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Kissof
Midnight
M I D N I G H T B R E E D S E R I E S
B O O K O N E
W
L A R A A D R I A N
A D E L L B O O K
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KISS OF MIDNIGHT
A Dell Book / May 2007
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Lara Adrian
Cover photos © Samantha Messens/Getty Images and
Mark Tomalty/Masterfile
Cover design by Jae Song
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this “stripped book.”
Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a
trademark of Random House, Inc.
ISBN: 978-0-553-58937-5
Printed in the United States of America
Published simultaneously in Canada
www.bantamdell.com
OPM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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For John,
whose faith in me has never faltered,
and whose love, I hope, will never fade.
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With much gratitude to my agent, Karen Solem, for
helping chart the course, and for brilliant navigation under
all manner of conditions.
My wonderful editor, Shauna Summers, rightly deserves
her own page of acknowledgments for all of her support
and encouragement, not to mention the superb editorial
vision that always finds the heart of every story and helps
bring it into focus.
Thanks also to Debbie Graves for enthusiastic critiques,
and to Jessica Bird, whose talent is surpassed only by her
amazing generosity of spirit.
Lastly, a special nod of appreciation to my audial muses
during much of the creation of this book: Lacuna Coil,
Evanescence, and Col ide, whose stirring lyrics and amaz-
ing music never failed to inspire.
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Kissof
Midnight
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Prologue
TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS AGO
Her baby wouldn’t stop crying. She’d started fussing at
the last station, when the Greyhound bus out of Bangor
stopped in Portland to pick up more passengers. Now, at a
little after 1 A.M., they were almost to the Boston terminal,
and the two-plus hours of trying to soothe her infant
daughter were, as her friends back in school would say, get-
ting on her last nerve.
The man beside her in the next seat probably wasn’t
thrilled, either.
“I’m real sorry about this,” she said, turning to speak to
him for the first time since he’d gotten on. “She’s usually
not this cranky. It’s our first trip together. I guess she’s just
ready to get where we’re going.”
The man blinked at her slowly, smiled without showing
his teeth. “Where you headed?”
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“New York City.”
“Ah. The Big Apple,” he murmured. His voice was dry,
airless. “You got family there or something?”
She shook her head. The only family she had was in a
backwoods town near Rangeley, and they’d made it clear
that she was on her own now. “I’m going there for a job. I
mean, I hope to find a job. I want to be a dancer. On
Broadway maybe, or one of them Rockettes.”
“Well, you sure are pretty enough.” The man was star-
ing at her now. It was dark in the bus, but she thought there
was something kind of weird about his eyes. Again the
tight smile. “With a body like yours, you ought to be a big
star.”
Blushing, she glanced down at her complaining baby.
Her boyfriend back in Maine used to say stuff like that,
too. He used to say a lot of things to get her into the back-
seat of his car. And he wasn’t her boyfriend anymore, ei-
ther. Not since her junior year of high school when she
started swelling up with his kid.
If she hadn’t quit to have the baby, she would have
graduated this summer.
“Have you had anything to eat yet today?” the man
asked, as the bus slowed down and turned into the Boston
station.
“Not really.” She gently bounced her baby girl in her
arms, for all the good it did. She was red in the face,
her tiny fists pumping, still crying like there was no to-
morrow.
“What a coincidence,” the stranger said. “I haven’t
eaten, either. I could do with a bite, if you’re game to
join me?”
“Nah. I’m okay. I’ve got some saltines in my bag. And
anyway, I think this is the last bus to New York tonight, so I
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won’t have time to do much more than change the baby
and get right back on. Thanks, though.”
He didn’t say anything else, just watched her gather her
few things once the bus was parked in its bay, then moved
out of his seat to let her pass on her way to the station’s
facilities.
When she came out of the restroom, the man was wait-
ing for her.
