Red

By Catherine Winters

Seven months ago, Josephine Berendt was a woman with a promising career, an inert social life, and no idea the vampires she wrote about were real. Now she's a rich and influential vampire who's reluctant to let go of her former life.

However, consorting with the likes of Grant Black and thwarting her enemies' well-laid plans won't give her the life she desires, either. While the ruling class tries to shore up its crumbling empire, Josephine must appease the grumbling masses and pay for the sins of her sire. And if that weren't enough, she soon realizes that her foes have not yet fully played their hand.

Amid worry for Max Spencer, fighting her love for Grant Black, and the pomp and circumstance of an Imperial covenmistress ceremony, Josephine has to unravel the opposition's plans and keep her coven safe — all while watching her own back and working to discover the limits of her power.

In RED, the stakes are higher, the games more dangerous, and Josephine's position ever more precarious. Will she unravel the twisted web before it's too late? Or will she fail her coven, her lover — and herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Winters
• Release date: Sep 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311171566

Catherine Winters

Catherine Winters has honed her signature snark in print and in real life since she was ten. Her love of pop culture, bad television, and worse music coupled with the collection of a lifetime's worth of useless trivia make her novels modern and witty.In addition to writing, Ms. Winters is the Social Media Director for the Gatsby Theatre Company in Colorado Springs, Colorado, and is employed as the principal mezzo-soprano for the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception in Denver.She lives in Denver with with her husband, daughter, and one demanding cat.

Book preview

RED

Josephine Book Two

An Imperial Vampires Novel

Catherine Winters

1st Edition published digitally September 15, 2014 and in Trade Paperback September 15, 2014 by Catherine Winters, United States, www.writingwinters.com

Cover Design by Colin Christie

RED

Copyright 2014, Catherine Winters

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. If you don’t know what that means, look it up.

Table of Contents

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Acknowledgments

About Catherine Winters

GOLD: Chapter One Preview

-1-

I gave Max my phone number.

Well, I mean, I had his, and somewhere between Rome and Paris and Budapest, I texted him. Some night when Grant was in meetings or holed up in the hotel Skyping, I got bored, and I went back to bad habits.

Bad habits. I'm so mean to him, I don't know why he puts up with me. Grant likes it, likes the edge on my tongue, the well-timed slap of an ill-tempered word. He'll deny it, of course, but he does. Max, though — Max always thought I was too cranky, too quick to curse and frown. He was careful not to irritate me. I appreciated that once.

Anyway. I got bored. The thing about being a fledgling is that it's hard. The world is as you knew it, and you still fit, but everyone around you is either an oblivious mortal or someone who mangles his idioms and doesn't understand Facebook. It's not simply that you feel alone; you are alone.

Except I wasn't. I had Max. Max and I were only four years apart; we had similar upbringings and all the same cultural touchstones. We remembered where we were when the Challenger exploded, when the Berlin Wall fell, when the Twin Towers tumbled. When our fangs came in.

So I would text him, and we would roll our metaphorical eyes together at every public-relations stop Grant planned for me, every ridiculous errand Mircalla sent him on. We were behaving like the children they'd turned us into, and we hid it with all the easy deception they'd taught us. Mircalla would only try to use the connection; Grant would probably kill us. One of these things is not like the others/ one of these things is a giant overreaction! Oh, Sesame Street. Will you ever not be applicable?

See? I could say that to Grant and he'd just stare at me or ask me to Please be serious, Josephine. C is neither for cookie nor good enough for Grant.

So the texting, right. Grant thought I was on the internet or something, I don't know. Though he hardly ever caught me at it, so maybe he didn't think about it at all. Especially since he didn't see the bills: I was paying my own way these days. Mostly. With money he gave me. But whatever, it was a gift, and I could use it however I wanted. That still counted. Right?

Yeah. Not if he found me texting Max, it wouldn't. It would all be gone, along with my flashy little convertible and the closet full of near-mythical size twenty designer clothes. And that would be the least of my problems.

Bad habits.

At least I wasn't punching people. In the scheme of things, textual infidelity was way less dangerous to everyone than taking my frustrations out on unsuspecting humans. In my opinion, anyway. I wasn't endangering anyone's secrecy; I certainly wasn't getting arrested again. No one had to clean up after me. I was just...keeping the darkness at bay.

