Page 2 of Bewitched by the Fruit Bat King (The Bewitching Hour #3)
Refused to be Rejected
Kane
I crashed onto the marble floor of my penthouse bedroom, still buck naked and seriously pissed off.
The witch's hasty spell had all the finesse of a drunk Uber driver, leaving me sprawled here with my dignity in shambles.
At least no one was around to witness their king face-planting like a rookie vampire on his first flight.
"Perfect. Just perfect," I muttered, yanking open my closet door with probably more force than the hand-carved mahogany deserved.
My fingers found the silk pajamas - black, because of course they were - with that ridiculous little bat Susan from accounting had embroidered on them last Christmas.
("Because you work like a bat out of hell, sir!
" she'd said, then immediately looked horrified at her own pun.)
The silk did nothing to soothe my irritation. One minute I'm enjoying my nightly flight - the only peace I get from running a Fortune 500 company AND an entire vampire kingdom - and the next I'm being magically kidnapped by some witch with eyes like... No. Not going there.
But that taste of caramel lingering on my tongue... Fate's calling card, sweet and mocking. In all my years, I'd never felt anything like the jolt that hit me in her apartment. And what does she do? Throws me out like last week's blood bags.
My fist connected with the wall before I could stop myself. The marble cracked. Great, another repair bill for maintenance to quietly panic over.
"Sir?" Atlas's voice came through the speakers, carefully neutral. "Is everything... all right?"
"Fine, Atlas. Just... redecorating."
I could practically hear Marcus's AI deciding not to pursue that obvious lie. Brilliant tech wizard my friend might be, but programming an AI with that much sass was pushing it.
But this witch... This frustrating, fascinating witch who'd yanked me through space and time.
.. She couldn't just dismiss our connection.
Could she? The very thought had my fangs dropping.
Somewhere out there was a woman who needed to learn you don't just magic-nap a vampire king and send him packing without consequences.
Even if she did smell like flowers and leave a deliciously sweet aftertaste in my mouth. I may not drink blood, but this woman brought out something in me that made me understand how uncontrollable it was for those who did.
I stalked to the wet bar, yanking out a bottle of CloudBerry Essence.
The good stuff, aged 50 years. Tonight called for it.
Our flagship nectar—pressed from heirloom berries grown only on our remote alpine plantation, hand-harvested during a single full moon each decade, and fermented in crystal vessels.
A bottle that collectors would mortgage estates to acquire.
But when you're a fruit bat vampire with three centuries of refined taste, such indulgences weren't extravagance—they were necessity.
"Atlas, call Morana."
"Sir, it's 3 AM," the AI responded with what I swear was a judgmental tone.
"And the High Priestess is nocturnal. Call her."
A pause. "Very good, Sir."
The crystal tumbler cracked in my grip as I waited. That witch had no idea what she'd started. You don't just accidentally summon the king of North American vampires and CEO of Nightwing Organics without consequences. Though watching her try to lie about it had been... entertaining.
"Kane." Morana's smoky voice filled the room. "To what do I owe this delightfully intrusive call?"
"I need information about a witch. Powerful one. Works with plants."
"Darling, you'll have to be more specific. Half the witches in the country have herb gardens."
I closed my eyes, remembering. "She's different. Her magic... it's like breathing to her. Natural. And she smells like..."
"Like what?"
"Like home," I admitted, then immediately wanted to stake myself for saying something so pathetically romantic.
Morana's laugh rolled through the speakers. "Oh my. The great Kane Drake, brought low by a witch who grows flowers. How delicious."
"Are you going to help or just mock me all night?"
"Neither, actually. Come see me in person. There are a few things I need to check. And Kane? Next time you call me at this ungodly hour, you better bring some of that 50-year CloudBerry Essence I know you're drinking right now.."
I hung up on her throaty chuckle. She wasn't wrong though. This would require... finesse.
My reflection in the window showed fangs still emerged, eyes still black with want. Soon, little witch. Soon you'd understand that fate doesn't make mistakes.
And I always get what I want.