A niggle of unease shot through her to see him stand-
ing there. He hadn’t seemed so big when he was sitting
next to her. And now that she was looking at him again,
she could see that there was definitely something freaky
about his eyes. Was he some kind of stoner?
“What’s going on?”
He chuckled under his breath. “I told you. I need to
feed.”
That was an odd way of putting it.
She couldn’t help noticing that there were only a few
other people around in the station at this late hour. A light
rain had begun, wetting the pavement, sending stragglers
in for cover. Her bus was idling in its bay, already reload-
ing. But in order to get to it, she f
irst had to get past him.
She shrugged, too tired and anxious to deal with this
crap. “So, if you’re hungry, go tell it to McDonald’s. I’m
late for my bus—”
“Listen, bitch—” He moved so fast, she didn’t know
what hit her. One second he was standing three feet away
from her, the next he had his hand around her throat, cut-
ting off her air. He pushed her back into the shadows near
the terminal building. Back where nobody was going to
notice if she got mugged. Or worse. His mouth was so
close to her face, she could smell his foul breath. She
saw his sharp teeth as he curled his lips back and hissed a
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terrible threat. “Say another word, move another muscle,
and you’ll be watching me eat your brat’s juicy little heart.”
Her baby was wailing in her arms now, but she didn’t
say a word.
She didn’t so much as think about moving.
All that mattered was her baby. Keeping her safe. And
teeth lunged toward her and bit down hard into her neck.
She stood utterly frozen with terror, clutching her baby
close while her attacker drew hard at the bleeding gash
he’d made in her throat. His fingers elongated where he
gripped her head and shoulder, the tips cutting into her
like a demon’s claws. He grunted and pulled deeper at her
with his mouth and sharp teeth. Although her eyes were
wide open in horror, her vision was going dark, her
thoughts beginning to tumble, splintering into pieces.
Everything around her was growing murky.
He was killing her. The monster was killing her. And
then he would kill her baby, too.
“No.” She gulped in air, but tasted only blood.
“Goddamn you—No!”
With a desperate burst of will, she snapped her head
into his, cracking the side of her skull into her attacker’s
face. When he snarled and reared back in surprise, she tore
out of his grasp. She stumbled, nearly falling to her knees
before she righted herself. One arm wrapped around her
howling child, the other coming up to feel the slick, burn-
ing wound at her neck, she edged backward, away from
the creature that lifted his head and sneered at her with
glowing yellow eyes and bloodstained lips.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, sick at the sight.
She took another step back. Pivoted, prepared to bolt,
even if it was pointless.
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And that’s when she saw the other one.
Fierce amber eyes looked right through her, but the hiss
that sounded from between his huge, gleaming fangs
promised death. She thought he would lace into her and
finish what the first one had started, but he didn’t. Guttural
words were spat between the two of them, then the new-
comer strode past her, a long silver blade in his hand.
Take the child, and go.
The command seemed to come out of nowhere, cut-
ting through the fog of her mind. It came again, sharper
now, spurring her into action. She ran.
Blind with panic, her mind numb with fear and con-
fusion, she ran away from the terminal and down a nearby
street. Deeper and deeper, she fled into the unfamiliar city,
into the night. Hysteria clawed at her, making every
noise—even the sound of her own running feet—seem
monstrous and deadly.
And her baby wouldn’t stop crying.
They were going to be found out if she didn’t get the
baby to quiet down. She had to put her to bed, nice and
warm in her crib. Then her little girl would be happy.
Then she’d be safe. Yes, that’s what she had to do. Put the
baby to bed, where the monsters couldn’t find her.
She was tired herself, but she couldn’t rest. Too danger-
ous. She had to get home before her mom realized she had
missed curfew again. She was numb, disoriented, but she
had to run. And so she did. She ran until she dropped, ex-
hausted and unable to take another step.
When she woke sometime later, it was to feel her mind
coming unhinged, cracking apart like an eggshell. Sanity
was peeling away from her, reality warping into something
black and slippery, something that was dancing farther and
farther out of her reach.
