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

by Michaela Haze

  “Bitch.” Beatrix’s voice was always without inflection.

  I inhaled and waited for a second for her to apologise, she didn’t. “Is that my new nickname?” I bit back harshly.

  “Yes.” The answer was short and sweet.

  “What do you want?” I sighed.

  She laughed and I heard Akim mutter something in the background. There was a rustling and it sounded like Trix left the room.

  “Well ducky, I don’t want to be in the house when I’m all dosed up, do you want to go to a bar and pick a fight?” She asked, all excited like a small child on Christmas morning.

  “Um…” I stood still for a second. “What?”

  “Fight? Bar?” Trix repeated.

  “No,” I hissed back. “I’m not going to a bar to fight.”

  She sighed heavily. “What about dancing?” She offered.

  I thought about it for a second, looking down at the cheque in my hand.

  “Dancing sounds like an interesting…thing,” I said limply.

  “Wear something nice,” She said and hung up. It started to drizzle and I shivered, pulling the collar up on my parka.

  Trix was an ex-junkie but that part didn’t bother me at all—I was no one to judge. Trix was always honest with me if she didn’t like the fact I was doing something she would tell me rather than skirting around the issue. It was comforting.

  She knew she was an addict, and she knew she wasn’t strong enough to give up her addiction. Trix was at peace with that.

  Me, I was weak, too proud to admit I had an addiction—well, to admit that I needed help anyway. All I wanted was to remember. It physically sickened me. I was so tired. Every time I tried to remember what or who I used to be, I couldn’t. It was nothing but a void.

  I thought about who I used to be before, but I had nothing. What did I use to eat? What did I use to say? Did I smile a lot? Why are my smiles fake now? Why do they take so much effort?

  Some days, the only way I could get up in the morning was if I was dosed. It used to be drink, but that was so heavy that it pressed down like a weight—too obvious.

  If Mel hadn’t died from heroin, I’d probably be sitting on a mattress in the middle of the floor, burning heroin on a spoon before shooting up.

  Would that be better than what I was doing now? I didn’t have the answer.

  High on daemon blood—shiny hair, shiny eyes, cold skin, strength…speed… healing…it was easy to say to myself ‘I can quit.’ It’s only when I was sober clean that it became an impossibility. The most painful and desperate thing in the world was that I couldn’t be myself anymore without it. There was no Sophia without my addictions.

  Beatrix and I stepped out of the pebbled glass door next to the corner shop, our heels clacked against the pavements and the streetlights bathed us in an orangey glow. I could see everything in the dark, thanks to daemons blood.

  “Do you think it’s possible to replace all of your own blood with daemon blood?” I asked

  “No you idiot.” The Witchling sighed. “Daemons are Dark Magic. That’s why they draw a line around the body when they change someone. It stops the soul from getting back into the body.”

  “Daemon blood can do that?”

  “Why do you think their Sigils are all winged creatures? The Blaire Butterfly. The Cross Dragonfly. The Kain Swallows. Souls take on the form of a winged creature to travel to wherever they go.” Trix explained as a car drove past. A lad leant out of the window and shouted for us to show him our tits. I rolled my eyes.

  Trix was dressed in a casual white shirt with a belt around the middle, so incredibly short that you could almost see her womb. I had dressed a deep green dress that went down to my knees. No jackets for either of us—we didn’t feel the cold.

  We walked to Blues Kitchen in Camden, deciding on a human locale for the evening. Trix strolled in like she owned the place not feeling nervous in the slightest. I watched her as she talked, chattered and schmoozed her way into people’s good graces and I followed her with a small smile as I pretended to sip my drink.

  The bar was more hipster than I would usually frequent. Exposed brick and Edison lightbulbs, but it was busy and busy was good. We stood at the bar for over an hour before I noticed that an incredibly good looking business man eying up Trix. She crossed her legs and licked her lips. Always direct, that one.

  I ordered a tonic water but when I looked around to order for Trix, the Witchling was gone.

