Savage Bayou (Things that go Bump in the Bayou Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  START

  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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Sneak Peek

  Acknowledgements, and a note from the author

  About the Author

  Released in the United States of America

  This Edition, 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-1542496636

  ISBN-10: 1542496632

  AISN: B01N9QDHD9

  © Alizabeth Lynn, 2017

  Cover Art © The Dust Jacket Cover & Design, 2017

  Editing © Belle of the Books Editing, 2017

  Interior Design © Foundation Formatting, 2017

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Chapter One

  -August 1745-

  Lightning struck the tree outside the window, sheets of rain pouring down to sizzle in the scorching heat. Pain beyond fire, beyond fear, beyond life, crippled and bloomed in the woman drenched in sweat atop the bed. Jaqueline screamed her ire to the heavens, her fists tight, gripping the blanket on which she reclined. A cool cloth was pressed to her forehead, but it didn’t dim her agony. In the corner of her tiny room, a nun sat quietly on a spindly chair while she rolled the beads of her rosary in plump fingers, her mouth moving in soundless prayer.

  The pain ebbed for a moment, and Jaqueline could breathe once more. A cup of water was lifted to her parched mouth. She drank the welcome liquid in greedy gulps as she waited for the next wave of pain. It hit with the force of the thundering gale bashing against the convent walls. Her belly tightened, pinching and twisting as she fought to bring life into the world. Something popped, and fluid soaked her legs and the bed.

  The pain crested, churning in her gut as more sweat beaded her skin, but it didn’t fade as before. The terrible clutching of her muscles tore another scream from her throat to clash with the lightning in the sky. Gentle hands sponged her face and massaged the top of her distended stomach. With a great grunt, Jaqueline lifted her head, pressing her chin to her chest as her body bore down. Once, twice, three times under the soft urging of the midwife she did push. And finally, the babe slid free with a wail of indignant protest, flailing tiny fists in the air as if to ward off the offending world.

  Jaqueline’s body limp from her exertions, she reached out to touch a tiny hand, to caress the baby’s head. The midwife cradled the tiny babe and gently placed the child against Jaqueline’s chest, where she immediately quested for her mother’s breast, the crying quelled with the first taste of milk. Tears stained Jaqueline’s face as she stared in awe at the most perfect gift after a terrible beginning. She held the little body against hers as her daughter suckled, and she vowed, no matter the future, that her power and love would always belong to this child. And one day, one day after she was no longer Jaqueline’s, her mother would be sure that she knew it.

  -June 19, 2014-

  In a cramped motel room in Omaha, Nebraska, the faded carpet illuminated by no more than the glow of an alarm clock, Daniel Blackwood defied his vampiric nature and dreamed of death:

  Watery moonlight filtered in through the holes of a tattered piece of cloth. It shone dimly on a scene pulled straight out of a nightmare, a scene intensified by the drip, drip, dripping sound echoing through the silence. It was this, the rhythmic drumming of liquid as it hit the ground, that woke the man just after sundown. Head pounding, he sat up and rubbed his temples, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Each drop resonated, clanging with malice against the aching nerves in his head. One hand pressed to his ear, he wrinkled his nose against the horrid scent that accompanied the sounds. He could smell death. The putrid stench of it permeated the tiny room, the scent of newly dead flesh and old blood as obvious as the run-down shack he lived in. His movements slow, he turned his head from side to side and tried to make sense of the little he could see in the dark—the little that was becoming clearer the more he stared. Sickening puddles of red darkened the ground, sending bile rising in his throat.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  A red haze covered the walls and ceiling, lines of the thick, oozing, substance leaking down to form the puddles on the floor. In his eyes, those were obvious signs of a struggle. He shook his head vigorously, sending the nerves behind his eyes jangling, but he couldn’t remember what happened the night before. Groaning, he stood up and made his way across the floor, eyes searching for the cause of the loudest dripping sound.

  Drip. Drip. DRIP.

  A narrow bed on the other side of the room offered up a gruesome answer. Dark shapes lay tossed atop the flimsy mattress, and a small hand hung over the side with blood dripping from the fingertips.

  Drip. DRIP. DRIP.

  His heart squeezed in his chest as he stepped closer, the smell of semi-fresh blood triggering a chokehold of hunger around his throat. He hissed, fangs bursting forth from his gums, seeking to taste the sweet red liquid. He reached for one of the bodies, and the movement caused the lifeless face to turn to him. Pale blue eyes pleaded for mercy they would never receive.

  DRIP. DRIP. DRIP.

