First Fruits: First Fruits, #1

First Fruits

Amanda Carney

Table of Contents

Title Page

First Fruits

1 | Fathers & Sons

2 | Record Pumpkins & Spilt Coffee

3 | Missing Fingers & Satin Sheets

4 | Flying Forks & Vanilla Cake

5 | Good Deals & First Dates

6 | First Names & Fast Cars

7 | Tattoos & Whippoorwills

8 | Daydreams & Dark Alleys

9 | Blood & Jealousy

10 | Family Reunions & Indecent Proposals

11 | Red Lipstick & Cotton Candy

12 | Road Trips & Pancakes

13 | Cheap Tricks & Open Books

14 | Old Memories & New Nightmares

15 | Honey & Vinegar

16 | Hot Showers & Sharp Teeth

17 | Soft Skin & Sacrifices

18 | Glass Walls & Bad Ideas

19 | Dead Mice & Payment Plans

20 | Little Paybacks & Sweet Spots

21 | Coming & Going

22 | Wool Socks & Teary Goodbyes

23 | Switchblades & Doppelgangers

About the Author

Other books by Amanda Carney

For Pappaw.

Copyright © 2015 Amanda Carney

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. This e-book is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the reader. It is the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied, or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

Cover design by Amanda Carney

E-book design by Amanda Carney

Editing by Little City Editing

Be the first to know about Amanda’s newest vampire romance releases by signing up for her newsletter here: http://newsletter.authoramandacarney.com/

1

Fathers & Sons

Jesse walked down the cave tunnel in a dark mood, the sound of his boots echoing off the damp walls. Despite the modern lighting and temperature-controlled ventilation system, it was still a cave. No amount of modern amenities was going to change that. His mood soured further as he neared Patrick’s chambers. It’d only been six weeks since his last job. He shouldn’t be called to work for at least another two and a half months. Whatever the assignment was, someone else could damn sure handle it.

Joshua, Patrick’s current errand boy and plaything all rolled into one, stepped into his path. He looked like a tender-skinned teenager rather than the fifty-year-old Jesse knew him to be. Sire is occupied, Joshua said. You’ll have to wait.

I was summoned.

Low moaning wafted through the open doorway. Jesse’s mouth thinned. The miscommunication had no doubt been intentional.

Joshua looked sympathetic. He was just as much a pawn as Jesse was inside this giant rock. It won’t be long.

Going by the sounds inside, it could be all night. He started past only to have Joshua grab his forearm and say, You can’t go in yet.

Stopping, Jesse looked down at the hand on his arm before meeting the boy’s nervous gaze. Kid knew he was going to get hurt one way or another. Whether by Jesse for touching him or by Patrick for not obeying orders to bar visitors. Clearly, Joshua was opting for the lesser punishment. You could almost feel sorry for him. Remove your hand, Joshua, or I’ll do it for you.

Though his eyes were wide and his mouth was an anxious, thin line, he didn’t let go. Sire’s orders.

Jesse slammed the heel of his palm into the boy’s nose. Cartilage splintered and blood sprayed, spattering Jesse’s white shirt. Joshua made a choked gurgle and stumbled back against the cave wall, bringing trembling hands to his face.

Jesse walked by without another word.

Once he stepped through the entryway, the space opened into a gigantic cavern lit with multiple gas lamps and far too many candles. The air smelled of wax, smoke, and old blood. The stink of sex was the cherry on top. In the center of the room sat a circular bed big enough for ten men. It was a mess of rumpled black satin sheets and pillows. Patrick was sitting on the edge of the thing, unapologetically nude, legs spread wide as Bane sucked his cock with fervor.

Patrick looked up as he entered, tightening his iron-fisted hold on Bane’s hair. The gleam in his eye told Jesse this was precisely what he’d wanted him to see. Or interrupt. He wanted to punish Bane for something and having Jesse arrive in the middle of their lovemaking was a direct kick to Bane’s balls. That and Patrick got off on voyeurism.

Unaffected by either the dick sucking or the ploy, Jesse crossed his arms over his chest. Bane. Leave.

Bane jolted as if he hadn’t known Jesse was in the room and paused his ministrations with a snarl. Get the fuck out, Linwood.

Jesse looked at Patrick. If you want to see me, he goes.

His sire sighed and let go of Bane’s hair, pushing his head away. Leave us.

Looking up at Patrick, Bane dragged the back of his hand across his wet mouth. Are you goddamned kidding me?

Do not ask questions you know the answer to, my son, Patrick said.

