Bound By His Blood Read online

  Bound by His Blood

  By

  Jennifer August

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Bound By His Blood (Masters of the Night, #1)

  Bound By His Blood | Copyright © 2014 Jennifer August | First Electronic Printing September 2014 | Cover by Hot Damn Designs | All Rights Are Reserved. No Part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  Prologue

  † Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

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  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living, dead or undead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  E-books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away as that is an infringement on the copyright of this work. Your purchase of this e-book entitles you to one copy for your own personal enjoyment. It is illegal for you to send this e-book, in part or whole, in any manner (digital or print) to anyone. If you’d like to share this book with another person, please purchase (or encourage your friend to purchase) another copy. If you love books, please respect the hard work of authors. Thank you!

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  Bound By His Blood

  Copyright © 2014 Jennifer August

  First Electronic Printing September 2014

  Cover by Hot Damn Designs

  All Rights Are Reserved. No Part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

  Dear Reader,

  I’ve long been fascinated by creatures of supernatural origins. I love the idea of living side by side with a secret society, beings who have different abilities and ideologies than we do but who, are at heart, just as human as us.

  I hope you enjoy Bound by His Blood and my take — and breaks — on vampire traditions. If you have any comments, thoughts, or questions, I’d love to hear them.

  You can email me at [email protected] or snail mail me at:

  1501 South Loop 288

  Suite 104/PMB 197

  Denton, TX 76205

  I’m also on Facebook: jenniferaugust08 and Twitter: @jennifer_august

  You can visit my website at www.jenniferaugust.com to see what’s going on with me.

  Happy reading,

  Jennifer

  Prologue

  Boston, 1888

  “Come on, Logan. It’ll be a grand night. It’s your eighteenth birthday. Time to become a man.”

  Logan McCallister gave Joseph Kilkairn a sour look. The Scotsman was bound and determined to drag him to a brothel. McCallister wanted to go. He really did. Fear held him back.

  If Father finds out where I’ve gone...

  His straight-laced father would have an apoplectic fit if he knew his first-born son, the one he’d been meticulously grooming to join the family shipping business, had left their stately Beacon Hill house to pay for sex. Boston Brahmins did not engage in salacious activities, nor did they cross class lines.

  The fire in the hearth crackled and popped. Wood groaned as it shifted into ash. The big house in which he lived with his father, younger brother, and sister was as empty and personable as an ancient tomb. None of his family had stayed to celebrate his birthday with even a special meal much less gifts or well wishes.

  Not that I expected anything different.

  His father ran a strict household. Frivolities like presents, celebrations, and affections were frowned upon.

  Logan set his jaw as a spurt of rebellion tempted him.

  One night out of a lifetime of duty won’t matter.

  McCallister shifted the perfect knot of his cravat, brushed away non-existent lint from his custom-tailored jacket and nodded his head. “All right. I’m in.”

  Joseph chortled and thumped him on the back. “You’re going to love it,” he said. His dark blue eyes gleamed. “I was there last week, myself. Had a gorgeous dove named Claudine take care of me. Gor, she was something else.”

  Excitement thrummed in McCallister’s veins, easily beating away any lingering fear. Following Joseph from the house, McCallister leaped into the waiting coach with a light step born of eagerness. As they bounced and jostled over the cobblestone road leading from Beacon Hill, the gaslights flanking each side of the street streaked past like falling stars.

  They arrived at Desdemona’s Palace a quarter hour later. McCallister climbed from the coach and stared at the elegant house in front of him. A full moon washed over the two-story building and graceful wrought-iron railings. Soft golden light flickered in nearly all the windows. A curtain moved on the upper right and he saw the perfect form of a woman outlined against the light. A taller male figure joined her and they disappeared from sight.

  McCallister rubbed his hands together, suddenly eager to find and bed a woman with large breasts and a lusty appetite.

  Joseph sprinted up the stairs and pulled the discreet gold chain near the door.

  “Ready for the most incredible night of your life, McCallister?”

  He grinned at his friend. “Absolutely.”

  The door opened and a tall man with shoulders wider than the entry looked down at them. Recognition flickered in his black eyes when he looked at Joseph. He stepped back and waved them inside.

  “Madam Desdemona will be with you shortly.”

  He disappeared down the hall and McCallister looked around, trying to calm his racing heart.

  A flight of stairs to their right led to the upper floor where he assumed the actual bedding took place. The entry in which they stood flared into a long and mostly dark corridor with a closed door at the end.

  Sounds from around the house buffeted him. Throaty laughter and deep moans floated from above while from what seemed below, indeed under his feet, he swore someone sobbed.

  He frowned. “Do you hear that?”

  “Yeah,” Joseph said. He rubbed his hands together. “Sounds just like Claudine when she was riding my cock last week.”

