When Darkness Hungers: A Shadow Keepers Novel (Shadow Keepers 5) Read online

  Raves for J. K. Beck’s Shadow Keepers series

  WHEN BLOOD CALLS

  “J. K. Beck builds a dark, compelling world in When Blood Calls, the first in a paranormal trilogy.… Sexy, thrilling and teeming with weird creatures and unexpected alliances, this story will have readers eager for the next installment.”

  —BookPage, “Romance of the Month”

  “A page-turner! Riveting, dangerous, and not to be missed!”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Sherrilyn Kenyon

  “J. K. Beck expertly blends pulse-pounding romantic suspense with an evocative and original paranormal world. The result is a red-hot page-turner.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kresley Cole

  “A compelling blend of dark paranormal romance and gritty urban fantasy.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lara Adrian

  “From the very first page, you’ll be enveloped in the story of When Blood Calls and the rest of the world will disappear. Beck has created compelling characters, a story rich with paranormal creatures you can empathize with and a plot that will make readers ask, ‘What would I do if it were me?’ Once you start the book, don’t plan on moving until you’ve finished the story.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  WHEN PLEASURE RULES

  “Rich with moral dilemmas, steamy sex and a timeless political feud between vampires and werewolves, there’s something for all paranormal fans here.… Sexy, dark and intense.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Right from the get-go, Lissa and Rand’s story grabs you and won’t let go.… When Pleasure Rules is a super-fun, action-packed, and let’s not forget sizzling story.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  “When Pleasure Rules lives up to the standard set by When Blood Calls. The tension is high, the action is intense, and the romance is scorching.”

  —Bitten by Books

  WHEN WICKED CRAVES

  “Beck can always be counted on for a fantastic paranormal tale. This third addition to the immensely popular and enjoyable Shadow Keepers series may be the best yet. Tight, action-packed suspense combined with one seriously imaginative plot will have readers whipping through page after page of gripping suspense and sizzling passion. A wonderful world readers will want to visit time and time again.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The passion, twists and turns in When Wicked Craves will keep you entranced from the first page until the last.”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  “Lovable characters, great action, scary monsters and super-hot scenes, what more could you ask for?”

  —Night Owl Romance

  When Darkness Hungers is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Bantam Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Julie Kenner

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52566-6

  Cover art: Craig White

  www.bantamdell.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  Excerpt from When Temptation Burns

  The two vampires moved with steady purpose, the low fog curling around their ankles as if the oily darkness of the moonless night were caressing them. And why wouldn’t it? Hadn’t Sergius often embraced the darkness, drawing it close like a lover, letting it wrap around him, smothering him even as it soothed him with its warm familiarity?

  And yet he yearned to be free of it—unbound from the pinch of the dark. That was why he’d come tonight, because he’d heard rumors about this witch. About her extraordinary powers. How she could heal. How she could make people whole.

  People, perhaps. But what about vampires?

  Her gifts might not extend to his kind. More than that, she might refuse to help him. He shoved the possibility aside, burying it beneath a blanket of false optimism. No matter how poor the odds, he had to try. The burning inside him had become so violent—so raw—that he had no other options. Because if he couldn’t ratchet back the darkness, it would certainly consume him. And once that happened, Sergius would be gone forever, lost inside an inky black void filled with only the scent and taste of blood.

  “There,” Derrick said, grabbing Serge’s arm and tugging him to a halt. He tilted his head back, his nostrils flaring. “Can you smell it?”

  Sergius glanced sideways at his companion, noting the harsh gleam in his eyes and the hardness of his jaw. He forced his thoughts aside, afraid that Derrick might somehow discern his true purpose merely by glancing at his face. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let the night wash over him. The magnolia trees were in full bloom, and the cloying perfume of their blossoms battled with the more woody cologne of the cypress and pine trees that dotted this stretch of land upriver from the Vieux Carré. He caught the scent of the Mississippi River, the coolness of the water coupled with the fetid tang of decay. And beneath it all, the pungent, heady smell of death.

  “War,” Derrick said. “It’s as if the stars have aligned for our pleasure, bringing death and chaos along with the approaching Union fleet.” He sighed. “I haven’t dined so blissfully well since the British blundered into the colonies. Although, no. We feasted well in 1812. Do you recall?”

  “How could I not?” Serge replied, the memory bringing a fresh wave of decadent hunger. They’d spilled much blood those nights. Had practically bathed in the sweet, metallic liquid. At the time, Sergius’s daemon had roared in ecstasy, powerful enough to battle down Serge’s petty protests and hesitations. Strong enough to take over until Serge lost himself in the warm, glorious wonder of fresh blood, only to claw his way back to the surface days later, heavy with self-loathing and furious with his inability to suppress the daemon as so many of his kind had managed to do.

