Midnight Reign Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  NIGHT RISING

  “A book to die for! Dark, mysterious, and edged with humor, this book rocks on every level!”

  —Gena Showalter, author of The Nymph King

  “If you like your fantasy with an edge, then you’ve struck gold. There is a ring of truth to the biting—no pun intended—allegory. This is a fantastic start to a new series.”

  —The Eternal Night

  “Chris Marie Green does a wonderful job of bringing this gritty, dark novel to life…I can’t wait to see where [she] takes the rest of the books.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “An exciting, action-packed vampire thriller. A fantastic tale that…provides book lovers with plenty of adventure and a touch of romance.”—Midwest Book Review

  “Dawn makes a spunky vampire slayer.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An interesting take on the vampire world…well written and exciting. I look forward to the next book.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Bring on book two!”

  —Kelley Armstrong, author of No Humans Involved

  Ace Books by Chris Marie Green

  NIGHT RISING

  MIDNIGHT REIGN

  MIDNIGHT REIGN

  VAMPIRE BABYLON

  BOOK TWO

  Chris Marie Green

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2008 by Chris Marie Green.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Green, Crystal.

  Midnight reign / Chris Marie Green.—1st ed.

  p. cm.—(Vampire Babylon; bk. 2)

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0892-2

  1. Women stunt performers—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. 3. Hollywood (Los Angeles, Calif.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.R4326M53 2008

  813'.6—dc22

  2007040247

  A huge, heartfelt thank-you to everyone who read Book One: you’ve kept Babylon going!

  Thank you to Ginjer Buchanan, Madame Ace; Judy Duarte and Sheree Whitefeather, critique partners ’til the very end; Wally Lind and the crimescenewriter web loop, mentors who show me where to start (and let it be said that any and all errors in this book are my own); and Pamela Harty and Deidre Knight, who take care of business so I can just write.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  STARRING

  TWO

  THE PLAYERS

  THREE

  THE LEAD

  FOUR

  THE EXTRA

  FIVE

  THE EMPTINESS

  SIX

  BELOW, ACT ONE

  SEVEN

  SOMEWHERE IN TRANSYLVANIA, LATE 1600S

  EIGHT

  THE BROOD

  NINE

  THE FRIENDS

  TEN

  THE LOV-AH

  ELEVEN

  THE HAVEN

  TWELVE

  BELOW, ACT TWO

  THIRTEEN

  BERKLEY SQUARE, LONDON, 1923

  FOURTEEN

  THE OTHERS

  FIFTEEN

  THE BIG DRINK

  SIXTEEN

  BELOW, ACT THREE

  SEVENTEEN

  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, 1954

  EIGHTEEN

  THE HOUR OF FORGET-NESS

  NINETEEN

  THE RED FINGER

  TWENTY

  THE SOUND OF LAUGHTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  SUPERS TARRING

  TWENTY-TWO

  BELOW, ACT FOUR

  TWENTY-THREE

  THE UNDERGROUND OF HOLLYWOOD, 1984

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE BARGAIN

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE LAST VICTIM

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE GO-TO

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE SCARS

  ONE

  STARRING

  WHEN Jessica Reese came home from her job at a Hollywood bar that night, someone was waiting in the bedroom closet.

  Someone hiding amidst hanging party dresses and dry-cleaning wrappers that ghosted back and forth with every slight, controlled breath. Someone who sat patiently with a container of bleach and a long knife that would be used to slash the victim’s throat and quiet her before that Someone could tear the woman’s neck apart in leisurely delight.

  Someone was going to become a star tonight.

  The sheer plastic hangings leeched air out of the tiny closet, making the wait a humid, trembling vigil.

  Patient, patient, wait, just wait.

  From the kitchen, a set of keys jangled onto a countertop, a pair of high-heeled shoes hammered on the wooden floor.

  Someone fought to breathe, running a tongue over the sharp points of fangs. Blood pumped like gun blasts, the resulting hunger pulsing like open wounds. Just keep remembering why you’re here. Remember how the Lee Tomlinson made himself a star through shock value, ripping out that other woman’s throat? You can do it, too.

  Every night, entertainment channels and newscasts spotlighted stock footage of the Lee Tomlinson, the “Vampire Killer,” the accused murderer wearing a ten-yard stare, handcuffs, and a harmless smile as he was led into the courtroom for arraignment. While breathlessly speculating about the upcoming trial, the press relished the charges: Lee had torn a woman’s throat out with his bare teeth, then become a fugitive who hadn’t even made it out of the county, thanks to a stop at a seedy motel. There, after getting his head together with the aid of some marijuana, he was found: a stoned and peaceful martyr who hadn’t even questioned the “anonymous tip” regarding his whereabouts. He hadn’t even fought the cops when they’d hauled him out of the room. They said he’d gone willingly, with that same smile on his lips, that same perpetual look of lost innocence in his gaze.

