Nocturnal Serenade: Nocturnal Alliance, Prequel 2: Nocturnal Alliance, #2.5

By Ramona Mainstrom

Battered and defeated, cursed ex-mercenary Frank stumbles across a newly created vampire in revolutionary France. Discovering the vamp is immune to his death touch, Frank nurtures him back from his feral state. Irresistibly drawn to the man who emerges, Matthias is everything Frank dreamed of in a lover.

 

Nobleman and secret hero, Matthias was betrayed by his wife and fed to vampires. Though he managed to escape, his rebirth resulted in a bloody rampage stopped only by the power of an indomitable banshee. Kind, generous, and protective, Frank brings out Matty's vulnerable side, and Matthias finally feels safe to be his true self.

 

When their tainted pasts threaten their peaceful life, Frank and Matthias unleash their full monstrous selves to protect the family they've built together.

Nocturnal Serenade is a STAND ALONE story which contains strong language, descriptions of M/M sex, and violence. Intended for mature readers.

★★★★★

 

Nocturnal Alliance is a 5 books series (plus 2 prequels of favorite characters) about a supernatural feud spanning back to the start of time. Each book can be read as a stand-alone or part of the whole and have a Happily-Ever-After or Happy-for-Now ending. The characters include vampires and shifters, succubus and incubus, demons and angels, banshees and, yes, humans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ember Park Imprint
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989016671

Ramona Mainstrom

Ramona Mainstrom has been writing under various pen names and genres since the 90’s. Travel enthusiast and tea-lover, Ramona became an author after discovering she's horrible at retail, waitressing, and housekeeping. She began her journey under this name with a promise to write without prejudice or inhibition. Ramona currently spends her days sharing her daydreams with as many people she can with the hope her writing will impassion others.

Book preview

Nocturnal Serenade

Nocturnal Alliance: Prequel 2

Ramona Mainstrom

image-placeholder

Ember Park Imprint

Copyright © 2023 by RAMONA MAINSTROM

All rights reserved.

www.RamonaMainstrom.com

Editing: Lyndsey Smith, Cozy Nook Editing

Cover Art: Vanesa Garkova

Interior Art: Anna L. Spies of Atra Luna Design

This is a work of fiction. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-989016-67-1

Print ISBN: 978-1-989016-68-8

Ember Park Imprint

Nocturnal Serenade contains strong language, violence, descriptions of M/M sex, and dark themes. Intended for mature readers.

Contents

Nocturnal Serenade

1.Chapter 1

2.Chapter 2

3.Chapter 3

4.Chapter 4

5.Chapter 5

6.Chapter 6

7.Chapter 7

8.Chapter 8

9.Chapter 9

10.Chapter 10

Also by

About the Author

Nocturnal Serenade

image-placeholder

Nocturnal Alliance: Prequel 2

Ramona Mainstrom

Chapter 1

image-placeholder

Jetsam

The cruel tide finally set Frank to rest on a rocky shore, though his body hadn’t healed enough to let him drag himself from its salty grasp. Sufficiently numb to not feel the cold stones beneath him, but not to ignore the pulling muscles, itching skin, and grinding bones, his shattered body slowly knit itself back together.

Pain forced him to draw air into water-filled lungs. Broken ribs protested as he gurgled and coughed through his first burning breath. Driving waves snatched his tortured sobs, dragging them away as mercilessly as they’d taken his body.

Frank had lost count of how many times he’d been beaten to the point of death. Endless battles, gloriously fought. Bar brawls and thieves. Jealous lovers, though he hadn’t touched another person outside combat in centuries. Frightened mobs, like the one which pitched him off a cliff… How many days ago?

Death, that fickle prick, never stooped low enough to collect his wretched soul.

When his body was reassembled enough, Frank crawled like a worm on his belly, then on hands and knees until he was whole, staggering to his bare feet in search of civilization.

Where did I wash up? France? England?

Does it matter? The story unfolded the same. Life as a mercenary allowed Frank to stay on the move, at arm’s length and out of focus, so those around him didn’t notice he never aged. Frank didn’t let others touch him and refrained from taking lovers.

He took orders, lives, and payment only. Despite the endless opportunities humans provided to keep him in the killing business, his time with Annaletta and her wandering family helped Frank control the ghosts of his long-deceased clan which haunted him. They gave him the chance to experience life without war, violence, and fear.

