Even Vampires Get the Blues

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

Even Vampires Get The Blues

 

A
Signet
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2006
by
Marthe Arends

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-1062-8

 

A
SIGNET
BOOK®

Signet
Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

SIGNET
and the “
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” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: May, 2006

Other Signet Eclipse books by Katie MacAlister

Paranormal Romances
Fire Me Up
You Slay Me

Contemporary Romances
Blow Me Down
Hard Day's Knight
The Corset Diaries
Men in Kilts

This book was written because so many very kind people sent me notes asking for another vampire book. The hero is Scottish because the ladies on my message forum got together and presented me with a tear-jerking plea for a Scottish vampire (and threw in the demand that he make an appearance in a kilt). It is to all those wonderful readers that this book is dedicated.
Many, many thanks also go to Vicki L. Ankrapp, Michelle L. Graham, and Linda Morrison for all (separately) coming up with the title of this book. I can't thank you ladies enough for all the support and warm fuzzies you send my way!

“Hi.” A woman stood in the doorway, American if her breathy voice was anything to go by. “Are you Payann, by any chance?”

Paen looked up from a tattered manuscript, wincing slightly at the mispronunciation of his name. The woman had to be from the southern US. No one else drawled his name into two syllables. “I'm Paen, yes. Can I help?”

“Hi,” the woman said again, slipping in through the barely opened door, a big Cheshire cat smile on her face. “I'm Clarice Miller.”

Paen was on his guard the second the smile hit her lips. Whose was she? he idly wondered as she smoothed down her sexy, nearly see-through gauzy dress before starting across the room in what he assumed was meant to be a seductive slink. Daniel's? No, Danny preferred redheads, and this woman had a mane of golden brown curls that spilled over her shoulders. Finn's? Clarice turned her smile up a notch as she stopped before the chair opposite him. She might possibly be Finn's, but his middle brother
tended to prefer earthier women, Pagans and Wiccans. Clarice looked fresh out of an expensive salon or day spa. Which meant she had to belong to—

“Avery said you're the laird of Castle Death?” She tilted her head slightly, so she was peering up at him through her lashes in a pose he mentally dubbed the Princess Di look. It was charming on the late princess . . . less so on the American in front of him.

Regardless of the irritating interruption, he kept his voice pleasant. “I'm the acting laird of the castle—which is named de Ath, incidentally, not Death—but my father is the true owner. He and my mother have moved to Bolivia, however, so if you have a question about the estate, I will do my best to answer it.”

The scarlet-tipped fingers of her left hand trailed along the edge of his rosewood desk as she sidled around it toward where he sat. “Your daddy's in Bolivia? How fascinating. But you're left here to handle everything yourself since you're the oldest son? That must be a lot of work. Avery says your land runs for miles and miles all around the castle.”

Paen heaved a small, inaudible sigh, and mentally wrote the words gold digger next to the woman's face. Lately, Avery had taken to bringing home women who seemed to be more attracted to the family's home and supposed wealth than the men who lived there. “Yes, we have a bit of land. And yes, it takes some doing to manage the estate, but as I enjoy the work, it's not really that much of a chore. Is there something in particular I can help you with? Some question you have, perhaps?” He glanced at the ancient manuscript before
him, wishing nothing more than to be left in peace so he could finish translating it.

“Well now, that's mighty kind of you, but I'm here to help you,” she answered, scooting aside the manuscript so she could ease herself onto the desk. Her smile changed into one of blatant invitation. “I was thinking I might give you a hand”—she paused as her eyes flickered briefly to his crotch—“with whatever you might need. I'm told that I'm very good at what I do.”

Paen sat back as she crossed her legs. He gave her full marks for the casual way her dress seemed to slide back on her thighs as if by accident. Did she know what he and his brothers really were? Or was she just looking for a fling with a bona fide Scotsman, as he'd heard female American tourists were wont to do? “What exactly did you think to turn your hand to?”

“Oh . . . this and that,” she answered, her little pink tongue running quickly across her bottom lip. Paen watched her attempts at seduction with mild amusement. “Anything you like, really. I'm open to all suggestions.”

