Midnight Thirsts: Erotic Tales Of The Vampire. Michael Thomas Ford

      

MIDNIGHT THIRSTS

      Books by Greg Herren

      BOURBON STREET BLUES

      JACKSON SQUARE JAZZ

      Books by Michael Thomas Ford

      LAST SUMMER

      LOOKING FOR IT

      MASTERS OF MIDNIGHT

       (with William J. Mann, Jeff Mann, and Sean Wolfe)

      Books by Sean Wolfe

      MASTERS OF MIDNIGHT

       (with William J. Mann, Michael Thomas Ford, and Jeff Mann)

      MAN OF MY DREAMS

       (with Dave Benbow, Jon Jeffrey, and Ben Tyler)

      Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

      MIDNIGHT THIRSTS

      GREG HERREN

       MICHAEL THOMAS FORD

       TIMOTHY RIDGE

       SEANWOLFE

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

      http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      CONTENTS

      THE NIGHTWATCHERS

      Greg Herren

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      CARNIVAL

      Michael Thomas ford

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      THE VAMPIRE STONE

      Timothy Ridge

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      VAMPIRES, INC.

      Sean Wolfe

      Thanks and Acknowledgments

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Epilogue

      Author Bio

      THE NIGHTWATCHERS

      Greg Herren

      Chapter One

      Go home, old man, Rachel thought, tapping her black fingernails on the counter.

      It was a quarter till nine, fifteen minutes before she could lock the doors. Everything was clean, and the cash register was already counted down. All she really had left to do was dump the remains of the day’s coffee down the sink, lock the cash drawer in the safe, and turn everything off. She’d be gone by ten minutes after at the latest.

      She glanced out the big windows fronting the coffee shop. The streetlight just outside cast a yellowish glow in the thick mist pressing against the glass. She shivered and looked back at the old man. He was sitting at one of the tables in the far corner, with the same cup of coffee he’d ordered when he came in around seven thirty. He hadn’t touched it. It was still as full as when she’d filled the cup, only no steam was coming off the black surface now. He didn’t seem to be watching for anyone, or waiting. He never glanced at his watch, which she’d spotted as a platinum Tag Heuer, nor did he ever look out the window. Every once in a while he would look up from his newspaper and catch her staring. He’d smile and nod, then go back to his reading.

      Apparently, he was determined to read every word.

      She stood up, bending backward so her back cracked. The night had been really slow. The Jazz Café, even on weeknights, usually was good for at least thirty to forty dollars in tips. Tonight, when she’d counted out the tip jar, it yielded less than seven dollars. Just enough to get her a pack of cigarettes and a twenty-ounce Diet Coke at Quartermaster Deli on her way back to her apartment. It wasn’t, she thought, wiping down the counter yet again, even worth coming in for.

      Usually on this kind of night, cold and damp and wet, Rachel was kept hopping with orders for triple lattes. The tables would be full of people who would come in shivering, bundled up against the cold wetness in the air, which seemed to penetrate even the thickest coat. They’d hold their steaming cups of coffee with both reddened hands, talking and laughing. Some would be doing their homework on laptops.

      She liked busy nights, when the orders kept coming and the tip jar filled. Then, the time seemed to fly by, her closing shift passing in the blink of an eye. She hated the slow nights, when every passing minute seemed to take an eternity. She glanced back at the clock on the wall, then back at the old man. If you would just leave, she thought, I could go ahead and close early.

      He’s kind of good-looking, she thought as she sipped her tepid cup of green tea, for an older guy.

      At that moment he looked up, and their eyes met. His were blue, a deep blue with some green in it. Once again, he nodded his head to her and smiled, but this time he didn’t go back to his newspaper. He held her eyes.

      Not to worry, my child. I’ll be gone soon enough.

      She turned away, shaking her head, the hair on the back of her head standing up. She felt a little nauseated. All she’d eaten was a bagel with cream cheese. The damned tips, she thought. She’d hoped to get enough money tonight to get something to eat after work. That wasn’t an option now.

      That’s it, she decided. Her blood sugar was low.

      He couldn’t have read her mind; he couldn’t have talked to her without speaking. That was crazy; that kind of thing didn’t happen in real life. No, her imagination was working overtime because she was bored and her blood sugar was low.

      She turned back to the counter. He was standing there. He was smiling at her. He was handsome—she amended her earlier thought. There was something kind in his smile, and his pinkish-white face was free of lines. He might not be as old as she’d thought, despite his thick white hair, which hung past his ears. His clothes were immaculately pressed and looked expensive. There was a big sapphire ring on his right hand.

      “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He inclined his head slightly to her. “My apologies.”

      British, she thought, or maybe Australian.

      “It’s all right.” She forced an awkward smile, the kind she usually used on difficult customers who didn’t seem to know what