Daemons of London Boxset (Books 1-3) The Bleeders, The Human Herders, The Purebloods

by Michaela Haze

  He was too far away from me now. Why would he leave me?

  I turned around, excusing myself to go to the toilet. I considered opening the window and escaping but I knew it would make no sense. I shut the door behind me and reached for the note in my pocket. Turning over the crumpled piece of paper, I read the elegant script on the back.

  Fia, I did it for you. H.

  It was a cheque for ten thousand pounds. He’d left me. He didn’t love me.

  I grabbed at the sweatshirt ripping it off my body, screaming as tears streamed down my face. His scent wasn’t on the fabric anymore.

  I was alone in hell.

  Part 2

  You cannot carve rotten wood

  - Spanish Proverb

  14.

  *

  PRESENT DAY

  You shouldn’t have told him about me, you shouldn’t have told him about my problem Sophia.

  “Oh Henry, you really say the funniest things,” I laughed before turning back to my doctor Henry and smiling. “I must apologise,” I pouted, “it seems that unimportant people think they have the right to say whatever they want.”

  I’m real, you claim that I never existed, Sophia, but I did, and you know that I did.

  Even if my Henry, the one on my shoulder, the epitome of perfection wasn’t real—I hated him. The doctor Henry pushed his glasses up his nose, fidgeting. He pulled his face into a careful smile, polite. He tapped his fingers like he wished he was smoking.

  “You don’t need to apologise,” he cooed. “Can you tell me how you felt when Henry left?”

  I tilted my head back and looked at the ceiling. My feet dangled over the bed. How did I feel…?

  It’s cold here… “You can’t just stop loving someone,” I stated. “You can’t. If you fall in love with someone you can’t just decide in a split second that you don’t love them anymore,” my voice sounded so innocent. “If I were Henry’s addiction then that bond would have been better than the nothingness I was left with.”

  “Can you tell me how you came upon your episode…? The one that resulted in your stay here?”

  I laughed again. Henry looked at me through the thick-rimmed glasses, but I knew he didn’t need them. I wondered if it was plain glass instead of prescription lenses. His long eyelashes almost scraped the lens. He was so beautiful because he hadn’t changed, not in the three years since I saw him.

  “Are you telling me you believe that Henry was a daemon?” I chuckled.

  The doctors shifted in his seat. The daemon behind me snarled.

  Melanie, who was in the corner, seemed to be crawling up the walls, crying. I ignored her—Melanie lied. I couldn’t trust the things she said to me.

  “You can’t just wake up and stop loving somebody!” I screamed, my hands flew to my hair and fisted the locks between my fingers. I felt like I was being ripped to pieces.

  Weak and trapped in my own hell.

  Calm. Calm. Calm.

  I tried to repeat the words inside my head but they were disturbed by Melanie’s shrill screeching. When she opened her mouth again, she didn’t speak or she didn’t curse me for everything like she normally did. Instead, she vomited, repeatedly. It spilled over her chin as she walked towards me. Henry’s ‘invisible’ hand on my shoulder tightened, holding me in place so I couldn’t escape.

  “Can you tell me what led to your episode?” Dr. Kanning, real-life, living breathing…

  He looked so much like Henry.

  Henry wasn’t breathing…he was cold…his eyes were pale blue and his hair was mahogany—those eyelashes, those fucking innocent eyelashes that screamed purity and chaste kisses.

  Nothing but lies.

  Dr. Kanning was Henry, I was sure of it. But I wasn’t sure—how could I be sure when my brain couldn’t even think in a straight line.

  My mind was meant to be an infallible, reliable thing. I relied on my memories to back up evidence of my life, but now, I couldn’t be counted on for everything.

  I was a crazy person.

  “From your story, it seemed like you were in love with this Henry character—I would hardly call it an addiction, based on what you described earlier…” the doctor said, he began leafing through his notes in front of him. “Did you see Henry Blaire after he left you?”

