Cursed Vampire (Creatures of the Otherworld)

Book 3: Creatures of the Otherworld

by Brogan Thomas

Genres: Fantasy; Paranormal; Urban Fantasy; Paranormal Romance; Supernatural suspense; Dragons & Mythical Creatures; Standalone; urban fantasy; No cliffhanger; paranormal fantasy; unicorn fantasy; vampire; shapeshifter

Synopsis

Half unicorn, half bloodsucker, all trouble. When her secret gets out, can this feisty teenager survive?

Tru Dennison’s life feels like a sick joke. Barely coping with the loss of her adoptive grandad, the seventeen-year-old can’t believe it when her no-good uncle kicks her to the curb. And now stuck working two hectic jobs to save up for a place, a shifter customer biting her is the last thing the magical hybrid needs…

Already battling a mysterious illness she can’t seem to shake, Tru is terrified the incident will reveal her hidden bloodline to the supernatural community. And when the shock and the wound cause her sickness to intensify, frightened teen fears saving her life could only make it all so much worse.

Will Tru’s rebel soul be enough to protect her when she becomes the prize in a paranormal tug-of-war?

Cursed Vampire is the thrilling third standalone book in the Creatures of the Otherworld urban fantasy series. If you like never-say-die heroines, fiery forbidden love, and generous splashes of snark, then you’ll adore Brogan Thomas’s uncanny adventure. 

Buy Cursed Vampire to play for high stakes today!

Release date: October 7, 2021

Publisher: Brogan Thomas Books

Print pages: 400

Content advisory: Bad language

Sample

Chapter One

The weight of exhaustion lies heavy on my shoulders. It’s been a hell of a week. My grandad is dead.

The pain from his loss now curls inside me, making a home. Somehow the wait, seeing him suffer for so long, makes it worse.

I miss him. I miss him so much, and I’m sure I always will. I smile. He was my person. I grip the steering wheel with both hands as my smile fades. The world is a darker place without him. Hell, he wasn’t perfect, but who of us are? Perfect, I mentally scoff. Nobody is perfect.

I rub my tired eyes. My face feels gritty underneath my palm. At least I got a parking space outside the house today. Dragging myself out of the car, I bump the door closed with my hip and groan as my feet rhythmically throb with each movement. I shuffle my exhausted carcass around the car and step onto the pavement.

Work doesn’t stop for my grief. I can’t stop as there are bills to pay. I guess it’s an achievement to stay on top of things when circumstances… fate wants to bury you. I inhale, then release the breath slowly. I’m proud of myself; I got us out of the debt hole. He’d be proud of me. “I’m adulting perfectly, Grandad,” I say into the wind.

The late water bill is paid, nine hundred pounds gone with a click of a button, and my last twenty quid went on petrol. Super noodles for dinner then. Yum.

Being grown-up sucks.

In an exhausted daze, I flick the latch open on the wooden garden gate. The things I still need to do before I get to relax roll through my head. My boots scrape noisily across the path as I trudge towards my front door—I’ve not got the energy to lift my feet. I take a few seconds to realise that my key isn’t opening the front door.

Huh. I pull it out and stare at it. It doesn’t look damaged. I shove it back into the lock, and my hand meets resistance when I attempt to turn it.

“What the heck,” I mumble.

The hinges on the gate behind me squeak, and I turn just as my uncle smashes his way through. The poor abused gate thuds against the wall, and the impact sends a chunk of mortar to the floor. I narrow my eyes.

“Trudy,” he grunts.

Gah, my name is Tru. T-R-U. Not Trudy. Why does he have to be such a prick? His lips curl into a semblance of a smile. Uh-oh. Whenever this man flashes that creepy smile, I know something bad is going to happen. My tummy flips, but I force my face into what I can only hope is an unconcerned mask.

He loves nothing more than to rile me up.

Looking at him makes my skin crawl. Now Grandad is no longer here to protect me, there’s no telling what this idiot has planned. His short silver hair flops in front of his eyes, and with a thin hand he pushes it out of the way as he glides towards me.

I’ve worked out what’s happened.

