The Summoning (A Celtic in the Blood Novel)

By Paula Black

Liam McShane fancies himself as the village stud. Not difficult in a rural Irish backwater that boasts a bigger population of sheep than humans. Life is simple, until a fanged encounter with the mythical Dearg Due leaves him trapped in the limbo of the undead, where he must drink blood or face the prospect of becoming a mindless, flesh-eating revenant.
And Liam isn't the only one in Crooke guarding a secret. He meets his match in Hollywood movie star in hiding Odette Taylor. Escaping a past that's come back to haunt her, the media backlash of a sex tape that's gone viral, and an aggressive fiancé, she's come to the rural backwater hoping to find peace. Instead she encounters a horde of rabid paparazzi, all too eager to feast on the carcass of her tarnished celebrity stardom.
Her unlikely saviour is a hapless, hunky vampire who's failing miserably at keeping a low profile. Liam and Odette find themselves increasingly embroiled in the train-wrecks of each other's lives, and it's all good fun, until somebody gets hurt. Then the Lost Boy of Crooke finds he has some serious growing-up to do.
The vampire and the movie star, a star-crossed couple with no foreseeable future together, must battle gods, mythical monsters and the relentless media if they are to stand the smallest chance of getting out of this mess unscathed.

Although this is the second in the Celtic in The Blood series, it can be read as a standalone.
18+ for explicit sexual content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paula Black
• Release date: Dec 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310388118

Paula Black

The writing duo Jess Raven and Paula Black

Book preview

THE SUMMONING

A Celtic in the Blood Novel

by

PAULA BLACK

www.ravenandblack.blogspot.com

twitter @RavenandBlack

Published by Raven & Black.

Copyright 2014 Paula Black

Smashwords Edition, 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 recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

PROLOGUE

It started with a bite.

No, that’s not true.

I know now it started years before, with a stolen car, a dead bird, and a conversation between my teenage self and my grieving father.

She’s dying, Liam.

No, she’s not.

With his hair shot with grey, and those deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, my dad looked like he’d aged twenty years in the past month.

The doctors say the cancer’s spread to her liver and bones –

Shut up! I growled, pushing to my feet, brushing off the hand of comfort he tried to extend.

As long as he didn’t voice it, then it wasn’t true.

The bald, emaciated wraith wheezing upstairs in that bedroom wasn’t my mother. She was a Frankenstein’s monster the doctors had created with their poisonous drugs and morphine pumps. My mother had long dark lashes, like me and my sister. The thing in the bed had lash-less, red-rimmed, reptile eyes. The monster didn’t know my name, didn’t put her arms around me, or tell me off when I screwed things up. How could anyone mistake it for my mother?

My sister, Darcy, threw her arms around our dad and sobbed into his green woollen sweater. How could she stand it? He’d worn that thing for a week straight, and it stank of the burnt offerings he’d been putting on the table in lieu of my mum’s cooking.

I’m out of here, I said, yanking too hard at the living room door.

They’re trying a new drug, Dad called, as part of a clinical trial –

It was too little, too late. I flipped the locks on the front door, and was on my way out when I spotted the keys to my dad’s pride and joy: his nineteen-sixty five Fastback Ford Mustang GT. American import, Rangoon Red, with a V8 engine and a black leather pony interior. If I so much as breathed on the thing, he’d kick my ass.

I snatched up the keys and slammed the door on my way out.

The engine revs and gear-crunching – I was too young to apply for my driver’s licence – brought my dad running, but I was already accelerating into the night.

I drove for miles, pedal to the metal, tearing up the coast road with my rage. As long as I kept moving, I didn’t have to think.

The fuel tank gave in before my anger subsided, and the car came puttering to a stop within view of the big house on the hill. Bronach, it was called, the Irish word for sadness.

There was no sadness in me, only the righteous fury of a kid denied what life owed him.

