Duet in Blood

By J.P. Bowie

Book three in the My Vampire and I Series

Micah Fitzgerald, still hurting from a recent breakup, finds himself intrigued, and then captivated by Joseph Meyer, a handsome and sophisticated stranger he meets in a west Hollywood bar. Very quickly, Micah finds himself falling in love with Joseph and, through him, is drawn into a world of elegant and fascinating people.

When Joseph disappears on a supposed business trip, Micah is frustrated by the man's close friends who seem unwilling to give him any information or allow him to help in the search. When he challenges Marcus Verano, Joseph's closest friend, and accuses him of hiding the truth, Micah discovers a great deal more than he even bargained for.

Taken hostage by Joseph's long-time enemies, Micah is presented with two choices. Either join the forces of evil, or allow his lover to induct him into the seductive dark world of the vampires. Even after he makes his choice, Micah finds that danger and treachery threaten him, and the man he now loves unconditionally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pride Publishing
• Release date: Aug 25, 2008
• ISBN: 9781906590949

J.P. Bowie

J.P. Bowie: I was born and raised in Scotland. Moved to London and worked in several West End shows before immigrating to the United States. First port of call was Las Vegas where I worked backstage with the Siegfried and Roy Show at the Mirage Hotel as Head of Wardrobe for the legendary stars. Another move more recently took me and my husband Phil to San Diego where we intend to stay! Love sunny San Diego.

Book preview

Duet in Blood

ISBN # 978-1-906590-94-9

©Copyright J.P. Bowie 2008

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright November 2017

Edited by Michele Paulin

Pride Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2017 by Pride Publishing, UK

Pride Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

My Vampire and I

DUET IN BLOOD

J.P. Bowie

Book three in the My Vampire and I series

His one night of love will bring him more than he ever dreamed of…

Micah Fitzgerald, still hurting from a recent breakup, finds himself intrigued, and then captivated by Joseph Meyer, a handsome and sophisticated stranger he meets in a west Hollywood bar. Very quickly, Micah finds himself falling in love with Joseph and, through him, is drawn into a world of elegant and fascinating people.

When Joseph disappears on a supposed business trip, Micah is frustrated by the man’s close friends who seem unwilling to give him any information or allow him to help in the search. When he challenges Marcus Verano, Joseph’s closest friend, and accuses him of hiding the truth, Micah discovers a great deal more than he even bargained for.

Taken hostage by Joseph’s long-time enemies, Micah is presented with two choices. Either join the forces of evil, or allow his lover to induct him into the seductive dark world of the vampires. Even after he makes his choice, Micah finds that danger and treachery threaten him, and the man he now loves unconditionally.

Dedication

For my husband Phil…always, and for Michele Paulin, a writer’s best friend.

Thanks also to the staff at Pride Publishing for their ongoing support, and of course to all those who love a good vampire tale!

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Michelob: Anheuser-Busch, Incorporated

Armani: GA Modefine S.A. Corporation

Bud: Anheuser-Busch, Incorporated

Spiderman: Marvel Comics

Delta: Delta Air Lines, Inc.

Heckel and Jeckel: Terrytoons

Ralph Lauren: PRL USA Holdings, Inc.

Frederick’s of Hollywood: Frederick’s of Hollywood, Inc.

American Airlines: American Airlines, Inc.

Prologue

From the journal of Joseph Meyer

Hundreds of years ago, before even I was born, in the time historians call the Dark Ages, a war was waged between two supernatural powers. On one side, a race of immortal warriors, men and women collectively called Vampires. On the other, members of a cult named the Wizard Brotherhood.

The wizards had discovered that drinking vampire blood would bring them longevity in life—not immortality, but a life-span much beyond that of mortal man. Yet, they wanted more, and to that end, they became hunters of the vampire, using their dark magical powers to snare an unwary vampire and bleed him or her dry, before throwing the luckless victim into the sunlight, to be reduced to ashes in the blink of an eye.

Through artifice and deception, the wizards were successful for a time, but then the vampires rose up under a new leader, a man who had been a Roman warrior, trained and skilled in the art of war. His name was Marcus Lucius Verano, and under his leadership, the vampire army defeated the Wizard Brotherhood, destroying their strongholds, and scattering those few survivors to the winds.

But a faction of vampires was jealous of Marcus Verano’s success and the love and respect his followers had for him. They openly scorned his philosophy that the humans from whom all vampires must take nourishment should not be injured or killed during the feeding.

Why kill those who have gifted their blood to us? he asked his fellow vampires. Of what benefit is that to us? It only evokes fear and mistrust in their hearts. A mortal man or woman has not the power to overcome us. If we are in danger, we are stronger and can escape at lightning speed. There is no need for death nor injury to be inflicted on any mortal.