I tilt my chin and look down at him, at this moment loving my six-foot height. With growing dread and barely controlled rage, I nod my head back at the door and raise an inquiring eyebrow. “Uncle Phillip,” I say through the gritted teeth of a fake smile. “My key isn’t working… You changed the locks?”

This is the man who couldn’t be bothered to visit his father when he was ill. When he was dying. This is the man who also couldn’t attend or contribute to the cost of his dad’s funeral. My hands ball into fists at my sides, and I attempt to curb my temper with a self-restraint that I don’t feel.

One… two… three. I slowly count in my head as I wrestle with myself. My nostrils flare as I take in a deep, cleansing breath.

He’s now taking ownership of my home.

This is great. Just fucking great.

The keys gripped in my right hand jingle as I force myself to uncurl my fists and swallow down my rage. With an angry huff, I cross my arms underneath my boobs and attempt to look calm and unconcerned. I am not.

My hands twitch. God, I want to punch him in his smug face.

“My house, my locks.” With that helpful statement, his wind magic whips out and he snatches the keys from my hand. They slap into his waiting palm.

“Oi!” I shout. What is he doing? I snap my hand out and wiggle my fingers. “Give. Them. Back.”

He’s already changed the locks. Why the hell does he need my keys? My uncle spins on his heel and heads to the street and towards my car.

Oh no. Oh hell no.

“That’s my car, dickhead. You have no bloody right!” I yell as I scramble after him.

No, no, no, no.

Adrenaline sloshes through my system, washing away my earlier fatigue. My heart pounds in my ears and my entire body shakes.

Uncle Phillip opens the passenger door and leans into my car. “My dad’s name is on the DVLA documents, so legally, it’s mine. Unless you want to complain to one of the Guilds? I’m sure they’ll be very interested to find out about you.” He turns, braces his arm on the door, and smirks. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take your shit and disappear. You’re what, twenty now?” I’m seventeen. “You need to grow up and stop leeching off old, vulnerable people—”

I swallow my pride. “Uncle Phillip, please,” I beg.

He laughs under his breath, and his eyes flit about as he takes in the quiet residential street. Like a living thing, the silence stretches between us. He looks me up and down with poorly veiled disgust. “I’m not your uncle,” he finally snaps out.

Pushing away from my car, Uncle Phillip takes a menacing step towards me. He drops his voice to a harsh whisper and leans so close his lips brush the shell of my ear. I shiver. “Not your family, not your anything. You’re the kid he picked up at the side of the road. Like garbage.”

I swallow.

He steps away, and from his back pocket he pulls out a sad-looking roll of bin bags. With a tug, he snaps a single bag off the roll.

As he goes back to my car, I move to block him, but he shoulder barges me out of the way. I watch in disbelief and a growing state of numbness as he fills the black plastic with my meagre possessions.

Once he’s finished, he wipes his hands on his trousers, and with a satisfied smile, he drops the bag at my feet. My eyes drop to the bag. The plastic is so thin in some areas it looks almost grey and see-through.

“Here.” He throws something small at me, and it bounces off my chest. I fumble and just manage to catch it between my fingers. I flip the cool metal into the palm of my hand.

It’s a rusty key.

I lift my eyes to his.

“A key to Mr Gregson’s garage.” Uncle Phillip answers my silent question. “You’ll find your shit, and the stuff of my dad’s that I won’t be able to sell, in there. The old git Gregson wouldn’t take less than two months’ rent, so unless you empty it, you’ll have to pay him more by the first of October.” He points an angry finger at my face. “That’s all you’re getting from me, girl, and I only did it ’cause it was cheaper than a skip. So you can wipe that look off your face… I’m no soft touch.”

I curl my fists again and glare at him. The rusty key bites into my palm.

God, I have the urge to chuck it back at him.

The darkness inside me rises; I narrow my eyes and jerkily tilt my head. Perhaps it would be better to use the key to stab him in the eye, then while he’s distracted clutching at his face, I can get my keys back.

Hit him. Hurt him. Punish him.

Or even the car… My eyes flick to my pride and joy. He won’t be able to sell my car if it’s dented and the windows are broken. I step forward and…

I close my eyes for a moment and breathe deep.

