Drop of Fate: Claimed by Blood, #1

By Ranette Dorn

Phoebe was 100% sure that Fate, in all its cosmic glory, was a giant A-hole and that destiny was wishful thinking by those who hadn't had their heart broken. That was, until, fate intervened in her life and she saw Gabe for the first time and the threads of fate tied them together. Tall, handsome, and mysterious, a Rock god made flesh, he is a bass player she is instantly drawn to. But, she's determined to thwart fate's plan and she lets him go.

 

However, when a rash of mysterious injuries occur, and a friend goes missing, Phoebe knows that she must follow the path that fate laid before her back to Gabe and his secrets. Not only to save her friend in a foreign country, but to save the shattered pieces of her heart and survive with her new love.

 

Embark on an enchanting vampire romance that weaves together a mesmerizing tapestry of passion, mystery, and desire. Delve into a world where love knows no bounds, and secrets lurk around every corner. Join Phoebe on a thrilling adventure of self-discovery, as she navigate's the intoxicating dance of love, loss, and mystery. Prepare to be spellbound by a story that challenges everything you thought you knew about vampire tales

 

Drop of Fate is the first book in the Claimed by Blood Series. It's a warm paranormal romance novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raelyn Done
• Release date: Jun 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223560562

Book preview

Chapter 1

I THOUGHT I SAID NO, grumbled Phoebe into her phone.

She’d avoided her boss’s call for twenty minutes, trying in vain to block out the noise with her pillow over her head. But when nearly two dozen text message notifications threatened to drive her insane, she finally called him back.

I know, I know, came Cameron’s voice through the speaker. But Evan called in sick and Harper isn’t trained for behind the bar.

Phoebe pushed herself up to sitting in her bed. Her head pounded. Never take a nap in bed. Guaranteed headache. Well, what about you?

I’m covering the bar on the restaurant side, he replied. Harper may be able to cover the Backroom for a few minutes, but we’ve got a line out the door.

I’ve worked the last three concerts, Cameron, she said, pushing a few fingers through her long mane of dark blonde hair. She frowned as her nails got caught in the tangles. Three. You promised I could be off for this one.

I’ll make it up to you, I swear.

Muted but frantic desperation trailed his words. Phoebe rolled her eyes.

Fine. I’ll be there in twenty.

Oh, excellent. I’ll tell Harper, said Cameron. First band’s on in five. Harper should be able to handle it until then.

Overtime, Cameron, said Phoebe. Don’t you forget it like last time.

Thank you, Pheebs, was his only reply and he clicked off.

Jerk.

Half of Phoebe wanted to chuck the phone across her small studio apartment, but she knew that she would regret it. Phones were too damn expensive. Bills were hell. Student loans, more so. Besides, overtime with tips was beyond enough reason to get out of bed.

Not that she had anything else to do on a Saturday night. No, before she had fallen into her unplanned nap, her extensive schedule included Top Ramen and binging international dramas on Netflix. Especially the ones with lots of attractive men clad in historical, but not historically accurate, leather armor and dirt and sweat.

With another groan, Phoebe threw off her blankets and got out of her bed. She did not need to be thinking about hot guys now. Or ever.

She pulled on a sturdy but tight pair of jeans and a black V-neck shirt.

Her mane was tamed by a few select swipes from her expensive (for her) boar’s hair brush and contained by a braid down her back. A haircut was tempting, but this was the longest she’d ever had her hair and the tip of the braid hit the small of her back.

Phoebe looked at her reflection in her bathroom mirror for only a brief second. Passable, she thought with a shrug and grabbed her backpack, leather jacket, and helmet.

It was twilight, right as the last rays of light from the sun illuminated her apartment building in a soft orange glow. As much as she hated taking naps so late, at least she missed the summer heat of Fresno, California in the afternoon. Some days were Hell incarnate at over one hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit.

Right outside her front door was her baby. A Triumph Bonneville Speedmaster from 2002. The beautiful motorcycle used to be her dad’s. After she dropped out of college last year, they’d restored it to near perfection. Her dad’s way to try to get her out of her funk. Depression was a bitch. And it worked, for the most part, and afterward he’d given it to her.

Phoebe smiled, eager for the ride, even if it was going to be short. She pulled on her helmet. The machine rumbled beneath her. The Speedmaster wasn’t a zippy Kawasaki, or anything like that. In fact, by comparison it lumbered along as she wove through the busy post-rush hour traffic. However, it was the wind and the freedom that she craved. Those were some of the best mood lifters for her.

Far too quickly, however, the red neon of Sam’s Sports Bar and Backroom glowed in front of her as she pulled into the full parking lot.

A long queue of people were lined up on the sidewalk that lead to the Backroom entrance. Men and women of all ages, much of them wearing black – some wearing far too much gothy make-up – and even a few kids holding protective headphones waited to be let in by the bouncer and ticket guy. Rarely does everyone arrive in time for all the bands. There would still be a line right up until the headliner started in a couple of hours.

