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  The Vampire’s Nanny

  A Paranormal Romance

  By Jasmine Wylder

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Bonus Content (Limited Time Only)

  Paranormal Romance Collection

  Shifter Romance: The Billionaire Shifter’s Secret Baby

  About Jasmine Wylder

  Prologue

  The scent of gunpowder hung heavy on the mid-September air, the smoke from cannons and rifles alike still lingering over the battlefield. The song of a brown thrasher bird echoed across the meadow as the shadows of waning daylight lengthened. From the banks of Chickamauga Creek, bodies of both Union and Confederate soldiers littered the blood-soaked ground.

  Corporal Charles Samuel Dodd lay in the grass, his hand pressed over the gunshot wound in his stomach. His fingers had gone numb, cold from the rapidly dropping temperature. The sharp tang of blood filled his mouth and caked at the corners of his dry, cracked lips. Every breath rattled in his lungs. He stared up at the sky, watching it change from blue to gold to purple with the setting sun. All around him, he could hear the moans and cries of anguish from other fallen warriors – neither Blue or Gray, but men facing the final moments of their mortality. They had fought for two solid days, moving through the forest at night with only the flash of their guns to light their way in the darkness, until they had reached the clearing where they now lay. He could not say for certain which battalion had retreated first, nor did he know who would claim victory. Only one truth remained clear.

  They abandoned us. They left us here to die.

  As the first stars began to appear in heaven’s canopy, Charles found his thoughts drifting. He moved away from the pain toward a pleasant memory, that of a beautiful woman whose brown eyes and warm arms beckoned to him. My sweet Nancy Ellen…at least you are safe in New York, far from the fighting. What I would not give to pillow my cheek against your soft bosom one last time, to breathe in the scent of your dark skin while you sing to me with your angel’s voice. A sadness rose up within him and he swallowed, feeling a thick, dry knot in his throat. He hated that he would die here, after being forced to join an army that condemned his love – because while she might be a Freewoman now, Nancy Ellen had been born a slave. Their affair had been carried out in secret for years until Charles, who felt shame for being the grandson of a ship’s captain involved in the trade, had been recruited from his family’s home in South Carolina. I should have run when I had the chance, he thought, not for the first time.

  When he had expressed that notion to Nancy Ellen during their last night together, she had begged him to abandon the idea. ‘They will hunt you down,’ she had told him, as she held his face in her hands. ‘I know you disagree with the reason for this war, but you stand a greater chance of coming back to me when the fighting is over, than you would if they execute you for desertion.’

  Now, it did not matter. Charles would have rather died a traitor than to be remembered as one who sided with the Confederacy. With his waning strength, he reached up and clawed at the blue Infantry chevron on his sleeve, wishing he could be rid of the whole uniform so he could die free from all that it symbolized. Unfortunately, he had grown too weak, and could only fall back down in a helpless sprawl. He closed his eyes, a tear trickling down his temple. Farewell, my beloved Nancy Ellen. We will meet again in God’s Kingdom.

  The sudden cessation of birdsong accompanied by the snap of a twig made him open his eyes again. In the growing darkness and the lingering haze, Charles could see figures, a dozen or so men and women in black robes, emerge from the woods. They spread out, walking among the dead and dying. Some soldiers reached out to them, pleading for assistance. The strangers went to them quietly and knelt down. Charles frowned. Given their attire, he thought they might be from a religious order. Have they come to tend to the wounded, and deliver last rites for the dead? he wondered. His weakening pulse quickened with determination to prove himself worth saving, bolstered by the hope that he would live to see his Nancy Ellen again.

  A shadow fell over him. Charles turned his head and blinked up at man with dark hair and a face pale as moonlight. Gulping, Charles raised a trembling hand, fingers sticky with his own blood. “Father,” he rasped. “Help me.”

  “’Father?’” The other man chuckled and shook his head. “You have mistaken me for another, friend.” He spoke with a French accent, his voice low and gentle as a summer’s breeze. “My name is Jean Michel.” He reached out to brush Charles’s sweat- and dirt-matted hair back from his face. “You have a golden mane, like a lion,” he mused, and smiled. “What are you called, little lion?”

  “Charles Dodd.” Every word took great effort to push out. “Please – I am not yet ready to die.”

  “So it would seem.” Casting a quick glance around at his companions, Jean Michel offered Charles a conspiratorial smile. “While we come to take away the suffering and make the passing swift,” he said, “I sense in you a spirit much like my own. For this, I believe you worthy to receive the gift of Life Eternal. You will not die, but be warned – if you accept, you will not be the same.”

  “Mister,” Charles croaked, the cold of night and his ebbing life making him shiver, “I did not understand a word you just said.”

  “I am offering you a second chance at life,” Jean Michel said. He wrapped both his hands around Charles and squeezed. “Do you wish to live?”

