Pool of Crimson
Authors: Suzanne M. Sabol
Table of Contents
POOL OF CRIMSON
SUZANNE M. SABOL
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
POOL OF CRIMSON
Copyright©2012
SUZANNE M. SAB0L
Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-112-7
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
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 my husband, Ross,
For your honesty, your humor, and your support
Acknowledgements
First, I would like to thank my friends and family for not telling me I was crazy when I said, “I think I can be a writer.” That was helpful.
Second, I would like to thank Shahreena Shahrani for being a demanding fan when there wasn’t much to be a fan of, for proofing, for editing, and just generally being supportive. I would like to thank Stacey Dibowski for allowing me to use her likeness and to steal some of her best lines. Now the entire world can see how incredible a saucy woman who knows what she wants can be. Jade wouldn’t be the same without you. I would like to thank Brandy Shearer for reading
Pool of Crimson
and convincing me that I had something special. Also, thank you, Elise Logan. You are incredibly talented and supportive.
Last, I would like to thank my husband, Ross Mikos, for reading the first version, the last version, and all versions in between of this book. You are the inspiration for so much and most importantly, you still think I’m cool.
Chapter 1
I was in trouble. A cool wash of vampire power pushed at my back, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end and a shiver run up my spine. I didn’t move. There was no point. I had nowhere to go. He’d already found me. I stood motionless in one of the best art galleries in the capital city and waited for him to make his move.
The push of preternatural power was an uneasy feeling, twisting my gut into knots. Even after ten years of dealing with the undead, their power still sent shivers up my spine and gooseflesh pimpling across my
skin. Each power signature was as individual as the vampire who possessed it but generally, it felt like being on an airplane at 30,000 feet that was pressurized ... wrong. It was in my brain, in my bones, and in my gut. I didn’t like it.
The power percolating behind me was strong,
really
strong. I slid my hand slowly across my stomach, gliding my fingertips across the waist of my jeans until the hard, comforting smoothness of oak grazed my warm hand. I clasped the small stake and braced for a fight.
“Beautiful,” his deep, velvet voice said from behind me. He was close enough to my ear that his breath moved the hair around my cheek, brushing softly against my skin. I froze as he smugly added, “The painting.”
A shiver ran through me as his words slithered around my body and deep into places a voice had never touched before. No matter what my body told me, I knew better. My instincts drove me to remove the stake from its sheath, then lower my hand casually to my side, keeping the stake hidden within the sleeve of my leather jacket.
I looked up at the painting on the wall before me and gave it a hard look. I wasn’t in immediate danger, not surrounded by people anyway. A dark alley was another matter altogether.
The canvas was enormous on the stark white wall, almost double my size, and I was 5’10”. Shades of red, orange, and yellow covered the canvas in thick paint as angry strokes slashed across the taut cotton. The painting and the artist’s rage resonated with me in ways I wished it didn’t. I turned quickly, and gave the vampire a quick once-over.
He was tall, lean, with hair the color of coal that stuck out in organized chaos. His dark eyes focused on me in singular pursuit that should have made my fingers itch to turn the stake in my hand and prepare to use it. Instead, my heart raced and my mouth went dry under his gaze. The blood thumped in my ears, and I took a quick step back. I needed some space between us. I couldn’t think with him that close. Dammit, I needed to think.
His face was too narrow and his features too large to be considered handsome but in those dark, almost midnight-black eyes was intelligence and a hint of humor that made him more attractive than I’d originally thought. Those eyes made me hesitate.
“If you say so,” I said stiffly, trying to regain some semblance of myself, tugging my jacket tight around me. Ohio in early October was just cool enough to wear jeans and a jacket. I’d come down to the Short North to relax and disappear into a crowd, not this, not vampires. The Gallery Hop was a once-a-month event, and I never had time to go. I was always hunting
them
.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head slightly to look. I didn’t dare take my focus off the vampire in front of me, though, and shifted only slightly. A woman in stone-washed jeans swished a glass of wine around in a large pinot noir glass. As the liquid moved against the sides, the thick consistency clung to the curves of the crystal longer than it should have. I met her gaze with my own depth of cold warning.
She evaluated me from the back of the gallery, running her hungry gaze over me as she took in my scent with a flare of nostrils. She quickly rolled her eyes and turned her attention to the smarmy, dark-haired, short, unshaven man with exposed chest hair beside her.