  The daemon lived in all vampires—a bone-deep malevolence that emerged from the human soul when the change was brought on. But some vampires were able to successfully fight it, to regularly battle it back down until their human will took precedence. Serge did not count himself among that fort
unate group. His daemon ran high and wild. Pushing. Craving. Battling Serge’s will with such persistence over the centuries that he inevitably succumbed, sliding into a bloodlust that caressed him as sweetly as madness.

  How he envied those of his kind who had learned to either tame that vileness, or at least conjure the strength to suppress it. He longed for the mental clarity that accompanied being in charge of his own body and mind.

  He’d been fighting his daemon for almost two millennia now, and its power still humbled him. Even now, his daemon was rising at the mere thought of blood.

  Beside him, Derrick threw his head back and laughed, undoubtedly anticipating the glory of the kill. He shared none of Serge’s hesitations and experienced none of Serge’s guilt. They had traveled together on and off for years, and Serge knew that it was almost time for them to part ways. Being with Derrick only stoked the hunger that burned deep within him. Tonight, though, Serge had his own purpose for joining Derrick. The witch. But that was not a purpose he intended to share. He knew only too well that Derrick would neither understand nor approve. Like Serge, the younger vampire had a daemon that clung close to the surface. Unlike Serge, Derrick was more than happy to fan the flames of its appetite.

  “How far?” Serge asked.

  “Just down that lane.” Derrick thrust his hand out toward the left, indicating an overgrown dirt road. There was no moon, but with his preternatural vision, Serge could clearly see the once white plantation house, now gray and in disrepair. And not because of the war thrumming around them and threatening to subsume this genteel property, but because of neglect, pure and simple. The occupants of Dumont House had priorities other than the upkeep of their family’s homestead. The Dumonts were vampire hunters.

  “They may not all have gone on the hunt,” Serge said. According to Derrick’s sources, the Dumont men had ridden earlier, intent on their goal of attacking a vampire nest hidden within the tombs of the St. Louis Cemetery that bordered the Vieux Carré.

  “I hope they didn’t,” Derrick said. “Nothing would please me more than to drain them dry and leave them to rot in the cotton fields. Nothing, that is, except doing the same to their women.”

  An unwelcome trill of pleasure shot up Serge’s spine, brought on by the inescapable truth of Derrick’s words. There was pleasure in pain. Pleasure in the release of blood. In letting the daemon rage free and surrendering to the power of its foul appetite. Pleasure, yes. But torment, too.

  “You’re quiet tonight,” Derrick said.

  “I’m savoring the feed.” The lie came smoothly to his lips, and he knew that Derrick would not doubt him.

  Derrick laughed, low and hearty. “Ah, my friend. So am I. Look—one of the slaves making rounds.” Across the clearing, a dark figure moved. An elderly male carried a single candle, the flame protected by a bowl of glass. He walked swiftly, his head turning to and fro, and Serge couldn’t help but wonder if the slave had sensed their presence. But surely not. The inky night was impenetrable to human eyes. Undoubtedly he feared for the safety of the menfolk in the city, and was ill at ease with his obligation to protect the women in the big house.

  Beside him, Derrick stood as still as a statue. “You hesitate?” Serge asked. “That old man would have made a tasty appetizer.”

  “Let him live and suffer from the knowledge that he had no way to protect the females.” He turned to Serge, eyes dancing with mirth. “Besides, I prefer the flavor of blood that’s not quite as aged. Come on.”

  They strode boldly to the house, then rapped hard at the heavy front door. At first, there was no sound from within; then Serge heard the light tread of footsteps. A woman. He imagined her in a loose gown, breasts full and unbound by a corset, her lithe limbs naked beneath the thin material. Immediately, his body tightened and the daemon twisted within, ready to take and taste. And oh, by the gods, wasn’t that so very tempting …

  The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door, and for a moment there was only the tremulous sound of a woman’s breath. Then the stern clearing of her throat, as if she was bolstering her courage. “It’s late. Who’s there?”

  “We come to warn your men,” Derrick said, thickening his accent. “The Yankees approach, and they mean to occupy this property. Is your husband home?”

  “Who are you? I don’t recognize your voice.”

  “The brothers Wilcox, ma’am,” he lied smoothly. “We’ve ridden hard from Metairie Ridge to warn your pa. Please, this plantation can’t fall. Not with its proximity to the river, the train, and the main road. Let me speak to your menfolk.”