  I bit my lip and a sob escaped my throat. I thrust my chin onto my chest so the fake Henry wouldn’t see me crying.

  I was weak…so very weak.

  “It wasn’t the last time I saw Henry Blaire,” I said, straightening my back and answering with a detached aloofness. “Nor was it the last time I spoke to him, or listened to his voice.” I looked directly at the doctor, “I see him every fucking day. I hear him every fucking day…”

  The doctor swallowed the lump in his throat and invited me to continue.

  “The next part of the story…is a bit worse…” I admitted happily. “It was the story of how I became addicted to Henry Blaire when he wasn’t there.”

  Doctor Henry’s brow furrowed but he said nothing.

  “You see, Henry made a mistake when he let me drink his blood…I have an addictive personality—I admit that, if anything enters my system then I’m pretty sure I will become dependent on it.”

  “You became addicted to drinking blood? Like a vampire or a daemon?” Dr. Henry asked.

  “In a way, yes,” I deliberated. “You see…the story continued when I went to France to visit my mother.” The doctor crooked his eyebrow and smiled.

  “I know!” I beamed, slapping my hands against my thighs. “Me? Visiting my mother? What were the odds?”

  “You said your relationship with your mother was not the best, has it improved?” the doctor asked.

  I shook my head sadly. “Alas, Dr. Henry, it has not.” I sighed, knitting my fingers together and lying back on my bed.

  “I can leave the session here for today, Fia. If that’s what you want, and you’re tired,” the doctor offered kindly. I shook my head as it hit my pillow, messing with my long dirty hair.

  “I want to talk Henry—now that I have started talking about you, I won’t be able to sleep unless I finish.”

  The doctor moved another sheet of paper as he read my file. I saw the daemon Henry, who stood behind me, had moved next to the doctor. The apparition leaned over the doctor’s shoulder, reading my file as well. I felt ugly and ashamed, laid bare for my angel to see.

  “Stop reading,” I pleaded. The doctor looked up at me curiously.

  “Not you, Doctor Henry,” I explained. “But, Henry…the other you…he’s looking over your shoulder.”

  The doctor nodded in realisation and shut the file.

  “It says on your file that you have suffered from insomnia for a while. Has that been since your sister’s death?” Dr. Kanning asked.

  I smiled weakly. “Yes and no…again,” I sighed. “The worst came after Henry left—I used to be able to sleep, I used to dream of blackened skin every night.”

  “Your sister’s overdose?”

  “But then…you left and I couldn’t sleep for days…could not eat. But there were different reasons this time. Before it was fear that I might vomit, or for fear of death but after Henry had left it was different…everything was different.”

  “Can you explain?”

  I laughed bitterly. “I physically couldn’t do those things anymore…did you know the drinking daemon’s blood is dangerous?” I crooked an eyebrow as I asked the question. “No, I guess you wouldn’t know that…”

  “You craved his blood inside you,” the doctor quoted back to me. I nodded slowly.

  “You’re either a biter or a bleeder, Dr. Kanning…Henry…” I said confidently. “A biter, a bleeder, or cattle…I chose to be a bleeder.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  I put my hands over my eyes and kept my breathing level as invisible Henry stroked my hair. Henry’s hands made me shiver. The doctor probably thought it was fear.

  “I’m not proud of the thing
s I have done,” I said harshly, “and before Henry left; the things that I did make me seem like a fucking saint.”

  “Doctor-patient confidentiality, Ms. Taylor. I can’t say anything outside of this room, to anyone other than your other doctors.”

  “Don’t call me Taylor—I want to be called Fia,” I hissed.

  The doctor nodded, tapping his pen on the page. “Of course Fia,” he conceded.

  “The kind of things I have done—they are not things that police would arrest me for. I’m not the hero, I’m not even the villain—I am the scum that Henry…that you…used to kill.” A sob racked through my body. “It is not illegal, nor is it frowned upon for a daemon to kill a human in thirst. I have learned that. But cattle cannot kill the butcher. That is the law.”