  “I would sell my eternal soul,” Charles said, nodding. It took every ounce of will that remained within him to make a desperate grab at the Jean Michel’s sleeve with his free hand. He looked him in the eye and whispered, “I want it.”

  “Then it shall be yours,” Jean Michel said.

  A spasm seized Charles, wringing a broken gasp from his lungs. Death had arrived, it’s icy fingers closing around his wrist. His eyes fluttered. No! Not now! He tried to hold on, frantic not to let himself be taken on that final journey, ready to fight for all his worth. I will not give up! I deserve life!

  “Death will not have you, Charles,” he heard Jean Michel say close to his ear, as though he had seen the Grim Reaper himself and heard Charles’ thoughts of denial. “But I will.”

  Strong hands slipped under his shoulders. Charles gasped again, feeling a stab of pain in his abdomen as his body lifted up. A moment later, there came an unusual pressure at his neck, a sharp and burning sensation like a wasp’s sting that faded into a soothing warmth. It spread out through to
his extremities like the heat of a shot of whiskey rushing into the blood. Charles sucked in a breath only to let it out a moment later in a sigh. When his eyes opened again, he could see the entire battlefield, as bright and clear as midday. He blinked. But it had been dark just a moment ago!

  He became aware of being supported. Looking around, he found Jean Michel still kneeling beside him; the Frenchman wore a wide grin. “Wh-what happened?” Charles asked. Glancing down, he saw the bloody hole in his uniform – but underneath, his fair skin appeared unmarred. “The wound…it’s gone.”

  One of the others, a red-haired woman, appeared beside them. She looked at Charles, wide-eyed, before turning on Jean Michel. “What have you done?” she demanded.

  “Our family has grown, Martha,” Jean Michel said, his words light despite the hard glint of authority in his blue eyes.

  “We had an agreement! The gift—”

  “—is mine to share as I choose,” Jean Michel said. He rose to his full height and offered a hand to Charles, assisting him in gaining his feet. “Do not question your leader, dearest Martha.” Jean Michel smiled at Charles. “He is one of us, now.”

  Martha glared at him and then at Charles but said nothing before sweeping off across the battlefield. Charles watched her go to another fallen soldier, her cloak sweeping outward around her like a shroud as she knelt beside him. She passed a hand over the wounded man’s eyes to close them before leaning down and placing her mouth over his throat. Charles reached up to his own neck, touching the spot where he remembered feeling the sting. He recoiled in shock when Martha lifted her head to reveal lips smeared with blood. “Lord Almighty!” he choked out. “What is she doing?”

  “Giving, and taking.”

  Tearing his gaze from Martha, Charles looked at Jean Michel. “I do not understand.”

  “You will learn.” Jean Michel stepped over to a Union soldier and beckoned to Charles. “Come, little lion,” he said, with a smile. “It is time for you to begin your new life.”

  “My new life…as what?”

  “Some have called us ‘angels.’” Jean Michel bowed down, pulled the dying man into his arms. “This is what we do. We give release from pain and set them free.” He unbuttoned the soldier’s collar and pulled the cloth aside to expose his throat. “In exchange, we take of their essence so that we may live.”

  He opened his mouth. Horrified, Charles saw elongated eye teeth, like the fangs of a rattlesnake, moments before Jean Michel sank them into the dying man’s neck. A thin rivulet of blood leaked from the near-perfect seal of the Frenchman’s mouth on the soldier’s throat, tracking over ashen skin.

  The sight of the blood and the scent of it all around him began to overpower Charles, awakening something inside him. Before he could stop himself, he stumbled over to another fallen comrade, drawn by the sound of his death rattle as he struggled to take his final breaths. Charles felt the poke of his own teeth against his tongue. Hunger unlike any he had ever felt before began to gnaw at his gut, overriding the wave of panic that had risen inside him. He stared at the soldier. He could hear the weak flutter of his heartbeat. Help him on his way, something inside him whispered. Stay alive.

  With a desperate cry, Charles dropped on his prey like an owl swooping down on a mouse. He felt a pop against his lips as his new teeth broke through flesh, followed by the sweet, warm rush of blood pulsing across his tongue. His eyes drifted shut, the river of bliss flowing down his throat as he drank. He felt as though had been reborn…and in a way, he had been.

  As a vampire.

  Chapter One

  The trendy Midtown clubs along Peachtree Street throbbed with life, a siren call to both hipsters out to have a good time and hungry vampires looking for their nightly meal. The heavy pulse of techno music matched the rapid beat of hearts pumping blood as people writhed on the crowded dance floors under flashing lights as brightly colored as the cocktails being served at the bar.