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She heard muffled crying somewhere in the distance.
Such a tiny sound. She put her hands up to cover her ears,
but she could still hear that helpless little mewl.
“Hush,” she murmured to no one in particular, rocking
back and forth. “Be quiet now, the baby’s sleeping. Be
quiet be quiet be quiet. . . .”
But the crying kept on. It didn’t stop, and didn’t stop. It
tore at her heart as she sat in the filthy street and stared,
unseeing, into the coming dawn.
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One
PRESENT DAY
Remarkable. Just look at the use of light and shadow....”
“You see how this image hints at the sorrow of the
place, yet manages to convey a promise of hope?”
“. . . one of the youngest photographers to be included
in the museum’s new modern art collection.”
Gabrielle Maxwell stood back from the group of ex-
hibit attendees, nursing a flute of warm champagne as yet
another crowd of faceless, nameless, Very Important
People enthused over the two dozen black-and-white pho-
tographs displayed on the gallery walls. She glanced at the
images from across the room, somewhat bemused. They
were good photographs—a bit edgy, their subject matter
being abandoned mills and desolate dockyards outside
Boston—but she didn’t quite get what everyone else was
seeing in them.
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Then again, she never did. Gabrielle merely took the
photographs; she left their interpretation, and ultimately,
their appreciation, up to others. An introvert by nature, it
made her uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of this
much praise and attention . . . but it did pay the bills. Quite
nicely, at that. Tonight, it was also paying the bills for her
friend Jamie, the owner of the funky little art gallery on
Newbury Street, which, at ten minutes to closing, was still
packed with prospective buyers.
Numb with the whole process of meeting and greeting,
of smiling politely as everyone from moneyed Back Bay
wives to multipierced, tattooed Goths tried to im
press one
another—and her—with analyses of her work, Gabrielle
couldn’t wait for the exhibit to end. She had been hiding in
the shadows for the past hour, contemplating a stealth es-
cape to the comfort of a warm shower and a soft pillow,
both waiting at her apartment on the city’s east side.
But she had promised a few of her friends—Jamie,
Kendra, and Megan—that she would join them for dinner
and drinks after the showing. As the last couple of strag-
glers made their purchases and left, Gabrielle found her-
self gathered up and swept into a cab before she had a
chance to so much as think of begging off.
“What an awesome night!” Jamie’s androgynous blond
hair swung around his face as he leaned across the other
two women to clutch Gabrielle’s hand. “I’ve never had so
much weekend traffic in the gallery—and tonight’s sales
receipts were amazing! Thank you so much for letting me
host you.”
Gabrielle smiled at her friend’s excitement. “Of course.
No need to thank me.”
“You weren’t too miserable, were you?”
“How could she be, with half of Boston falling at her
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feet?” gushed Kendra, before Gabrielle could answer for
herself. “Was that the governor I saw you talking with over
the canapés?”
Gabrielle nodded. “He’s offered to commission some
original works for his cottage on the Vineyard.”
“Sweet!”
“Yeah,” Gabrielle replied without much enthusiasm.
She had a stack of business cards in her pocketbook—at
least a year of steady work, if she wanted it—so why was
she tempted to open the taxi window and scatter them all
to the wind?
She let her gaze drift to the night outside the car, watch-
ing in queer detachment as lights and lives flickered past.
The streets teemed with people: couples strolling hand in
hand, groups of friends laughing and talking, all of them
having a great time. They dined at café tables outside
trendy bistros and paused to browse store window displays.
Everywhere she looked, the city pulsed with color and life.
Gabrielle absorbed it all with her artist’s eye and, yet, felt
nothing. This bustle of life—her life as well—seemed to be
speeding by without her. More and more lately, she felt as if
she were caught on a wheel that wouldn’t stop spinning
her around, trapping her in an endless cycle of passing