The Purebloods (Daemons of London - Book 3)

by Michaela Haze

  “Daemon or Bleeder?” I asked.

  “Bleeder. He’s the one that got Trix into it.” Bellend explained, her eyes flicked to the direction that Trix had run off to.

  I nodded. That explained Trix’s reaction.

  Sarah-Belle pointed to Henry, who had remained silent on the sofa during our entire conversation. “You might want to watch your daemon. If he’s been giving you blood, it could mean he’s next.”

  I put my head in my hand and let out a long sigh. “That’s another thing I don’t bloody need.”

  Henry was out for the count, if the Satanic Slayer set his sights on him, then he was a goner.

  That was if Lillian Blaire didn’t come back from wherever I had blasted her to.

  I grabbed Henry’s still fingers in my own and knotted them together as I pulled him down the hall and into my bedroom. His skin felt cold to the touch like he had been out in the dead of winter without any gloves on. I sat him down on the edge of my futon bed, shoving the white sheets to the side to make a space so that I could sit by his side.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath around the lump in my throat. My lip trembled and tears that couldn’t spill burned behind my eyes. I slapped my cheeks and tried to take another breath but found it almost impossible.

  “Where did you go, Henry?” I whispered, I stood in front of him. I reached forward to trace the square edge of his jaw, I flinched when I reached his vacant doe-like eyes. His long lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. They were sharp enough to cut glass. I rested my thumb on his soft bottom lip. Henry didn’t need oxygen like a human did. I felt no breath on my hand when I caressed his facial features as if I could imprint him on my mind before he was taken from me again.

  “You’re always fucking taken from me, aren’t you?” I croaked as I rested the flat of my palm on his face. His deep royal blue eyes, which I always associated with a Lapiz lazuli gemstone, stared into space where my heart was as I crouched in front of him; but he was unseeing. Gone.

  I sat down by his side and rested my head on Henry’s shoulder. I allowed my hair to spill over him until it tickled the side of his face.

  I wanted to touch him so badly that it became a need. Like air. But he was just a body that the man I loved had left behind.

  Henry Blaire had always been my addiction, since the first time I had met him in his Notting Hill terrace house when I paid him to kill the two men that murdered my sister, Melanie.

  I closed my eyes. The night would come soon, and with it—Asmodeus.

  5.

  When I opened my eyes, I wasn’t on my futon bed; instead, I weaved through the streets of London. The air was thick with coal smog, and the smell of fish clung to my nostrils. I wrinkled my nose and noticed the woman in front of me as if I was tethered to her existence and unable to get away.

  The woman had a braid of raven hair woven down her back, dressed in a floor-length cotton dress and covered in a knitted shawl. I couldn’t decipher her age from the way she walked. Her gait was slumped, beaten down by the world. She wrung her hands nervously; her fingers were covered in calluses. I couldn’t see her face until the woman blew her breath into her chilled fingers to warm them. Her emerald eyes squinted against the harsh sunlight.

  The woman was Lillian Blaire.

  I looked around us at the area, but I did not recognise it. A man wolf whistled, riding past on a maroon bicycle. The basket at the front was full of loaves of bread; his cap was flat.

  My brow furrowed in confusion but Lillian waved back at the young man as he winked and flew past; his bike mounted the curb as he darted around a stationary horse and cart.

  Lillian turned and began to walk towards me; I waved my hand in front of her face but she did not see me. I looked closely at her ruddy complexion and stray flyaway hairs that tried to escape from her braid. Lillian Blaire was human.

  I thought back to what Henry had told me about his history. He had said that he had met Lillian sometime in the 1930’s. He had claimed that she had seduced him from a bar when he drowned his sorrows.

  When I looked at Lillian Blaire, I saw a working class girl in a fish market. I only knew where we were because the words ‘London Docklands’ were cast in iron over the walkway, dirty and overbearing.

  Lillian weaved through the streets, pausing at the occasional stall but not allowing herself to spend more than a few seconds at each one. Her hands trailed over the edges of the fish displays, her heeled boots stepped lithely through the puddles caused by the melted ice on the streets.

