Blood Harvest

Excerpt

Blood Harvest
Meghan M. Schubert © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

“Shh.” He trailed the finger down my chin and rested it in the crook of my neck. I suppressed a shudder. He leaned in, too close for comfort, hands gripping my hips tighter and guiding my pelvis toward his while his lips grazed my neck. My stomach flipped. My insides felt like they were on fire.

Did he just sniff me?

“Ian, what’re you—”

“Quiet.” He kissed me once, twice, his lips caressing, teasing, the heat in me rising, then turning into a sharp, stabbing pain. A pain that shot through my shoulder, up my neck, and exploded into the back of my head. My eyes widened and then closed tight, mouth open in a silent scream as I tried to breathe. I forced myself forward, trying to push against him, but he was heavier than me, and all it seemed to do was aggravate him. Ian slammed his weight against me, and I yelped as the bricks dug into my back. The way he had me pinned, I couldn’t even shift enough to get a knee in his groin.

Shit, now what?

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had people bite me in a kinky sort of way, but this was so much more. He was drawing blood, my blood, his mouth hot and wet on my neck. The gentle motion of his lips sent waves of electric heat through me, cascading down, the pain giving way to a pleasurable numbness, and I thrust my hips against him hungrily as his teeth sank deeper. I groaned, my body slumping against his as my legs started to give out. It hurt like hell, but it felt so good. I just didn’t want to fight anymore.

Everything began to blur and melt away as I succumbed to the bliss. It felt like falling; you know the end is coming but you just don’t know when. Is this what it’s like to die? What a way to go.

Before I was able to let myself completely go, something hot and sticky pressed against my lips. It smelled of old pennies and leather and cologne. Smelled like Ian. Without warning, a hand fisted into my hair, forcing my mouth on the warm liquid. I had no desire to taste it, but something inside compelled me, drew me to it. It smelled so good.

The liquid burned the whole way down, igniting my throat and stomach. I was torn between wanting to throw up and wanting to drink more. This was insane. What was I doing?

The mingling of pleasure and pain was almost too much, and soon I was seeing white. Still, I refused to let go.

Wait. Let go? What am I holding?

I finally blinked bleary eyes open to find myself sucking on Ian’s bleeding arm, my fingers clutching him like a vise. I still refused to let go. In fact, I started sucking harder, drawing more of his blood into my mouth, throat convulsing, burning, as I gulped it down.

After what seemed like several excruciating hours, he pulled away, and I whimpered like a kicked puppy. He knelt and kissed me gently, licking the excess blood from my mouth.

“I’ll be back, Hope. Until then, take care of yourself.”

I felt him run his hand through my hair and then the cold cement as I hit it hard.

I know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t your typical vampire love story. In fact, love is a laughable concept for me, especially after the shit I’m about to get dragged through.

But you can see for yourself. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

The door swung open to reveal a cacophony of sound, lights and bodies swaying in the smoky haze. At one end, on an open stage, several performers were grinding out a song, a lithe, gothic beauty belting out the lyrics. The band members on stage were savage, tearing at their guitars, abusing the drums as though they had done wrong. Hundreds of bodies clashed together in a hypnotic rhythm. Heads bobbed to the music, arms extended toward the sky as if in worship.

The combination of sweat, cheap perfume, and alcohol permeated the air. The mingled scents were so thick I could almost taste them. The lights pulsed with the music, dancing in their own seductive manner as scented stage smoke poured off the brightly lit platform. Some surrendered themselves to the music as if in a trancelike state, while others snuck off into the night, seduced by the darkness of the city and the promises it held.

God, I needed a drink to help erase this shit-tastic day. Nothing seemed to go right. I’d slept through my alarm, spilled coffee all over the place, damn near missed a meeting at work (which didn’t go as well as I had hoped), and to top it all off, I broke a heel running to catch the train, which I ultimately missed by five minutes.

I turned to the bar and leaned my elbows on the cool, black marble, tapping amethyst-painted nails in time with the music. For once, it seemed like Ethan had managed to hire a decent band instead of the ignorant asses he’d scrounged up last weekend. It was far too loud to try to call the bartender, so I stood there and stared, boring holes in the back of his head. After ten minutes of waiting, I was starting to think of jumping over the bar top and getting it myself.

I swiveled on my stool to watch the crowd having a damn good time and couldn’t help the bitter sigh that escaped my lips. Leave it to me to be miserable and melodramatic in a nightclub. I turned my attention back to the stage as the music took a calmer, ethereal tune of an acoustic guitar and keyboard from some prerecorded material. The flashy colored lights ceased, and a single spotlight focused on the pink-haired singer as she set the mic on its stand, her bandmates calling for a short break.

She turned toward the crowd and spoke into the microphone. “We’ll be back in five, folks. Enjoy one of our songs off our new album until we get back!”

The crowd cheered their approval, and the band all walked off the stage.

“What can I get for ya, babe?”

Startled from my musings, I nearly jumped at the tender’s sudden arrival. His smile went from ear to ear, baby blues glazed over from the cigarette smoke. His cropped, blond hair was spiked in the front, the tips dyed a blinding green. The faded name tag on his grimy apron read Mick.