Phoebe rode past them all to the back of the building and she parked next to a large white trailer in the employee parking lot and band loading area. The night sounded incomplete with the sudden silence as she turned off the Speedmaster.

Till next time, she whispered, patting the glittery, cherry red paint of the fuel tank.

She pulled off her helmet and jogged across the parking lot. The thump of bass pulsed out the open door, making her cringe. One or two patrons in the line shot her confused glares as she walked with a wave right past Dave the bouncer.

Inside was dark except for the lights on the small stage. Some fifty people were milling about, tapping their toes to the local metal band. The lead singer screamed incomprehensible lyrics and someone had set the bass settings far too high so that nearly all the other instruments were drowned out by the thumping and the screaming.

Phoebe rolled her eyes and tried to will the returned headache away again. Doing her best to ignore the annoying band on the stage, she turned toward the bar in the back of the large room.

It was only about a third of the size of the main bar on the restaurant side and couldn’t do all the fancy mixed drinks that the other one could, but it was serviceable and far easier. On nights like tonight, people only wanted two things: water and beer. You just had to have good enough hearing over the idiotic thumping to decipher which one.

A young woman with wide eyes and short brown hair stood behind the bar looking petrified. A long line was starting to form around the bar and Phoebe could see the beginnings of frustration in their body language. Harper’s eyes found Phoebe’s and a wide relieved smile broke out on her face. Phoebe saw her mouth the words, Oh, thank goodness!

Freaking Cameron. Harper was barely legally allowed to serve alcohol and he’d thrown her to the wolves by leaving her alone behind the bar.

Phoebe crossed the room quickly and stuffed her helmet, leather jacket, and backpack under the bar.

Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou, said Harper as she quickly got out of Phoebe’s way.

Take over that side, said Phoebe pointing at the smaller line forming to the side of the bar.

Harper nodded quickly, pushing her glasses higher up on her nose.

The thumping and the screaming finally stopped (thank goodness) and the room filled with polite applause as the band began to pack up their equipment.

Phoebe worked quickly. Bud Light and I.P.A.’s for the college kids. Soda and Jack for the fifty-something woman who had spent too much time in the tanning salon and a tall draught of dark beer for what might be the woman’s husband. Water for a few more. Soon, the line was gone and the next band had begun to set up their instruments.

I’m sorry, said Harper as they wiped the counters. I just couldn’t hear them and they just kept coming.

Don’t worry about it, said Phoebe as she leaned a hip against the counter, her back to the stage. You did fine.

But it’s your day off and... She stopped when Phoebe held up her hand.

I said don’t worry. It’s not your fault. Besides, it’s your first concert, she said.

My first job, said Harper sheepishly.

So, it’s understandable that you’d get freaked out. That just means we gotta get you trained. You’ll never work a concert alone, but you’ll need to work well and in tandem with whoever you work with. And you’ll need to know how to cover the bar by yourself every once in a while.

Harper’s eyes widened and Phoebe laughed. You got this, kid.

I’m only a year younger than you, said Harper with a pout.

Then with all my wise and extensive experience, trust me when I say ‘You got this, kid,’ said Phoebe. Come on, let’s get ready for the next wave.

The Backroom was slowly starting to fill. It could only hold about two hundred and fifty people standing room only, and it looked like it was going to be one of those nights where it would max out capacity. The walls were painted black and most of the lights were turned off. Ambiance. The only lights in the room highlighted the stage and a dull yellow glow hovered over the bar area and entrance to the main restaurant. Of the four bands playing tonight, at least three had merchandise tables set up right across from the bar.

A few minutes and more than a few beers served later, the room darkened completely again and once more the thumping of bass came through the speakers.

However, this time the sound was exceptional. Phoebe felt the vibrations through her body. Unlike the assault from the band before, this was a sensual caress that made a shiver crawl up her spine.

She turned and looked up to the stage, barely able to make out the outline of a darkened shadow off to stage right.

A purple glow filled the stage and a white spotlight focused on the lead singer. A woman with blue hair, a decorative corset top, plaid bell-bottoms, and five inch platform Mary-Jane’s that made Phoebe’s ankles hurt. She had a haunting air and almost every eye in the room was drawn to her sultry voice and swaying hips.

The music itself was synthy and had strong influences from the eighties, but dark and sensual. Phoebe liked it. But the more the rest of the band was shadowed, the more she wanted to see the players rather than the flashy lead singer.

Finally, at the beginning of the chorus, more light filled the stage.

The bass player was a giant of a man. Easily six-foot-five, maybe six, with broad shoulders and defined muscles. He looked like your typical rock musician, with jeans and a dark tee-shirt that might have been purchased within the last decade. Long dark hair fell over his face as he worked his fingers over the bass guitar.

He was the sort that drew your eye,