Vampires of the Caribbean Read online

  Vampires of the Caribbean

  Debra Dunbar

  Colleen Gleason

  Nikki Jefford

  C. Gockel

  Courtney Sloan

  Jennifer Blackstream

  Mark Henwick

  Charity Parkerson

  Hailey Edwards

  Phaedra Weldon

  Contents

  by Colleen Gleason

  In Which an Undead Finds Himself at Sea (In More Ways Than One) A Story of the Draculia Vampires

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Special Offer…

  About the Author

  Also by Colleen Gleason

  by Nikki Jefford

  A Vampire’s Life For Me

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  About the Author

  C. Gockel

  Someday My Count Will Come

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  by Courtney Sloan

  No Scions for Old Men

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  by Jennifer Blackstream

  Midnight Escape

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  About the Author

  Other Books by Jennifer Blackstream

  by Hailey Edwards

  Out for Blood

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About the Author

  by Mark Henwick

  Enzili

  Author’s note

  1. Chapter 1

  2. Chapter 2

  3. Chapter 3

  4. Chapter 4

  5. Chapter 5

  6. Chapter 6

  7. Chapter 7

  8. Chapter 8

  9. Chapter 9

  10. Chapter 10

  11. Chapter 11

  12. Chapter 12

  13. Chapter 13

  14. Chapter 14

  About the Author

  by Charity Parkerson

  Consume

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  About the Author

  by Phaedra Weldon

  Dawn’s Justice

  1. Chapter 1

  About the Author

  by Debra Dunbar

  Ship of the Dead

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  About the Author

  Also by Debra Dunbar

  In Which an Undead Finds Himself at Sea (In More Ways Than One) A Story of the Draculia Vampires

  by Colleen Gleason

  Chapter 1

  1804

  Barbados

  Raine St. Albans, known throughout London society as Lord Norringford, realized he despised the collection of islands—and its surrounding sea—known as the Caribbean.

  It hadn’t taken him long to come to that conclusion. But the fact that the sun was constantly beating down over beautiful sandy beaches where rolling, white-topped waves splashed in all their refreshing glory—something he could only enjoy from the safety of shade—probably had something to do with it. Surely the ocean that wrapped England in a cold, dull gray blanket couldn’t be the same body of water as this sparkling sapphire and emerald beauty, could it?

  One thing was certain: London, with all its fog-laden streets and dreary days—not to mention the crème of Society and all those lovely, silky throats and wrists—was infinitely more accommodating to the life of a Draculia vampire than the bloody, sun-drenched tropics.

  And the fact that Raine had been sent here on a fool’s mission gave him even less appreciation for the palm trees, with their delicate fronds fluttering in the breeze, or the sweet, lush scents that filled the air from countless bright and cheery flowers. The huge sun—far larger than any he’d seen in England—was blinding, and seemed to taunt him with his need to cover himself from it.

  At least, he thought ruefully as he huddled under an unseasonably warm greatcoat and horribly unfashionable wide-brimmed hat (his hands were gloved, of course), it was bloody unlikely he’d encounter any pine needles or evergreen boughs on the ship he was meant to board. The Black Lass, it was called, and it was captained by a female pirate of all things. Supposedly she was feared and revered throughout the Caribbean and beyond.

  He’d see about that.

  Raine refused to dwell on the ridiculous image he made, striding up the gangplank beneath the voluminous coat. He was damned glad neither Corvindale nor Woodmore were here to see him—though at least the Earl of Corvindale might commiserate with Raine’s predicament of needing to shield himself.

  Chas Woodmore, the mortal vampire hunter who was an unlikely ally of the Dracule, would likely snicker behind his tumbler of whisky and call the inconvenience no more than what Raine deserved for selling his soul to Lucifer in exchange for immortality.

  The dark, ugly Mark on the back of Raine’s shoulder twinged as if in agreement.

  “Ahoy there!”

  Someone shouted—presumably at Raine—and he looked up to see a tall, burly man with coffee-colored skin standing at the top of the gangplank. The mate had clearly enjoyed an incredible amount of onions in whatever he’d recently dined upon, for the scent fairly oozed from his pores, wafting to Raine’s sensitive nostrils—along with a faint tinge of ale, and the fishy scent that clung to every sailor with whom he’d ever come in contact.

  That was another thing about being Dracule: everything was a soupçon of scents—the good, the bad, and the putrid.

  “What is it ye want there, matey?” asked the man, who, unfortunately, was standing downwind of Raine. “No one comes aboard widdout the cap’ain’s permission, and we’re about to leave port.”

  Raine straightened as much as he dared, which necessitated coming out from beneath some of his coverings. It was a temporary discomfort, to be sure, but one he couldn’t avoid. Yet, he found to his surprise, some of the sails above provided an unexpected shade from the rays of the sun.

