by Lizzy Ford
Trial by Blood
TRIAL SERIES, EPISODE THREE
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By Lizzy Ford
www.LizzyFord.com
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Cover design by Lizzy Ford
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KINDLE EDITION
Published by Kettlecorn Press
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Trial by Blood copyright ©2015 by Lizzy Ford
www.LizzyFord.com
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Cover design copyright © 2015 by Lizzy Ford
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
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This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
I swear to myself over and over I’m not going to let Myca fuck with my head. I can’t help watching the time go by with a sense of apprehension and fear. Nothing will send me to the door of my father’s killer, unless it’s for revenge. Even then, I’m not going anywhere near Myca this week, when I’m vulnerable to the damning effects of this stupid curse and the trials.
Six hours have passed since he dropped the bombshell about killing my father and then left. His claims about how long I’ll last before either falling to blood lust, or dying, swirl around my thoughts with maddening persistence.
“Usually, new vampires start to feel the hunger within six hours.
“By hour eighteen, they’re either mad with bloodlust or bent over the neck of their neighbor’s dog or child sucking them dry …
“Twenty four hours, and the blood lust is blinding. They attack people outright like rabid animals …
“Thirty six hours, and they’re dead, if they don’t feed …
“You’re tough, and you’re a Kingmaker. I’m betting you can make it thirty hours before the bloodlust claims you.”
The words are on a loop in my brain. What’s worse: I’m bored as hell. I started a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon after Myca left, partially to distract myself and partially because I have the urge to watch a bunch of vampires get staked to death by a little girl. But I can’t sit still long enough to watch more than ten minutes, and I can’t pick up or read any of the books in the library after the deal I made with Myca. I had no idea how consuming these trials have become, or how I haven’t done anything outside of them, in two weeks. Without the Book of Secrets or the histories or my father’s letters to occupy me, I’m a different kind of wreck. I have way too much time to think.
I play the footage of my father’s death on my iPad. Here I thought I’d come one step closer to solving his murder, when I saw there were five shadows that walked into the bar that night and only four men visible.
I’m torn between two instincts, the one that wants me to go werewolf on Myca, and the softer whisper that’s telling me Myca’s confession was too easy. And horribly timed, considering it’s the beginning of our week. This instinct tells me his timing was purposeful, and that there’s always more, no matter what I think I know about what’s going on around me.
Grabbing my notebook, I make a new list, this one to try to pin down the truth about the candidates. They’re conspiring, but is it the general rules of the trials they’re following that makes them seem to be working together against me, or is this … different? Did every other Kingmaker who went through the trials have a parent who revealed intimate details about him or her to the candidates?
Did every other outgoing Kingmaker meet with the candidates on the day of his or her death? Ben and Tristan despised my father, but they were both adamant he loved me. If they truly hated him, would they bother trying to convince me my father cared for me? Is this a rule they’re following, that they can’t bash the outgoing Kingmaker, or are they sincere?
I want to think they’re sincere, and not only because I loved my father more than anything and am in over my head with Ben and Tristan. Something about how reluctant they both were to admit Daddy wasn’t a complete bad guy strikes me as genuine. They didn’t want to like anything about the damned Kingmaker who came before me, but for some reason, they both found one part of who he was that redeemed his character.
God, I hate thinking about Tristan and Ben. I hurt so bad when I do, and I’ve been trying so hard not to let their names or faces cross my mind. The amount of confusion that’s consumed me the past two weeks leaves me wired, angry, sad and unable to think clearly about either of them.
They both cared.
They both lied.
They both want something from me, and may already know about the Final Trials and be plotting my demise.
How can I not think the worst of them?
But … I don’t. I have nothing but admiration for them. Two men struggling to save their clans, who will do anything, even fuck me up, in order to do so. I care about them both. Ben’s determination, Tristan’s tortured soul. Six days with each, and I managed to turn their worlds on their heads and lose all sense of myself in the process.
Thank god I’m not worried about screwing up Myca’s life. If anything, it’s a relief not to fear myself for once or the curse or the damage I’ll cause in the lives of good people. Myca murdered Daddy. That makes him a bad person in my book, someone probably pretty deserving of the curse I bear.
The more I obsess over everything, the stronger my suspicion becomes. Something else is going on here. Whether it’s a conspiracy among the three candidates, the unusual involvement of my father in the trials before his death, or a plot by the vampires, I’m in a mess that’s bigger than I initially expected.
I’m also the only person involved who has absolutely no insight as to the why. To break the curse? Revenge against the detested Kingmakers?
I check the time then curse. I don’t want to be drawn into Myca’s drama.
Frustrated, I go to the kitchen and make my remaining package of Ramen noodles. Tomorrow, I’ll have to go to the store and see how far my piggy bank will get me. A piece of me is kind of afraid Myca’s right about blood lust. Dare I go outside, in case I turn into some sort of monster and attack every human I see?
