The Accords Triptych (Book 2): Bloodstream

by Ian Thomas

  BLOODSTREAM

  By Ian Thomas

  Book 2 of The Accords Triptych

  Text copyright © 2017 Ian Thomas

  All Rights Reserved

  www.ianthomasbooks.com

  Also by Ian Thomas

  THE CUPS TRIPTYCH

  Building a Mystery

  How to be Dead

  The Space Between

  RED RAIN

  THE ACCORDS TRIPTYCH

  Wolves Without Teeth

  Bloodstream

  Heartlines

  To Rebecca and Mark

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks again to Ben and Lucas – the fact that you always answer my questions regardless of the time difference is much appreciated.

  Thanks to my amazing SKC 2016 people – Mike, David, Leigh, John, Jo, Tony, and Susan – without your constant banter, I feel the dialogue in here wouldn’t be as crisp.

  Thanks to Liz and Jera for an amazing mid-winter break where a lot of the spirit of this book came from.

  Chapters

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  I

  When he moaned again about the cold night air she almost killed him. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Well not just yet. A little longer since she hardly ever got to be with guys these days. Apart from Henry of course. Though…since New York, he’d been…different. Distant.

  “Coulda sworn that door was locked,” he said, scowling at the strike plate as he passed it.

  “Big strong guy like you must’ve busted it,” she purred. The night opened around them, the shimmering city lights like a sea of fallen stars. Soon enough he’d forgotten the lock.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “I know, right,” she replied. Pressing against him, his warmth felt so good. She missed guys. Not men but guys. That early to mid-twenties swagger. The confidence the hot ones had that they could have any woman in the room. Their firm, chiseled bodies. God bless cross-fit, she thought.

  Leaving a bar with them now was different. No longer did nights drag, watching her friends leaving with cute guys, the quality slowly decreasing as the bars emptied. Now she left first. Take that Bianca, she thought. And she’d only once had to coerce a guy to leave with her. But, in her defense, he was an eleven. Well, until he opened his mouth. Then he was closer to a three. At a stretch.

  Of course it wasn’t just the hook up that had changed. Sex was great, her senses alive, satisfaction guaranteed. Especially since she’d feed on them afterwards. Mouth shut, Eleven tasted as good as he looked. Like fucking a billboard only to find it was made of red velvet. Bliss. And not just his blood. No longer did she not do ‘that’. Hell, that was quite an appetizer. An amuse bouche her mother would have called it. And boy did it amuse her bouche.

  Once she was satisfied on both levels, she’d heal his wounds with a drop of her blood, convince him she was the best he’d ever have, and then leave. Way better than feeling used when he got her name wrong, lied about calling her the next day, and left. No longer did she crawl into a tub of chunky monkey and binge on Gossip Girl.

  No, not any more. Here she was being a Gossip Girl. Living a gilded life on the Upper East Side, all the designer clothes she could want, overlooking the park, and fucking and feeding on the corporate pretty boys and jocks of Wall Street.

  “Life doesn’t get much better than this,” he said, captivated by the view.

  “Death too,” she said, turning on him. He freaked when he saw her vampire face, recoiling from her. “Hey, I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. Don’t you dare forget that!”

  “You’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” he repeated, his voice soft with longing.

  “That’s better. Now give me a taste.” She pulled him to her, fangs plunging into his neck. Swooning at the first spray of blood against the roof of her mouth, she closed her eyes. This was the best kiss she’d ever known. His struggle eased quicker than most. He wanted this. She felt his crotch swell against her. That’s new, she thought, pulling back.

  “Don’t stop,” he said.

  “I’ll kill you.”

  “You’ll stop, I trust you.”

  She looked at him carefully then sighed. “Why couldn’t you be an eleven? A ten even. So unfair. No, you’re nine at best. A high eight and you like this? You want me to feed from you?”

  “Please,” he almost begged. “Turn me?”

  This time Holly recoiled. Not that she knew how. Henry hadn’t shown her that much but this guy? The eleven maybe but not this guy.

  “Uh,” she started, good blood was going to waste at the wound. “Sure,” she lied. The next gush made her head swim. Drawing faster than his heart could pump, she felt the organ stutter in his chest, the tank almost dry. He panicked against her, pain overriding the ecstasy of her kiss. Holding him tight, she took him to the last drop. When his heart stopped he was limp in her arms. The loss of blood had contracted his features, starving the muscles of blood and advancing rigor mortis. A six, she thought, and again that was generous.

  “Hope he was worth it,” a woman said nearby.

  Holly turned, the man’s body falling to the ground. Behind her stood a slender attractive woman coolly watching the kill, unmoved by the scene. “Worth what?!” Holly challenged. The thought of killing the woman passed when Holly realized she was also a vampire.

  “Breaking some bullshit rules that starve us.”

  “Let’s say I skipped orientation and went start to the buffet.”

  “Oh, you are new,” the woman said, her hazel eyes glittering gold in the night. “Six months?”

  “Seven, but who’s counting.”

