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LENGTH: Mid Novel
SENSUALITY: Sensual

Cover art (c) Dan Skinner 2006
ISBN 1-58608-902-1
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Fiona MacPhee is a woman with a mission--and a very dark secret. Sidekick to a famous demon hunter, Fiona must scour Edinburgh for the answer to a cryptic prophecy before an ancient evil rends the veil between the worlds at Samhain. She can't afford any distractions. Especially not from Rory MacLaren. A handsome, charming rogue, Rory is also a 260 year-old vampire. When Rory catches Fiona in a deserted wynd after midnight, his offer of help could not be better--or more suspiciously--timed.

Rating: Contains sexual content, adult language, and some violence.

VAMPIRE CLOSE

By

Susanne Saville

© copyright April 2006, Susanne Saville
Cover art by Dan Skinner, © copyright April 2006
ISBN 1-58608-902-1
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

CHAPTER ONE

Scraping sounds stalked Fiona MacPhee down the dark, deserted wynd. She froze once again. Her legs quivered, muscles protesting the repeated restraint. Maybe this time it would be different. Maybe this time the scratching would continue. Simply some dry branch against a window pane. Or a cat out hunting prey. Hunting me, apparently. The sounds had stopped when she did. Yet again.

She glanced over her shoulder, down the narrow alley. Just like before. Nothing. Only the bleak brick walls, permanently stained with ancient soot, and the worn cobblestones that comprised the wynd itself. Why hadn't she brought the little canister of CS gas Joan had given her? What did Joan call it? Something medieval ... Mace! Where was it tonight? Protecting the top of the telly, of course, right where she had left it. Fiona mentally kicked herself.

But it was just supposed to be a simple errand. A quick errand. Out and back. No need for a purse. No need for a coat even, despite the crisp October air. Just my luck. Out of all of Edinburgh, she would choose the wynd with the serial killer. Stop imagining things!

Taking a deep breath, she crept forward. The click of her heels upon the cobblestones sounded unnaturally loud in the strained silence. The scratching had not started. She quickened her step over the uneven surface. It still hadn't started.

Then the scraping sound began again. Fiona laughed. This canna be happening to me.

All of a sudden, the hairs on the back of her neck tingled. Something was behind her. As she spun around, disembodied male laughter echoed off the blackened walls and antique buildings. The gloomy wynd was empty. But she was not alone.

Her fingers clenched fistfuls of her skirt's crimson fabric. He's playing with me. Cocking her head, she attempted to determine the eerie noise's source but the walls were too close. Imprisoning walls. Enclosing her. Immuring her. Not now! She simply couldn't have a bout of her dreaded claustrophobia now.

A smattering of pebbles cascaded down the near wall and clattered upon the cobblestones, jolting Fiona's thoughts back into focus. She peered up into the murky night. Something was crawling on the roofs above. Instinctively seeking light, she ran for the wynd's solitary, quaint street lamp.

"Joan? Are you here?" she shouted, as she reached the pool of lamplight. "Joan!"

Suddenly a man landed on the pavement just a few meters in front of her. Fiona involuntarily jumped back and hit the lamppost. The man straightened from his predatory crouch and sauntered toward her. He entered her circle of lamplight. He had sharp features and tousled chestnut hair that arced in a stray forelock above bottomless black eyes. His stylish, sable clothes accentuated his tall, wiry build, from the winged collar of his long, leather coat all the way down to his pointed boots. He was definitely handsome, in a rakish sort of way. And he was coming closer.

She pressed back against the cold metal post. As if amused by her apprehension, the man gave her an insolent grin. This revealed his exceptionally pointy canine teeth. She guessed that any passerby would think both he and she were somewhere in their mid-twenties, but the presence of his gleaming white fangs made his age irrelevant. He was a vampire. Mace wouldn't have worked anyway.

Then he spoke. His voice possessed remnants of a mellifluous Highland lilt, and the texture of warm honey.

"How would a bonnie lass like ye like to live forever?"

Fiona pushed herself off the lamppost, turning to run. She had taken but one step when her body slammed against the black brick wall. The vampire had pounced on her like a tiger.

She writhed and twisted, trapped between his hard body and the unyielding bricks, expecting to feel the vampire's fangs ripping into her neck at any moment. How close was Joan? Then the vampire surprised her. He stepped back.

Placing his hands against the wall to either side of her head, he pinned her in with his extended arms. There was space between them now. But there was nowhere to go.

She met his gaze defiantly. "Clear off."

The vampire leaned toward her. "Or what?" he replied, chuckling.

"I'll think of something."

He bent even closer to her. "I bet ye would 'n' all." The vampire nuzzled her temple, sniffed her hair.

The contact was fleeting. But the tingling of her skin persisted even after his touch deserted her. Fiona mentally berated her wanton skin. It should be crawling. What was wrong with her?

