Stiltz
Stiltz
Once Upon a Harem
C.M. Stunich
After Glows Publishing
Copyright © 2018 by C.M. Stunich
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Published by: Davis Raynes Publishing Group, LLC
dba After Glows Publishing
PO Box 224
Middleburg, FL. 32050
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Cover by: Takecover Designs
Formatting by: Glowing Moon Designs
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All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
Once Upon a Harem
Note from the Publisher
Stiltz
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Cameron Darke is a dhampir—half-vampire and half-human.
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She’s also the firstborn child her mom promised to give up.
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Rather than sacrifice her only daughter to the immortal assassin known as Rumpel Stiltz, Cam’s mother went on the run, moving them from old trailers to rusted cars, under bridges or onto park benches.
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Cam’s never known anything but poverty and desperation.
But at twenty-five, she’s an adult who’s ready to make her own choices.
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The vampire king is looking for a queen, and Cam intends to take the throne. The immortal bachelor has declared he’ll only wed a woman who can spin straw into gold.
A seemingly impossible task for some, but Cameron Darke knows exactly who can help.
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Rumpel Stiltz’ kin.
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The firstborn sons taken by Rumpel in his many bargains are now adults, known as the Stiltz brothers, and the three assassins are exactly what Cameron is looking for.
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Once upon a time, their leader spun straw to gold for Cam’s mother, and now she intends to use his kin to win her crown.
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But this time, the Stiltz’ boys don’t want to take Cam’s firstborn child—they want to give her one…personally.
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Cam enters a fool’s bargain with three dark, deadly men.
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But it’s she who intends to double-cross them.
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She just never expected to find her heart on the line.
1
Crouching in shadows is what I do best.
One could even argue that I was born for it. A smirk curls my lips as I crouch at the end of the alley, my gaze focused on a man in a sharp suit and the pale-skinned girl sucking on his neck. Weird part is, she’s not the vampire in this scenario.
Neither of them are.
It’s the teenage girl leaning against the pole not ten feet away, watching the couple kiss and flirt on an empty street while she smokes a cigarette. How annoying, vampire nobility hunting like dhampir trash.
With a grin, I grab the edge of the old brick wall, using the toes of my boots to climb up onto the roof. There are two dead bodies up here, and I’m about to add another.
Of course, I didn’t kill the first two; she did.
Pausing at the edge of the roof, I watch the teen finish her cigarette with a sigh, eyes locked on the couple as they break apart briefly and the woman taps something out on her phone. She’s probably calling a car, but there’s no way in hell the vamp girl is letting them get into it.
A quick glance around shows me nobody’s looking, so I hop off the roof and land in a totally epic crouch. Yep. Even dhampir filth have some pretty neat tricks.
“Hey.” Just that one word, resonating with power, draws the vampire’s gaze around to mine. Her eyes catch mine and she frowns. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I’m asking loudly enough that she doesn’t have much choice. The couple's already staring at us both with curious expressions, drawn to the irresistible pull in my words. If I were to amp it up a little, I could have them licking my feet.
“What do you want?” the girl snarls, getting up close and personal with my face. She’s a fuck of a lot taller than I am—most blue-blood vamps are. I’ve never met a royal shorter than six feet. Hell, I’ve never met a vamp less than five-ten, period. “I’m fucking busy.”
“Oh, you looked it,” I promise, pointing up at the roof with my left hand. The dark-haired girl with the ice-blue eyes gives me a look and a sniff, wrinkling her nose as soon as she scents the human blood flowing beneath my inked skin. Being half-vampire and half-human totally blows. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about: your two friends upstairs.”
Her smirk almost knocks my own off my face. It’s dripping with condescension and superiority. She thinks she walks on water, this chick, and she’s what? The third daughter of a low-ranking noble. Please.
If this bitch is this bad, just imagine how a member of the royal family must act. I’m barely allowed to look at upper management, let alone interact with them, but from what I can see from afar, they don’t impress me much.
“Need help finding something to eat?” the girl asks me, canting her head to one side. Her silky black hair falls over one shoulder and her breathing just...stops. She’s undead, which is fine. The cockier they are, the harder they fall. There aren’t a lot of dhampirs out there that can do what I do, but I’m a firm believer in confidence. If I trust myself to accomplish a task, I’ll find the strength no matter what.
Like killing an undead vampire royal.
No problem.
No problem at all.
Too bad I’m not a pureblooded vamp or I wouldn’t sweat so much when I lied to myself.
Behind the vampire girl, a black car pulls up, the couple gets in, and it drives away.
Uh-oh.
I flick my attention back to my new friend.
“Because I sure do,” the vamp drawls. “And dhampir blood is the fucking shit.”
She lunges at me before I have the time to figure out a game plan. Crap. Usually these upper nobility types like to talk a lot before they start murdering. It’s sort of their thing. Besides, aren’t I supposed to be the vampire hunter here?