  “That, my dear fellow, is precisely why I’m here.” In this godforsaken place, bundled up like it’s a damned blizzard and wearing a hat that belongs on a country maid. “To gain the captain’s permission to come aboard.”

  He looked into the mate’s eyes and allowed his own to take on that special glow…the one that always got him what he needed or wanted.

  It took only a moment for the sailor’s tension to ease and his will to become malleable. The large man gave a subtle shudder and his gaze became less clear and sharp as it was captured by Raine’s thrall.

  “Now if you’ll tell me where to find the captain—”

  Something broke the connection of their gazes and Raine blinked as he realized it was a person who’d stepped between them. A woman.

  “What in the b
loody hell do you think you’re doing?” She stood in front of the massive sailor, wide-legged, hands on her hips, looking up at Raine with an expression that could only be described as incensed.

  The woman would barely reach his shoulder, but what she lacked in stature she made up for in energy—for it fairly sparked off her. She had dark brown eyes flecked with gold—and fury—and a long braid of black, brown, and gold tresses. There was even a streak of white in there too. Her skin was surprisingly fair for a life at sea, and her nose and mouth were as delicately wrought as the most lovely of society ladies Raine generally eschewed back in London because they were boring and predictable.

  This female wore a loose white shirt like most pirates—ruffled and with a deliciously low vee for the neckline—with two wide leather straps criss-crossing over the breasts (pity he couldn’t make out their shape) and then around her waist. A shotgun, some rope, a dagger and a sword, along with other accoutrements, hung from various loops on the leather straps. Good grief—she probably clinked or clunked with every step. The wench also wore loose striped trousers—almost like a split skirt—tucked into boots that were half the size of his.

  “Good day, milady,” Raine said without missing a beat. “I was merely asking this gentleman—”

  “You weren’t asking Bladsoe anything,” she retorted. “Who the hell do you think you are, and what do you think you’re doing, trying that trick out on my crew?” She’d stepped closer during this last part, her voice dropping as if she didn’t want the man behind her to hear.

  And with her came her scent.

  Raine’s blood suddenly went hot, and his fangs shifted, wanting to erupt. Her essence was…something. Something female, and lush and warm; “tropical” would be the word if it weren’t so obvious…yet laced with something more, spicy and bold. Cloves. And…sandalwood? No, it was far more unique than that. He recovered himself and resisted the urge to step back and give himself a bit of space from…her.

  The powerful and austere Lord Norringford stepping back from a woman? That would be a cold day in Hell.

  That would be as unlikely as the day Lucifer released him from the hold he’d cast over Raine and his Draculia brothers.

  And he knew that day would never come.

  Raine pushed away the spark of misery that thought always produced, ignoring the vengeful throb of the Mark on his shoulder. He lifted his face just slightly so as to put some space between his nostrils and her uncommonly titillating scent. It helped to clear his brain a bit.

  “Trick?” he replied smoothly, letting his eyes take on a bit of alluring glow once more. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He caught her gaze, and felt the shock as their eyes met. It was probably because she was so outraged, but when they connected visually, he almost jolted.

  For a moment, he felt like…like prey.

  That was the word that came to mind, and it was ludicrous. He was twice her size, and a Dracule to boot.

  He turned up his eye-glow a bit more, like one does to a kerosene lamp, and tugged with his gaze. Come now, lovely one. Ease your fury and give me what I—

  “Stop that.” Her flat command was accompanied by a sudden sharp poke: right in his chest, right over his black heart.

  Raine managed to hide his shock and surprise, but barely. He looked down at the sword—no, dammit all to Hell, it wasn’t a sword. It was a wooden pike, half the length of a man’s walking stick.

  His gaze flashed to hers once more, this time with surprise and—well, hell, he might as well admit it—admiration. She was a feisty one.

  Now he stepped back. Just a bit. “Well, now, that’s not very polite, madame—”

  “Captain.” She allowed her pike-holding hand to drop away from the vicinity of his heart.

  His suspicions were confirmed. “Captain Arial Bonny, is it? How convenient—as you’re just the person I came to see.” He stepped back a little more so he could bow properly. Not that the captain of a pirate ship would appreciate the flourish of a societal nicety, but he did have his name and reputation to uphold. “Raine St. Albans, Lord Norringford, at your service.”

  She snorted. “At my service, my arse. I know who you are. And you are most definitely not at my service—as you’ve already demonstrated.”

  His eyes must have widened more than he realized, for she continued, “Surprised you, then, have I, Mr. St. Albans?”

  “Er…it’s Lord Norringford,” he said, almost hating himself for correcting her.