I scowled at Mick. Babe? This guy had to be a newbie. “A shot of SoCo and lime please.”

He blinked and stood there a moment, seemingly unaware that I had just ordered. I leaned forward and waved a hand in front of his face, following with a snap of my fingers.

“Um, hello?”

He blinked again and shook his head, coming back from wherever the hell he just was.

“Sorry.” He grinned. “SoCo and lime, right?” I nodded. “Comin’ right up!” His New York accent was thick and hoarse, probably from endless nights of inhaling secondhand smoke and shouting back orders to people.

With a sigh, I returned my attention to the mass of bodies. Clubs weren’t really my thing, but since Rebecca, my soon-to-be-excommunicated roommate, insisted, I came (complaining the whole way, mind you). This was the only club I’d willingly step foot in: The Rose Garden. Everyone just referred to it as The Rose. Guess it sounded cooler to the younger crowd? It stuck out like a sore thumb next to its neighbors, the Main Event and Tonic bars, which were filled with your ritzy I-only-drink-champagne clientele. This atmosphere appealed to me, minus the copious amounts of smoke. The Rose was one of the few establishments left in New York that was able to exploit the loophole of the Smoke-Free Air Act.

The place was your stereotypical Goth scene. The walls, concrete, were painted black and decorated with glow-in-the-dark graffiti art. The beams holding up the ceiling were also black—shocking, I know—and had multicolored lights wrapped around them. Several chains supported small, black metal chandeliers with little skull bulbs. Cute, right?

What windows they had blocked the outside world with dramatic floor to ceiling red velvet curtains. The whole look of the place was reminiscent of a brothel, a den of vice if you will.

In one corner of the room was a nice sized pool table that seemed more for decoration than play considering the amount of dust it was collecting. Across from the bar where I sat were a few deep-red leather couches and a plush love seat where a couple, rather openly, made out. No one had any class these days.

“Here ya go, babe.”

I flinched. Really? Again, with the babe? I turned halfway to meet the tender’s heated gaze. He winked as he set the shot glass in front of me. I smiled and turned fully toward him, thankful I’d worn a V-neck top tonight. Leaning over the bar, I made sure to expose the little bit of cleavage I had. Shake what your momma gave ya, right? Yeah, not so much. Momma, unfortunately, didn’t leave me with much.

Never taking my eyes off him, I lifted the glass and quickly downed the drink in one gulp, making sure not to spill a drop. I slammed the glass down and licked my lips, eyes twinkling with mirth. I forced a smile and laid a crisp ten next to the glass.

“Thanks.”

He swallowed hard and bowed his head. “You need anything else, you make sure ya come to me, hon. I’ll take care’a ya.” And like that, he was gone to the other side of the bar.

“Mm, I’m sure.” With a tired sigh, I turned to face the crowd once more.

The band had made its way back onto the stage, a roadie quickly situating their gear. There was a tap as the singer checked the mic, brushing hot-pink locks to the side. Even from here, I could tell that she must have reapplied her makeup, her sweating from the first set having removed most of it. Her bandmates each took their instruments and tested them quickly before jumping into their next song.

This wouldn’t have been so bad if “girls’ night out” actually had the other girl. Damn Rebecca and her ability to pick up men in a heartbeat. Scratch that, the ability to pick up anything with a pulse. Seriously, she could have at least come to the bar and had a drink with me before bailing. But I didn’t want to begrudge her fun, so I gave her a hug and tapped my phone, our signal to check in and track the phone if we hadn’t heard from each other.

I could try to make the best of things, as they say. I’m going to have a good time tonight even if I am alone, damn it. I forced myself to push off the bar and onto the pulsating dance floor. A little bump here and there, and soon I was among the throngs of other dancers, hips swaying to the music, head bobbing in unison to the deafening bass as it vibrated in my chest. The beat was smooth but still held that metal edge to it. It was perfect for dancing, not moshing, and I welcomed the change of pace.

As I jumped, bumped, and swayed, someone pressed up behind me. My breath hitched, and it took all I had not to turn around and deck whoever it was. I told myself to just go with it. I was here for fun. Strong, thick arms wrapped around my waist and thigh, caressing softly. Hands trailed across my stomach, inching the shirt out of my jeans.

Someone was feeling bold.

I jumped as a cool hand slid across my now bare navel. Warm, soft breaths tickled the shell of my ear, and there was a faint scent of fresh aftershave. I couldn’t help but grin a little inside. Guess I wasn’t going to be alone after all.

He held me close against him as though our bodies would fuse together, his hips swaying in time with mine and the music. A jolt of heat surged through me when his fingers brushed the top of my jeans, and I gasped. His chest vibrated against my back as he chuckled.

Having had enough, I turned to meet my mystery man and prayed to whatever God there was that my face didn’t resemble a lobster. Shimmering emerald eyes met my own hazel ones. He was my height, maybe an inch or two taller, with a tan complexion. His arms were just as I’d felt—strong, built, masculine. His hair was chin-length and chocolate brown, not a strand out of place. The outline of his chest was easily defined in the black muscle shirt he wore. Black cargos tucked into combat boots and several silver rings lining his left ear finished his bad-boy persona. Good-looking and bold. This could be interesting.

