Vampyre Kisses (book 1 in the Last Witch Series)

By Elizabeth Kolodziej

Vampyre Kisses is an enthralling story about a young woman named Faith, who was content with her life, but deep down craved more excitement. Then a mysterious man named Trent enters her life and everything changes. Surprising to Faith, Trent is a green-eyed vampire from Ireland. She is even more surprised to find out that she is a witch, and the last of her kind.

Faith finds out that she is destined to restore her witch line and becomes more powerful as she gains confidence and knowledge, but danger lurks everywhere. Especially when unknown assailants steal the most important gems from the vampire master and werewolf royalty.

Now surrounded by a world full of mystifying vampires and werewolves, can Faith gain enough power to help her friends and rescue the stolen gems?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Kolodziej
• Release date: Oct 25, 2010
• ISBN: 9780983449416

Elizabeth Kolodziej

ELIZABETH J KOLODZIEJ, A YOUNG FICTION WRITER ORIGINALLY FROM TORRANCE CALIFORNIA, IS A SMART AND ORIGINAL THINKER WHO HAS RESEARCHED THE ORIGINS OF VAMPIRES, WEREWOLVES, AND WITCHES FOR MANY YEARS. SHE WRITES HER BOOKS FROM THE KNOWLEDGE SHE HAS GAINED WHILE TRYING TO BE AS ORIGINAL AND INSPIRING AS POSSIBLE. HER BOOKS ENCOMPASS BOTH TRUE FOLKLORE FACTS ALONG WITH INNOVATIVE IDEAS MOTIVATED BY THE GREAT WRITERS AROUND HER. THIS BOOK IS HER FIRST BUT NOT HER LAST IN A NEW SERIES ENTITLED VAMPYRE KISSES.

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VAMPYRE KISSES

by

Elizabeth J. Kolodziej

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Copyright © 2010 by Elizabeth J. Kolodziej

Published by Elizabeth J. Kolodziej at Smashwords

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.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then kindly purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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I would like to dedicate this book to myself and every other passion filled, inspired writer out there that writes and creates purely for the love of it, because that twinkle you can see when a writer talks about their book and ideas is something extraordinary and rarely appreciated.

PROLOGUE

As she stared at the pub’s patrons staggering around drunk, she realized how amusing the existence of mortals had become. About her the wind blew violently; the wooden door to the pub blew open, letting the blustery weather carry her fiery red hair over her pastel skin.

After entering, she steadied herself without flinching while the barkeep hastily closed the door. She spotted the company with which she wished to sit and took a seat on the hard wooden bench. Her ruby red lips parted slightly to let her tongue wet them. She stayed silent for what seemed to be minutes. Then, in a soothing, seductive voice, she prophesied: The war will be here in years to come. Beware the girl; her ability will grow like a weed, fast and deadly. Cautious thou must be of mistakes she could make. When she rose, she donned her coat and pulled both lapels so that its thick fur swallowed her body.

In a rushed, yet respectful, tone, the man sitting opposite the goddess held his palm up, entreating her, Please, don’t leave. With a gleam of hope in his eyes, he prayed she would stay.

Hearing his prayer, the goddess sighed, murmuring with a hidden annoyance under her breath, an annoyance most gods had for mortals. I like it not in here, she said. Looking about the inn, her deep-set purple eyes examined the room. Walk me out to my horse. She turned and started to take leave toward the door. The man looked around for a moment, then finally stood and followed the immortal.

The wind grew calm as the goddess stepped out of the inn. She pulled her hood over her hair, sweeping back loose strands under the velvet cover. The man walked beside her as they headed to her horse. The immortal seemed to float, while the man walked with a limp; with every step taken, he felt a sharp pain shoot up his thigh.

The man pleaded, Please, Circe, tell me more about the war, then stopped suddenly, glancing at her profile and realizing he had now angered the goddess.

Her nostrils flared as she glared into his frightened gray eyes. Thou shalt not ever speak to me with such disregard, Macsen! she warned. I understand thy need to protect this line, but I cannot give the information thou are not worthy of having. Foretelling the whole prophecy to thee is dangerous. She pulled her attention away from the tall man standing before her.

Macsen breathed in deeply, not realizing until now that the goddess had such a strong hold on him. I am sorry, Circe. He bowed his head to her, and they commenced to walk again. For generations, he declared, My ancestors have protected the Wikkerie line. I know not when the war is coming or why, but whichever generation protects the line needest know what a journey to expect.

