The Bloodline Series Box Set
Page 1
The Bloodline Series
Gabriella Messina
Published by Gabriella Messina, 2020.
Copyright © 2020 by Gábriella Messina
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual events, locales or people, living, dead or undead, is purely coincidental.
“Bloodline” Copyright © 2013 by Gabriella Messina; Based upon the original screenplay, “The Devil Inside”; Copyright © 2005 by Gabriella Messin
“Quicksilver” Copyright © 2016 by Gabriella Messina
Excerpt from “The Puppeteer.” Copyright © 2016 by A. Stone. Used by permission of A. Stone.
“Wolfborn” Copyright © 2018 by Gabriella Messina
ISBN: 9798628903407
Cover and interior design by GM Book Goods/ Gabriella Messina
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also by Gabriella Messina
BLOODLINE
PROLOGUE
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QUICKSILVER
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WOLFBORN
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About the Author
Also by Gabriella Messina
Kate Gardener Mysteries
The Memory of Trees
De Profundis
Gingerbread Men: a Kate Gardener Mysteries short story
Well-Acquainted with the Night
Raven's Mark
Razor's Edge
Night Moves
Sacred Geometry
Where Death Rejoices
Kate Gardener Mysteries boxed set - Books 1-4
The Bloodline Series
Bloodline
Quicksilver
Wolfborn
Ivan
Standalone
The Cold Ones
Gorgoneion
Watch for more at www.gabriellamessinawrites.wordpress.com
BLOODLINE
“What lies before us and what lies behind us are
small matters compared to what lies within us.
And when we bring what is within out into the world,
miracles happen.”
- Henry David Thoreau
PROLOGUE
EARLY JANUARY 1945
Auschwitz 2 – Birkenau
I listen... To the guards walking the paths around the barracks, the crematoria, the pens, the gravel and stones crunching beneath their highly polished black boots... I listen... To the dogs barking at the workers as they come home for the night, passing under the arch and weary from being “set free” by work; those same dogs whining for their supper, a far better meal than anyone else will have tonight... I listen for him, wondering what fresh horrors this night will bring the others... what horrors it may bring for me, fearing what I may do. I pray... For death, for freedom, for peace. Death does not come, nor freedom, but peace... Yes, peace, it comes... Peace in the knowledge that even within this hell, I am in control. The guards, they fear me, they think I am a monster, but no, I am not the mon—
“Well, how are we today, my friend?”
The scratching of the pen came to a quick halt on the paper resting in the writer’s lap. Friend? He looked up, his soft brown eyes taking in the smiling face of the guard. Do you keep a friend in a pen, surrounded by chain link and razor wire? Do you experiment on a friend, starve him, beat him? Do you tattoo numbers on him and label him as ‘Zigeuner’? He blinked several times, then looked back to his paper. He heard the guard chuckle nervously; heard him stroll away. The young man rubbed at his eyes; then the scratching of the pen began again –
The end is near. Not the end of the world... That comes to each in his time, and it has for so many already... No, this is all coming to an end... Something in the air has changed... The smell of smoke and gunpowder on the east wind... Everyone is anxious, frightened even... They are leaving, taking equipment with them... They have destroyed two crematoria, turned a third into a ‘bomb shelter’... They are coming and the hope of freedom with them, if we are still alive to see it. Though they have killed many of the others here, he will not let them kill me. He is preparing to run as well, making his way through the underground... I have heard him, whistling his Beethoven while he packs his books, his papers, his research. I have heard him learning Spanish though I think he will be forced to leave Europe completely. The Allies will be looking for him and, if they do not find him, the Jews most surely will. We would hunt him as well, all of them, but so many are gone... And we are the most outcast of them all. Perhaps one day we will find him... I will find him...
They are coming, the hope of freedom with them... Although the arrival of the Russians may simply mean new prisons, new wardens, new ways to die.
The young man rubbed his eyes again, blinking them rapidly. He lowered his hand, revealing his eyes – no longer soft and brown, but a solid black. Not a bit of the colored iris, nor a touch of the white sclera, visible. They were like the eyes of a shark, shiny and fathomless.
But for now, I listen... and I wait...
PRESENT DAY
East Village, Manhattan
It had gotten chillier than expected, especially for October
. Dammit, it’s cold, real cold, like “Winter-is-Coming” cold. Franco shivered, rubbed his hands together in a vain attempt to warm them. He exhaled, the ragged breath frosting in the night air and rising like a puff of white smoke toward the light above him. He felt like he’d been waiting in this alley forever, watching the foot traffic on the Bowery; watching for the Moonlight Man... the Man in Black.
