He swirled away, and I followed—flying along the dark twists and turns until we reached the main gallery. Rather than using the stairwell entrance, we floated up to exit through the opening at the top of the cave dome, where the park service offered rappelling for adrenaline-seeking tourists.
Rans led me to a quiet knoll overlooking the California wilderness at sunset. The sky was painted in shades of pink and orange; the trees wearing their drab autumn leaves. I rematerialized next to the man I loved, staring at the spectacular landscape spread out below us.
A strange sensation of lightness made me sway on my feet, as it suddenly hit me that we were, in many ways, free now. We could go anywhere we wanted. Do anything we wanted. No one was chasing us. We didn’t have to run, or hide, or fight. I drew in a harsh breath, fighting dizziness.
“So,” Rans said, “where to, love? Back to St. Louis, or—”
“I hear Yorkshire is nice this time of year,” I blurted.
Rans gave a low chuckle. “Yorkshire is chilly and damp this time of year. And, to be fair, at most other times of year, as well.”
“Yeah... I don’t actually care,” I told him. “That’s where I want to go. I want to go back to your cottage.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Rans said. “Let’s find a decent hotel nearby, and I’ll book us a flight for tomorrow.”
“Perfect. I can hardly wait,” I said, and stretched up to kiss him. Around us, the sun’s dying rays disappeared as daylight slipped away into evening—the sovereign domain of both vampires and lovers.
finis
Guthrie Leonides and Vonnie Morgan’s story begins in Vampire Bound: Book One. Read on for an exclusive sneak peek!
Vampire Bound: Book One Sneak Peek
By R. A. Steffan
ONE
THERE WAS AN ART to blotting away tears before they could spill over and ruin your mascara. I wasn’t sure what it said about me that I’d mastered that particular art years ago. Honestly, at this point I practically held a doctorate in the subject.
My reflection stared back at me from the long mirror in the ladies’ room. Not for the first time, I wondered whether the companies that manufactured fluorescent lightbulbs for public restroom vanities designed them specifically to make you look as awful as possible. Surely, with everything science had achieved, it should be easy enough to make lighting that didn’t wash you out and accentuate the dark circles under your eyes. But... if that were the case, why continue to sell bulbs that made people look like corpses?
Fresh tears welled, and I cursed myself as I soaked them up from the corners of my eyes with the twisted corner of a square of toilet paper. The mascara might survive, but at this rate I was going to look like I’d caught a red-eye flight from San Francisco, or maybe spent the last few hours smoking pot. And that... wouldn’t do.
“Get a grip, Vonnie,” I muttered, looking determinedly toward the ceiling until my eyeballs ached. It was an old trick—something to do with eye movements tricking the brain into shutting off negative emotions, or so I’d read in a surprisingly on-point clickbait article once upon a time. Useful stuff for women in stressful business situations, where tears could be detrimental to one’s career prospects.
Mind you, the authors of that article almost certainly hadn’t had my current situation in mind when they wrote it.
The restroom ceiling was... nice. From what I’d seen so far, everything in the club was nice. Classy. Like maybe the owner cared about more than how much money he could wring out of the place by charging fifteen bucks for an appletini on top of a ten-dollar cover. I tried to see that as an encouraging sign.
When my eyes no longer felt like overfilled water balloons, I returned my gaze to the mirror. Yep... they were bloodshot. Though it probably wouldn’t be too noticeable to someone who wasn’t looking for it.
I hoped.
Otherwise, I looked okay—fluorescent lightbulb zombie effect aside. Red hair still caught up in an elegant twist, a few strands escaping artfully to frame my face. Freckles successfully hidden by foundation and concealer. Stylish cocktail dress way above my pay grade, courtesy of my new boss, Guillermo.
My cell phone buzzed in my handbag, and I winced. A quick glance confirmed that, yes, the scary guys my deadbeat ex owed money to had finally managed to track down my new number. Terrific. I couldn’t turn off the phone completely, in case my kid needed to get hold of me while I was... working... tonight. But I did put it on silent.
With a deep breath, I met my own gaze in the mirror and tried to pretend I didn’t look nervous. This wasn’t forever. Just for... a couple of months, maybe, until I could get enough cash together to climb out of the hole that Richard had dug by borrowing money from the wrong kind of people. The hole he’d dug for both of us, really.
Anyway... the owner of the Vixen’s Den obviously looked after his club well. Maybe that meant he’d also play nicely with the professional escort he’d hired for the night—especially if that escort didn’t let on that this was her first ever gig... and that she was scared out of her freakin’ mind.
* * *
The Den popped onto the St. Louis nightclub scene about six months ago, according to the gossip I’d managed to garner from the handful of people I knew who had the time, money, and inclination to frequent trendy clubs.
The place was all about jazz, blues, and expensive top-shelf liquor, apparently. It was popular with successful black businesspeople, though honestly, the clientele seemed pretty diverse as I made my way toward the elevators in the back. There, a very tall, very wide man wearing a very nice suit stood between the two sets of double doors. His posture screamed security. He watched me approach, his face expressionless.
“I’m
