A Vampire To Be Reckoned With

Inc.

Her heart stalled,

she wheezed from shock, and stared into a face she’d never thought to see again.

The wretched witch had been right and her blast from the past had arrived.

The sight of her old field master set off a myriad of emotions, brutally ripping through her defenses. She stumbled through the mental minefield and each misstep sent more explosions surging through her. Hell, she’d rather face Mateo Osvaldo and his entire Toltec army than her former Orcus Master, Lucas O’Cuinn.

One errant thought kept circling back through the jumble. Why couldn’t this meeting have happened when she wasn’t looking like a drowned rat—make that a frozen, drowned rat. Metta, he said her name softly, almost caressingly.

She refused to acknowledge the split second of elation the sight of him gave her. Instead she took refuge in anger as it chased at the heels of joy, clinging to the bitter resentment the long years had taught her. Of course, where he was concerned such conflicted feelings were nothing new. Their relationship had been a constant push-pull series of emotional knots.

In his larger-than-life way, he’d been both her hero and enemy.

Damn him. What was he doing there?

Lucas O’Cuinn, any effort to sound tough was ruined by her chattering teeth. She hoped he didn’t see the wave of hurt, guilt, and fear crushing in on her with all the raw energy and destructive force of a collapsing dam.

Other Books by R. E. Mullins

available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

IT’S A WONDERFUL UNDEAD LIFE

VAMPIRE IN THE SCRYING GLASS

A VAMPIRE TO BE RECKONED WITH

and coming soon…

SHE’S A COLD-HEARTED VAMPIRE

A Vampire

to be

Reckoned With

by

R. E. Mullins

The Blautsaugers of Amber Heights, Book 3

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

A Vampire to be Reckoned With

COPYRIGHT © 2016 by R. E. Mullins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Black Rose Edition, 2016

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0673-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0674-2

The Blautsaugers of Amber Heights, Book 3

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my children, mother, sisters, and friends

who are always ready to listen.

I value and love you all.

Acknowledgments

I want to thank my wonderful Beta Readers: Joann Chew and Angela Shue for all their help.

~*~

A big thank you to Dr. Maria Dela Rosa and her nurse, Kelly Miller for clarifying what a body endures after the neck is fractured.

~*~

Special thanks to my brother-in-law, Rassey, for allowing me the use of his name for one of my characters.

~*~

To Rassey, Jeff, and Brent for helping me plot a fight scene over Mother’s Day dinner. Your unease over the concept of a male/female fist fight was honorable. Your chagrin when I assured you my she-vamp could kick your collective butts was priceless.

Chapter One

A child’s shrill shriek split the frosty afternoon air over the normally tranquil little town of Amber Heights, Missouri. It captured Metta Blautsauger’s attention when she stepped out of the dry cleaners. Her hand paused in the act of hefting the unwieldy, plastic-wrapped bundle over her shoulder, as she registered the note of terror at the cry’s core.

Her gaze raked the area. Within a fraction of a second, she’d located the source of the distress, and her brain assimilated the situation.

Two blocks away a human male held a squirming Hispanic boy under his arm. Without looking left or right, he strode up to a running car and shoved the child into the backseat. A sharp clout to the side of the approximately five-year-old’s head kept him from scrambling back out of the sedan before the man could slam the dented passenger door shut. The child’s tear-streaked face filled the inside of the window, his terrified eyes searching for a hero.

His small mouth worked as he pounded the glass with tiny fists. Lip reading, along with vampiric hearing, allowed Metta to make out his words. They were enough to seal the kidnapper’s fate. Without a second thought for the thousands of dollars’ worth of her family’s clothing, Metta dropped the bundle and ran.

Bad man. He no me papa, over and over the boy hysterically and yet heroically shouted.

Shut up, the man growled as, keeping his head lowered, he climbed behind the wheel and shifted into drive.