  The far door opened and McCallister straightened, all thought of the peculiar sound dispelled.

  Desdemona was beautiful. Tall, raven-haired with a voluptuous and lush body revealed by the satin gown she wore.

  A sheer robe hung over the gown and trailed down her curvaceous form as she glided toward them. Beneath the robe, her full breasts and wide hips pressed against the white satin. McCallister swallowed hard. Her nipples puckered visibly through her dress.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” Her throaty contralto wrapped around his cock and held fast. He prayed he didn’t disgrace himself.

  “Madam Desdemona. You look ravishing as always.” Joseph bent over her hand.

  McCallister thought his friend overdid it a bit with the bowed head and near subservient posture but then she was an incredibly beautiful w
oman. Her eyes were a shade of blue he’d never seen before. They looked as though they were lit from the inside by flashes of lightning. Her mouth was full, lush and ruby red.

  “Who have you brought me, Joseph?”

  She didn’t take her gaze from McCallister and he forced himself not to squirm.

  Joseph made the introductions. “I was hoping you would personally see to his entertainment, Madam Desdemona.”

  Her small smile revealed a set of perfect, white teeth. McCallister found himself captivated by them. He wanted to feel them on his body – nipping, tugging, scraping. He licked his lips.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t do that anymore. I’ll be happy to set you up with one of our other girls, though.”

  Joseph leaned forward. “But Madam, it’s his eighteenth birthday today.” He tossed a wink over his shoulder at McCallister. “And he’s a virgin.”

  “Damn it, Kilkairn,” he snapped, embarrassment engulfing him like a ravenous beast.

  The look on the madam’s face changed dramatically. Her brows lifted and the lightning flashed in such quick succession McCallister had to look away. His head spun as the air leeched from his lungs, and his knees shook like the eagerness of a new colt.

  The madam stepped closer and curled her long fingers around his forearm while nestling her breast against him. “Is this true, Mr. McCallister?”

  He didn’t want to admit to it, wanted to lie and claim he’d bedded dozens of chits. But he couldn’t. Her blue gaze demanded only the truth.

  “Yes,” he said with a rasp. “I’m a virgin.”

  Her smile was like a gift and she squeezed his arm before letting go. “Joseph, I will send Claudine to you. Mr. McCallister, come with me.”

  Joseph hooted and pounded him on the back. “See you soon, you lucky bastard.”

  McCallister followed Desdemona down the hallway, his gaze glued to the sway of her ass and hips. His hard cock bounced with each step and anticipation made his balls tighten painfully.

  She opened the door, stepped through then beckoned to him. “Shut the door, Mr. McCallister and let me take you.”

  McCallister carefully did as commanded, sucked down a deep breath and turned to face the beautiful whore.

  † † †

  The whimpering woke him. Soft, pathetic sounds of despair bounced inside his head. McCallister frowned and struggled to open his eyes. They were gritty and painful.

  Cold, damp cement pressed along his back.

  He forced himself to keep his eyes open. The room was mostly dark but for a single beam of sunlight streaming from a narrow slit in the wall across from him. It took long seconds for his eyes to adjust to the shadows.

  Something cold surrounded his throat. His arms were thrust over his head and manacled to the hard wall. Fear exploded in him.

  Where am I?

  He yanked at his chains and choked as the collar bit into his throat. The stench of piss and putrid water rose from the ground, gagging him. He continued to pull until sweat poured down his temples. His neck, chest and arms burned from the effort.

  “It’s no use,” a weary voice said.

  McCallister squinted into the darkness. Three men were chained to the far wall in similar fashion. One man with golden eyes that burned like candles stared back at him. The room was too dim for any other impression but fear again shuddered through him.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  A sudden cacophony of noise, voices and movement assaulted McCallister. He groaned against the painful intensity. Just when he thought he would die from the sheer volume, it disappeared.

  He fell back to the wall and sucked down a deep rasp of air, shaking and shivering like a newborn colt.

  “Where are we?” he croaked.

  “In that whore’s Desdemona's basement,” the golden eyed man spat.

  “Who are you?” He didn't know why he asked except talking seemed to help keep his burgeoning fear at bay.

  “Leopold Caine. You?”

  “Logan McCallister.” He squinted into the shadows at the other two men. “Them?”

  “James Robinson and Edward Fontaine.”

  Each man made small noises that could have been grunts of hello or pain, he couldn't tell which. Exhausted by the conversation, McCallister slumped back to the wall. “Now what?” he whispered.

  The golden eyes flashed harshly in the dim light. “Now we wait.”

  The creak of wood and rusty iron sounded in the shadows. McCallister managed to turn his head enough to see a door open.

  A familiar voluptuous figure was outlined in the doorway.

  “Good. You’re finally awake.”

