by Drew D'Amato
Bloodlines
Part 1
By
Drew D’Amato
Copyright 2011 by Drew D’Amato.
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Jacquelyn Wiley.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to everybody who helped make this possible. Everyone who had the patience to listen to my illusions (delusions) that one day I would get published. Specifically, Jimmy Sullo and Michael Marello, who also helped contribute technically, and have been the most loyal friends I could ever imagine. Jaime Reyno, who supported me specifically in this project, and still enjoyed the book ten years after reading the first draft. I must also thank everyone who has turned on me and left me, which in turn only inspired me more. And of course, every vampire writer that came before me.
The historical references in this work are based on actual facts.
Most can be investigated with a simple internet search.
Dramatic license is of course applied, especially for the supernatural events within the narrative.
Biblical scriptures are not considered facts, but the references are accurate.
Now suspend belief.
Book I:
THE SITUATION
ONE
1
A sense of malice hung in the London air. This unholy ambience felt like a second form of night, hidden behind the visible one like a carbon copy behind an original—you couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Something was hiding. The power of pure evil is its ability to cloak itself until it’s too late.
Five creatures giving the appearance of men stood outside a club in London, sensing the evil. The club, Domas, got its share of strange creatures, but these creatures were a first for the club. Dressed in black, from their silk shirts to their leather trench coats, they waited in the VIP line. They were not from this area of the world. They did not look like the regular club-goers with loud short-sleeved shirts with print on them and short, spiked, gelled hair. Their hair was long, and most of them had it pulled back into ponytails.
Their eyes beheld the landscape of the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. This area had been redeveloped since they were last here over fifty years ago. This was the Docklands, and now the stores were closed, and the clubs were open. A lot of history was in this city, and these five creatures had a lot of history in them also. It was a still night, no wind, and a full moon illuminated the shadows of the city where the street lights missed. They didn’t need the light to see, but it helped. They searched for anything out of the ordinary. They did not want to be surprised by anyone they knew. They knew few people in this part of the world and fewer of them were friends.
Jericho was the tallest of the five and held the most respect. He was the de facto leader. He had a thin build, a pair of deep blue, threatening eyes, and pale skin. His blonde hair was pulled in a ponytail with a few bangs dangling in front of his face that stopped a little before his chin. His leather trench coat ended at his knees. He took a strong pull from his cigarette and looked at Michael—a dark, brown-haired man, a few inches shorter than Jericho. Michael’s long hair was slicked back, but not in a ponytail, and he wore three gold loop earrings in each ear. He stood behind Jericho in line.
“You think this is cool?” Michael asked Jericho.
“I don’t see anything that seems funny,” Jericho responded. “It’s been quiet for a little while now. These times happen, they come—then it’s going to be hell again.”
“It may sound fucked up, but I’m starting to miss the hell.”
“That’s because we know nothing else.”
“Next two in,” said the doorman, a big, black man without an English accent. He wore an earpiece with a microphone on it to talk to the other bouncers inside the club for security reasons. Michael and Jericho walked through the door first, leaving their three comrades outside in the cold. It wasn’t so rude to their friends as it might seem; none of them could feel cold.
Industrial dance music played inside the club. It sounded as if the Transfomers had decided to create a band. From the outside it was like background music, but walking in, the sound rose as if putting on headphones. They entered the vestibule. To their left, a few steps were covered in a red carpet that led down to a door. At the bottom of the steps stood Ed, another bouncer. He was a large white man. He paid attention to the same thing Michael was looking at—breasts protruding through a white shirt that bounced on the keys of a cash register. A sexy brunette was behind the pair. She was to their right. Michael gave her a wink as he paid their entrance fee. She couldn’t help but smile, and when he walked off, she found something had come over her that made her want him.
Next, Ed started to check them for weapons with a metal-detector wand. Jericho looked into the eyes of the three-hundred-pound bouncer. Ed abruptly decided the wand was not necessary for these two and let them pass. Every other male who entered the club had to pass the weapons check, but not them. The cashier might have said something, but she was too busy watching the back of Michael as he disappeared into the club. The next three to enter would perform the same trick.
They walked with a strut as Jericho swung the heavy, black, windowless door open. From there they walked up a flight of stairs, also covered with the same red carpet. At the top of the stairs, a petite blonde attended the coat check. Normally everyone had to check their jackets, and she would give them a ticket in exchange. However, she was overcome with a sensation—similar to one the cashier felt when she looked into Jericho’s eyes—and decided to let these two pass. She would have a second helping of this feeling when their three friends followed in after them.
They walked through the last set of doors, into the club proper and the hedonism of the place could now be taken in by their sensitive noses. The ceiling of the club reached thirty feet in the air. A battery of different lighting systems hung from it. The dance floor was made of white squares that lit up on and off when one stepped foot on them. The floor was full of dancers, and half the tiles were lit up in a random pattern. As they walked across the dance floor, the unlit tiles did not light up as they were stepped on, and the lit ones did not change either—thankfully, no one noticed. There was a smooth quality to their strides. They both managed to not bump any of the happy dancers as they moved across the floor.