I adjusted my sunglasses as I turned down the winding road leading to Haven's Cross, NC.
The morning mist parted easily for my Aston Martin - no magical resistance, no confused GPS recalculating every five seconds like the humans dealt with.
Being supernatural definitely had its perks, though I'd argue being able to find this particular hidden town wasn't always one of them.
The bottle of 50-year CloudBerry Essence clinked against the leather passenger seat as I took a corner faster than strictly necessary.
Morana had texted me an emoji of a wine glass tombstone after my late night call last night, which either meant she found my situation hilarious or she was planning to turn me into something unspeakable. Possibly both.
"Sir," Atlas's familiar dry tone filled the car, "you have exactly two hours until your quarterly board meeting. Shall I reschedule?"
"Not necessary." I straightened my already straight tie. "How hard can it be to get information from a high priestess about a witch who accidentally summoned me? I'll be in and out."
Atlas's silence spoke volumes. He'd been with me long enough to know that nothing involving Morana was ever quick or simple.
Haven's Cross materialized through the morning fog like every small town dream, all wrapped up in autumn splendor and just a touch of magic.
I passed my latest venture on the outskirts - "Haven's Harvest Farm," carefully warded from human eyes.
The morning mist was just lifting, and damn if this wasn't one of my better ideas.
Beyond the empty parking area, the kudzu sprawled across the hillside, its last September blooms creating waves of purple against the green.
Most of the South considered kudzu a menace, but hey - one vampire's weed is another vampire's gold mine.
The fruit bat vampires helped keep the bees moving between the kudzu and our other crops, while our witches maintained the containment spells that kept the vines in check.
Between the purple honey from the kudzu, the pick-your-own flower fields, pumpkin patch, and apple orchards, this place turned a prettier profit than any of my nightclubs - and that was saying something.
Behind the vintage red barn that housed our honey processing facility, I could see our resident witch-turned-goat doing her morning patrol of the berry bushes.
She seemed happier eating tin cans than she ever had been casting spells, so who was I to judge?
Watching the morning sun hit those dew-covered fields, it was hard to believe this place had been nothing but an overgrown mess three years ago.
Now it was one of my best investments - a place where our community could enjoy some autumn festivities without glamours or pretense, and I could make enough money to keep expanding Haven's Cross's supernatural economy.
Win-win, as far as this vampire was concerned.
Massive oak and maple trees lined Main Street, their branches adorned with fairy lights that never quite turned off.
A few escaped kudzu vines crept artistically along old stone walls here and there - we let those stay for aesthetic purposes, much to the relief of the town's witches who'd spent decades fighting the plant before we'd figured out how to turn its aggressive growth into profit.
The trees had started their annual color change, painting the town in rich golds and deep crimsons that somehow looked more vibrant here than anywhere else in North Carolina.
Beautifully restored historic homes sat proudly alongside renovated brick storefronts, while Victorian gingerbread mansions nestled between sleek modern buildings like elegant ladies at a garden party.
Pumpkins dotted every wraparound porch - some traditionally carved, others floating several inches off the ground and occasionally winking at passersby.
A group of young vampires in private school uniforms crossed the brick-paved street, their feet hovering just slightly above the ground because apparently walking was too mundane.
Show-offs. Their plaid skirts and blazers looked straight out of an elite boarding school catalog, if elite boarding schools taught "Advanced Bloodline Theory" and "Ethics of Memory Manipulation 101. "
The town square could have been plucked straight from a Hallmark movie's sweetest dreams - complete with a white gazebo centerpiece that hosted both Sunday band concerts and midnight conjuring circles.
Rocking chairs lined the wide sidewalks outside storefronts, and every lamppost sported both harvest wreaths and protection runes.
The local coffee shop, Sweet Spirits, advertised "Pumpkin Spice Lattes (Now with Real Spirits!)" alongside "Bloody Mary's (Made with Real Mary!)".
Next door, Henderson's Hardware's window display featured cauldrons in various sizes stacked artfully between mums and hay bales, with a cheerful sign declaring "Now with lifetime rust-proof guarantee or your soul back! "