I punched the wheel and jumped out of the car, yelling into the roar of the wind. The waves below crashed in response, and snatching up a handful of stones, I fired them, one after another, into the sea.

A caw from up on the rocks caught my attention, and my gaze darted up to see the lone magpie perched high above me.

One for sorrow, I thought. Two for joy.

Where’s your partner?

Where’s your fucking partner! Curling my fingers around a jaggedly pointed stone, I cocked back my arm and hurled it at the bird.

Maybe I never meant to hit the thing, maybe I did. Maybe I wasn’t thinking at all, but the magpie screeched and tumbled down the rocks in a flurry of white and petrol-blue feathers.

I stalked over to where the bird had fallen, furious at it for not just flying away like it was supposed to.

With its twig legs jutting out at weird angles, the bird stared up at me from the ground with cold, lash-less, reptilian eyes. Silently accusing me.

Tears stung my eyes. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. It was dirty, because my dad hadn’t figured out how to do the laundry yet. I wrapped the thing around the injured bird and picked it up, cradling it in my hands.

You’re not dying, I screamed at it. You can’t die on me. I won’t let you.

CHAPTER ONE

Well, look who’s having his five minutes of fame. Mal unfolded the rumpled copy of the Crooke Echo he’d found on the seat and proceeded to read aloud. "As the inhabitants of our small town pick themselves up from the aftermath of the worst storm to hit this part of the Irish coastline in over a decade, one young resident has emerged as a local hero. He smirked over at me and nodded. That’d be you, Liam."

I glowered and stared over his head towards the bar. Where’s that damn waitress with our beers anyway?

Amused, Mal leaned back in his chair, having none of it. "Liam McShane, he read, aged twenty seven, a native of Crooke and manager of a struggling real estate agency –"

Struggling? My frown deepened.

"– took his life in his hands when he went to rescue his sister after she failed to return from a viewing of the Bronach House property on the Hook Head Peninsula.

Battling the raging elements, brave Liam rowed across the bay, only to find his sister, Darcy McShane, and her American client, Mr Jack Pembroke, under attack from the escaped dog that had already claimed the life of local farmer and respected member of the community, John Joe Walsh. God rest his soul."

My brows popped. God rest his soul? Does it actually say that?

Sure does. Mal nodded. Who writes this clichéd crap anyway?

That’d be Teresa Murphy. Remember her from school?

Mal frowned. Was she the one who’d hang around the bicycle sheds and offer to show you her knickers for a euro?

It was twenty cents actually.

We both laughed.

That’s inflation for you. She got her diploma in media studies at the local technical school, and now she fancies herself as the village scoop.

Mal shook his head. Not much has changed while I’ve been away then.

Nope. Welcome back to rural Ireland, my friend. When the parish priest farts here, it makes the front page.

Your heroics must be big news so.

Much to my annoyance, Mal went back to reading the article. Silently, I cursed whoever had left the newspaper lying around. The nightmares were enough; I didn’t need any more reminders of what happened that night up at Bronach, not even the half truths the village had concocted to explain away what couldn’t be explained.

"With no concern for his own safety, Liam tackled the vicious animal, and both he and Mr Pembroke were later airlifted to hospital with life threatening injuries. A search party of local farmers tracked the animal down to a nearby field, where it was found worrying sheep, and was shot on sight.

The heartbroken owner of the black mastiff named Brutus admitted the dog had been spooked by the storm and had escaped its yard, but insisted the animal was a family pet and had never shown any tendency towards aggressive behaviour. Mal paused. They always say that, though, don’t they?"

Yeah. Poor old Brutus, I thought, a stray caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. If they only knew what had really attacked us that night... Ah beer, at last, I said, taking the opportunity to snatch the Echo out of his hands.

