Sins of the Undead Patriot

by a.c. Mason

Genres: Paranormal Romance; Paranormal

Synopsis

To save the President, Vaihan must trust the woman who betrayed him. Vaihan Louchian, Ancient Zombie and Special Advisor to the President, dabbles in contracts for Homeland Security in Washington DC, the only remaining demilitarized zone. His latest mission: to seduce delectable Leera Waltz so he can take down her boyfriend Rowley, leader of the anti-zombie terrorist movement. Vaihan and the President work the Bill of Undead Rights through the Senate, but terrorist attacks rise. The futures of the living and undead are in jeopardy, and Ms. Waltz is not all she seems. Vaihan canÆt help being more interested in rescuing her than in his assignment. Any human female who's willing to put up with the complications of lovemaking with him and his bouts of OCD is worth the hassle.Vaihan is powerful, intelligent and kind. So not what Leera expected of an undead. When she's forced to betray Vaihan, she knows he will never understand. She must return to Rowley, and slips deeper into the city's dark underworld. Then Vaihan's suspected in an assassination attempt against the President, and Leera has to find the courage to do what's right and save him, or lose not only Vaihan and the leader of the free world, but her heart and soul. 101,868 Words

Release date: October 1, 2012

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 310

Sample

 

Chapter 1

 

Temptation filled the dark lounge–half-clad human females danced in the center prancing for the zombies, who circled this evening’s “dishes.” Jaw clenched, Vaihan gripped his glass with a shaky hand. Sure, the government provided his kind cloned meat, but taste didn’t factor in. “I can’t believe it’s cloned human” was false advertising.

A petite blonde glanced his way for the third time and smiled. As she ground her hips to the rhythm of the music, her purple, skintight minidress hiked up her thighs.

He lifted the Lagavulin Scotch with an ounce of pureed organs mix to his lips and downed the contents to quiet the ache at the pit of his stomach. The smoky peat-and-metallic flavor of the dense liquid coated his tongue. Such concoctions helped keep the cravings at bay. However, the elixir only curbed the urge to taste flesh temporarily. The mouthwatering aroma of healthy humans permeated each breath, waking the “urge.”

He slammed his glass down on the bar and headed for the door. It wasn’t easy to be The Undead Poster Boy, when he too, struggled to keep his other needs caged.

The blonde stepped in his path. “Leaving?” Between the mounds of breasts, her cleavage was a deep gorge. She curled her lips upward on one side in what she likely hoped was a seductive smile.

“I’m stepping out a moment.” If she was legal, he’d guess barely. Not worth the risk. Not after every sacrifice he’d made the past thirty years.

“My place or yours?” Need beamed at him in her green eyes. Blue LED lights ran in tubes on the ceiling, flooding her youthful flesh. The bass of trance music thumped at the rate of a victim’s heartbeat when panic set in. An undead never tamed the predator inside.

“Neither.” Tonight she’d find a fix, but not from him. Others of his kind enjoyed toying with their food. He found such activities distasteful, so these types of clubs weren’t his scene. In the corner, a zombie licked a brunette’s neck and slid his hand up her skirt. Tasting the living didn’t hurt, but left an undead in a state much like blue balls. Her lips parted in a gasp as she rested her head on the wall behind her. An addict, no doubt.

“You sure?” The blonde leaned into Vaihan, pressing herself to his crotch.

Heat from her hip stroked his length, rousing suppressed need. He huffed. Maybe some were more easily swayed. He stepped back.

With wide eyes, she glanced up. “Holy Mother of God, and you’re not even hard.”

“Correct.” Clueless would understate her aptitude. The human females in this bar had no clue what they were getting themselves into. So many tasty treats were scattered about the room offering themselves up for a hit of Z-Luv, the neurotoxin zombies produced in their saliva, blood and semen, which paralyzed their victims in a state of pleasure until the feeding began. In this place, even the oldest of Ancient undead would suffer. Once a human was hooked, they spiraled out of control, losing their appeal. He enjoyed a more responsive lover in and out of bed rather than one half-baked out of her mind. Perhaps he should show her.

Vaihan took her hand. “Come.” The only way to wake her out of her naive belief was to introduce her to the burnouts, those wasting away on the addiction.