  † Chapter One

  “McCallister! Get your ass in here.” Chief Holland’s voice shook the walls of the old brownstone that housed the Boston Supernatural Homicide Division. It rang out over the clacking of heavy-handed cop hands on computer keyboards and the constant static of radio chatter.

  Logan McCallister cupped his hand over his phone and yelled back, “In a minute. Phone.” He returned his attention to the warbled voice on the other end of his cell. “I’m trusting you on this, Domingo. This Dust is bad shit. It needs to come off the street before any more humans are hurt.”

  “I swear, man, I’m not lying. Got word two wanna-be jefes are moving a bunch of it tonight.”

  “Names?” McCallister asked coolly.

  Domingo coughed and his voice lowered even more. “You know I can’t do that. I’ll be dead. I say their names, they know.”

  McCallister gritted his teeth “That’s bullshit and I’ve told you that a hundred times. Vampires can’t get a hold of you just because you know their name. Besides, I thought you said you didn’t know if they were human or vamps.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You also said garlic and holy water is crap, too.”

  McCallister rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you know how many Italian vampires there are? Every single one I know adores tons of garlic in their pasta. Come on, Domingo, help me out here.”

  “Tonight. Six, near the abandoned hospital on Dorchester, close to Adams.”

  “McCallister!” Chief Holland’s voice roared through the squad room.

  The line went dead.

  McCallister growled and slammed the phone on his desk. He heard an ominous crack. “Damn it,” he muttered and picked up the phone to study the screen. Fortunately, it appeared intact. The same couldn’t be said for the back.

  A large, heavy hand plopped onto his shoulder and McCallister swung around, fangs dropping with a quick, defensive snick as he batted the arm away.

  Chief Holland glared, his own lethal teeth appearing. “You going deaf?”

  McCallister retracted his fangs and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, Chief. I was on the phone with my informant.”

  The rotund homicide boss jerked up one bushy gray eyebrow. “My office. Now.”

  The chief executed a precise military about-face on the toe of his highly polished shoe and marched toward his glassed-in office at the back of the squad room.

  “What’d you do now, McCallister?” someone called out as he passed through the gauntlet of desks.

  “Get another speeding ticket from the Other Side?”

  “Forget to fill out your reports again?”

  “I bet he got busted looking at porn on his laptop.”

  McCallister ignored them until he reached the chief’s office. As he walked in, he shot them the finger. His response was met with loud laughter.

  “Shut the door,” Holland said.

  He stood behind his desk, hands folded behind him, ample stomach pushing against the starched blue of his dress shirt. His expression was as grim as the daily news. “The Brigade leaders are on my ass night and day, McCallister. They want answers yesterday on this Dust situation. They’re threatening to send in a Guardian to help us out.”

  Irritation immediately swamped him. McCallister crossed his arms as he leaned against the closed do
or. “No way.”

  Holland’s expression turned black. “I wasn’t trotting that out for your approval. You’ll work where you’re assigned and if that means partnering up with a Guardian, then you’ll do it. Understood?”

  McCallister ground his back teeth together but gave a short nod.

  The chief’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Listen, I don’t want a damn Guardian in here anymore than you do. I don’t trust the sons of bitches.” Holland stuffed a well-chewed straw in his mouth and worked it over like baseball card gum. “Too much power for our own good.”

  McCallister wasn’t going to argue with his chief — mostly because the man was dead on. Guardians — those vampires who acted as the Brigade’s law enforcement — had more rights than just about any other vamp on the planet. Except Brigade members, of course. The leaders of all vampire society were much like congressmen and senators — the laws they passed often did not extend to themselves. “Then we gotta solve this case pronto.” He shifted, feeling the chill of the frosted glass seeping through his green polo. “I have a lead. Slim, but still a lead.”

  The chief’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Your informant?”

  “Yeah.” McCallister shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “He swears there’s a drop going down tonight.” He checked his watch. “In about an hour or so.”

  The phone on the scarred, cramped desk shrilled. Holland stabbed the ignore button, moved the straw to the other side of his mouth and nodded, eyes grim. “We need to catch these bastards, McCallister. We can’t keep covering up these human deaths.”

  “Doing my best, sir.”

  “Do it better,” Holland muttered. “We had six more die overnight.”

  McCallister’s eyes widened. “Six more? Damn.”

  “That makes a total of thirty-three in two months. There are rumbles of panic starting in the human communities. I’ve heard whispers of everything from Ebola to anthrax in the water.” Holland picked up a folder from his desk and handed it over.

  McCallister flipped it open and winced at the picture staring back at him. A young man, or what once had been a young man, lay crumpled on the concrete, his body contorted in the shape of an S. His fingers were drawn into sharp, wide-spread claws while the skin on his face sunk inward, giving him the look of an ancient mummy.