Bled & Breakfast

  Contents

  Praise

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  BLED & BREAKFAST

  AN IMMORTALITY BITES MYSTERY

  Michelle Rowen

  AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY

  Praise for

  Blood Bath & Beyond

  “Rowen jumps from paranormal romance to paranormal mystery without skipping a beat. . . . Here’s hoping Sarah will have many more adventures in her new series.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Her writing is sharp, witty, and does not disappoint. The ending will delight both old and new fans, and leave you thirsting for the next installment.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “An engaging paranormal mystery.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Readers will believe in vampires and slayers. . . . Filled with romance and high-stakes suspense; fans will appreciate the return of Sarah Dearly and Thierry de Bennicoeur in an exciting, dark whodunit.”

  —Gumshoe

  Praise for Other Novels by Michelle Rowen

  “I’ve been bitten and smitten by Michelle Rowen.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Sherrilyn Kenyon

  “What a charming, hilarious book! Frankly, I’m insanely jealous I didn’t write it.”

  —New York Times bestselling author MaryJanice Davidson

  “Rowen’s foray into a new dark, gritty world is a brilliant success . . . [and] an adrenaline rush!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Larissa Ione

  “Should leave readers breathless.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Michelle Rowen’s books never fail to thrill.”

  —Bitten by Books

  “Sassy and exhilarating . . . epic and thrilling.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “I have never read a Michelle Rowen book that I did not adore.”

  —Enchanted by Books

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Michelle Rouillard, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-101-60956-9

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  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 every reader who’s been along for the ride since the very first bite.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you to Bonnie Staring, who kindly beta-read this novel for me. Many friends might be afraid to tell you what they really think—the bad stuff, anyway. Bonnie isn’t one of them. She is the invaluable blond and female Simon Cowell in my writing world and my books are stronger and my characters are smarter (sometimes) because of her.

  Thank you to my editor Leis Pederson and the entire team at Obsidian. I love writing in this genre. It’s seriously the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. Writing-wise, anyway.

  Thank you to my brilliant and hilarious agent, Jim McCarthy, who’s been a Sarah fan since day one. And day one is feeling like a loooong time ago! You are the bestest!

  Also by Michelle Rowen

  Immortality Bites Mysteries

  BLOOD BATH & BEYOND

  Berkley Sensation Titles

  THE DEMON IN ME

  SOMETHING WICKED

  THAT OLD BLACK MAGIC

  NIGHTSHADE

  BLOODLUST

  Anthologies

  PRIMAL

  (with Lora Leigh, Jory Strong, and Ava Gray)

  Chapter 1

  Crystal balls have a lot in common with eyeballs. They both have the power to reveal hidden truths—that is, if you’re brave enough to look deeply.

  This occurred to me as I sat in a quaint fortune-telling café in Salem, Massachusetts, across the table from two sets of eyes and one crystal ball.

  The first pair of eyes was clear blue and smiling, set into the pleasant face of a woman in her late fifties. She wore the expected outfit of a fortune-teller—colorful blue and green robes embroidered with gold stars and moons, as well as a jade green turban that mostly encased her dark hair. With a glance into her eyes, I could tell that she was both friendly and earnest.

  She believed she could tell my future while I waited for my coffee order.

  “You’re new in town,” the fortune-teller said as she gazed into the crystal ball in the middle of the small round table covered by a red tablecloth. The conversations of others in the busy café buzzed all around, and coffee, tea, and freshly baked cinnamon pastries scented the air.

  “Just arrived,” I confirmed.

  “And you’re here . . . not purely for a vacation, but for business.”

  “That’s right.”

  A small frown creased between her penciled-in eyebrows as she gazed into the crystal ball. “However, you do hope this trip will serve two purposes—business and pleasure. This is also your honeymoon. Am I right?”

  I sent a sidelong glance toward the other pair of eyes watching this reading with interest. These eyes were the gray of a winter sky. At first glance, they were cold. At second glance, colder.

  At third glance . . . I didn’t think they were cold at all.

  To say I was fond of these particular wintery eyes would be an understatement.

  “A resort in Hawaii would have been our first choice,” Thierry said, giving me a wry look. “But a hotel room in Salem will suffice.”

  “Palm trees and hula dancers,” I said with a shrug. “Who needs ’em?”

  Only a day and a half after we’d gotten married in Las Vegas in a whirlwind ceremony that included an Elvis impersonator and some really cheesy but fabulous vows, Thierry had been notified of his next assignment. That call put us on a flight from Vegas to Boston. From there, we rented a car, which brought us the rest of the way to Salem—and bam. Here we were.