She spread her lips, showing off her pretty pearly smile. “You can fuck me in the stairwell if you like.”

Not quite what he had in mind. He opened the door at the back and tugged her upstairs. Down the narrow hall, he entered a large dark room above the club.

Women were scattered on mattresses, naked, reaching out to him. “More. More,” they pleaded, moaning.

None of them should have been used this way. “This too can be you, beauty.” Vaihan leaned in to her ear. “I can be your enchanted Prince Charming and the Beast.” He’d rescued the women from a sex den he’d shut down last week. “One taste is all it takes. Just like them, you too could be paralyzed, used for sex and consumed to the point of scarring.” All of which were illegal. Zombies weren’t the only ones running such establishments.

“More. More.” They reached for him.

Errol, the owner of this club, Safe Haven, ran a clean joint. No more than a pin drop of Z-Luv for the human clients, or a zombie wasn’t welcome back. The fellow Ancient, Errol, helped by taking in the women who weren’t welcomed home by their families. He did what he could to assist those misused by Ancients.

Vaihan grabbed her, spun and pulled her near. Suspending his mouth an inch above hers, he inhaled the scent of her fear. “Taste heaven.” For a hundred years, his mind had been filled with primal impulses. “The urge” had engulfed him in darkness. Blessed with overaccelerated metabolisms, undead needed nutrition only human meat could provide for continued rejuvenation. Ridiculous stories of body parts coming off had been spawned from the early process of renewal. Every cell in their body regenerated. Like a snake, undead shed their old skin. Once that occurred, immortality was his at a price more costly than his IRS tax bill. Gradually the “urge” had diminished. Through his lifetime, many young were arrested, tried and executed for cannibalism. Ancients with a conscience, like him, were over a hundred years old, forced to live endlessly with their misdeeds.

She pushed his chest, lips contorted in disgust, and turned then ran down the stairs.

No good deed went unpunished.

In the back of the room, Dominique, Errol’s partner sat in a rocking chair.

“Was it something I said, Dom?” Vaihan shrugged. “How are my fighters?”

Dominique had been rescued five years ago. During her recovery, love or lust had sparked between the two. Now, one was never far from the other.

“Same as they were the two other times you called today. Improving,” she said.

So, shoot him. He’d followed up to make sure the women were safe and recovering.

“Especially the youngest one. She is only fourteen.” Dominique sighed. “What’s wrong with some people?”

“Not people. Monsters. They come in all forms.” If only he knew the answer to her question, maybe he could make sure this didn’t happen repeatedly. “Tell Errol I stopped by and said he is one lucky undead.”

“He knows, but it can’t hurt to remind him.” Her long lashes swept over her lone eye in a wink. “Keep up the good work. It means a lot to us all.”

Easier said than done. He descended the stairwell. No sign of the blonde in the purple minidress. Good. With any luck, he’d scared some sense into her.

Barton leaned in the door frame. “You sure have a way with women,” he said. Strobe lights shone off his shiny black bald head. The man stood out like a drag queen at a Republican convention in his flashy red suit and yellow dress shirt. African Americans didn’t mix well with the undead crowd, as they were the preferred dish due to their high concentration of melanin, which tasted sweet. Already two male zombies at the bar eyed him. Why Barton wanted to rendezvous there was beyond Vaihan, but he’d better get the asshole out of there soon.

Vaihan slid into a crescent-sgaped leather booth to his right. Barton took the seat across from him then set his briefcase on the table.

“How can I be of service to Homeland Security?” The sooner he got to the point, the faster Vaihan could exit.

“We’d like you to prove Peter Waltz is helping Rowley McKie get funding and political clout to support his terrorist activities.” Barton popped open the front of the briefcase. “If we can prove that, we might be able to pressure Peter to flip and take McKie down once and for all.”

Peter Waltz did affiliate with those who didn’t support the Bill of Undead Rights. However, any exchange he’d had with Waltz had always been cordial. “I’m not sure how I’m to do that if the man is less than warmed up to Ancients being around.” The man didn’t support the Bill, so did that mean he was the one helping McKie? Hardly a smoking gun. McKie was convincing all on his own. But so were a great many madmen.

“This isn’t a direct contact scenario. His sister, Leera Waltz, will be your point of entry. Recently widowed, vulnerable and attractive.”

