Night-blooming Hearts

By Megan Derr

Phoenix sacrificed everything to become one of the greatest necromancers in nightwalker history—including his beauty, though that was by accident rather than design. As beauty is everything to vampires, he has been a pariah ever since, disowned, discarded, and largely forgotten by everyone he once called family and friend.

Nowadays, he lends his skills to sorcerer Jackie Black and the notorious Clan Mordred. If he still feels lonely and isolated, and rejected by the man he'd been stupid enough to think returned his interest, that's his own problem, no one else's. He's used to rejection anyway.

Then his brother shows up on his doorstep begging for help with a blackmail problem—and offering the one thing Phoenix cannot refuse as payment. But if there's one thing he's learned about nightwalkers, it's that nothing is ever as it seems, and problems always get worse before they get better…

Night-blooming Hearts is part of the multi-author Carnival of Mysteries Series. Each book stands alone, but each one includes at least one visit to Errante Ame's Carnival of Mysteries, a magical, multiverse traveling show full of unusual acts, games, and rides. The Carnival changes to suit the world it's on, so each visit is unique and special. This book contains a lonely vampire convinced he's unloveable, a pining cowboy who wants to prove him wrong, and a guaranteed HEA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Megan Derr
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223595625

Megan Derr

Megan is a long-time resident of queer romance and keeps herself busy reading and writing it. She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she’s not involved in writing, she likes to cook, harass her wife and cats, or watch movies. She loves to hear from readers and can be found all over the internet.meganderr.compatreon.com/meganderrmeganderr.blogspot.comfacebook.com/[e-mail]@meganaderr

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A person with glitter on his face Description automatically generated

Phoenix sacrificed everything to become one of the greatest necromancers in nightwalker history—including his beauty, though that was by accident rather than design. As beauty is everything to vampires, he has been a pariah ever since, disowned, discarded, and largely forgotten by everyone he once called family and friend.

Nowadays, he lends his skills to sorcerer Jackie Black and the notorious Clan Mordred. If he still feels lonely and isolated, and rejected by the man he'd been stupid enough to think returned his interest, that's his own problem, no one else's. He's used to rejection anyway.

Then his brother shows up on his doorstep begging for help with a blackmail problem—and offering the one thing Phoenix cannot refuse as payment. But if there's one thing he's learned about nightwalkers, it's that nothing is ever as it seems, and problems always get worse before they get better…

Night-blooming Heart

Dance with the Devil 8.1

Carnival of Mysteries

By Megan Derr

Published by Megan Derr

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

Edited by Sasha L. Miller

Cover designed by Lyrical Lines Designs

This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

First Edition August 2023

Copyright © 2023 by Megan Derr

Printed in the United States of America

Night-blooming Hearts

Megan Derr

Unwanted Visitor

The night was dark, stormy, and bitterly cold. The only thing fouler than the weather was Phoenix's mood. His tea, a beautiful black tea with pink roses that he'd grown and made himself, sat cold and stale on top of the newspaper that had turned his mood from tepid to sour.

Alucard Wilhelm von Grimmelshausen to marry Lady Amadea Worthington

His brother was going to marry the woman Phoenix had loved for more than a decade, before she and his entire family had spurned him for the crime of being ugly. He'd thought he was over the old hurts, but he supposed the hurt was as permanent as the scars.

Still, his brother and his beloved winding up together was a pretty low blow. Then again, he hadn't seen any of them for well over two hundred years. Time moved on, and he'd ceased to matter to them a long time ago.

For more years than he'd ever admit, he'd daydreamed scenarios where Amadea realized she couldn't live without him, loved him so much she tracked him down and forsook everything to be with him. That his family realized nothing was the same without him, begged for him to return.

Reality, of course, was much more boring. Life moved on, no matter what hurts were inflicted. If they had, for even a moment, missed him, they'd gotten over it quickly. Some days he wondered if he'd ever really mattered at all. Multiple children were a rare phenomenon amongst vampires, making children highly prized…and yet his parents had thrown him away without hesitation. All these years later, Phoenix still didn't understand it. Surely an ugly child was better than no child?

Except they did have a child, beautiful and perfect in all the ways that mattered to them. The spare had been nice but not necessary.

Meanwhile there was Alucard Desrosiers, who loved not just his vampire child but also his adopted human child, and now had a human lover. Clearly it could be done. His parents simply hadn't wanted to. Hadn't thought him worth it. Just like Jebediah more recently.

Snarling, Phoenix pushed away from the table and fled the sunroom. Sitting there in the midst of a storm was normally one of his favorite things to do, but the bitter news about his brother and ex combined with the still-aching memory of the last time he'd been here in a storm was doing nothing to improve his mood.

His ex was marrying his brother, and the one man he'd thought would see—had seen—past the scars had instead thanked him politely for his help and departed, as though the sparks between them had never existed. Maybe they hadn't. It wouldn't be the first time Phoenix had tricked himself into thinking someone was interested in him. Over and over again, in those early days of being alone, learning to survive and eventually live alone, he'd been fooled into thinking this man, that woman, cared about the man behind the scars. But ultimately, he'd only been fooling himself. Who wanted the ugly one when the world was full of beautiful options?