Knowing she wouldn’t be able to stop a car once it had attained a velocity of over twenty miles per hour, Metta put on a burst of speed. The powerful vampire blood flowing through her veins enabled her to move so fast she became little more than a blur to the human eye. To the startled kidnapper it must have seemed as if she’d magically appeared in front of his car. Fortunately, it was enough to have his foot instinctively hitting the brake.

She tore the hood up, twisting the metal in the process. A couple of hammer blows from her fists silenced the engine for good.

Now to take care of the would be abductor…

In the next instant, she stood next to the driver’s side window. Barely giving him time to register her presence, she smashed the pane between them with the heel of her palm. It was gratifying to see his eyes bulge with terror, and to know he was too stunned to lift a protecting hand against the flying shards of glass. Now he knew how the kid felt.

Speaking of the boy…she looked over the man’s shoulder into the backseat and frowned. It was awfully chilly for the youngster to be out in a thin T-shirt. At the same time she had the thought, she noted the cluster of red marks on his bare and scrawny arms. Bruises, no doubt, left by the man’s gripping hands. The sight of those discolorations, marring such innocent skin, infuriated her all over again. She turned to the man and did the only thing possible.

She cold-cocked him. It wasn’t as satisfying as killing him, but she didn’t want to traumatize the boy any further. There wasn’t anything she hated more than someone harming a child. As it was she had to take an extra second to fight down the internal bloodlust clamoring for her to annihilate him.

He bad man, the sound of the boy’s voice steadied her. His English might be broken, she thought with a hint of admiration, but his meaning was clear. Hit bad man. Hit him again.

Yes, I hit him, Metta sucked in another deep and calming breath before switching to Spanish for the little guy’s benefit, but once was enough. Don’t worry, I’ll tie him up so he can’t hurt you, or anyone else again. Opening the car door, she hauled the limp, unconscious form from his seat, and hogtied him with his own belt.

She left him trussed up like a turkey on the sidewalk and returned to the car. The boy had climbed over the back of the front seat to the open door. Lifting him into her arms, she reassured him, There. The bad man’s all wrapped up like a present for the police.

Behind her, a woman tittered at her little joke. With more resignation than anger, Metta turned to find a small group forming. Dammit. Eyewitnesses meant the stopwatch had just started ticking, severely limiting her time. People meant cells phones were present and being used to record her every move. By now the cops would have been called. That left her minutes to set the scene. She’d better get busy.

The bystanders would need a logical explanation for the car’s demolished front end. Glancing around, her eye landed on one of the iron streetlights used to give the downtown area its old-fashioned ambiance. Perfect. Resting the boy on her hip, she pushed her foot against the back bumper, and gave a powerful shove—sending the front of the car crashing into the pole. Giving the faked wreck a cursory examination, she decided it wasn’t perfect but it’d have to do.

Soothing the little one was her most important task. Then she’d be faced with mesmerizing each and every spectator, mentally coercing them into deleting their videos. The simplest way to stump the cops was to insert contradictory information into their brains. That way when the police interviewed the onlookers, they wouldn’t get a single corroborating statement. A clever little trick vampires used knowing it would render all witness accounts useless.

Looking down into the kid’s drawn little face with those huge, wet, dark chocolate eyes staring back at her—well, it made her heart melt. It would be a tricky balancing act for her to keep the trauma from overwhelming the little guy. Enough of his memory needed to remain intact to keep him cautious, though not excessively fearful of strangers. For him, she’d take the time needed to do a good job.

****

Luke Quinn’s meeting with the Orcus leader turned heated, and Usiri, the venerable head of the vampire shadow agency, quickly lost his customary stiff reserve. You’re walking pretty damn close to insubordination, Lucas.

You can’t call it insubordination just because you don’t like what I’m saying, Luke’s eyes narrowed as he pushed to his feet. Leaning down, he smacked his palm on the wide expanse of desk separating them. I’m giving it to you straight, you old vamp. It’s too dangerous to send her back into the field. You forget what happened. Fuck, you’ve gotten so senile you can’t even remember what name I go by.

