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

Musa Publishing
633 Edgewood Ave
Lancaster,
OH
43130
www.MusaPublishing.com

Published by Musa Publishing, February 2013

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

ISBN
: 978-1-61937-471-3

Published in the United States of America

Editor: Amanda Bindel
Artist: Kelly Shorten
Line Editor: Michele Hamner Moore
Interior Book Design: Cera Smith

PROLOGUE

T
he moon hung low in the sky, fat and heavy among the frosty October clouds. Deep in the heart of Manhattan, most of the nightlife had already crawled home to bed, seeking shelter from the coming dawn.

Less than a mile from Central Park, a very cold and tired man on his way home from a late shift was slumped against the side of his vehicle as he pumped gas. All he could think about was crawling into bed and burying himself under the covers, though the cold had him considering running inside the twenty-four-hour convenience store for a cup of coffee to beat back the chill seeping into his bones.

The harsh growl of a sports car startled him out of his thoughts as it pulled into the lot, parking at the pumps behind his beat-up sedan.

The guy took in the sleek black paint job with a longingly appreciative eye as the purr of the car’s engine came to a rumbling halt behind him. As soon as the owner slid out, he blanched and jerked his gaze back to his own vehicle.

The creature moved with the unmistakable smooth grace of a predator. The pale taint to its skin, nearly aglow under the harsh gas station lights, and hint of red deep in its irises marked it as a hungry vampire—one on the hunt.

The vampire brushed a hand idly over the netted black shirt he was wearing, showcasing swarthy skin littered with scars from battles taken place so long ago he could no longer remember their origins. His black leather pants and combat boots shone dully in the buzzing halogen lights, the harsh glare reflecting off of his silver rings and necklaces.

He was not bothered by the bitter cold that had the lone human a few feet away clutching his coat closed. The guy huddled deeper into his thick jacket, popping the collar to avoid flashing any of his neck, prompting a smirk from the vampire.

Alec Royce, master vampire, ruler of New York, New Jersey, and Philadelphia, and one of the oldest of his kind to call the United States home, was ready to celebrate the night’s accomplishments. He had a beautiful, warm, willing woman waiting at home now that he was done mingling with the crowd at The Underground, one of his many properties.

Jessica, his newest plaything, would require a bribe if he planned on talking her into doing more than letting him take some blood tonight. He had just the thing in mind and thought it would add that “personal touch” if he fetched it himself rather than sending an assistant to get it for him.

The man fumbled with the nozzle, spilling some gasoline on the side of his car in his haste to return it to the pump, get in his car, and peel out as fast as the sedan would take him.

Shaking his head at the human’s naiveté, Royce angled around his car and strode into the store. Loose raven tendrils brushed his shoulders, whipped up by the salt-laced breeze coming in off the nearby Hudson. He knew he looked good and wanted maintain his growing reputation as New York City’s Most Eligible Unliving Bachelor.

Sadly, it didn’t look like anybody inside was about to take note of his looks save for a bored teenaged clerk intently studying an adult magazine. The boy barely paid the vampire a glance before his gaze was glued back on the mag.

Royce figured the clerk must have a few of his kind regularly pass through the shop to be so blasé. That, or he was an Other—another supernatural—too. The vampire didn’t bother to scent the air to find out. The foot traffic, gasoline, and copious greasy, oily foods would guarantee he’d regret it if he did open himself up to an assault on his senses.

Leather creaking and buckles jingling with each step, he moved toward the back in search of ice cream. According to Jessica, only cookies-and-cream would do.

There was a stand-alone freezer tucked off to one side of the chip aisle, looking worn and forgotten next to a collection of stale donuts and pastries. He curled his lip as he stopped, staring down at the meager assortment.

There was one last half-pint of cookies-and-cream hidden under the vanilla. The vamp plucked the slightly freezer-burned container out, grinning as he considered how he and Jessica might use it in their “activities” later.

“What the hell does a leech want with ice cream?”

Royce glanced over his shoulder, then straightened and turned, wary. While the vampire was somewhat muscular from a life of toil when he was human, he was dwarfed by the Were looming behind him. The guy’s muscles strained against what should have been loose sweats, his features ruggedly handsome, sporting artfully curly dark brown locks and narrowed brown eyes that met the vampire’s gaze with a challenging stare.

