He stomped toward the stage, cursing under his breath the entire time. All he’d wanted was a little alone time to brood.
If that was true, you could have stayed away from this town altogether. Could have had a midnight snack in some deserted forest. Could have—
He silenced the voice in his head with a quiet but colorful expletive.
Could have. Would have. Didn’t.
Instead he was standing on the stage, towering over Jolene who seemed more than ready to pass him the microphone. Heart of gold, his ass. More like platinum.
Take that Gerard Butler.
Mac saw the acoustic guitar leaning on the wall at the back of the stage. Where had they gotten that gem of a Gibson? He had one or two at home collecting dust, but this one looked well loved. He reached for it, glancing at Jolene. “May I?”
She blushed, her dimples deepening. “Oh, please do. You sir, are my new hero.” She spoke into the microphone. “Now tell me your name so I can introduce you to your audience.”
Mac grimaced. He was fairly certain Kip wouldn’t recognize him anymore, and he doubted the others even knew computers existed. Still, just to be on the safe side… “Angus.” He blurted out the name of his long-dead brother and then instantly wished he’d picked something more forgettable. Like Jim or Todd. “Call me Angus.”
Jolene’s smile broadened. “I like it. Give a warm welcome to our first singer of the night…Angus the brave!”
There was a small smattering of applause, mostly from Hobie and Jolene, but Mac didn’t care. He wasn’t doing this for them. He spied a stool behind the ragged blue curtain leading off stage and grabbed it, setting it down in front of the microphone. The guitar felt like an old friend in his hand. Something that used to bring him joy.
Jolene slid the microphone into its stand and jogged quickly off the stage, leaving him alone. He sat on the torn leather stool and plucked out a few notes with his callused fingers. Perfectly in tune.
The lights dimmed and a bluish-white spotlight blared to life, aimed directly at his face. He closed his eyes and frowned. It wasn’t Jolene’s fault. She didn’t know about his sensitivity to light. Didn’t know she’d just invited a vampire onto her stage. The poor thing had no idea what he was capable of—she just wanted someone to sing.
He kept his eyes closed and started to play what some would consider an oldie—though there weren’t many older than he was—but it was a favorite of his.
His voice was rusty. He hadn’t belted out a tune since Thomas had gotten him drunk on that shifter moonshine and convinced him to share some of the songs from his youth. That had been a good night.
Until he found out he’d been on camera. Again.
Fucking cats.
But Thomas wasn’t here right now. No one was. No one knew where he’d gone—other than Saint, who always knew but would never tell. He could just be. He could just feel, or remember what it was like to experience the sort of gut-twisting love he’d begun to sing about. The kind of love he’d longed for in his adolescence– that he’d thought he found with the temptress who had created him. So long ago. Hundreds of years.
He’d never feel that way again. Never wanted to.
Mac’s voice didn’t waver when he felt the change in the air, sensed the new arrival. Female. Her scent was pure sin.
Another bloody demon.
Chapter Two
He was the one. Her mark. She couldn’t believe she’d been the one to find him, since she was usually the one sent to the long-shot locales.
The song washed over her as she quietly entered the small-town bar, the male voice full of gravel and grit, caressing her skin like the hands of a rough lover. Making her shiver with a need she forced herself to restrain for the sake of the unwary patrons.
Son of a bitch.
He could sing and play the guitar? No one had mentioned that little tidbit in his file. Rose was a sucker for musicians.
Musicians and drop-dead sexy men who looked like they were carved out of sharp rock and bone and broken dreams. His pictures and what little video she’d had time to peruse had not done justice to this Scotsman’s appeal.
He was big. He was bearded. He was a ginger with ice-blue eyes she wanted move closer to appreciate.
The song he sang was soft and melancholy, his brow furrowed in a brooding expression that she knew came naturally to him. She’d think he actually had a beating heart, that he could feel the anguish of every word.
It was a facade. He was good, but like the rest of his kind, he was little more than an actor camouflaged for the hunt.