by Devin Hanson
The Halfblood’s Hoard
Halfblood Legacy #1
Devin Hanson
The Halfblood’s Hoard
Halfblood Legacy #1
Copyright © 2020 Devin Hanson
Published by Hudson Indie Ink
www.hudsonindieink.com
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referred to in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
The Halfblood’s Hoard/Devin Hanson - 2nd ed
ISBN-13 - 978-1-913769-85-7
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Authors Note
About the Author
Also by Devin Hanson
Other Works from Hudson Indie Ink
This book is entirely Angeline’s fault.
A special thanks to the women who helped me with the female perspective. You know who you are.
Without you, this book would not have been possible.
Chapter One
I knew things were wrong the moment I fit my key into my apartment door and it sagged open before I had a chance to turn the knob. Trepidation raised the hairs on my arms and I nudged the door open the rest of the way. I already knew what I was going to see before the hinges stopped creaking.
Look. My apartment wasn’t ever going to make it into fashionable living magazines. My furniture was all second or third hand, I didn’t have any matching dishes, and my couch was a health hazard. But it was my apartment, damn it, and it was my home.
Or, at least, it had been my home. I stood in the doorway and swallowed past the lump in my throat. My apartment was almost perfectly destroyed. Fluff from the inside of my couch cushions was strewn across the floor. It looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to my kitchen cabinets. My collection of coffee mugs were scattered across the linoleum, broken into little, brightly-colored shards.
“I called the cops, but that was an hour ago and they haven’t been by yet.”
Numbly I turned and stared at my neighbor. Vincent lived across the hall and down two doors. He had greasy, thinning hair, an oversized nose and a sort of sniffy, mousey demeanor.
“Thanks,” I muttered. No surprise the cops didn’t show up. Not in my neighborhood. The police here were too busy to chase down petty larceny.
“A girl like you should have better locks on your door, Alexandra,” Vincent continued. He leaned out into the hallway, far enough that I could see the yellowing sleeveless tank top he was wearing. “This isn’t a safe neighborhood, you know, and I really—”
I went inside and shut the door to my apartment, cutting him off before he could give me any more advice. The last thing I needed right now was someone telling me how wrong I was. The door sagged back open and I slammed my hand against it, banging it closed again. My hand came down on the shattered wood of the door jamb and splinters stabbed into my palm.
“Ow. Damn it.”
Whoever had broken into my apartment hadn’t bothered trying to unlock the door. They had just smashed the deadbolt straight through the door frame. I resisted the urge to open the door and show Vincent just how much good locks were.
I used the side panel of my smashed in credenza to prop the door closed and picked my way across the living room. I knew what I was going to find before I stuck my head into the bedroom, but my heart sunk anyway.
My little work desk had the legs broken on one side so it slumped to the floor at an angle. The lamp had been smashed through the drywall and the drawers had been torn out and emptied onto the bed. And my laptop was gone. The only thing of value I possessed. Gone.
I sat on the bed and started upright as a spring poked at my butt. I pulled back the tangled, ripped covers and found the mattress had been slashed open.
“Oh come on,” I groaned. “Nobody keeps money in the mattress anymore!”
Now what? I couldn’t stay here overnight. I couldn’t even lie down on the bed, to say nothing of feeling safe enough to sleep. My home had been violated. In truth, it hardly felt like a home anymore, just a hollow shell of what used to be.
That realization more than anything else jolted me from my shell shock. I dug my phone out of my pocket and checked the time. Nine o’clock at night. There weren’t a ton of people I knew that would appreciate a call this late in the evening, and even fewer who would have anything useful to say. I scrolled past the number of my ex and grimaced. I’d rather sleep in the gutter than stoop to going to him for help.
I reached the bottom of my contact list and realized just how few friends I actually had. I had business contacts, acquaintances, a few people I liked to hang out with on occasion, but nobody I could go to for help. Well. Almost no one.
I sighed and dialed a number from memory.
He picked up on the second ring. “Alex.”
I swallowed and almost hung up the phone. This was a mistake. I knew better than to call him. Just hearing Ethan’s voice brought back all kinds of memories I’d much rather have left in the abyss of forgetfulness.
“Is something wrong? Hello?”
