The Blood of a Stone

by Richard Braine

  The

  Blood of a Stone

  A Monsoon Series

  Richard Braine Jr.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, settings, or historical events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Similarities to names, places, events, and characters are the product of the author’s imagination, and any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Proof reading agency: PaperTrue

  (www.papertrue.com)

  Cover designed by DAMONZA

  (www.damonza.com)

  Copyright © 2019 by Richard Braine Jr.

  All rights reserved.

  For my beautiful wife, Tamitha.

  Thank you for your endless support.

  I’m sorry I killed your character.

  PROLOGUE—RAIN

  Rain splashed at Ember’s feet as she ran across the street to club Faceless. The wicked summer storm had finally subsided as it chased the sunset west; an annoying drizzle and a cool breeze were all that remained. Ember stopped under the overhang at the club’s entrance just long enough to read the Kate’s Mind concert poster tacked to the door.

  The band was new to Ember. She had never heard of them before she heard an advertisement on a local Tulsa radio station the previous day. She was hooked to them after just one song; their unique lyrics and sweet guitar riffs were a rare find in today’s rock music. The concert seemed to be a good way to kill Saturday night and celebrate her acceptance to the university next semester; plus, a night of careless fun was long overdue. This was Ember’s eighth campus tour in as many weeks. Education had been her addiction for as long as she could remember. She graduated from some of the most elite schools in the country, which included Yale, Harvard, Brown, and MIT, twice. Luckily, she had never had to worry for tuitions or traveling expenses—she had more money than a person could spend in a lifetime, though it was impossible to discern just by looking at her. She didn’t look a day over twenty-one, and she rarely ever used her private jet.

  Ember opened the door and was immediately struck with a wall of cigarette smoke riding a wave of rhythmic loud rock music pumping from the inside. She handed her ID to the bouncer. The brawny and muscled bouncer shot Ember a sideways look, as if the ID was fake.

  Judging a book by its cover is challenging and often dangerous. Ember’s close-fitting black dress exposed a tattoo on her shoulder—a gothic fairy with a trail or stars behind her. The diamond at the center of her pendant, worth more than the entire club, enhanced her sapphire eyes. Her dark hair and innocent smile added to the illusion, and that made it extremely difficult to decode the real Ember.

  Ember knew she didn’t have to worry, fake ID or not. The bouncer would let her into the club in hope of some desperate guy spending his hard-earned money buying her expensive drinks.

  The bouncer handed the ID back and stepped aside.

  Faceless was set up like any other club. The dimly lit building was packed with rock fans, and a gigantic sound system pumped out loud music, keeping the crowd grooving between bands. Half a dozen of the usual semi-clothed push-up bra wearing bartenders worked behind the main bar. Each girl wore a tight, black tank top with FACELESS in white letters printed across their chests to make their cleavages stand out for bigger tips.

  Ember ordered a Cape Cod—her signature drink—as her eyes followed the stairs next to the busy bar up to the high ceiling and the balcony that circled the entire club for a great view of the stage. A rather tall guy squeezed in rudely beside Ember, making her nearly spill the drink. The guy’s friend wedged his way in next, forcing the tall guy even closer to Ember. She knew what was about to happen even before a single word was uttered.

  “Hey sugar,” said the tall guy, “we haven’t seen you in here before.”

  Any guy who referred to Ember as “sugar” was not the type of guy she was hoping to attract.

  “That’s probably because I haven’t been in here before,” she replied with a hint of sarcasm. “You’re very observant.”

  The tall guy and his friend were definitely not her type. They were both clearly intoxicated before the headlining band could strum a single chord. The tall guy stood eye to eye with Ember, and his shorter, heavyset friend stood right behind him. They both wore biker vests with Lucky 13 patches embroidered and ball caps with a large number thirteen at the center. Ember had been to enough clubs around the country to know she didn’t want anything to do with these wannabe motorcycle club guys.

  The tall guy continued hitting on Ember.

