Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Author's Note
The Sophia Kelly Chronicles
Bloodbound Nocturne
Amy J. Wenglar
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Amy J. Wenglar
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: [email protected]
First paperback edition July 2019
Book cover design by Ampersand Book Cover Designs
ISBN 978-1-0760-0270-9 (paperback)
www.amyjwenglar.com
CHAPTER ONE
You know you've been marked for something extraordinary in life when, from out of nowhere, a cat lands on your shoulder, digging in with sharp claws and perching himself there as if it's the only place in the world he needs to be. I wish I could say this doesn't happen very often, but it does. Almost daily. Moody and skittish, Horace is the neighborhood stray who hates everyone. Except for me. I catch him at all hours of the day and night watching me with bright-eyed fascination. I'm not exactly sure how he even gets into the apartment on the days I have the windows closed. He's a sneaky little bastard. I swear, if he weren't a cat I'd find his behavior a little unsettling.
"Agh, Horace," I mutter, wriggling myself free and wincing with pain as his talon-like claws tear into my skin. He leaps from my shoulder and lands gracefully on my freshly made bed. "You know I'm leaving today, right? You'll have to find someone else to stalk."
Horace narrows his yellow-green eyes in response, as if he can understand what I'm saying. He licks his whiskers and offers a chirpy meow in response, watching me with determined curiosity for a moment. Then, as if I mean absolutely nothing to him, he jumps from the bed and out the bedroom window, making his usual smooth exit.
My mother pokes her head through the doorway, and I can tell it's been a long night for her, but then again, every night is a long night for my mother. The stench of alcohol and cigarettes wafts into my room when she steps in, dressed in nothing but a faded old unicorn T-shirt and white lace panties. My mother is a mess.
"Good morning," she says, trying to hide her slurred speech. She's been drunk since I got home from work last night, and she can't fool me. She's never been able to fool me. "I have an early shift today, so I should be home by the time you get home from work, and… What are you doing?"
"Oh, that Horace," I grumble as I twist and turn, trying to see how badly he's shredded my shoulder today. "He just finished his shoulder acrobatics and took off. Asshole."
"I don't like that cat," my mother snarls, suddenly angry. "I don't like the way he watches you."
After confirming I am not bleeding to death, I shake out my arm and resume my last-minute packing. My mother is convinced that something is out to get me. Last week, it was the Amazon delivery guy, who she swore was not of this world. Now, it seems, she has moved on to Horace.
"Well, I'm leaving today, so Horace will just have to forget whatever evil schemes he's concocting in his little cat brain."
"Leaving?" My mother places a bony hand over her heart as if this is the first she's heard of it.
"Mom, we talked about this, remember? I'm leaving today. Flying to Austin to meet Greg. Remember? I'm going to the University of Texas to study music. Greg and I are going off to college."
My mother leans her thin figure against the doorframe and runs a hand through her brittle platinum hair, which is badly in need of a touch-up. She used to have beautiful hair. Long, dark, and thick. I'm not sure what possessed her to cut it and dye it blond. Her face is blank with confusion, like she's searching, trying to remember the conversation we had just last night and at least a hundred times before that.
"Oh yeah," she says airily.
She wants me to think she remembers our conversation, but I know she doesn't. Suddenly serious, my mother staggers toward me, taking my face in her hands. "I know there are things I do that embarrass you. I haven't been the best mother to you, Sophie-Bug. But I need you to listen to me." She takes my right hand and flips it over, rubbing her thumb over the crescent-shaped scar that I've had on the inside of my wrist for as long as I can remember. "This," she says, pressing gently on the scar as tears fill her eyes. "Oh, Sophie, I've tried so hard to keep you hidden all these years. Sheltered from this life…"
Sheltered? Hidden? Please. I'm not exactly sure what life my mother thinks she's hiding me from, unless it's a normal, healthy one. She leaves drugs carelessly strewn all over the apartment, colorful little remnants of wild nights and even wilder people. I've found small bags of silvery powder hidden in various drawers around the house. I am always stepping on shimmery iridescent pills. And don't get me started on the vials of bright, toxic-looking substances. Designer drugs may be pretty, but they're a nightmare to clean out of carpeting.
"It's just a birthmark, Mom," I say as I gently try to disentangle myself from her surprisingly tight hold on my arms.
"It's not," she hisses, her eyes wild with paranoia. "They've marked you. They marked you with light so they could find you. So he can find you. How many times do I have to tell you that before you believe me?" She shakes her head as the tears start to fall, smearing last night's heavy eyeliner even further. I have no idea who “he” is. My mother never mentions him by name, but he is apparently very mysterious. And very interested in me, for some reason. I hope he's cute at least. "You are twenty-one years old, Sophie-Bug, and I can't keep you from your destiny any longer," she continues. "I thought by ridding myself of that… horrible book… that I could throw him off somehow… But no. They will still come to collect you and take you back with them. I know they will." She pauses, her eyes wide with fright.