Ugh, that sounds depressing and ungrateful, doesn't it. Maybe I was. Certainly, I was at loose ends. I had no job, no purpose. We were drifting across Europe, Grant working as hard as ever while I did nothing. This wasn't a vacation: I had nothing to go back to. It wasn't a honeymoon. It was — what? Escapism? Avoidance? I knew there were protocols we hadn't yet observed, obeisances I owed to the Colorado coven. Grant said they were flexible, that there was no timetable set for me. I also knew we'd only skimmed the surface of my power, but I was hardly eager to plunge into that mess. Aimlessness suited me far better than being set to someone else's dubious purpose, and I figured we could keep my freakiness quiet for at least as long as I remained inert. I didn't want to be a miracle baby, anyway. Though it was sort of fun to play the single tourist during the day when Grant was asleep or on conference calls. Men kept trying to buy me lunch; I was sad I couldn't let them.

Late October found us in Paris. Grant was Skyping in the parlor of the suite; I heard the rumble of his bass and an answering tinny tenor through the open door as I tried to read in the bedroom. We were supposed to go to the Louvre tonight; Grant had rented it out or bribed a security guard or something, I didn't know. Didn't care. I just wanted to see the Mona Lisa.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. Max.

Are you home yet?

Home. I snorted. I didn't even know what that meant. In CO? No. Paris.

Still?

Again.

He sent a smiley face. Ooh la la, tres posh. For how long?

Darling?

I jumped. Literally: my ass came off the bed by about two feet and a weak little screech fled my throat. Grant's lips twitched. Oh, yes, I'm so amusing.

Are you ready to go?

Sure. I shoved my phone in my pocket. He'd already turned around and headed into the other room, adjusting cuffs and collar, tightening his tie. He always made me feel underdressed.

You look lovely. I wouldn't buy you things I don't want you to wear.

What if I wanted to wear them? I slipped on my shoes, grabbed a cardigan.

Don't pick fights, my love. He turned away from the big mirror over the entryway console table. He held my shoulders, kissed my forehead. Whom were you texting?

Simmons. He wanted to know if we're planning on coming home soon.

Why would he ask you?

Because he likes me. That was true.

He opened the door, pushed me through with one hand on the small of my back. Would you like to go home?

I shrugged. I can do nothing anywhere you want me to.

He held my eyes as he pushed the elevator button, and I had a sudden flash of the view from my knees. I wouldn't say you do nothing, he said, slipping his hands in his pockets.

I slumped against the wall as my legs went watery. "Don't do that."

He smirked. You need to practice your telepathy.

So tell me knock-knock jokes.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the elevator, into him, into a kiss. But this is so much more rewarding. He swung us around, pinned me against the wall, hit the lobby button. Now, he said, lips against my throat as his hands busied themselves on my buttons, stop the elevator.

I reached for the control panel; he grabbed my wrist and held it down at my side.

Not with your hands. He popped the front clasp on my bra; I bit back a moan as he worked my nipples, pinching, rolling. Stop the elevator. We've gone three floors already.

I pictured the pulleys and counterweights, the distance down to the lobby, the car we were in. I pictured us slowing, and felt the car react, and then Grant's hand was between my thighs and I rocked my hips to meet him.

You're not concentrating. He thought this was funny. We'd end up with the doors open and my tits hanging out and god-knew-what else exposed and he'd smirk at me for failing. Fuck that.

Pulleys. Counterweights. Car. Suspended in the shaft, slowing, slowing, even as Grant's teeth scraped my throat and his hand pulled down my zipper. Fingers on me, in me, stroking, stroking, and I almost lost it, but we were approaching the third floor and I was not so sanguine about being found in a compromising position as he was. The pulleys halted; the counterweights bobbed; the car stopped. Between the lobby and the second floor.

Very nice. His voice was a rumbling purr against my skin, keeping time with the rhythm of his fingers inside me, his thumb against me. You deserve a reward.

And as if it were a command, I tightened around him, losing my feet, clinging to him as he buried his fangs in my flesh, as I threw my head back and wallowed in the pleasure. More, I panted, greedy girl that I am, you, and reached for his button, his zipper.

Not now, he said, dodging my hands as he righted my bra and started rebuttoning my blouse. I gave up, lolling against the wall of the elevator, letting him support me. He didn't seem ruffled at all. We have an appointment. He hit the lobby button again, and I panicked for a second before I realized I was completely put together, not even a hair on my head out of place.

Killjoy. The doors opened and we walked through the young honeymooners and the old tourists, two beautiful people off to glamorous pursuits. Or so they thought, loudly, as we passed them.

He grinned at me as he pushed me through the door and into the car waiting at the curb. I wonder if I will ever tire of your enthusiasm, Darling.

Don't worry, I said, scooting over to make room for him. You won't.

****

I was hoping for some especially memorable semi-public sex, but apparently the way to tour the Louvre after-hours is to be shadowed by a pair of security guards. We could barely have a conversation, and that only because we could talk too low for humans to hear.