  “How about we buy that fine ass a dri—”

  “Not interested,” Ember interjected, turning away.

  A smile appeared on the bartender’s face as she gave Ember her change.

  “Screw her Marty!” said the short guy, elbowing his biker buddy in the ribs as Ember walked away.

  Ember had a feeling it wasn’t the last time they’d try that tonight. She sipped her drink as she wove through the crowd toward the stairs going up to the balcony.

  Rain had been watching the two guys from across the bar. He saw them hitting on the stunningly beautiful young girl from practically the moment she walked in. They were fast movers. He saw the two joke with each other as the girl shot them down and walked away.

  Rain had not missed a Kate’s Mind show since attending the band’s concert for the first time at a Chicago music festival four years back. Since then, he had seen them everywhere, from New York City to Seattle and every venue in between. Rain found it odd that someone as attractive as this girl was out alone tonight. He ran his tongue over his deadly sharp fangs, wondering what her blood would taste like, as his eyes followed the girl making her way up the crowded stairs.

  Rain turned his attention back to the local motorcycle club. One thing he had observed on his trips to Tulsa was that Lucky Thirteen motorcycle club’s main mission was always trouble. Depending on the night, the club ranged anywhere from ten to twenty members. The amount of trouble intensified with the number. That night, they were in full force at the end of the bar, poking fun at the guy who just got shot down by the blue-eyed mystery girl. A few of them were even attempting to coax the tall guy to give it another shot.

  Rain sat waiting patiently for the band to take the stage. Those fools will never learn, he thought.

  Ember found an empty spot along the railing of the balcony and sipped her drink. She scanned the crowd below and saw the two drunken bikers laughing it up with their buddies at the bar.

  “Jerks,” she whispered to herself.

  Rain silently agreed with the mystery girl’s observation.

  The stage lights went out, and the crowd erupted in excitement. Ember heard the guitar amps click on and noticed the silhouettes of the band members moving around on the stage. Her heart pounded with anticipation. The energy of the crowd grew louder as the guitar feedback ramped up through the massive sound system. The stage lights turned steadily brighter. The lead singer, Jimmy, and other guitarist were in front of their amps, their guitars in hand and their backs to the crowd. The drummer began a nice, slow groove that the bass and the guitars matched perfectly. The music intensified with every measure, and the volume slowly crept louder and louder.

  Ember’s heart raced to keep pace with the beat.

  Rain could feel Ember’s anticipation as her heart pounded away.

  The music stopped, and the speakers went silent as Jimmy stepped up to the mic. He brushed a few long, dark strands of curly hair out of his face and smiled. He yelled, “Pick it up Tulsa!”

  The whole band kicked back in with perfect time. The crowd cheered as the band jammed out a few measures. They were absolutely amazing. They had sharp guitar riffs and perfect rhythm, all led b
y possibly the best front-man Ember had ever seen. She was blown away, to say the least, and the band hadn’t even finished their first song.

  After several songs, Ember headed down the stairs to buy herself another drink. She quickly scanned the crowd and saw that her secret biker admirers were down at the far end of the bar. She made it a point to order from as far away as possible.

  The bar was packed, possibly over its capacity. It took an entire song for Ember to get another drink. She grabbed the glass from the bar only to discover she stood once again face to face with Marty, her new biker friend.

  Marty immediately got too close for comfort. “How about we buy you that drink now?” he said with half a sly smile.

  Ember could smell the alcohol on Marty’s breath. “Looks like you’ve had your share,” she said irritably. “And I already have a drink. Those observation skills are hurting your game.”

  Ember sidestepped to walk around Marty.

  “Come on. What happens in Tulsa stays in Tulsa,” the shorter guy said with a grin, stepping in Ember’s way. Shorty had a gap in his teeth wide enough to drive a city bus right through.

  “That was original,” she replied, rolling her eyes as she read the name on his jacket. “Did you and your playmates come up with that in your tree-house after school, Shorty?”

