Pool of Crimson

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Epilogue

  POOL OF CRIMSON

  SUZANNE M. SABOL

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  POOL OF CRIMSON

  Copyright©2012

  SUZANNE M. SAB0L

  Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-112-7

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  To my husband, Ross,

  For your honesty, your humor, and your support

  Acknowledgements

  First, I would like to thank my friends and family for not telling me I was crazy when I said, “I think I can be a writer.” That was helpful.

  Second, I would like to thank Shahreena Shahrani for being a demanding fan when there wasn’t much to be a fan of, for proofing, for editing, and just generally being supportive. I would like to thank Stacey Dibowski for allowing me to use her likeness and to steal some of her best lines. Now the entire world can see how incredible a saucy woman who knows what she wants can be. Jade wouldn’t be the same without you. I would like to thank Brandy Shearer for reading Pool of Crimson and convincing me that I had something special. Also, thank you, Elise Logan. You are incredibly talented and supportive.

  Last, I would like to thank my husband, Ross Mikos, for reading the first version, the last version, and all versions in between of this book. You are the inspiration for so much and most importantly, you still think I’m cool.

  Chapter 1

  I was in trouble. A cool wash of vampire power pushed at my back, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and a shiver run up my spine. I didn’t move. There was no point. I had nowhere to go. He’d already found me. I stood motionless in one of the best art galleries in the capital city and waited for him to make his move.

  The push of preternatural power was an uneasy feeling, twisting my gut into knots. Even after ten years of dealing with the undead, their power still sent shivers up my spine and gooseflesh pimpling across my skin. Each power signature was as individual as the vampire who possessed it but generally, it felt like being on an airplane at 30,000 feet that was pressurized ... wrong. It was in my brain, in my bones, and in my gut. I didn’t like it.

  The power percolating behind me was strong, really strong. I slid my hand slowly across my stomach, gliding my fingertips across the waist of my jeans until the hard, comforting smoothness of oak grazed my warm hand. I clasped the small stake and braced for a fight.

  “Beautiful,” his deep, velvet voice said from behind me. He was close enough to my ear that his breath moved the hair around my cheek, brushing softly against my skin. I froze as he smugly added, “The painting.”

  A shiver ran through me as his words slithered around my body and deep into places a voice had never touched before. No matter what my body told me, I knew better. My instincts drove me to remove the stake from its sheath, then lower my hand casually to my side, keeping the stake hidden within the sleeve of my leather jacket.

  I looked up at the painting on the wall before me and gave it a hard look. I wasn’t in immediate danger, not surrounded by people anyway. A dark alley was another matter altogether.

  The canvas was enormous on the stark white wall, almost double my size, and I was 5’10”. Shades of red, orange, and yellow covered the canvas in thick paint as angry strokes slashed across the taut cotton. The painting and the artist’s rage resonated with me in ways I wished it didn’t. I turned quickly, and gave the vampire a quick once-over.

  He was tall, lean, with hair the color of coal that stuck out in organized chaos. His dark eyes focused on me in singular pursuit that should have made my fingers itch to turn the stake in my hand and prepare to use it. Instead, my heart raced and my mouth went dry under his gaze. The blood thumped in my ears, and I took a quick step back. I needed some space between us. I couldn’t think with him that close. Dammit, I needed to think.

  His face was too narrow and his features too large to be considered handsome but in those dark, almost midnight-black eyes was intelligence and a hint of humor that made him more attractive than I’d originally thought. Those eyes made me hesitate.

  “If you say so,” I said stiffly, trying to regain some semblance of myself, tugging my jacket tight around me. Ohio in early October was just cool enough to wear jeans and a jacket. I’d come down to the Short North to relax and disappear into a crowd, not this, not vampires. The Gallery Hop was a once-a-month event, and I never had time to go. I was always hunting them.

  I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head slightly to look. I didn’t dare take my focus off the vampire in front of me, though, and shifted only slightly. A woman in stone-washed jeans swished a glass of wine around in a large pinot noir glass. As the liquid moved against the sides, the thick consistency clung to the curves of the crystal longer than it should have. I met her gaze with my own depth of cold warning.

  She evaluated me from the back of the gallery, running her hungry gaze over me as she took in my scent with a flare of nostrils. She quickly rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the smarmy, dark-haired, short, unshaven man with exposed chest hair beside her.

  It shouldn’t annoy me that she’d disregarded me. It worked to my advantage if vampires didn’t see me as a threat, but it pissed me off just the same. I hate being ignored.

