Savannah Past Midnight Read online

  Savannah Past Midnight

  Christine Edwards

  The Past Midnight Series, Book 2

  Fanny Press

  PO Box 70515

  Seattle, WA 98127

  For more information go to: www.fannypress.com

  www.christineedwardsauthor.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Cover design by Sabrina Sun

  Savannah Past Midnight

  Copyright © 2015 by Christine Edwards

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-558-1 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN: 978-1-60381-559-8 (eBook)

  Produced in the United States of America

  To my brother Matthew, the strongest fighter I know.

  * * *

  Special Thanks

  To everyone who has ever carved time out of their busy schedules to sit down and read one of my books. A deep, heartfelt thank you.

  To Jennifer and Catherine, for taking a chance on an unknown Southern author. I’m beyond grateful.

  To Al Smith, for his informative interview on weapons.

  To Florence and the Machine, for “Breath of Life.”

  With every listen I envision the hero and heroine’s intense love for each other.

  Prologue

  3:37 a.m.

  River Street; Savannah, Georgia

  “Hey, Colton! How’s it going, man? You close up shop over at Macpherson’s?”

  I cross the fog-enshrouded street toward Alex, who’s busy locking up Bale’s Tank House.

  “Yup, just shut everything down tight. Another wild Saturday night for us. I’m completely wiped. How’d everything go for you guys?”

  He pulls his set of keys out of the top deadbolt and turns to face me as I close the remaining distance between us.

  “You know how it is,” Alex grumbles. “Same old wise-ass college-age assholes thinking they can hold their liquor like men. My bar-back spent half his fuckin’ shift cleaning puke off the men’s room floor. We also had a minor bust-up that added to the chaos. Thankfully it happened early on. Tossed both of ’em on their asses to fight it out in the street. Other than that, we made total bank tonight.” He shoves his hand through his hair and continues, “Thank fucking Christ most of these loaded parents send their kiddos off each and every semester with Mommy and Daddy’s credit cards. Wonder if they have a clue as to how much booze it buys their little scholars? Regardless, makes me a happy man. How ’bout you? Earnin’ those benjamins for the boss man, or is my bar the only place people wanna’ hang?” He grins deviously. “Thinking the latter.”

  I press my lips together to fight a twitch. Alex is a former ranger, like I am, and lives for order and containment. He’s also funny as fuck; that is, when he chooses to be. Regardless, stupid shit doesn’t go down well with him. Things go his way. Period, zero exception and that’s the only method that works for him. Especially when it involves work.

  “Yeah, you can say we did all right tonight. Had to kick out a party of fine-ass bachelorettes earlier, though. Damn shame, too. ’Bout the extent of our excitement.”

  He slides his keys into the front pocket of his jeans and whistles low between his teeth. “Bet they were fuckin’ hot, huh? They local? You guys always get the sweet pussy over there with all your Irish music and bullshit. So why’d you toss ’em out?”

  “Scottish music.”

  “Whatever, jackass. You gonna answer me why you didn’t send that sexed-up party of eye candy our way? Would’ve brightened the boys’ night for sure.”

  I cough out a laugh into my fist and am about to go into detail on their scanty attire and blatant flirting with anything sporting a cock when I hear something unusual that immediately gets my blood pumping. I hold my palm flat and nod my head in the direction of the sound: a low, distinct growl, closing in fast.

  His brows snap together as he turns his attention toward the curved, cobblestone incline that leads up to Bay Street. There’s still no sight of the motorcycle but the sexy purr is growing louder by the second.

  My eyes meet his and I ask quickly, “You hear that shit?”

  “Yeah, a cycle. They’re all over this town. So fuckin’ what?”

  My head shakes slowly back and forth, “Nuh-uh …. That, my friend, is a Ducati, and I’m guessing from the smooth rumble of the engine that it just might be a 1299 Panigale S. Very fucking rare and one of the fastest street-legal rides on asphalt.”

  “You are one crazy dude, Colton, thinking you can call out a ride from the sound of the engine alone.”

  “Fact, brother. Know my engines. Always researching the latest online. Would bet money on it. Check it out, here it comes ….”

  The dual beams from the inverted, cat’s eye-style headlights slice through the black haze of dense fog as the sweet crimson cycle emerges and begins the steep downward descent, recklessly bumping along the damp rounded cobblestones.

  I strain to see the bike clearly as the rider pulls into a lone space about a hundred yards away from us.

  Alex grumbles, “Crazy bastard to be riding at that speed down here on these slick, ancient fucking streets. Paint job alone must cost a whack on that thing. There’s my girl pulling up now. I’ll text you on Sunday. Maybe we’ll catch the ball game and a pint together over at Brew Nation. Later, brother.”

  Completely distracted, I reply with a quick murmur, “Yeah, sounds good. Take it easy, man.”

  I’m not missing the rare chance to scope out one of these outstanding bikes in person.

  I observe the rider, who’s covered head to toe in black leather. A matte helmet with a closed visor conceals his face. How the fuck can he see anything with that tinted shit?

  I haul ass, quickly making my way up the narrow street, watching as the rider dismounts. My steps nearly stall out altogether as I realize that the fine, sculpted ass I’m staring directly at can only belong to a woman. Impressive … very.