"Ye should be careful," he continued. "A girl alone on the streets at night. Dinna ye ken there's something dangerous about? And 'tisnae ye or your friend."

"Ye might be surprised," she responded dryly.

She felt him nuzzle her hair again, then nudge her tresses out of the way with his nose, so that his whispered words puffed against the delicate skin of her ear. "Think about my offer."

His head was moving lower. She could feel his hot breath upon her throat.

"Your beauty should be preserved. And embalming isnae half as fun."

Fiona cursed him and tried to duck under his arm. It didn't work. The vampire seized her by the shoulders, but she didn't care. She had caught a glimpse down the wynd. Charging toward them was a swirl of strawberry blonde and steel.

Joan Armstrong, at last.

Joan's sword whacked the sooty brick wall, so close to them that Fiona felt the breeze from the blade.

"That's your only warning. Let Fiona go," Joan commanded. Her American accent complimented the menace her tone of voice expressed.

The vampire turned and casually inspected the lissome newcomer glaring at him with pale gray eyes as hard as flint. Her bright hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail and her utilitarian garb was clearly worn for combat rather than fashion, but she was tall and fit and undeniably feminine. Fiona thought of Joan as a ballet dancer. A ballet dancer in combat boots.

"Quite the wee soldier. I'm guessing ye must be Joan." The vampire released Fiona and stepped back, amusement gleaming in his eyes. "Ye are shorter than I expected. But now that I have your attention..."

"You're going to get more than that, buster." Joan lunged at him.

He dodged the sword. "Leave off! I have a proposition for ye."

"I'll bet." Joan attacked. Her sword reflected the lamplight, sending dazzling flashes piercing through the darkness.

The vampire adroitly ducked and dodged. "I dinna expect ye to feather-bed me, but ye might at least listen!"

"So say something." With a grin, Joan maintained her assault.

"The Fury," he shouted, narrowly avoiding her swinging blade.

The words halted Joan in mid-swivel. "What?"

"Ye want him," the vampire stated. "I can help."

Joan pulled back to a defensive position in front of Fiona. "What do you know about it?"

The vampire rolled his eyes with the air of a recalcitrant schoolboy being forced to recite the patently obvious by a pedantic teacher. "All the signs say that this Samhain eve the Andromache is going to rise, which gives ye, countin' tonight mind, only five nights to find it before 'tis too late."

"What does the rising of the Andromache mean?" Joan questioned.

The vampire grinned. "Ye tell me. Probably the end of the world. These sorts of prophecies never herald tax cuts or free public transport."

Joan folded her arms. "I don't see what this has to do with the Fury."

"Aye, ye do. The warning's out that the Fury's in town and everyone kens he's trouble. 'Tis for certain he's the one raising the Andromache." The vampire gave them a pitying smile. "Ye shall need all the help ye can get."

"And ye want to help us?" Fiona inquired, peering at him from behind Joan.

The demon touched the tip of his nose with his forefinger, and pointed with his other hand at Fiona. "She's twigged it."

"How do you know all this?" Joan's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"I listen. I'm a fount of information," the vampire replied smugly.

Fiona snorted. "A shallow fount. The warning the Fury's in town is the biggest gossip goin', I'll wager."

The vampire acknowledged her guess with an indifferent shrug. "The demon community's fair buzzing with it, to be sure. 'Tis much higher priority than the news that Joan Armstrong's over from the States."

Joan's eyebrows arched. "You've heard of me?"

"Aye, but I dinna ken yon dark lassie ye are protecting."

"And you won't know her." She beckoned to Fiona. "Let's get you to safety so I can shish-kabob this guy."

The vampire winked at Fiona. "Ye are turning down an irreplaceable offer."

At first she wasn't certain to which offer he referred, but a sudden flash of memory, his warm breath upon her ear, made Fiona's cheeks begin to burn. She rolled her eyes. "'Tis ridiculous. Why would the likes of ye help humans against the Fury?"

"Ye humans may fear demons, but the Fury is the nightmare demons fear. He is a faceless, relentless destroyer--of demons, vampires, humans, anything. And the tales I've heard of what he does to his prey..." The vampire gave a theatrical shiver. "'Tis horrific even by demon standards. I dinna fancy that sort gettin' the upper hand of anything, let alone control over an enigma like the Andromache. Who kens what powers it might possess? Now if 'twere a friend..."

"Shut up," Joan interrupted tiredly.

Fiona traced the edge of a crooked cobblestone with the tip of her shiny, black shoe. "Mayhap 'tis not such a sketchy idea."

"You must be joking," stated Joan.

"He could help with my research."

Joan rounded on her. "You want his help?"

Fiona flinched back. Then, with as much dignity as she could muster, she drew herself up to her full height. "I would rather work with the Undead than the Sassenach."

"That is insane," Joan responded, shaking her head.