He was nearly three hundred, and he'd spent most of that scarred and ugly. It was long past time he accepted that nobody would ever see more than the scars on his face, his ruined hair…and if they ever got that far, they wouldn't enjoy the scars on his body. He'd ruined his own life the moment he'd fucked up that damned spell.

Sighing, he returned to the sunroom long enough to fetch his tea things and carried them to the kitchen to wash, dry, and put away. After that, he wandered into his study to resume the work he'd been trying to take a break from.

If he went to visit Jackie and the others, he'd be more than welcome. Nobody on earth wanted to kiss him, or even really touch him, but he did have friends now—even Wyatt, to whom he'd been so unfairly harsh. The kid was still insane, in a dark and violent way, but he had it tethered and had more than proven himself. Meeting Jackie, and then Deacon, had done him a world of good.

He paged delicately through the tome he'd been working on, a joint translation project with Johnnie, as the writing was a strange combination of human and vampire elements, making translation tricky for everyone. He understood the need for writing in code, but sometimes the authors had leaned a little too heavily on it.

On the other hand, the alchemist had clearly cared a great deal about his book. There was beautiful illumination throughout, preservation spells that still held up despite the book's age, and the paper would have lasted a long time all on its own it was such high quality. The ink too was good, rich and dark, with the barest hint of rainbow sheen that would have been exceptionally difficult to manage back in the day. If Phoenix knew how the ink had been made, he'd make it himself in an instant.

This grimoire had belonged to an alchemist. Not Phoenix's specialty, not by a long shot. Alchemy was a human thing—but this alchemist must have known a necromancer, because there was necromancy woven throughout it.

Unlike human magic, vampires were not born with a particular affinity that led them to witchcraft or sorcery or alchemy. Necromancy had to be trained from the ground up, the power absorbed from the blood they consumed, practiced in a way that humans didn't really need to. On the other hand, it didn't have the divide that human magic did. It was necromancy or nothing.

Phoenix had sacrificed everything, including very nearly his literal life, to master it. He was the best necromancer in the country, a not-inconsiderable feat given the size of the U.S., and easily one of the top ten in the whole world. He took immense pride in his skill.

He had to; it was all he really had left.

He'd stupidly thought…

Sighing, he gave up on work, too. Clearly his brain just wanted to be full-on maudlin self-pity tonight. Upstairs, he changed from comfy clothes to casual going-out clothes, soft and warm, before heading back downstairs to pull on his raincoat and galoshes. Wellingtons, he'd called them once, but that was so long ago the word felt strange anymore. Grabbing his umbrella, he locked up the house and headed out.

If he couldn't get actual, real work done, he'd just focus on the chores he'd been putting off, starting with errands. He'd be cold, wet, and miserable by the time he got home but then he could take a warm shower and put his comfy clothes back on and hopefully be too tired to do anything but sit by the fire with his tea and relax.

Of course, thoughts of relaxing by the fire reminded him all over again of the one person he really didn't want to think about: Jebediah Black, sorcerer and gunslinger, even better known in the nightwalker world than his notorious, demon-bound son. He'd been all around the world, probably had more knowledge than anyone truly knew, had lived for hundreds of years despite the odds stacked against him…and had been deeply in love with his wife, a famed witch of great skill—and beauty—herself.

Yet Phoenix had been stupid enough to think their attraction was mutual, that someone like Jebediah had been interested in him, an ugly, reclusive vampire shunned by most of the world. He'd been so certain though, that last night when they'd sat together on the small sofa, draped in a shared blanket, sharing one of his fancier bottles of wine…

And then Jebediah had gotten a phone call, the shrill noise of it shattering the intimate mood, and when he'd finished, he'd abruptly called the night to an end. The next day he'd left, even though before then Phoenix had been certain he'd planned on staying awhile yet.

Just went to show how stupid he still was, after all these decades. He'd been so certain, so confident after years of rejection that he'd been moments from making a complete and utter fool of himself. Thank god he hadn't quite worked up the nerve, the very last thing he'd needed was the 'you're nice but' speech again. He'd endured that three times before he'd given up completely.

Heaving a sigh, he trudged through the wine store picking out a few bottles to replenish his supply. As those were entirely too heavy to lug around, he arranged to have them delivered later that week, and carried on to the stationery shop where he restocked his supplies on paper, ink, and other miscellany necessary to the work he did. After that, he swung by the discreet little shop that sold blood, mostly to vampires but to a few other nightwalkers as well. The shop was quiet, lit by soft light, and smelled of roses and lilies with an underscore of fragrant herbs. Reminiscent of the greenhouse on his family's property where he'd spent so much of his time, the only thing he'd loved as much as necromancy. His family had considered him eccentric, but acceptably so, if barely. His parents had fervently hoped that time would fix the problem and had even started making noises about a betrothal.

If he was still a part of that world, would he be married to Amadea now? Or would she have still chosen his brother? Phoenix wasn't certain he wanted to know the answer.