Losing my temper now will achieve nothing. Girls… We aren’t supposed to be filled with so much rage. Sugar and spice, and everything nice. That’s what little girls are made of. The crazy words bounce around in my head.

I don’t give a shit what people think about me. But I have this daymare, a vision of me being caught on someone’s phone and the video going viral: Hybrid Gone Wild or Wild Girl Rampages headlines all over the net. The thought freaks me out. It’s dangerous to be noticed and isn’t worth the risk. So I keep my temper in check.

How sad.

I grit my teeth. I will get him back for this, but now isn’t the time. I just need to be patient.

My uncle has fucked me over.

It’s already done.

Shit, and I have nowhere to go.

“He’d be ashamed of you,” I say with a glare. I want him to see my hate. Instead, I have to rapidly blink to dismiss the sting of angry tears that no doubt shine in my eyes.

He barks out a laugh, and his own eyes shine with mirth. “No. No, he wouldn’t. You wanna know why?” He leans in, and a manic-looking grin spreads across his face. “’Cause he’s dead.”

I flinch.

“Dead men don’t feel shame.” He continues to chuckle as he walks around the front of my car. He taps on the bonnet and throws me a bright smile.

I watch as my uncle yanks the driver’s door open, and without another backward glance, he drives away.

The car has long since disappeared from my sight, yet I stand and stare down the road. I can’t move. My feet are frozen to the pavement.

Move. I don’t think I can. Fear plants my feet. If I stay here, I’ll die. I need to find some courage. “Courage,” I scoff.

I shake my head, and the wind whips strands of my hair from out of my plait across my face. I force my frozen lump of a left hand that’s pinned to my side to lift and tuck the wayward multicoloured hair behind my ear. My hand shakes.

In this world, magic is commonplace, with all manner of supernatural people, but it’s all about the strong against the weak. It is all about power. It’s been like that since the beginning of time.

I hug myself. We don’t have people out on the street, homeless.

You have somewhere safe to stay… or you’re dead. The vulnerable are quickly snapped up, disappearing without a trace. I turn my head and look mournfully back at my former home.

Here I am. No money. No home. No car.

I raise my eyes to the clouds and contemplate the seriousness of my situation. A mad-sounding giggle rips from my lips. I stand in the middle of the street, clutching at my stomach, and I laugh like a loon. I laugh with my despair. ’Cause if I cry, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

Oh, the irony.

If he’d come the day before, I would be nine hundred and twenty pounds richer. I throw my hands in the air. The urge to scream my pain out into the universe thrums through me. My laughter dies.

How is that for irony? Bloody fate.

God, I feel sick. I fold over and clutch myself tighter. I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. I can’t do this. I can’t. I’m alone. I have no one to help me.

He might as well have choked me with his pathetic wind magic.

It would have been kinder.

 

Chapter Two

The old key still gripped in my hand encourages me to move. I need to be polite and speak to Mr Gregson before I go poking around in his garage. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if the key was a trick to get me into trouble. My shoulders slump, and I drag the bin bag up off the ground to slog towards the garage owner’s house—which is one street over.

Fake it till you make it, Tru.

I knock on the door and wait as what sounds like half a dozen locks and bolts click and slide. With the chain still attached, the door creaks open, and Mr Gregson’s brown eye peeks through the gap.

His eye widens when he sees it’s me. “Oh, Tru.” He holds up a finger as he shuffles back and slams the door in my face. I hear the chain slide free. The door opens for a second time, and the smell of unwashed man hits me. I rapidly blink and force myself not to wrinkle my nose.

“You got the key?” he asks. I nod.

“Oh, kid, I’m so sorry.” His eyes soften with concern as he takes me and my bin bag in. “If I wasn’t such a pathetic old man, I could have stopped him. I was on my way to get a bit of shopping, you see, and outside your grandfather’s, sure enough, Phillip was on the phone. He ended the call when he spotted me and asked if he could use the garage. I hope I did the right thing, love? That boy…” Mr Gregson shakes his head, and the loose skin around his jaw wobbles. “That boy has never been a good person. Your grandfather was a fine man, a fine man. I don’t know what went wrong with the lad. He’s a real wrong’un.”