  Serge caught the scent of her hesitation. The rumors of the Union’s impending arrival were as thick as the famous New Orleans fog, so Derrick’s story was wickedly credible. More than that, he’d used the Wilcox name, referencing the two brothers who were known to be well-placed Confederate supporters. A risky proposition if the woman knew the men personally, but brilliant if she believed.

  “Please, ma’am,” Serge said. He saw Derrick shift forward, as if losing patience. With one solid blow, Derrick could break down the door, and that was a result Serge didn’t want. The noise would draw the rest of the house’s occupants, and he needed to face his quarry alone. “We must speak to your father. Open the door and call him down. We realize the impropriety of the hour, but war ignores all social graces.”

  For a moment, he feared that the woman would brush off his plea. But then he heard the thunk of the lock turning. A moment later the door swung inward, revealing a young woman of about twenty. Derrick and Serge bowed deep, removing their hats in a broad, gallant motion.

  “My husband is gone this night,” the woman said. Behind her, a burly black man stood, his expression fierce. Clearly, he was there to make sure no harm came to the mistress of the house.

  “Your father, then.”

  “Dead these many years. Please, tell me what news, and I can inform my husband upon his return, or Sampson can ride to him now if it is urgent.”

  “Oh, it’s most urgent,” Derrick said, hooking an arm around the woman’s waist and moving so fast to Sampson’s side that he surprised even Serge. In mere seconds the man was on the ground, his neck snapped neatly in two. For a moment the room was completely silent, as if time hadn’t yet caught up with the horror. Then the dam broke and the woman’s scream filled the night, only to be cut off a second later when Derrick sank his fangs into her pretty, pretty neck.

  He drank deep, then pulled away, his mouth bloody as he looked at Serge and shifted the woman as if in invitation. “Care for a nibble, my friend?”

  By the gods, yes …

  The scent of her blood enveloped him and her soft moans teased his daemon, urging it to come out. To play and to feast. He could practically taste the coppery warmth of her blood flowing over his lips, could feel the softness of her skin beneath his fingers and the feather-light beat of her fluttering, fading pulse at his lips. The pleasures of blood rivaled even the pleasures of the flesh, and right then the daemon wanted both. Wanted to get lost in the hedonism of sweetly spilled blood.

  No.

  No, goddammit, no.

  His body tightened as he dredged up the remnants of his own will to force the daemon back down. He was in charge. Serge. Not the daemon. Not here, goddammit. Not now, when he’d come so far and with such an urgent mission. “Only a nibble?” Serge said in reply, forcing amusement into his voice. “I’m looking for a feast. Not a wench with the honeyed taste of fear already drained from her.”

  Derrick chuckled. “The first bite is indeed the sweetest, though the struggle that follows adds spice.” He gave the woman a shake and she writhed in his arms, the pungent scent of her fear reaching out to Serge and making his hunger rise. He took a step toward her, then halted.

  “Enjoy,” he said. “I crave the hunt as much as the kill.” He didn’t wait for Derrick to answer, afraid that if he stayed he would succumb. Instead he turned and moved swiftly away from the woman’s moans and the seductive scent of h
er pain.

  The kitchen was only a few yards from the big house, and he found the witch there. She stood behind a large wooden cutting block, a hatchet that had undoubtedly beheaded many chickens lodged in the wood in front of her. A single candle illuminated the room, and the flickering orange reflected in the woman’s dark eyes. In her hand, she held a stake, and the absence of any scent of fear told Serge that she knew how to use it.

  “You are a fool to come here, vampire,” she said.

  “Help me, and you will survive the night.”

  A single brow arched, making her beautiful face even more exquisite. Her café au lait skin glowed in the candlelight, her striking cheekbones and aquiline jaw giving her the appearance of the lady of the manor rather than a slave. “You’re a cocky beast. I assure you, I’ll survive. You will not be so lucky.” She twisted her hand, just enough to bring the stake into the light, making the wood glow warm.

  For an instant the lure of sweet oblivion washed over him, and Serge lost himself in the temptation to draw her wrath and accept the stake. To allow death, that most elusive of companions, to finally take him. He couldn’t do it, though. There was no fear—he’d lost himself too many times to the unknown darkness that was the daemon to ever fear the relative calm of death. But there was stubbornness. And, yes, there was the passion of his will. The small pleasures of the flesh and of the earth. He had once craved immortality with all his soul—so much so that he had compromised that very soul. He had made himself what he was, and he would remedy that error. Somehow, someway, he would make himself whole. And then, once he had lived life without the pain and horror of the daemon’s madness, perhaps he would welcome death. But that day had not yet arrived.