  Not many men could handle a powerful, tricked out Ducati, especially not on these uneven, pitted streets.

  With her sleek back to me, she pulls off the helmet, and a pool of black velvet hair cascades down, the glossy locks stopping just short of her tapered waist.

  Holy fucking shit.

  As I move in closer, I’m about to say something. I don’t want her to think some son-of-a-bitch is about to assault her.

  Keeping her leather-clad back to me, she beats me to the punch with a smooth, “Get lost.”

  My mouth slams shut. The educated, overtly feminine command leaves zero room for misinterpretation.

  Jesus, no wonder. If her face remotely lives up to that ridiculously perfect body she has going on then she’s got to be harassed 24/7 by the opposite sex. Talk to her. Show her you’re not your typical grade A asshole.

  I start slow and casual. “Easy there. Just wanna have a look at your outstanding ride. That work for you? Besides, a woman shouldn’t be down here alone at this hour. Dangerous.”

  She slowly and deliberately places the expensive helmet down on the leather seat. With one palm still planted on top of the thing, she pivots around to face me. My brain instantly seizes up, like a branch shoved hard into a moving spoke. Her beauty is intoxicating. I feel like I’ve just BASE jumped from the lip of the Grand Canyon and I’m now in a complete, euphoric free-fall. My jaw slackens and my lips part. She’s mesmerizing. I’ve never seen anyone like her. Didn’t kn
ow that level of human perfection could walk the earth. I can only stare in wonder.

  She gazes at me with narrowed, crystalline eyes, before saying in a menacing, clearly pissed off feminine whisper, “And what could you ever know of danger?” Not giving me time to form a response, she continues in open annoyance, “Now, for the second time, do us both a favor, and get lost.”

  Staring down at this stunning woman, I’m about to set her straight, to let her know that she’s dead wrong on the danger front, when she suddenly whips back around and tenses up. For a second I wonder if I’m missing something; then I hear it. From deep within the shadowed brick alcoves not fifty feet away from us, I hear a low, menacing growl. I know animals, and even though I can’t see what’s lurking in the inky shadows, the lethal sound alone is enough to register that it’s massive … and very fucking pissed off.

  I swiftly unzip my Carhartt and reach inside to grip the handle of my Glock. Before I can grab her arm to pull her behind me and out of harm’s way, she rounds the back wheel of the bike and begins powering straight toward whatever is concealed in the darkness.

  My voice booms through the humid air, “Hey, hold up! You fuckin’ crazy, woman? That thing could be rabid! Don’t take another step!”

  I sprint after her and can barely manage to keep up as she closes in on the thing with the fleetness of an Olympian.

  No time to ponder that bizarre shit.

  Suddenly, with inconceivable swiftness, a massive gray wolf leaps out at her.

  Holy fuck.

  “Jesus Christ … run!”

  I’m awestruck as she catches hold of the thing by its neck, flipping it around to pummel its face down against the cobblestones.

  Impossible. It must have over a hundred pounds on her. No time to waste. Can’t just stand and gawk. Gotta help her.

  “Fuck! Get away! Lemme get a clear shot!”

  I’m barely aware of the words leaving my mouth as a hefty dose of adrenaline pumps through my veins with the ferocity of a dam that’s just given out.

  There’s no time to dwell on why she’s thrown herself headlong at this anomaly of nature, but if we both want to walk away without being torn limb from limb, I need to keep my shit tight and act on instinct.

  Using its weight and mass, the creature manages to turn over beneath her and is now furiously trying to bite her. She’s clocking the crazed beast over and over again in its face and chest and it’s a damn miracle that her petite body can even pin it down for a single second, much less kick its ass.

  Clutching my gun tightly in my sweating right palm, I lean down into the bloody chaos and grip her shoulder, trying to pull her back and away so I can fire at it.

  “No, it’ll bite you!” she yells furiously. She’s astride the powerful animal and her gaze never leaves it.

  She shrugs me off and in a blur of motion her right arm slices back through the air, the brutal blow coming unbelievably fast and hard. I’m catapulted backward, my back slamming into the brick wall ten feet away. Dazed, I stagger to my feet, wondering why the fuck she would resist help as the savage fight roars on.

  My eyes nearly pop out of my skull as she suddenly uses her right hand to push its head to the side while leaning down into the thing like she’s gonna kiss it or some shit. As her face disappears into the hollow of its gray fur, it bellows out an unmistakable cry of agony. It’s desperate to heave her off, using its bulk as leverage. Seconds pass and its movements eventually slow and then finally cease altogether. All I can do is stand and stare in absolute shock and revulsion, wondering if this is it, if this is the exact moment I’ve completely lost my ever-loving mind. Too much war and death …. Did I finally hop the bus to crazy town? Jesus Christ. What. The. Fuck?

  With her hands still pinned tightly against the thing’s neck, she slowly lifts her head. I hiss out a shocked breath. “Holy fuck ….”