Lucas. Luke. Your fool name doesn’t matter. What matters is you’ve always been a fool where that she-vamp’s concerned.

Don’t push me, Luke growled. You forget—you didn’t see her. I did. When Metta was seized during that last mission, something happened I’ve never witnessed before. I know you want to pass it off as an isolated incident but I’ve never been convinced. To me—it looked as if a mental trigger had been flipped inside her. I swear she hadn’t simply passed out or fainted…it was—like she went dormant.

He’d never forgotten the disastrous end to Metta Blautsauger’s final foray into the field. Captured, tortured, and caged. By the time he’d found her, she’d been comatose. Although obviously beaten, Luke had never been satisfied with Usiri’s or the Orcus physician, Dr. Bodo’s explanations about what caused her to shut down. He’d trained her and he knew she could withstand physical torment. No, he’d never felt that pain had been the cause. Though Usiri denied it repeatedly, passing Luke’s suspicions off as nonsense, he’d retained the uneasy belief something else had been responsible.

You didn’t see the state she was in— He broke off. How did he explain? He’d never been so afraid and, almost a century later, the memory still haunted him. Never before or since had Luke seen a vampire languishing in such an unnatural condition.

The chain of events, bizarrely enough, had started with a death notice and resulted in one of those inexplicable coincidences—the kind that forever chilled the body.

The year was 1917 when the fateful telegram arrived at the Orcus facility which was carefully disguised as The St. Louis Academy for Women.

Luke accepted the signature yellow envelope from the young courier and handed him a tip. He could tell by the kid’s face it wasn’t good news. Then again telegrams weren’t known for good news. Since it dealt with his trainee, he ripped it open without further hesitation.

Kata Blautsauger dead stop Metta needed home stop Funeral week Sat stop Advise arrival time stop Will meet at depot stop

Those unhappy words had sent him to Metta’s dorm and the discovery she’d broken all the rules by sneaking off campus alone. If not for her mother’s death, he’d never have known, wouldn’t have gone searching for her, and she would have died.

At the time he’d been furious. Hell, it still made him angry. Though mainly he remained upset and confused as to why she hadn’t asked him to go with her. And that didn’t take into account her blatant disregard for the rules. Perhaps the last part wasn’t so surprising. Metta had never been known to be mindful of the rulebook. All too often, he’d been left perplexed while trying to understand why she did—almost any of the things she did.

He did recall how moody she’d been with him earlier that evening, though he’d never understood why. They’d been discussing the plight of underage factory workers, some rumored to be as young as four, kept locked inside the St. Louis textile mills—working and living in appalling conditions. Immediately up in arms, in her usual impetuous style, Metta wanted the entire Orcus force to descend on the factories to rescue them. He’d spent the better part of an hour expounding on the necessities of following standard procedures. The need for strategy and planning—until she’d fled his office in a full-blown snit.

Later, during one of the countless times spent re-evaluating the situation, Luke realized he ought to have saved his breath. His fault. In hindsight, he could see he’d neglected a couple of key factors in dealing with Metta. He hadn’t taken into consideration how much she really hated protocols and delighted in flouting them. More importantly, he’d overlooked the tender part of her she kept deeply buried inside. Of course, once she’d learned of their harsh environment, she wouldn’t have been able to leave any child to suffer.

After he’d discovered she’d snuck out, even armed with a pretty good guess of where she’d gone, it had taken him almost forty-eight hours to locate her—strung up in an iron cage deep in the bowels of a factory basement. Thick chains ending in iron manacles encircled each of her wrists and ankles. The top set of chains had been pulled tight until her arms were forced high over her head, and her toes barely touched the ground.

To keep her body taut and uncomfortably stretched, they’d attached the ankle chains to posts embedded in the dank concrete floor. She was still clothed and wearing the modified bloomer uniform Usiri had grudgingly approved for female agent service wear. The baggy pant legs, short enough to expose the tops of her button up shoes, were soiled but relatively intact.