His words were greeted with derision by those who sought to depose him, and after harsh and hostile arguments, it was decided that those dissenters should choose a leader and go their own way. Marcus was unhappy with this decision, for he saw it as a weakening of the vampire solidarity that had brought down the Wizard Brotherhood—but worse was to come.

The wizards had invented a weapon conjured from magic, a device that could simulate the sun’s rays, causing death by fire for any vampire caught in its lethal light. It had been seized by the vampires during the last battle and destroyed, but Darius, the new leader of the breakaway group had the formula in his possession and offered it to the surviving wizards in return for knowledge of their magic. It was his belief that the Dark Arts, together with vampire powers, could produce a force that would be unbeatable.

Darius called those who followed him, the Dark Forces.

It was not long before Darius challenged Marcus, asking by what right he had elected himself leader. Marcus replied that he had not elected himself their leader, and indeed, he had no wish to remain in that position. His only thought had been the preservation of the vampire race.

Darius would not consent to conciliation, urging those who agreed with him, and any others who found Marcus to be a weak leader, to follow him. In the fight for survival that followed, the Dark Forces were driven underground by Marcus’ superior army. There they remained for hundreds of years, perfecting the magic the wizards had given them and propagating the belief that vampires were cold-blooded killers whose bite would bring a mortal immediate death, or a nightmarish existence in the Afterworld.

The wizards, strengthened by their alliance with the Dark Forces, regrouped, and for many more years were a constant source of danger to all who crossed their path.

In the early days of the Catholic Church, a Pope came to power with an all-consuming ambition—to rid the earth of all vampires. His desire was born not for the benefit of mankind but because he envied the legend that they had become. To that end, he decreed that silver be a blessed metal, for it was silver alone that could render a vampire incapable of movement if bound by silver chains or bring death if struck in a vital organ by a weapon forged from silver.

The reformed Wizard Brotherhood used that announcement well, fashioning chains and knives of silver with which to subdue their vampire prey.

For Marcus and his followers, the Pope’s revelation came as an unwelcome shock. They had long known of silver’s adverse effects upon them, but had supposed no mortal knew of its powers. How then had the Pope discovered it?

Marcus could only guess at the answer and vowed that if he was correct in his supposition, Darius would, one day, pay for his betrayal.

From that day on, the schism that divided Darius and his Dark Forces from Marcus and his band of loyal vampires grew until all communication between them was lost, leaving only a deep hatred and sense of distrust.

But vampires live long lives and have long memories, and nothing that had gone before was ever forgotten or forgiven.

* * * *

Castle Fortneaux, France

1624

Joseph…Joseph… The voice I had come to hate whispered in my ear, waking me from the deep sleep my mind and body had demanded of me since I had been changed.

It is time, Joseph. Time for you to awaken and serve your masters.

I opened my eyes and stared up at the grotesque man they called Tito, hovering over my sleeping pallet. His pale, lined face poked out from the black hood that covered his head. In his hand, he held a wooden goblet, which he held out to me as I sat up.

Here, dear Joseph. Here is that which will make you strong. Drink it, dear boy, and feel it renew your flesh and blood.

I grabbed the proffered goblet and greedily drank its contents. He smiled, knowing I could not refuse. What the goblet contained kept me alive, although the hell I had endured for longer than my first life made me often long for death. But I knew they would not let me die. They would force this life-giving fluid into me, and they would compel me to live until I was of no more use to them—until they tired of the pleasure I gave them.

Your masters will be here presently, Tito snickered. Best bathe before they arrive. He left me to do as he bid, and I rose from my bed to stare into the mirror that hung over the washbasin.

Beauty can be a curse. In my modesty, I had never considered myself more attractive than any other young man I knew. I was born of good stock, of a father who stood taller than most men and a mother whose raven black hair and silver-gray eyes were bestowed upon me at birth. As I matured, I was aware of the long looks that both men and women would cast upon me, but my natural modesty and shyness prevented me from taking advantage of any circumstance presented to me. That is, until the day I met the one man whom I would never forget.

He was truly handsome, his demeanor imbued with a kindness that was somehow at odds with his military bearing. His hair hung to his broad shoulders in dark curls, his noble features enhanced by the intelligence and compassion that shone from his emerald green eyes. He rode into our village in the southern region of Germany one day, a little after sunset and asked me if I knew of an inn where he might rest for the evening.

Indeed, sir, I replied, smiling up at him. Taking hold of his horse’s halter, I led him to old Franz’s hostelry where, after making arrangements to stay for the night, he asked me to join him in a cup of wine.

For your kindness, he said, capturing my heart with his smile.

