Commanded by Night: Vampires of Crescent City

Chapter 1

Veronica

It was love at first bite.

That’s the lie that sent my life spiraling into hell. An insidious lie that led me down a path of near total destruction that’s not worth treading on ever again.

At least I tell myself that, in the dead of night, so I don’t run back into the arms of my greatest temptation, the beginning of my descent into darkness.

Dramatic, I know. But there’s no such thing as a normal reaction when dealing with the supernatural, especially when the ex I’m reminiscing about happens to be a vampire princess.

With a heavy heart, I cruise down the highway, watching the gas meter tick down, and the speedometer tick up as night overcomes Crescent City, the only home I’ve known for thirty-one years.

I’m late for an important date, and for once in my life, I want to be on time. So I floor the gas, ducking and weaving through traffic, knowing I’m pissing people and paranormals off. But I can’t help that most of the city’s inhabitants are nocturnal. And I need to get to the club sooner rather than later.

After all, I’m about to attend a meeting with my enemy, begging for a miracle. And I need it to come fast in a world where time crawls at a snail’s pace.

For humans like me, time flies when you live among immortal and damn near eternally young beings. We regular folk can barely coexist in this border town set up to prevent shifters, vampires, and other creatures of the night from crossing over onto Earth.

Yet somehow, I’ve been living among them for years, falling in love with the forbidden until it was too late to turn back.

And there’s really no turning back now, that’s for damn sure, so cheer up and get this shit over with already. You got this, girl, I whisper, trying to give myself a little pep talk before walking straight into a trap.

I park on the side of the road, careful to avoid a mange-ridden dog lounging in the alleyway.

Werewolf or not, killing animals without a license is an automatic jail sentence out here, seeing as it’s hard to tell which ones can transform and which can’t when you don’t belong to the Kindred, the collective term for paranormal beings.

After reapplying my makeup, I slip out of my beater and tug down my skirt, suddenly self-conscious like I’m a teen or in my early twenties or something.

Not that turning thirty magically changes you into a self-confident badass. But at the very least, I thought I would no longer feel threatened by mean girl antics. Unfortunately, I was dead wrong, shrinking into myself as I stare at the crowd of beautiful women on the other side of the road.

The skin-tight, purple, backless outfit I’m wearing is the most expensive piece of clothing I’ve ever owned. And the sequin silver purse, matching earrings, thick black-rimmed sunglasses, and black-heeled boots aren’t far behind with their ludicrous price tags.

But even dripping from head to toe in luxury, I feel like I’m wearing a dollar store plastic bag compared to the outfits the women waiting in line are wearing, most of them now sneering in my direction.

They’re literal royalty; I can tell that much from a glance. It’s never hard to notice, even for ordinary humans like me. The omegas wear expensive collars worth mortgage payments, and the alphas sport clan tattoos inked with ancient magic that glow in the dark.

It’s to show us they’re better than us—all of us, including non-royal paranormals. And as much as I want to deny it, they intimidate me. Shit, let’s get real; I’m literally quaking in my thigh-high boots!

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt like this, like a piece of chewed gum stuck on concrete getting stepped on. This feeling is what I’ve been running away from for five long years. Away from a world that will never accept me. Far away from a woman who can never be mine.

And yet, I think as I rub the back of my aching neck, grazing the old puncture wounds there, five years later, almost to the day, I’m back where I started as her plaything.

With a heavy sigh, I slam my door shut and waltz into Carmilla’s Coven, a local lesbian nightclub exclusively for the rich and famous.

I cut past the line wrapping around the door, ignoring even more glares and sneers, and especially the whispers of, She’s just some beta human bitch! Who does she think she is? How did she get in?

Their insults are exhausting but to be expected since they’re waiting outside while I slip in without any royal credentials to my name.

Everyone here is desperate to be chosen by their self-professed queen, so they’re willing to put up with being treated like peasants for a bit. To be selected by the future queen of the night is a one-way ticket to the tippy top of high society, after all.

Little do they know she’s already chosen me.

I weave through the crowd getting down on the dance floor, some listening to the latest underground sensation, Daughters of Dawn, while most try to look all prim and proper in VIP booths.

The omegas’ laughter sounds like nails on a chalkboard over the thudding bass and drums. They’re trying to be as cutesy as possible, little dainty ornaments hanging on their alphas’ arms.

