Mysteria Nights

Genevieve screamed. “No.” She gripped his shoulders and shook him. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” Violently, she continued to shake him. “Open your eyes, damn it. Open them right now or I’ll curse you to live in a monastery.”

He didn’t respond.

Falon approached slowly and crouched down. He reached out and placed two fingers over Hunter’s neck. Tears filled his eyes. “I’m sorry, Genevieve, but he was dead the second the demon bit him. They produce a poison that no human can survive.”

“No. No. When my sisters get here, we’ll cast a spell and he’ll be fine. You’ll see. He’ll be fine.” A huge lump formed in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. “He’s going to be fine,” she whispered raggedly, more for herself than Falon.

Yet even after she and her sisters cast their spells, Hunter remained motionless. Lifeless. Dead.

Yes, Hunter Knight was dead. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Four

“Uh, Mr. Collins. I think you should know something.”

Roger Collins, owner and operator of Mysteria Mortuary—as well as a closet shape-shifter (spotted owl)— looked up from his desk and faced his apprentice, a freckle-faced boy with a pasty, almost gray complexion. “What’s happened, hoo hoo, now?”

“Hunter Knight’s body has disappeared.”

Exasperated, Roger scratched his shoulder with his nose. Things like this were always happening, and he was tired of it. “Let’s keep this between us, hoo hoo. No reason to alert the town.” They’d only cancel the burial, and he’d be out a hefty chunk of change. No thanks. “Knight’s funeral, hoo hoo, will happen as scheduled.”

“Huuunnnterrrrr. Hunter Knight, you silly boy. Wake up, s’il vous plait.”

The voice called to him from a long, dark tunnel. Hunter tried to blink open his eyes, but it hurt too badly so he left them shut. Did lead weights hold the lids down? His mouth was dry, and his limbs were weak. Most of all, his neck throbbed.

What had happened to him?

He remembered fighting the demons, remembered Genevieve leaning over him. Remembered a black shadow swooping him up and carrying him away. And then, nothing. He remembered nothing after that.

“Mon dieu! Aren’t you just the prettiest little thing.” A soft hand smoothed over his brow. “I could snack on you all day and come back for leftovers.”

That hand . . . His ears twitched. He could hear the rush of blood underneath the surface of skin. He could even hear the faint thump, thump of a heart. His mouth suddenly flooded with moisture. Hungry, he realized. He was so hungry he could have gnawed off his own arm.

“Well, don’t just lie there. I know you’re awake. Pay some attention to moi, you naughty boy. I saved your life, after all.” A pause. “Well . . . I kind of saved your life. Maybe a more truthful saying would be I saved your death.”

The voice was deep enough that he knew it belonged to a man, but it was surprisingly feminine. And that horrible French accent . . . Despite the pain, Hunter forced his eyelids apart. Dank blackness greeted him. But slowly, very slowly his eyes adjusted, and he was able to make out a rocky cavern and a silhouette. The silhouette became a body . . . the body became a man . . . and then he saw everything as clearly as if the sun were shining.

“Hello, my little love puppet,” the man said. “We’re going to have the best eternity together, oui.”

“Barnabas?” Hunter asked, rubbing his eyes.

“None other,” he said with a proud lift of his chin.

Barnabas Vlad, owner of Mysteria’s only art gallery (“art,” of course, meaning pornographic photos); Hunter had come across the man only a few times. Last time he’d seen him, the man had been inside the bar. Something about him had always set Hunter’s nerves on edge—something besides the fact that Barnabas often hit on him like a sailor on leave.

Right now Barnabas was dressed in a black, Oriental-styled gown, and he twirled a black parasol in his hand. Usually he wore huge blue sunglasses, but he wasn’t wearing those now.

His eyes glowed bright red.

Hunter jumped to his feet, behind the stone dais he had lain upon. He winced in pain, but held his ground. “You’re a vampire.” He spat the word, for it was a foul curse to him.

“Oui, oui.” Barnabas’s glossed lips stretched into a happy, unconcerned smile. “What do you think of my outfit? It’s new. Very china doll meets modern society, don’t you think?”

“I think your dress needs a hole in it,” Hunter snarled. “Right in the vicinity of your undead heart.” His gaze circled the cavern, searching for anything he could use as a stake. There were no rocks, no twigs. Damn it. What he would have given for his COTN—creatures of the night—arsenal at home.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Barnabas’s smile became a pout, and he splayed his arms wide. “You’re a vampire, too, mon ami.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oui, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Oui, you are.”

“No. I’m. Not. I’m a vampire hunter, you disgusting, vile, rotten piece of dog shit.”

Barnabas took no offense and laughed, actually laughed. “Not anymore. Feel your neck. I drained your blood and gave you mine.”

There was truth in the vampire’s expression, truth and utter enjoyment. Everything inside Hunter froze. No. No! He couldn’t be a vampire. He’d rather die.

Hesitant, hand shaky, Hunter reached up. He could taste blood in his mouth, it was true, but the rest . . . His fingertips brushed over the small, very real puncture wounds on the side of his neck. He knew exactly what that meant. No, he thought again. He hunted vampires; he hated them. Before Genevieve, it had been his only purpose in life. “Now . . . you putrid sack of undead flesh.” Glaring, he pointed a finger at Barnabas, wishing it were a stake. “Why would you make me a vampire? Why didn’t you let me die?”

With a guilty flush, Barnabas hopped onto the dais. “I was in the bar the night those demons attacked you. When you fell, you were covered in blood and, mon dieu, you looked so tasty. I didn’t cop a feel or anything, if that’s what has you so worried.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he shouted. I’m a monster now. I’m the very thing I despise. He knew a lot about vampires. They were—had been—his business, after all, and he’d seen many people make the change from human to beast. Oh, they tried to fight the urge to drink.

They never won.

Always the thirst for blood, for life, seduced and consumed them. They killed the people they once loved— and everyone else around them. I can never allow myself to see Genevieve again. The wretched thought nearly dropped him to his knees. Nearly felled him.

Barnabas has lived in Mysteria for a long time, and he hasn’t slaughtered the population. Hunter paused, blinked. How seductive the thought was and he grasped onto it with desperation. Maybe he was wrong about vampires. Maybe vampires didn’t kill—

He squeezed his eyes closed. Such rationalizations were dangerous and could get Genevieve slain. No, he couldn’t see her, couldn’t risk it.

“Are you worried that you will no longer have a sexual appetite? You will, I assure you.” The vampire’s eyes stroked over him, stripped him, glowing a brighter red with every second that passed. “Despite the myths, you will