Forever At Midnight: The Blood Keepers Series (The Blood Keepers Series, Vampire Novella Book 2) Read online

  Forever At Midnight

  The Blood Keepers Series, book 2

  by

  Larissa Emerald

  FOREVER AT MIDNIGHT

  Blood Keepers Series, book 2

  Novella

  By Larissa Emerald

  Copyright © 2016

  Castle Oak Publishing LLC

  ISBN-10: 1-942139-11-X

  ISBN-13: 978-1-942139-11-9

  http://www.larissaemerald.com

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  This novella is a work of fiction. References to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights to reproduction of this work are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission from the copyright owner. Thank you for respecting the copyright. For permissions or information on foreign, audio, or other rights, contact the author at [email protected].

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by Larissa Emerald

  Forever At Midnight

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Awakening Fire excerpt

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Larissa Emerald

  Paranormal Romance

  Divine Tree Guardian Series

  Awakening Fire

  Awakening Touch

  Vampire

  Forever At Dawn – short

  Romantic Suspense

  Winter Heat

  Contemporary Romance

  Come Sail Away – Barefoot Bay Kindle World Novella

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  Forever At Midnight

  by Larissa Emerald

  Vampire Dane Wheatherby is charged with traveling back to Victorian time to find a secret source to cobine hinted at in ancient tombs. He doesn’t expect to land in the middle of a heist involving the tempting and feisty Victoria Clements. But things are not as they seem… Tori is trying to extricate her father from a political plot, which is not what Dane wants to get involved with. Will he be able to get art piece that holds the cobine information back to his vampire race in the future, save her father, and keep the love of his life?

  Dedication

  For

  My brothers, Allan, Sid, & Daryl

  who were always up for any adventure

  when we were kids.

  I love you guys!

  PROLOGUE

  London, Present Day

  Dane Wheatherby scowled at his friend’s predicament. Had the vampire not been accommodating a human to begin with, this never would have happened. Connor Langley never would’ve arrived at Dane’s country estate in such a horrible mess, never would’ve had a car accident in the first place. Tracing was far safer than automotive transportation.

  What’s more, Connor had thrown himself around his mate to protect her during the car accident, taking the brunt of it himself. Liquid crimson dribbled from his head and his mate, this Stephanie, stood at his side, her hand on his in an attempt to comfort him.

  Hmph. All this for a human woman. A blood mate.

  Connor expelled a forceful breath between gritted teeth, then fell back onto the Sheraton satinwood tester bed. “How bad is it, Doc? Can I still time-travel?”

  “I’m sorry, Sir, but you’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” Dr. Johnson said as he tossed the last of his instruments into his bag. “You’re nursing two nasty fractures in your leg. You’ll need bed rest for at least two weeks . . . if you ever want to walk straight again.”

  Dane exhaled slowly. The doctor tucked his chin with a slight closed-lipped smile, seeming a little too proud of his prediction. There were few things that had the power to keep a vampire down, but illness was one of them. Even though their kind healed rapidly, they were still vulnerable to deformity. The vamp physician nodded to Connor, then to Dane, and exited the guest room as two men entered, the French and British representatives from a secret organization sworn to the vampire society. They all stared solemnly at one another.

  Connor slammed his fist against the mattress, stating out loud what they all knew. “Damn. I can’t believe I can’t come with you on the mission, Dane. I’m sorry.”

  “What foul luck,” said Czar Tanner of the French Council. Then he cleared his throat with a tense cough. “But I’ve been thinking . . . perhaps there’s still a way to get the information we need.” He tapped a yellowed, rolled newspaper into the extended palm of his hand, then unfurled the paper, displaying the lead article.

  Lord Grahame leaned toward the paper and read the 1842 headline aloud, “National Gallery gains oil painting on oak panel, The Arnolfini Portrait, dated 1434 by early Netherlandish painter Jan Van Eyck.” The furrowed lines in of the old duke’s thin wrinkled face deepened. “Soon after that, it disappeared. And we believe the painting holds encryptions we desperately need to harvest more cobine.”

  Dane raised an eyebrow. “It hasn’t surfaced over the years?”

  Tanner pursed his lips. “No. It’s a mystery what happened to it.” He thrust a Time Rod into Dane’s hand. “And now it’s your task to find the painting and bring it back.”

  Dane rolled his shoulders, summoning control. His fangs ached with his mounting tension as he absorbed the mission at hand. He detested time travel. What was the point of returning to an era he’d already lived through? Besides, he liked modern luxuries like cell phones, computers, cars, and indoor plumbing. “Isn’t there a way to locate it in the present?”

  Lord Grahame frowned. “We have no clue where to begin. And based on my research, deciphering the hidden codes within the art work would help us map out plentiful cobine veins. Enough for all of our people.”