  No rest for the wicked. And really, with so many airplanes in my future now that I’d happily committed myself body and soul to being both Thierry’s wife and his assistant in his job as a consultant for the Ring—the official vampire council—I’d have to figure out a way to get over my fear of flying.

  Since we were currently in Salem, maybe I’d learn how to ride a br
oomstick.

  I wondered how this woman knew about the honeymoon thing. Was she a witch?

  It was easy enough to figure out her supernatural insight on us. I’d noticed Thierry fiddling with his plain wedding band—which he’d insisted on wearing even though he never wore any other jewelry. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Master vampires . . . Well, they were very much the same thing. That he was willing to try to adjust to anything outside his comfort zone made his fledgling vampire wife extremely happy.

  “Giddy” might be a better word for it, actually.

  But the fiddling was a definite tell that the fortune-teller had picked up on. Newlyweds, table for two.

  She looked deeply into the crystal ball. “I see wonderful things for your future. Every day you spend together will be filled with adventure and romance.”

  I tried not to smile too widely at that. “That’s good to know.”

  Thierry gave me another glance as I slid my hand over his. “Enjoying your complimentary fortune so far, Sarah?”

  I nodded. “Any fortune that isn’t one of doom and gloom is much appreciated.”

  The woman raised her eyebrows. “I don’t give bad fortunes. Who wants unhappy news—especially at such an exciting time with your young and handsome husband?”

  Handsome, most definitely—Thierry was tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair and those piercing gray eyes. But, young? It was a good sign that this fortune-teller wasn’t quite as universally insightful as she wanted us to believe. Thierry might physically look to be in his mid-thirties, but tack on another six centuries and you’d be in the right ballpark. This particular ballpark had been around since medieval times—and I’m not talking about the theme restaurant with jousting actors and wenches delivering ale and turkey drumsticks.

  Compared to Thierry, at twenty-eight I was practically an amoeba when it came to life and experience. But, as they say, opposites attract. And there weren’t too many couples—fanged or otherwise—more opposite than the two of us.

  I was about to reply to the fortune-teller when I felt something strange—a sensation of cold fingers trailing down my spine. I tightened my grip on Thierry’s hand and turned slowly in my chair to glance over my shoulder.

  Someone was watching me from the archway leading into the gift shop area. A man with black hair and black eyes. His attention was focused on me like a laser beam. His gaze was cold, hard, and endlessly unpleasant.

  “Who’s that guy?” I whispered, turning back around.

  “Who do you mean?” the woman asked.

  “The tall, pale man standing over there with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He’s giving me the creeps.”

  She frowned, glancing over in the direction I nodded. “There’s no one there.”

  I turned again to see that she was right. “Where did he go?”

  “There was no one there to begin with.” Thierry’s brow furrowed. He didn’t say it like he doubted I saw anything. More like he was confused by why he hadn’t.

  “Hmm. Could be you caught a glimpse of our infamous local ghost,” the fortune-teller said lightly. “Lucky you. He doesn’t make an appearance for just anyone.”

  My gaze shot to hers. “There are ghosts here?”

  “No—ghost. Singular. While there are many ghosts spotted in Salem, this is the only one that’s ever really been of any lasting importance.” She smiled. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed halfheartedly. “Hooray.”

  We really should have gone to Hawaii.

  “Spirits lose their ties to the world of the living three days after death,” Thierry said. “How long has this one been here?”

  “There have been sightings of Malik for over three hundred years. Not just in this café, either. All over Salem.”

  “Malik?” I repeated the name. It didn’t sound nearly as friendly as Casper.

  “Jonathan Malik, to be precise. He was a witch hunter.” The woman’s expression turned grave, but by the sparkle in her eyes, it was clear that she loved sharing information on this subject. “Murdered by a witch following the trials. She trapped his spirit here forevermore as punishment.”

  “Forevermore?” I repeated. Not exactly a word you heard every day. But it did add some drama.

  “And then some.” She sighed. “I’ve never been lucky enough to see him, although I’m told he’s very handsome. Then again, we don’t know for sure that’s who you saw, do we? It could simply have been a customer who slipped into the next room.”

  She did have a point there.

  After wishing us a pleasant visit to town, she picked up her crystal ball and excused herself so she could go give another table a free and pleasant—but quick and generic—fortune while they waited for their order.

  The waitress brought over our mugs of coffee a moment later.