I stared at the phone in my hand. His voice was tinny and far away. The red button at the bottom of the screen glared at me, daring me to touch it. Hating myself, I put the phone to my ear. “I’m in trouble,” I said. My voice came out tight and rough, like I had been crying. Damn it. Way to send the wrong message.
“Are you at home?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”
Before I could give him directions, he hung up. I scowled at the phone, feeling a building irritation. How did he know where I lived? I tried to remember if I had ever invited Ethan over. It seemed unlikely, but I couldn’t think straight enough to remember for sure.
I wandered back out into the living room and stared at the perfect ruin of my kitchen. There were fragments of pottery rammed through the backsplash. A hysterical giggle forced its way out of my mouth. It was almost ludicrous how thoroughly my apartment had been trashed.
They had gone through the trouble of bending the tines on my forks in opposite directio
ns. My spoons had been hammered flat. Who did that? What kind of person would destroy your spoons?
I was still wandering through the apartment, admiring how completely my possessions had been destroyed, when the piece of credenza propping the door closed fell over with a thud. I spun, startled, and Ethan Bishop stepped into my apartment.
Ethan fell under the category of tall, dark and handsome. He wore good clothes, with slacks that looked professionally laundered and a button-down shirt with the sleeves casually cuffed around his elbows. He had the kind of craggy good looks that turned women’s heads and an irritatingly charming smile.
“Wow,” Ethan said.
I folded my arms, determined not to run to him. I didn’t need his comforting. “Yeah.”
“Did you piss off the mafia or something? This looks personal.”
I pinched my mouth shut and reminded myself that I had been the one to call him. “Not that I’m aware of,” I grumbled. “Why do you think it’s personal?”
Ethan picked up a saucepan that had been caved in and turned it about in his hands. “A lot of energy went into this.”
I looked at him sharply, but he was just looking about the kitchen in bemusement.
“I mean, they flattened your spoons. Who does that? No, this wasn’t random. You have to have a personal motive to destroy every single item in a kitchen. It’s a lot of work.”
My thoughts were spinning. Ethan’s comment about energy opened a new avenue of possibility that really should have occurred to me sooner. And it would have, if I hadn’t been so distracted by my apartment being destroyed.
“Vincent said he called the cops an hour ago, after they broke in my door,” I said absently, more to fill the growing void of silence than anything else.
“Vincent?”
“My neighbor.”
Ethan frowned and tossed the saucepan into the sink where it crunched down among my shattered plates. “That’s fast work. Is the rest of your apartment equally ruined?”
“They stole my laptop,” I admitted. “Wrecked my bed, slashed my clothes.”
“I hope nothing personal was on the laptop,” Ethan grinned and bobbed an eyebrow.
I glared at him. I hated people who could control their eyebrows. Stare into the mirror as hard as I might, mine refused to move separately. “I keep my work files secure. I’m not an idiot.”
“Secure and backed up, I hope?”
My irritation turned into a sinking feeling in my gut. I had been meaning to try out one of those new cloud services but hadn’t had the cash handy.
Ethan read my expression and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s a rough break, Alex.”
“Shit.” How much had I lost? Suddenly, the monetary loss of the laptop seemed trifling.
Ethan folded his arms and turned about the bedroom, pausing to toe the slashed pile of rags that had been my wardrobe. “I don’t know why you live in this place, Alex. You’re a skilled investigator. I understand the devotion to clientele, but if you would work for me, you could have a place downtown in a few months.”
I scowled and turned my head so he couldn’t see my expression. I didn’t want his handouts, even though right now the thought of having a cushy job was extremely attractive. I just couldn’t sell out like that. I wanted to make it on my own. And besides, my clients might not be the wealthiest, but there was nobody else who could help them with their breed of problems.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You always say that. Well.” Ethan dusted off his hands. “You can’t stay here tonight. Do you want a bed? I’ve room at my place.”
I looked up at Ethan in surprise and we locked eyes for a moment. I pulled my gaze away before the moment could turn into something more. Damn it. That’s the last thing I needed. Ethan was bad enough being my overly successful competitor, having him as another ex would be the worst.
“I’ll manage.”
Ethan sighed again and shook his head. “Don’t be like that, Alex. It’s not like I’m proposing to you. It’s just a place to stay until you figure out your next move. No strings attached. Promise.”
No strings, I thought glumly, just a fleece-lined coffin of comfort that makes it harder and harder to leave every day.