  I heard her laughter from far away but that was only with super hearing and focus. I didn’t know if I would be able to pin down the sound and find her. Why would I want to? Trix obviously came here to get lucky when she dosed. She should have told me; I could have left sooner.

  I walked to the bar and leant on the reclaimed wood, waiting for my drink.

  The young bartender presented my tonic with a flourish. To the untrained eye, it would look like I was sipping a G&T. I watched people, my elbows propped on the cool brass bar. People came and went, many rich, others obviously on nights out—birthdays and other occasions. I watched their tiny slice of life like some stupid voyeur, always an observer of life.

  I wished I was normal.

  “That’s an awfully big sigh for someone so short,” A male voice cooed in my ear.

  I jumped, I hadn’t heard him approach.

  “Five foot nine isn’t short,” I smirked and turned around slowly, ready to encounter the owner of the beautiful voice.

  It hit me like a dense fog, clouding my senses. The voice was too perfect to be human. His cold fragrance was too powerful to be anything but a monster. Cloying, like thousands of pungent roses, rotting in a field. Turning black, succumbing to decay. I gagged as my hand flew to my mouth. I didn’t want to turn around.

  “Tense,” He commented.

  He didn’t look like a daemon—his skin was golden with a tan and he had bleach blonde highlights pulled to one side. His eyes were normal, deep brown and glittering with mirth.

  “Hello,” I responded awkwardly. I held my breath and allowed myself one sharp drag of oxygen as I turned away.

  He smiled toothily at me. “You smell delectable,” He noted. “Broken. Empty. A husk.”

  “Thank you.”

  He chuckled, “My name is Damian. Yours?”

  I tensed and every muscle in my body begged me to run. I had met this monster before, at the Tyburn fold. When I dreamt, which was rarely, he was the thing that haunted my nightmares. A Pureblood. A monster directly from hell itself.

  I spared a glance at his face, his brow furrowed as he waited for me to answer.

  “Melanie.” I croaked.

  “You’re lying,” He said gently, his eyes bored into me.

  He seemed so naïve and innocent. The smell burning my nostrils like menthol said otherwise.

  “Right, yes, I was,” I admitted.

  He cocked his head to one side like an animal and watched me like I was prey.

  “You’re a Pureblood?” I whispered, keeping my eyes on the crowd.

  “I said my name was Damian.”

  “You smell like a Pureblood.” I stuttered.

  “You can smell me?” He breathed incredulously. “Not only do you smell delicious but you are simply fascinating.”

  He took a quick breath. “You need to smoke. Let us go outside,” He commanded.

  I stayed where I was. “No, thank you,” I said slowly.

  He gripped my wrist; his hand was hard like marble, chilled as steel left out in the dead of winter. I tried not to jump but I couldn’t stifle the harsh gasp that escaped me.

  “Excuse me, Miss? Are you alright? Is this man bothering you?” The bartender asked from behind me, his voice sounded alarmed.

  I turned around slowly but Damian smiled at the bartender calmly. The young man blinked a few times and froze like a deer in headlights.

  “We. Are. Fine,” Damian enunciated.

  There was a beat of silence.

  “You are fine,” The barma
n repeated blankly and turned away.

  I caught the brief glimpse of pale ice blue as the light refracted Damian’s eyes, only this time his eye had no pupil.

  “I told you to hide…” Henry said in my ear. It was so close; it was like he was right next to me. I could almost feel his breath as it brushed my hair. In shock at what was in front of me, I didn’t turn to see if Henry really was there as I gaped at the strange man.

  My heart fluttered and ground against my ribs in fear and I swallowed largely but my throat was too dry. Damian blinked and his eyes were brown again.

  The man said crooking an eyebrow, “I know who you are Ms. Taylor. I wish to have a word.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not going to let me say no,” I guessed. “Promise not to kill me and I’ll let you talk my ear off.”