So why make me practice now? I was as close as I could legally get to the Mona Lisa, which is so much smaller than you think it'll be. It's beautiful, of course, and I highly recommend making the trip—and braving the tourists—because it's one of those things everyone should see. Grant had just got done some long, rambling story about daVinci and Renaissance art and blah blah blah, all veiled in the diction of an art-history textbook. He'd told me stories of Italy at the turn of the sixteenth century before, but nothing personal. Which meant Something Had Happened, but I knew better than to press him about it. He wouldn't have told me in the first place, and it probably would have made me think less of him in the second.

Because the honeymoon's over, he said in my head.

Stop it. I'm not interested in getting better at this shit.

You fear your talents?

I fear what use you people will put me to.

We moved on to the next piece. To what use I will put you.

Mircalla knows what I can do. She'd make a tool of me just as easily.

One of the guards coughed, shifted in his spot. Notice the brush strokes, Grant said, loudly enough to be heard. "Voyez comment ils ajoutent de la profondeur?"

I don't speak French.

You should learn. More important, though, they do. I'm instructing you about art.

I'll learn French instead of telepathy, how's that?

Terrible. I already speak French.

Because I should only learn what's useful to you?

Why else would you?

I opened my mouth, ready for outrage, when his lips twitched. He was joking. You really need to warn me before you start trying to be funny.

Trying?

Trying.

We walked in silence for several minutes. The guards kept right up with us.

How did you arrange this, anyway?

I'm rich and famous, Darling. There are exceptions made for people like us.

Like you.

Us. Your name got me farther than mine did.

I frowned. I didn't like him using my former self for fringe benefits. I wasn't allowed to use me. Was I? I wasn't dead, exactly, but I had effectively disappeared from the tiny circle of fame I'd inhabited just a year ago. I wasn't even supposed to be Josephine Berendt anymore.

I'd interrupted the curator's reading, Darling. I don't throw our connection into the ether just to see what comes back to me.

I doubted that, but didn't say so. So they just open up for anyone who claims the paparazzi are following them?

For an outrageous fee, yes. It is assumed if you can pay the fee, you must at the very least not want to be crammed in here with the great unwashed.

I could have come by myself.

You act as if I derive no pleasure from this, as if I do nothing but work and rescue you from yourself.

Excuse me? I turned away from the Giotto on the wall. Rescue me from myself?

He sighed. Josephine—

"I had no need of rescuing until you and Max started using me as a pawn in international vampire politics."

Yes. That life of isolationist boredom you'd constructed wasn't a prison at all. He stared down at me, one brow raised, waiting for me to tell him he was full of shit, and I loved my life.

Which would only make me full of shit. I turned back to the painting. I reserve the right to quibble with your word choice.

Fine. He took my hand, lacing our fingers together. I presented you with an exciting new opportunity that had some unfortunate drawbacks.

I snorted. Much better.

Are you unhappy?

With you?

He nodded.

I was surprised he'd thought about it. It wasn't like I had a choice anymore—or ever. It's all very well and good to point out that, yes, he insisted on my consent for everything, but what would you have chosen? Really? From the moment Max opened his stupid mouth in my living room, my course was set. Why the sudden concern?

You seem—restless.

Aimless.

He looked a question at me.

I have nothing to do, Grant. No occupation. I bore easily. There are only so many romance novels I can read before I start to get—twitchy.

Perhaps you could learn your history instead.

Perhaps you could talk to me like I'm a genuine grown-up.

In this, my love, you are a child.

Well, that makes the start of our evening kind of icky, doesn't it?

He scowled at me. Josephine.

What? Grant, you've had a year to adjust. I'm not— I waved my hand—whatever it is you'd prefer. Someone staid and brooding, apparently. I pulled my hand out of his. "Are you unhappy?"

No.

But irritated.

It's a ridiculous conversation.

That you started.

"Yes. I am irritated that you seem not to take any of this seriously. This is not a joke, Josephine. It's not some television show waiting for your witty commentary. There are people who want us dead—some of them within our own coven. Perhaps you should rethink your chosen lack of occupation, Darling, because I can think of plenty of things for you to do."

The guard coughed.

My phone buzzed.

Simmons? He didn't look at me.

I don't know who it is. I didn't even reach for it.

Of course you don't.

His voice was low and deadly; I ignored that, too. What are you worried about? Augustus is in jail—

Ruthven isn't. And if you think Augustus will remain restrained for very long, you have far more faith in Mircalla Karnstein than is healthy or reasonable. Her vampires are on the verge of open revolt. She has bigger problems than keeping you or me safe from people whose enmity we deserve.

Oh, yes, I injured them both so grievously.

You could have shown some respect to your elders.

They tried to kill me! One of the guards shuffled, and I realized how loud I was. I repeated myself more quietly. They tried to kill me. I don't think I should feel guilty about defending myself.