And human. This assignment would aggravate his OCD. One more take-it-up-the-ass mission from the feds. Just what he didn’t need.

“Tell me about Peter’s connection to McKie.” If the feds were sniffing around, the widow’s misfortunes were about to worsen. Across the room beneath the table, an older woman stroked the male next to her. Her teased hairdo reminded him of the disco era. Until the 80s, Vaihan had lived in hiding or as an albino. Then the government had approached him and a few others of his kind with a dilemma. If the Ancients helped keep certain facts under wraps, they would be integrated into society and given identities–serial numbers. But not rights. Up until then, humans had depicted zombies as mindless creatures that decayed. How wrong they were.

“McKie grew up next door. Same age, school and class as Peter. Things got strained when McKie dated Leera. She was still in high school. But they broke up. She went away to study in Paris. She fell in love with a French man, and soon after, married the frog. While she was away, Peter and McKie buried the hatchet.” Barton handed him a photo.

On the glossy page, big almond eyes gazed right into him. The maple tone of her skin warmed her somber expression. She had an hourglass silhouette draped in a fitted beige gown that accentuated her curves. Vaihan could be sure McKie’s interest would renew if it hadn’t already. This woman had no idea the danger she was in. And if Vaihan turned Barton down, he could be sure he’d find someone else to get the job done who wouldn’t look out for her.

“From the wire we have on her phone, she’s going to be at Tuesday’s performance of Jean-Baptiste Lully’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme with Peter and his wife Meg. A perfect setup for you two to meet and hook up if you know what I mean.”

At least she had good taste in music. However, if he got this straight, the man wanted him to make advances on an acquaintance’s sister to use her to take down her brother. “You do get that I’m undead and this can be a hang up for simple conversation with human females?”

“Leera’s psychological profile indicates she has a high esteem for government officials. Her father was the late Senator Waltz, the first senator of the District of Columbia in eighty-two. I’m confident you can win her over with your charm, even without the good looks.” A broad smile spread his lips, revealing his gold-capped tooth. “You were People’s Sexiest Undead for the last three years. And weren’t you approached by the Bachelor?”

“Tres drole.” Using the whole Special Advisor to the President and founder of the International Network for Undead Rights–INUR–angle to pick up women didn’t get him much play. Besides, one night for a taste of poison wasn’t how most women built relationships. Not that he had time for women.

“I could send someone else in, but I don’t want this woman to be screwed over any more than need be. That’s why we need you to work her. Poster boy for decency and morality.” He slammed the briefcase shut.

The stench of bullshit outweighed the tantalizing aroma of the patrons. Barton knew he didn’t deal with human cases, unless it involved helping women. However, he had a lot on his plate, without the temptation of live flesh or an attractive female. The president and he were close to securing the support to draft the final version of the first Bill of Undead Rights in history to become legislation.

Already his moonlighting activities of shutting down sex dens and unruly Ancients could pose a danger to his position at the White House.

“We aren’t asking. We are calling in our favor. We aren’t prepared to let the Bill die amid increased terrorist activities, political bullying by right wing fanatics and threats to the president’s life.”

Nor would he.

“Look, we bury certain facts about the less savory sex dens to ensure all zombies seem reformed. We do for you and you have to do for us too.”

The point didn’t need stating. The government benefited from keeping the less desirable facts outside of the public eye too. They were the ones cloning entire humans for limbs and organs for the rich then claiming they only dealt in parts. Ancients provided them a way of discarding the leftovers.

“I rather like Jean-Baptiste Lully. His music is optimistic.” Best he saw this as an opportunity to help his fellow American. As Mandela would say, a good head and a good heart are always a formidable combination.

“I’m happy to hear you see things our way, Mr. Louchian.” Barton rose and held out his hand.

Vaihan glared at the offer. “I suggest you leave to ensure you can get back and report that we did have this conversation. Some of the other patrons are considering how long they could go without another meal after eating you.”

“Word is that the Conference Committee’s report will be approved by the senate this fall and ready for the commander-in-chief’s approval early next year.” Barton stood and buttoned his jacket.

“With any luck, it will.” As the president had assured him, the Bill was moving along as projected.