Not that I can blame them. My torrid affair with vampire royalty was a lucrative one, too. If my ex and I were still a thing, I’d probably be giggling just like them, starry-eyed and dazed.

I turn my attention away from the guests in attendance to the club itself. The interior of Carmilla’s Coven is nothing short of lavish. Every piece of matching red and black furniture is designer, some imported from the human world, while most come from Kindred high fashion catalogs.

But I’ve never been into clubs like that, and even the uniqueness of the band’s witchy set doesn’t catch my eye, swiping away a smoke cloud flowing from a magical guitar.

Nothing about the opulence in the nightclub phases me at all. I’m unimpressed when I’ve seen grander venues than this—all thanks to her.

My eyes settle on my destination, blocked by a six-foot-tall woman in a black bunny mask acting as a bouncer, her matching ears flicking up and down, muscles bulging.

As I approach her, pulling my shoulders back, my resolve falters a bit. But I quickly reclaim my backbone and motion to my neck as she tenses.

The bouncer’s eyebrows lift sky high, the only indication she can show emotion, before stepping aside to let me in.

The thing about vampires is that they leave signatures with their fangs like humans do with pencils, stamps, and pens. So the bright blue and gold tendrils radiating from my wound allows everyone to know who bit who.

I’ve discovered that being bitten by a vampire crown princess has several perks over the years, like exclusive access to places where I’d otherwise be killed.

Thanks, I murmur as I walk away, catching the paw of a black rabbit sleeve tattoo on the bouncer’s left arm before disappearing down a long dark corridor.

Years ago, I used to study what all the symbols in the Kindred world meant. Most establishments in Crescent City were and are gang-run, and not knowing who runs what could get you killed. It still can, depending on who you have the misfortune of pissing off.

If my memory is working correctly, Carmilla’s Coven is owned and operated by the Solar Rabbit Clan, a powerful shifter syndicate. Why black rabbits represent them or why they set up the club in the first place is beyond me.

I don’t know the inner workings of Kindred society that well. Remember, I’m a mere beta human bitch.

But I tend to introduce myself as Veronica Espinoza, shifter zoologist, working in the burgeoning field of shifter epidemiology as a researcher at Fontes Pharmaceuticals.

And don’t forget it, seeing as most need my help when they encounter a rare magical illness, as I specialize in the rarest of rare blood-borne pathogens.

In the slums of Crescent City, I’ve studied shifters, vampires, and magicians in the paranormal underworld to find the origins of TV3, a virus that turns humans into creatures of the night.

My goal was to eradicate it at first. We humans here in Crescent City are more or less trapped. Our ancestors were kidnapped or otherwise lured to the Otherside centuries ago, and most of us have never returned. So we usually try to find ways to protect ourselves from being turned.

Alas, tensions have cooled over the years, and most of us mate freely and no longer hold onto ancient grudges based on race. So now I study TV3 on a molecular level, so we non-Kindred know more about its means of transmission beyond its magical origins.

It’s been my life’s mission since I was little, understanding their kind, made even more critical by an incident that still makes me shudder to this day.

And as my hand lands on the brass doorknob to my final location, now more than ever, I feel out of place in a world built for the very same creatures I study. Creatures that, more often than not, want me dead.

Come in, a sultry voice calls out as I push the door open.

A wet dream greets me on the other side. The aftermath, anyway. And while I expected to talk in a private, intimate setting on her terms, I must admit even I’m shocked at my ex-girlfriend’s audacity.

I guess she really wants to drive home how much she’s moved on, I think, closing the door behind me with a ragged sigh.

Power surges through me. And it feels foreign, almost uncontrollable, like some force is possessing me. And then it’s gone in a flash, cowered by the brute force of my ex-alpha’s presence.

Jasmine von Alistair lounges on a large red sofa with a literal harem of women, primarily omegas, surrounding her. I can’t smell their pheromones as a beta, but I know there’s enough in the air to knock an elephant shifter out.

The women look to be a mix of royals and offspring of successful Kindred families just below noble rank. Almost all of them are vampires, though there’s a sprinkling of shifters. And even a tall orc woman, who I’m surprised is an omega, is in the mix, if her collar is any indication, a status symbol adopted from shifters and vampires.