“It’s fine, Mr Gregson. Everything is fine.” I attempt a toothy smile. Mr Gregson subconsciously flinches away, so I knock that shit off.

“You have somewhere to go?”

In answer, I lift my hand with the garage key firmly clasped between my fingers and wiggle it.

He sighs and rubs a liver-spotted hand across his face. “Oh no, that’s no place for a young lady. No place at all.”

In an attempt to look all sweet, I widen my eyes, and for good measure, I pout a little. “Mr Gregson, please… Will it be okay? It will just be for a few weeks until I can find something better. No one will know I’m there, and I promise not to cause you any trouble.”

“Tru, your grandfather… I can’t have you living in there. It’s not right…” His voice fades off into mumbles, and he looks over his shoulder.

Oh heck. I know what he’s about to say, and I vigorously shake my head. I can’t stay with him. Not with my uncle Phillip’s nasty words of me taking advantage of old people still ringing in my head.

“No, thank you, Mr Gregson. I can’t stay with you if that’s what you’re about to suggest. I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine if I can stay in the garage for a few short weeks. The rent? It’s due on, urm… the first of October?” I do my best to change the subject.

“The first of October?” Mr Gregson’s chubby cheeks steadily grow red. His worried expression fades, and his eyes shine with glee as a small smug smile pulls at his lips. “No, I made him pay through the nose. I told him October, but you’re paid up till the first of December.” He guffaws and slaps his thigh. His grey comb-over slips. It flops down onto his forehead and swishes against the bridge of his nose. “The rent is only eighty pounds a month,” he continues with a chuckle. He frowns when he notices the dangling hair, and sheepishly he swirls and pats it back into place.

His dancing brown eyes grow serious. Oh God, he’s going to say no. He’s going to say no, and then I’m dead.

Mr Gregson huffs out a sad-sounding sigh and shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry, Tru. You can’t stay in the garage. It isn’t in a liveable condition, not for a young lady. The police might help, or the human council?” He lifts his bushy eyebrows. “I know your grandfather was fae, so perhaps the fae guild will have somewhere for you to stay.” He steps away from the door and gestures to the landline phone on the table.

“I can call them for you. I don’t like the thought—”

Overwhelming panic smashes through me, and I do something I instantly regret. “Don’t think about it again. It’s all going to be okay, Mr Gregson, I promise. I’m going to be okay. I wanted you to know as it’s polite… but you don’t have to worry about me. Forget all about it.” I lean forward and whisper, “I’m not a normal girl. Don’t think about it again.” I then smile brightly.

I watch Mr Gregson’s eyes glaze over, and he robotically nods his head. “No need to worry. I won’t think about it again.” He shuffles back into his house, and his door clinks closed.

I blink. Okay, that’s okay.

I swallow down the guilty lump that’s forming in my throat. I feel a little sick.

I’m just trying to survive—like everyone, I’m just trying my best to live in this shitty world. He would have stopped me living in the garage, and he was going to call the guild. “I am so sorry. Please forgive me, Mr Gregson,” I whisper. God, I feel sick. I cough into my fist.

That’s right, Tru. You get fucked over, so you go straight in and mess with a kind old man’s head. I slump forward and rest my ear against the door; I listen as his feet shuffle away. Oh crap. Nice one, Tru. He hasn’t locked the door. “Mr Gregson.” I tap the door with my knuckle. “Mr Gregson, don’t forget to lock up.”

Behind the closed door, like a mind-controlled zombie, Mr Gregson’s footsteps shuffle back, and again in a monotone voice, he repeats my words. “Don’t forget to lock up.” One by one the locks click and slide into place. I puff out my cheeks with a relieved sigh.

Closing my eyes, I push my forehead hard against the white PVC door. Guilt continues to grip me in its vice.

I should not have done that.

He will be perfectly fine in ten minutes. I did it for his own good.

