The Accords Triptych (Book 2): Bloodstream

by Ian Thomas

  “A close friend to both wolf and witch though.”

  “True, but that doesn’t make me any less of a friend to vampires. Can you say the same?”

  Damon was taken aback. As was the rest of the room, eyes turning scornfully to the young vampire.

  “I’m not gonna lie. There is some truth to your words about vampires being an underclass of the supernatural world. There is slew of evidence to support such a statement.” God, what he wouldn’t give for a copy of Twilight as exhibit A. “Yet being all of what – twelve? – there’s other evidence you’re missing.”

  “And you’re here to tell us – a court of vampires – about our history? You? A stained demon vessel. Oh this should be good.”

  “Well, I would have thought they covered this in My First Fangs pre-school but seems you were napping that day.” Muffled laughter broke following his words. “Why do you think it is that most vampires die young? Because giving into the hunger feels so good. But giving into the hunger also leaves a trail of bodies. Add to that your rate of reproduction and vampires are legion.”

  “My point exactly,” Damon cried. “These accords are to oppress what you don’t understand. What you fear.”

  “Yes,” McLachlan replied plainly. “Just not the oppression part. But fear, yes. Witches are genetically predisposed to magic for the most part. Werewolves are sired once a month, and change on the same cycle. Vampires turn nightly. Feed nightly. Of course there’s fear. Vampires should be a force to be reckoned with. Yet all you do is feed. With that high a body count people – humans, hunters, witches and wolves – are gonna react. Hence most vampires die young.”

  A mixture of cheers and jeers filled the room.

  “The venerable and few older vampires here tonight understand the need for restraint. They’ve lived through the hunger, the rapture of young lust, the constant thirst. They know how to navigate this life to make it more than a subsistence. To enjoy what they have.”

  “You don’t understand. You’re not one of us. Sure, you come in here wearing vamp-face like some minstrel but you know nothing of our lives.”

  “That’s true, but I feel the hunger. My stain doesn’t just change my face. I feel the hunger as keenly as you do. I just hold onto whatever shred of myself I can to not give into it.”

  “Yet it passes,” Violet said, stepping forward. “When you’re not around us you’re human again and the hunger dies. With us it’s constant. So you know nothing of us really.”

  More cheers this time.

  “But he’s not wrong,” Gracchus said finally. “Be angry at me. It was my decision to enter into the accords. And I stand by that decision.”

  Some supportive cheers but they were mostly drowned out by jeers.

  “I have not forgotten the early hunger, the young lust of the first decade. I remember it well. But the world is different now.”

  “Yes!” Damon shouted. “Overpopulated and accepting of vampires.”

  Gracchus laughed mirthlessly. “Accepting? Granted one or two will offer their necks to you but come that first wanton bloodbath and they’ll turn on us. As they have done in the past. We can survive. We have survived.”

  “On a stipend?” Violet spat.

  “Blood isn’t an entitlement you know,” McLachlan cut in. This time the cheers did surpass the jeers and Gracchus’ mouth showed the hint of a smile.

  Once the cheering died down, the room fell silent waiting for Gracchus’ judgment on their rebellion.

  “I thank you both for your views. It’s healthy to argue. Healthy to have a discourse about something so vital and often misunderstood. I welcome this. And fear not, I won’t take measure against what some would see as insolence.”

  Way to shut them down, McLachlan thought. Gracchus was no fool and these young vampires would do well to remember that.

  “Especially as what McLachlan brings us is central to the accords.”

  “Quite,” he said. “A rogue vampire threatens your community, your family.”

  “What does the Pack Lord say of this?” Gracchus asked. A murmur went through the room. Some saw the question as deference to Matteo, rather than one leader consulting another.

  “Like yourself he is concerned for vampire wellbeing,” McLachlan replied, feeling like he was lying. Matteo had voiced as much when the second body was found, but that concern had passed with his whoring, stupor, and more than questionable decisions. “He worries you have enemies.”

  “Me?!” Gracchus demanded, a flint of anger finally sparking.