“I’ll be in contact. Enjoy your evening.” Barton picked up his briefcase and darted to the exit with hurried steps.

An undead sandwiched a brunette to the wall in the corner, her thighs wrapped around his waist. With quick motions, he pumped into her. The woman’s dark, hungry eyes met Vaihan’s. He read her lips; she said, “Harder, make me come.” The male’s sharp thrusts were followed by harsh moans from the brunette.

Sweat and sex wove into Vaihan’s nostrils as he reached the entrance, picture in hand. He grabbed matches from the bar, then struck one and lifted the flame to the bottom corner of the glossy sheet. The woman in the picture already knew loss. Pain was evident in her face, as well as strength. He couldn’t burn the image, and blew out the flame.

The bouncer, Don opened the door. “Have a good evening, Mr. Louchian.”

It couldn’t hurt for him to make sure the young blonde left. “Don, did you see an attractive Goldilocks in a purple minidress head out earlier?”

Lust glimmered in Don’s eyes. “She sure did. And in a hurry. Too bad, as I wouldn’t have minded tapping that ass.”

Good to know, he’d managed to scare some sense into her. He succeeded in avoiding checking on the blonde a third time. The self-help books weren’t a waste of time after all. Bonus points for him. He was making progress with his OCD.

This assignment didn’t bode well for him. If things got complicated with Ms. Waltz, it might jeopardize everything he’d worked for. The sooner he could get this over with, the better for the both of them. Vaihan folded the photo, tucked it inside his jacket pocket and stepped out into the cool night.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

As a siren chirped, blue-and-red lights flashed in Leera’s rearview mirror from the unmarked car tailing her. She hadn’t been speeding. Her car was new so the lights shouldn’t be out. She was within the demilitarized zone of Washington DC–a police state with no weapons. So what then? Two black armored vehicles with CPD on them–Check Point Defense–blocked both lanes ahead. She signaled to indicate she was pulling over, brought the vehicle to a complete stop and turned off the engine. What could the feds want with her? Growing up, she remembered her father being pulled over because of racial profiling, but compared to zombies, African Americans had nothing to worry about these days. And she’d certainly never had a run in with the authorities.

A tall black man in a charcoal-gray suit stepped out of the car and strode toward her. He tapped on her window with his knuckles. Credentials flashed–Homeland Security. She didn’t catch the name, as he flipped it closed. Good-looking, young, professional. His skin was quite a few shades darker than hers. Reflective sunglasses covered his eyes.

Leera pressed the button, lowering her car window.

“Step out of the vehicle, Ms. Waltz.” His tone was smooth with a hint of a British accent. One of his upper front teeth had a gold cap at the edge. He stepped back.

After unfastening her seatbelt, she opened the door and rose. The frosty air chilled her exposed legs. She pressed her thighs together for warmth and held her jacket closed.

He had broad shoulders and a few inches on her, and the man had something sweet, even innocent, about his smile. Those were the men a woman had to be wary of...much like her father.

“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” His mirror-shaded gaze traveled up her figure. The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He licked his full lips.

What? He was going to arrest her. On what grounds? “Have I done something illegal, sir?”

He grabbed her forearm and twisted.

“Ouch.” Pain shot up her arm, causing her to flip around. If he was trying to scare her, he’d succeeded. Cold metal snapped onto her wrist and pinched her skin. “That hurt.” She jerked back, right into him.

“Resisting arrest?” He forced her against the vehicle, crushing her.

“No, sir.” She wasn’t about to give him legal grounds to arrest her if he didn’t have any yet.

He cuffed her other hand, opened the door, pulled the key out and locked her car. “You and I are going to take a ride together.”

A ride? That didn’t sound official. “Am I under arrest?”

He pressed his lips to her ear. “Maybe. Depends on my mood when I’m done with you.”

After he’d done what with her? There was nothing more that could be done to her. Losing her husband had already killed her.

The hatch of the armored vehicles opened. A blond man in a CPD uniform with a crew cut and light eyes popped up from the one closest to them. A real military jarhead. “Feisty little thing. Need a hand?” He signaled to his twin in the other vehicle.

“Thanks, Reid, but I can take it from here.” The man who’d cuffed her tilted his face toward her, eyes fixed on the soldier. “You don’t want to find out what he’d do to a pretty thing like you.”