It was her blouse that captured his horrified attention. The back of her bodice hung in tatters after being almost completely shredded away. The remaining scraps of fabric were soaked red with blood—underneath her skin was scored with crisscrossing lash marks. Many of the wounds cut deep, almost to the bone. Every bit of torn flesh bore silent testimony to the torture his princess had been put through.

The sight made him ill. His little warrior, the agent he’d recruited, trained, and overseen had been whipped with more vicious force than most humans could muster. It was clear proof a vampire was involved with the mill owners. Yet it didn’t explain such a deep swoon. She’d been trained to withstand such grievous abuse. During training all recruits were repeatedly beaten in order to harden them. And he’d quickly learned that even for a vampire, Metta’s pain threshold registered unusually high. That meant her captors had to have done something more.

Her still and ashen face held a faint blue pallor edging the fragile skin beneath her closed eyelids. Luke could not see any muscles twitching or discernable respiration.

No signs of life at all.

Panic, a bitter bile, rose up the back of his throat. He couldn’t begin to speculate what kind of diabolical torment they’d put Metta through. Fear and fury, of a kind he’d never experienced before, gave him the strength needed to smash through the locks and bolts.

Releasing Metta, he lowered her to the floor and placed two fingertips over the carotid artery in her neck. He bit back an oath. His hands shook too much to feel a pulse. Through sheer force of will he managed to steady himself, and the faint beat was all the reward he needed.

Back at the center, Luke had spent two days force feeding Metta blood. And he’d talked to her, alternately cajoling and demanding she come back out of the strange fugue. Never in a million years would he forget his relief when she finally moaned and opened her eyes. Fate, that cruel and fickle bitch, had used the terrible tragedy of her mother’s demise to send him looking for her in the nick of time to save her.

Females are weak, Usiri interrupted Luke’s memories. That’s why I never wanted to use them. And that’s why, after they were foisted on me, I insisted they always be paired in the field with a male agent.

Once again, Usiri waved Luke’s concern aside. Damn waste of time and money if you ask me, but I made those rules for a reason. Blautsauger should never have gone out on her own. Since she did, she carries the blame for everything that happened. Hopefully, it taught her a valuable lesson and she won’t attempt another solo venture.

Whether she has backup or not, you can’t guarantee it won’t happen again, Luke growled as he swept up the folder containing Metta’s reactivation orders and waved them in Usiri’s face. If she’d had her wits about her that night—she was good enough—even shackled she stood a good chance of freeing herself. But in the state she was in, she was completely helpless. She couldn’t fend off her captors, plan an escape, or even eat without being fed. All they had to do was simply leave her there unable to do anything but starve to death. Hell, staking would have been more charitable. No, Usiri, until we know the cause of her shut down, I simply can’t agree to the risk.

If it worries you that much, the leader glowered, if you aren’t equal to the task of mentoring her again—I’ll find another field boss.

Luke found the idea so insulting, it made him so angry, he lost the last remnant of his temper. In choice and succinct words, he made sure Usiri understood his opinion and then suggested a nice dark place where he could stick his threats. Knowing he was close to wrapping violent hands around the vampire’s bony neck, he strode to the door. Barely tempering his strength, he slammed his open palm against the door, and the powerful one-handed blow split the heavy, burled panel in two.

He didn’t bother to look back at the damage, leaving the mangled door partially ripped off its hinges, and hanging drunkenly in its naked frame. Stalking past the frightened looking secretary, he blew into the main lobby where he found the loud crack of splintering wood had brought everything to a halt. The resulting silence couldn’t have been more absolute if he’d thrown the main power switch. Even the printer picked that particular moment to end its annoying clacking as the Orcus staff stared at him with slack-jaws.