Once he tasted how life could be with people who knew what he was, and weren’t afraid to include him in their community, Frank craved it. He yearned for it, like a caged dog longed to run in a field. He hungered with the need to connect with people, even if superficially. Among them yet not of them.

That need made Frank vulnerable. His exposed back ready for a knife. A thoughtless action uncovering his true nature. A snubbed woman betraying him to the righteous wrath born of her vicious lies. Complacency exposing him to superstition and fear—and whatever drug they slipped into his drink to keep him incapacitated. He stayed too long. Got too close.

Close.

Frank approached a village, shoving the damp mess of ginger hair out of his face. The place looked familiar, but his recently pulverized skull housed a scrambled brain. Had he been here before, or was this town generic enough to look like a hundred other coastal communities?

Monsieur MacCabe! Hands clutched Frank’s tattered sleeve. You’ve been assaulted!

Thank the gods! He was somewhere he hadn’t soured to his presence. Fewer and fewer places in France harbored warmth and kindness for the likes of Frank MacCabe.

He turned toward the voice, eyes focusing on a rotund man with a kind face. Fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows stretched in concern, and the man somehow both herded and led Frank into town.

Rest assured, good sir, we will find the scoundrels who did this to you.

His custodian flagged a woman over and, in a rapid burble of French, sent her off to have the innkeeper prepare for their arrival. He called for another citizen to fetch the local constable.

"No! Merci, good monsieur. I did not see who attacked me, Frank lied. A mouth dry from salt water made his words thicker than the rolling burr of his accent. It would be waste of the constable’s valuable time."

A doctor? The man’s earnest expression made Frank wish he could remember his name.

I have no injuries a pint and some good rest won’t cure, Frank assured him, carefully extracting his tattered sleeve from the man’s sausage fingers.

Your first drink is on me, monsieur. His double chins rose with a wibble. I won’t have anyone saying Jacques Barbier let a beaten man buy his own ale.

You are a saint among men, Monsieur Barbier. Frank risked a pat on the shoulder where the man’s clothing protected from his cursed touch.

The innkeeper met them at the door, full of pomp and fiery bluster. His beefy face was vaguely familiar, but his name escaped memory. The sign over the door read: Cour des Luxe. Court of Luxury. Tired and hungry, Frank’s brain churned over the information.

That such a thing could happen near our community!

Frank laced his thick tongue with silver for the sake of good graces. I cannot blame the good people here for what happens beyond your generous arms.

You’re lucky it was just common thieves, the innkeeper clucked, ushering them to a private room. His thin voice dropped. We’ve had darker things about lately.

The faces of the patrons around them paled, seizing Frank’s attention, like the icy hand of Hades.

"What things?"

A beast in the night, monsieur, Barbier volunteered, trailing behind. Ghastly things it does.

Not to worry. His gracious host shot Barbier a stern glare. Our rooms are secure, Monsieur MacCabe. You will be safe now.

A familiar curvy walnut chaise longue with plush red velvet waited by the window.

"Despite the damned privateers…"

D’aureville-sur-Mer. That’s where I am. Golden Town on the Sea.

Frank had stayed here last spring on business. Trade was going well enough, despite the privateers, for him to require another ship. He spent several days at the Cour des Luxe inn.

The innkeeper blocked the door to stop Barbier from following them into the private room. The men locked eyes in a silent war as Frank lowered himself onto the chaise, not caring if his damp, salt-crusted clothes damaged the soft cushions.

Bodin squared his broad shoulders for combat and glared down his nose, which had been broken more than once. "Monsieur MacCabe will no doubt wish to recover from his ordeal in solitude."

Barbier crossed his arms in defiance. I promised him a drink, Bodin.

I’ll be sure to bill you for it.

They argued in English for Frank’s benefit, but the mounting hostility gnawed at his newly mended nerves.

"Barbier, mon bon ami, he intervened, before either man’s honor was damaged. You have been too kind already. I hate to impose . . ."

He let the sentence dangle, like a juicy worm.

Puffed with pride, Barbier leapt for it. Not at all! Ask of me anything!

I’ll need fresh clothes and a carriage.

Of course! Count on Barbier! To Frank’s immense relief, the man strutted off through the common room, glowing with a sense of purpose.

Bodin watched for a moment before returning his keen eye to Frank. Food, drink, bath, and bed, I presume?

If you would be so kind, Monsieur Bodin. I am deeply grateful for your hospitality.