Finally, Circe reached her black stallion shining in the moonlight. With help from Macsen, Circe placed herself on top of the gigantic creature. Well, it would be nice if everyone could prepare and know who will do what, but that is not possible. Who is to say that thy line will even be a part of it? The immortal goddess Circe looked down at Macsen inquisitively.

Macsen lowered his head down to stare at the dirt while planning out what to say. Thou are just, of course. I only thought that perhaps… He didn’t finish the sentence. Macsen knew he was wasting his breath; persuading a goddess to change her mind was a futile task.

Circe tugged back on the reins to rear her horse back, and without another word between the two, she lightly kicked her horse into a walk. Macsen stared at the goddess as she began to vanish into the fog. Gazing into the mist, he wondered if Circe, the goddess of witches, would ever visit him again.

As he leaned on his cane, a wave of nausea rose up and crashed over him. He spun quickly to find a tall, slender woman standing next to him. Slowly, an evil grin formed on her lips; sadistic eyes gawked at Macsen. Short brown hair framed her face, bringing forth her deep blue eyes. She was dressed as a man, with a tunic of dowlas, tights, and brown suede boots.

She took a few steps toward him. Hello, protector of the Wikkerie line. Her voice was deep and sultry.

Macsen frowned. Good evening, Eleanor, Salt Whip of the Wikkerie line. He turned his frown into a smirk. Salt Whips were the destroyers of witches. Their family lines were long, as was Macsen’s, which protected a particular witch line the Salt Whips were after. What is it that thou wants?

I only want the right of disposing of the witches thou doth defend; the Wikkerie line must perish. It is my right as a Salt Whip to kill them. Eleanor walked closer to Macsen, putting her hand on her hilt.

Macsen noticed it. He tried to straighten himself to hide his disadvantage. Infuriated, he explained his intention: Thou knowest that, as a protector, I will do whatever is commanded of me to save the witch line my ancestors chose to defend.

Eleanor let out a laugh, which rose into a cackle. When she caught her breath, she said, I have no interest in taking up swords with a cripple. The insult stunned him. Slowly she turned her back on Macsen to walk away. This is just a warning, Macsen: stay out of my way henceforth. I will not stand for anyone getting in the way of destroying the Wikkerie line. Even if it takes hundreds of years, the Wikkerie line will be destroyed.

Macsen stared at Eleanor’s back for a moment, then shook his head. Many events were taking place, and many people were beginning to show their true nature. Macsen walked back to the inn. While getting his last biggin of beer, he contemplated what his next move should be. He knew only so much, but of one thing he was positive—he must protect the famous Wikkerie line.

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1

Faith

I opened my eyes as I heard the shrieking of my alarm clock urging me to wake. I reached over without looking and turned it off. It was 5:30 already? I raised my head slowly and turned to the clock—yep, 5:30. I yanked the sheets off and got out of my soft queen-size bed. My bare feet felt the cold, hard floor as I searched for a moment until spotting my slippers. I put them on and made a long stretch toward the ceiling. Yawning, I made my way through the living room to the connected kitchen, a short walk since I had such a tiny—or, as the landlord put it, quaint—apartment.

I couldn’t afford much more, though. When you live in New York and make a secretary’s salary, you can’t afford much of anything. However, I did like to make sure I put a little extra money into particular material objects in my house. The extra money I spent on the bed was a must for me. There was nothing better than having a comfy bed to fall into at night. It also made sense to go to the Goodwill and thrift shops for things like my lamps and bookshelves.

I took the scrunchy that I always keep on my wrist and put my long brown hair into a ponytail to keep it off my face. When I entered the kitchen, I went straight to work making coffee. Leaning against the counter, I stared at the machine, as if that would somehow make it work faster. I was bored; every day was the same, nothing new. I was stuck in a rut, and I didn’t know how to change it. Wake up, go to work, come home, do more work, and finally sleep. Sleep—that was something I barely got enough of.

The coffee maker finally beeped, and I poured my coffee into a mug from Six Flags and walked out into the living room. I opened the curtain to my sliding glass doors, which lead out to a tiny balcony. It was the wrought-iron type, almost like a fire escape. The only reason I could afford such an extravagant apartment in NYC on my salary was due to the money I had received when my father passed. He made sure that my mother was not the only one to receive money from his will.

Light flooded the room, blinding me and making me blink several times. Great, just what I need, another sunrise. I was starting to hate the sun and what it meant: another boring day working at a place I hated. Turning my back to the sun, I made my way to the bedroom. The clothes I had laid out the night before were so plain and ordinary. Ah, to be a teenager again and dress freely, I thought. But I was a now a 23-year-old working woman and had to dress a certain way for the world. How depressing.