  She hung her right arm effortlessly over his shoulders and smirked contentedly. She was a few inches taller than Smarmy. She whispered something in his ear that turned up the corners of his mouth in what passed for a smile. He pulled the hand that she draped over his shoulder quickly to his lips for a quick kiss, before encouraging her to follow him through a door in the back.

  Damned vampires ruin my night every time. Next time I want to relax, I’ll just stay home!

  I had a vampire leaving with a human out the back door and one standing before me who was trying to engage me in conversation, which was definitely new for me. I needed to blow him off and get my ass outside. There wa
s something about him that made me want to stay and talk to him. It wasn’t his power that made me stay or that he was doing anything out of the ordinary, other than making eye contact. I found him attractive. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He looked like he belonged in a library surrounded by old, dust covered tomes. He intrigued me.

  His focus narrowed even more on me, and he grinned, a small boyish upturn of his lips. His dark, cunning eyes tugged at places low in my body.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. I took another really good look at the painting, and then returned my attention to him. My pulse picked up a notch as I met the heat in his eyes. He was looking at me in a way I didn’t deserve, as if I mattered. I liked it.

  I thought about my response carefully before I answered. I needed to get outside and track down Stone-washed jeans and get away from this guy. He was more dangerous than I’d originally thought. He distracted me. I knew it, and a part of me didn’t care. “All I see is pain ... and death,” I said in a more defeated tone than I’d intended.

  He smiled sadly, and all those tiny butterflies that I thought had disappeared began to flutter in my stomach as his eyes seemed to pull me to him. His expression seemed sincere and the smile lit up his face, wrinkling the skin at the corner of his dark eyes. I had a feeling he didn’t smile very often. It looked good on him.

  “But death can be beautiful,” he said with a slight smile still on his full lips. I bet. “As in Brueghel’s The Triumph of Death. But then I suppose that most know nothing of real pain or death, do they?” he asked with a familiarity in his eyes that unsettled me.

  I took another step back and tightened the grip on the stake still in my hand.

  He glanced down at my clenched fist, stiff at my thigh and turning my knuckles white with tension. His gaze slowly trailed back up my body as if evaluating me. When his eyes met mine, there was amusement twinkling in their dark depths. He was wary of me, but he wasn’t afraid. I’d forgotten for a moment, just a moment, that he, too, was very dangerous.

  “You’re probably right.” I spoke quickly, scanning the area for a quick exit. I needed to leave, and I wanted this conversation to end. I didn’t like the way he made me forget my mission.

  “Are you suggesting that you do?” he asked.

  I couldn’t tell whether he believed me or not. I didn’t want to talk death, but I couldn’t seem to let his comments fall.

  “Probably more than most,” I said, sadness thick in my voice. I thought about all the death I’d seen over the last decade. I thought about how many times I’d come too close to death myself; about all the scraped knees, broken bones, twisted ankles, cracked ribs, punctured lungs, and more bruises than I cared to count. Yeah, I knew more than most about pain and death.

  Walk away.

  “Some say that the viewer brings their own psyche to the art. Perhaps the painting doesn’t reflect pain and death but instead, you do?”

  I ground my teeth at his notion.

  Son of a BITCH!

  “Fascinating,” I snapped with as much vitriol as I could shove into that one word.

  His shoulders squared and that twitch at the corner of his full lips fell just a bit.

  “I have to go.”

  “But I don’t know your name,” he called, amusement back in his deep, velvety voice.

  “Dahlia,” I snapped back over my shoulder as I strode away. I didn’t wait for him to ask me anything else. I wasn’t even sure why I’d given him that much. My name was out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. I made my exit through the front door and onto the crowded sidewalk. I didn’t look back, no matter how much I wanted to.

  The lights from the arches crowning High Street twinkled in the dark Columbus night like a Ferris wheel, shifting color over the busy street from yellow to green, blue to purple, red to orange, and back again in a seamless wave of LED color. People crowded the streets, moving in every direction as they weaved in and out of bars, galleries, and shops. The brisk autumn breeze whipped my hair around as if I stood on the edge of a cliff near Lake Erie, not the center of a busy city.

  I glanced in one of the gallery windows on my way down the street. The art was beautiful, the paintings too rich for my blood, and all I saw was a herd of human cattle ripe for the picking as they moved about the packed room with glasses of wine in their hands. I turned my head and kept walking. I had someplace to be.

  I pushed through several middle-aged men and their wives, apologizing as I went. I shoved my way through a thick group of teens surrounding a musician, then a smaller crowd surrounding a street performer blowing fire as I made my way down the block as quickly as I could. I’d already lost too much time.