They stared at each other, Patrick waiting with unblinking eyes, and Bane barely controlling his rage. It was a silent battle of wills, pregnant with threat and utterly useless at the same time because they all knew who the victor would be. After a few heavy moments, Bane stood on stiff legs and turned to glare at Jesse.

Jesse sighed, bored with the theatrics, and asked, Why are you still here?

While Patrick looked on with a self-satisfied smile, Bane strode over until he and Jesse were nose to nose. Bane’s fury vibrated around him like a twanged bowstring. One day, motherfucker. Me and you.

No time like the present, Jesse said. "And in your case, I think it’d be fatherfucker."

Bane’s nostrils flared.

Jesse waited. Since Bane had been turned a century ago, jealousy had been a solar flare in him, arcing white-hot whenever Jesse was near. When they were in the same room together, the tension became tight as a garrote around their throats. Jesse gave no real shit about him one way or the other, but getting a rise out of the bastard was temporary relief from the monotony of his existence.

Bane’s eyes narrowed, and he tensed as if to throw a punch, but Patrick rose from the bed behind them. Apparently, the lesson was meant to maim the ego and not the body. Bane, enough. You were leaving, Patrick said.

Bane held Jesse’s gaze a split-second longer and then strode toward the door, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Jesse eyed Patrick. Was that really necessary?

Of course. He tied his robe and eyed the blood spatter on Jesse’s shirt. You’ve damaged Joshua.

We had a disagreement.

Patrick tried to look displeased but only ended up looking amused. You’re such a bad boy. He walked over and caressed Jesse’s forearm with lingering fingers. How does this evening find you, my son?

Jesse showed no reaction to the touch. Unlike Bane, he’d never craved their sire’s body or his attentions. Patrick’s yearning for Jesse, however, had never faded, and he’d never been shy about what he wanted. It, among other things, was the reason for Bane’s undying bitterness.

The evening finds me wondering why I was summoned. Your page said you have a job for me. He crossed his arms over his chest, forcing Patrick to remove his hand. You know I don’t do back-to-back assignments.

Patrick sighed and turned away, walking over to a table beside the bed to pour a glass of wine. Would you care for some?

What am I doing here, Patrick?

It wasn’t the work itself that grated. The screaming and struggling and sobbing just became background noise over time. It was the reminder that he was forever beholden to do Patrick’s bidding. That while Jesse came and went as he pleased, he was never truly free.

His only rebellion was that his obedience was perfunctory at best.

With a less than pleased expression, Patrick gazed at him while swirling the merlot in his glass. I thought the case might be of some import to you given its location.

Jesse said nothing. He refused to play the game.

Patrick watched him for a reaction. Floyd, Ohio.

Though the name struck a hollow chord somewhere deep, he only blinked. Patrick knew damn well it was the last place on earth he’d want to go. Once every few years was enough and, even then, it was only to remind himself of what he’d lost. Memories began to stir like shifting ice on a long-frozen lake. Send someone else.

Patrick sank down into a black tufted-leather smoking chair. I thought you’d be intrigued with it being so close to your hometown.

His hometown. The town where everything he’d ever cared about had been obliterated. Dredged-up images of pale, frightened faces and blood rose in his mind, and he shoved them down. You thought wrong.

It’s the perfect job for you. You’re familiar with the area, and the darling in question is a human female. You always do well with them. Patrick laughed into his glass. "Or maybe in them would be more apt."

Jesse’s lip twitched with the urge to snarl. It was true he’d served as whore many times to gain the trust of Patrick’s darlings— those walking delicacies his sire so craved. Jesse did what he had to in order to get it over with. Only then could he pass the days in solitude while waiting for the next assignment. Not interested.

Patrick stared at him. You’ll go.

No.

Still holding his glass, Patrick stood slowly. It was a warning. "You will go."

Jesse opened his mouth to refuse once more, but as he stared into Patrick’s abnormally large pupils, he found himself nodding instead. Yes.

That’s better. Come, and let us discuss the details.

Jesse walked over and sat in the adjoining chair, the desire to argue bubbling up but fading away just as quickly. Patrick returned to sitting too, his tight copper curls glinting in the candlelight, and looked at him across the table. It pleases me when you’re so agreeable.

He hadn’t felt agreeable moments before. In fact, he’d felt near insurgence. Now, while still annoyed, his indignation no longer seemed to matter. Tell me about the mark, Jesse said.

Patrick slid a manila folder over to him. I haven’t bothered to look. Simon informed me of her location and that she’s ready. I leave the details in the hands of my capable sons.

Jesse picked up the folder and opened it, studying the contents. A slight woman with auburn hair and blue eyes stared up at him from a blurry driver’s license photocopy. She barely looked eighteen, let alone twenty-five, but he knew she must be or he wouldn’t be looking at her right now. It was the age of ripeness according to Patrick.