  He already had a growing entourage of adoring women wearing the same clothing, makeup, and cotton-candy hairstyle that his victim—what’s her name—had sported in the one headshot they always showed on the news. The fans camped outsid
e of the bar where their idol used to work, holding signs proclaiming his hotness, his innocence.

  A celebrity. That’s what the Lee Tomlinson had turned out to be. A hopeful, Brandon Lee–look-alike actor who had never been anything more than a face in a mouthwash commercial…

  …Until the cops had uncovered witnesses who’d placed Lee near the scene of the crime, then harvested the DNA evidence that led to the arrest of the “Vampire Killer.”

  But the press’s nickname for Lee would become a joke tonight, right after they saw what a set of serious fangs could really do.

  Footsteps exploded closer to the bedroom. Closer.

  Someone shivered. If great care hadn’t already been taken to shave every body part, the hair would be standing on end over each inch of skin, a body electric with skin-buzzing currents.

  Tap, tap, tap went the victim’s last footsteps.

  The sound grew muted as she walked onto the bedroom carpet.

  Someone started to ache, aroused by the woman’s proximity.

  Stay calm. If the Lee Tomlinson can carry this off, anyone can. Now it’s your time to shine.

  The fact that murdering someone using the Lee’s same patterns didn’t register much. Killing this woman might cause reasonable doubt in a courtroom for him.

  Instead, jealousy, even anger, twisted every heartbeat. Confusion and need pumped through each tangled vein like tainted blood.

  You’re smarter than the cops, so you won’t get caught like he did. You’re smarter than the Lee Tomlinson, too. You can beat him at his own game.

  The thought of sinking fangs into flesh warped into a fantasy, one in which each violent bite was a thrust into Lee, a furious victory.

  Through the slit of the sliding closet door, the victim came into view, ambling into the brandied darkness on three-inch heels. The steady drip of the adjoining bathroom’s leaking faucet kept time with Someone’s strangled breathing as the light from a dying streetlamp outside suffused the room.

  The victim was on the midnight side of thirty, shrouded with August sweat and a dark red dress. She bent to work off the thin straps of her heels, her hair frizzed from humidity, her bodice gaping to reveal most of her small breasts.

  Sex. I can smell the sex she wants so badly right on her skin. How will it taste?

  Someone’s belly went tight, body tensing with the yearning to join with a counterpart.

  Lee.

  Someone craved to become him, to fuse with him again in this substitute act of connecting. An act of beautiful violence. An act of hating and worshipping a fallen hero.

  Unaware of what was in the closet, the victim sauntered to the bathroom, slipping the tiny straps of her dress down her shoulders on the way.

  The bathroom light swicked on, slicing over the floor.

  It’s time. It’s my turn to shine now.

  Carefully, Someone grabbed the knife, then opened the closet door and crept to the bathroom, fangs gleaming in the mirror during the impulsive emergence of a smile.

  And when Jessica Reese looked in that mirror to see Someone behind her, it was already too late for her to scream.

  TWO

  THE PLAYERS

  EVEN with her eyes closed, Dawn Madison was aware of a vague, lurking danger.

  Dressed in basic street wear—a sleeveless white T, black jeans, leather bracelets—she crouched, waiting for the next attack, senses alive. She caught the scent of old wood, paint, and must that lingered in the corners of the room. She heard a reporter’s voice barking from the TV speakers her opponents had turned on in order to mask their movements. Her skin prickled as an air-conditioned breeze hushed over her.

  But there was something else out there…stalking….

  A pop from her right split the air, and a projectile whizzed toward her. With the well-trained moves of an athlete, she banked to the left, using her shoulder to cushion herself while rolling to her knees. Another object came at her from the opposite direction. She dropped backward, grunting, her spine hitting the floor, her bent legs splaying to give her leeway. Immediately rolling to her stomach, then pushing up to her feet, she landed in another crouch, her hands at the ready.

  “Not bad for the dead of night,” yelled a tinny male voice that echoed off the windowless walls.

  Heart pattering, Dawn exhaled, regulating her stress while keeping her eyes shut. She maintained her position, ready to withstand anything. “You guys take forever to reload. Can’t you go any faster?”

  She heard Kiko Daniels make an okay-you-asked-for-it sound as he inserted another beanbag into his gun.