  Connor shook his head and tried to rise, perspiration dotting his brow. “No. No. We have to wait until I can accompany Dane. A few weeks won’t matter.”

  Tanner rerolled the newspaper while he met Dane’s angry gaze. “Yes, they will. We’re entering a magnetic flux soon, and when we do, travel won’t be safe until we come out of it. There’s too much uncertainty with that.”

  Dane grimaced. Oh shit. Another reason to abort this mission―he could get stuck in the past and never return.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1842

  Christ! What had he gotten himself into this time? He had arrived in London six hours ago, resumed his identity as earl, and already renewed his connection with the Freemasons’ Grand Lodge underground. If a means existed to track down this painting, the organization’s grand master would have the answer. Getting the vampire to share the information, however, will be next to impossible. But at least it was a place to begin.

  Back in the day, Dane usually enjoyed the opera, but tonight his focus shifted from the stage to the audience. From the vantage point of a balcony box in Her
Majesty’s Theatre, he leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he pressed his fist to his lips. His excellent night vision allowed him to scan the crowd even within the shadows of the gas sconces. This evening he imagined himself the undercover spy or noble thief. No, this wasn’t an Ocean’s Eleven or Swordfish movie with all the high-tech bells and whistles, but it could be a lethal game all the same.

  Dane gave himself a mental shake. Thank you, Langley, for your vote of confidence.

  His gaze moved over elegantly plumed hats and balding heads. Act One was nearly finished.

  Where the hell was his contact?

  Dane shifted his survey to the upper tier as he bent closer to Lady Priscilla Château, his companion for the evening, and whispered, “I’ll be leaving you.”

  “Take care,” she said. “And if things take a scandalous turn, remember, I’m the first one you tell.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He suppressed an amused grin. The widow of a good friend, Priscilla prided herself on being an independent woman. She possessed title, money, and good taste, and she wrote witty commentary for the society pages under a pseudonym. And with her connections, she’d been the first person he’d contacted upon arriving. Their arrangement suited Dane well, as it kept him from being hounded by persistent mothers with marriageable daughters. It was amazing how quickly they came out of the woodwork.

  Yes, Priscilla was ideal.

  Well, almost ideal. His sudden disappearances wouldn’t bother Priscilla in the least; the problem came from her nature to ask too many questions.

  On stage, the vocalist’s pitch ascended an octave, growing thick and important with vibrato and volume as the song built for a grand finish. Rich sound reverberated off the curved fixtures, arched ceiling, and solid columns. Dane flexed his hand. Time grew short.

  In a box at stage left, a gentleman with a single streak of gray in his hair and both his clothes and hair the color of smoke slipped out of his chair and behind the divider curtain.

  Mr. Simms?

  The earl waited several long beats, allowing the man the opportunity to make his way outside ahead of him. It wouldn’t help his cause to have them seen together. Then Dane eased from his seat, as well, and departed through the weighty velvet drape, his footsteps fading into the ornate Persian carpet.

  Simms would give him the specifics of the location of the elusive piece of artwork. The image of The Arnolfini Portrait flashed in his memory, an approximately thirty-two by twenty-three inch,1434 oil painting on oak panel. Neat and simple and to be back home by dinner—that’s what he wanted.

  Once he’d retrieved the painting, then it was Langley’s job to determine if the art concealed its supposed secret message. His steps quickened as he entered a virtually empty mezzanine.

  In the upper portico, a lone man wearing a black cloak crossed Dane’s path. But the man in gray was gone. Dane scanned the area as he headed for the set of stairs to his left. He descended the massive, curved staircase, rounding to the bottom where he glimpsed a highly polished shoe resting on the step below. Moving downward even more revealed the sprawled form of a man. And his gray suit.

  Dane knelt. He didn’t have to place his fingers to the man’s throat to know the guy was dead, for he heard no blood sluicing through his veins or heartbeat. The attacker must have had fast skills and the strength of a gorilla―or vampire. The man’s collapsed form and weirdly cocked head indicated a break.

  Damn. Dane clenched his fist and smacked it against his upper thigh. Someone was bloody determined―and bloody well informed.

  The murderer had to be just moments ahead of him, and if he was a vamp as Dane suspected he was, well, there would be no following him if he had traced.

  Footsteps sounded, and Dane glanced up. He was shocked to find Priscilla.

  “Uhh.” She inhaled a whoosh of air. “Is he . . . ?”

  “Unfortunately, he’s dead.” Dane stood and scanned the area, then focused on Priscilla. “What are you doing here?”

  She didn’t respond. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes from the sprawled man.

  “Priscilla?”

  Her gaze lifted. “Oh . . . Oh. You didn’t―”

  “No, I didn’t kill him,” he said, a bit perplexed. Why would she even consider such a thing? But he didn’t have time to quiz her.