But this woman is determined, throwing herself into me with the force of a dump truck and knocking me onto the pavement so hard that my skull cracks and I see white spots in front of my eyes. Her sharpened canines plunge into my throat, and I groan at the sudden wash of hormones. Getting bitten by vamps sort of...rocks. Like, it feels amazing—even to a dhampir.
I’ve been here, done this before though. Instead of sighing and relaxing into death’s embrace, the way nature intended, I grab Ethel—my .45 semi-auto with hollow-point ammo filled with rowan ash—and shove it into the vampire’s PINK velour sweat suit. Like, since when did the undead waltz around in Victoria’s Secret workout wear? Whatever happened to leather pants and velvet tube tops?
Oh.
That’s right.
I’m wearing them.
I pull the trigger and a bullet rips through the girl’s middle, making her scream this anguished, echoing sound that bounces around the empty streets and sets off a car alarm. Fun fact: vampires are actually distantly related to faeries, banshee in particular. While a banshee’s cries can literally kill a person, a vampire’s just hurts like a bitch.
Shoving the girl off, I send her rolling off the curb and then do my best to find my feet. It’s not easy, with all those pheromones poisoning my blood and whispering beautiful nonsense in my veins. I lift Ethel up and point it at the vamp, but in a flash, she’s gone, reappearing at my side and grabbing a handful of my hair. She throws me down hard enough that my knees crack, and I know with an awful sinking feeling I’ll be out late hunting healing supplies. And by healing supplies I mean sex and blood.
Dhampirs heal unnaturally quick, but it’ll take longer than I can afford to be back at full strength. Sex and blood, however, can speed up the healing process immensely. The sinking feeling in my stomach is because I doubt I’ll get any sleep in the next twenty-four hours. Vamps do business at night, party in the morning, and sleep in the bright light of day. I don’t have much choice but to live with their rules. Technically, I’m due back to the Family House at noon to get my orders from the human servants and give my report on tonight.
Using my right hand, I spin the gun to the side and pull the trigger again, shooting the girl in the thigh. Vampires are tough motherfuckers, but that often puts them at a disadvantage when fighting me. They expect hand-to-hand combat and magical brawls. But hey, I’m half-human and my mom grew up in Texas so...I’m totally cool with a .45 in hand, something these arrogant undead assholes never expect.
The girl shrieks again and stumbles back, her face that of a teenager. But, since she’s dead, who knows how old she really is? Have you ever noticed how vampires in books and movies are always like two hundred years old? I bet that’s how old this shithead is—a nice, round, clichéd two hundred.
Blood spatters the pavement behind her as I yank my blonde waves from her grip, hitting the ground with one palm and the knuckles of my other hand as I grip Ethel for dear life. Rowan ash keeps vampire wounds from healing without blood or sex to fuel the process. It won’t kill this girl, but all I’m trying to do is slow her down enough to get out my sword.
Yeaaaaah, I carry a sword around.
I’m all sorts of special.
Using the brick wall of the nearest building, I haul myself up and turn around in time to fire off another shot into the vamp’s chest. Red and pink spray catches the streetlights overhead as she stumbles, and I step nimbly out of the way. Turning casually, I fire off four more shots into her back and watch without sympathy as she crashes to the pavement.
If I let her, she’d drain me dry and dispose of my body along with the two humans on the roof. Did I mention that vampires don’t need to kill to eat? In fact, most of the Family Houses provide willing participants to all but their lowest subjects—like their dhampirs, for example.
The vampire groans and rolls over, bleeding everywhere. The red liquid drains down the sidewalk and over the curb, into the street in a ruby wave.
“On sixteen counts of broken House Verenim covenants, I sentence you, Lenora of House Sullivan, to death.” I fire another shot into the woman’s head as she snarls at me, dropping her limp and lifeless to the pavement. Unsheathing the falchion blade from my back—this one’s name is Ricky Ricardo because I’m not a particularly inventive person—I set about the gruesome task of beheading a royal vampire.
Welcome to a night in the life of Cameron Darke, dhampir, vampire hunter, and in desperate need of a drink.
The Dragonfly is this seedy little bar not two blocks from my place, this shithole apartment above a Chinese restaurant called Dog Town. It’s surprising how many customers that place has considering the questionable use of the word ‘dog’ in their name, and the even more questionable state of their meat.
I waltz into The Dragonfly at half-past eight, having disposed of the PINK-wearing vampire noble and her kills at the cemetery that’s two blocks in the opposite direction of my place. Yeah, I live a charmed life—Chinese food, crappy twenty-four bars, and cemeteries all within walking distance!
“Hey, Harry,” I say, slumping onto a stool and feeling confident in the knowledge that this is the sort of disgusting, underhanded joint where you can walk in with bloodstains on your clothes and nobody gives a fuck.