Then again, he, above the other two, feels like the one who’s probably fucking with me. Maybe being a vampire is easier than being a werewolf or fae. And does he really think I’ll show up at his doorstep after his big reveal?
I turn up the volume of the television, visible from the kitchen, and seek some peace from my thoughts or, in failing to stop them, to drown them out. It’s dark outside, close to nine o’clock. I don’t feel any different. Hungry, yes, but that’s normal for me this time of night.
When my Ramen is done, I return to the couch. I mentally concentrate on convincing myself Myca is messing with me about bloodlust and stuff the first forkful of Ramen into my mouth. I almost gag but choke it down.
“Holy … I had no idea noodles could go bad,” I mutter. I stare into the bowl, trying to recall how long this particular pack of noodles has been hiding in the back of the pantry. I have no idea, which could mean it’s a few years old. Aside from coffee, I have little else to eat in the house.
So I force down three more huge mouthfuls and swallow as fast as possible to keep from tasting them. Making a face at the bowl, I set it down on the coffee table and lean back. I’m loudly cheering on Buffy as she’s gettin
g ready to stab a vampire in the heart, and imagining her victim to be Myca, when my stomach revolts.
I bolt to the bathroom and vomit up the noodles. Coughing and spitting, I wrinkle my nose at the acrid taste in my mouth.
An icky feeling is sliding through me. I don’t know anything about vampires or even if they can eat people food. I can go a week avoiding Myca out of sheer will, but I’m a girl who likes her food. I can’t go a week without chocolate.
I hurry to the kitchen and open the pantry. Spotting a box of stale crackers, I yank it out and eat a few. They taste horrible, like I imagine dust tastes.
A minute later, I’m running back to the bathroom and vomiting up the crackers.
“Fucking … vampires!” I shout and then head back to the kitchen.
I try again, this time with cheese that tastes like mold smells, and then devour the last apple in the house, whose flavor is similar to wet socks.
My body purges everything.
Panting and disgusted, I lean against the hallway wall and check the time.
Six and a half hours.
“Shit.” A week is a long time to go without eating anything at all.
I tentatively try water and am glad when that stays down. Returning to the office, I search it for the N-Thrall I had at one point. If I can keep water down, I might be able to mix enough drugs with it to keep me sedated for a few days.
The drugs are nowhere to be found, so I raid the medicine cabinet and dig out the cough medicine with sleeping aid. It’s expired, but I don’t give a shit when the alternative is ending up at Myca’s mercy. I’d rather starve to death.
Somewhat relieved, I take the meds and a bottle of water back to the living room. I swallow six of the pills to make sure they knock me out.
“I’m there … with you … Buffy …” I say as my eyelids grow heavy, and I drift into a deep slumber while Buffy continues massacring vampires in the background.
Chapter Two
Hangry does not begin to describe how I feel the next morning. I’m woozy from the cough meds and starving. I fell asleep on the couch cursing vampires and woke up to see Buffy still murdering them. This cheers me up some. Grimacing at the kinks in my body from the lumpy couch, I sit up and make an attempt to gauge whether or not I’m a murderous vampire yet.
I don’t know what bloodlust is, but I don’t feel any different, aside from hunger that seems normal. I have no intention of attacking my neighbor’s dog or anyone else.
Checking the time, I do the calculations to see how far along I am.
“Eighteen hours.”
So far, Myca’s wrong, and this is the happiest thing that’s happened to me since my father’s death.
I’m able to keep down coffee and run upstairs for a shower before getting dressed. If coffee is all I can consume this week, then I’m going to need a shit load of it. My bank account has seven dollars and my piggy bank twenty four in change. I baggy up the quarters – about thirteen dollars worth – and prepare to leave the house.
Stepping onto the front landing, I stop and gaze around. The morning sun is full on in my face, dispelling yet another fear I had about being a vampire. Apparently, vampires can go outside in daylight.
“Good to know,” I murmur and trot down the stairs. I’m going to try a few more fluids today, to see if I can drink juice, milk, and the like. If so, maybe I can survive off milkshakes or smoothies.
I head towards the corner store three blocks away. It’s past rush hour, and the streets are quiet. Determined to prove Myca wrong, I’m congratulating myself on being strong enough to defy him, when the smell of steak on a grill wafts past me.
I stop in my tracks and breathe it in. Dear god – it’s amazing.
“Morning,” someone calls.
I glance towards the house from which the scent originates. A man is closing the front door behind him. He smiles and offers a wave. I’ve seen him around a few times over the years.
“Morning,” I reply. Holy hell, if I was cooking something that smelled so delicious, I wouldn’t be leaving the house until it was done and eaten.