  Lillian walked. We reached a side street and she looked over her shoulder in caution. I hovered like a spectre, wondering why I was privy to that moment in Lillian’s past.

  “I’ve got what you’re looking for, girl.” A croaky voice sounded from the darkness; a cloud of smoke came from our left. I saw the figure before Lillian did. He was a stocky man, sucking on a pipe. The stranger was non-descript, except for the repaired and patchy blazer slung across his shoulders. He reached into his pocket. My spine went rigid, as I expected him to pull a weapon. But he didn’t.

  Lillian showed no fear as she stepped forward; her hands were in a position that implied she was ready to beg. I scoffed in disgust.

  “Please, sir,” She whispered. “I need the bones. I have to…my sister is sick.”

  “Ain’t no way summoning the devil is gonna cure the consumption.” The man drew a rasping breath to gather phlegm to the back of his throat.

  Lillian paid him no mind. “I don’t care what you say! I need those bones,”

  The man took a step forward, and Lillian found herself pressed against the harsh brick of alley wall. He reached forward and touched her face with his nicotine-stained fingers. Lillian turned her to the left, stiffly. She bit her lip but kept her eyes open and focused somewhere far away. Her stance was submissive, but her fists were clenched. Everything I knew about Lillian Blaire caused me to expect her to reach out and grab his throat, but Lillian was human. Weak.

  The man nodded as if he found what he was looking for by touching her skin. He pulled his hand out of his ratty blazer and gave the raven-haired beauty a handful of bones. From my position, they looked like bleached and yellowing twigs, but I knew better.

  Lillian nodded stiffly and took a hesitant step away.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, girl,” The man said darkly. He held his palm out flat, “I want you to be paying now. Give me what we agreed.”

  Lillian leant down and pulled a roll of old notes from her boot; her fingers shook as she stuffed them into his clammy fist with her free hand. Her other hand was close to her chest, clinging to the bones as if her life depended on it.

  The man nodded, satisfied. Lillian turned on her heel and ran.

  The world shifted and I found myself in an art deco hallway, in front of a brilliant staircase. Lillian was dressed to the nines with her hair in a chignon and slinky black dress. The bannisters were teak wood and servers swept through the tiled hallway with professional ease.

  A string quartet sat at the entrance of the party, playing a tune I didn’t recognise.

  “Pachelbel’s Canon,” Asmodeus’s husky voice filled my head, and I realised she was the one that was responsible for the impromptu trip down memory lane. But were they her memories, or Lillian Blaire’s?

  More confused than ever, I followed Lillian through the party as she moved with confidence. A man in a white server's uniform darted forward to politely whisper in her ear. I heard him question her invitation to the event. In such high-class society, there wasn’t an outraged uproar. It was practised and delicate.

  Lillian licked her bottom lip and stared into the male server's eyes with deep intensity. He broke off contact and walked away stiffly. Lillian touched a finger to her ear; I saw a spot of blood.

  It made sense. Lillian Blaire had been a Witchling and there was a physical cost for wielding that sort of power.

  Lillian walked through the group. Her sparkling eyes darted from per
son to person, but they never hovered for more than a few seconds. Lillian knew what she wanted and what she had come for.

  I spotted him at the bar, just as she did. Henry Blaire.

  His mahogany hair was slicked back; he wore a pinstriped suit but the jacket was slung over the side of the bar. His trousers were tucked into a white pressed shirt, held up by old fashioned braces. Henry knocked back a measure of amber coloured liquid and signalled the bartender for another.

  Maybe his history lesson hadn’t all been a lie. He had mentioned that he had been a wastrel, an alcoholic. The Henry from Lillian's past was a Pureblood; that fact hit me like a freight train.

  Some part of my mind had refused to believe that it was real, but I felt the pressure on the back of my neck like a thousand needles. The shining of his Celestine's eyes as they took the measure of the crowd was intense, daemonic.