I flashed a glance at the clock and realized time was going by fast, so I put my mug on the nightstand, where it would be forgotten until I returned home from work. Shucking my light blue tank top and matching shorts, I went over to my stereo, which sat on the desk next to my computer. After pushing a few buttons, the sound of Kottonmouth Kings, punk-rock-hip-hop, blasted out of the speakers. Just because my clothes had to be stuffy didn’t mean my music had to be. Next stop was the bathroom for a quick shower.

Forty-five minutes later, I was ready for another workday, wearing my black blazer, line skirt, and closed-toe pumps. I was in the living room getting my purse and keys together when my cell phone rang. Who in their right mind would call this early in the morning? I picked it up and barked, Hello?

A familiar voice greeted me on the other end. Hey, Faith, whatch’a up to?

I smiled. Going to work like you know I do every morning. It was Mac Edmunds, my old boyfriend. We had had pretty good times, but we made better friends than lovers.

Mac paused for a moment. I know, I know, but it’s Friday. He paused for another second; I figured he was sipping some coffee and brandy. He wasn’t an alcoholic but he always said that it was five o’clock somewhere in the world. Come to the club with me tonight. We’ll have fu-u-un. He stretched out the last word in a high-pitched singsong voice.

I let out a breath. Mac knew I didn’t do the club thing that much. I was a total klutz, so when I danced I usually ended up breaking a guy’s toe. I thought about the idea for a moment though, realizing I hadn’t been to one in months. Which one? I asked to humor him.

Club X, he said. That name was so cliché for a club, but the club itself wasn’t too bad a place, just very diverse. You had your preps, goths, punks, and even ravers who went there. Of course, arguments were sparked almost every night, but each group was too stubborn to stop coming, and most of the clientele got along with each other well enough. Come on, girly, we need to catch up. I haven’t seen you in awhile, and I know you need some fun put into your life, Mac urged.

I considered that for a moment, and then recalled what I had been saying to myself earlier that morning. Pick me up at 10:30, I heard myself say. A robust WOO-HOO! came from the other end of the line. I hung up and got my things together in a rush, realizing I was running late.

Let’s see, I thought to myself. I get off at 5:00, which gives me five and a half hours to get ready. That would be enough time. That last part was in jest. Well, maybe not. I felt a small grin creep onto my face. I wonder if I still have anything appropriate to wear to a club? I should go shopping after work. I walked down the stairs at a fast pace. I think I deserve that much. I opened the lobby door and walked out onto the street. I sold my car a while ago, realizing that having one in the city was pretty worthless, so that left me with a cab, bus, or subway; I choose the bus.

I got to the ten-story building where I work, Jameson & Jackson, Inc., and walked inside. The reception area is all white tile floor and pale walls reaching to a high ceiling. One lonely desk sits in the lobby, with a man seated behind it. His name is Bill, a fat man with almost no hair. I waved at him and smiled. Bill is a sweetheart who would help an old lady cross a street, the sort of dedicated employee who cheerfully assists anyone who needs it and is always the last one out of the building at night. I walked to the elevator and pressed the up arrow, making it glow red. Shiny silver doors opened, and I walked inside, pushing the button for the eighth floor. The doors were almost closed when a hand slid between them, forcing them open. As the doors went ajar, I saw a man standing there, wearing a Versace suit and tie—and a very unpleasant look.

Sorry, I didn’t see you, I apologized and gave him a small tight smile. His pale green eyes met mine. Entering the elevator, he pushed the button for the seventh floor. I went back to the corner and held on tight as the doors started to close again.

The man stood in the middle of the elevator. He had very blonde, almost white, hair that just barely grazed his ears, and he seemed to be a few inches taller than me. That wasn’t really much of an accomplishment since I am only five foot six inches. I couldn’t see his face, but he was giving off a very odd vibe, the type that puts ice chills on the back of your neck.

I was getting fidgety, so I searched in my purse for my Chapstick. Ouch! I yelped as I pulled out my hand. A pair of cuticle scissors had struck my index finger. There was a sharp pain, and a drop of red blood oozed out—which I automatically put in my mouth. As I pulled my finger out to look at it, I felt the man staring and looked up to find he had turned around.

What I’d thought were pale eyes started to look darker somehow. Just as his lips were separating, I heard the ding that the elevator had reached his floor. The man collected himself and turned quickly to the doors as they opened. When he was through the opening and out of earshot, I murmured under my breath, Weirdo. I could swear I saw his shoulders flinch as if he had heard, but he kept walking. There was no way he could have heard me. Right?