I joined him for a cup that became two and then three, and before I knew it, old Franz was leaning on our table, telling me to go home for he was shutting down the tavern. My new friend walked with me part of the way, and as we talked, I became more and more aware of how attracted to him I had become. I wanted him to kiss me and perhaps do to me things I had only heard about. Emboldened by the effects of the wine, I put my hand on his chest and slipped it behind the opening of his shirtfront. He smiled at me, took my hand in his and kissed it gently.

Sweet lad, he murmured. His eyes, fixed on mine, seemed to cast a spell over me. I felt myself move closer to him and his arms enfold me. Our lips met in a kiss that instantly filled me with desire.

That is all I remember of that time. It seemed to me that I had blacked out, for when I opened my eyes, he was gone, and all I had was a vague recollection that something wondrous had taken place. To my chagrin, I could not remember what.

The following morning, I went to Franz’s inn and was delighted to hear that the man had decided to stay another night. But, old Franz told me in a warning tone. He says no one is to disturb him in the daytime. He has travelled a long way. He is weary and must sleep.

Not wanting to disregard the man’s wishes, I waited until after sunset before returning to the inn where I espied him sitting at a table outside, a flask of wine and two goblets set before him.

He looked up at me and smiled. Joseph, he murmured in his deep, melodious voice. Join me, please. He poured some wine into the goblet in front of me.

It was then that I remembered we had not exchanged names the night before, yet he knew mine. Perhaps he had asked old Franz. And the two goblets—had he been expecting me?

Sir, I said, sitting opposite him. You know my name, but I do not know yours.

My apologies, Joseph. I am Marcus Verano.

He offered me his hand, and I grasped it gladly, happy to feel his firm grip cover mine. I gazed at him with a kind of adoration. I wanted so badly to know him better, and for him to ask me to join him on his travels.

It seemed as if he knew my thoughts for he smiled and said, You have an adventurous spirit, Joseph, but our paths are not yet as one. Tomorrow, I must leave for France.

France…such a long way from here. Will I ever see you again?

I have no doubt that we shall meet again one day.

We talked for an hour or so, then my impatient need for him made me bold. Will you walk with me in the woods? I asked, praying he would not refuse me.

It will be my pleasure, he said, rising from the table with effortless grace. Everything about him, his mode of elegant dress, his quiet manners, told me he was indeed a man of worth and one held in high regard by those who knew him. I did not, for one moment, fear him, though I recognized a warrior’s strength beneath the calm and stylish appearance.

He put his hand on the nape of my neck as we walked, his strong fingers massaging my flesh, his touch thrilling me.

After a little while, he bade us stop and spread his cloak on the ground. We lay together, our chests and thighs touching, his lips a tantalizing inch from mine. His kiss melted my heart. I clung to him, telling him that whatever he wished me to be, I would be. He seemed to understand my need, for suddenly we were both naked and his mouth was everywhere, bringing me to a jolting climax that left me spent and breathless. His lips nuzzled at my neck, and I pressed myself willingly to him, unaware in my ecstasy of his deep bite.

My arms tightened about him as he drew my blood into his mouth. I could feel his hardness between my legs, and I whispered my acceptance of his dominion over me. The rapture that followed was so intense, I remember it to this very day, so many years later. It was as if he had transported me, body and soul, to a place where he and I were alone together. Nothing, no one else mattered at that moment. With his arms about me and his manhood deep inside me, I imagined I could be like him—a fearless warrior, or at the very least, his companion-at-arms. Such are the dreams of young men, conjured up only to be dashed in the cold light of day when reality once more looms before us.

In the morning, he was gone, and I was bereft. Old Franz did not recollect in which direction he had gone, and although I spent the entire day looking for his horse’s tracks, I could find none. For days after, I was inconsolable, much to the consternation of my parents, in whom, of course, I could not confide. It took the machinations of religious zealots to bring me to my senses and plunge me into a world of danger, politics and ruthless, deadly enemies who would stop at nothing to attain the power they thought belonged to them.

The war that had raged around us for years, but strangely had left our corner of the world untouched, now descended on us with sickening force, destroying the surrounding villages and countryside, inducing famine and sickness upon the population, and leaving a trail of death and destruction that did not stop at our tiny village. As the women sought refuge in the abbeys and churches, my father and I along with any other able-bodied men were swept into daily skirmishes as the enemy troops surged across Germany.

History called the conflict the Thirty Years War. It was a war that then I did not fully comprehend. It seemed as though all of Europe was set on the destruction of my homeland. Spain, Denmark, France, the Vatican and England were all meddling in the politics and sending soldiers to bring us to our knees. Whatever the outcome might be, I knew it would be a long time before order was restored and my father and I could go home.

After some months, the small force my father and I fought with a larger army of men defending the southwest border against the advancing French army. We were badly outnumbered, and although we fought long and bravely, the day was lost.

