Midnight Read online

  Table of Contents

  Midnight

  Book Details

  The Mad Duke

  Rain

  Moonlight

  Witch

  Tradition

  Heartbeat

  Precious

  Dragon

  Apple

  Necromancy

  Consequences

  Angel

  Blood

  Kiss

  Hex

  The Corpse Child

  Lost

  Obsessed

  Vampires

  Flirt

  Monster

  Fancy

  Magic

  Body

  Snow White

  Reckless

  Draugr

  Reunited

  Passion

  Dance

  Book Four in the Dance with the Devil Series

  About the Author

  Midnight

  3

  MEGAN DERR

  Lord Devlin White, Duke of Winterbourne, is the last in a long line of powerful witches who assist the Demon Lord of London by solving mysteries and settling problems amongst nightwalkers. With his proud family line all but ended, considered eccentric even by the standards of his strange world, Devlin is kept from despair by his unusual ward, Midnight.

  Murdered as a child, turned into a draugr in death, Midnight is a nightwalker like no other. Neither alive nor dead, sustained by magic and a bond to Devlin, he is happy to spend his life by Devlin’s side, though he longs for the day that Devlin sees him as more than a ward.

  But now a powerful figure seeks the secret of Midnight's making—a secret that Devlin will die to protect.

  Midnight

  Dance with the Devil #3

  By Megan Derr

  Published by Less Than Three Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Sasha L. Miller and London Burden

  Cover designed by Natasha Snow

  This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Third Edition September 2016

  Copyright © 2016 by Megan Derr

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781620047545

  Print ISBN 9781620047590

  The Mad Duke

  Rain

  All his adventures began with rain.

  The time of day varied, of course, but there was always rain. At present it fell relentlessly across the city, turning midday into early evening. The window was spattered with raindrops and bits of muck washed free of the crevices by the downpour. The street looked more like a river, and the people caught in it rushed about like drowning rats.

  Devlin was grateful to be inside, even if he was only going to be so for a few more minutes.

  A glance at the clock showed it to be just a minute or so past noon. It was not a propitious hour for beginning his sorts of adventures. He was a nightwalker—better to begin at noon's opposite, but no one ever bothered him at his club or knocked upon his door at the stroke of midnight.

  No, they bothered him at noon, while the sun was still high, even if today it was mostly buried by the incessant rainclouds.

  Stifling a sigh, Devlin sat up straighter in his chair and gave one last look at the rain and frantic people outside. He signaled the steward to bring him another brandy, for to judge by the expression on Crochton's face, he was going to need additional fortification.

  Crochton made his way slowly across the parlor room of the fashionably shabby club that was Devlin's third-best sanctuary. He preferred his manor or his townhouse, but even an aspiring hermit needed a change of pace once in a while.

  Especially when said hermit was the preferred problem solver for Lord Tamor, the demon lord of London. It was a long-standing tradition of Devlin's family to resolve difficult matters on Lord Tamor's behalf, a tradition that came with equal measures reward and tragedy. But Devlin enjoyed it for the most part, and could never regret a duty that had brought him Midnight.

  So when Crochton, Tamor's liaison and once Devlin's companion in problem solving, sent a summons, Devlin obliged.

  The club was simply done up: leather and velvet and dark woods, made to look worn and aged and comfortable at great expense. Men quietly played cards in one corner while others argued over some article in the rags at another; still others scattered about in ones and twos to read or talk or simply sit in peace and cozy company.

  As Crochton crossed the room, every man to the last looked up to watch his progress with not nearly as much subtlety as they liked to believe. Furtive whispers started up the moment he'd passed the first table, eyes shifting from Crochton to Devlin and back again.

  Crochton was old, but not yet decrepit. At one hundred and seventy-three, given the life he had led, he looked better than could be expected. He'd lost one eye to a nasty bit of magic at the age of forty; it was completely black, mostly useless now, and a stark contrast to the emerald green of his remaining good eye. His hair had been white since he was twenty, or so he'd once told Devlin. Very little of it remained now. The lines and scars and wrinkles carved into his skin told stories no man should have had to live through. He limped, favoring his right leg, a legacy leftover from besting four hungry goblins.

  If he looked half so good when he was Crochton's age, Devlin would count himself most fortunate.

  He doubted he would live that long, however. Witches seldom did, especially witches of Devlin's power and notoriety.

  Someone whispered 'the Mad Duke' a trifle too loudly. Devlin simply look at the man, and his table of cohorts, until they all paled and found something else to look at.

  All the whispers, all the rumors, and a new one cropped up every time Crochton visited him. If the bloody fools knew the reality, they would be too terrified to speak. They would likely never know how much of what they said was true. For their sakes, Devlin hoped they did not, but the odds were high that at least one man in the room would someday become aware of the nightwalker world around him.

  One man watched the scene with the same dry amusement that Devlin would normally exhibit. A vampire, one with whom Devlin was passingly acquainted. He lifted his glass of seeming wine in greeting as they briefly locked gazes. Devlin nodded, then returned his attention to Crochton, who slowly lowered himself into the nearest armchair.