Wasn’t he the one taking her for some type of ride?

With a roar, the military rovers rotated and headed in the opposite direction.

What on earth was going on? Just wait until she called Peter. “I have rights. My brother is a lawyer.”

“I’m aware, Ms. Waltz.” His eyebrows shot up. A deep rumble rose from him as he grabbed her arm and shoved her toward his vehicle.

Taking side streets didn’t seem as clever now, did it? Not a car or civilian in sight to witness her mistreatment.

“You had rights. You see, when national security is at risk, the rights of the many outweigh the rights of the individual.”

National security? “You must have me confused with someone else.” She was a chef, for crying out loud. Her skills were in the kitchen where she could make a mean souffle, creme brulee and coq au vin.

“I definitely do not. You are Leera Waltz, widow of Jean Denoix. Daughter of Jerome and Eliza Waltz. The late senator, your father, managed to become the first elected official to the senate from DC and maintain the only area not under martial law. His wife, your mother suffered a great deal of depression, bouts of emotional breakdowns, hospitalization, all written up as mental illness. I suspect it was all the lying your father did, or was it the beatings? I heard he was a vile man with a stern hand, but what do I know.” He smirked. “Poor little Leera didn’t do much better. You were diagnosed with depersonalization disorder. Who do you blame for that? Your father’s rampages or your mother’s inability to protect you?” His hand pressed on her head, then his body forced her into the car on the passenger side.

He had access to her medical records. The only legal option was a subpoena on the grounds she was a threat to national security. As long as he didn’t arrest her, he didn’t have to give her Miranda rights, which meant she was screwed.

He marched around the front with his hand on his gun. The man was prepared to shoot her. My God, for what reason?

“Well, is Mommy dearest or Daddy to blame for your inability to connect with others?” He sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key and peeled onto the road.

Her parents had done the best they could. “Neither.”

“Oh, come now...kids aren’t born as screwed up as you turned out.” A grin parted his lips. “Or was your smarts the issue? An IQ of 131 could make you a difficult know-it-all. None of the other kids wanted anything to do with you. What a disappointment you must be to your late father.”

Nothing she had ever done measured up in her father’s eyes, so why bother trying? She had left that for Peter.

“And yet, I feel sorry for you,” he said, trailing the back of his index finger up her cheek.

She jerked away. The last thing she wanted was for people to feel sorry for her. Not that he appeared to mean it.

“Your husband dies, and you can’t even mourn him. Pathetic. Wouldn’t you say?”

In her own strange way, disconnecting from her emotions was her way of showing how deep the wound of losing him ran. Coldness was all she had.

He turned off the road and pulled up next to a warehouse. The red aluminum siding had a thick coating of dust. On the horizon, the sun grew orange in the distance. He yanked her out of the vehicle.

“Ouch.” For all she knew he wasn’t even a Fed. She couldn’t really picture CPD helping him if he wasn’t, though. “What do you want with me?”

“Are you offering me something?” He leaned in, breathed deep and let out a misty exhalation of stale coffee.

Yuck.

He unlocked the door at the side of the building and pushed her in.

She stumbled forward. At the center of the room was a table with a chair on each side. Four bulletin boards with glossy photos reflecting light thumbtacked in groupings were pressed on the walls.

“You will be by the time I’m done with you tonight.” He shut the door behind him.

Not a chance in hell. She was in the industrial park. Not a soul around, in an abandoned building.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been with a man hasn’t it, Leera?”

The way he said her name caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.

“Hasn’t it?” He raised his voice.

Since her husband’s death nearly ten months ago, she couldn’t imagine wanting another man. “It has.” She lowered her face.

“This arrangement could have other perks.”

What arrangement?

He traced her lip with his thumb.

She yanked her face away from his inappropriate touch.

He moved in closer, encroaching with his hand along her jaw, down to her collarbone. “Think about it.”

She backed away, hindered by the table. Physical companionship wasn’t high on her list, and his offer didn’t elicit appealing thoughts of any such acts.

Lifting his shades, he met her gaze with his hazel eyes. “I’d be lying if I said watching you get off with your toys hasn’t relieved me too. You’re nightstand drawer is impressive. My interest in exploring you is piqued.”

