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Blood Martinis: The Gypsy Vampire's Curse

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Growing up hard, Kate has become meek and prone to self-medicating. Unaware she was born Gypsy royalty, she falls for a werewolf from a family of vampire hunters. But what will happen when Kate herself becomes a vampire? Being of Gypsy bloodline - the creators of all things supernatural - her transformation doesn't go to plan.

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Ch. 1 ... Stars
"I've owed you an apology for a while now…" the voice came down the line like a knife plunged into her ear. Reliving the moment that her best friend stole her first love was not what Kate wanted, but when the acknowledgement wasn't followed by an actual apology she was floored. "Anyway, I'm getting married and you're like a sister. It just wouldn't be right if you weren't there. You'll come, won't you?" "I don't…" "Please say you'll come," Brianna interrupted. The switch in Kate's mind turned off. She sat in stunned silence, unable to process or speak. Brianna took advantage of it. "Brilliant! So that you know, it's too late to send an invitation. We've arranged for a festival at the estate three nights from now, so the village has a chance to congratulate us and share in the celebration. The wedding will just be an intimate affair the night after. I can't wait to see you!" Brianna gushed. Autopilot engaged… "Of course, it's all water under the bridge." The very large bridge, Kate thought. "I've been busy myself, the last couple years, focusing on work." "Oh, that's… lovely," despite her words, Brianna sounded unsure of their accuracy. She wasn't really raised for work. Her mother was an actress and her father a business man. What kind of business, Kate could only guess. Like her own father, doors were locked and secrets kept. It's what led to the two girls meeting in the first place when they were teenagers. Brianna's father brought her to the house one night. While the two men conducted their business in the kitchen, Brianna was sent up to Kate's room with strict orders not to come down. Normally Kate would be locked in there during her father's 'business meetings', for her own safety, but not with a guest. Brianna's presence served as mutually assured destruction were things to go south. "Are you still dancing?" "I'm a party planner, actually, for high end events." Kate's vehemence was starting to show. "Oh, no! I could have used you for the wedding, if I had only known! Listen darling, I must go. Kisses!" and with that, Brianna was gone, and Kate's mobile went silent. How did that just happen?! Kate was disgusted. Had she really agreed to watch Brianna glide down the aisle toward Bennet waiting with the priest? Under God's roof? Dressed in white? What a hypocrite! Brianna always used to go on about the men she slept with, as if they were prizes. It's not difficult to pull from the top shelf when you have legs that go on for days, curves for baby making, and a face out of a magazine. Kate never had a chance, not with her ungracefully thin figure and average height. Kate was getting fidgety dwelling on it. A week, not a night, on the town was what she needed. Walking in from the balcony of her penthouse apartment atop the Westbury hotel, Kate pulled off her silk robe to change into a white lace baby doll dress that allowed her shoulders to bare through. She messily tied her hair up with a few Feria Midnight Violet tresses framing her face, and looked in the mirror. She had an olive skin tone, unnatural for a native of Ireland, due to her mother's Russian heritage. Her mother, god rest her soul, had features as delicate as her demeanour. Kate lost her as a child, but keeps her photo stuck into the corner of her makeup mirror and every day looks a little more like her. After she finished painting the smoky look over her emerald eyes and wiping on lip gloss, she pressed two fingers to her lips in a kiss and touched it to her mother's face. Then walked the block and a half southeast to Bar 37 on Dawson Street. "Are you ready, Bri?" Bennet asked walking into the kitchen. Brianna shook off the feeling her conversation with Kate had left. She couldn't put her finger on what it was, but it hadn't gone as she had wanted. "Sweetheart?" She came to attention, straightening her dress and configuring her smile. "Of course," she said as he took her hand in his and led her out to the sitting room past the film crew. In unison they sat on the Lexington upholstered salon sofa pointed toward the reporter seated in a matching chair. "Are we ready?" the reporter asked, but didn't wait for a response. "Mic check, one, two…" she smiled and looked at the camera ready to start her segment. "We're here today with Ireland's It-Couple, Bennet Blackburn and Brianna McNulty, who are taking their vows in a few short days. Are you excited?" She turned to Brianna. "I couldn't be more thrilled. Bennet and I have been together since college- star crossed lovers you could say. He was with my dearest friend at the time. You know we tried to fight it, but you can't fight destiny." "And your friend, is she coming?" the reporter dug in. "Of course, she wouldn't miss it!" Brianna knew this would come up eventually, so why not hit it straight on? Disappointed, the reporter changed tactic. "Bennet, I hear your father is handing over Blackburn Tech Industries to you after the wedding. Do you think this is the best time?" Bennet stoically held a straight face while he thought. "Brianna and I have been together for years now. Our relationship is stable. My father wouldn't be stepping down unsure of the company being in capable hands. I've been preparing for years, gathering inspiring ideas for new growth. Blackburn Industries is at the dawn of a new age, with