“Just for one night,” Ethan wheedled.
I glared up at Ethan, irritated at him for being so friendly. “Fine. One night.”
“Good.” Ethan smiled, showing me his dimples. “I’m parked in the red zone. Let’s get out of here.”
“Oh! Can I get a ride with you? My car’s in the shop.” That wasn’t a lie, per se. My car was in the shop, but at the rates my mechanic was charging, it might as well be the chop shop. I could sell the car to a dealer perhaps, but a 1990s Honda Civic wasn’t worth the weight of its scrap.
“Sure thing.”
I sighed and followed him out the door. There was nothing to take with me. I had my phone, with its mini-wallet case holding a few cards, and the clothes on my back. There wasn’t anything else in my apartment that was salvageable. My toothbrush was at the bottom of the toilet, my makeup turned into a colorful soup in the bathroom sink. Even my phone charger had its cable cut.
In the hallway, I tried getting the door to stay shut, but it kept sagging open again.
“Just leave it,” Ethan suggested. “What is someone going to do? Steal your spoons?”
That jerked an unexpected laugh from me that sounded more like a sob. Maybe it was a bit of both. I left the door as it was and followed Ethan down the stairs. The shock at finding my apartment vandalized was starting to wear off. My denial had edged through stunned disbelief, and anger was starting to take its place.
I didn’t know who had trashed my place, but that apartment had been my home, damn it. It wasn’t much, but it had been mine. Whoever had done it, I would find them. They wouldn’t get away with this. Whatever it took.
Chapter Two
The world is more complicated than most people are aware of.
If you were to walk up to someone on the street at random and question them about their beliefs in the supernatural, you would probably get a polite invitation to piss off. If you persisted, broke past the social barrier most people erect about themselves, you would find cautious curiosity.
Almost everyone has some anecdotal story about the supernatural. Their aunt saw a ghost. A coworker’s attic had strange banging noises coming from it during the full moon. John from high school had a door in his house that wouldn’t stay shut. Everyone has stories. Very few people actually believe.
Even among true believers, almost nobody has a concrete experience that they can point at, with corroborating evidence. The simple truth is, nobody wants to know about that stuff. The more people believe, the harder they run from it. Anyone who really, truly believes in demonic possession is scared shitless of demons. And rightly so. Demons are terrifying.
The average human is happy to have the supernatural be something that is only on tv shows and b-rated movies. They get their thrills and existential dread, and then move on with their lives.
The question you have to ask yourself, the question that really matters, is why everyone has the same agreement about what the supernatural is like?
Take, for instance, vampires. Blood-thirsty night stalkers, who can turn into bats and are afraid of crosses. It’s a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason. Everyone understands that’s what a vampire is. Sparkly variations aside, vampires have always been a fairly stable part of monster lore.
So why does everyone agree? Part of it can be chalked up to popular fiction. Anne Rice made vampires mainstream, but she would never have achieved the same degree of traction with an invented monster. People latched onto vampire fiction because it resonated within them; it aligned with some half-forgotten memory or partially-glimpsed flicker of movement during a dark and stormy night.
Memory is an amazing thing. A half-dozen people can be direct witnesses to a car accident. If you interviewed those people an hour later, you
would get six different accounts of what happened. A year down the line, most people wouldn’t even get the color of the car right. Ten years, they probably wouldn’t remember the street accurately. Twenty years, they won’t even remember it happened at all. And that’s something that is interesting, something they will remember and tell their friends about.
What happens when someone sees something they can’t believe is true? They see a man jump a ten-foot fence, or see someone’s head spin around like an owl’s? They reject that memory. It doesn’t fit their world-view, so they abandon what their senses tell them. The process of forgetting is accelerated. A minute later they’re already convincing themselves that it was just a trick of the light. An hour and it might have been just a bad dream. A week and it never happened.
The supernatural is very real. Monsters do go bump in the night. Demons and poltergeist and vampires roam the back alleys and lurk in dark corners where the street lights have gone out. Not very often, mind you, but they are there. If you look, and if you believe what you see, then you too will find them.
I’ve found a way to make my living, such as it is, by engaging with the world of the supernatural. I try to help people where I can, but I’ve no delusions of sainthood. I need money, and I make it where I can find it.
Ethan’s offer of a position in his PI firm would pay my bills, but good Lord, I would be so bored.