  He knew those eyes, those lips, and that head of lovely bouncing curls. Hunger retreated in the face of shock as the man’s gaze studied the other bodies. He backed away, his heart pounding in horror. A wave of nausea beat back the fangs, forcing them to retreat into his gums. He knew what he was, what happened, now, but he wouldn’t begin like this. Falling to his knees on the blood-soaked floor, he clutched that tiny hand in his own and wailed his grief to the heavens. The sun would be up in but a few hours, and when it rose, he would greet it for the last time, and embrace the raging death of the vampire. He had nothing left to live for.

  His family was dead.

  Daniel woke at sundown, drenched in sweat. The pain in his head was akin to a newly legal, binge-drinking hangover. He sat
up, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Vampires were not supposed to be able to dream, but he hadn’t felt safe enough to slip into the death-like sleep of his kind, so he paid the price.

  Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Daniel shook his head. His dream was a special kind of disturbing, and even more so because he could have prevented it. He went through every day with the purpose of not thinking about that night. So he shook his head, and did what he did best. He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and got out of bed.

  After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Daniel left his motel room to go to the bar next door—and be at the meeting he had scheduled for that night. Right on time, he opened the door to the building and saw his contact sitting in a far corner, at a table that had seen many bar fights. The man turned, raising a glass of whisky in salute.

  Taking the seat beside him, Daniel shook his head. “Liam. I should have known I’d find you with a glass full of alcohol. Did anyone see you come in?”

  The other man shook his head, his shaggy red hair swinging down to obscure his ice-blue eyes before he pushed it back. “No, and I told Mel to stay away, too—just in case. Right now, Jeremiah thinks we’re working for him. It wouldn’t do to change that.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” Daniel sighed. “Are you sure you can get away?”

  Liam chuckled. “Oh, easily, when the time is right. Jeremiah’s got a little plan in place with O, and I want to be there when it falls apart.”

  “You would. Hopefully it’s soon, though. We could use some more power on our side.”

  Liam puffed a little cloud of violet smoke into the air. “Well, if power’s what you’re after, you should look at yourself. But if you’re looking for fire—brother, I’ve got that in spades.”

  Daniel smiled grimly. “By the time this mess is over, I’m thinking we might need both. Things are getting hairy in Jaune, and it’s not just the werewolves.”

  “Yeah, what is going on with all of that? I heard the Crimson Bayou Pack Master’s daughter went and mated with a vampire. Is that true?”

  Daniel reached up to rub his chin. “It’s actually a bit more complicated than that, but essentially yes. That’s created waves, to be sure. Anyway, right now, I have Craven and Serena on board—I know you’ve spoken to Craven recently—so just remind him to stay on guard. He’s got a tougher job than the rest of us, being holed up with that sorcerer all the time. Are we absolutely certain he can be trusted?”

  “I’d trust him with my secrets,” Liam said quietly. “It’s Myrick I don’t trust. Craven’s on our side, and I’m thinking he’s going to try and break away sooner, rather than later. He can’t stomach what the sorcerer’s doing.”

  “Anymore, you mean.”

  “Yeah. But, hey, we’ve all made our mistakes, haven’t we? I believe Jasmine was a pretty big notch in your belt.”

  Daniel frowned. “Don’t remind me. The bitch is in Hell, now, and that’s where I’d like to leave her.”

  Liam downed the rest of his whiskey and stood. “On that note, I’ve got to get going before Jeremiah realizes I’ve left my post, and if I’m not mistaken, you need to feed. Take care of that, and get back to your friends. I’ll be in Jaune before long, I’m sure.”

  Daniel clapped Liam on the shoulder as he rose to his feet. “You do that. And, brother?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep that hide of yours safe.”

  Liam pursed his lips, and a short spurt of purple flame lit the air between them. “Always.”

  As the other man left, Daniel weaved his way through the bodies gyrating on the dance floor, fielding offers for drinks, and lewd propositions with equal flair. He honed in on a middle-aged woman partially hidden in the shadows of a far corner, drowning her sorrows in a bottle of tequila. He smiled to himself. Not only would he feed, but he might also catch a buzz.

  He caught her eye, and with a short burst of power, had her mesmerized by his gaze. Daniel took her gently by the hand and led her out to the parking lot behind the building. Turning her to face him, he looked into her eyes again, assuring the trance would hold.

  A light touch to the side of the woman’s head enabled him to expose her neck. He closed his eyes and leaned in, inhaling the coppery scent of her spiked blood. He pressed his fangs into the soft skin, and the feeling of her flesh giving way fueled his hunger. As usual, he didn’t drink much, because he didn’t want to take a chance of killing his prey.