The dance floor itself was about half the size of a basketball court. They had entered from the north end of the building. The east and west walls of the club had mammoth stained-glass windows that ran the height of the walls; four on each side. The idea was to give the impression that everyone was dancing inside a church—there were not religious illustrations on the windows, but the association of stained-glass windows with a church occurred in almost all of the patrons when they entered. These two were not above that correlation either.
They walked past the four-sided island bar. It was occupied on all sides with young people getting drinks. A bleached-blonde waitress wearing shorts that cut higher than most underwear walked past the two of them. Jericho smiled at her, and her hip bumped against an unoccupied barstool. She was too busy gazing back at him.
“Will you stop using your tricks?” Michael said to Jericho.
“As soon as you stop using yours,” he said through a half-smirk.
“Whatever. I’m thirsty, let’s get a seat.”
At the south end of the club was a spiral staircase to the VIP room. At the bottom hung a velvet rope, helping the bouncer that sat next to it to keep people out. This bouncer was white, but not overweight like the other two. He had a chiseled body with a tight, black Ed Hardy t-shirt over it and strong, black, spiked hair, along with an earpiece. He looked down at the clipboard he held in his right hand.
“This area is for VIP’s only,” the bouncer told them
as they approached.
“Yes, we know; we have a reservation for Jake,” Jericho replied.
“Are you . . . Jake?” Jake. A name like that given for a reservation in one of the hottest clubs in England was an odd thing. The bouncer did not take them seriously.
“No, he’s still waiting outside.”
The bouncer looked down at the clipboard in his right hand. His eyes scrolled through the names on his list not at all expecting to actually find a Jake.
“There is a reservation for . . . Jake, but how do I know you are guests of his?” He ended with a smile that said to them: No matter what you say, I’m not letting you skinny, long-haired hippies into the VIP.
Jericho knew otherwise.
He stared at the bouncer without blinking. The bouncer looked back in their direction but avoided eye contact. He frowned. His eyebrows pointed down in an unhappy fashion, expressing his uneasiness. The bouncer did not want any trouble from anyone, and a night without having to break up a fight, was a good night.
However, he could not let them pass. He didn’t know exactly who they were and what their acquaintance was with this Jake character. Why are they not with Jake right now? Their appearance did not help them either. One with his blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail; the other, with his long, dark, brown hair slicked back on his head, like some sort of coke dealer, or Latin sex symbol. Long hair was not really the style these days—not for the normal club-goer. On top of that, the bouncer noticed the long leather jackets that should have been checked in. He was going to make it a point to tell Chrissy in the coatroom about this. The leather jacket over the black Armani shirt was a nice outfit, but this was a club—and all the body heat in the room made this nice outfit, an uncomfortable one. They did not seem like people who planned to stay long. These two were unique characters to the bouncer, and he was not going to let them pass until he met whoever this Jake was.
Jericho and Michael did not leave their spot. The bouncer—now confused as to why they were still standing there, and why Jericho was still looking at him—decided he had had enough. Now it was time for him to threaten these two. His eyes locked onto Jericho’s and his mouth opened to make a threat.
But the bouncer’s left hand motioned—like instinct—to the hook on the velvet rope. He unhooked the rope, pulled it close to him, and opened up the path.
“Have a good time guys,” the bouncer said.
Michael and Jericho moved again, as if they were not able to affect anything in the real world. They walked up the stairs, Jericho first.
“Jake?” Michael asked.
“It’s an easy name. I figured Jake never gets any respect, so tonight he could feel like the big man.”
At the VIP level, a banister ran along the edge so people could look over and see the dancers below. The two stopped, leaned on the banister, and looked over the dance floor.
“I see Jake and them coming in now,” Michael said.
“Good, tell them to fuck with the bouncer, he’s easy.”
Michael stared over the railing, looking at their three comrades passing through the crowd. He had to lock eyes with them to send the message. After he stared at Jake for a moment, he turned back to Jericho.
“Jake said fuck you—next time they’re going in first.”
2
The VIP room had dark red velvet couches that were three-fourths of a full circle. They sat about nine if properly squeezed. Glass tables were in the middle of the couches. Underneath the glass, the stands for the tables were small aquariums with different small fish inside. An eight-inch square card, folded at the middle, rested on an empty table. The name Jake was written on the card.
Another bouncer escorted Michael and Jericho to the table. “Table for Jake,” he said with a brief wave to the table, and then walked away. A waitress, a brunette with black spandex shorts and a pink shirt, came to them.
“What can I get you guys?” she asked.
“Might as well order for everyone,” Jericho started. “Five drin
ks, all on the rocks with water: Jack, Canadian Club, Two Beefeaters and a Johnnie Blue.”
