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  Cover

  On the Trail of Darkness

  Marisa Delgado has always struggled to make a life for herself in the Cuban barrio of Miami, but the sultry beauty is driven to the edge of despair when her younger brother runs afoul of a drug lord’s enforcers, who demand that Marisa either pay off her brother’s debts—or watch him die. With time and hope running out, she meets the darkly handsome Claude d’Argent, a prince of the night who instantly captivates her and sets her heart and body on fire. Turning to him may be the only way to save her family and her life—it will also mean the ultimate sacrifice.

  Claude d’Argent is the descendant of a long line of honorable vampires, but his clan is threatened by a dark and notorious vampire who is savagely attacking humans at every turn, inflaming mankind’s vengeance on all his kind. Claude vows to pursue and destroy this scourge at any cost, and the trail leads him to Marisa, a lusciously beautiful woman who stirs his blood in ways he’s never felt and fills him with a feverish sensual need. Indulging in Marisa’s dusky allure may free his heart—but endanger his quest, and his life.

  Surrendering to their undeniable attraction, the two give themselves to each other fully in a burning haze of passion. And as unsurpassed pleasure turns to unconditional love, Marisa must decide whether to abandon her human life for an eternal one with Claude, and he must find a way to save Marisa and her brother so that he can also save himself and his people.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  On the Trail of Darkness

  Ann Jacobs

  Copyright © 2015 by Ann Jacobs.

  This is a fully revised and expanded edition of a story first told in Dance of Darkness by Shana Nichols, copyright © 2005 by Ann Jacobs.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  Published by Beyond the Page at Smashwords

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  ISBN: 978-1-940846-66-8

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  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 websites or their content.

  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. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  The Oil Barons Series

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The Beginning

  A chill wind blew across the channel that night in the Year of Our Lord 935. The moon was nothing but a sliver of silver in the black void of a winter sky. Rolfe d’Argent, the youngest brother of Rollo the Viking, paced in the great hall of the stone keep he had completed the previous summer. Despite the fur robe he wore, he shivered in the draft that had flames dancing in the fire. There! Above the whimper of the wind and the crackling fire he heard a lusty cry. The babe was born. Please the gods of his ancestors ’twas a son. First of a dynasty to rule this fiefdom his sire had carved out above the rugged cliffs of Normandy’s shores.

  Rolfe bounded up the stairs, only to be met halfway by the terrified-looking girl who was his wife’s maid. “Tell me, Melinde, the babe? Is he—”

  “He seems strong, my lord, but I fear my lady is dying. The blood . . .” Her voice trailed off as she made the sign of the cross.

  “Do not delay then. Hasten now and fetch a priest.” Kicking the door open with one booted foot, Rolfe crossed to the bed where his wife lay, so pale and quiet he thought at first she had already passed from this earth. His heart heavy, he reached down and wiped sweat off her glistening brow. Cold sweat. He shuddered then regained control. “Elaine?”

  Her eyes opened briefly, and she attempted a smile. “I have borne you a son. Just as we prayed for.”

  “Yes. I thank you for him. But do not tax yourself. I order you to be strong, to live for both of us.” He chafed her icy hand between both of his, as though by sheer will he could force his own strength into her frail body. “I will not allow you to die.”

  “’Tis of no use to bluster, for we both know it is too late for me. Promise to take care of our son. And love him as I would.”

  ’Twas as though those words, spoken with surprising clarity, sapped the last of her strength, for she closed her eyes and took one last shuddering breath. Laying her hand across her still chest, Rolfe blinked away the tears that threatened and turned his attention to the screaming babe. He had to take care of the child, honor his wife’s last request. “Why do you stand there gawking? Damn you, woman, go and find a wet nurse for my son,” he bellowed at the cringing midwife.

  “My lord,” she said, her hands shaking as she crossed herself, “the babe will need no wet nurse, for he is one o’ them.”

  “Speak up, woman, or I’ll rip your foolish tongue from your head. What mean you?”

  “He’s a blood drinker. A vampir born. Best ye drive a stake through his tiny heart now, ere he grows too powerful for the likes of us to kill.”

  “Kill? I’ll have you burned as a witch if you breathe a word of this madness. Hand me my son.” Rolfe lifted the baby. His only living heir. As he held the baby he understood what Elaine had meant. A feeling swept over him, one he’d never experienced before. Could that look he’d seen in his wife’s eyes, the surprising strength in her voice as she uttered her last words as though not all the armies in the world could obliterate what she was feeling—was this love? If so, then for the first time in his life he knew what it was to love.

  The babe’s clear green eyes seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages in their depths. His tiny body was full, well-formed. Rolfe laid him on the bed by his mother’s lifeless body and watched him flail about, as though wanting . . . something. Then he noticed what the midwife had already seen. Fangs.