  "Crochton," Devlin greeted. "What in the bloody hell are you doing out in this rain?" It made Crochton's aches and pains all the worse, and it was a bad day for a spry young man to attempt any manner of travel.

  "White," Crochton said in reply. "I should think that's obvious given you're here."

  Devlin shrugged. "You could have asked me to come see you directly, I would have done so. Sometimes I think you like making the normals more uncomfortable than I." He flicked a derisive glance at a nearby table of whisperers, who flinched or startled and hastily went back to their cards.

  Crochton snorted. "Your lot never could behave worth a damn."

  "Now, that's certainly not true," Devlin said idly, sipping his brandy. "Most of my remaining family recently departed for the colonies. Some rot about starting a new, clean coven." He sneered in contempt. "Purists afraid of the dark. Only the elder of my sisters and I remain now, should anyone decide to accuse us of being witches and start the bonfires."

  "You are witches."

  "That does not mean they have to start burning us over it," Devlin said. "Burning just gets our blood up, and then we are obliged to bear grudges."

  "As I said," Crochton said dryly, "the Whites never could behave worth a damn."

&nbs
p; Devlin shrugged again. "Misbehavior suits me ever so much better, do you not agree?"

  Crochton shook his head, but his one good eye sparkled with mirth.

  Finishing his brandy, Devlin motioned. "So tell me about the disaster in which I am shortly to become embroiled. I had just been thinking my life had lapsed into far too ominous a silence. Your arrival is not entirely surprising."

  "Indeed," Crochton said, grunting in further amusement. The levity faded, however, when he continued speaking. "Draugr, we think," Crochton said, green eye sharpening to a hawk-like focus. "It has not been confirmed yet, but that is my conclusion from what we do know."

  "Your conclusion is worth much," Devlin murmured, a knot forming in his gut.

  Draugr…

  He called for another brandy and glanced idly at the scars on the back of his righ hand.

  When the normal people of the world were bold enough to ask, he told them a wild animal had bitten him on a hunting trip gone horribly and amusingly wrong. If, on occasion, one of them knew enough to know it was no animal that had put the marks on his hand, they were at least smart enough not to press further.

  Fellow nightwalkers knew better than to ask.

  Devlin frowned. "How is that possible? One or two would not require my presence. They are annoying, but a trifling, really. Rare is the occasion such as the one we shared years ago. Most nightwalkers could deal with a walking dead without much trouble, if any at all. The goblins would simply make a stew of the bloody things. To seek me out, the problem must be far more than it seems."

  Crochton nodded.

  "Why isn't Lord Tamor handling the affair himself? He hardly needs me to deal with draugr, no matter what their numbers. Is it not his territory?"

  "Outside his territory, actually. It is, in fact, at the far north edge of the vampire territory."

  Devlin swore. "Bloody hell. That's dragon country."

  "Yes, but not in dragon country so they will not bestir themselves to deal with it," Crochton said, the slightest hint of bitterness in his old, cracking voice. "The vampires refused demon interference, and I'm certain I need not tell you why. You were the compromise."

  "Always happy to be of service," Devlin murmured, feeling anything but.

  "I do not see why you are being petulant about this," Crochton said. "Draugr are a simple enough matter for you, especially if you take—"

  "I am not taking him," Devlin said sharply, giving Crochton a look that brooked no argument.

  Crochton harrumphed but did not press the point.

  "So give me the whole of it," Devlin continued.

  "Thirteen draugr have appeared so far, at last report. More have likely risen since then."

  Devlin shrugged. "That is not necessarily a cause for alarm."

  "You don't need to tell me that," Crochton said irritably. "One never knows, however. Do not get cocky, boy."

  "I am no boy," Devlin replied coolly. "Thirty-three puts me a bit beyond that particular epithet."

  "Hmph!" Crochton said, thumping the arm of his chair. "When you are my age, tell me again you were no boy at thirty-three."

  "Thirteen draugr so far," Devlin pressed.

  "Yes," Crochton said, still glaring. "Seven from a graveyard. Two reached enormous size, and three were far too close to becoming proper beasts, and two were new and weak." He looked at Devlin grimly. "The remaining six were from the sea."

  Devlin made a face and drank his brandy. Finishing it, he set the glass down sharply and called the steward. "Pen and paper, please."

  "Yes, Your Grace."

  "Thirteen," Devlin said. "If so many were seen, there are likely more skulking about unnoticed. What on earth connects them? For so many to rise at once they must have something in common."

  "Nothing immediately obvious," Crochton said tersely. "The graveyard ones were from seven separate, completely unrelated families. Not even third cousins in common. The rest are anyone's guess, though six being from the sea, they are most likely sailors."

  Devlin nodded. Sea draugr had only seaweed for heads—to be strictly accurate, it was seaweed wrapped round and round a skull, but all anyone ever saw was the seaweed. There was no chance of identifying who the draugr might have been while alive, but most often they were lost sailors anyway, so the point was moot.

  "Tomorrow is the full moon."