The waitress’s smile was all for Mal as she served us. Ally, or was it Abbey? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the curvy redhead’s name. Mal dropped an obscene tip onto her tray, and her chest went pneumatic. Word got around fast in a small place like Crooke, and Dr. Malachy Fitzsimons – newly returned from Trinity College with a crisp medical degree and a well oiled wallet – would be a real catch for Abigail, or whatever her name was. Moistening her lips, she slid a Post it across the table in his direction, and a sneer in mine. I cracked a yawn, scratching at the two day stubble on my jaw, while Mal’s eyes followed the hypnotic bounce of her ass all the way back to the bar.

I’d tap that, he said, turning back to check out the digits she’d scrawled on the Post it.

Been there, done that.

Mal cocked a brow in my direction and exhaled a droll laugh. Of course you have.

I tilted the bottle to my grinning mouth and drank deep, wincing at the taste. Go there if you want to. I don’t do jealous.

And I don’t do sloppy seconds. Mal scrunched up the yellow square of paper and tossed it away.

She’s still pissed at me. I shrugged. Don’t know why. They know what they’re getting with me.

You wounded her pride. Mal tugged off his blazer and hung it on the back of his chair. Women see you as a challenge, Liam. He pointed his beer in my direction. She failed to bring you to your knees. That’s why she’s pissed.

Balancing on the back legs of the chair, I shook my head. Never been the kneeling kind.

You don’t say. Mal laughed and took a slug of his beer. I’d do it, he murmured, staring down at the sticky pub floor, you know, for the right girl.

I glanced up at Mal, eyes wide, and amusement played at the corners of my mouth.

Stop the press. Malachy Fitzsimons is looking to settle down?

Gotta grow up sometime, right? he said, shrugging off the shame.

Speak for yourself, my friend. Time was, Mal and I had earned the nickname of the Lost Boys: never gonna grow up, never gonna settle down.

Mal put his beer down on the table and ran the pad of his thumb over the wet label. I’d have thought an intimate encounter with a life support machine might get you thinking about priorities, know what I mean?

Not really. I shook my head. True, since the night of the attack, I’d been questioning a whole lot of things, not least my sanity, but settling down wasn’t one of them. I tilted my head to one side and looked over the guy who’d been my best friend since Kindergarten. Even with the jacket off and the button down shirt open at the neck, he looked all business, clean shaven and slicked back. Mal really had grown up. Whereas I still felt like the teenager I’d been when he left for university. Besides I laughed, who’d have me? I’ve burned a lot of bridges here in Crooke.

So I see.

You leave anyone behind in Dublin?

Mal shook his head and hesitated. I ah, I was half hoping Darcy might be around tonight. I watched the heat of embarrassment crawl up his cheeks.

I scrubbed at my forehead and exhaled before breaking the news. She’s met someone, Mal. The American in the article, Jack Pembroke. Turns out he’s heir to the Bronach estate. Seems pretty serious between them. She’s as good as moved into the big house with him.

I see. Mal cleared his throat and his eyes skipped away.

Wow. I never knew you felt that way about –

It’s fine, really. You’re out, he said, nodding to my empty beer. Same again? My round.

I frowned at him. You got the last one. Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. The agency’s doing fine. Male pride would never allow me to admit otherwise. This is just my casual look. I spread my arms to display my ripped jeans and band T shirt.

You look, ah, artfully dishevelled.

The ladies don’t complain.

Still up to your old tricks, Mal muttered.

Always. Now let me buy you another beer. Think I’m gonna have to pass though. That last one tasted funky. I pressed a hand to my stomach and cracked a yawn. You think Ally, Abbey, whats her name put something in mine? I wouldn’t put it past her.

Tastes fine to me, Mal replied, necking his own bottle. You okay, man? You seem a little off your game.