  “Oh we all count here,” the woman said. “Age is status with vampires. Something you need to learn.”

  “Well, what’re you, like a bajillion years old then?”

  “It’s impolite to ask a woman her age.”

  “Oh, so not that old then,” Holly threw back. “Just older than me, right?”

  “You learn quickly.” Holly couldn’t tell if it was an insult or not. Which meant it probably was.

  “So these rules…is it a low-carb thing? Gluten-free? Atkins? Organic? What? We get cheat meals right?”

  “Not quite.”

  “And whose stupid idea were they in the first place? We’re vampires, we feed! D’uh!”

  “No, you’re insufferable. Let me guess, an also ran who craved the spotlight. Just that you were a little too plain, a little too chunky, or a little too eager to make the inner circle.”

  “Whatever grandma.”

  “I just can’t fathom how you went from being prey to predator.”

  “I can’t fathom how you thought those boots went with that jacket. Little bourgie.”

  Ignoring the slight, the female vampire squared on Holly. “So who was your maker?”

  “My what now?”

  “Your maker? Who turned you? Embraced you? Bit you? Sired you even?”

>   Holly shrugged. “I don’t know. Some dude. Did what Henry wanted then Henry dusted him. Met him for all of five minutes. He bit me, I fed, I died, so did he, that’s pretty much it. Wait, should this have been a big deal for me? Like with a gift bag and shit?”

  “And who is Henry?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “So not a vampire then?”

  “You know you’re kinda fucken annoying. And by kinda, I mean a lot.”

  “Well, you could run away but then you have to know I’d only follow.”

  “Fine, then,” Holly sighed and focused her energy on the other woman. “Leave me the fuck alone. And maybe have sex with a dog. Yeah, have sex with a dog.”

  Carys laughed. “Oh dear, you can’t coerce me. Vampires can’t coerce each other. Surely Henry taught you that?”

  “But he told that guy to bite me and he did,” Holly whined.

  “Then Henry isn’t a vampire.”

  “Oh no, he’s not a vampire.”

  “Then what is he?”

  Holly smirked, the secret all hers. “He’s powerful.” She lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers. “Gave me these!”

  “Are they silver?”

  “I know, right. I’m usually much more of a gold girl, but then Taylor Swift rocked that silver dress at the Grammy’s a while back and I can totally pull it off.”

  “Why would you need those?”

  “Ugh, those werewolf things. Total douchebags. All of them. It’s like One Direction on steroids,” Holly shuddered, then brightened. “Oh my god, that’s so funny because I just coerced this guy that he wasn’t a werewolf but actually taking steroids. Lol.”

  “Did you just say Lo– never mind! Silver nails. Coercing werewolves. This just got a lot more interesting.”

  “Hey, so these rules. Am I gonna be, like, in trouble or something?”

  “Depends how we dispose of that one over there,” Carys replied. “But you have been sloppy, young lady. Made quite a mess at the coffee shop. And with the coffee cart girl.” A thought occurred to her. “You do seem to have a pattern. Did this poor guy not pumpkin spice your latte or something? Are you secretly a tea drinker?”

  “Oh goody sarcasm, old people humor.”

  “I think you’ll find that’s smart people humor, honey.”

  “Whatever, you’re a bitch and those were exactly how Henry wanted them. Bloody, messy–”

  “And werewolf adjacent,” Carys finished, regarding the young woman closely. “These rules – more accurately accords – are supposed to bring together vampires, werewolves, and witches in an understanding of peace. Mainly comes down to vampires not feeding and no new werewolves. There’re other things but those are the headlines.”

  “No feeding! What’re they Amish?”

  “Well, no feeding to the point of death. Come on, I’ll help you dispose of the body.”

  “You? You’re gonna help me?”

  “You’re an orphan vampire. That’s a pitiable thing. And could be very dangerous for you.”

  “Oh no, I have Henry to protect me.”

  Carys looked around vacantly. “And yet he’s not here.”

  “Pretty sure I can handle myself against you,” Holly lied.

  “What is it with your generation’s obsession of pitting women against each other?” Cary asked, then spoke slowly. “I’m offering to help you. You can continue to be an ungrateful mean girl or shut up and see there’s an offer on the table.”

  Unsure how to proceed, Holly stalled, the big thoughts swirling in her head. She didn’t like having to make decisions. It meant she was responsible when things went wrong. Then she couldn’t blame someone else. Of course if they went right then yay her, she thought.

  “Sure, fine whatever but I get his wallet.”

  When the other woman didn’t put up a fight, Holly silently congratulated herself. Maybe this decision making thing wasn’t so bad. Plus if she learned how to get rid of this body then she’d be able to do something about the bodies Henry didn’t know about.

  II

  After five hours cooped up in a car, Rebecca relished the chance to stretch her legs. They’d made good time, leaving the city a little after six when the show ended, though Rebecca had slept most of the way. A fact she felt a little guilty about given that Rowan had driven.

  But now here they were.

