Devil's Cut: Immortal Keeper Vampire Paranormal Romance Series

father’s last batch of whisky. We fondly called it the platinum batch, and in six months we could bottle and distribute it. I’d been a kid when I helped Dad mix this batch twelve years ago, and it had aged well. If I could hold on to the company for six more months, our worries would be over.
“We have over fifty million dollars in that warehouse, Emerson,” I insisted. “I’ll see it distributed under the Langston name.”
“And Forge,” Emerson reminded me wryly. “Don’t forget him.”
“Trust me, I’m not.” I wasn’t used to asking for favors, so it took me a moment to spit it out. “I wasn’t kidding about what I said. Tell me how to contact Bastian Forge. I’m asking him for a short-term loan.”
“I don’t—”
“Before Dad died, he said you knew where he was.” I was bluffing, but Emerson didn’t know that. He only knew that I’d been at Dad’s side ever since I was little, especially after his stroke. It was a plausible enough explanation that he’d told me this secret.
Of course, I left out the part where Dad warned me to never try to find Forge, since I figured that would only give Emerson more ammunition to deny any knowledge of the vampire’s existence.
“I’ll go to the bank and negotiate another extension. I have a few favors I can call in,” Emerson said, his voice soothing.
Sorry, Emerson, we’re way beyond that now. We need cash.
“You’d be wasting your time. How do I contact him?” I said, sensing his reluctance. After six months, he should know how stubborn I was. “I won’t be put off. Forge is our only chance to save the company.” I scanned his exhausted face. “You know what the board will do. They’ll sell this place off and Langston Forge will be forgotten. We could be a great company, Emerson, one of the best in the world. You know it and I know it. We only have to hang on for six more months.”
Emerson searched my face and, apparently, saw I was telling the truth. Also, he knew I’d just badger him until I got what I wanted. “I’ll have to find the letter. It’s in the safe somewhere. I’ve never even opened the envelope.”
Joy tugged at my heart before I told it not to get too excited.
The mysterious note had only contained one line, other than the signature, and I sincerely hoped he meant what he said.
Find me if you need my help. Bastian Forge.
That sentence—his offer of help when I was drowning—had been echoing in my head for weeks. And now he was my last hope.
“Do it.” My eyes strayed back to the painting. “I want this resolved, one way or another, before my three days are up.”

3
Six hours later, I stood in front of a pair of intimidating gates and debated my sanity.
“He left me a note,” I reminded myself softly. “He practically asked me to come.”
As it turned out, Forge wasn’t that hard to find, once I had his address. And Google.
Now all I needed was a shot of liquid courage and I’d be good to go.
As tempted as I was to sneak a sip from the bottle of whisky in my sweaty hand, I refrained, reminding myself of how stories were born. Bastian Forge might be painted as the devil, but like with any good story, every one of my ancestors had probably exaggerated Forge’s threat. Multiply that by ten generations, and the man took on the aura of an evil monster.
“Ridiculous. He’s just a guy who loaned my ancestor money,” I told myself. “Once he tastes this, he’ll be all in. I know it.”
The bottle clutched in my hand held a distilling of Dad’s final batch. Six months early, yet…the whisky was outstanding. It was the perfect balance of smoke and burn, a touch of citrus and a bit of spice. I’d never tasted anything like it, and after all that had gone wrong in my life, this was the one thing I knew was right.
This whisky would propel L&F to the top.
Besides, I reasoned, all I was asking for was a short-term loan. Surely the vampire wouldn’t refuse to save his own company, preserve his good name and cement Langston-Forge’s reputation as one of the world’s finest purveyors of small-batch whisky. I couldn’t see a downside for him.
However, I also didn’t see a way inside these imposing gates.
A faint buzzing to the left drew my attention, as did the red, blinking light on the speaker box that hung by two wires from its mount. “Leave the delivery at the gates. Thank you.”
I didn’t see a button to push, so I leaned in. “I’m here to see Bastian Forge.” I brandished the bottle in front of the derelict speaker, as if they could somehow see it.
“Name?”
“Selena Langston. Tell Mr. Forge I’ve come bearing gifts.”
The best thing about whisky was nobody ever turned it down, and when the gates creaked open, as if they hadn’t moved in years, I stepped through, positive my plan was off to a good start.
One last lingering look at my ten-year-old Civic, and I started up the overgrown driveway. Older-than-dirt trees bent over the driveway, casting long shadows across the weed-filled gravel drive. When the house came into view, though, my steps faltered.
“Holy shit.”
The house—monstrosity—that rose before me out of a small grove of saplings could be the setting for every scary vampire movie ever. It was a Gothic mix of grey stone covered in ivy with a steeply pitched roofline and dark, arched windows. The building’s wings stretched out to my right and left, as far as I could see. The dilapidated garage was missing a door, and inside, a lone mid-century car languished on flat tires.
Was I really any smarter than any of those idiots in every horror movie ever?
Stubbornness pushed me forward another few steps, until my feet faltered in front of the tall door with peeling black paint. Before I could talk myself out of this foolishness, I