  Once finished, Daniel sucked lightly, leaving a hickey to mask the puncture marks, and then he led the woman back inside. Her memory of the night would be fuzzy, and chances were slim she would ever recognize him if he ended up back in town. He sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck, the guilty feeling that always hung around after feeding plaguing him – a feeling he never liked to admit having. He needed a distraction. Leaving the bar, he walked back to the car he’d borrowed from Sean – the old man that ran the blood bank that supplied Aden – before he left Louisiana.

  It was time to head home.

  Daniel arrived in Jaune an hour before sunrise. Normally, he would head to his cabin, but ever since Jasmine came after his grandson, his home was no longer safe. Left with no other choice, he drove up and knocked on Aden’s door. He stood on the porch for twenty minutes, but no one answered.

  Daniel slapped his hand to his forehead. Of course! There wouldn’t be an answer, because Aden and Carissa decided to stay at her father’s house on Crimson Bayou. Daniel cursed under his breath. There was no way he could get there before the sun rose.

  Frustrated, Daniel climbed back into the car and drove to the hotel on the outskirts of town. The Vampire Council preferred that hotel for their slayer accommodations, so no one would suspect a vampire of staying in the same building. Not to mention, when he’d been there before, his hair was dark. Now he was blond again, and he doubted he’d be easily recognized. The last person to see him with his natural color had been Jasmine, almost three hundred years prior. As he secured his room key, he sent Sean a text to pick up the car since he wouldn’t be able to drop it off and make it back to shelter in time.

  Daniel checked into his room ten minutes before dawn. He wedged a chair beneath the door, and he unscrewed all the light bulbs to place them on the floor under the only window. After one last check of the locks, he laid across the bed without undressing.

  As he drifted into a half-sleep, he prayed for a dreamless day.

  The golden fire of the rising sun crested the horizon, the glittering sunbeams raising jewels from the depths of the bayou water. Greens, blues, yellows, and pinks, swirling, churning, welcoming the day to come. Animals chirped, scratched, and bayed at the burgeoning light, embracing its fiery glow with open arms. And in that moment, a sorceress rose. Ophelia Boudreaux’s eyes trained not on the water or the creatures, but on the lovely bayou estate shrouded amid trees on the other bank.

  Inside the weathered white walls lived a werewolf princess and her mate, and with the information Ophelia carried burning in her mind, she focused her thoughts on the woman within. Brown hair and sparkling green eyes, and the glow of deep secrets. Her man’s arms would wrap around her, holding her close, protecting her in every way that he could, but Ophelia knew that was not enough. And in knowing, she raised her hands to the sky.

  Thick green bands of light, smoky in the fragrant early-morning wind, curled up toward the bright blue sky. Eyes wide on the heavens, Ophelia spoke:

  “In these times of trouble,

  In these tests of fate,

  Hold close your princess,

  Steadfast and wait,

  For magick will come,

  Will injure and steal,

  But not by my words,

  Will she do any but heal,

  Protect her as a babe,

  Swaddled in light,

  Keep her hidden from all

  Wishing to drown her in night.”

  Her words whispered across the water, drawing the smoky light tight a
round the house and land. She’d done all she could, and now there was nothing left to do but wait. As she rolled her hands back toward her body, the green light faded, blinking once around the dwelling and those inside. Until Myrick discovered Ophelia and her deeds, Carissa would be safe. Maybe, just maybe, that would buy them all enough time…

  Chapter Two

  Ophelia Boudreaux woke at seven a.m., shaking, sweaty, and nauseous. Quivering uncontrollably, she shut her eyes and grimaced.

  “Idiot,” she grumbled. “You ought to be used to this crap by now.” When every night gave way to a day that began with dreams of blood and murdered children, there were no easy mornings.

  Rubbing her eyes, she planted her bare feet on the ice-cold floor, hoping the jolt would stun her senses enough for her heart to stop racing. She could hear the clanging of pots and pans down the hall, and knew her aunt was up and about to cook breakfast. Ophelia’s stomach turned at the very thought.

  She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, rubbing vigorously—the first time hadn’t helped at all. She took a deep breath, satisfied that she wouldn’t be stumbling to the bathroom instead of the kitchen, and stood up. Shrugging into the cornflower blue robe off the hook on the back of her door, she followed her nose, and tried to push the morning’s images from her mind.

  When Ophelia stepped into her kitchen, she was greeted by the scent of bacon, and the sound of sizzling eggs. She grunted a sleepy, “good morning,” to her aunt before stumbling her way to the just-finished-percolating coffee pot. One eye squinted shut for focus, she poured her first cup. She drank it at the counter, scalding her tongue before refilling and turning bleary eyes to the woman at the stove.

  Janice Boudreaux-Wilcox, the widowed sister of Ophelia’s father, smiled sympathetically as she slid a plate of food across the kitchen table. “You had the dream again, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”