  McLachlan swallowed. “With the malcontent surrounding your decision to enter into the accords, there’s a concern that someone wants to show vampires are wantonly in violation.”

  “Such a provocation would threaten us.”

  “Hence I am here. The New York Court is highly respected by the communities. As are you, their regent.”

  “Is that why the British wolves are en route to Manhattan?” Gracchus asked.

  Hashtag-blindside, McLachlan thought wondering if he was still in the vampire court or a castaway on Survivor. Unsure if he could keep his composure calm when his face was vamped out, he froze.

  “You’re aware of the recent Ordeal we experienced. The Pack Lord suffered greatly. Blackthorne will be visiting the Pack Lord as a courtesy. That’ll be the extent of it.”

  “He still suffers?”

  “The physical toll was greater than we first believed,” McLachlan lied. “On top of that is the psychological toll of being betrayed by someone close.”

  “I know a thing or two about that,” Gracchus said.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if more of the wolves pay him a visit soon enough. Nothing to worry about on that score.”

  “I never worry about the wolves,” he said pointedly. “The accords. Well…they concern all of us.”

  “You are wise, Lord Gracchus.”

  Then he stood and addressed the whole court. “Friends, our family is under threat. One of our kind but not of our family has committed selfish acts that could hurt us. This man has our interests at heart. We take his words as they are offered – with peace and love. None but children of the night can protect this family. We have a duty to each other. To this court. To this city that feeds us to bring this vampire to justice. Go. Find. Bring them to me.”

  Only cheers reverberated throughout the room. Vampires, young and old, hailed their regent and dispersed into the night. Seth and Rufus remained by McLachlan’s side. Damon and Violet scowled petulantly nearby. A few of the older vampires, nobles of smaller courts on the Eastern seaboard, remained behind eager to talk with Gracchus about some matter or another.

  “Time to go,” Seth said.

  Was it, McLachlan thought. He had a strong feeling that Gracchus wanted to talk to him in confidence. However, a private audience would seem strange to even his staunchest supporters. The regent’s eyes held him for a moment longer then turned to a raven-haired woman and a fanged smile broke across his face.

  “Yup, looks about it.”

  “You did well,” Rufus said.

  “You did,” Seth confirmed.

  “Thanks, not entirely sure the idea was to send a couple hundred blood-thir – vengeful vampires scouring Manhattan on short notice.”

  “They won’t feed,” Seth said. “Well not to the death.”

  “What about Damon and Violet?” McLachlan asked as they walked out.

  “They’ll be fine. A blood-fast no doubt, but Gracchus publicly welcomed the debate so he won’t do more than that.”

  As they stood outside the Hotel, McLachlan had a feeling Rufus wanted to say more. It was the same feeling he’d gotten from Gracchus a moment earlier.

  “I’m gonna head, but ya know if you need me–”

  “We know where you pee,” Seth said, not even cracking a smile. Rufus started laughing next to him. “Hey, I figure if you can do vamp-face, I can make a joke.”

  “It’s better when you don’t explain it,” McLachlan said. “
Shit, how do you deal with these fangs? I feel like I’ve been slurring all night.”

  “You have,” Rufus said. “They all just thought you were drunk.”

  “Wait, that was an option?” McLachlan said. “Now you tell me.”

  “Just go,” Seth said.

  “Gone,” McLachlan replied but it was the two vampires who had vanished, the rustling builders’ cloths the only sign of their exit. By the time McLachlan crossed the street, his face and mouth had started to ache as the changes faded. Scrunching and stretching his face, he felt like himself again. The audience had been a long time coming but at last the vampires were on the same page as everyone else.

  Possibly reading ahead, he thought mulling over the knowledge of Blackthorne’s imminent arrival.

  He didn’t know what was more concerning, the British wolves coming stateside or Gracchus keeping tabs on Blackthorne.

  XIV

  Stalking was a new thing.

  Sure, he’d watched more than enough media to know the how-to, the why-for, and the probably-not-a-great-idea, but this was Jason.