As the cries of Retreat! rang out, an arrow from a longbow pierced my side. The pain was excruciating. The shock and force of it sent me reeling into a ditch where I lay unconscious for many hours. When I regained my senses, a terrible silence surrounded me. I knew my comrades had either fled or died in battle, and I also knew that I, too, would die if I did not receive aid quickly.

I crawled out of the ditch, the pain in my side increasing with every movement. I managed to stand and look around me and was startled to see some figures in long black cloaks moving silently among the bodies of those who had fallen in the battle. I thought they were searching for survivors, and so I hailed them. Over here, I called, although it hurt to shout. As one, they turned and stared at me, then slowly approached where I stood, trembling now, for there was something sinister in their appearance. They were not the men of mercy I had first thought them to be. My instincts told me to run, but I took only one step before the pain in my side forced me to my knees. They gathered around me, whispering among themselves—then one of them reached toward me and tugged the arrow free from my flesh.

I screamed aloud, cursing the one who had so thoughtlessly caused me even greater pain. I fell over onto my back, groaning, convinced that now I was going to die. Just before I lost consciousness, I felt myself being lifted from the ground and carried away from the battlefield.

When I awoke, I was in a place like no other I had ever seen. My foggy vision made out the shape of a dome-like ceiling, tiled and painted to represent the moon and stars. I was lying on a narrow wooden bed, atop a thin mattress, and I was naked, save for some linen strips that bound my wounded side. A black-cloaked figure stood on either side of my bed looking down at me with unreadable expressions on their pale, wrinkled faces. They must be very old, I thought. I searched their eyes for a trace of kindness but could find none. I shivered with dread, yet the realization that I owed my life to these men gave me some hope that they wished me no ill.

You have lost much blood, one of them said, his voice a grating whine. You will drink this. While the other supported my head, he held a goblet containing a dark red fluid to my lips. As the thick sweetness flowed over my tongue, I felt an immediate surge of energy course throughout my body.

What is it? I asked, wanting more.

The elixir of life. The two exchanged cold smiles. You will receive another cup in a few hours.

They left me alone, and it was then that I realized I was in some form of prison. The brick-lined walls had no windows. The only light came from two large candles that hung from iron brackets embedded in the wall over my bed.

Testing my strength, I sat up slowly and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath my feet, but as I stood up, the pain in my side seemed less and no blood stained the linen bindings. I walked a few steps. I felt stronger, much stronger than when they had carried me here—but to where exactly? I looked up at the domed ceiling again. It had the look of witchcraft. Men who experimented in astronomy or worshipped the sun and moon were considered to be dabblers in the black arts—and as such were often executed by drowning or burning.

Why had they brought me here? Was I to be sacrificed after they made me well? That possibility could not be ignored, for although the men had cared for me, there was nothing about them that inspired hope or comfort. Later, they brought me a platter of bread and cheese, and more of the ‘elixir’ that I again swallowed with zest. For three days I was fed this way, then, on the fourth day, the men bade me to stand and roughly removed the dressing from my side. Sighs of satisfaction escaped their lips as they gazed at my body. I peered down, expecting to see some form of scar where the arrow had pierced me, but there was not one sign there of my ever having been wounded. One of them reached out and ran his hand over my side, teasing the flesh with his fingertips. I felt a quick revulsion at his touch.

Enough, the other snapped. He is not for you to enjoy, brother Tito. He took my arm and led me to the door. A bath has been drawn for you, and fresh clothes put aside for you to wear. The Master will speak with you when you have prepared yourself.

A bath—how wonderful to be able wash away the sweat and dirt of the past few days. I began to feel better about my situation. Perhaps they meant me no harm at all. Perhaps after bathing and speaking with the Master, whom I presumed I was to thank for his charity, I would be sent on my way. Perhaps.

Happily, I splashed about in the hot soapy water, holding my breath and dunking my head under the surface, rubbing vigorously at my skin, all the while thinking of the ways I could find my way home—hopefully to discover my mother and father alive and well.

I lay back in the tub, relaxing in the balm the warm water created, and I thought of Marcus Verano, the stranger who had come into my life those months ago and who had brought me sensations that before him, I had never even dreamed of. Lying there in a luxury not often afforded me, I visualized his noble face, the dark hair that curled around his brow, the full sensuous lips that had brought me to the brink of ecstasy with their first touch on mine. I swear I could feel it then, that first feather-light kiss he had bestowed on my eager mouth. A first kiss is something to remember and treasure for all time. That first sensation of moist warmth that envelops the senses, that increases as the kiss grows from tenderness, to a quiet passion, to an all-consuming desire to have it never end. Such was the kiss Marcus Verano had left me to remember and never forget.

I wallowed in this bliss until the water grew cold, then I dried myself with the thick towel provided. A tunic of white linen hung on the back of a