“Where the fuck is he?” Franco leaned up against the dumpster, stuffed his hands into the torn pockets of his dirty, military-style coat. “We should just kick, man.”
Spud stepped out from the shadows of the dumpster, bobbing and weaving as he tried to warm up. “But it was good skag last time.” He slowed, throwing an eager glance at Franco. “We scored from him and it was good, man.”
Franco sighed, sending another puff of breath skyward. “Yeah. Shit, it was good. Weird, though. Didn’t you feel weird, Spud? Spud?”
“There he is.”
Franco followed Spud’s gaze toward the Bowery. A tall figure stood at the entrance to the alley, silhouetted in the light from the busy street behind him. The tones of whistling drifted toward the two junkies.
“Franco, what is he whistling?”
“Moonlight Sonata.”
“That’s like some classic shit or something, isn’t it?”
“It’s Beethoven.”
Spud frowned. “Who?”
Franco shook his head. “Go get the shit, will ya?” Spud nodded, shuffled away toward the Man in Black.
Franco watched the exchange go down while he tied off his arm. He fought the familiar twinge of guilt, remorse; to think he was afraid of needles as a child. Now, he’d do anything just to have one. Anything.
Spud returned, held out two syringes. “The Man really set us up. Look at this, needles loaded and everything!” Franco grabbed one of the syringes from Spud, nearly knocking him to the ground. “Whoa, man, easy!”
Franco found the vein in his arm, injecting the contents of the syringe into it. His face relaxed as the potent heroin flowed into his body, metabolizing and sending him coasting into oblivion. He leaned against the dumpster, slid down to the ground. He sat there, rocking very slightly from side to side, a beatific smile spreading across his weathered face.
Then his smile faded, his forehead wrinkling slightly... Something’s wrong... Franco rolled over into a heap, falling out of sight behind the dumpster. His breathing became rough, strained.
Spud looked up, his own needle still poised above his arm. “Hey, man? Don’t go to sleep on me.” He injected himself and plopped down in an awkward heap, a silly grin on his face. “Now that’s nice. Real nice.” Suddenly, Spud’s smile became a frown. “Hey. Hey, man. Hey, I feel weird again.” He moved sharply, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the weird. “I think there’s something wrong with this stuff. Real weird.” He pulled at his clothing, scratched at his arms and chest. “Feels like something crawling under my skin.”
Franco’s rough, pained breathing had grown louder into an agonizing howl crescendo.
“Damn, Franco, what the hell! Hey, Franco?” A low rumbling sound emanated from behind the dumpster. Spud struggled to his feet, clutching his stomach in pain. “Franco, man... you okay?” Spud moved toward the dumpster.
A low growl greeted Spud, followed by a slash.
Spud looked down at the gaping hole that was his stomach moments before. His intestines cascaded down to the ground, with Spud dropping moments later. Blood spread on the ground as a second slash nearly severed Spud’s head from his body.
The growls, the rough breathing, all suddenly stopped, and the alley was quiet. A dark shadow spread over the torn and bloody body of Spud.
The Man in Black paused, his face hidden by the shadows cast by the light on the wall above. He stood silent for a moment, and then began whistling once again. He stepped over Spud’s scattered entrails, avoiding the blood, intestines and other pieces of flesh and organs that were spread around the body. A trail of blood led away from the body, disappearing behind the dumpster.
The Man in Black walked away from the carnage, continuing to whistle as he left the alley, made a right and disappeared onto the Bowery... and into the night
1
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 15th
PIER 17, SOUTH STREET Seaport, Manhattan
Autumn had officially arrived in New York. The cold of the night before had burned off in the morning sun and left a crisp edge to the sunny afternoon air. Even the wind that was blowing in off the East River could not dampen the enjoyment of a day like this.
Ivan Karolyi was having great difficulty focusing on the newspaper in his hand as he sat on his usual bench. Hard and uncomfortable as it was for his ninety-year-old body to tolerate sitting on the concrete-and-wood monstrosity, he relished his time here every day.
Afternoons at the Seaport were alive and buzzing with tourists and locals alike. Travelers from Kansas to Kerala roamed the boardwalk and arcades; shopping, snapping photographs, throwing change at street performers, pausing to grab a quick bite at one of the many pizza stands or hot dog carts.
Ivan looked over to the nearest hot dog cart, a rickety stand near the water. The pushcart was old school and it showed: peeling paint, scuffed wheels, a dingy awning. The owner/operator, Nels, boasted an equally tattered appearance. Ivan watched as several people slowed beside the cart, taking note of the appearance of Nels and his cart before moving on. What a mistake that is, thought Ivan. Anyone who knows anything about Seaport food knows that Nels has the best hot dogs in the area, maybe in the entire city. Appearances are often deceiving.