I cringe, push away from the door, and slog my guilty ass back down the street. With hunched shoulders, I turn my head and glance back at Mr Gregson’s silent house.

Liar, you did it for yourself.

Okay, so I can do a little compulsion. It’s no big deal. I shrug, and the bin bag in my hand rustles. It’s a defence mechanism, a defensive reaction. All born vampires can do it. It’s no biggie and nothing special, and it has limited uses. If only I was strong enough to use it on my uncle.

I scratch my head with the garage key. I don’t do it often, and I’d never normally persuade an old man like Mr Gregson if it wasn’t a life-and-death situation.

Yes, I feel bad. But given the same type of circumstances… In the same situation, I’d do it again.

Does that make me a bad person? I cringe again. Yes, yes, it does. I pause, clamp the bin bag between my knees for safekeeping, and readjust the bobble that is falling out of my french plait. I didn’t hurt him, and I am giving him peace of mind as I know he’d worry about me, and now… Well, now he doesn’t have to.

Listen to me. Who am I trying to fool? I’m no better than my uncle. No, no—I am worse ’cause I took a kind old man’s choice away, and that makes me scum. I force my feet to keep moving.

The alleyway behind Mr Gregson’s terrace that leads to his garage is dingy and untarmacked, and the track is composed of uneven crushed stone with a scattering of red brick and broken glass. My gaze flicks around as I manoeuvre between the glass, clumps of weeds, and the pale, washed-out dog poo that’s decorating them. I attempt to hold my breath as the pungent scent of ammonia—yay, fresh pee—assaults my nose. Crap, it makes my eyes water.

I’ve been to this garage before, a few years ago. So if I can remember right, it’s just up here. I groan when I find it. Hands on my hips, I survey what I have to work with.

Gah, the garage is worse than I remembered. No wonder the rent is only eighty quid.

The faded garage door has seen better days. It’s more rust than paint. Spots of different colours smatter its surface as the paint peels away. Squinting, I inspect the metal holding the door up. It’s crumbling, and it looks as if the mechanism and frame of the up-and-over door has rusted tight. A small push and I bet the whole door would fall to the floor. God, I don’t even know how my uncle got the thing open.

“The height of security,” I grumble. Let’s hope no one noticed my uncle loading the place up with my stuff. I don’t need any attention.

My hand clenches the key with relief, and my feet crunch on the uneven track as I step around to the side of the garage. Thank God there’s a side door.

Or not.

I frown at the wooden door and growl out a curse. The door is swollen shut. I brace against it and wiggle the key in the lock. After a few failed attempts, it finally clicks open, but when I pull the handle, the damn thing almost comes off in my hand. With a jiggle and a tug, I open it just enough to get my fingers into the gap. Splinters from the old wood dig into my skin, but I ignore the pricks of pain as I tug the door. Inch by inch, it scrapes across the ground, kicking up little stones.

It wedges.

“For fuck’s sake!” I scream. I can’t have a door that doesn’t open. My famous temper flares. Rage, guilt, and despair bubble inside me. I dig the toe of my boot into the weeds that have built up around the bottom of the door, and I vigorously kick. Grass and stones go flying.

I clamp my lips against another scream that wants to rip out of my throat. My breathing is ragged, and my throat burns, and my chest hurts. I glare at the mess I’ve made, giving myself a minute before I sigh and gather the threads of my frayed temper together. To get my breath back, I lean against the garage wall. The red brick digs into my shoulder. I’ll add fixing this shitty door to the list of endless shit that I’ve got to do this afternoon. I grind my teeth so hard my jaw aches and push back the ever-present anger I inherited from my vampire side.

I let out a bitter laugh. Shit, I am not even a proper pureblood vampire. No, I am a pesky hybrid. I am a born vampire with a twist.

Oh yeah, the best part. The twisted part… I have a little bit of shifter floating around in my veins. Ta-da.

Shifter.

It should be impossible. I shouldn’t exist.

Grandad told me no one could find out about my hybrid nature, especially the guilds—it was our golden rule. If the vampires find out about my existence, I’m dead. If the shifters find out about my existence, I’m dead…

With a tired grimace, I step through the door into my new home.