The Hunter's Bride

By Alexa Piper

Maxim, tall, whimsical, and a vampire, wants to hire a curator for his art collection. Robyn, a newly minted art historian looking for a job, loves fine art and old stuff, and Maxim soon realizes she is not just perfect for the job, but also for him.

Robyn never liked prejudices against vampires, werewolves, or Fae, but the moment she starts working for a vampire, things appear less black and white, especially when she begins to fall for her new boss.

Robyn and Maxim’s young love will have to overcome odds and odd vampires who take issue with the fact that Maxim happens to be a vampire hunter who doesn’t shy away from decapitating his own kind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: May 8, 2020

Book preview

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Chapter One

Robyn hated heels, and she hated being late. Yet, here she was, late, in heels you could stab your eyes out with. The shoes had been a choice because she really, really wanted this job. Also really needed it. Running a private collection was about every art historian’s dream, and the pay could only be better than what she’d made during her internship at New Amsterdam’s Willford Museum -- to wit, nearly nothing. Being invited in the first place had seemed like a dream come true. She still couldn’t quite believe it, and half expected them to send her home, especially now, that she was late.

Hurrying down the street, she glanced up briefly at the sky’s swirling purples and oranges, colors blending like the echo of a smothered flame. Robyn pulled the strap of her purse higher onto her shoulder, and her high heels bit into the tender flesh of her feet with every step. The person who invented high heels was probably the same sadist who invented the iron maiden and had a few spikes left over.

A group walking toward her arm in arm caught Robyn’s attention. They were pretty, two of the most beautiful men she had ever seen, wearing dark blue oxfords nearly matching in color, and accompanied by a woman in a tiny skirt. The men were clearly vampires, their flesh so pale and perfect Robyn’s fingers itched to just touch and see if it truly felt like porcelain. The woman clearly wasn’t. She looked too ordinary, with too much lipstick and too much makeup to hide the wrinkles that still showed through under all of it.

I wonder if they pay her for her time or if she hopes to be turned, Robyn thought.

Companion services always hired, but Robyn had never considered anything like that. Bev, Robyn’s college friend, had worked as a vampire companion, then dropped out of college altogether. She had told Robyn she wanted to find a vampire to turn her, wanted to live forever, stay young forever. She hadn’t been the only one either. It was an unspoken promise, the getting turned eventually, though Robyn had never known anyone who’d had that promise fulfilled.

She shrugged off the memory. There were only a few of the younger vamps who did that, who turned randomly. There were stories about it on the news sometimes, freshly turned vampires sans all the glamour that their kind usually trailed like glitter. Robyn didn’t follow Vamp or Wolf or Fae politics too closely, but as far as she knew, it was frowned upon to just turn any old human, especially if there was no paperwork to back up that it had been a voluntary decision on the new vampire’s part.

Robyn pulled her phone from her purse, slowed down to a fast walk. The vampire and snack group passed her by while she checked the address on her phone. 43 Ruthaven Boulevard. She looked up, scanned the buildings. Many of them scraped high, and sunset light reflected off their polished glass and steel facades. 41. She was almost there.

She arrived outside the glass fronted entrance to 43 one minute later, tilted her head back and stared, then closed her mouth and pushed the door open. 43 was lavish, inside and out. The lobby beyond the glass doors was done in cream and beige marble, and lush green plants dotted color here and there. It had an echo as well, carrying the sound of Robyn’s heels. There was a security person behind the desk off to Robyn’s right, wearing what looked to be an understated dark green uniform.

Hi, Robyn said as she approached the counter. I have an appointment, but I’m a little late.

The man in dark green smiled up at her. Welcome. What’s your name?

Robyn. Robyn Somerton.

He checked the computer in front of him. Right. You’re in the book. Just head right up. He pointed her toward the elevator.

Uhm, which floor do I need?

The elevator will take you right there. Just press the button above the keypad.

Robyn threw him an uncertain smile which he returned, then headed for the elevator. The staccato of her heels annoyed her, and it didn’t help much with calming her nerves.

Wow, Robyn thought. So someone owns this entire building. And an art collection. Yes, she very much wanted to work here. It would just be so perfect, even if it wasn’t a museum, but perhaps the owner loaned things or organized parties so other people could see the art as well. She was excited to meet the owner of the art.

* * *

Brian seemed to be slipping. He’d called up to tell Maxim of the interviewee’s arrival only about twenty seconds before the elevator had dinged, which barely gave Maxim the time to refresh his memory in regard to her name.

Heath had left a file on his desk titled Interviews, and Maxim had complained at the sheer lack of imagination that was obvious in that title. Heath had used magic marker to write it, though, and Maxim had wondered, out loud, if Heath had missed the developmental stage crayons were clearly meant for. Upon which Heath had broken into verbiage that came odorously dripping from the verbiage gutter. Heath had informed him that he, Maxim, best not pull any of this bodily refuse with the artsy people. They were, after all, artsy people and not likely to enjoy such shenanigans, at least if Heath’s soliloquy was to be believed. It was a shame the creativity he had displayed in his colorful speech had not translated into the simplistic title of the file that had sparked it.