The license was paperclipped to a single leaf of paper. A name was printed across the top in all caps: PARSLEY ELLEN WALKER A.K.A. SARAH WALKER. Aside from that, there wasn’t much to go on: a brief medical history and background, current location, and analysis of psychic abilities. He gave the information a cursory glance and then flipped the folder closed. Shouldn’t be a problem.

Patrick sipped his wine. I have the fullest of confidences in you as always.

Jesse started to get up. I’ll leave tonight—

Sit. Relax. Let us exchange pleasantries awhile. He smiled in that childlike way of his. It was so at odds with the patriarch he portrayed. It isn’t often I get to look upon my eldest, dearest son.

With a sigh, Jesse sat. He hated these exchanges. Hated the fantasies of fathers and sons Patrick was so fond of acting out. He wasn’t Jesse’s father, and Jesse was only here because he was bound by the same compulsion all Patrick’s creations were.

His sire was unperturbed as he gazed at him. You’ve always had such fine features. So strong and handsome. It’s a shame you prefer cunt to cock.

Jesse scowled. As skewed as Patrick’s moral compass was, he never forced sex. At least not on his children. Anyone or anything else was fair game. You’re perverse.

Patrick laughed. Isn’t everyone?

In this life maybe. In another life, he’d known people who thought about things other than blood and fucking. Some more than others.

He saluted him with his glass. True. Tell me, have you spoken to your brother?

Jesse tensed, as he always did when Patrick brought up Felix. He hadn’t spoken to his younger brother in centuries. You know I haven’t.

Patrick gazed into his wine, forlorn. I had hoped. I do wish he’d return to me without requiring a summons.

It didn’t matter to Jesse whether he returned at all. Whenever Felix came to the mountain, which wasn’t often, Patrick always made sure it was when Jesse wasn’t around. Whether it was out of respect for their bad blood or some other reason, he didn’t know or care. He does what he wants.

He’s like you in this way.

He’s not like me.

Patrick sipped, smiling. He’s more like you than you realize.

I have no desire to sit here and discuss my brother.

He almost wished Patrick was right. That he and Felix were alike. His brother had ways of denying their sire that Jesse didn’t. The ability didn’t extend to a direct summons though. If Patrick called, Felix must answer, just like Jesse. It was the one thing Felix couldn’t run from. None of them could.

What shall we discuss then? Politics? Religion? Patrick asked.

Jesse glanced at the manila folder. Anything I should know about this one?

Always so serious. Patrick sighed. If it’s knowable, it’s in there. You know Simon. Recordkeeping gets him hard.

He’s good at what he does.

Luckily for me. I don’t care about their report cards. I just want what’s in their fat little veins. He made a popping sound with his lips and smiled in a disturbing way that made his eyes sparkle.

Though Jesse refused to indulge him by laughing, he couldn’t help but agree with him on the blood. Over the years, he’d had the rare opportunity to taste Patrick’s chosen darlings more than once, and the memories still made his tongue ache with longing. All the more reason for me to get started, Jesse said.

Patrick studied him a moment and then gestured with his glass. Very well. Be off.

Jesse grabbed the folder and rose.

Good luck. Patrick eyed him with a mix of pride and lust.

Jesse started for the door. He didn’t need luck. There was a reason why he brought in more captures than anyone else in the mountain even though he went on assignments sparingly—he was good at what he did.

Patrick’s voice wafted after him. Not even a goodbye?

Gritting his teeth, Jesse turned and just stared at him.

Fingering the rim of his glass in slow circles, Patrick smiled. Be sure to bring me back a souvenir.

I think the girl will be souvenir enough.

Right you are. His laugh echoed off the high ceiling. My son the comedian.

Yeah, Jesse thought as he turned away once more, he was just a fucking barrel of laughs all the way around.

2

Record Pumpkins & Spilt Coffee

You’re late, Par, Kristen said with that special glare only she could achieve.

Yep. I accidentally clipped her shoulder on my way past but didn’t apologize. It wouldn’t do any good. Kristen’s thoughts were already in a loathsome way this morning because she’d gotten a speeding ticket on her drive in despite her offer to work something out with the officer. That, and she hated me as much as she always did. I sighed. Reading minds was generally far more depressing than it was convenient.

Glancing at the few customers sitting at the counter, I hurried down to the cash register where Lou stood, her arms crossed over her chest as she talked with one of the locals.

That’s gotta be some kind of record, Frank, she was saying.