She dropped one shoulder and leaned forward, allowing him an unobstructed view of two plump breasts.

Being a man, he felt obliged to admire them for a moment. That done, he gave Clarice a tight, dismissive smile. “Indeed. I'm afraid that I already employ a steward, and she's quite competent, if a bit on the trying side sometimes. Although I appreciate your offer, there really isn't much that I need help with.”

She licked her lips again, more slowly this time. “I bet I could think of something.”

Paen looked down in surprise. Clarice, evidently emboldened by his brief admiration of her breasts, uncrossed her legs, kicking off a sandal and sliding her bare foot along the inside of his thigh until it rested on his crotch. “You wouldn't by any chance be indicating that you'd like to have sex with me?”

“Why, sugar, I thought you'd never ask,” she purred, caressing him with her toes.

Enough was enough. Lord knew he was no stranger to casual sex—quite the contrary, in fact—but he had work to do, and it didn't involve banging a lusty American. He carefully pried her foot off his groin and pushed it away. Before she could protest, he stood and marched over to the door, holding it open for her. “Thank you for the offer, but there are two reasons why I am unable to take you up on it.”

“Two reasons?” she asked, not moving from his desk. Her brows pulled together as she made a little pout at him. “What two reasons?”

Paen sighed again. He was used to women fawning over his three brothers, but seldom did one ever cast her eyes on him. Normally he was the pursuer. He always supposed women sensed something of his tormented, soulless nature, and left him alone because of that.

“One, I don't screw my brothers' women.” He walked back, stuffed her sandal on her foot, and gently pushed her off the top, returning to the open door. Rude, yes, but he didn't have the time or inclination to play with this woman. “And two, you have no idea who I really am. It would be best if you left now.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Clarice said, her voice
thick as she undulated toward him. Rather than feeling any attraction toward her, her blatant attempts at seduction left him cold. Perhaps if she had truly been attracted to
him
rather than what he represented, he might have been interested, but he was not so deluded as to imagine she cared for anything other than herself. “Or more to the point, I know
what
you are.”

Paen stood silent as she leaned into him, her breasts rubbing against his chest. She gave him a knowing smile, and then tipped her head back and to the side, baring her neck. “Avery told me all about you. Go ahead, sugar. You know you want to.”

The hunger rose as the scent of a warm, willing woman curled around him. His mind warred with the need—why shouldn't he take what he wanted from her? She was offering it, after all. Once Avery knew she had tried to seduce him, he would want nothing more to do with her, so where was the harm in taking what was being offered?

Deep within him, the hunger growled and demanded satisfaction. She leaned closer into him, her neck a few inches away from his mouth. He swallowed hard, trying not to give in to the hunger, reminding himself that he was a civilized man, not a beast to jump on every morsel of food. He inhaled her scent, finding nothing unpleasant other than the chemical odor of a strong perfume. He preferred a woman's natural scent to anything that came out of a bottle, but he wasn't in a position to complain. His tongue ran over the points of his sharp canines, the hunger building until it was a dull roar in his ears, throbbing to the beat of his heart. The urge to bite, the need to drink deeply was almost overwhelming. All
he had to do was sink his teeth in that tender white flesh . . .

“Take it, Paen. Take me. Take me now! Make me yours forever!”

It was the triumph in her voice that stopped him from giving in to the hunger. Like a bucketful of cold water tipped over his head, distaste washed over him at her words.

“You may know what I am, but I also know what you are,” he said, stepping back, his voice cold and flat.

“What?” she asked, her eyes confused for a moment. “What do you mean? You aren't going to bite me? You aren't going to Dracula me and drink my blood? You aren't going to make me your eternal bride?”

“No,” he answered, more amused than annoyed. “I'm not going to drink your blood, or marry you. My name is Paen Alasdair Scott, not Dracula, and I'm not a prince of the night, or a count, or even a dashing, romantic figure. I'm a simple Scot with an interest in the history and travels of Marco Polo, and a weakness for computer games.”

“But . . . you're a vampire!” she protested. “You can't refuse me!”

“We prefer the names Moravian or Dark One. They are less dramatic, and result in fewer people arriving at the front door with torches and wooden stakes. As for refusing you . . .” He gestured toward the open door. “Thank you again, but I'm a busy man. If you wouldn't mind leaving now?”