“Morning, Cam,” the bartender, Harry, says, setting this bright green mixed drink in front of me with a grin. “I was waiting for you. Taste this one—I call it the Chameleon.” I wrinkle my nose. Harry fancies himself a mixologist, but I don’t have the heart to tell him that first off, his mixed drinks suck. Or second, that this dump is never going to be the sort of place where somebody orders a twelve-dollar drink called the Chameleon. “Watch this,” he continues, swirling the straw and turning the liquid from green to purple.
Oh.
That’s nice.
“Okay, this is now officially my favorite of your creations,” I say with a grin to match his. Lifting the drink up, I toast the air and then slip the thin red straw into my mouth. The issue with all of Harry’s drinks is that they basically taste like gin and tequila mixed...ugh. Okay, yup. This is the same as all the rest. I force myself to swallow, reminding my sore body that booze is booze and as a dhampir, I have to drink a fuck of a lot of it to get buzzed. “Yum,” I choke out and Harry slams his palm on the counter top with a whoop of triumph.
I’m probably being a crap friend by not telling him the truth, but despite the ragged burn scars on his face and the permanent angry scowl plastered to his mouth because of them, Harry is not as tough as he looks.
“Rough night?” he asks, frowning at a spatter of blood on my tattooed right arm. I glance over and noticed some gore stuck to my ghost girl tattoo, the one with the blank eyes and the tiger mask on her forehead.
“You could say that,” I hedge, grabbing a cocktail napkin as Harry fetches me a glass of water. I dip the corner in and then dab my skin clean. “Low-ranking noble with bad manners and a taste for dhampir blood.”
I point at the bandage on my neck, but don’t touch it. If I do, it’ll release another wave of vamp pheromones and I’ll end up on my back on the dirty floor mid-orgasm. Yuck. It feels so violating, to come from an unwanted vampire bite. I hate it.
Now, a willing vampire bite? With my partner fucking me at the same time? Ugh, heaven. Pure heaven. If I had to choose a way to die, that’d be it for sure.
“Looks like she gave you some trouble.” Harry gestures to my head and I reach up, cursing when my fingertips come away stained with blood.
“Just a bit,” I scowl, wiping my fingers off on the napkin. I have a cracked skull and a massive migraine, a random assortment of bruises and scratches, and two fucked-up kneecaps. I need blood—preferably vampire blood—and sex. Maybe I can get both from the same person? Harry serves vamp blood on tap, but holy shit it’s expensive, and I’ve been poor since birth.
My mother did the best she could, but I’ve never had a goddamn cent to my name. The only reason I’m here drinking at all is because Harry gives booze to me for free. Five years ago, right after my mother was murdered and just before I started working for the Verenim Family House, I literally stumbled on Harry getting his throat torn out by another dhampir.
I saved his life and got free alcohol for the rest of mine.
Pretty sweet deal.
Also, Harry’s half-ogre and half-human, so I’m fairly certain he’ll outlive me. Not because ogres generally live longer than vampires, but just because they’re peaceful, hardy, and stay out of trouble. Vamps...they stir shitstorms up for fun.
“Any prospective fucks in here tonight?” I ask and Harry laughs, straightening his white t-shirt and casting a look over my shoulder that says he’s totally scoping out a girl to take home when his co-owner and best friend takes over bar tending duties at noon. We’re on opposite schedules, Harry and me. He ends work at noon and I start it. I like that since it means he’s always around to give me my free drinks.
“There’s a beautiful ogre girl I wouldn’t mind taking home,” he grumbles, and I do my best not to cringe. Ogre girls never want to go home with Harry. Since he’s a half-breed, he’s also about half the siz
e. Half the size. And that includes below the belt, apparently. I’ve never seen for myself, but I have heard from a few disgruntled ogre women. If he would just switch his focus to non-ogre women, they’d be pleasantly surprised instead of bitterly disappointed. “But for you...” He shrugs and shakes his head.
With a sigh, I turn around and survey the room. It’s slim pickins in here this morning. Usually there are a handful of vamps, maybe even a dhampir or two, some humans stupid enough to stumble into a supernatural bar despite the wards sweeping over them and making them feel sick and uncomfortable. It’s supposed to be a deterrent, but eh...sometimes humans are too dense for it to work.
They’re usually left alone unless they cause trouble or if they see something they’re not supposed to see...
“Fuck,” I curse, rolling my eyes and wondering which of the horrid vamp bars I’ll have to drop in on to find a partner. There are dozens in the city, and they’re all equally horrid. Dark, dangerous, reeking of blood. And the cover charge? Holy shit, the cover charge for dhampirs is like so astronomical I’m surprised the Houses haven’t passed a unanimous law to cap them. “Why don’t you give—” I start, about to order a pint of royal vamp blood when the door swings open and a tsunami of power washes over me.
A man walks in, dressed in tall black buckled boots and leather pants covered in pockets. He’s smoking a cigarette with his tattooed hands, a heavy trench coat slung over his broad shoulders. His hair is a layered nightmare of turquoise, blue, and purple, spiked up and styled into a messy faux hawk. And his eyes? Blood-red pools of secrets and pain.