new inventions and ingenuity, it needs a new CEO to guide it." Bennet may be a weakling at heart, but what he lacked in actual power he covered in well-chosen words. His father had no intention of stepping back and leaving the company to him, it only needed a new face as the years were starting to show that his wasn't aging. No amount of grey hair dye could make a face, that stopped aging in it's twenties, look older than forty-five. He ate only occasionally, to give himself a withered appearance, but he was hungry. It was time. He'd disappear from the public eye, fake his death, and pretend he was distant cousin. "And what better new man could there be at the helm? Brianna, your mother must be so proud!" the reporter said, turning back. Fielding questions about her mother left a nasty taste in Brianna's mouth, but it often had to be done. No one saw the pieces she had acted in, not even her mother- the great Nora McNulty. A love of film was the one thing her and Nora had in common. Unfortunately, their skill sets didn't match. Nora was dazzling, and her mannerisms were always perfectly timed and placed. Brianna had her beauty, but not her grace. No matter how gentle she tried to be, it always came off as snooty. "She adores Bennet, we both do. I've been planning a festival for the whole village before the wedding…" "And will your mother be attending?" the reporter interjected. Noticing Brianna wince, she went in for the kill… "What has she been up to lately?" The monster looked like a gentle man. Soft hands. Patient smile. With a clean-cut and Armani suit, he eagerly awaited draining the life from her veins. In his pocket was a potent concoction for Kate's drink, and a knife in case she got too rowdy. Vincent hoped not to have to hurry the job. His thumb caressed the vial- liquid ecstasy laced with LSD and a touch of Rohypnol. It tainted the taste of the blood but only ever so slightly, and its benefits outweighed its bitterness. He was going to enjoy this. Not an hour ago he had followed her into the pub and up the stairs. He watched her sit on a stool at the bar and order a classic gin martini. The lights dimmed, the crowd changed from dinner to drinks and, when the music went up, she turned her head. At that moment Vincent poured the liquid into her glass. Now Kate stood, swayed, grabbed her chair and steadied her gaze in the direction she believed the door to be. Bar 37 was an odd sort of place when you could see straight, never mind how it looked when you couldn't. The classy but strange late-night bar and restaurant on Dawson street in Dublin's south side boasted chandeliers, but also track lights. Theatre bucket seats sat beside hand carved tables. Wooden chairs and animal heads hung from the walls. Classy tables had candelabras, fine dinnerware and expensive cloth coverings, while others were barren and must have come from a hunting lodge. In another room the antique furniture looked to be mainly from the Rococo period. It was a virtual hodgepodge of mismatched colour schemes and decor, and right now it was all dancing in a nightmarish waltz. A shiver shot like lightning up her back as she hoped the fog in her head would clear. It didn't. The ringlets in her hair felt like they were growing up and around her throat. Faces, alive and otherwise, carried on with their conversations, neither noticing her dilemma nor their own protruding jowls and swirling foreheads. Somewhere deep in its recesses Kate's mind suspected it might in fact be her, instead of them, amalgamating into the furniture. It was like one of those Dali posters she loved so much to buy and look at back in university, only now seeing the show live she didn't find it so alluring. Trying to focus in on who she thought to be the bartender, she lost her balance, twirled, and were it not for her death grip on the bar stool would have fallen over entirely. Believing she hadn't drank enough to deserve her drunken swagger, although memories were increasingly difficult to pull up, she wondered if anyone at the pub including its staff could be trusted. The look on her face and quick wobble in her legs like a new-born calf screamed she needed a strong arm to guide her to the Westbury before she crashed. "Delighted to," a voice close to her said as if asked. The tall brooding shape that came with it stood, swept its arm past her shoulder down to her waist and, with a little heave up, straightened her out. Looking up at him, zooming in and out- his image never entirely in focus, wheels and cogs started turning in the back of her mind... albeit slowly. She thought they should have been warning her of danger. After all, everything else was. Nevertheless, somehow, she felt comforted in his arms like there was some forgotten familiarity. So, in a slurry half-hearted protest she allowed him to lead her out of the pub. She felt like she was floating along above the road and he was the man holding the string that kept her from flying away... or rather falling, as it were. They were getting further and further down the road, past a distance where her dry throat could likely still be heard if screaming. He turned her down an alley way. It was a shortcut to the Westbury where she lived, though she hadn't remembered telling him. She started to think of really protesting, but words would no longer come, and her eyelids felt so heavy she could barely hold them up. Halfway down into the dark she felt a warm tinge of breath on her ear, heard a whisper she could not make out, and then felt her body slam against the hard ground all the way up to her face. The cold ground. Someone was shouting. Maybe he was shouting. Someone was fighting, but she was pretty sure it wasn't her. And before her eyes closed for good, she heard another voice. A new voice. "She's mine."

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