He’d watched her. She shivered with disgust, avoiding his stare. Photos of her were tacked to the corkboard on her left. On the other side, her brother, Peter.

“That’s a look of familiarity I see gleaming in those pretty black eyes.” He stepped back.

Not even close to charming.

He spun her and lowered her upper body to the surface of the table. “Slowly.” He guided her down. “I wouldn’t want to leave any signs of abuse.” He removed two latex gloves from the box next to her. “Nor physical. DNA.”

Evidence, was what she called it. If he was worried about leaving proof, what else was he planning on doing to her? Oh God, he wouldn’t! Would he?

“What a view.” He kneeled behind her. “Step out of your heels.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“If you test me...I’ll make you wish I’d shot you.”

What an outstanding example of her tax dollars at work. She removed one foot then the other from her shoes.

The board in front of her was covered in photos of Rowley. Short black hair framed the ivory skin of his face. His intense navy blue eyes stared off in the distance.

“Good girl.” He lifted up her dress.

Cool air chilled the exposed area. “My God.”

“Do you have a concealed weapon on you?”

“No.” She squeezed her eyes closed.

“Good. How about drugs or something I could cut myself on?” He probed along the edge of her panties with his gloved fingers.

She jerked away from his touch. “No.”

He slid his hand around the front of her thigh, preventing her retreat. “I wouldn’t want you to bruise.” His voice lowered an octave. “White lace suits you.”

The hairs on the back of her arms stood with fear.

With a large gloved hand, he examined up her leg, groped her ankle to her knee, onto her inner thigh and tucked his fingers in the seat of her panties then fondled her ass. “You do take good care of yourself. Fit. I especially enjoy when you run around the house in your panties and bra.”

Her stomach lurched. There were cameras hidden in her house, or he wouldn’t have known that. How long had her home been invaded in this way?

He descended her other thigh, past her knee to her ankle.

She needed to dissolve into nothingness like she did when she was a kid. When her parents were fighting or her father beat them. It was better to be anywhere but there.

She focused on the pictures before her. Anything but his hands. Where was the photo of Rowley taken? The image struck her as familiar. The trees in the background and water. Down by the river. He enjoyed sitting by the shore’s edge. Just the wind, birds, and them. She’d seen him in that shirt and slacks at the restaurant recently.

The Fed yanked her upright, reached around front, untied the belt of her coat and slid the fabric down her arms, resting the weight of the garment against the handcuffs.

Her muscles tensed. “Ouch.” She gritted her teeth.

The gap between them narrowed and his erection pressed into her palm. He patted up her ass and back. “Nothing so far.” He exhaled deeply.

She couldn’t deal with this–with him. She needed to find her way out of herself. The restaurant was the only thing keeping her sane since her husband’s death. Had she remembered to double the order of turnips? The soup of the day was going to be a puree of turnip soup, a fall favorite of the restaurant’s patrons.

He smoothed his hand over her exposed collarbone to her chest, then slipped his fingers beneath the top of her gown, inspecting her areolas. “Magnificent breasts. Are you cold, Leera?”

He pawed the peak of one of her breasts.

She cringed. “What?”

He groaned. “Are you cold or enjoying yourself?” His hard thing twitched against her palm.

Her extremities were numb. Please God, this had to end.

Extra carrots wouldn’t hurt either, as garnish with the parsley for a dash of color. She should make sure she added more of those to her order as well.

“Bear with me. I’m nearly done...” His breath blew on her neck. He gathered up the front of her dress and slid his hand beneath the waist of her pantyhose. Then he pressed his fingers under the material. With his knee, he knocked the inside of her thigh, forcing her legs further apart.

“Please don’t.” She was out of practice and struggling to shut him out. Tears formed in her eyes.

“Shh, if you relax you might enjoy this.” Hunger laced his tone. “All part of my duties, as unpleasant as this may seem.” He reached down there and parted her.

Oh God. Her breath hitched in her throat. She fisted her hands, determined get through this. Was the sunflower bread roll the best accent to go with the earthy turnip? Maybe a stronger flavor would work better. What about a pumpernickel roll? That was a much better companion for the turnip.

“So beautiful.” He probed down below.

She jerked as far as she could away from him. Her hip bones knock. . .