Jasmine has always been open-minded like that. She doesn’t mind seeking pleasure from most women across the alpha, beta, omega, and racial lines.

I mean, as much as I don’t want to believe it, she fell in love with me. And I’m just some useless peasant beta human bitch from off the streets, according to her twin sister way back when.

Oh, sorry, I say, gulping as I bump into a petite woman curled on the floor with a sweet smile, doe-like eyes, reddish-brown skin, and long wavy brown hair speckled with white dots in the back.

A deer shifter, I guess, though it’s hard for me to tell. And while all the women here are just as gorgeous as the doe, it’s the vampire crown princess, Jasmine, the it-girl of the Kindred royal world, I hone in on. And damn it all, she still steals my breath away!

Jasmine’s dressed in a form-fitting, long sleeve, v-neck white blouse with loose black button-up pants that flare around her shapely legs. Her outfit is stunning. But it’s not just Jasmine’s good looks or fashion sense that makes the princess’ court of beautiful paranormals pale in comparison to her in every way.

Mainly because they are pretty pale compared to her hazelnut brown skin. But she’s always been beautiful, even more so than omegas, which is strange for an alpha female. They tend to be more rugged than most, bordering on handsome.

Jasmine’s skin is blemishless and radiant, shining with an otherworldly glow, the mole under her right eye giving the vampiress a feline appearance. That and the fact her eyes turn upward in the corners.

And her luscious lips… Ugh! I want to kiss her and lose myself in her taste but hold myself back as best as I can.

Overall, I’m shocked by my reaction and how feminine Jasmine seems to look suddenly. Not that she didn’t before. It’s just that she had a hard edge to her that all alphas have. A type of tough-as-nails tomboy flare that doesn’t quite match up with the regal elegance she oozes now.

I rip my gaze away from hers as she lifts her head, pushing aside a plus-sized vampire omega with corkscrew curly blonde hair to splay her legs.

The omega in question groans in return, eyes unfocused, her ornate choker encrusted in diamonds unhooked. Then, the sharp ends of Jasmine’s heels click against the floor, and I can only bring myself to look at her from the neck down to keep my sanity from slipping away.

On closer inspection, her blouse is more frilly than form-fitting, which would stand out underneath a blazer. And I spot said blazer draped over the naked body of a sleeping woman on the floor with electric blue hair and pointy elf ears.

Her outfit is the perfect mix of masc and femme, which Jasmine mastered long ago. And her hair, more than her clothing or demeanor, makes me think she’s changed.

Jasmine’s hair is much longer than I remember, flowing down to her mid back in dark waves. She said it used to be kinky when she was very young, but years of heat damage made it grow in bone straight. And apparently, even magic can’t save her burnt hair follicles now.

Yes, everything about Jasmine is magnificent, and despite my pep talk in the car, I feel so insignificant beside her.

I never meant to cross paths with Jasmine ever again. And I refuse to look into her eyes because I know I’ll fall into the trap of hate sex, making up, and running away like the first year we separated.

No, I have to be strong, ask for what I want, and not fall under her spell.

Because I need a cure, not her lips against mine or her fingers threading my pussy. Though I want that too. I’m wishing for it desperately. At some point. No, never!

Fuck, I’m already losing my mind.

As the first beta and human to graduate with a degree in shifter epidemiology, I’ve lived just fine without her.

I worked hard for my degree and meant to part ways for the rest of my life after our brief yet scorching hot college affair. And I’ve made good money as a clinical researcher, too. So it’s not like I need to rely on Jasmine for anything.

Anything but what I need tonight, an answer I can’t get to without her help.

Ever since graduation and gainful employment, I’ve enjoyed my job until I ran into a paranormal I couldn’t place into a neat box—Siku, a purebred werewolf pregnant with my best friend’s child.

A royal just like Jasmine, Siku carries himself like an alpha even though he’s an omega. An oddball in the best way. He’s from an isolated, remote pack of wolves located on the aptly named Den of Wolves, an island off the coast of Crescent City.

Prince Siku of the Iriqtaq Lycan Pack is an anomaly for many reasons, making him valuable to our research. Eddie, a werewolf doctor and my oldest friend, has been studying Siku’s pack for a long time from a distance.

And then, he shared a nugget of information that piqued my interest. The Iriqtaq Pack seemed resistant to almost all viruses prevalent in the shifter world, and we didn’t know