The innkeeper compressed his round lips, the only indication of annoyance. Frank’s eccentric preference for bathing over the popular perfumes reinforced his credentials with the man; Frank MacCabe was a rich Englishman used to getting his way at the expense of lessers.

If you only knew.

Bathing was a luxury during centuries of crawling in the dirt, covered in blood and gore. Each pail of clean water used to rinse the filth from his body was a hard-earned reward. Frank would haul his own bath, if it wouldn’t insult his host and set worrisome rumors in motion. Instead, he played the noble he was supposed to be.

The bill to your company, same as last time?

Please.

Bodin bowed. Lisette will be in straight away.

The door closed before Frank could thank the innkeeper. He let the stiff mask of civility drop and leaned back on the chaise with a weary sigh.

I am saved.

For now. Tomorrow would bring new troubles.

image-placeholder

A whirlwind of thoughts fluttered through Frank’s mind, but nothing settled long enough to organize. Deep emotions bubbled, threatening to surface. He couldn’t allow that. Fear, grief, loneliness, and despair would destroy him if he let those buried demons loose again. Frank quashed them into the abyss of his ravaged soul and forced himself to focus on his immediate issues.

What will I do? Where will I go?

He draped an arm over his face and shut his eyes to block out the light. If only he could block out uncertainty as easily.

In a moment of recklessness, he’d invested in trade and turned his modest wealth as a mercenary into a fortune. MacCabe Trading Co. funded his wandering and kept him close enough to society to keep madness at bay.

But, he was tired. So damned tired.

Frank wanted to settle somewhere, but having a family had been kept from him by the cruel conditions of his curse. The chances of another Romani clan accepting him were slim, but loyal friends were a wealth beyond measure.

A timid knock jolted Frank from the light doze he’d slipped into. He pulled himself together in time for the blonde child to enter with a tray nearly the same size as her petite form. She wrestled the heavily laden tray onto the table, sloshing the carafe of wine.

The girl cringed in preparation of an expected blow. "Pardonnez-moi, mon seigneur."

Though he didn’t have the title of a lord, she insisted on the honorific. That wasn’t why Frank’s gut knotted, though.

He remembered Lisette and her sweet little voice, singing to herself while she worked. How could people not see how precious their children were? When life was short and surviving childhood was practically a miracle, how could they punish simple mistakes and accidents?

"Ce n’est rien, Lisette, he assured her. It’s nothing. It flavors the cheese for me."

Her eyes darted to the thick slices of cheese sitting in a wine puddle, and she giggled.

Much better.

Frank remained seated, recalling how his height had frightened her during his last visit. The chaise provided opportunity to lounge like the aristo he pretended to be.

La! Is there time for a song today?

She shook her head vigorously enough to whip herself in the eye with her hair. Her solemn expression kept Frank from laughing.

"No, mon seigneur. Mama is sick, so I must fetch and heat zee wa’tr for your bat." Her accent was thick, despite how well she spoke English.

Frank poured a generous glass of wine. I am extremely grateful to you and shall eat slowly to give you plenty of time.

"Not too slowly, s’il vous plaît, or the water will get cold again."

He hid a smirk behind his glass. She was a bold one. "I shall wait upon ma’amselle’s bidding, then."

She curtsied, and a pleased smile lit her face. Lisette flounced out of the room, a happier child than she’d entered.

The girl had left him soaps, which made him smell like a queen’s garden. Even though he knew it was the modern custom, it made him uncomfortable. A man should smell natural. His one consolation was Lisette picked out the scents specifically to please him.

She was a charming creature — cheeks round with youth, blue eyes welling with cheery hope. If he could take her away and preserve her sweetness . . . If he could touch her without stealing her life, he might whisk her away to a better existence and feel redeemed for his crimes.

But such was not their fates. Lisette would grow up in the harsh environments of a revolutionary France, and Frank . . .

I will never grow old.

Perhaps there was some otherworldly being out there, someone supernatural like himself, who could end his miserable existence. If there was, Frank hadn’t met them yet. But the night was still young.

Throughout the meal and bath, he wrestled with the difficulty of his situation. Body refreshed and clothed in the finest garments Barbier could procure, Frank’s mind was still burdened.

After a short rest, he decided to set out for a stroll about D’aureville-sur-Mer, hoping the cool night air would relieve him of the layers of oppressive perfumes. And, if fortune smiled, a solution might find him.

Not for the perfumes.

Frank needed a way out of the meaningless cycle which marked the time between her appearances.

It had been