  I wondered why he was at a high society party. Henry’s expression was grave, his brow furrowed as if the world was a puzzle to be unlocked but he was confident that the answers would not be to his liking. He didn’t have the taut anger that my daemon carried around with him.

  A scantily dressed woman, compared to the rest of the crowd, walked past. Her hips swayed and her blonde hair, in tight pin curls, bobbed. Henry grabbed her wrist and dragged her onto his lap. Without a thought, he buried his head into her neck and began to kiss her slowly, luxuriously.

  Jealousy pinched my stomach, and I held my chest as I watched. Unable to look away.

  Lillian had moved to the edge of the bar and surveyed the amorous couple out of the corner of her eye. Lillian fiddled with the cocktail olive on the side of her glass as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

  Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, Henry placed the blonde on the bar and lifted her skirt. The crowd around them did not seem to care. When I stepped forward, I reached up and placed my hand against the change of pressure in the air. Henry had created a bubble around them, a silent screen while he ravished the lifeforce from the blonde.

  He licked, sucked and played between her legs as the beautiful blonde mewled like a cat. My fists clenched and I closed my eyes, unable to bear the onslaught of powerful emotions that crested through me.

  I had been unable to hand the knowledge that Henry had left me for Lillian, that he had been with her when I still pined for him. Waited for him to come back to me after what we shared together.

  I couldn’t bear to watch him, but I couldn’t look away.

  Asmodeus was torturing me. Ripping my soul in two.

  I opened my eyes in time to see the blonde woman’s fingers twist into Henry’s slicked back hair. A stray lock tumbled onto his forehead, but he did not smile when their eyes met. He simply flicked a hand, and an invisible force pressed the blonde’s body to the bar.

  When my feet took me closer, the barrier absorbed me like warm bath water, and the sounds of their lust reached my ears tenfold. I saw the acts for what it was. Feeding. Pure and simple.

  An orgasm ripped from the blonde’s painted lips, but it forced its way out her throat as if it was uncontrollable. So strong that it was painful.

  Henry stood up as soon as he was done. He took a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his mouth. Reaching around the comatose blonde, he knocked his drink back and walked away from the bar.

  Lillian Blaire followed him out.

  I was thrown from the memory in a stomach clenching drop. I pressed the palms of my hands into my eye sockets and tried to figure out where I was and what had happened.

  A smartphone weighed down my hand, and I daren’t let go of it. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. The memory of my bedroom and my head resting on Henry Blaire’s shoulder swam to the surface of my mind. I looked around, disappointed to find that was no longer the case.

  The sun was low and blinding. The air had a bite and the grass was dewy. I found myself surrounded by roses of all colours. Walls of foliage surrounded me; a prison made of hedgerows. I took a shivering step forward, with my hands clasped over my chest. My bare feet sunk into the soft muddy grass.

  “Henry?!” I screamed, my voice rang out and echoed through the maze. No one replied.

  I started to run with my hands thrust out in front of me to ward against my clumsiness. The last thing I needed was to trip face first into a rose bush. Fear lanced my veins and made my chest heave. Ice crawled up my calf muscles as my feet thumped against the ground.

  One – Two – One – Two

  The thorny maze began to creak with the weight of my ice. I found myself reaching for the red smoke that connected me to Henry. It had faded significantly since the last time I had seen him. Was that because my soul was gone?

  Can you have a soul mate if you don’t have a soul? I wondered. I gritted my teeth and grabbed the crimson thread with all my mental power, like a low-hanging vine. I pulled myself towards Henry and felt the world melt away. My back slapped against the marble floor and I found myself staring at a glimmering chandelier. Damian’s face leant over mine. I scrambled away, my feet were unable to find purchase on the slick tiled floor.

  When I checked the phone in my hand, a text from an unknown number read:

  Give her back.

  I slumped on the stairwell, clutching a Smartphone that wasn’t mine. The message that flashed across the screen left a deep foreboding in my bones. Damian had disappeared quickly after I had appeared, uninterested in the fact that I had ripped open the fabric of reality to get to him.