  “How about I just call you St. Albans?” she said, cocking a hip as she placed her hand back on it. “We don’t stand on formality on the Black Lass.”

  “If you knew who I was, why did you ask who I—”

  “I believe my exact words were ‘who do you think you are’.” Those sharp, dark eyes were flashing again—but this time with a trace of humor. “A subtlety that was, apparently, lost on you, Lord Norringford.”

  She glanced up at the sun, which, during their repartee, had moved just enough past the shading sail that it would soon become uncomfortable for him, and sighed with disgust. “I suppose I’d best let you aboard, then. Follow me.”

  She turned and walked past the crew member Raine had tried to enthrall, giving him a brief nod. Bladsoe’s gaze settled on Raine as he walked through the cloud of onion and ale smells that surrounded the sailor.

  “Don’t underestimate her,” the mate growled as Raine passed by. “She didn’t get here by being foolish or slow.”

  “Right then, mate,” Raine said, declining to ask precisely where “here” was—this ship, the Caribbean, or some other locale he hadn’t yet placed.

  He breathed easier once he was past the pungent smell of the burly mate.

  Of course, that pungent smell was replaced by a myriad of other aromas that always accompanied a ship: algae, salt, fish, sweat, damp lumber, mildewed sails, and the general scent of staleness. As he passed by various members of the crew (more onions, some garlic, and definitely more ale) who were busy preparing to pull anchor, he felt the weight of their curious gazes on him. Raine grimaced, trying not to think about how he still wore that wide-brimmed hat. And that it was becoming increasingly warm beneath the greatcoat.

  But as they rounded the base of the mizzenmast, some dark instinct caused him to stop in his tracks and turn slowly to look. No one was there—at least anymore. But the hair at the back of his neck was still prickling.

  “Are you bloody coming or are you going to wait till the sun fully fries you?”

  “I’m right on your heels, captain.”

  She led him around to the stern of the ship and up onto the quarterdeck, to a chamber that was clearly the captain’s quarters—for not only was it comfortably furnished, it was permeated by her scent. He drew in a subtle breath of it.

  Inside, there were four windows: two in the front, and one each on either side of the walls flanking it. The rear of the chamber was, fortunately, untouched by sunlight, partly because it was shielded from the rest of the space by a curtain that hung from the ceiling—presumably to give its occupant some privacy from the windows that faced her crew. The shielded area also contained a bed, a cabinet, a washing stand, and—what surprised him the most—a large metal tub. Immediately, he had an image of her smooth white body, sprawled in the tub, all wet and sleek and warm, smelling of spice and sex and woman.

  It was an image he chose not to dismiss immediately, but to relish for a moment. His gums tightened pleasantly around his fangs.

  All of the furnishings were bolted to the floor, as were the large table in the front of the room and the desk where, presumably, she would complete the ship’s log and any other writing or documentation necessary. The large table was covered with maps, a bottle of ink and several quills, and a stack of books. There were also a number of navigational tools strewn about: compasses, sextants, and an H4 chronometer.

  “I already know why you’re here,” she said, folding her arms across her middle as Raine took ref
uge in the shaded part of the chamber.

  With relief, he pulled off the hat and used his fingers to muss up his hair from where it had become plastered to his head by the hat and the perspiration gathering beneath it. Already he felt better, but he also divested himself of his greatcoat, tossing both onto a nearby chair.

  “Do make yourself comfortable,” she said wryly as she glanced down at one of the maps, then, seemingly unconcerned by his presence, frowned and began to measure something with a sextant.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he replied, suddenly feeling much more like himself. And much more in control.

  He looked around the chamber, eyed the size of the bed—definitely large enough for two, even one of his height—and realized the windows had curtains on them.

  He was also very aware of the constant tease of her scent, and the perfect outline of her sweet, round arse as she bent over the large table. He’d never considered the benefits of a woman wearing trousers before, but this was certainly one of them.

  His blood was simmering again, and the gums around his fangs were swelling, ready to push them out. He felt unaccountably warm, and—

  “Don’t even think about it, St. Albans,” she said without looking up. “You’re a guest here—at my pleasure. I’m not going to be your afternoon tea.”

  “What about my bedtime snack,” he murmured, suddenly very much sold on the idea. When she looked up sharply, he added, “You did mention something about pleasure.”

  “If you keep that up, I’ll banish you to the crow’s nest,” she replied tartly. “At noon.”

  He laughed, and it felt good. When was the last time he’d laughed? Certainly it had been months. Years. Perhaps even decades. And that was part of the reason he was here.

  Raine collected his thoughts. “So you know who I am, and why I’m here. Corvindale, I presume?”

  She gave a nod, made another brief measurement with the sextant, then noted it on a page in a book filled with writing. “He saw fit to advise me of your imminent arrival.”