  “So, a human can’t kill a daemon?” the doctor played along.

  “No, they could, if it were possible for them to…but…we played with God…we played with fire—we called them parasites…”

  “Who are we, Fia?”

  “The bleeders,” I stated, as plain as day. “If you are not cattle, you’re a bleeder,” I said softly. “We never realised that when we called them those horrid names that it was to disguise the fact that we were worse than them.”

  I exhaled a large breath and bit back tears, “how can a human be worse than a monster…a daemon that kills and feeds. I’ll tell you Henry, rock bottom, isn’t as low as you can go…”

  ONE YEAR AFTER HENRY LEFT

  *

  ONE YEAR BEFORE THE INSTITUTION

  Beatrix was a witchling. Marked with black tattoos that were infused with daemon blood and ink, she had very different reasons for becoming a bleeder than I did.

  Not many people knew about the Denmark Place fire back in the eighties. A bar patron had gotten pissed off at the bartender for some reason or another and decided that the only way to gain retribution was to set fire to the place.

  Not many people knew of stops on the London Death Tour. As a bleeder, it had become a necessity. Folds between the human world as we knew it and where ever or whatever the daemon realm was were caused by large-scale death, destruction, and human fear.

  Denmark place was one of the newer Folds, forged in the eighties when El Dandy and it’s ridiculous amount of plywood blocking the fire escape, went up in flames and took thirty-seven souls.

  Trix, as she liked to be called because of her penchant for deceiving, needed daemon blood for her tattoo business. Which she ran out of my living room, with a cheap set that she bought on eBay. An industry professional would call her a Scratcher but she wasn’t in the business of inking dolphins and hello kitty.

  Her lavender hair, pastel, and hell to maintain, blew behind her in the wind. Camden Town was virtually deserted that morning. The market was just setting up and I rubbed my daemon mark subconsciously as we walked towards the Denmark Place Fold.

  I always wondered what it would look like to an outsider when someone disappeared into a fold between dimensions. Would they stop and stare at the space where a person had been walking a second before? Or would they practice the time-honoured London habit of ignoring the strange?

  The street was typical of central. Double yellows lined the road, black cabs formed queues and bikes were tethered to lamp posts while commuters got a Starbucks. It was early morning, but time meant little to Trix and me, our employment was someone unconventional.

  “Do you think your daemon might show up at this place?” Trix asked as curiosity trickled through her normal monotone inflection.

  “He’s not been at any of the other Folds, so I don’t see why he would be?”

  “It’s been a year, Sweetie, you need to get laid.” Even though her face was serious I saw a twinkle in her eyes.

  We reached the Fold and held hands. The sense of shifting from one place to another was like being thrust forward in a car only to have the seatbelt hold you back. This Fold was different. The daemon in charge, Andre, paid homage to the death victims of the fire, A large amount of South American immigrants at an unlicensed salsa club. The plucky strings of a guitar drifted through the air, I couldn’t see outside of the Fold and it was not a good idea to try as who knew what was beyond the door.

  As a marked human and a witchling anytime in the Fold was short and sweet. I had met one Pureblood and I did not want to repeat the experience.

  I wiped my clammy hands on my jeans and ignored the pit in my stomach. Coming to a Fold, I felt the tell-tale cool air of daemons and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I always expected to run into Henry Blaire but I never did.

  Even seeing William Kain, misogynist at large, would have been better than nothing.

  I settled myself into a booth and Trix swept to the bar to get a Corona. Coke for me.

  I had barely sat on the squeaky red leather a few seconds when a woman with long blonde hair and a bedroom smile ran her hand along my shoulder demanding my attention.

  I felt a familiar pull of energy like a rope from my toes to my throat and I brought my eyes to meet hers. Like the second layer of a crocodile’s eyes, her ice blue daemon eyes flared into existence as she tasted my life-force.

  “Where’s your daemon?” She whispered, her voice husky as her finger trailed from my shoulder down my arm to rest on the Blaire Sigil on the crook of my wrist.