“I don’t know that it’s any of your business,” Royce said, keeping his visage calm and unperturbed. He didn’t want to encourage the Were’s rude behavior to tip into a physical confrontation, but he wasn’t about to let the dog think he could get away with anything either. “Excuse me.”

The Were didn’t move as Royce tried to get past him to get to the cashier. Instead, one thickly muscled arm covered loosely in an oversized flannel jacket shot out, blocking his way.

“Hold on a minute. Is that the last of the cookies-and-cream?”

“Yes. Get out of my way, cur.”

The Were’s eyes glinted, anger surfacing at the insult. “You can’t eat it, worm-bait. Don’t know what kind of kinky games you’re thinking of using it for, but you can pick another flavor. Hand it over.”

“Not today,” Royce said. “Try your luck somewhere else.”

As enjoyable as it would have been to teach the dog a lesson, Royce didn’t want to risk making a scene in so public a place. The security cameras blinking in the corners would catch the whole thing. Instead of forcibly introducing the guy’s head to his ass, Royce used a touch of his unnatural swiftness and grace to duck under that outstretched arm and then resumed strolling toward the counter.

The Were whirled, startled at the vampire’s show of speed. His brown eyes now glittered a pale, feral golden hue, dainty upper and lower fangs extending as his adrenaline spiked, more so when the vamp turned his back on him.

“I said give it here!”

When a heavy hand came down on his shoulder, Royce decided he’d had enough. Pivoting on a booted heel, his palm connected with the Were’s chest, using a touch of the kinetic force he could summon to send the bigger man sliding over the linoleum until his back crashed into the wall next to the ice cream freezer. Royce studied the slight dent in the wall with a critical eye as the Were slumped to the floor. Pleased with his handiwork—that he’d stunned the Were without causing much property damage—Royce once again headed to the counter.

The clerk finally looked up from his dirty mag, frowning as he stared in the vamp’s direction. “What the hell is going on over there? Don’t make me call the cops, man.”

“Just a little disagreement. All settled now.”

“Don’t count on it,” came a deep, rumbling voice, followed by a sudden heavy pressure as the Were grabbed Royce from behind, yanking him back. The vamp might have retaliated or twisted away if not for the fangs sinking into his shoulder.

It wasn’t the blissful, achingly sweet slide into ecstasy of a vampire bite, laced with a heavy cocktail of neurotoxins in the saliva to stimulate the nerves and make the victim feel pleasure rather than pain—a delightful evolutionary trick designed to keep prey coming back for more so that the vamp would have a ready and willing source of food in the future.

No, this wasn’t like that at all. This was sharp, pointy objects piercing the skin, followed by the bone-breaking pressure behind the Were’s bite. It fucking hurt.

“Son of a bitch!” he cried, flailing in effort to dislodge the fangs.

Weres were usually much more discreet than this. Though vampires and Weres had never gotten along well, Weres were rarely the aggressors when it came to battle between the two supernatural races. Even after the incident on 9-11, where the Others proclaimed their existence to the rest of the world by helping clean up the mess and look for survivors in the rubble of the Twin Towers, they tended to avoid each other. Though they had initially worked together to help rebuild a world shattered by terrorism—the sudden appearance of creatures out of nightmares come to say they’ve been your co-workers and janitors and congressmen for the last God-alone knew how many years—the truce between the different breeds of supernaturals had always been uneasy. Though their survival no longer depended upon secrecy, it was rare for an Other to abuse their new status as a legal citizen and pick a fight out in the open.

The Were jerked his head to the side, ensuring the wounds would be torn and ragged as he pulled away. He spat out as much of the bitter, black blood as he could before speaking. “Call me Christoph, you tainted little parasite. Remember it.”

With that, he shoved the vampire, sending him flying into the candy and cookie aisle so hard the entire metal stand fell over. Colorful packages and bits of food spilled every which way, scattering across the floor. Whistling a cheerful ditty, a trifle difficult around the fangs, the Were sauntered over to where the tub of ice cream had fallen and scooped it up in one clawed hand. Temper much improved, he started toward the register where the clerk was watching with wide eyes, mouth agape as he pressed back against cigarette displays on the wall behind him.