  Amid the flame-colored foliage of Saranac Lake nestled the sprawling, if welcoming, chapter house of the Clan Delphae. Hard to believe this was a center of mystical study given the Dragonfly Inn vibe the place had. But then she could almost imagine this was the perfect place for a cult. Not demonic cult like those Eighth House nut-jobs but beige-wearing, obsequious, Kool-Aid drinking worshippers of someone with a man-bun and dire need to shower.

  “Little out of the way,” Rebecca remarked.

  “Yeah, sorry about that. The Clan likes to base themselves on or close to ley lines.”

  Clan, cult, Rebecca thought, much of a muchness really. “S’okay, the sleep was good and wow…this place is so pretty.”

  “Yeah figured that was a bonus.”

  “Right then let’s book massages in after lunch, mud bath after that, seaweed wrap then espresso colonic before dinner,” Rebecca said cheerfully.

  Rowan looked at her flatly. “Espresso colonic?”

  “I’m joking. I like my coffee in a cup. Not mah butt.”

  “Good to know,” Rowan laughed. “That said, play your cards right and you may get a massage. They do have healers here.”

  “Hmmm,” Rebecca murmured, eyeing the building skeptically.

  “What’d McLachlan say?” Rowan asked, her voice a groan.

  “Nothing much.”

  “So a lot then,” Rowan grumbled.

  Hardly about to recount the conversation verbatim, Rebecca didn’t think McLachlan had been that negative. At worst he’d called them the supernatural equivalent of keyboard warriors.

  “Always happy to sit and snipe from the safety and comfort of their chapter houses but god forbid they got off their asses and engaged with the actual supernatural they’re so eager to watch and record,” he had raged as recently as a few hours ago.

  “So not a fan?” she had asked for the umpteenth time. The mocking question infuriated him, hurling him into a detailed if muddled litany of the Clan’s ineffectiveness in times of supernatural strife.

  “I’m more a fan of spending the weekend in your bed than giving you up to those goobers.”

  “You mean like last weekend?” she asked, uncomfortable that Mouth was listening. “And the weekend before that?”

  “You’re bored with me already?”

  “No,” she replied. “Just we’ve both gone from nothing to something in the space of a month. Something really good. I just don’t want to be one of those can’t-eat-can’t-sleep-can’t-breathe couples. And if I know anything about you, neither do you.”

  “Oh god no, they’re nauseating.”

  “Then a weekend upstate will be great.”

  “But it’s with the clan.”

  “You have got to stop coming back to that.”

  “But–”

  “If you know anything about me, you’ll know this…petulance isn’t gonna work.”

  “Okay then can I give you a list of books to steal?”

  “Worst human being ever,” she laughed.

  “Never said otherwise.”

  “I think,” Rebecca said, breaking out of the memory. “There’re some obvious trust issues about a group of non-supernatural people with a deep interest in the occult.”

  “Oh yeah,” Rowan replied. “When you put it like that.”

  “How else would you put it?”

  “They’re more scholars. And actually some are supernatural, so he’s off on that score. Did he tell you they offered him a position after college?”

  “No,” Rebecca replied, her face flushing from the question. “Left out that piece of info.”

  “Typical.” Rowan
looked around. “Somehow though I can’t see him up here. Away from the city. Chopping wood. Lumbering jack. Hiking. So not him.”

  “That why’d he turn it down?” The mental image intrigued her. McLachlan with a beard. In flannel. Sweating.

  “Maybe,” Rowan laughed. “He said it was the ley lines. Felt that might mess with his stain.”

  “That’s not a terrible reason,” Rebecca said.

  “Agreed but then he started losing out on archaeology jobs and got a little bitter about it.”

  “Losing out? To who?”

  “Me,” a voice said nearby. Turning Rebecca saw a god of a man atop the steps, seemingly having stepped out of a fashion spread and every lusty, unrequited dream every straight woman had ever had. “Arizona Chase. Let me get those bags for you.” He strode down the stairs toward them but bypassed the bags, instead wrapping his arms around Rowan. “So good to see you, darling. Been far too long.”

  “Well you will go and be all heroic and worldly,” came the slightly sycophantic reply.

  “You know they have this thing now. Called email. Been around for ages. Works real well.”

  “I know,” Rowan said with a sly smile. “Still waiting for a reply from my last one, Ari.”

  “And who’s this?” he asked quickly, turning to Rebecca.

  “Unworthy,” she muttered, openly ogling the man.

  “This is Rebecca Miller, relatively new to the supernatural and all that. McLachlan’s –uh– girlfriend?”

  “Who?” Chase asked.

  “Russe–” Rebecca started to explain.

  “He knows,” Rowan said, cutting her off. “He’s just being an ass. Comes with the occupation apparently.”

  “That and cool boots,” Chase said with a smile that made the sun seem irrelevant. “Now about those bags.” He scooped up their luggage and started toward the house. When he pushed through the front door they heard raised voices.

  “So…” Rebecca said.

  “Yup,” Rowan smiled.

  “He’s…”

  “Yup.”

  “I think my ovaries applauded.”