  He preferred to think he was spying on his friend. Hardly a noble distinction but spying did sound better than stalking. Besides everybody did it, he thought, sitting in the cold night. He was across the street from The Daily Grind, close to one in the morning. He should have been asleep. Indeed, he’d tired but his mind had spun around and around, chasing questions. Much as it had all day.

  Sure, most people limited their stalking-spying behavior to social media. Which would have suited him fine but Jason hadn’t posted anything recently. Not even some narcissistic gym selfie. Wasn’t that the point of going to the gym, he thought, to improve one’s selfie-game?

  Given that his stalking education came from movies and TV, he decided the distinction came from intent. Stalking was very much the purview of horror films and thrillers. Voyeuristically the subjective camera lurked outside a window – as he was presently doing – or behind some bushes watching the unsuspecting victim before some slice and dice action with the slight chance of nudity. Intent was malicious, predatory and for audience titillation. Emphasis on the ‘tit’.

  While spying was no less creepy, Mouth didn’t exactly want to gut Jason like a fish. Sure, there’d been the occasional murderous thoughts much of the day leading up to Mouth freezing his ass off on a stoop but for the most part he was over it. He just wanted answers.

  From his vantage point the coffee shop was reasonably quiet. The few customers present were already served and embedded behind screens of some description or another. Jason was alone behind the counter. Which held up his story that Malcolm had taken off suddenly. Further supported by the messages Mouth had exchanged with Eddie. Problem was Eddie thought Jason had rostered someone to help him with the overnight shift.

  Apparently not, Mouth thought.

  As Mouth was about to give up and leave to thaw his butt out, he spotted Danny a few doors down headed his way. Mild panic set in before Danny crossed over and headed for the coffee shop. So he wasn’t the only one doing a little Jason-recon after hours, he thought.

  “This should be interesting,” he muttered to himself.

  And interesting it was. From the look on Jason’s face it was as if Mitch had walked through the door. Lusty was the only word Mouth could think to describe it. And quite brazen too. Which was totally at odds with a conversation weeks earlier – pre-John – of why Jason hadn’t started something with Danny who obviously liked him.

  “On paper he’s pretty similar to Mitch,” Mouth had said. “Good looking, square jaw, little Abercrombie and Fitch. Several Instagram posts of abs and those muscle things you seem to like.”

  “Yeah, on paper,” Jason had replied. “But that’s about it. And actually he has about as much appeal as paper.”

  “Oh no tell me how you really feel.”

  “Fine, sure, I’m part of the problem. I’ll wear that. He’s just so…beige.”

  “This is the problem of having a friend like me,” Mouth said, “you expect everyone to be personality plus. I’m sorry I’m so awesome.”

  “You do realize on the random day you decide that you want to experiment with your sexuality, I’m not your go-to-gay?”

  “Then what do I keep you around for?” Mouth exclaimed.

  “Funny, but we all know I keep you around to make me less of a wallflower.”

  “Your self-awareness is crippling.”

  “My best asset.”

  “Nope,” Mouth had smiled. “That would be me.”

  And yet in some weird parallel universe, Jason was finding the two-dimensional human equivalent of paper quite the eyeful right then.

  “Two-dimensional?” Mouth muttered, the cold getting to him. “Little generous.”

  The comment came more from a place of frustration than jealousy. And hurt.

  When Mouth first got to Goddard Hall as a freshman he had felt very much the outsider. Granted every other freshmen must’ve felt the same – he knew that to the core of his being – yet he saw instant connections among people that he was lacking. The horror stories he’d heard about the roommate algorithm made Elm Street or Camp Crystal Lake seem far more appealing than what lay behind door number one.

  At first Jason seemed quiet which did not bode well for Mouth. He thrived on interaction, banter, or at least enough information to verbally work with. Yet here was this mute sleeping not five feet from him. Disastrous. Only on about day three of freshmen orientation when their RA tried some lame trust exercise had Jason broken his silence.

  “It’s clear to me now. The RA is evil. I’m an evil fighter. It’s simple. I’m gonna have to kill the RA.”