  The alley next to the gallery was dark. I assumed the back exit of the gallery led out here. There weren’t many other options. The alley wasn’t lit and covered in shadows from the street lamp at the corner. Dumpsters were scattered haphazardly down the narrow alley, throwing more shadows into an already dangerous place. I paused under the streetlight and waited. I didn’t want to go down that alley, not if I didn’t have to. There were more dangerous things hiding in dark alleys than just vampires.

  I stood motionless for a few brief moments, trying to push the street noise from my consciousness. Muffled whimpers, the sharp skidding of heels on pavement, and a soft slurping filled my ears from the far side of a dumpster in front of me. A woman’s soft plea for help rang clearly over the musician on the street behind me singing Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”.

  I took the first step into darkness, edging slowly along the building wall, trying desperately to make as little noise as possible. It was more difficult than I’d thought in stiletto-heeled boots. The click of my heels on the uneven pavement echoed in my head and against the building walls as I moved. I shifted quickly to the balls of my feet, though it was more difficult to balance.

  I lifted my sweater and leather jacket slowly to expose the belt strapped against my torso like a second skin. That belt was my lifeline, housing a series of sheathes filled with wooden stakes five inches long and about a half an inch thick. It had been a special order, expensive and worth every penny.

  I pulled a second stake, sliding it from the belt easily and soundlessly. I gripped one in each hand, and peeked around the corner of the dumpster. My nose filled with the smell of rotten fruit, stale beer, and cat piss.

  Lovely.

  I held my breath to keep from gagging.

  There they were; those same damned stonewashed jeans, crouched over a very pretty pair of red patent-leather pumps and two shapely legs. The woman on the ground and the owner of those shapely legs struggled sporadically beneath the slender but unnaturally strong woman in those horrible stonewashed jeans.

  Smarmy stood a few feet away, ogling something in his hand that I couldn’t quite make out and ignoring the show on the ground completely. His other fist was clenched tightly around something else as he spoke.

  “We thank you for your business. You’ve been paid and fed. Ethan expects you out of his territory by dawn,” Smarmy said stiffly with a greedy glint in his eyes. Stonewashed Jeans didn’t reply as the woman beneath her continued to struggle.

  I cleared my throat loudly in the darkness.

  Smarmy’s eyes met mine. The vampire’s head snapped up and away from the young woman’s throat, turning instinctually to me with a single drop of her victim’s blood running down her chin. She stuck out her tongue and licked the crimson stream from her face as her gaze narrowed on me.

  The woman on the ground gasped for air and tried to speak, or scream. I couldn’t tell. Her breath gurgled in her throat like bursting bubbles as she gasped for breath, and the wound marring her slender neck looked like a sloppy damn mess.

  The vampire stood easily to face me, discarding the poor woman as if she was abandoned trash. Smarmy took a step back, out of reach. The woman on the ground scampered behind the dumpster to hide, then curled up into a fetal position with her knees pulled f
irmly to her chest, tucking them beneath her chin as she hugged herself and rocked back and forth absently. Her eyes focused on the ground as if hoping she could just ignore the horror surrounding her and wake up from the bad dream she was having.

  The vampire in stonewashed jeans straightened her cable knit sweater as if she’d been caught in flagrante. She was unattractive, with dingy, stringy, brown hair that looked unconditioned as it clung to her head. The ill-considered tattoo on her cheekbone didn’t help. It was an odd symbol, high on her cheek and too close to the edge of her eye to be hidden easily.

  The image on her face resonated in my mind. The mark meant something, I was sure of it. The tattoo was done in red as if she’d been tattooed with blood. The small red spider had a dark black trident emblazoned across its back like a brand. The whole tattoo looked as if it could move across her face. It gave me the creeps.

  She glared at me with annoyance sparkling in her luminescent eyes for a moment before she spoke.

  “I don’t have time to deal with you.” Her tone was cavalier and contemptuous, like I was nothing but a pest.

  Arrogant bitch! I ground my teeth together in annoyance.

  Don’t let her get to you.

  I smiled at her, a touch of menace curling my lips as I flipped the small wooden stake in my hand a hundred and eighty degrees and flung it to the center of her chest with all my strength.

  She stood stunned as the stake penetrated her skin through the thick cable knit. I used the several seconds she stood gaping at me in surprise to draw the sole of my boot up and drill the stake through her ribcage with a swift solid kick to her chest. She grabbed at me in a frenzied attempt, arms flailing as she sank to her knees. Her snarls ricocheted through the alley, a ferocious sound of fury as she crumpled.

  The life behind her eyes died, shifting to a glassy, unresponsive white film. Her skin shrank and pulled against her muscles and bones with a tearing sound that made my stomach turn. I’d misjudged how old she was. Her decaying corpse looked like she’d been undead decades, long enough to know better.