Kiss of Venom

Note: This e-story is around 19,000 words and takes place after the events of Deadly Sting. It is told from Owen Grayson’s point of view. It will be available as an e-book only.

CHAPTER ONE

“You’re an idiot.”

I glanced over at my best friend, Phillip Kincaid. “Really? I’m an idiot? Because I’d say that it takes one to know one.”

Phillip snorted and took another sip of his scotch. He studied me over the rim of his glass, his bright blue gaze level with mine, calmly staring past the blank mask of my face to see the real man lurking underneath. Funny, how well he could still read me, even though we’d been estranged for years and had only recently reconnected. After a moment, he grinned and waggled his eyebrows at me.

I sighed, knowing that he’d keep grinning like a fool until I asked him the inevitable question. “And why, exactly, am I an idiot?”

“Because we’ve been here an hour already, and you haven’t so much as made eye contact with a single woman.” Phillip used his drink to gesture out at the scene before us. “And there are plenty of them here tonight to choose from, Owen. Blondes, brunettes, even a few redheads. Humans, vampires, giants, dwarves, elementals. Whatever floats your boat.”

Phillip was right. There were plenty of women inside Northern Aggression, Ashland’s most extravagant nightclub. We were sitting in a booth in the back, giving us a clear view of the rest of the club. Men and women of all shapes, sizes, and ages happily grooved to a rocking beat out on the dance floor, while others clustered two and three deep around the elemental Ice bar that ran along one wall, slugging down the drinks in their hands and already looking forward to the next round. Smoke spiraled up into the air as folks sucked on cigarettes, cigars, and other things that weren’t exactly legal. The thick, gray clouds hung like a layer of wispy fog in front of the crushed red velvet drapes that covered the walls.

Northern Aggression was the sort of place where anything went, either back in the more private VIP rooms or out here in public in plain view of anyone who cared to look. Some of the folks who weren’t dancing, drinking, or smoking were engaged in more … passionate pursuits. A couple kissed deeply at a table off to my right, their eyes closed, their bodies melded together, their hands roaming over each other as though the rest of the world didn’t exist. Meanwhile, the booth behind my back rocked back and forth in time to the athletic acrobatics of the couple there, although the thumping music mostly drowned out their hoarse cries of pleasure.

A particularly vigorous rock of the booth made me sigh, lean forward, and take another swig of my gin and tonic. Phillip had dragged me out to the club tonight to celebrate his recovery from being shot in the chest during a robbery gone wrong at the Briartop art museum a few weeks ago. Or maybe it was a robbery gone right, considering that Clementine Barker and most of her gang of giants had ended up dead in the end. But thinking about that night conjured up so many memories for me, especially of a beautiful woman in a blood-red dress—

“Hi, sugar,” a voice said loud enough to be heard over the music.

Maybe it was the slightly mocking way that she drawled out the word sugar, but the sound of her voice made my head snap up, thinking that she was here tonight, hoping that she was—

But it wasn’t her. Instead, a pretty woman with ebony skin, hazel eyes, and black hair that was spiked up almost like a mohawk stood in front of our booth. For a moment, I thought that she’d come over to talk to Phillip, since he’d been actively eyeing the ladies ever since we’d arrived, but then I realized that she was holding a round tray, marking her as one of the club’s waitresses. Actually, she was more than just a waitress, given the gold, heart-and-arrow pendant that glimmered in the hollow of her throat. The rune was Roslyn Phillip’s symbol for her luxe nightclub—and all the hookers who worked here.

Several men and woman wearing the same necklace circulated around the dance floor and through the crowds at the bar, their gold runes flashing like neon signs underneath the club’s black lights, letting everyone know that they were open for business. All of them were buff, beautiful, and baring a lot of skin, leaving little to the imagination. Most of them were vampires, and all of them would do whatever you wanted them to—for the right price.

The waitress cocked a hip to one side, making her red leather miniskirt ride up even higher on her toned thighs. “Hi, there. My name’s Sierra. Can I get you boys another round?”

Phillip gave her a slow, syrupy smile. “Sugar, you can get me just about anything that you like.”