  “See. I told ye.” The woman crossed herself again when Rolfe gave his son his index finger and watched the infant pierce the skin. The babe’s face pinkened as he sucked Rolfe’s blood. This child was flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. Rolfe would nourish him, watch him grow, teach him to be a warrior of renown, a leader of mortal men. “His name is Alain d’Argent, and he will live.”

  • • •

  Except for Claude, all of them had heard the story of their beginnings many times over the centuries, whenever Alain had called them together, rallied them to action in some worthy cause. Alina repeated the tale now for the benefit of her young uncle, for it was his first time to join in the Counsel.

  Claude listened, his dark eyes focused intently on her, studying her face as she spoke. She knew what he saw. What they all saw. Alain’s eldest granddaughter, compelled seventy-four years ago at an
impossibly young age to lead an equally young clan. Claude had been an infant in his mother’s arms, Alain’s last son born mere months before his death. But he’d been nurtured on stories like these and knew he must follow in his father’s proud tradition. Still, Alina was terribly afraid, afraid of losing him. Like all the d’Argent males, Claude was a beautiful man, so darkly handsome he turned female heads, vampire as well as mortal. More important, Claude had a deep inner goodness—a trait they all valued but one she feared might result in his destruction.

  The threat that put their clan, indeed all vampire clans, in jeopardy could easily catch him up, might even destroy them all. Alina hoped Claude would not take his mother’s tales about Alain’s legendary feats too seriously, for he was yet very young—not quite seventy-five in mortal years.

  Not that the threat would treat Stefan or Alexandre any more kindly, but they at least had been hardened in battle. Their formidable powers had been proven and were not in doubt. Alina counted on them to destroy the most potent enemy they had faced in her lifetime. She hoped that in the process they might shield Claude from the worst risks as they went out to find and destroy the evil vampire who threatened the existence of all their kind.

  Silently cursing the feminine weakness that had her longing for her grandfather now, all these many decades after his death, Alina got a lump in her throat. She dared not shed tears. She had to be strong. Once again the d’Argent clan must rally to a cause—this time, the protection of innocent mortal women from the evil of a single demented vampire, the current head of the infamous Reynard clan. Louis Reynard, known in vampire circles throughout the world as the Fox.

  “I hate that I must ask you to take on Reynard.” Alina looked first at Stefan, then at Alex and Claude. “I hate even more that I am the cause of his vendetta.”

  “It’s not your fault Louis Reynard is insane,” Alex said, shaking his head. “No vampire in his right mind would take out his anger with you on mortal women. Not when doing so risks infuriating mortals into starting another vampire hunt, the likes of which no one has seen since the time of the Medici.”

  “No one doubts the Fox has lost his mind. Nonetheless, we’re the ones who must stop him.” Stefan moved toward a window, stared out over the narrow channel toward England. “I will take to the hunt myself. Claude is too young. Too inexperienced.”

  Alina noticed all eyes turning toward Stefan. He rarely ventured from this ancient castle except when called on to do battle for the clan, not since he’d inadvertently killed his mortal lover while trying to change her centuries earlier. Of all the d’Argents, Claude and Alexandre would go to whatever lengths necessary to spare their beloved elder cousin pain. So would Alina, but she had no choice now. After a long, silent moment, Claude spoke up.

  “No, Stefan. You’re needed here. I may be young, but I’m not afraid to fight.”

  Alina turned and looked at Claude. He’d spoken in a voice she’d not heard before, as a force to be reckoned with. Their young uncle had always amused them with his ability to defy vampire physiology by snacking on pizza, brioche—an interesting combination of various mortal foods, washed down with soft drinks or the occasional beer. And her heartstrings tightened over the image as only a loving relative’s heart could, even as she realized Claude had the maturity as well as the inborn right to fight for the honor of the d’Argent clan.

  This wasn’t the laughing young vampire who inspired indulgent sighs from the others of the clan. A warrior stood before her, galvanized to earn the honor promised by his birthright. In Claude’s eyes Alina saw the raw courage of her grandfather . . . his father. The same fierce determination to fight evil wherever it lurked that had driven all the d’Argent males to champion freedom right up until the moment of their own destruction. “For now, Stefan, let us leave the pursuit to Alexandre and Claude. You will remain here and coordinate the hunt.” She paused, then looked Claude and Alex in the eye. “Both of you, take care. I do not wish to have to tell your mothers you became reckless one too many times.”

  Chapter One

  The present day, Miami Beach, Florida

  The night had always been his friend, but it closed in on him now, choking him in a sultry, damp embrace. A starless sky met the black expanse of the Atlantic, the horizon seemingly without beginning or end. Only the slapping sounds of waves kissing the shore punctuated an uneasy silence.