Robyn with a y, Maxim mumbled to himself as he walked toward the elevators. Y, y, y… Why would whiskey-vending witches want vigor with their witchy wits? He pushed a strand of his hair back behind his shoulder and put on a smile. He could smell the interviewee even before he saw her, some perfume he didn’t know, light and floral, forgettable as Valentine’s Days spent alone. The scent underneath that was sunshine-warmed skin, a slight note of crushed cardamom pods. A shame to hide that with such perfume.

When Maxim laid eyes on the interviewee, he could feel his pupils spill black, and he immediately understood why Brian had taken so long to pick up the phone. Robyn with a y Somerton was gorgeous, though very much on the skinny side, always something that made Maxim’s memories of hunger float back to the surface of his mind, no matter how long ago that had been. Her hair was dark and wonderful, lush ebony, and her gray eyes and pale skin made her deep purple dress look even better on her. But damn it, he had promised Heath.

Miss Somerton, thanks for coming in for the interview. My name is Maxim Vallois. I believe you talked to my assistant over the phone? Now, there’s some perfect manners for you right there, Heath. If only that dhampire brat were here to see it.

The shock on her face at seeing Maxim and realizing what he was would have been amusing, should have been amusing, but for the first time in decades, Maxim felt futile fury at the reaction rise inside of him. She did go a shade paler, though, which was pretty.

Y-yes. About the curator position? she said, catching herself rather quickly and reining her expression back into normal. Maxim liked her voice. It was calm, not shrill. Heath sometimes brought home shrill, and that was usually headache inducing, rhetorically speaking. Maxim did not actually get headaches.

Certainly. Please, come in. Part of him wondered whether she would run. She was wearing terrible heels for that, and because he cared and paid attention, Maxim was pretty sure she was already headed for at least one blister on her left heel. Maxim had never understood heels, nor foot binding. He had understood what it said about having power over women, but he’d loathed that, loathed that society made it necessary for women to give that power.

Not the time to wax philosophical, Maxim reminded himself. Heath, if he were here and not away doing something that had to do with banks and money, would have been seething in the acid of his own glaring stares already. Stares glare glistening staffs of seeping solace. Not my best one, Maxim thought.

Robyn with a y came forward. Clearly she had decided running would be stupid. Mmh, Heath. Did you get me a final girl? Maxim filed that as a nice line for later. When he would tell Heath he wanted Robyn with a y. He wasn’t even sure why. It sure as bodily refuse wasn’t the cheap perfume, and it wasn’t the mildly scrawny look that Maxim found mildly headache inducing. Perhaps it was that stare of not quite fear but close enough to fear. Or lust at first sight? Who knows. Whatever the why, Maxim wanted her.

Of course Maxim couldn’t just spring this on Y Robyn. It would sound as if he were planning to make her a plaything, something Maxim knew good and well vampires did. He could go off on a whole other tangent about that nasty habit. He had to at least give Y Robyn the impression she had won the job, and of course he needed to be able to tell Heath as well, so he led her to the cluttered table he had lovingly prepared for the magic marker interview.

I’m sorry I’m late, Y Robyn said when he shook her hand. You know how fickle the subway can be.

I don’t, actually. But it’s no trouble. This way. He made a mental note of checking out the subway. It might be fun, ethnologically speaking.

When Y Robyn saw his table, she summed it up wonderfully concisely. Wow, she said, and Maxim glanced at her saucer wide eyes and at the appealing slackness of her drooping jaw.

It’s a bit much, I know, he lied. He had much more stuff, of course, and he didn’t mind having stuff. Decluttering was a fad that annoyed him to the point of rhetorical stress headaches. But when you have nothing better to do for a decade or so than to redecorate… He did do that sometimes, but more out of principle so people -- Heath -- continued to assume he was whimsical in all the best ways. And also, there were few things more entertaining than seeing Heath navigate a building site, annoyed with all the dust making his phone or tablet hard to use.

Y Robyn nodded, never taking her eyes off the smallish treasure hoard on the table, apart from the few slips during which she stared at the big Vermeer over the fireplace with something close to adoration. Of course.

I wouldn’t mind you staring at me like that. Maxim cleared his throat Well, in any case. I hope you don’t mind if we get down to business? I would actually really like to get someone hired. And Heath has been pestering me for too long. That’s Heath Decker, my assistant. Who had been pestering Maxim to declutter. There had been shouting, and Heath had brought home one shrill voice after the other until Maxim had finally agreed to at least hire someone who took care of the bodily refuse, as Heath liked to call it, different wordage and all, and make sure it didn’t get into the dhampire’s way.

Of course. I have a copy of my résumé with me. Y Robyn reached into her purse, clearly ready to throw more paperwork at Maxim.

He waved her off. Oh, no need. Heath says you are qualified on paper, and if he says so, it’s true. Could you tell me about all this stuff? This was very true indeed. Heath liked doing these little background checks. He had gotten into that a while back. It had probably started when the Sherlock Holmes stories first came out, and Maxim had wondered -- more