Yeah. Haven’t been sleeping too great. That was an understatement. Since the attack, my biological clock was all out of whack. By day, I’d fall into the dreamless sleep of the dead. By night, my restless thoughts ran marathons, replaying the night’s events on a continuous loop: Rowing across the bay to rescue Darcy; John Joe’s bloated body floating on the waves; the creature on the rocks, luring me to a willing death; the pleasure pain of her bite, and then the weightlessness, washing through me as my lifeblood drained away. Those were the good dreams. On my worst nights, I suffered flashbacks to my teenage years, when my parents first got sick. As they did so often lately, my fingers sought out the mangled flesh at my throat, needing the constant physical reminder that what happened the night of the storm was real.

Lost your appetite too? Mal asked, looking pointedly at the hardened grease forming on the burger and fries I’d ordered but not eaten.

Just the smell of the food turned my stomach. Shit, I don’t know. I ran a hand down my face. "Maybe I’m coming down with something. My concentration is shot to hell lately. I feel kinda like I’ve been unplugged from the world around me. Does that make any sense?

You heard of post traumatic stress disorder Liam?

I looked up at him with eyes full of scepticism. You trying to play doctor with me, Mal?

Wouldn’t dream of it.

Good, because that game’s only fun when there are nurses involved. Now let me get you that drink, I said, dusting off my thighs.

Who’s the peach at the bar? Mal asked.

I looked up and followed his gaze to the lone woman perched on one of the high stools. Dressed in black yoga pants and a form fitting long sleeve shirt, her blonde hair was pinned up off a slender neck. She had a killer figure from behind, nipped in at the waist, spreading out to a heart shaped ass that kissed the leather seat like the answer to a starving man’s prayer.

Never seen her. I shrugged like I really couldn’t care less, but my hungry gaze didn’t waver.

You mean to say there’s a woman in Crooke you haven’t nailed?

I think I’d remember her. You wanna go talk to her? Ask her out?

Nah. She’s probably married.

I don’t see a husband.

For all we know, she’s got walleyes and a moustache.

Want me to find out? Tell you what. I’ll get you her number. I owe you, for the barmaid. I stood up with a grin and cracked my neck.

What are you going to say to her? Mal asked warily.

I snatched a white napkin off the table and bared my teeth in a grin. I’m going to ask her if this smells like chloroform.

Mal’s jaw hinged open. What?

My eyes rolled. I’m just going to ask her for her number. That’s all.

I sauntered up to the bar and slid onto a vacant stool next to the mysterious stranger. Abbey, Anna, whats her name, ignored my attempt to order. She turned her back to me and took to dusting the neglected bottles of whiskey on the top shelf.

The woman beside me pushed her glass along the bar in my direction, cleared her throat, and spoke in a buttery soft American accent. Excuse me, but does this water smell like Rohypnol to you?

I dropped my face in my hand and laughed. You heard me talking to my friend, didn’t you?

Uh huh. She inclined her head and retrieved her drink. From the gentle upturn of her nose to the soft pout of her pink mouth, her profile struck me as inherently feminine. Not a hairy lip in sight.

It was a joke.

I sure hope so. She turned to face me with laughter dancing in her expressive, feline eyes. Those baby blues both even pointed in the same direction, but I resisted the juvenile urge to thumbs up my friend across the room.

I dropped my hands into my lap and gave a guilty shrug. I’d never actually use a line like that.

I hope not. You should know, she said, drinking deep, I can sniff out a player at fifty paces.

Cool, I laughed and whispered conspiratorially, can you scent it in our blood, like the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang could sniff out children?

Oh Lord, she said, spluttering her water, to this day, that movie creeps me the hell out. A shudder ran through her body, making her breasts jiggle in a way that was definitely NC 17. Your traumatic childhood explains a lot though, she added, pointing her drink at me.

The jibe struck a little too close to home. It lodged in my chest like heartburn. I crossed my arms and half turned in her direction. Okay, now I’m curious, I said, inflating my lungs. What exactly does a player smell like?

She tipped up her chin and sniffed the air as she spoke. Cocky. He reeks of testosterone and cheap flattery, with a heavy undercurrent of low self worth, and the deep, woody base notes of smoke blown up my ass.

Ouch, I laughed, tugging