“Well, I have nevah!” The confusion in Clarice's grey eyes changed to haughty anger as the twangy
cadence of her accent deepened. “There's just somethin' wrong with you, you know that?”

“Yes, I'm aware of it,” he answered, still amused despite the irritating aspect of the interruption. “I'm more or less damned by an ancient curse. My parents hadn't completed the seven steps to Joining when I was born, so unlike my younger brothers, I have no soul.”

“But . . . your brother said that only a woman can save you. He said that you need a woman to become whole again.”

“Clearly it's time for me to have yet another talk with Avery,” Paen said, sighing a little. “He means well, but I've told him before—I have no intention of accepting a Beloved even if I did find her.”

“Beloved?”

“Only a Beloved can redeem a Dark One's soul. But I don't need a woman to live a happy life,” he told her, gently pushing her out the door. “I'm quite content on my own. I have my research, and family—although they can be annoying as hell sometimes—and given my brothers' randy natures, all the beautiful women I can look at. I even had a girlfriend a few years ago, although she left me for a software genius. So as you can see, I may be damned, but I'm just fine with it. Thanks again for the offer. See you later.”

“But . . . you can't . . . you need to drink blood—”

Paen quietly closed the door on Clarice's outraged protests, turning the lock after a moment's thought. No sense in giving her the chance to pop back in and throw herself at him again.

“Alone at last,” he said to himself as he turned back toward his desk.

“Not exactly.”

Across the room, a shadow moved against a wall, separating itself to form into a man. Paen watched with interest, cautious but not overly concerned about the sudden appearance of what he believed was a demon in his study. “Today seems to be my day for entertaining guests. I assume this isn't just a social call?”

The man-shaped demon chuckled. Paen was momentarily taken aback by such an act—demons were notorious for their lack of sense of humor. It was a rare one who could appreciate sarcasm and irony. “I'm not going to drag you down to Abaddon, if that's what you are wondering. So I suppose in a sense, this could be construed as a social call. I'm Caspar Green.”

Paen looked at the hand the demon offered. It didn't look like it concealed any spring-loaded razor blades, or deadly acid pumps, or even some horrible contagion that would cause various body parts to wart up and subsequently fall off, but you never really knew with demons. “Erm . . . you'll forgive me for being rude, but I don't recall ever hearing about a demon who assumed a mortal name.”

Caspar smiled. Paen glanced quickly toward a delicate glass-fronted secretary that held his more valuable manuscripts. Generally when demons smiled, things broke. “That would be because I'm not a demon. I am, in fact, an alastor.”

“Alastor?” The name tickled in the back of his mind.

“Yes.” Caspar tipped his head to the side. “I find myself somewhat offended that you thought I was a
common demon. I assumed you were a man of some discernment.”

“Forgive me,” Paen said with a wry twist to his lips. “I am a bit of the stereotypically cloistered scholar. I haven't had time to mingle much with citizens of the Otherworld, but correct me if I'm wrong—isn't alastor another name for a demon?”

“I am of the demonic persuasion, yes, but not truly a demon. Alastors are not bound to demon lords—they can, however, be employed. A better name would be nemesis; it is what most alastors are commonly called. As for my name—I was mortal at one time. It is my preference to use a name that puts humans at ease.”

“I'm not human,” Paen pointed out, finally shaking the alastor's hand. He might not be able to tell a demon from an alastor, but he wasn't a fool. He'd heard enough stories of how tricky those beings born in the service of dark powers could be.

“No, you're not, although some would say you're close enough to count as human.” Caspar smiled again and gestured toward a chair. “May I?”

“Certainly. Er . . . I don't often have denizens of Abaddon visiting. What is the proper protocol? Should I offer you a whisky, blood of a virgin . . . or would you prefer a small rodent?”

“Whisky will do just fine,” Caspar answered, seating himself in the chair opposite Paen's desk. “Although the blood of a virgin . . . ?”

Paen poured some whisky into a small lead-crystal glass and gave it to the man. “I'm afraid we're fresh out.”