  Ember was annoyed; she didn’t want to miss the rest of the band’s set because a couple of drunken jerks couldn’t take her hint.

  “Damn, honey,” Marty said arrogantly, “you’ve got a bad little mouth to match that nice little ass.”

  Marty was now tucked up close behind Ember. She shuddered from the touch of his hand sliding up her thigh. The crowd was too thick for anyone else to notice what was going on, and the music was loud enough that no one else could hear their conversation—almost no one.

  Ember knew they weren’t going to take no for an answer. She wasn’t the first and won’t be the last girl they hit on. Ember looked toward the main entrance for the bouncer, but he was no longer there. Reluctantly, she turned to face Marty with a fake smile on her face.

  “You have no idea of the things I’d do to you, honey,” she mocked, running her hand down his chest.

  Marty grinned at his buddy who was now behind Ember. Ember didn’t think twice; she raised her knee hard, and hit Marty right between his legs. He went down instantly.

  Ember retreated. She needed to get to an open space, and she needed to get there fast. She headed straight for the closest exit, which probably led to the alley beside the club. It didn’t matter; she just needed open space. She headed for the door, bouncing side to side off people in the crowd until she hit the door and practically tumbled outside. The cool air was refreshing compared to the thick smoke inside the club. The door shut behind her as she reached for her purse. It was gone! How could she have been so careless? Her most valuable possession was in that purse.

  “Shit!” she exclaimed, turning back toward the door.

  Drumbeats and bass guitar poured from the club as the door suddenly opened from the inside. The alley was dark at this time of night, and Ember knew it wasn’t the bouncer at the doorway. She saw the short biker step out with two more of his club members. As the door slammed shut behind them, it muffled the music from the inside.

  Ember guessed they weren’t out for a breath of fresh air.

  Shorty walked over to a line of parked motorcycles. Each bike had a green spade and number thirteen painted on the black gas tank. He grabbed what looked like a hammer from a leather saddle bag straddled on the back fender.

  The bar door swung open again as Marty limped out with two more guys. He was still holding his groin after Ember’s knee.

  “Hold her!” Marty shouted with pain in his voice as the door slammed shut behind him. “I’m first!”

  Ember needed her purse. Now!

  The guys circled around Ember, blocking her from fleeing. Shorty and another biker grabbed her by her shoulders and shoved her against the brick wall soaked from the rain earlier.

  Ember could hear the clink of metal as Marty limped closer unbuckling his belt.

  The door opened a third time and shut back just as fast. Ember strained to twist her neck around and watch. She could barely make out the silhouette of a man in a dark t-shirt and shiny black leather pants standing in front of Marty. The man stood still, almost like a statue.

  “This ain’t a peep show friend!” shouted Marty. “Invitation only! Keep moving!”

  “Nice jacket,” Rain said calmly. “Lucky Charms. Isn’t that the little kids’ cereal with fun, colorful marshmallows?”

  “Hey friend!” snapped Marty. “Do you know who you’re messing with? It says Lucky Thirteen, dick!”

  Rain took a step forward, closing in on Marty.

  “The Lucky Thirteen Dicks?” asked Rain. “Nice name for a bunch of not-so-tough Tulsa bikers. Of course, I say that solely based on the fact that it’s taking four of you to hold down one lovely young girl who was clearly just trying to enjoy a nice night out for some live music.”

  Marty had enough of this distraction. He threw a punch.

  Rain moved like lightning, shifting left to dodge Marty’s fist. Marty swung again with the same result—a miss. Rain grabbed Marty’s arm midflight, and in one swift move, bent it the wrong way, breaking it right at the elbow.

  Marty shrieked out in pain.

  “And my name’s not friend. It’s Rain,” he said, lifting his head slowly as his lips curled into a thin smile. Rain’s dark eyes narrowed as the other bikers circled around him.