The vampire looked about the wynd. "What Sassenach?"

"Nothing." Joan shushed him with a dismissive wave.

"He rang us just after ye left," Fiona continued.

"But that was hours and hours ago--why come out now? I've told you before it isn't safe for you to be out here by yourself."

"What Sassenach?" the vampire repeated.

"Look, is anyone speaking to you?" Joan glared daggers at him.

The vampire smiled. "Ye are dead crabbit for a goodie."

Joan tapped her sword against the cobblestones. Then she spoke, enunciating each word with icy precision. "There's a deacon at St. Giles' with an English accent, and Fiona objects. Satisfied?"

"A Sassenach in the High Kirk." The vampire whistled. "Sacrilege."

Joan turned back to Fiona. "So what did he want?"

"To tell ye he canna meet ye tomorrow." Fiona paused. "I suppose 'tis more accurate to say today since 'tis well past..."

Joan interrupted. "But this is an emergency!"

"An' so I told him. Which is why I'm out here now. No sense interrupting your work beforetime."

"What?" Joan snapped.

"He allowed he could see us now, if 'twere that important."

The vampire laughed. "At this hour? What, 'tis last call at the pub and he doesnae wish to get home?"

Fiona ignored him. "He said he'd meet us in front of St. Giles'."

"Are ye certain he's a real deacon? Surely a genuine deacon would be abed by now."

"Enough," Joan snapped at the vampire. She made a threatening twitch with her sword in his direction.

He raised his hands. "What? I'm helping."

"Give me one substantial reason to spare him, Fiona, or I'm running him through right now."

"Well..." She glanced at the vampire. He was a handsome devil. Not that that was a substantial reason. Not that it was any reason. Why was she thinking these things? She was going to have to check her protection spell. His vampire magick was obviously affecting her. Yes, that was it. That had to be it. And for his magick to be that powerful, he must know some of the Old Tongue. "I think he could help with the translations."

"The translations." Joan repeated the words slowly, as if proof of their substantiality could be measured by syllable.

"Aye. Some of the ancient languages are dead tricky."

Joan stood silently. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking. Times like these made Fiona nervous.

"Joan?"

She lowered her sword. "Yes, yes, all right, all right."

"So we're all workin' together then?" the vampire queried, rubbing his hands together with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Joan nodded, but her expression was grim. "Everyone to St. Giles'. You--vampire--go in front where I can keep an eye on you."

The vampire led the way out of the wynd and down the Royal Mile, followed by Fiona, with Joan bringing up the rear.

"You won't regret this. I'm good in a fight," he boasted.

"I'm not having you at my back. You're helping Fiona with the research. That's it." The tone in Joan's voice made it clear that this was not up for debate.

In silence the little group walked through the night. The historic street, sparsely populated at this hour, had been invaded by wheelie bins awaiting the morning refuse removal. Fiona sidestepped to avoid one, saw she had veered too near the vampire and overcompensated. She almost lurched into the side of a bus shelter.

The vampire chuckled. "Gone off grace as a virtue, have ye?"

"Belt up," Fiona responded petulantly. She busily smoothed her skirt while she walked, as if there were invisible pleats that needed to be arranged perfectly.

The vampire hung back, attempting to fall in step with her. She ignored him, and continued to obsess about her skirt.

"What do they call ye, lassie?" he asked, affecting a casual air.

She deliberately stared across the street. "Fiona MacPhee. Not that 'tis any of your business."

The opposite side of the street became gradually less interesting as the vampire failed to reply. She shot him a sidelong glance. He was no longer looking at her. Her words tumbled out, almost a challenge. "What's your name, then?"

"I don't want to know his name," Joan called. "He's an evil, undead fiend."

Fiona laughed, and smiled back at Joan. "If we're doin' research together, I can hardly be callin' him Evil Undead Fiend."

"You don't have to call him anything. In fact, I'd shun all contact with him," Joan retorted cheerfully.

The scattered street-lamps keeping vigil over the shrouded pavement seemed more inclined to produce intermittent obscurity than illumination. As they departed one pool of light, the vampire spoke softly.

"Ruaridh." The quality of his accent had changed, thickened, and the word sang with the mystique of an ancient language.

"What?" Fiona glanced at him, but they had crossed the light's periphery and the gloom beyond enveloped them both.

His answer, when it came, seemed to float disembodied in the empty night.

"My name was Ruaridh MacLaren."

Even through the intimate darkness, Fiona could see his profile. It was almost possible to think of him as human.

"I have not been called that for..." His voice trailed off. As they entered lamplight again, she tried to make eye contact, but his eyes were momentarily clouded and he did not see her anymore.

"All right, I'm curious. What did he say?" called Joan.

"My name is Rory," the vampire answered. He glanced at Fiona and shrugged. "She'd never get the accent right."