It shouldn’t annoy me that she’d disregarded me. It worked to my advantage if vampires didn’t see me as a threat, but it pissed me off just the same. I hate being ignored.
She hung her right arm effortlessly over his shoulders and smirked contentedly. She was a few inches taller than Smarmy. She whispered something in his ear that turned up the corners of his mouth in what passed for a smile. He pulled the hand that she draped over his shoulder quickly to his lips for a quick kiss, before encouraging her to follow him through a door in the back.
Damned vampires ruin my night every time. Next time I want to relax, I’ll just stay home!
I had a vampire leaving with a human out the back door and one standing before me who was trying to engage me in conversation, which was definitely new for me. I needed to blow him off and get my ass outside. There was something about him that made me
want
to stay and talk to him. It wasn’t his power that made me stay or that he was doing anything out of the ordinary, other than making eye contact. I found him attractive. I couldn’t put my finger on it. He looked like he belonged in a library surrounded by old, dust covered tomes. He intrigued me.
His focus narrowed even more on me, and he grinned, a small boyish upturn of his lips. His dark, cunning eyes tugged at places low in my body.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. I took another really good look at the painting, and then returned my attention to him. My pulse picked up a notch as I met the heat in his eyes. He was looking at me in a way I didn’t deserve, as if I mattered. I liked it.
I thought about my response carefully before I answered. I needed to get outside and track down Stone-washed jeans and get away from this guy. He was more dangerous than I’d originally thought. He distracted me. I knew it, and a part of me didn’t care. “All I see is pain ... and death,” I said in a more defeated tone than I’d intended.
He smiled sadly, and all those tiny butterflies that I thought had disappeared began to flutter in my stomach as his eyes seemed to pull me to him. His expression seemed sincere and the smile lit up his face, wrinkling the skin at the corner of his dark eyes. I had a feeling he didn’t smile very often. It looked good on him.
“But death can be beautiful,” he said with a slight smile still on his full lips.
I bet.
“As in Brueghel’s
The Triumph of Death
. But then I suppose that most know nothing of real pain or death, do they?” he asked with a familiarity in his eyes that unsettled me.
I took another step back and tightened the grip on the stake still in my hand.
He glanced down at my clenched fist, stiff at my thigh and turning my knuckles white with tension. His gaze slowly trailed back up my body as if evaluating me. When his eyes met mine, there was amusement twinkling in their dark depths. He was wary of me, but he wasn’t afraid. I’d forgotten for a moment, just a moment, that
he,
too, was very dangerous.
“You’re probably right.” I spoke quickly, scanning the area for a quick exit. I needed to leave, and I wanted this conversation to end. I didn’t like the way he made me forget my mission.
“Are you suggesting that you do?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell whether he believed me or not. I didn’t want to talk death, but I couldn’t seem to let his comments fall.
“Probably more than most,” I said, sadness thick in my voice. I thought about all the death I’d seen over the last decade. I thought about how many times I’d come too close to death myself; about all the scraped knees, broken bones, twisted ankles, cracked ribs, punctured lungs, and more bruises than I cared to count. Yeah, I knew more than most about pain and death.
Walk away.
“Some say that the viewer brings their own psyche to the art. Perhaps the
painting
doesn’t reflect pain and death but instead,
you
do?”
I ground my teeth at his notion.
Son of a BITCH!
“Fascinating,” I snapped with as much vitriol as I could shove into that one word.
His shoulders squared and that twitch at the corner of his full lips fell just a bit.
“I have to go.”
“But I don’t know your name,” he called, amusement back in his deep, velvety voice.
“Dahlia,” I snapped back over my shoulder as I strode away. I didn’t wait for him to ask me anything else. I wasn’t even sure why I’d given him that much. My name was out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. I made my exit through the front door and onto the crowded sidewalk. I didn’t look back, no matter how much I wanted to.
The lights from the arches crowning High Street twinkled in the dark Columbus night like a Ferris wheel, shifting color over the busy street from yellow to green, blue to purple, red to orange, and back again in a seamless wave of LED color. People crowded the streets, moving in every direction as they weaved in and out of bars, galleries, and shops. The brisk autumn breeze whipped my hair around as if I stood on the edge of a cliff near Lake Erie, not the center of a busy city.