Hell…O!

By Carys Weldon

Sexy vampire Bo-bierre’s done with demon work. He’s lonely, missing his maker, Josefina. He gets some of the devil’s minions to stake him out in the desert, but the devil hears about it and comes to make him a deal.

To get love in hell is a real trick. If you do the hundred years, you get one night to convince your soul mate, and bring her over to the dark side. Just how far down will someone be willing to go for love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mojocastle Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781601801784

Book preview

http://www.mojocastle.com/

Also By Carys Weldon:

Caresses Well Done

Angel B.E.T.

Come With Carys Series

The Pack Series

Destra and the Lustpire

Acknowledgements:

I can't thank my husband enough. I know I got lucky. Ditto with my publisher, Stephanie Kelsey, who understands the stories I write. And with my editor, Matthew Caldwell, who tells me where to put the commas...and other things. Thanks for your patience, all of you. And to my readers...what would be the point if you didn't read what I write? Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Dedication:

This story is for those who are looking for a soul-mate, someone who gets us. Now, this story supposes that reincarnation is possible. I'm not saying I believe it—or that I don't. As far as I'm concerned, the jury's still out. But for the sake of the story, it is fictionally (at least) true. What I do believe to be completely certain is that we can recognize our soul-mate, even if the package changes, because who we are is inside of us. This story is written to give you hope... you will find your soul mate. Don't give up!

Chapter One

Splayed out on a rock in the middle of Death Valley, flat on his back in a cross, the vampire Bo-bierre waited for sunrise. He did his best not to worry about how that would feel. Off and on, he muttered under his breath, occasionally yelling, Curse Lucifer and all he owns!

While the hours of darkness passed, the silence of the desert encroached upon his psyche. He had no visitors, nor did he expect any. He awaited oblivion.

Bo-bierre wiled away the time by torturing himself with vague memories of how life was before he became what he was. Inevitably, he came to another time he had been tied up, a time he could never forget, the day he was made.

It came against his will—such a bittersweet recollection. His mind dredged up the image of the common French village where he was born, with its stone buildings, thatch roofs and dirt and cobble streets. He heard the steady clip of his donkey’s hooves as they came down the road to the old library.

Bo-bierre pulled the animal up with a Ho!

The sunset slipped like a raw goose egg over the white capped Morvan mountains in the distance. It arrested him from atop his delivery wagon. He felt the last warming rays of the orange-gold light upon his cheeks. But a chill wind swept in, and cut short his all-too-brief thoughts of how beautiful the sunset was, and how he wished he had someone to share it with.

Hopping off the board seat, Bo-bierre secured the reins and went around to the back, lifting the first heavy bundle of paper. It took him over an hour to unload everything, and more than that to carry it all inside and stack it properly in the storeroom.

During that time, patrons came and went. But, as he passed through the bookcases near the end of his trek, he glimpsed a deceptively average looking woman with brown hair and brown eyes. She slipped between the bookcases of the old library, letting her fingers trail across the dusty tomes above her nose. The light, dawdling caress caught his attention.

Once his dirty work was done and he’d used the washroom, he noted the steward near the door, at his counter, jangling the keys, with payment in hand—ready to lock up for the night. Bo-bierre wondered if the man knew he had another patron still in the building.

On impulse, he detoured from the straight path to the exit, seeking the girl out, thinking he could offer her a ride home. The evening had grown late. No light filtered through the windows at all. Surely, she would not want to walk if she had another option?

The library was warmed only by candlelight. It cast a soft glow upon everything. But it was no place to spend the entire night.

He approached her with trepidation. Mademoiselle, if I may be so bold…?

Bo-bierre stepped closer and she, of course, withdrew farther into the aisle, keeping her distance. He tried again. I am Bo-bierre Du Chene, apprentice to my father. You may have heard of the printer, Bo-bienne.

She smiled. Du Chene. Yes. I know of him. She averted her eyes. If you would excuse me.

His pursuit was interrupted by the steward returning with a voucher for the delivery, an obvious attempt to speed up the leaving of the property. The keys jangled pointedly.

Yes, thank you, he said, placing the parchment inside his coat. The young lady—

I am ready to lock the doors.

Of course, and in a moment you shall.

When Bo-bierre found her next, she had a large book in her hands. He thought he spied the symbol of the church on its spine.

But his recollection was slim on that. Surely, he was wrong there.

He heard a hiss just before he rounded the corner and saw her quickly press the end of her scarf to the palm of her hand.

Again, he approached with an apology and a quick look around. He knew that no one, save the steward, himself and the woman were in the library. And those keys were jangling somewhere, not too far behind him. Mademoiselle?

Josefina, she corrected, slipping the book into its resting place. Turning to him, she added, You are persistent.

Prudishly wrapped in a woolen scarf twined around her head and throat, fondling the yarn of it often, the somewhat mousy woman intrigued him. He had never been drawn to a studious woman before. What manner of female would waste her night at a library? That pursuit was for young schoolboys, old crones and stodgy men, and, perhaps the type that consider entering nunneries and the like.

Young men of marriageable caliber were rarely seen wasting time in such an establishment. So, by Bo-bierre’s reasoning, a young woman had nothing to titillate her here.

She seemed so demure, with her hair hidden and the furtive glances in his direction. Again she edged away. And step by step, he followed her, watching the movements of her body beneath her swishing skirt.

He liked the way she inhaled deeply when she glanced up on each notice of his lurking, for they slipped a circle around the bookcases. She seemed nervous, and he suspected it was because she was without a man’s supervision.

Something in her gaze spoke to his inner restlessness and he, a gauche young man finally, tentatively, got smart and headed her off. "Look. The steward wishes to