The old man tucked his worn leather wallet into the back pocket of his denim overalls and nodded. Biggest damn pumpkin in the county. Maybe even the state.

I took off my thin cardigan and bent to shove it in one of the cubbies. Of course, Kristen’s ridiculous glittered elephant of a purse was parked in the top one. Lou’s much more modest bag and beige jacket sat in the second. Sighing, I claimed the bottom, pushing my cardigan clear to the back so Kristen couldn’t accidentally step on it while attending the register.

Still crouched, I squeezed my eyes shut and curled my fingers into the worn knit of my cardigan as the voices began to crowd in. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be home, where it was quiet. I wanted to be reading the book I’d borrowed from the library yesterday: Home Harvesting. The description on the back had promised to teach me how to can the yield from my lone beet plant that grew in an emptied milk jug on my stoop. Or, I could be unraveling the sweater I’d gotten from the Grace Fellowship’s rummage sale on Pike Street over the weekend. I couldn’t afford to buy new yarn, but the red wool of the sweater was in good shape and plenty thick for my 5.5-millimeter crochet hook—the only one I had. The reclaimed yarn was going to be a scarf for Lou’s birthday next month.

But not today.

Letting go of my cardigan, I stood and smoothed the blue skirt and white apron of my uniform and tightened the apron’s ties behind my back, thinking I’d have to find a way to buy some tights soon. It was October, and the walk to work was getting cooler each day. From what I’d heard, Ohio weather was known for its fickleness, and I’d likely be making my way through snowdrifts before long.

As I reached for an order pad and pen, Lou was saying goodbye to Frank, assuring him his pumpkin was bound to win first prize. I accidentally caught his eye, and his thoughts barged into my head uninvited. He’d be damned if he lost to Gil Trout again this year. Frank had been buying fresh cow’s milk from his Amish neighbor’s farm for his pumpkin patch’s state-of-the-art hydration system for four weeks now. It was his secret ingredient. Old Gil wasn’t going to know what hit him.

I glanced away.

After he’d gone, Lou turned to me with a good-natured eye roll. It’ll break his heart if he don’t win this year.

I gave her a quick, polite smile, avoiding her gaze, and shoved the pad and pen into the apron’s pocket before turning toward the coffee pots.

Hold your horses, she said with an exasperated chuckle.

I looked over my shoulder, my hand clenched around the caffeinated pot’s handle.

She walked over, grabbed a clean mug, and held it out for me to fill. It’s not like it’s standing room only in here. You can take a minute.

I’m late. I filled her cup. The steam and aroma of the fresh coffee wafted up, and I breathed it in with satisfaction. I didn’t drink the stuff, but I couldn’t deny the delicious, bitter smell of it.

Lou waved her hand as she took a sip and leaned back against the counter. It’s been a slow morning.

That didn’t surprise me. Monk’s only got a handful of customers on any given morning. Still, I didn’t like being late. I didn’t like drawing attention to myself. I returned the pot to its warmer.

Don’t worry about Kristen, Lou said, gazing out across the worn but immaculately clean counter. It was lit by midday sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the outdated red vinyl booths and silver-trimmed Formica tables faded and drab in the bright light. A few customers sat interspersed, reading the newspaper or finishing a late breakfast. If that girl didn’t have something to complain about, she’d explode.

I hid a smile as I bent down to grab a stack of napkins from below the counter, my long braid slipping over my shoulder. I stood with the stack and reached for a bin of clean silverware to wrap. It’s fine.

You just have the prettiest hair. She reached out to push my braid back over my shoulder, fondness drifting from her like a dust mote. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a deep red.

Thank you, I said, focusing on the methodical movements of wrapping one spoon, fork, and butter knife neatly into each napkin.

Kristen came up behind us while counting out her morning’s tips with more vehemence than necessary. I knew a redhead in high school. She was the biggest slut. Banged every guy in school just about. She folded the crinkled bills and slid them into her bra for safekeeping. Even heard she done one of the teachers. Mr. Carroll, I think.

I didn’t say anything. I was used to her. I’d been working here now for a couple months, and she’d disliked me from day one. The feeling was mutual.

Kristen, Lou said. For heaven’s sake.

What? She popped her gum bubble, and I knew without looking she was watching me for a reaction. It’s true.

I refused to acknowledge her. I could sense her smug satisfaction. It billowed about her like a cloud.

The entrance bell jingled behind us. I started to put down the bundle I was working on, but Kristen straightened and adjusted her cleavage. I got it.

I went back to my work, listening to her shoes squeaking on the linoleum as she left in a hurry.

That girl. Lou shook her head and watched after Kristen with a scowl. She finished the