Circle of Blood: Books 1-6 Bundle (PAPERBACK)

Your book will be packaged and shipped by our printing partner, BookVault. Please allow two to three weeks for delivery.

HUMAN BLOOD ALWAYS TASTED sweetest when the world was falling apart around you. That indisputable fact was one of the great ironies of vampirism, Tré reflected. It was a bone-deep truth that spoke to the bottomless well of darkness within his soul—if he could still lay claim to having such a human thing as a soul, at any rate.

Once, he had been Vladimir Illych Romanov III, a man of importance, respected by all. Now, he was merely Tré, a shadow hidden among shadows, lost in the night.

 What was left of Tré’s soul was little more than a tattered flag planted on a barren, muddy hill where the battle had already been lost, and the war had moved on to richer, more fertile fields. A remnant. An overlooked scrap too unimportant to bother tearing down and burning.

Yes, that was his soul in a nutshell. His soul, and the souls of his fellow vampires.

The unremarkable blond-haired, hazel-eyed young human currently slumped in Tré’s strong grip shifted restlessly, a low moan slipping free from his throat. Tré could feel the vibration beneath his lips, through his sensitive fangs.

Reluctantly, he disengaged. Around him, the shadowed corridor at the back of the seedy New Orleans nightclub slipped back into focus, the sound of jazz replacing the low, steady shush-shush, shush-shush of a human heart pumping blood through veins and arteries.

A few drops of that sweet, sweet blood dribbled from the neat bite mark over the kid’s jugular before the healing power of Tré’s saliva sealed the two small, circular wounds. Tré swiped the trickle of red with his thumb and licked it clean.

Destroying the evidence.

His victim that night was a typical Midwest frat boy, drawn to the Big Easy by the siren call of plentiful alcohol and loose morals in the run-up to Mardi Gras. He’d made the drunken mistake of wandering off on his own after his friends decided to head back to their hotel, and now he’d become lunch for an apex predator.

Fortunately for him, however, the days of Tré’s uncontrollable bloodlust and hunger were long past. This particular plain-faced prey animal would live to enjoy his hangover in the morning, with nothing more than an additional bit of weakness and dizziness to encourage him to make better life choices in the future.

As if the phrase ‘better life choices’ had been some sort of mental summons, Xander chose that moment to stick his head around the corner.

He took in the scene and raised an eyebrow. “Oy, fearless leader—stop playing with your food, and let’s get a move on. Sun’ll be up soon, and even the rioters over in the Lower Ninth Ward are probably ready to call it a night at this point.”

The broad vowels of Old London were out of place amongst the rich Creole drawl of the city’s natives. Other than that, however, Xander fit right in with his tailored trousers, leather shoes polished to a high shine, and black silk shirt open at the neck—a shameless hedonist to the core.

Xander’s pupils were blown wide and dark. Tré wondered if he’d managed to find a heroin addict to drink from tonight.

Again.

The blond frat boy grunted and scrubbed a shaky hand over his face. “Oh, wow,” he said. The voice of middle America. The wholesome boy next door. “Sorry I checked out on you like that, bro.” He reeled a bit, and Tré steadied him. “Not sure what happened there. Maybe I had… had a bit too much to drink?” He laughed awkwardly. “So… um, right. Sorry. What were we talking about, again?”

“It’s not important,” Tré told him. “You have your phone?”

The boy fumbled in his pocket and nodded, still dazed.

“Call a cab,” Tré ordered, making eye contact and placing a bit of will behind the words.

The frat kid nodded. “Yeah, I’ll… uh… I’ll just call a cab now, I think. Anyway, it was good hangin’ with you, man—”

Tré didn’t bother to reply, already turning away to join Xander as they headed for the back door of the club.

“You seen Duchess?” Xander asked, as they exited into the humid winter chill of the Louisiana predawn.

The lazy energy of the city at night prickled against Tré’s skin, sharper than usual and with a heavy air of anticipation that he didn’t much like.

“Not since she disappeared into one of the back rooms earlier, with a couple of boy toys in tow,” he said, unconcerned.

“In her element, then,” Xander observed. The words were wry. “Guess she’ll make her way back in her own time. Or not, as the case may be.” He took a deep breath, as if scenting the air. “Something’s off today. S’like a storm coming. But not an actual storm, you know? Can’t say I’m too broken up about it. It’s getting boring just waiting around for something new to happen. You can feel it too, right?”

“Yes,” Tré said. “I can feel it, too.”

Xander drew the night air into his lungs again, and rolled his neck from side to side, the vertebrae popping one after the other. “Damn. That was some really good smack, Tré. Even second-hand. We should totally go clubbing more often.”

Around them, the city held its breath. Waiting.

* * *

These days, Delaney LeBlanc dreamed in riddles.

A swirl of hazy, nonsensical images. The touch of a hand, rough calluses dragging against the soft skin of her cheek as she smiled and pressed into the contact. Whispered words in a half forgotten language. Children’s laughter. The purr of a cat and the excited yip of a dog. The chatter of voices speaking words that seemed both strange and strikingly familiar. If she listened just a bit more closely, she’d be able to understand them, she was sure—

Della woke with a start, dizzy from the series of disconnected scenes that had haunted her sleep. Rolling onto an elbow, she glanced at the glowing red numbers of the clock on her bedside table and groaned.

“Argh! It’s four-thirty in the morning. What the hell, brain?” she rasped, the plaintive question disappearing into the silent room around her. The darkness did not reply.

Her long honey-colored hair, insane from restless sleep, was plastered against her face, a tangled mess on top of her head. Flipping it back, she sat up in bed and started to comb her fingers through it, attempting to soothe her raw nerves with the mindless, repetitive motion. As the tangles came free, she closed her eyes, carding her fingers slowly through the heavy length. Feeling her heartbeat gradually slow.

The dream had made no sense, but it had still felt so real. Della couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she’d had the same dream before, many times, always culminating in waking up early with this disconcerting feeling of loss and need. It was almost as though she were seeing images from someone else’s life. Someone she had long forgotten, like a childhood friend.

Of course, that was absurd. She had grown up in suburban New Jersey. None of her usual playmates had spoken a different language. And that part of the dream was very clear in her mind. What perplexed her most, however, was that she felt she should have no trouble understanding the voices of the happy children who chattered away in—what language could it be?

She had no idea. It didn’t sound like French, or Spanish, or German, or any language she’d heard people speak in the real world.

Probably something I’ve made up, which is why I feel like I should be able to understand it, Della thought with a yawn. Dreams are weird. It’s just my subconscious blowing off steam.

I hope.