As metal rods dug into his stomach and wasted blood trickled down his shoulder, the vampire voiced a soft growl of his own. Royce slowly levered to his feet, stumbling on gumballs. A hiss escaped him as he tore out the metal rods, flinging them aside as he closed his eyes and concentrated on utilizing the remains of his last meal in speeding up an already rapid healing process. The damage to his stomach was gone within a few seconds, his skin knitting together without leaving so much as a scar. The rents in his skin and burning pain from the Were-bite would take a bit longer to disappear. Damage caused by the fangs or claws of another Other always did.

Lip lifting in a snarl, he reveled in the shift of muscle and tension in his gums as his fangs extended. His black eyes bled into a hazy red as his gaze focused on the cock-sure Were. “Oh no, Christoph. Don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re done yet.”

Surprised, the Were turned around, claw tips digging into the container. Most vampires would have been unable to rise so soon after an impact like that, needing time or to feed to heal that kind of damage. Even an older vamp would’ve been stunned for a while.

Generally, Weres could single-handedly take down most vampires. Only elders—the most experienced leeches, ones with their powers fully honed—posed much of a challenge. Those were the ones who sent their progeny forth to bring them food, content to run their empires from the shadows while lackeys did the dangerous work. From what Christoph had heard, the few times a Were encountered and fought an elder leech, it was almost always the vampire who walked away the victor.

The lack of injury and quick recovery clued him in that this wasn’t a young fledgling vamp like he had thought, having judged him by the outlandish clothes, flashy car, and smug attitude. This was an elder vampire. Considering the speed in which he was back on his feet and unbelievably rapid healing, an
ancient
elder vampire.

“Oh, shit,” he whispered, golden eyes widening.

The ice cream container flew to the side as Royce barreled into Christoph, forcing the Were off his feet. The vampire retained enough control over his temper to avoid the counter, slamming his adversary against the wall next to it instead.

It wasn’t that Royce didn’t want to break the guy’s spine so much as that he didn’t want to have to deal with the bad press that would go along with killing the jerk in front of the frightened store clerk, who was now cowering underneath the counter. Royce had been working far too hard to keep a good rep in this city to ruin it by splattering the Were across the linoleum—though he did figure he had enough time to teach him a lesson so Christoph wouldn’t try something this inordinately stupid again anytime soon. He’d just rough him up, work off a little frustration, and figure out some way to use this faux pas to advantage later.

Claws raked against his chest, running from shoulder to navel as Christoph fought back, shredding the already torn netted shirt. Christoph hadn’t expected to be thrown against the wall, but he was tough and an experienced fighter, already hyped up from the bit of blood in his mouth. The salty, coppery liquid was normally enough to kick in his instincts to kill and feed, but only when it was hot and alive. The vamp’s was cool, the sensation of it in his mouth and sliding down his throat like ice and velvet, a touch of something fundamentally
wrong
tainting it. Alive-but-not. Unnatural.

It only pissed him off more.

Enraged, Royce tangled his fingers in Christoph’s hair, yanking the Were off balance. Despite the pinprick of claws digging into his wrist, the vamp followed up with a leg hooked around Christoph’s, sending the bigger man tumbling face-first to the ground. The Were didn’t let go of his arm, dragging Royce down until the two were rolling on the ground, snarling and clawing at each other.

Before long, the Were had a few shallow cuts across his jaw and chest from Royce’s blunt, manicured nails, and deep bruises from where he’d been kicked, kneed, elbowed, and punched. The speed was blinding, the pain phenomenal. Royce wasn’t putting added kinetic force behind the strikes—he didn’t need to. His frame was deceiving; for while he was toned, it was his vampiric powers that gave him unnatural might to match Christoph’s.

Christoph didn’t have enough time to shift into his half-man, half-wolf form. It might have evened the odds, but he was too afraid to take his attention off the vampire long enough to do so. Perhaps he could use his greater weight to pin the vamp to the floor until he figured out some better way of stopping him.

A low “oof” was forced out of him as Royce jabbed his fingers into Christoph’s gut. Grimacing, he grabbed the vampire’s wrists, using what little leverage he had to shove the smaller man onto the floor. Royce slid on his butt on the linoleum, twisting to get back to his feet, but Christoph was on top of him before he could stand. He knocked the vamp back down to land on top of bags of chips and pretzels they’d knocked over earlier, popping the plastic and scattering bits and pieces across the floor.