I continue on. I’m always saying I need to go on a diet. Maybe being a vampire will take a few pounds off me. When this is over, I’m going to the closest buffet I can afford and eating everything.
My phone vibrates. I pluck it out of my pocket, eager to see if either Tristan or Ben has messaged despite knowing they aren’t allowed to talk to me during the week. The number isn’t one I recognize.
How’s it going? (Myca)
“Fuck off, Myca,” I answer aloud. I’m not above a well deserved I-told-you-so and type him a quick response as I walk. Looks like you’re wrong about everything. “And send.”
That feels much more satisfying than it probably should. Before I can put the phone away, he responds.
That’s the spirit.
This guy is a complete, total dick. I shove the phone in my pocket and march angrily onward towards the store.
My senses are ensnared again by the smell of food. This time, it’s … fair corn dogs, funnel cakes and cinnamon. I quicken my pace until the smells are gone. The third block, I smell something strong enough to make my stomach twist into knots: roast beef, the kind that’s been simmering in a crockpot all day long until it falls off the fork and is begging to be devoured with a side of cornbread.
Is everyone on this street cooking the best food ever? Or am I that hungry?
I silently curse Myca with every step I take, hating the fact I’m missing out on so much food because of him. Autumn is the best time, too, when the weather is cooler and people start making comfort dishes … cookies, pies, stews, pumpkin spice everything.
My stomach is cramping from hunger.
“I just need juice and milk and ice cream then we’re done,” I tell myself, gritting my teeth against the desire to eat whatever it is that smells so good. I can always eat it if I’m willing to throw up afterwards.
I walk into the convenience store sitting at the corner of the residential and business districts. The cashier glances up from his phone without greeting me.
Hot dogs and burritos. Normally, they don’t turn me on like steak, but today, the smells from the tiny deli in the back corner make my mouth water.
I go to the ice cream section first. Another customer is standing in front of one cooler with the door open, pensively trying to choose. Her heavenly scent reaches me five feet away.
“Wow,” I say and open the cooler beside her. “What kind of perfume are you wearing? It’s amazing.”
“Thanks.” She laughs. “I was in such a hurry this morning, I’m not sure which one I grabbed.”
“Smells like coconut pound cake.”
The woman gives me an odd look. “That’s what I had for breakfast.”
Weird. I don’t respond, though, because the source of another scent is approaching from my other side. A skinny teen with a gap between his front teeth, he smells of bacon and eggs.
I love bacon. I catch myself staring at him, trying to taste the smell, and then shake my head and refocus on the ice cream.
The source of the hot dog scent, a shelf stocker, passes behind me, followed by someone who smells like a mocha with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.
Releasing the handle to the ice cream cooler, I stare at my reflection in the window.
Why does every person who gets near me smell like food?
Can this be … no. It makes no sense. Bloodlust is the craving for blood, right? These people don’t make me want to drink their blood. They make me want to eat whatever they had for breakfast or maybe …
Caramel brownie sundae passes behind me, and I turn, unable to pry my eyes off the teenage girl until she disappears down a different aisle. I’m salivating, and it takes every muscle in my body to prevent me from following her.
… or maybe bloodlust makes me just want to eat them.
Okay. So there’s a chance this isn’t normal hunger.
“Shit.” I grab a r
andom quart of ice cream, a gallon of milk then quickly scour the shelves for instant coffee.
Dumping my food on the counter before the cashier, I breathe in his scent and slap a hand over my mouth. He smells like Snickers – my favorite candy bar. I’m literally drooling. Caramel brownie sundae gets behind me in line. I start fidgeting and resist the urge to turn and bite her head off.
I have to control this, whatever it is. I need to get home now.
The cashier rings me up and starts counting the quarters I’ve dumped on the counter.
“Dude, seriously, just put them in stacks of four,” I snap at him.
“You made me lose track,” he complains and piles them all back together.
I swear the human Snickers bar is the worst cashier ever. I don’t yell at him again like I want to, and instead, drum my fingers on the counter, fidget with the baggy, tie and untie my hoodie … anything to keep my focus off wanting to eat someone.
He finishes finally and bags everything up. “Maybe you should lay off the drugs,” he says sarcastically and hands me my change.
“Maybe you should learn to count!” I snatch my bag and hurry out, releasing a breath as I reach the sidewalk.
My relief lasts until I spot the group of tourists crossing the street, towards me. I walk past them as fast as I can and still find myself slowing to breathe in the scents of the world’s most incredible foods. When I reach the other side of the street, I’m in a near daze, drunk off the smells to the point it takes me a minute to remember where I’m supposed to be going.
I run home, up the stairs to the row house, and slam the door behind me. My heart is hammering, and my stomach is cramping with hunger that physically hurts me.
“Ice cream will fix everything.” I race to the kitchen and fumble around for a clean spoon before plunging it into the ice cream.