  I pulled my arms tightly around my shivering body; I noted that I wasn’t cold but was going into shock. My teeth clattered against each other, and I rubbed the palms of my hands down my inner thighs. When I reached the apex, I jumped as if I had been burnt. I had been close to touching myself and hadn’t even thought about. My mouth salivated with the need to feed, and the ache in my stomach craved the spark of life that hid under someone else's skin.

  A thumping knock at the door made me jump, and my steps hesitated when I thought about standing up to open it. Luckily, my internal dilemma wasn’t noticed when a cowering man in a server’s outfit answered the door with a flourish.

  Beatrix Klein walked in regally, Henry Blaire followed her like a dog on a leash.

  Unable to control myself, I ran forward and pulled Henry into a tight embrace. I had been so worried about him. About what had happened to him when I had been under.

  I reached to my left and gripped Trix’s tattooed fingers in my own.

  “Thank you,” I whispered as I buried my head against Henry’s marble statue-like shoulder.

  6.

  Trix caught me as I sagged in relief at the sight of her. Damian stepped out of thin air into the hallway behind us. His hands were in his pockets, and he eyed Henry with disdain.

  Trix shot him a look that I didn’t understand, “Are you going to help?” She hissed at the Pureblood.

  Damian smirked and licked his bottom lip, shrugging silently to give his answer. Trix snarled in exasperation. My head swirled as if I was drunk.

  “Amore needs to feed continuously,” Damian explained, placing the back of his hand against my chilled forehead. “Even if you are only a host, you need to sustain your body in the way that a daemon would.”

  I shook my head, and my mouth went slack; my tongue became so uncoordinated that it was a miracle I could even speak. “No.”

  “You don’t want to touch another person? Even if it will stop you feeling like shit?” Damian grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. My feet stumbled across the flat marble floor as I reached back for Henry. Damian rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

  “Bring the statue!” He shouted to the empty room, he was so used to his orders being followed that Damian didn’t stick around to see if anyone had heard him.

  Damian stepped into the space between worlds; I followed him.

  My spine hit the cool silk sheets as I landed back to reality with a thud. Damian’s grabbed my han
ds and pressed them together above my head.

  I hated my body’s reaction to him. Damian’s deep russet eyes sought mine. His typically cocky demeanour melted away. Fear and lust battled each other in my body, and I couldn’t have said who was winning for the life of me. I wanted to feed.

  But I couldn’t give up my relationship with Henry.

  Henry Blaire was trapped in his own body, and I was damned if he was going to suffer alone.

  “What’s it called when you teleport like that?” I breathed, my chest heaved as I fought to change the subject.

  Damian jerked back as if I had shocked him, and then rolled off me and pressed his forehead against the bedspread. “It’s called Lacing.”

  “Like fabric?”

  I fiddled with my hands in silence until I heard a knock. With a heavy sigh, Damian rolled off the bed and opened the door. Henry Blaire was marched in by Annabelle, Damian’s personal daemon assistant. I tried to smile but my lips wobbled in uncertainty. Anna ignored me as she deposited my daemon in front of the bed and left.

  Damian’s arrogant demeanour was back as he looked between us both. “Go on then,” he demanded with a flourish of his wrist. “Feed.”

  “I can’t feed from him like this,” I narrowed my eyes.

  “What do you want me to do?” Damian smiled innocently. “My brother was fool enough to be cursed by a Witchling. He could have asked for my help many years ago, but he didn’t.”

  “Do you ever think that maybe Henry thinks that he deserves to be cursed?” I asked.

  Damian snorted a laugh, “Haage is a Pureblood. We are never more or less than what we are,” He pushed his blonde hair out of his eyes; his expression became mischievous. “What would you do? To get your Henry back?”

  Hope flared in my chest but I clamped my teeth together to prevent myself from speaking too rashly. Damian had laid a trap that he knew I would willingly walk into.