The elevator doors reopened again on my floor, and I walked out. Passing cubicles, I waved and said my hellos to everyone. My desk sits in the back, against a far wall. I sat down in my chair, put my purse in the bottom desk drawer, and moved the computer mouse around to dissolve the screen saver and bring up my desktop. Strange—there were no appointments until 9:00. I shrugged and turned to my pile of paperwork, happy that I would be able to catch up on it. Before I started, I gave one more glance at the window behind me, framed by two tall filing cabinets: the busy streets of New York City were in full swing down below.

A few minutes later, I heard laughter drift from my boss’s office, which was right next to my little desk. Mr. Zanwick was in there with someone. It was odd that I didn’t know about this appointment. This must be a joke! I heard him yell with his deep, intimidating voice. There were a few more moments of silence, and then his office door swung open.

A tall man, well over six foot and built like a gladiator, walked out. His light brown hair was shaved on the bottom, but the hair on the top was long enough to be slicked back into a ponytail. He was quite pale—a little too pale, even for someone who lived in the city. I am sorry to have wasted your time and mine, Mr. Zanwick. I must say, though, my boss will not be very pleased with your answer.

Mr. Zanwick’s frown deepened as the stranger said this, wrinkles forming on his forehead. It doesn’t matter to me, he said shortly. What you ask is not something I can do for you. He shot out a hand at the mystery man, gave him a curt handshake, and the stranger walked away without looking back. A power move I saw all the time.

Mr. Zanwick went into his office, but reappeared a moment later to stand in front of my desk with what looked to be at least fifty files. I must have looked horrified, for my boss let out a chuckle. These aren’t all for you, Faith, he assured me. I shook my head to wipe the expression off my face. He handed me ten files and said, I need you to call these people, make sure all their information is still correct, and then file them. I wrote a few notes on a Post-It and stuck it on the top file. These, he said, handing me five more, just need to be put back. As I wrote another Post-It, he handed me two more: Please shred these. I won’t be needing them anymore. The rest of the files he carried toward cubicles in the center of our workspace. Mr. Zack Zanwick wasn’t like the cutie attorneys you see on TV. He had short black hair quickly turning gray, eyebrows that needed to be weed-whacked, and a nose that was way too big for anyone’s face. His thin lips didn’t help either; they disappeared whenever he smiled and showed long, gleaming white teeth. The only attractive part of him was his cute little bubble butt. I was surprised when I found out he was married with two kids.

****

Finally, 5:00 arrived. As I stepped out of the tall glass building, I took a deep breath. It was Friday, and I had two whole days before I had to go back to work. I should never have left college, but what could I do? No scholarship, and I couldn’t afford it without one; my inheritance could only go so far, and I had other bills that were more important to think about. America, a great place ... right? I got on the bus and made my way to Queens Center. Shopping would make me feel better after working for so long and not even getting a proper lunch break.

When I got to the shopping center, I started walking around trying to find a shop that would have what I was looking for. Then I thought, what am I looking for? I went by a store called Hot Topics. I used to shop here when I was younger. Maybe they will have something I want.

The store layout hadn’t changed much over the years, but the styles had. I looked around for at least fifteen minutes without any luck and was considering giving up when a skirt way in the back caught my eye. I grabbed it and found a salesgirl to unlock the dressing room so I could try it on. She gave me the strangest look. Guess I should have changed out of my stuffy work clothes before coming in here.

The red pleather skirt hung five inches above my knee. A matching thick black belt with a skull on the front fulfilled the skirt’s look. I pulled my shirt up so I could get a better look at it, then turned and looked at my backside… Not bad. I decided to get it, along with a pair of knee-high black boots with sharp pointed heels. The 4-inch heels would make my legs look longer than they actually are (but probably kill my feet by the end of the night). Now I just needed a top.

I shopped for another hour without any success, finally ending up in a store called Vampiric Dreams. The store had a dark feeling to it, besides the fact that it was literally dim and featured basic black and blood red clothes; bright colors or pastels would be a sin in this store. All of the cashiers had piercing, and some even had fake fangs; at least, I assumed they were fake. Music played so loudly that I could barely hear the clerk welcome me into the store, but as I looked around, there seemed to be a few possibilities to complete my outfit.

It took me only five minutes to find the perfect black shirt. I asked to try it on and was led to the back of the store. I closed the curtain and hooked it to the wall. The blouse had long fishnet sleeves attached to the underside of the arm openings, leaving the shoulders bare. The shirt hung a few inches above my belly button, and I stared at a scar I have on my stomach, which was long and curved, and a pale pinkish color now. I kept wondering if I wanted to show it off. Although small, it wasn’t a scar I wanted to be asked about. I decided to just get it and be daring.