  “Gone.” I cleared my throat.

  “Will you give me a kiss?”

  “If you give me what I want?” I replied. She cocked her head like a predictor and irritation set her mouth in a hairline. Never the less, she sat down in the middle of the booth. Her hand hovered lazily over my thigh and I could not deny that she was attractive.

  Trix came over at that moment and put her beer bottle on the table with a clunk. She forced her icy expression into a pleasant one and sat down next to the daemon, essentially blocking her in with our bodies.

  “What do you want?” She leaned over, her icy breath caressed my ear.

  “Blood. Two bags.”

  “One bag.” She bartered.

  “One bag.” Trix interrupted. “But you let her drink from you.” She pointed in my direction with her bottle.

  The daemon considered for a moment and nodded.

  I did not need further encouragement. The blonde wove her hand into my hair and used her nails break the skin of her palm. I saw the blood well up in the tiny crescent shapes and I took her hand and licked it clean before she could stop me I grabbed her palm and began to suck the cool delicious blood.

  The daemon groaned in pleasure and put her hands on my waist.

  I had sold myself for a fix and I didn’t care.

  15.

  A two bedroom flat in Camden was bloody expensive. Although I had my own bedroom, Trix slept on the sofa bed, so I couldn’t complain.

  The Witchling turned to me and flicked her long straight hair over her shoulder. My lips pulled into a thin line and I didn’t know what to say; how to explain what I was feeling at that moment. Luckily, I didn’t need to say anything. Trix leaned over and rubbed my shoulder once before taking off up the stairwell to the flat. We lived above a corner shop, in a different world from the walnut tables of Bar Noir, in Soho.

  How was it possible for a human being to feel nothing?

  I knew I should have felt something but there was a cluster-fuck of ‘I know I should feel something but I can’t’. Day in and day out I would push myself to try and feel things, but I was living every day behind a mask of someone that cared.

  I didn’t care. I didn’t care what I looked like. I held the honorary title of Bleeder. We were all living breathing meat-bags that would die one day, a tiny speck on the colossal canvas of the universe.

  There was only one thing that could make me feel. That was daemon blood. I would go from a tiny and meek little girl, with her stupid violet eyes to a better and brighter person.

  Trix used to tell me that my eyes had hardened, that they were so cynical it made people feel like I could see right through them, that p
eople feared me.

  When I drank daemon blood, I was strong, I felt powerful and in control—I could drink a little bit, enough to stop the shakes, or I could sit around and inject small amounts for hours until the whites of my eyes glowed and I looked like a fucking goddess.

  I had never understood why daemons were so beautiful—but their blood made us the same. When I drank the blood, I could be transported back to the person I used to be, back when I was a happy normal functioning human being. Alcohol had nothing on daemon blood, we bleeders nicknamed it D+.

  It was like becoming one with the universe, becoming a god.

  I hovered outside of the front door, alone, his name was on my mind. I could almost feel his hands ghosting over my body but they were never truly there.

  I felt like I wanted to vomit. To have my intestines in front of me carefully arranged—artfully into the words “You have taken everything, Henry.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation. The shaking was back, that nervous tremor I couldn’t get rid of unless I drank the blood. That paltry amount the daemon at Denmark Place had given me just wasn’t enough.

  I could smell everything—I could smell the fumes of the cars outside and the grease from the Chinese takeaway at the end of the road. That was what was amazing about my addiction—it didn’t just make you feel like God, it backed up the assumption.

  I never realised why Henry liked the way I smelt, but I knew I smelt like spring. Daisies and freshly cut grass.

  I pressed the buzzer until I heard Akim’s accented voice through the receiver.

  “Pizza?” he joked.

  “No, your mother, Mr. Postoyko,” I deadpanned back with no emotion in my voice. The noise that came shortly afterward signalled that I should go up. I pushed the door open, pebbled glass and weak white plastic, and made my way up the carpeted stairs that looked like Paisley had vomited on the fibres.