  I glanced at Thierry as I stirred two teaspoons of sugar into my hazelnut blend. “The ghost of a witch hunter named Malik may have been giving me the hairy eyeball from across the room a minute ago. Should I freak out now or save it for later?”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “Better than a vampire hunter.”

  “I appreciate your taking this seriously.”

  A smile played at his lips as he gave me a slight shrug. “If that is indeed who you saw, you must remember that a ghost’s effect on the living is negligible at best. Even if the rumor’s true and you did see this particular witch hunter, it’s nothing to concern yourself with. He can’t do you—or any living being—any harm.”

  I took a sip of my coffee, successfully calmed by his calmness. “I’m surprised you didn’t see him, too. If it’s really a ghost, that is.”

  “Me too.”

  Thierry and I might be opposites in many ways, but we did share a special skill that only a small percentage of vampires possessed. We could see ghosts and also sense the departing spirit of someone after death. But ghosts weren’t exactly commonplace, especially those who’d died so long ago. Either something would have to trap them here on earth or they’d have to be summoned by a psychic with very strong skills—and finding a psychic like that was as rare as finding a nun in a string bikini.

  Bottom line, ghosts weren’t lurking on every street corner. Thankfully.

  “Here he is,” Thierry said, rising from the table. Any amusement on his face from earlier faded. “Let me do the talking, Sarah. Owen is not someone I want you to have much contact with.”

  Well, that was rather ominous. “Noted. I’ll play the part of the mute brunette.”

  We’d been asked to meet with a vampire named Owen Harper, whom Thierry knew from years ago, immediately upon our arrival. Owen was to give us an overview of the problem Thierry (and I) had been sent to check out.

  That was the job of a consultant. Quite simple, really. If there was a vampire-related issue that drew the Ring’s attention, they sent someone like Thierry to consult on it and assess the situation. From what I’d deduced, it seemed as if the Ring was mostly interested in keeping the existence of vampires a big secret from humans—worldwide. Anything that risked that secret needed attention and a swift resolution.

  The Ring also had their own police force, called enforcers. Or, perhaps assassins would be a better descriptor. They were vampires who were also vampire hunters. They took care of problems if and when they escalated.

  Just because vampires didn’t automatically become evil fiends after sprouting fangs and developing a thirst for blood, it didn’t mean we were all good, either. I’d met a bad one recently—a serial killer who’d nearly added Thierry and me to his list of victims. But he’d been stopped. Permanently.

  Sarah Dearly lives to bite another day.

  That was just a joke, of course. I rarely do more than nibble.

  I’d met a few people from Thierry’s very long and—at times—notorious past. So far, they were mostly horrible people who disliked him due to some lingering grudge. My hope that Owen would be different was modest at best.

 
“Thierry de Bennicoeur . . . ,” Owen began as I tensely watched him approach the table from the corner of my eye. “It’s been a hell of a long time, dude.”

  I blinked. Dude?

  I turned fully to get a look at him as he clasped Thierry’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  “Good to see you again, Owen,” Thierry said.

  Owen Harper looked a whole lot like a male model crossed with an A-list actor. Blond hair, flashing green eyes, at least six-three, and he had the muscled physique of a personal trainer. Standing next to my already extremely GQ-esque husband . . . well, it was quite a sight.

  Holy hotness, Batman. Times two.

  I didn’t know why this surprised me. I’d met my share of good-looking vampires since I was sired into a life of fangs, blood, and nonreflection by the ultimate blind date from hell last year. This was par for the course, really.

  “And this”—Owen flashed me a killer smile that revealed the small but pointy tips to his fangs—“must be Sarah Dearly.”

  “However did you guess?” said the previously mute brunette.

  “Thierry told me over the phone that you were drop-dead gorgeous. Call it a hunch.”

  I glanced at Thierry with surprise. “You actually used the words ‘drop-dead gorgeous’ to describe me?”

  He was the only one of us who wasn’t smiling. “I certainly could have. However, Owen has always tended to make things up to be amusing. This is one of those times.”

  It wasn’t said with fondness.

  Call me crazy, but I had a pretty good idea why Thierry didn’t want me to have much to do with Owen. The guy was a serious lady-killer. However, that leering edge to his gaze didn’t make me want to start swooning over his good looks.

  I think I was the only woman in a thirty-foot radius who wasn’t drooling. Still, I’d reserve my judgment for when I’d known this guy for more than two minutes. First impressions could sometimes be deceiving.

  Thierry gestured for Owen to take a seat. “Why don’t we get to the point?”

  Owen slid into a chair. “No small talk for an old pal? Thierry, you haven’t changed at all over the years, have you?”