  The clouds had parted, golden sunlight flooded the world and somewhere an angelic choir didn’t hit a bum note. Escaping the orientation for pizza and a pop culture pissing contest – which Mouth won – everything was suddenly right in his world. Mouth had found the start of a new family. He’d found the Joey to his Chandler, the Bunk to his McNulty, the Mal to his Wash, the Sam to his Dean, the Meredith to his Christina.

  Though now there was a McDreary threatening the greatest friendship in the whole world.

  “Oh and there’s kissing,” Mouth said startled.

  Unsure of Eddie’s policy on staff kissing customers – no, wait, it’d escalated to groping – Mouth was pretty sure it stopped at undressing. The obvious tip joke was not worth verbalizing so he left it alone.

  Soon Jason had pushed Danny out the back, leaving the counter unattended.

  Satisfied, albeit grudgingly, that Jason wasn’t in the clutches of Ben and was just acting out of his own accord, Mouth headed back to the dorm. So he’s joined a gym, he thought, worse things could’ve happened.

  XV

  “Too soon,” Rowan said, looking over at Rebecca’s scribbles.

  “What?”

  “Reading up on werewolves and bloodlines is a little on the nose. Especially since I can see you’ve written ‘Dominic’ and then an arrow pointing to ‘Somerset’.”

  “And Max and Michael,” Rebecca added, then gave up her defense. “I know, I know. I just lay in bed last night thinking about poor Somerset and got to wondering who his sire was and how they felt about his rejection of being a wolf.”

  “Dominic was pretty used to it,” Rowan said in hushed tones. “He had a thing for tormented souls. Came with being a priest when he was sired.”

  “Whoa,” Rebecca said. “These books don’t cover those kind of insights.”

  “Some do, some don’t,” Rowan replied. A noise caught her attention. By the door, Somerset had entered to return books. Seeing an opportunity to mend broken bridges Rowan excused herself and went over to talk to him. A moment passed before they exited the library together.

  By the afternoon, Rebecca couldn’t hide her scribbles any longer. Scrawled over a large piece of butcher paper she’d jotted down the various wolves and their sires, organizing them into bloodlines and packs. Interestingly packs were
territorial and not strictly familial.

  “And then there’s the Pack War,” Chase said, dropping a fresh tome on the table along with a couple of red markers. Possibly the grimmest part of the weekend saw the two of them drawing red lines through the names of those who’d died in the war. A few people came to watch, offering corrections or clarification. Mills sat some distance away impassively watching the deathlist grow.

  When Chase drew a line through Dominic’s name, Rowan’s words came back to her. Seeing the names beneath his – Somerset, Max, Michael – she returned to a long-standing question.

  “Okay so I get that with Dominic – formerly being a priest and having a thing for tortured souls – his bloodline was three. But Matteo is all about brothers, family, that sort of thing. And he only has Ben.”

  “Don’t forget he’s Italian and Catholic,” Milton added.

  “That too.”

  “What’s your point?” Chase asked, aware Mills was listening. “Werewolf existence is brutal and ya know most consider it a curse.”

  “Sure, fine, that makes sense too but look at some of these bloodlines.” She gestured to the paper. “Soren is it? Soren has sired five.”

  “Seven,” Milton corrected. “Two died in the Pack War.”

  “Great, seven, and that’s a pretty common trend. Piotr six. Jefferson six. Blackthorne eight. And then there’s a whole heap of fours. So ya see being close to five hundred and having only one offspring is actually quite rare.”

  Whether she liked it or not, she was assisting Chase with his own investigation, however indirectly. Matteo’s deficit as Pack Lord had come from Ben. He never would have made the move he did if he’d had wolf brothers to contend with. Eddie being one man and sired by Ben himself seemed to allow Ben the room to act as he did. One thing she knew about brothers was how they moderated each other’s behavior even without knowing they were doing it. Her brothers did it constantly. From what she could tell McLachlan and Dylan did it as well. Even Mouth and Jason, such was their bond.