****

I arrived home at 7:30, fixed myself a light dinner, and then napped till 9. By 10:15, I was fully dressed and ready to go. I let my hair fall into its own natural curls and put a bit more makeup than usual on my round face. Purple eye shadow accented my dark green eyes, inherited from my Irish father, first generation. He had a thick brogue, which sounded beautiful to me; I always wished I had inherited that too. My brown hair comes from my mother, who is of Italian descent.

A knock came at the door, and I looked through the peephole to find Mac standing there. I undid the locks and opened the door wide. Hey, lover! he teased. Since Mac was an old boyfriend, we had a weird, but comfortable, sense of humor with each other.

Mac’s mouth dropped, and he looked me up and down. A few seconds later, a huge smile formed on his square face. Mac was attractive to me, but not to most women. He had an odd look to him, the kind I always go for in men. Dirty blonde hair went past his shoulders, and he had a built-but-not-very-built body type. In other words, he looked like a bad boy, but he wasn’t. I continued to stare at him, wondering if he was ever going to speak. Finally, he said, You look so good I could just carry you to your bedroom and…

I stopped him there. You’re bad, and if we don’t leave, we’ll never get into the club, I said, a smirk growing on my face.

He just smiled and put out his hand for me to take. I turned, grabbed a small black purse from the counter in back of me, then took his hand and walked out the door, closing and locking it. At the elevator, I commented on his bright neon green shirt and dark jeans, but he just shrugged me off. Another thing the women didn’t dig.

We got to the club and, to my surprise, got in pretty quickly for the amount of people there. The layout was pretty simple. There was a platform for tables and booths, and a long bar along the back wall, which was crowded with people. Two steps down from that was a huge dance area, with a shiny black-varnished floor and mirrors on the ceiling. A DJ was set up in one corner. The walls were painted deep reds and blues, except for the DJ’s corner, which was painted neon green. We made our way to the bar and had to shout over ten other customers to order our shots of tequila. We made Fire Perrys to start the night off. After that we went to the dance floor. A techno song was playing; like all techno songs, it started slow and got faster, with a loud pounding bass. A man tapped me on the shoulder and mouthed, Dance? I glanced at Mac, who mouthed, Go. I turned back around and started dancing with the stranger.

I swung my hips side to side, trying to keep up with his moves. He was all over the place as he danced, swinging his arms around and moving his feet in a two-step. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him. At one point he stepped on my foot, but I ignored it even though it bugged me that he might have gotten my new boots dirty.

After a half hour, I decided to sit down for a minute to catch my breath. I ordered a shot and a water to get some liquid into me, and looked around for Mac. He wasn’t visible anywhere over the mass of bobbing heads and twisting bodies. As I continued to look around, I noticed two men at a corner table observing the dancers. One of the men must have felt my eyes on him, because he turned to look at me. He gave me a half smile and slowly walked over to my table. A slower-paced song with a good beat came on. I looked up into his pale green eyes and he offered his hand. I took it, and he led me to the dance floor. He put his strong hands on my back and we moved to the music. His curly dark reddish-brown hair fell past his ears and framed his flawless oval face, complemented by deep-set round eyes and a pointed nose. He licked his thick lips and showed his perfect white teeth with a small smile. He looked to be around five-ten. With my heels on, our eyes met perfectly opposite one another. His silk black shirt swayed back and forth as we moved. A few buttons were undone to show his smooth chest. Leather pants hung on his hips that pressed against my bare thighs at different points when we moved. We stared at each other during each song that played; I felt like a feather floating in the warm brisk air.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find Mac staring at me, then at the man. He put his lips to my ear: I need to talk to you for a sec. I turned back to the man and put one finger up to let him know I would be right back. He nodded, and I turned to follow Mac off the dance floor.

That man is bad news, he said, his lips next to my ear.

Why? I asked.

I’ve heard that he plays the field. He has a new girl on his arm every week, Faith.

So he’s a player. Maybe I just want him for a week, I said, lying to Mac and myself. I never did that whole one-night-stand thing; it wasn’t me.

Just be careful, okay? Mac urged. I nodded that I would, then he added, How about we stay for a half hour more, then go. It’s a little after two now. I hadn’t realized it had gotten so late. It felt like just two minutes ago it had been 11:30. I nodded my head in agreement.

We parted, and I went back to the dance floor to find my mysterious dancing partner. I touched his arm, and he turned. I asked if he wanted a drink. He took my hand; we got some drinks and then found a table.

I started