“We don’t have blue.”
“What do you have?” Michael asked, concerned since this was his drink.
“Black and red.”
“What the fuck?” Michael said under his breath. “I’ll take the black.”
Jake, Matthew and Paul came up from downstairs and joined them. When they were seated, Paul looked to Michael and asked, “Anything seem funny to you guys here?”
“Not really,” Michael replied. “Just try to relax. I think things are going to be cool for a little while.” He took out a cigarette and lit it with his Zippo lighter that appeared in his other hand.
“Those things’ll kill you,” Jericho said.
Jericho and Michael looked at each other, and then everyone at the table laughed.
“There are definitely some ladies here tonight,” Paul said, moving his head back and forth like it was on a swivel. “I say we don’t go home empty-handed tonight.”
“Do we ever?” Jake asked with a smile.
This group did not just like one night stands, they lived for them. They gave women a night they would never forget, and then sent them on their way, no strings attached. It was not because they had no respect for women, it was because that was the only way they could have them.
The waitress came to their table with their drinks. She gave Michael his last. “And Johnnie Red,” she said.
“Black, I wanted black.”
“Oh I’m sorry.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” he said, and gave her twenty pounds for a tip.
3
After a good bar tab later, the five of them started to feel a slight buzz. None of them were drunk—they had inhumanly high tolerances.
“I’m going downstairs, any of you guys want to come?” Jake asked the table as he stood up.
“You’re on your own,” Matthew replied. “Maybe I’ll come down there later.”
Jake got up from his seat and walked to the spiral staircase. He looked back to see if anyone changed their mind, but they didn’t, and he walked downstairs. Once down there, he got a good look at a woman dancing a few feet away. She danced between two guys, who looked like they spent more time at a gym than at a real job. One of the men danced in front of her, the other grinded his smaller self against her behind. Her bright blue eyes locked onto Jake. He focused on them and ignored her blonde hair and overdeveloped body. She stopped dancing and moved away from the two wanna-be Mr. Olympians. The guy who was dancing in front of her was disturbed by this. Then he made his mistake.
“Who the hell are you?!” the guy asked, inches away from Jake, close enough to feel Jake’s lifeless breath. Jake exhaled out of annoyance; then spoke. This man was an American on vacation and that explained a lot.
“She’s obviously doesn’t want to dance with you. Now for your benefit, don’t piss me off,” Jake said for his only warning.
“Fuck you,” he said, and attempted to swing a right hook at Jake. Jake threw a quick left hitting the guy’s gut. He’s too fast, the guy thought as the pain sunk in, and he curled into a ball on the floor. He had to have read my mind to see that coming. Holding his aching stomach, the guy looked up at Jake. Jake grabbed him by his collar and brought him up to eye level before any bouncer noticed.
Jake’s brown eyes started to show shades of red on the outside of the iris. The guy saw this and realized that if he got to walk out of here with just got a sore gut, he would be lucky. Jake released his grip. He had made his point; no need to start any more trouble. The guy and his friend scurried away from Jake and the blonde with the big blue eyes stayed. The girl looked at Jake in awe of what happened. She noticed he was looking back at her.
“Well, do you like what you see?” she asked him.
“I wouldn’t be looking if I didn’t.”
She smiled. “So, will you be a gentleman and buy this lady a drink?” She was f
rom England and Jake found her accent attractive.
“Will you be a lady and come with me?”
They smiled in agreement of this decision and walked to the main bar in the middle of the dance floor. The bottles for this bar sat on a three-tier island in the middle on the bar. When they got there, Jake leaned up against the wooden rail, trying to get the bartender’s attention. The girl slapped Jake’s ass as his body leaned over. He turned to her with a smile on his face. If she had slapped six inches higher, she would have hit the hard metal of his semi-automatic.
“You don’t mind me slapping your bum, do you?”
“I don’t. Why don’t you tell me your name?”
“It’s Maggy. And yours?”
“Jake.”
She smiled again. This was easy, and I didn’t use any tricks; well, not really, he thought with a smile of victory. On turning back to the bar to again try for the bartender’s attention, he sniffed something funny in the air. Across the bar stood another man with bleached-blond hair and a leather trench coat. The two of them locked eyes.
“Radusons!” Jake screamed.
The blonde man produced a small Uzi from underneath his jacket. Jake went for his Glock 21 tucked in his waist, behind his back. The two of them raised their guns at equal time and squeezed off their rounds. The bartender in the middle of the two got hit. He dropped to the floor in a bloody lump. Maggy took three stray bullets, one in her shoulder, two in her right breast, and died. Jake got one in the arm as he fired, but he did not flinch. His gun clicked empty before the other man’s. The blond looked at him. He smiled and his incisors grew half an inch to the size of fangs.
“FUCKING RADUSONS!” Jake screamed again. It would be his last words on Earth.