His footsteps resonated even more loudly on the tiled floor. A couple of visiting training masters, who had been flirting with the pretty receptionist, went so far as to drop into defensive postures. Dumbasses. Only Donel, a huge vampire and one of Luke’s fellow field masters, showed he was made of sterner stuff by barely lifting an eyebrow in Luke’s direction.

If you won’t do it, Usiri’s bellow chased after Luke, I swear I’ll get another field master to take your place.

For a split second Luke steps faltered as every fiber of his being turned more rigid than a month old corpse. With that one sentence, Usiri effectively chopped off the horse’s head. He’d made an order Luke couldn’t refuse. And they both knew it. There was no way in hell he’d allow anyone else to step into his shoes. Not where she was concerned. The sour taste of defeat filled his mouth, and he jerked his head in acceptance without bothering to turn around.

Luke exited down the far corridor leading to his own office, but he was well within earshot when Usiri called out, Donel. Get in here.

The implicit threat was clear, and Luke’s hands fisted at his sides. Usiri would prep Donel, hold him on standby, ready to take over if Luke continued to rebel.

Let him try, he snarled under his breath. Over his dead body…no, not even that would stop him. By any means, fair or foul, he’d battle his way right back out of hell before allowing anyone else to supervise Metta Blautsauger. She was his. Always had been and always would be. Whether she knew it or not.

He now regretted Orcus’ decision to move to Amber Heights. Though it had been inevitable after the Nosferatu council leader, Cassiopeia Acantha, married Andris Blautsauger and made the sleepy little community her home base. That’s when Usiri had started making plans. He liked being close to his public face. So they left the training facility in St. Louis and turned the little town in the southwestern part of the state into the unofficial Orcus headquarters.

At first, thinking on a personal level, Luke had been pleased. He’d thought setting up shop in Amber Heights would make keeping an eye on one, ornery, former agent a little easier for him. Unfortunately, the close proximity also brought Metta back under Usiri’s eye.

It wasn’t until he’d reached his corner office that he discovered he still held the file containing Metta’s new orders. Tossing it down on the desk, he sank into the buttery leather of his chair. He needed time to stew over Usiri’s plan to re-activate Metta’s status.

Why was he suddenly so keen on bringing her back into the fold?

Luke was missing something. But what? He had the sinking suspicion he was being made into a chump, to be used as Usiri’s trained monkey. All because he couldn’t see the hidden agenda behind the company’s official line.

Chapter Two

It sounded like the setup for a really bad joke: a Priest, a Rabbi, a Methodist, and a Lutheran all got together and invited the local vampire for coffee…

Long after the voicemail ended, Metta Blautsauger sat with the phone clutched to her ear. Baffled. A small part of her remained convinced that a punch line would suddenly wing out through the dead air space. She felt like one of those moviegoers—the tenacious, nerdy type—remaining glued to their seats long after the theater emptied and the movie credits rolled to an end. The ones stubbornly waiting for a hidden bonus scene or comical outtake.

Her first instinct screamed trap. Hitting the end button, her tongue absently probed the smooth edges of her canine teeth, the well-ingrained habit used to make sure her fangs stayed retracted in the up and locked position. She was vigilant. That made it unlikely the humans had discovered she was vampire. But if they hadn’t…that made their invitation even more odd. She couldn’t come up with one single, rational reason for a group of local clergymen to seek her out.

What on earth could they want? There’d been a note in Father Borkowski’s pleasant voice that sounded a lot like suppressed…excitement? Tension? Especially during his final instructions when he asked her to come alone to the rectory basement located behind St. Anthony’s Catholic Church. There was an implied level of clandestineness that would worry any vampire.

It sounded so…havey-cavey and was enough to cause the different scenarios sifting through her flexible imagination to become increasingly outlandish. Soon exorcism, staking, and blackmail were topping her short list of possible motives.

Well, it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.

As her younger brother, Rafe, had grown up, her life had emptied. Until one night she’d awaken to discover she was nothing more than the family’s glorified housekeeper. Which reminded her, she needed to buy more of the wine her father liked to mix with his blood.