  Dawn tuned her ears in to what was happening with her second opponent. Breisi Montoya. Kiko wasn’t very mobile with the back brace he was wearing, but his team member had been all over the room trying to whoop Dawn’s ass during this agility session. The other woman’s bare feet cushioned her stealthy attacks, aiding her in smacking Dawn with three damned bruises already.

  The drone of the TV battled Dawn’s concentration as she tried to detect Breisi’s whereabouts. To the right? Left?

  Temples throbbing, she stayed cool. She’d have no other choice if this simulation were real; although the three of them hadn’t faced any vampires for over a month, the monsters were still out there. In fact, The Voice kept telling them it was just a matter of time before the vamps reemerged from their “Underground”—or whatever it was the team had gotten wind of.

  Dawn blew out a breath, picturing herself outside at night, the moon shrouded behind the tips of pine trees. This training session was supposed to simulate the threat of one vamp variety they’d uncovered. The subspecies was bald, pale, clawed, with iron fangs and attacks that came as fast as those beanbags, especially when they used whip-quick tails with bladed ends.

  Red-eyes, the team had called them.

  But, Underground, she knew the group was named something else. Guards. Robby Pennybaker had revealed this and more before he’d turned into yet another form of vamp, a creature way more powerful than a Guard or one of the basic silver-eyed Goths the team had also encountered. Terrible to look upon and deadly to fight, Robby had thrown diminutive Kiko across a room and into a wall, breaking his back. The creature had also mentally violated Dawn’s mind until she thought she would break, too.

  And that’s just one of the reasons Dawn had killed him.

  Now, she was preparing to function without ever having to look any of those creatures in the eye—she’d never get mind screwed by a vamp again. Wouldn’t ever allow them inside so they could see her weaknesses, especially her desperation to find her dad, who’d gone missing over a month ago….

  She heard a pop from across the room, straight ahead. Responding by pure instinct, she launched herself sideways, forcing her mind to act as a weapon.

  Push…out!

  But the trick didn’t work this time, not like it had when she’d fought Robby. She’d accidentally belted the vampire with some kind of mental shove, and she didn’t know how to re-create it, even if she’d surprised herself by doing it a couple of times during this last month of training.

  That made it an undependable tactical option.

  Whap! The beanbag punched Dawn’s hip as she hit the floor. Shit. And ouch. Time for a new plan.

  Before Kiko could get off a shot and Breisi could reload, Dawn opened her eyes and unwound a chain from around her waist. A nine-section whip chain, to be precise.

  Holding the handle with her right thumb and forefinger, she coiled the steel-linked bars in her left hand. In a flash, she transferred the bundled chains to her right while securing her grip on the handle. Then, with a push, she sprung the whip outward.

  Without pause, she was already cycling the weapon by her side, using a right elbow hook spin to create a blurred bubble around her body. The bars and links moved that fast.

  Sure enough, Kiko’s beanbag glanced off the steel arc.

  “Dawn,” Breisi yelled from the left. Her tone was laced with a heavier Spanish accent than usual, so she was cl
early pissed. “I guess this means we’re done.”

  “Aw, no, I wanna see this,” Kiko said. “She’s been practicing hard.”

  Just to be an ornery hot dog, Dawn spun the whip once overhead, winding up, then launched into a butterfly kick, circling the links beneath her body while jumping. She landed on her feet, grinning at Breisi and slowing the whip down. At the apex of its spin, she allowed it to fall gently back into her hand. There, the weapon rested like a happy snake that had struck out to get the best of Breisi and her damned beanbags.

  “I thought I’d give my new toy a first run,” Dawn said. She felt good about it, too, even though her right arm ached a little from the injuries she’d sustained during the throw down with Robby Pennybaker.

  Breisi leaned against a mirrored wall, hand on one hip, beanbag gun at ease in the other. With her Louise Brooks–black hair, broad yet delicate features, and Mickey Mouse T-shirt—Dawn had just weaned the woman off those dorky teddy bear prints—you’d think she’d come off as some Latina cutie. But upon a closer look, she was more like an Aztec warrior ready to tear Dawn’s chest open. A more minute inspection also revealed the tiny signs of age that had ended her ingénue acting career.

  Not that a thirty-one-year-old should be worried about being ancient. At least, not in the real world. But this was Hollywood, where logic feared to tread.

  As Dawn faced Breisi, she could see her own image in the wall mirror. Not exactly an L.A. poster girl herself, with her extremely average face, complete with a lovely scar riding an eyebrow, courtesy of a stunt gag. But that was nothing compared to the scar on her cheek from the fight with Robby. She also had a sleekly muscled antiwaif body and a low-maintenance, low-riding ponytail that banded her brown hair together.