  Free from the bikers’ grasp, Ember spun around, throwing herself back against the wall. She was frozen in place, too terrified to run. Her eyes followed Rain. He was stunningly handsome and appeared to enjoy the challenge of saving her without so much as messing his perfectly styled dark hair.

  Shorty was the first to attack.

  Without even looking in his direction, Rain shot his arm out, grabbing Shorty by the throat and lifting him off the ground, as though he was weightless. Rain turned his head to the flailing biker and flashed his deadly fangs. A wet spot formed on the crotch of Shorty’s jeans. Terrified, the other Lucky Thirteen members stumbled backward, turned, and ran back inside the club. So much for loyalty.

  The hammer clanged on the pavement as Rain squeezed Shorty’s neck. Ember could hear the agonizing sound of bones shattering under his powerful grip. Shorty gurgled his last word, more of whimper, as Rain hurled him through the air like a rag doll straight into the line of motorcycles, knocking them down like dominoes.

  Rain casually walked over to where Marty lay sobbing from the pain of his broken arm. He grasped Marty’s hair and yanked his head back. A thin stream of blood trailed behind Rain’s finger nail as he sliced deep through Marty’s flesh.

  “Do you know who you’re messing with, honey?” Rain said, twisting Marty’s neck.

  Ember, now in tears, cringed from the repulsive sound of more bones breaking, like stepping on dry twigs.

  In the blink of an eye, Rain moved to Ember. He lightly brushed the hair away from her eyes. Tears rolled down her face as her lips parted to say something; although nothing came out as Rain gently wiped away another teardrop. The touch of his hand felt cold against her warm cheek.

  Rain held out a small cloth pouch that was laced shut. “I believe those men stole your purse,” he said, handing the pouch to Ember. “This was inside.”

  Ember reached out and snatched the pouch—her dust. She parted the laces, took out a pinch, raised her hand above her head, and closed her eyes, letting the dust fall over her body. It sparkled down her frame like a shower of tiny diamonds.

  Rain stepped back amazed. Ember was now only six inches tall and floating in front of him. She had the most amazing set of miniature black wings that complimented her petite black dress perfectly. Her eyes were bright as little, blue stars. She was a mirror image of her fairy tattoo.

  Rain had heard stories of fairies before, but he had never actually se
en one.

  Likewise, Ember had never seen an actual vampire until then.

  With a motion too swift for even Rain’s eyes to follow, she flew forward and planted a tiny, gentle kiss on his cheek. Then, she flew back away from Rain, just as fast, and with a flicker of her wings, she was gone.

  ONE

  The officer guarding the crime scene’s front entrance peered at my FBI identification and back to me for a second time. He was right to question the validity of the identification, considering that it was, in fact, a forgery. Not having the time to find a proper suit to fit the stereotypical FBI wardrobe didn’t help sell me as an FBI agent. It’s not every day you see a federal agent investigating a murder wearing jeans and a tee and ridiculously messed up hair that was more rock star than special investigator. Trivial things like shopping for a suit and looking in the mirror were not high on my priority list. I had to work the scene quickly. The actual clean-cut, suit-wearing FBI couldn’t have been more than a couple hours behind me.

  “Hey!” an officer yelled at a news crew van parking in front of a fire hydrant. “You can’t park there!”

  The officer waved me through his checkpoint and took off toward the news crew.

  Three other local news vans were scrambling to find parking outside Madison’s Rock Shop where two people were brutally murdered last night. Each reporter was hoping to get the full story before another. The national news teams were most likely on their way, since someone had already leaked that these two victims were similar to nine other recent homicides from across the country. The FBI linked the homicides together and labeled them as a serial killing spree, even though they were yet to establish a motive or uncover a single solid lead. It’s almost as if the killer was a ghost, and just as a side note, I don’t believe in ghosts. I had my own suspicions to the motives; though I’d be locked up myself if I even tried to break it down for them. Let’s just say there aren’t many things that frighten me in this world, and that day, a chill ran down my spine that didn’t even come close to the full meaning of the word “terror”.