Lord Phoenix, how good to see you today, I was hoping I would!

Phoenix quirked a brow as Bartleby circled the counter to join him. Why is that?

We got in a rare blood! If you didn't come by today, I was going to call you in the morning. I've been holding it back for you. Two pints of pure, uncut witch blood.

Two? That's a lot of blood for a human to part with. Are they all right?

She's perfectly fine. We made certain she remained here to recover properly. The circumstances were…extenuating, to say the least.

As long as she was willing and incurred no lasting damage. Vampires in general were not picky about how their blood was sourced if they weren't doing it themselves. The less they knew, the happier they were. A great deal of human blood came from a long and sordid relationship that the nightwalker world preferred to politely ignore.

Phoenix had no tolerance for such abhorrent practices. If the blood wasn't acquired ethically, he refused to so much as look at it. The day this shop had opened had been a truly happy one for him, because the vampires who owned it cared as much as he did and were strict with both vendors and clientele.

They also didn't treat him like he was a horrifying monster, like even being in the same room as him might spread his ugliness. Probably because money was money and he spent a great deal of it here, especially when they got in something rare, but sometimes when he was feeling especially low, he liked to think—pretend—they simply weren't bothered by the scars and didn't think less of him for them.

Beaming, Bartleby said, One moment, my lord, before sweeping out of the room.

My lord. Nobody called him that anymore. Hadn't since he'd been disowned and thrown out, too much a disgrace and embarrassment to tolerate. Never mind that it was difficult for vampires to have children, and his parents had been blessed with two.

Once they'd found out there was no fixing his mistake, though, that he'd always be hideous, that had been that. One pretty son was apparently better than two healthy and happy sons.

They'd never even asked if he was all right. Just yelled and screamed and hidden him away until all hope was lost, and they'd decided tossing him out was the better option. After finding himself homeless, still in pain from his wounds and scared to death, he'd gone to Amadea. The woman he loved.

Who had also spurned him.

He was nearly three hundred years old and had been alone for all but seventy-four of those years. At some point it should stop mattering, but the internal wounds were even more deeply carved into him than the physical ones.

Bartleby returned, mercifully distracting him from his inner tumult, and in short order Phoenix was walking home with two pints of high-quality witch blood, one of the best bloods available for a necromancer. He would store it, specially preserved, and save it for when Jackie and the others next needed his help.

Thoughts of Jackie of course led to thoughts of Jebediah, but Phoenix ruthlessly shoved them back. He had worked so hard to restore his mood, he wasn't going to ruin it all over again.

Back home, he took care of the blood, dropped his bag of stationery off in the study, then went upstairs for a hot shower. An hour later, he was settled in his study with a fresh pot of tea, sorting through his new items while the fire across the room crackled away.

He'd just settled into his translation work when the doorbell rang.

Who in the world could that be? Not Jackie, Wyatt, or one of the others. They'd text or call first. Not his wine delivery, they tended to just drop it at the back door for him and it wouldn't arrive until tomorrow anyway. A package he'd forgotten about? This late, though?

Despite the fact he knew better, his heart picked up as a single possibility flared brightly. Could it be? Had he come to…visit? Say he'd changed his mind? Phoenix smoothed back the strands of hair that had slipped free of the braid he'd put it in after drying it as he hastened out of the study to the front door, so nervous-excited he forgot to check the peephole first.

Or, he realized as he swung the door open and his hopes dashed to pieces, it could be one of the persons he least wanted to see. How had his many and varied wards not warned him of an intruder?

Phoenix glared at the man on his doorstep, shattered hope turning to icy disdain. What in the hell do you want, Wilhelm?

I need your help, Nikolaus.

That's not my name, Phoenix replied, and slammed the door in his face. Fisting his trembling hands, he stormed back to his study and, just to feel better, slammed that door too.

Fuck. Fuck. What in the absolute hell was his brother doing here? Last he'd heard, they were still living half the year in France and the other half back in Germany. After being thrown out, he'd wandered Europe, then Asia, then Africa, until finally crossing the sea to work his way from the bottom up, before finally settling in the States. He'd spent a good fifty years just traveling the world, looking for somewhere—someone—that felt like home.

He'd never found that, but he liked his house, his neighborhood, the solitude that let him pour all his attention into his necromancy and gardening. Why, why why why, would Wilhelm travel halfway across the world to ask for his help? It made no sense whatsoever.

Concentration shattered, Phoenix tidied up his desk for the night, stopped by the kitchen for a bottle of wine, and went upstairs to his bedroom to drink until he fell asleep, turning on music to drown out the knocking that had started back up.

He didn't care if his brother was on the verge of death and only Phoenix could save his life. Fucking rot.

Unfortunately, an entire bottle of wine later, sleep still wouldn't come. The knocking had stopped, though, so that was something. He sincerely doubted Wilhelm had given up. He wouldn't come this far, to see someone he had not seen nor spoken to in centuries, after only a few hours of knocking.

Phoenix picked up his phone, staring at the very short list of numbers, then tossed it