I'm not sure who “they” are, either. My mother always prefers to be vague rather than just come out with it. But from what I've been able to gather over the years, I've got a gang of supernatural baddies after me because I have a birthmark on my wrist and some kind of light inside of me. Seems legit.
"Mom." I want to be a good daughter, but she really tries my patience, and I'm already running late. "If this is about faeries, or vampires, or the government again…"
A blank stare crosses her face, followed by a dreamy, far-off expression. The drugs are obviously still in effect. "Mom…" I trail off, feeling the heavy weight of defeat pushing down on my shoulders.
It's no use though. My mother's eyes dart around the room as if fearful that someone is listening, and she looks lost as I place my hands on her weary shoulders and stare into the shallow depths of her tired eyes. Her paranoia is going to break her, if the drugs don't do it first. My mother is a hot mess.
I do my best to shrug off the weirdness that surrounds my life, but sometimes she and the strange crowd she runs with manage to get to me. Sometimes I see things that shouldn't be there. People who seem to come in and o
ut of nowhere. I know deep down that something isn't right here, and I've got to get away before my mother takes me down with her.
"Okay, tell you what. I really need to take a shower and get ready for my flight. Why don't you just go and get some rest? Okay? I'll call you when I get to Austin, and if they haven't gotten me yet, we can talk more about this."
She gives me a horrified look as if she can't believe I'm so nonchalant about them.
"When will you be home?" she asks with a loud sniffle that makes my stomach turn.
Hopefully never.
"Probably around the holidays. Not really sure. But we'll figure it out later, okay?" I don't see the point of talking with her right now. She's fading fast, and the way she's sniffing, wiping her nose, and babbling on about the supernatural suggests she's been flying high for hours. She won't remember this conversation an hour from now. "You should get some rest," I say flatly.
She nods, takes a step back, and then turns in the direction of her bedroom, bumping her shoulder on the doorframe and muttering to herself as she leaves. A pang of guilt hits me as I make my way to our bathroom. I shouldn't want to go, but the thought of getting out of Los Angeles, leaving this ghetto of a neighborhood, makes me feel giddy. Hopeful, even. And that's not a feeling I have very often.
I make a face at my reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror. Greg, my best friend since childhood, will most certainly have a critique of my worn-out appearance as soon as he sees me, and I know precisely what will top the list. He'll say my long golden-blond hair is ragged and dry and that I need to sleep more because my blue-gray eyes look more gray than blue. And then he'll make a joke about my height. Greg always makes fun of how I tower over him, even at a modest five foot eight. But he is my best friend, my cheerleader, my personal stylist, and my biggest fan. He's the reason I applied to the university in the first place. Three years late, but I suppose it's better late than never. I'd be lost without my Greg, even if he is shorter and younger than me.
I hate flying. Even though I've never actually flown anywhere before, I know I will hate it. I've managed to make it to my gate with my two pieces of luggage, but I’m clutching my boarding pass so tightly that it's crumpled and sweaty. Greg told me what to do, how to navigate LAX, and I'd meticulously gone over his instructions on the cab ride to the airport, just to be safe.
I scoot through the narrow airplane aisle until I reach my seat, where I quickly sit down and promptly buckle myself in. One can never be too safe. I look around, orienting myself with the barf bag and the nearest exit in case I need to evacuate the plane, or the contents of my stomach. I want to be prepared. Once I am satisfied, I pull a book out of my suitcase and start to read.
I’m a couple of pages in when I am startled by the whooshing sound of papers falling from the overhead bin above my seat, followed by a string of what sounds like curse words, but I'm not really sure, because they're not in English. I turn and am awkwardly faced with the slender torso of a peculiarly handsome man, neatly dressed in dark-gray trousers and a crisp white shirt. He smells of clean, woodsy cologne with a hint of exotic spice.
"Oh, let me help." I spring to life, leaning over just as he's stooping to pick up the scattered pages. Our heads collide with a loud thunking sound, much to the amusement of everyone around us. "Ooh." I jerk back involuntarily. Then, as I proceed to help him pick up the pages, his gaze locks with mine. For a moment, I am completely frozen, lost in the most hypnotic pair of blue eyes I've ever seen. He looks surprised and frowns for a moment, and for a split second I feel like I know him and he knows me. But that's impossible. Men like him never associate with women like me. With raised eyebrows, he pulls his gaze from mine, and we scurry to pick up the rest of the pages.
"I think that's all of it," I say, handing him the last of what I was able to collect.
His hand brushes against mine as he takes the pages, and I pull back, startled. There's something electric in his touch. His eyes widen slightly, and I wonder if he's felt the same thing.
"Thank you," he grumbles as he sits down in the seat next to me with a defeated sigh and a glance in my direction that tells me he'd rather be anywhere else.