“Hey there.” I was practically drooling as I spoke. Hell, I probably was. He smiled, showing off pearly whites. Flawless.

“Hey.” His voice was deep, husky, sexy. He offered his hand, and I took it without hesitation. My hand seemed lost in his, silky smooth fingers brushing against mine. He brought my hand to his lips and kissed the top of my knuckles. Such a gentleman.

Be still, my beating heart.

I smiled weakly and slowly drew back my hand. All right, so he was drop-dead gorgeous. But kissing the hand? Did he grow up in the ’20s?

“I’m Ian.”

“Hope.” I wasn’t much of a conversationalist. Especially not when I was staring at the way his hair framed his chiseled face. I wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

“Pleasure to meet you, Hope.” He gave a curt nod. “Would you like to get out of here? Go for a walk, maybe? Just around the block, we’ll stay close to the club. I promise I’m not some rapist.”

Pfft. What a sore excuse for a pickup line. The sad part? I was buying into it. “You know, a rapist would tell me he wasn’t a rapist.”

He stared at me for a full second and then laughed. It was a hearty, warm laugh that made my insides tingle and my fingers itch with the urge to run them through his chocolate mane. A rapist wouldn’t laugh like that, would they?

An internal war raged. It was as if I had an angel in a habit on one shoulder whispering cautions and a sexy she-devil in a miniskirt on the other, coaxing me to flick the angel from my shoulder and just go have some fun. I was due for some fun. Had I not been jealous of the revelry on the dance floor a short while ago? And Becca was off doing lord knows what, surely having her own fun. What harm could it be?

Decision made, I gave him a nod.

“All right, what the hell.”

He smiled and led the way to the door. I followed behind to keep some distance between the two of us. Becca was getting a call about this. I could hear her squealing voice over the phone now. “You picked up a guy? And I left? Is he cute? What’s his name? Oh my God, you didn’t scare him off, did you?” Ugh. Okay, maybe I wouldn’t tell her about Ian.

Ian. Even his name sounded untrustworthy, like he was an evil villain in some cheesy horror movie. But it sounded awfully sexy too. Again, with the internal conflict. Stupid angel couldn’t shut her damn mouth, could she!

He stood by the exit, holding the door open for me while he draped his leather jacket over a broad shoulder. Who said chivalry was dead? I flashed him a small smile and stepped out into the night air.

The autumn air was damp and smelled sweet like rain, and I greedily took it in, grateful for a smoke-free atmosphere. A slight breeze warned of a coming storm. Ian and I talked as we strolled down the street. Ironically, he was a bouncer. For some reason I saw that coming.

“It’s not much but it keeps a roof over my head.”

“I’m sure it does,” I mumbled to myself.

“So, what do you do?”

“A jack-of-all-trades.”

He raised a brow and eyed me a moment. “Yeah? Sounds fun.”

“I guess so.” I shrugged.

He sighed. I was being a bitch. Why? Good question.

“I’m sorry.” I gave him a smile. “It’s that time of the month.” He laughed. I laughed. We all laughed. Let the good times roll. “Honestly? I’m a starving artist.”

He nodded. “A starving artist, huh?”

It wasn’t that far from the truth, really. I had moved out of my aunt’s place when I was eighteen and fresh out of high school.

Rebecca, a childhood friend, dragged me into an apartment with her, saying she was afraid to be alone all the time. For someone who grew up in the Bronx you’d think she’d be a little tougher. The rent was cheaper than getting my own place, so who was I to object? I took a few night classes at a nearby community college as an undeclared major. Most of my classes dealt with graphic arts and a few oddball ones like abnormal psych and sociology. I liked to pick people’s brains. It was an entertaining pastime, but the graphics classes helped with my freelance work at an advertising company.

“Yes, a starving artist. I’m still in college, taking classes at night, which leaves me time during the day for freelance work in my field, but not much time to make any additional money. Hence the starving part.”

He laughed. “Gotcha.”

During our stroll, Ian talked about the club he worked at, and I talked about what I painted. He complained about not being able to draw; I complained I couldn’t either. I know, us artsy types were always so critical of ourselves, but drawing was a bitch. Give me a blank canvas and several cans of paint, however, and I could blow your goddamn mind.

It was a pretty well-rounded conversation. I think I might even be able to say I was interested in finding out more about tall, dark, and handsome. We strolled around in a big circle and wound up about a block away from the club. At the corner, Ian took hold of my arm and moved in front of me, my back grazing the brick wall behind me.

“Can I help you?” My voice sounded oddly girlish.

He grinned and moved in a bit, closing the gap between us. God, his aftershave smelled heavenly!

Ian placed his hands on my hips and stalked forward until my back was firmly against the wall. Trapped, and liking it. “Mm, I’m feeling a bit…hungry.”

I giggled. God help me, I giggled. What the hell was I, a prepubescent teen?

“Hungry, huh? I think I can come up with something you can snack on.”

His green eyes seemed to flash for a moment, and my pulse picked up. Shit. Maybe he was a rapist.

And to think, all of this just because I wanted to go out for drinks…