My phone buzzed again. God, Max's timing just would never get better.

Give me the phone. Grant held out his hand.

Don't be ridiculous. I took it out of my pocket, silenced it, and returned it. There. It's off. You can finish berating me in peace.

He frowned and rounded the corner into the next gallery. I am not berating you.

I snorted. Then what, precisely, are you doing?

Reminding you of your responsibilities.

Because I'm your child, or because I'm a weapon?

Both.

I stopped; he continued walking. I'm a weapon.

He half-turned to face me. Of course.

We were back where we started: the uses they'd put me to. I do not have a responsibility to let you use me as you see fit.

He turned back to the wall. You will.

I grabbed his arm, forced him to face me. "I will?"

He plucked my fingers from his sleeve, stared at the security guards. I told you there were expectations of you.

You failed to mention that I would be at the mercy of your moods in such service.

The look he gave me was withering. Darling, by now, I shouldn't have to.

Oh, fuck this. I turned on a heel and stomped the length of the gallery. "Sortie? I asked the guard, barely remembering from my short-lived high school French career. Crap, articles. Le sortie?"

He gestured, then looked at Grant as if my wishes had no sway.

I don't need fucking permission. I followed the waving of his hand and made the street in less than five minutes. I started back to the hotel.

Grant didn't follow.

****

Unbelievable.

No, I had to take that back. It was perfectly believable. I was just the idiot who'd let herself enjoy the past couple months of peace and forgotten whom I was fucking. He didn't love me. He didn't need me. He wanted me because I was powerful, because I could keep Mircalla from reining him in. He just wanted to use me.

I stopped. Someone ran into me and swore.

He just wanted to use me.

And I cared about that why?

Fuck. I started moving again, double-time, fast enough (I hoped) to make the hotel before Grant would, not fast enough to alarm Jean Q. Publique on the street with me.

I'd fallen for it. Fallen for the stupid shtick, the I love yous and the great sex, fallen for the money and the supposedly benign paternalism. He'd spent months—no, most of the last year—maneuvering me into a position from which I'd give him anything, do anything he asked of me. Asshole.

I heard that. He was standing in the doorway of the hotel room, holding the door open for me.

Good, I said, pushing him aside and heading for the closet and my luggage. Then I won't have to repeat myself.

He let the door close, leaned against it. He'd been here long enough to hang up his jacket and tie, put away his cufflinks and collar studs. He must have called the car around immediately after I left. Are you leaving me?

My hand stilled above the handle of my suitcase. Was I? Maybe.

You're angry.

I slumped onto the edge of the bed. I'm not a weapon or a tool.

He inclined his head. Which is a lovely sentiment, Darling, but unfortunately untrue.

Grant—

He held up a hand. Allow me, please, to explain before you raise your dudgeon.

I nodded.

He sat on the opposite corner of the bed, carefully not touching me, so I would have nothing to accuse him of if he couldn't talk me down. How could he know me so well, when I didn't know him at all?

You know me. You just—forgot. I wanted you to.

I felt his eyes on me, but I stared at the wall and waited. I'd figured that much out on my own.

If circumstances had been kinder, you would still be human now.

That's not comforting.

"Isn't it?

"You would have made the choice to die or not. It should not have been up to me, or Augustus, or the laws of the Empire. It should have been something you asked for, studied for, prepared for.

Despite what you might believe, there was no way to know how you'd turn out. There never is. Some of us are simply—better. More powerful or harder to kill. There are too many variables to be able to predict anything with any measure of accuracy. So, no: I did not seek you out for your capabilities. I did not groom you because I knew you would be—what is it you always say? A 'miracle baby'?

I nodded. Then why?

Because I like beauty. I read your novels. I liked them. They were sharp and funny and complicated, and the photograph of you on the backs of them was perfect.

I looked up at him. So, what? You fell in love with my words?

You don't think that's possible.

"I don't think it's possible for you."

And all his goodwill was gone. Just—evaporated, pulled back into him. Whether or not it was the truth was immaterial: it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

Well. He stood, pulled my suitcase out of the closet. You're certainly not alone in that opinion.

Grant.

Since circumstances were not kind, he piled my clothes into the case, "here we are. You're resentful, I'm foolish, and it doesn't matter what you could do to help us, because you don't want to be used."

Grant, stop it. I grabbed his hands, expecting to get hit, but he just stood still. I sighed. I'm sorry.

He sat again, bringing me with him, winding his fingers through mine. Why are we always apologizing to each other?

Damned if I know. Six hundred years, you can't figure it out?

He smirked at me. Is there any situation that doesn't call for a joke?

Not that I've found.

"I'm not keeping you around to