  A silence Claude d’Argent had not experienced since that day two weeks ago when he’d come close to dying at the hands of the killer vampire for whom he now lay in wait. This strip of beachfront wouldn’t stay silent for long, because the clubs would be opening soon. Claude sighed. Miami Beach hardly held a candle to his favorite haunts in the Marais district of Paris, even when it was buzzing with teeming bodies bent on finding pleasure . . . and courting danger.

  But a vampire could mingle unnoticed here, stalking his prey. A killer like Louis Reynard might mingle with crowds of tourists once night fell, stalking his next victim. Having recently encountered the Fox face-to-face, Claude would know him, recognize him. Hopefully he would be able to confront him and destroy him before he could kill again. Claude still woke in cold sweats remembering the hot blonde in Buenos Aires whom he and Alex hadn’t been able to save, the night Reynard had practically destroyed them both. I’d sense his presence if he were here. Wouldn’t I? The killer had an uncanny ability to fuck up Claude’s vampire radar. That radar was kicking in now, warning him of trouble even as neon signs began to flash across the way, their garish messages luring patrons to sample barkeepers’ wares, indulge in mortal vices under a moonless sky.

  Fronds of tall royal palms swayed like so many dancers in the night as the wind rose, brought dissonant sounds of music to Claude’s ears from the clubs across Highway A1A. He adjusted his aviator-style sunglasses and visually followed the sounds of a mellow alto saxophone and muffled conga drums.

  His gaze drifted toward the sign that featured a hot-pink neon stripper doing her thing in lights above another sign advertising a place called, unimaginatively, the Strip. His hotel loomed large and opulent at his back, its pink stucco façade commanding the scene directly south of the section of beachfront sidewalk where he stood.

  Palms swayed in the breeze, the air still warm even though the sun was slipping beyond the western horizon.

  Claude rubbed at the still tender scar on his chest—a reminder of the wound from Louis Reynard that had come close to destroying him. Damn the bastard anyhow. If not for him, Claude would be enjoying the Paris nightlife instead of acting as lookout here on the off chance that Reynard had picked Miami Beach as the site of his next gruesome murder. Or, even better, chasing the Fox in a more active way instead of staking out a place where none of his elders seriously thought Reynard would seek out his next victim. Knowing this assignment had been handed out more to keep him out of unnecessary danger and facilitate his recuperation than because of any real need for him to stake out the beach here didn’t sit well—but then, he was used to his elders in the clan cosseting him as though he were no more than an infant vampire.

  • • •

  “Someday Raul will grow up. Until then you must promise me you’ll look out for him.” Their mother’s last words rang in Marisa’s ears. She knew she should walk away, let her brother reap the full consequences of running cocaine for the patron, but she could not ignore Mama’s wishes.

  What was this, the fifth time she’d bailed him out, or perhaps the sixth? Marisa Delgado made the usual stop at a Liberty City neighborhood pawnshop, then drove to Hugo’s Bail Bonds, across from the jail where they were holding Raul. This time her brother had done it, gotten himself arrested with enough cocaine to land in prison for years, she thought as she watched Hugo count out her ten hundred-dollar bills—ten percent of the bail a judge had ordered to secure Raul’s release pending trial.

  Lifting his amazing bulk from his desk chair and shoving the money in his safe, Hugo shot her an oily grin. It was all Marisa could do to keep from ret
ching. That wouldn’t do, because Raul would still be in jail until Hugo called them and posted the ten-thousand-dollar bond.

  She forced herself to return the bondsman’s grin as he handed her the paperwork. “He will be released around four o’clock. You better tell your brother to get out of the drug business while he still can. Next time the bail will be even higher. I won’t be able to post his bail if you’ve got nothing of value to put up as collateral.”

  “I know. Gracias for your help this time.” Marisa folded the papers Hugo handed her and tucked them in her purse. “I’d expected to hand over the title to my car this time.”

  “Chica, that bucket of bolts you drive is not worth me taking title to as insurance that your brother makes it to court for his trial. “You could always . . .” The way Hugo leered at her, as though she were a prime steak he longed to devour, sent shivers down her spine.

  “That will not happen, Señor Hugo. I am no puta.” This time she’d sold Mama’s wedding ring to get bail for Raul—the time before, it had been the gold chain Papa had given her for her fifteenth birthday the year before he and Mama had died in a drive-by shooting. Pretty soon she’d run out of things to sell if her brother didn’t stop getting himself arrested, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Getting up from the battered straight chair across from the bondsman’s desk, she made her way to the door.

  “Maybe this time he’ll have learned his lesson,” she said to herself as she headed across the street to get Raul out of the Metro-Dade Correctional and Rehabilitation Center.