Ivan smiled, his face softening as he watched the young woman chatting with Nels. His granddaughter seemed to get prettier with every passing year. A perfect example of deceptive appearances, since this slender and lovely girl was a rising star with the New York Police Department, a newly-minted detective with several major drug-related busts to her credit already.
Ivan’s granddaughter turned and began walking toward him. Ivan quickly shook out the newspaper and turned the page, pretending to be deeply engrossed. He hesitated for a moment, his smile fading as he read aloud the large title of an article halfway down the page: “Female cop survives four-story fall; walks out of hospital.”
“Here ya go.” Ivan turned to look at the proffered hot dog and soft drink. “Kraut and mustard.”
Samantha Karolyi waited expectantly for her grandfather to take the food from her, wondering if he would. He could be a handful when he wanted, stubborn and belligerent, especially on days like today. Today was check-up day, that monthly fun-filled trip to the doctor for measuring his blood thinner level and checking his blood pressure. Blood, blood, blood... Sam suddenly felt a bit faint and wondered if her grandfather was going to take the food from her before it ended up on the ground shortly before she did.
As if on cue, Ivan folded up his newspaper, set it beside him and accepted the food and drink. “Ah, Samantha. Thank you.” He took a sip of the drink, grimacing. “It is not lemonade.” His Romanian accent, still heavy even after decades in the United States, added a certain gravitas to this brief yet complete condemnation of the meal.
“Nels didn’t have any lemonade, Grampy. It’s ginger ale.”
Ivan sipped again, unable to hide his disappointment. “I know what it is.” He loved lemonade. “It is not cold.”
“You said no ice.”
Ivan stared at the cup before heaving an agitated grunt then started in on the hot dog.
Another battle won. Sam sat down beside her grandfather on the bench. She hunched forward, her jacket pulled around her, her NYPD baseball cap low on her forehead. She glanced at the frail man beside her. He used to be so strong, so imposing and intimidating. Now... “You feel any better, Grampy?”
Ivan stopped mid-bite, frowned. “I am ninety years old, Samantha. Waking up every morning makes me feel better.” He returned to his hot dog, shaking his head as he chewed carefully.
Sam smiled lightly at
the verbal jab. Her grandfather’s sense of humor and manner often made others uncomfortable, and his temper was legendary. He had mellowed a great deal as time and aging left their marks on him, but his spirit was still fiery and sometimes simply could not be contained. “Eating those won’t help your blood pressure, Grampy.”
“At my age, they cannot do much harm. There are far more harmful things...,” he trailed off, glanced at Sam. “Your back is better?”
Sam gaze dropped to the folded newspaper and the prominent headline. “Yeah. Sore, but better.”
Ivan nodded confidently, “I told you.”
“I don’t know why I even bother going to doctors, ‘cause you always know. I don’t know how.”
“I have known you all of your life. I know everything about you that you know, and many things you do not.” He finished the hot dog, sipped at the maligned ginger ale. He pointed to the newspaper lying between them. “Mrs. Florence Hannigan, remember her? She lived next door to Mr. Neal when your mother and father were still alive...,” he crossed himself, “God rest their souls.”
“Sure, she used to leave tuna fish in the hallway for that raggedy old cat. I remember her. I remember that cat hated you... don’t know why.” Sam waited expectantly for a moment before nudging her grandfather. “What about her?”
“Huh? Who?”
“Mrs. Hannigan.”
“Oh, she is dead.”
“Wow, how did she die?”
“She was fighting a four-alarm chemical fire in Queens – she was eighty-five!” Ivan fidgeted for a moment, clearly agitated by the discussion.
Sam let her grandfather fume unchecked; no cause for battle here. As well as Ivan claimed to know Sam, Sam knew how her grandfather thought. Lately, as friends and neighbors turned up more frequently in the obits, Ivan’s little outbursts had become more frequent as well. Facing death. Age and experience do not make it any easier, I guess.
“Today is Tuesday.” Sam started out of her thoughts, looked at her grandfather. His shoulders were slumped slightly, his expression contrite. “Calendar says blood moon Friday night.”
“Grampy, it’s Manhattan. All the moons are red, or blue, or green. It just depends on the level of pollution in the air at the time.”
Distracted, Ivan stared out toward the water and Brooklyn in the distance. “Yes, well, I suppose you are right.”