  “Ah, another typical Friday night in ‘Hotlanta,’” Charles sighed, as he stood at the railing of a balcony overlooking the sea of half-dressed, undulating bodies like a discerning customer eyeing the choice cuts of meat in a butcher shop display case. He breathed in the swirling aroma of natural sweat and man-made chemicals, able to separate and identify each perfume, aftershave, hair product, and cigarette down to the tobacco brand like a well-trained hound on the trail of one particular scent. His discerning, preternatural gaze highlighted the best candidates. He found himself focusing on a woman alone, older and on the prowl for a young stud who might help to rewind her biological clock before it stopped ticking altogether. Charles gave his highball glass a twist, absently swirling the untouched contents. The drink served as camouflage, a means of blending in with his surroundings like the black chinos, white sneakers, light gray blazer, and light blue V-neck t-shirt that complimented the cool blue of his eyes. Even his long blond curls had been pulled up into the ridiculous but popular “man-bun” favored by many.

  The sudden arrival of a familiar presence made him tense. Without looking around, he raised his Seven and Seven to his lips and pretended to take a gulp. “What do you want, Martha?” he asked, not bothering to keep the note of annoyance from his deep voice. He did not have to shout to be heard above the music, as their unique hearing could filter out any surrounding noise.

  “Sorry to disrupt your hunting,” Martha said, the tone of her words conveying the direct opposite. She had never liked Charles, had disapproved of him from the moment Jean Michel brought him over into the coven. Despite her feelings, however, she and the others had shown proper respect for his bloodline and had recognized Charles as their new leader when Jean Michel had disappeared fifty years ago under mysterious circumstances. “I thought you should know, they’ve found the next sacrifice.”

  Now Charles gave her his full attention, turning to face her. For a woman who had first come into the world three hundred years ago, Martha had adapted well to the changing times. She wore her red hair now cropped short. Multiple piercings lined the outer shell of her exposed ears, and she dressed in a form-fitting mini dress with high heels. She never had to worry about her next meal, as men and women alike could not resist her allure. “Where?” he asked.

  “Miami,” Martha replied. “She was living on the streets. Probably just another Cuban refugee.”

  Charles frowned. “No parents?”

  “Not according to Weaver. He said they found her hanging out near a crack house, watching for cops in exchange for scraps of food from drug dealers.” She held up a hand to stop Charles from asking his next question. “And yes, she is untouched. Shocking, I know, but it would have been just a matter of time.” She folded her arms under her breasts and smirked. “In that respect, we just saved her from a fate worse than death.”

  That made Charles snort. “Nice choice of words,” he muttered. He set his drink on a nearby table, so smoothly that none of the people sitting there even noticed. “Did Weaver say when they would be back?”

  “Tomorrow night,” Martha said. “They’re already on their way but stopped off where they could lie low for the day before completing the journey back.”

  “Good.” Charles returned to his study of the dancers below, his fingers curling over the railing tight enough to leave slight indentations in the metal. Times had changed, and as immortal creatures they had learned to adapt in order to survive. They could take a little from various ‘donors’ on a nightly basis but they still had to consume lives at least once a month. Homeless camps had taken the place of battlefields and dying soldiers – those souls who had become invisible to the greater part of society, ignored as they slept in doorways or begged on street corners. Jean Michel had been the one who had started the practice at the beginning of the last century, when wars began to be fought on foreign shores. He had set in place three rules: first and foremost, the ‘sacrifice’ had to come from another state – never from the same area where the coven resided – so as to avoid suspicion; second, it had to b
e someone who would not be missed – transients, individuals with no apparent connections and therefore no chance of being searched when they turned up missing.

  The third rule had always been the hardest for Charles. The ‘sacrifice’ had to be a child. Because they no longer had the luxury of speeding multiple souls on their way, they had to compensate by sharing in the pure blood of an innocent in order to achieve the same level of life to sustain them. The only source for that kind of blood came from children, usually on the verge of puberty. Once a month, a hunting party would be dispatched to find just such a child, an orphan with no possible hope or chance for survival. We are doing them a favor, putting an end to the suffering. That is what Jean Michel had always said, and what Charles had continued to tell himself every time it had to happen. When the hunger starts to kick in, there’s really no way to resist…the more you try, the more it drives you insane. Sometimes, Charles wondered if instead of an important part of the ecosystem there might be some truth to all the fictional depiction of their kind as monsters.

  “Okay,” Charles said at last, and nodded. He glanced at Martha. “Put the word out. The ritual will take place next week, on schedule.”

  “Consider it done,” Martha said. She peered over the balcony and grinned. “Oh – looks like someone else is about to hook your fish.”

  Charles looked down and saw the woman he had singled out as a prospective snack now being approached by a skinny young man with full tattoo sleeves and a goatee. Charles let out a haughty laugh. “Yeah, right,” he said, pushing away from the rail. “We’ll just see about that.”

  He flowed like quicksilver through the crowd. The couple had moved to the bar. Charles slipped in between them. “Let me get that for you,” he said, floating a fifty across the illuminated counter as the bartender placed a drink in front of the woman. Charles gave her his most charming smile. “Hi. I’m Charles.”