  "I know," Devlin said. "I am sending word to my home, then I will leave immediately. Do I need to keep Lord Tamor apprised? I do hope you brought me directions, instructions, whatever all else I may need."

  Crochton did not dignify the latter half of his statement with an answer, merely handed over a packet of papers. "He did not explicitly say so."

  Devlin nodded and tucked the papers inside his own jacket, smoothing the deep blue velvet as he withdrew his hand. "Then tell him he will have the full of the tale when I have reached its end."

  The steward chose that moment to arrive with the requested pen and paper.

  Taking them, Devlin wrote swiftly, waiting impatiently for the ink to dry. When it had, he closed the letter and dripped wax upon it, then sealed it with his signet ring. It bore his family crest: a single, intricate snowflake.

  A footman stood waiting in the entryway with his greatcoat. Devlin murmured his thanks, allowing the footman to help him into it. Accepting his hat and gloves, he grimaced and finally threw himself out into the rain.

  It did not take but a moment to slide into his waiting carriage, but it was long enough for the water to slap his face and muck to find its way to his boots.

  Still, the inside of the carriage was warm and dry, and he hopefully would not have too long a journey.

  Pulling out the packet of papers, he smoothed them out and began to read.

  Well, so much for a short journey. The village in question was at least three hours away, and in this weather, he would be lucky if the carriage did not wind up mired in some wretched mud hole.

  Pulling back the curtain, he leaned out just long enough to bellow instructions to the driver, smirking in amusement at the squawk of outrage that brought.

  Settling back, he continued to read over the papers.

  The sound of movement and the scent of amaranth drew his head up. On the opposite bench sat a beautiful woman. In the dark of the carriage, her features were not clear, but he knew them anyway. Her skin was fashionably pale, hair as black as pitch, with eyes of deepest blue. She was unfashionably tall and imposing for a woman, but a diamond of the first water in appearance—and the envy of thousands for it. Witty, charming, and too clever by far for anyone's peace of mind.

  Though she looked not a day over twenty, she was nearly five hundred years old.

  She held out her hand, and Devlin accepted it, dropping a brief kiss on the back. "Consort," he greeted. "As perfect as ever."

  Lady Violet laughed. "Lord White, I came to thank you for coming to our assistance once again. I am certain you and Midnight—"

  "Midnight is not coming with me," Devlin said coolly. "I am being sent to rid a village of draugr. I would be foolish in the extreme to bring him along."

  "Which is why he would be most useful," Lady Violet said with a faint frown. "I do not understand."

  Devlin shook his head. "I will not put him in the company of other draugr; there is no telling their effect upon him. Nevermind that it would be unseemly to expect him to bring harm to his own kind."

  "Midnight is wholly unique."

  "I am not bringing him," Devlin repeated. "That is the end of the matter."

  Lady Violet bowed her head in a graceful nod. "Of course. I will leave you to it then, Lord White, and hope that all goes well. Contact me if you are in need of assistance. The vampires snarl, but they will not go too far."

  "I am certain I can manage a few draugr," Devlin said calmly. "My best to you and our estimable demon lord."

  "Ta," Lady Violet said and vanished as quietly as she had appeared.

  Devlin shook his head and glanced out at the rain again. It was
growing worse, with no sign of improvement on the horizon. He felt a pang of guilt for the coachman, who must endure the foul weather directly for the next three hours.

  Reaching into his jacket, into the special pockets he had put into each one he owned, he withdrew a small drawstring bag of black crushed velvet. Pulling it open, he then paused.

  Closing his eyes, he focused—on the driver, the carriage, the weather, the journey's start and its end. He focused on the cold, the wet, the misery and illness both could bring. Then he focused on driving those negativities back, imagining a wall between them and his driver and carriage so long as the journey continued.

  Eyes still closed, he reached into the crushed velvet bag and extracted the three objects that felt warmest to his touch and came immediately to his fingers. Pulling them out, he opened his eyes and let out a soft sigh of satisfaction—the runes had drawn true.

  "Let it be," he said softly and cast the runes on the floor of the carriage.

  Light shimmered and spread along the carriage, radiating from the runes in a pattern that almost resembled a spider's web, fading away gradually as the spell sank in.

  Bending, Devlin retrieved his runes. His sister, the one remaining on this side of the world anyway, preferred to work in the more modern spell circles. They were more reliable, but also more difficult and dangerous.

  They also required space, time, and greater privacy, since any normal person who caught her drawing spell circles would start the bonfire straight away.

  Not to say rune casting was any safer; runes were capricious, too often unpredictable. Rune casting required trusting that sometimes the runes knew better than the caster, but also accepting that sometimes the caster was not casting properly. Knowing how to tell the difference took decades of practice, and even the best could still make a mistake. His family had produced some of the greatest witches to ever live, and they died of their own magic as often as they died of everything else.

  He rubbed a thumb over the runes still gripped lightly in his hand. They were made of bone, specifically the bones of his grandfather, carved by his father, gradually given to Devlin as he started to learn them and grow powerful enough to wield them. Runes did not have to be made according to such tradition, but the most powerful always were.