  He shook his head and smiled wickedly. I felt my stomach clench in fear as I pushed off the bar and ran my hands down the front of my dress, straightening out the wrinkles. I followed him, but it was more along the lines of being pulled into the bowels of hell. His hand gripped mine.

  The night air hit us, a tangible difference from the warmth of the Blues Kitchen.

  “So…?” I started to say, but as I looked to my side the tall man was gone. In his place was a small girl with long dirty mouse brown hair the same shade as mine. She must have been about eight years old. It was oddly creepy, seeing a child version of yourself stood by my side outside of a bar.

  “I told you, my name is Damian,” The little girl said in a sweet voice. Her eyes were too self-aware to belong to a small child.

  “Yes. You said that,” I took a deep breath. “Daemon.”

  The girl let out a peal of laughter. “No—daemon means that you were once human.”

  As the sentence left the little girl’s tiny mouth I knew I was in hell. I was standing in front of a monster, not even a monster that was once human but the very definition of the word.

  “Why are you here?” I whispered.

  The little girl reached over and I flinched, but her little hands kept coming. She reached into my handbag and pulled out a cigarette and offered me one.

  The sight was disturbing if not amusing in a satirical way. I didn’t take the cigarette. I just looked at her as she put the packet back in my bag.

  “Came for a word with the Elite families,” She told me, “Heading back to the lair any day now.” She laughed at her own private joke.

  “Not here to kill me?” I asked.

  The little girl looked around as if she was checking for witnesses. She shifted, her form blurring like white static on a television and the man stood in front of me again. This time, his skin was alabaster pale, his tan long gone He reached into his pocket and held out a tiny vial on a sterling silver chain. He pushed his long sleeve up and winked at me.

  “I have heard about you, young Sophia.”

  I stood frozen as he bit himself and poured a tiny amount of blood into the vial.

  “What are you doing?” I asked in a high-pitched voice.

  The man chuckled as he poured the last drop of blood into the vial with grace and corked it with the tiny stopper.

  “I know what you are,” He smiled. “You people have been around for years—you’re worse than us, it’s really quite amusing—I’ve been looking for one such as you.”

  “A bleeder? We’re dine a dozen. Why give me something worth more than gold to a person like me?”

  “It’s not a good path. Do some heroin—or man-made drugs. The supernatural is not for you. Not yet.” He chuckled. “The Elites will kill you, not that I care.” It sounded like he was speaking the God’s honest truth. “This is for you, a gift.” He twirled his finger, I turned around and lifted the back of my hair to allow him to put the necklace around my throat. His fingers trailed down my ears and I felt like I had withered and died.

  I turned around quickly and the vial bounced in between my breasts as the necklace hung down.

  “We have great plans for you, dearest Sophia.”

  I blinked in disbelief, my throat had suddenly become unbearably dry. I stared into the Pureblood’s eyes, staring at the bright ice blue without a pupil and shivered.

  “Do you want something in return for the blood?” I asked, but all I heard was a ghostly chuckle on the wind as I was left alone in the empty streets.

  17.

  I stood for a few seconds in complete confusion, trying to jump-start the internal cogs of my mind. I had a vial of blood around my neck when it pressed against my skin the cool liquid burnt. Turning around my legs swung with each step as I walked home. Checking behind me to make sure that no other daemons were going to pop out.

  Standing outside of my home, looking through the pebbled glass, I pushed against the door and heard shuffling upstairs. Akim was home. I could hear his heavier footfalls against the carpet. Trix wouldn’t have come home and I didn’t wait on her just yet. There was no need for it if a person wanted to be in our company they would find us. Not the other way around.

  “Akim,” I said out loud. I didn’t need to raise my voice. He could hear me just fine if I whispered.

  I heard something being knocked to the floor, the sound came from my bedroom. I grasped at my necklace for strength until the jagged silver dug into my hands and threatened to make me bleed.

  “Taylor?” He shouted back unnecessarily. “You’re home? It’s only… midnight.”