  “Here.” Priscilla pushed a folded paper at him. “A man handed me this right after you left. He said it was important, so I tried to catch you.”

  Dane took the message and stared at her.

  “Don’t look at me that way. I didn’t read it.”

  A door clicked shut from the direction of the entrance. Instantly, applause drowned the sound.

  “That could be the killer leaving.” Dane turned his head toward the noise. “Go back upstairs,” he said, starting for the door. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did. A sense of timing, perhaps. Instantly, the man in the black cloak, the one who had crossed his path upstairs, registered as peculiar. Why would anyone be wearing such an outer garment this far into the performance unless he was either coming or going?

  Priscilla grabbed his upper arm, trying to persuade him to stop. “Dane, wait. Let the authorities handle it.”

  “No. He’s getting away. He may be the key I need.”

  He pulled beyond her grasp. “Take care,” she whispered.

  Outside, the night was muted, the foggy air cool. Dane darted to the walkway, paused, and listened. There. To the left, came the slap-slop of running feet. Dane hurried after the sound, absently tucking the note Priscilla had given him into his inside jacket pocket.

  Like a water painting, the wet brick road reflected distorted yellowish globes of streetlamps. The echo of steps and carriages carried along the street, creating confusion, and a misty drizzle cut through the light fog. His coat, hat, and gloves were still checked. Damn inconvenience.

  Dane caught a glimpse of his runner, the edge of his cloak flapping to one side as the man dashed across the puddle-filled street and plopped on his hat.

  ~ ~ ~

  Silent and watchful, Victoria Clements begged to be wrong. But she wasn’t. The man walking as if a hound had nipped his backside was her father. She knew because she’d followed him.

  Still, she could be mistaken, couldn’t she? Crouched within the coal-black shadows between two flats, she blinked once more to be certain. The man had exited the house on Row Street with a woman clutching his arm, like a gull in flight clutching its next meal.

  Victoria swallowed hard. Her hands trembled. What was going on here?

  She thrust her hands into her pockets and stood. The cold metal of the fob watch her father had placed in her care felt like a clump of ice even through her gloves. She grabbed the watch and squeezed it tight.

  Her father and the woman moved past with brisk steps, as if they were fleeing something, or someone. The unfamiliar female huddled against her father’s shoulder, and her hair, the color of the moon, glimmered in the lamplight while the two hustled down the street. Heels clicked on the pavement, growing fainter. Her father glanced over his shoulder every few steps. Who was the woman? What was she to her father?

  Twelve years ago, when he’d narrowly escaped jail, he’d promised to never steal again and turned to reputable deeds. But after today, she had her doubts.

  Victoria inched out of the shadows. Big Ben chimed nine. She had to leave now or she’d miss Lord Morley, her contact, when he left the theatre.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, resisting the urge to follow her father. Then she turned and traced in the opposite direction. A part of her longed to scurry home and pretend none of this was happening, but she tried to imagine what a brave person would do in this situation. Her friends claimed she was vivacious and daring, glowing with confidence. And even more so after spending a year with her aunt in America.

  They didn’t know that what she possessed was not confidence.

  It was the need to hide the truth lest the threads of her life unravel. She was not the most tal
ented or coordinated vampire. On occasion, they’d teased her with the nickname “Grace Fall” just to prove it.

  Hmph. Victoria moved with purpose through the streets, traveling from lamplight to lamplight. It was only six blocks, she reassured herself when a banging noise came from within one dim alley. She sped up. She was rounding the side of a building when she collided with a tall male form, knocking her off her feet. Then, without so much as an I’m sorry or a Can I help you? he jumped up and dashed away.

  She glanced along the lane as she replaced her hat, more than stunned. Her bum and elbow hurt. “Senseless fool,” she muttered to herself, straightening her jumbled coat.

  Taking a deep, tremulous breath, Victoria stepped into the bright, warm yellow glow of a streetlamp. There, that’s better.

  She breathed again, nervous. Darn her father for giving her this task!

  Suddenly, something snaked into her peripheral vision―a hand―and latched on to her shoulder. Startled, she spun around quickly, losing her balance. She fell to the cobblestone walk, vaguely aware of a large shadow looming over her before a stabbing pain shot through her head and everything went black.

  ~ ~ ~

  For a second, Dane watched as his culprit got farther and farther away. He glanced to the woman at his feet, chastising himself for not catching her—damn his distraction. He knelt and slid his hand beneath her head, checking for any injury. A small gash sliced across her forehead near her hairline, but no other wounds were visible. Without really thinking about what he was doing, he picked her up and laid her across his thighs. He adjusted her weight to a more comfortable hold, her head settling on his shoulder. She smelled of flowers, he noticed. His throat immediately constricted and his fangs lengthened.