Setting the phone aside, Metta rose and wandered over to stare blankly out her bedroom window. All in all, she mused, the whole thing sounded more like the plot in a teenage-horror-movie-scream-fest than a polite coffee klatch. Yet even this tiny hint of intrigue was enough to cause her pulse to quicken. It had been way too long since anything exciting had happened in her life.

What would be worrisome to any other vampire was making her heart beat with renewed vigor.

Maybe she shouldn’t ask for more, she’d already had her moment in the moon—back when she’d belonged to the vampire shadow agency, Orcus. Then danger, adventure, excitement, and Lucas O’Cuinn filled her life.

"Stop!" She hissed in frustration. It was stupid to get all worked up over old history. That bridge had burned. Torched beyond all recognition and not even a particle of ash remained. And she would forever owe on that karmic debt.

At least Lucas had allowed her to step away, sparing her the disgrace of being terminated for willful misconduct and insubordination. So…it was stupid to waste more energy pining over what her life had been previously. That was the past. Besides there was no doubt in her heart, despite that last failed mission, she’d have left Orcus. Once she learned of her mother’s death, and knowing Rafe needed her, there had been no other option but to return home.

Metta shook her head to shed the thoughts, scattering them much like a dog shaking raindrops from its coat. At the moment, she needed to concentrate on Father Borkowski’s strange request. Historically, vampires knew that being enclosed in small spaces with religious fanatics was bad for their health. Yet even with this knowledge and her own reservations, it never once occurred to her to ignore the invitation. Which brought up a most troubling point.

What did one wear when summoned by God?

As it turned out, after perusing the selections in her walk-in closet, one wore seasonal fall colors. The rusty orange sweater and knee length brown suede skirt would be appropriate, and modest enough when paired with matching tights. Her hand hovered over an adorable pair of high heeled boots but she selected a more prudent, low heeled option instead.

In case she found herself running for her life, she’d do well to forego the skyscrapers.

****

The town of Amber Heights was traditionally designed as a square with a lovely, gray-stoned courthouse rising from the center. This interior patch of land held the lady, as the locals liked to call the building, and was surrounded by meticulously groomed lawns, a summertime kiddie-splash-pad, a bandstand, and a rose garden complete with a spot for outdoor weddings. Across the tree lined street, bordering this little nucleus of government, were shops and restaurants.

Typical of small town USA, Amber Heights included as many bars and Chinese restaurants as churches. However, the first four denominations to arrive in the area—Catholic, Judaism, Lutheran, and Methodist—created the core. These were the ones that landed the coveted downtown corner slots, giving the town a visible spiritual aspect.

The Baptists had been kicking themselves ever since.

Metta parked out of sight of St. Anthony’s. She planned to walk the rest of the way on foot, keeping her eye out for suspicious behavior.

Once the little vicarage, tucked behind St. Anthony’s, had been nestled inside a sweet garden. As the town grew, the church’s ever increasing parking lot swallowed up every flower and blade of grass. Leaving the once charming little building sticking up like a sore thumb out of a sea of concrete.

She edged along the shadows at the back of the lot. Interesting, she thought, contemplating the parked vehicles. Three cars and a van, marked with the trinity symbol, were angled in such a way they couldn’t be seen from any of the cross streets. The basement of the building could be accessed by a short flight of concrete steps edged by tubular, metal railing. At the bottom, two transom windows flanked the heavy door. Currently, they were tightly shut with the blinds tilted up.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Would she find someone behind the door brandishing a stake? Or did Catholics believe vampirism could be purged from a body? She couldn’t remember. Fervently hoping she wasn’t about to be subjected to a bath of Holy Water—water was hell on suede—she descended the creepy stairs.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the knob but it wasn’t from fear. Oh, no, she recognized the emotion filling her. Even after all this time, she remembered the sensation all too well. Anticipation flowed through her veins in a glorious rush.

Now that, she supposed, said something about her. Here she was about to walk into a potential