  Long hair streams around her face and those stoic, once arctic blue eyes are now pitch black and as freaky as a demon’s. In them I see the remorseless look of a warrior—a survivor. Scarlet blood drenches her face from right below her nose to mid-neck. With her mouth half open, she reveals long white fangs that are fucking terrifying.

  She ignores my obvious shock, speaking clearly and rapidly. “No time, there’s likely more. You want to live, human? Then do exactly as I say. Take my Ducati. Keys are still in it. Meet me in five minutes at the corner of Bull and Liberty.”

  I shake my head and clear my throat. “No way. We ride together or not at all. C’mon.”

  “Single seat. You know that. Go, before I change my mind.”

  “What about you?”

  She’s vibrating with fury. Clearly this woman gets her way and hates repeating herself. “I have another mode of transport. Do as I say. Now go!”

  She has no clue how stubborn I am. “Not leaving. Not ’til you’re outta danger and safe.”

  Her eyes flare. She’s monumentally pissed. Jesus, even covered in blood and half-crazed, she’s absolutely fucking gorgeous.

  “Fine. You want visual proof of my safety? How’s this?”

  Shoving off the fresh cadaver, she closes the short distance between us, cranks her neck up to meet my eyes, and hisses, “I expect to see you and my Ducati very soon. And if you’re a no-show or if there is so much as a hair-line scratch on my ride, what happened with that wolf will look like a play-date compared to what will happen to you.”

  I lurch backward against the bricks as she suddenly disappears right before my eyes.

  “Impossible.” My astonished whisper goes unheard. All that remains is the oozing fur ball and the creepy, surrounding fog that’s settling in like the backdrop for a Wes Craven horror film.

  “Fuck this.”

  I’m not taking any chances that the freak-show’s buddies could be hovering nearby, so I sprint the short distance to the Ducati. Holstering my weapon, I pull on the too-tight helmet, crank it up, turn it around, and head back up toward Bay Street.

  I wish I wasn’t still in a state of near-shock complete with a full-blown case of the shakes over what just went down, because the Ducati handles like a dream. Still, my mind is playing a game of ping pong with images from the bizarre, grizzly event along with the mysteriously captivating woman.

  Jesus, have I been hallucinating? Could someone have slipped something in my water bottle as I manned the front door tonight? This shit is just wrong, and I’ve seen some fucked-up situations firsthand in my twenty-nine years on this earth.

  In an attempt to shake off the unease, I grip the throttle tighter and squeeze my thighs against the body of the machine. The performance and handling are exceptional.

  I arrive at the corner of Bull Street, not ten yards from the intersection of Liberty. I carefully pull the bike into a narrow space between a tricked out Mini Cooper and a green CJ-7.

  “Leave it running, cowboy.”

  I just about jump out of my skin. As if from thin air, she’s beside me, slim, soft hand covering mine on the throttle.

  Practically growling, I swiftly pull the helmet off and yell, “Jesus! Where the fuck did you come from? You seriously might want to reconsider sneaking up on armed individuals, lady.”

  Her porcelain face is now oddly free of blood and her eyes once more their former soft hue. She watches me closely before answering slowly, “Or … I might not. Thanks for the delivery. Now get off.” The dismissive tilt of her head to the right sends my anger straight into the red zone as she adds haughtily, “You’re a big boy. Certainly you can find your own way home from here.”

  I drag in air through my nostrils and fight the urge to tell her exactly what I think of her snotty disrespect.

  There must be a reason behind her detachment, but now is hardly the time or the place to find out why.

  Slowly I dismount and hand the helmet over to her. She pulls it on, and I frown as the blacked-out visor is swiftly clicked down, obscuring those haunting eyes from my view. Inside of ten seconds she’s mounted up and begins to r
ev the engine to take off. My hand clamps down on top of hers—not hard, but firmly enough to make a point as her head whips toward me.

  I know there’s no time to waste, that if she wanted to, she could easily shrug me off, so I shoot the question at her, even though I already know the answer. “You like fightin’?”

  The raven-black helmet stares silently up at me.

  I continue slowly, choosing each word carefully, “Yeah, you do, woman. Wednesday night, one in the morning, the vacant warehouse behind Clary’s Café. Your turn to come see me fight.”

  I hold my ground as she wordlessly guns the engine. I still have hold of her hand and I’m half dragged toward the top of the intersection. I manage to let go and stagger back up to my feet in time to see the puzzling woman’s black silhouette run a red light before swiftly disappearing beneath the moss-draped, shadowed oak trees that line historic Bull Street.

  After she and her bike are swallowed by the dense night, I continue to stare, knowing that I’ve just crossed paths with the first woman who’s fierce enough to handle me, and if she ever chose to, ruin me.

  Chapter One

  August 17, 1782

  Beauvais Plantation, 12 Miles S.E. of Charleston, South Carolina

  “Good afternoon, Grandfather, are you busy at the moment?”

  He pushes away from his massive mahogany desk and stands with open arms to greet me. “Never too busy for my best girl. Now tell me, what do you and Annalin have planned for today, ma petite lapine?”

  Grinning, I cross the room and embrace him tightly. “We will be spending the afternoon on horseback. The humidity has finally eased and we are both looking forward to a little jaunt through the forest.”