  When I got to the top of the stairs I turned left into my bedroom, the door was ajar. I stood in the doorway and saw that Akim was on my bed. My anger flared to life instantly, he felt he had the right to be in my personal space. I bit my tongue and my mouth tasted like hot metal.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked as if I cared.

  The small Asian man shuffled uncomfortably, my gaze shifted downwards to the sketchpad open on his lap, it’s thick black covering open in his hands. I darted forward and snatched it from him but he didn’t fight me for it. I pulled my lips over my teeth as I held the large book to my chest.

  “Get out,” I snarled. “You have no right to touch my things. Get out.”

  “Sophia…” He said in a low voice, trying to placate me, he raised his hands in surrender.

  “You have no right,” I spat.

  It was hard to keep myself from shaking. I crossed my hands over my chest to hold the book tighter.

  “I’m sorry…” He said. “I didn’t mean to. I came in and couldn’t help it.”

  “Well—you can help it now, get out,” I tried to say calmly.

  He pointed to the book. “We need to talk about that if you’re going to live here.”

  “Talk about what?” I laughed hysterically. “There is nothing in this book but sketches…”

  “It’s the sketches I want to talk about,” He confirmed.

  “It’s nothing—you know, Henry, that guy, that guy that left me,” I muttered to myself, looking down to my chest. “It helps, sketching, writing, getting it out, it helps me,” I pleaded.

  “That’s not what is in that sketchbook,” Akim said grimly.

  I extended my hands and held the book up to my eye level. Oh, shit, it wasn’t what was in this book—this book had more.

  “It’s nothing,” I said casually, trying to smile, it became a grimace. “It’s just doodles, you know, musings and ramblings.”

  Akim swallowed, the room was so quiet for a second that all I could hear was the hesitant sounds of oxygen being taken from the room.

  “You have some drawings…in there…that I need to talk to you about.”

  I bit my lip angrily and blinked, trying to dispel the angry tears.

  “I don’t have to talk about anything to you,” I said. “They are my sketches.”

  “But…” He whispered. “You draw yourself murdering both of us. You write about killing your mother…about…becoming a tiny dot, about how you don’t exist.”

  I cleared my throat and clutched my book closer. “I don’t exist,” I said in a low voice. �
��And, believe me, if I wanted you both dead I would have killed you long ago.”

  “How can talk like that? We’re your friends,” Akim replied desperately.

  “Yes,” I said, but it came out sounding insincere and sarcastic. “Don’t worry—you could probably fight me.”

  “I don’t want to fight you, I think you should get help,” Akim argued.

  “Who?” I snorted. “I don’t think there are any shrinks out there that will tell me that it’s not my own fault that I’m like this. I went to one once. I don’t like having to describe the thoughts I have. Mainly because I don’t see that there is anything wrong with them—even though this is the simplest of assumptions to me, other people think they are weird. I can’t handle that,” I clapped my hand over my mouth when I admitted that I was almost talking to myself.

  I realised I was twiddling the small vial around my neck in between my index finger and littlest finger—but it was too late.

  Akim narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air, just once. The scent was muted but it was still present. “What do you have around your neck?” He wondered.

  I could just about hear the excess saliva pooling in his mouth.

  “Necklace,” I said casually and stepped out of the doorway, implying he should leave. He looked at me for a second, trying to measure me up.

  “It’s just my fucking necklace Akim. Get out of my room—I’ll get help, I’ll fucking stop drawing things, just get out,” I hissed through my teeth.

  He didn’t look as if he believed me.

  His eyes hovered possessively over my necklace. I darted away from him; my feet barely made a sound on the dirty carpet as I ran around his left-hand side. I moved so fast that the pages on my wall ruffled from the disturbance. I ran into my ensuite and slammed my bathroom door shut. I pressed my back against it for good measure.

  It budged once as I felt Akim slam into it, the hinges creaked but that was it.

  “If you’re not going to leave, then I’m going to stay in here,” I called through the door and I cupped my hands around my coveted pureblood.

  “Let me in. We need to talk about this!” He shouted.