Apparently, he did not feel the same thing.
The energy I feel radiating from his body makes my skin tingle with a strange sort of excitement that I've never felt before. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and try not to stare at him. There's no way I can handle this for an entire flight. He lowers the small tray table in front of him and begins rearranging and stacking the pages, which I soon realize are sheets of music.
"Oh, that's piano music," I blurt, grasping on to what little connection I might have with this man. My face flushes as soon as I say it.
He pauses and gives me a sidelong glance as if he can't be bothered to do anything else.
"Yes," he says tightly.
The grumpy pianist does his best to organize and dust off the sheets, which are now filthy from being on the floor of an airplane, and I do my best to return to my reading. I can't concentrate, though. The plane soon begins to taxi toward the runway, and I feel my stomach churn nervously. I am not cut out for this flying business. Gripping the armrests, I remind myself to breathe as the plane prepares for takeoff.
"You're okay," he murmurs without looking at me. "No need to rip apart the armrests."
His voice is barely audible over the noise of the plane. He's making notes on the music, which is now spread out across his lap.
Probably the most he's ever comforted anyone in his entire life.
"First time flying," I admit. "I've never flown before. Always wanted to, though. But now that I'm going to school, I suppose I have to get there somehow, right?"
He ignores me as he continues to scrawl feverishly across the pages of music. I peek down at the pages, hoping to distract myself, but his notes are written in what looks like German, though I don't know for sure. The pianist is so focused on his work that I decide to use the opportunity to steal another look at him. He isn't handsome in the conventional hunky-male-model sort of way, but there is something about his wavy dark hair that curls slightly at the tips of his ears, his strikingly sharp, chiseled features, and his bright blue eyes that draws me in. He looks like an intellectual, bookishly handsome. There's something else there that I pick up on. Beyond his arrogant, confident appearance, an intriguing darkness surrounds him. I find myself so lost in my admiration that I don't realize that he has stopped writing on his music and is staring right back at me, his sharp blue gaze meeting mine with such intensity that I look away quickly.
"Is something wrong?" he asks irritably.
Feeling my face burn with embarrassment, I shake my head and pretend to delve back into my book.
Way to play it cool, Sophie.
I'm not sure how long I've been asleep, but I wake up with a terrible pain in my neck. As I take a moment to reorient myself to my surroundings, I become very well aware that I have been using the pianist's bony shoulder as a pillow. And I'm drooling. I blink a couple of times, feeling my heart speeding up as I try to determine the best course of action for this particular situation.
"Did you have a nice nap?" he asks in that same bored, monotone voice.
I glance down to see he is still working on his music, but now it looks like he's actually writing music as opposed to marking up someone else's. I slowly lift my head, feeling pain shoot down my neck from the awkward angle at which I had been resting.
"I am so sorry," I mutter, wiping a bit of drool from my chin. "I am so embarrassed."
"I took the liberty of ordering you some orange juice," he says, handing me a small plastic cup from his tray table. "You were out cold."
I'm not sure how he knew what I like to drink, but I'm thirsty and don't want to think about that right now. I take the cup from him, taking care not to touch him again.
"Thank you," I say, surprised by his kindness.
He clenches his jaw a couple of times before he smiles tightly at me, as if he’s
afraid he might shatter his cheekbones if he’s any more enthusiastic.
"We will be landing soon," he mutters, gathering his music into a neat stack and stuffing it carefully into the seat pocket in front of him.
He gets up and heads toward the back of the plane, and I suddenly feel a strange longing for him to return, which I can't really explain, since he's been wound so tightly for the entire flight that he's about to snap. Not exactly what I was hoping for in a seatmate.
My eyes flick down to the music he placed in the seat pocket. I bite my lower lip, filled with an overwhelming curiosity, and, hooking my finger over the top of the pages, I start to flip through them. His handwritten music is so crude it's almost illegible, and hard to interpret, but I can tell one thing for sure. The music he's written is for violin and piano. I study his intricate Bach-like melody, humming it to myself as I go along.
"A composer's work is sacred, you know."
I jump and shove the music back into the seat pocket, offering him a sheepish smile in apology.
"I-I… I just wanted… I was curious, and…" I lick my dry lips, fumbling for words, any words. But I can hardly talk. He seems to have that effect on me. Or maybe I'm just not used to handsome, sophisticated-looking men talking to me. "I play the violin," I finally stammer. "I saw it's written for violin, and—"
"What I'm writing is no one's business," he hisses.
"Well, then don't leave it out for everyone to see. And don't drop it all over the floor," I snap, waving my hands in the direction of the aisle. My face flares with a combination of annoyance and embarrassment at my little outburst.
His eyebrows rise, and he opens his mouth to speak, but then stops and presses his lips together.
Bloodbound Nocturne (The Sophia Kelly Chronicles Book 1) Page 1
