Blood King (Spirit Seeker Book 1)

by Amber K. Bryant

  That, of course, would not earn them next month’s mortgage. She did her best to keep herself occupied, which consisted mainly of binge-watching old reruns of some of her favorite shows on her tablet all evening. Soon, Bore had to come and ruin that diversion as well.

  “I have no doubt that thou art watching Supernatural, my dearest lady. Which episode have you arrived upon?”

  “It’s The Love Boat, actually. The one where Julie—”

  “I have consumed every season of Supernatural, which as you know, is no small feat. He sat next to her on the couch, moving his hood back just a tad to see if she was really watching what she said she was. “Now I have the privilege of viewing The X-Files for the seventh time. It was with boundless joy that I consumed the newest season. I cannot get enough of Dr. Dana Scully and Agent Fox Mulder. Be that it is fiction, you still perchance to glean a great deal of knowledge regarding matters of the invisible world. Do you not agree?”

  Sybille removed her earbuds and put her tablet into sleep mode. She had no idea what he was going on about. “I bet you’re just like a paranormal agent now, Bore. You should have your own show.”

  “With whom do you refer...is it I?” Hand to his chest, slight wheeze as he inhaled. “Come now, my dear Miss Esmond, Patrons must always stay in the shadows. To reveal our true identities would be to undermine the system that keeps thou safe.”

  “Well, a secret agent then.” She winked at him and even with his ridiculous hood draped across his brow, she could tell he was blushing.

  “Sybille, dear, do you want a slice of lasagna?” Standing at the dining room table, her mother held a metal spatula at the ready over a pan of steaming noodles and meat.

  “Ugh, Mom, you know I can’t eat until after the possession. Not unless the Patron here wants to have regurgitated tomato sauce sprayed all over him.”

  “I know, I know. I just had to offer. What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t at least try to feed my daughter? The possession could still be hours away, after all.” She dished out a piece to Peter and another one for Celebrimbor. “We’ll save you some. You can microwave it later.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  She turned her attention back to the Patron, who clearly wasn’t going to leave her alone anytime soon.

  “Is there something more I can help you with, Secret Agent Bore?”

  “As I understand the situation, thou hast a criminal in the guise of a client.”

  “Head criminal, according to Devin.” She shifted so that she was near enough to make him quiver in his robes. “This is a big one for you, Bore. This is the score that’s going to make you the Patrons’ golden boy.”

  “Do you imagine so? Of course, I have no desire beyond helping to save thy beautiful world.” He straightened his hood and took another sip of tea.

  “Yes, but I hope you know the risk you’re putting us in. Things easily could go badly for Devin and I’m expecting a fight with that one.” She stuck her thumb out in the direction of Nate, who smiled at her amicably. “You know how much a possession takes out of me, but Nate here? He’s a really mean spirit. Nasty. I’ll be lucky to get through tonight unscathed.”

  “Thou art the pinnacle of bravery and grace.” Celebrimbor tentatively put a hand on her knee, patted it and then took it back. “I myself could never perform the acts that thou hast put upon thy shoulders.”

  She shrugged. “I’m just doing my job. It’s important, the work that we’re engaged in, you and I. Saving the world one demon at a time. I’m so thankful that you make it possible for me to do what I do. We make a wonderful team.” She put all her teeth on display, eyes wide, expectant, innocent.

  “I shall continue to do just that. You deserve a bejeweled crown for thy noble efforts, Lady Sybille. You deserve the keys to the kingdom.”

  “Aw, you’re the sweetest.”

  A buzzing sound ended Celebrimbor’s praise fest. All eyes, even Nate’s, turned to the coffee table where Sybille’s phone lay. She checked the message.

  “Get that crown ready, Bore. It’s show time.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nathanial Atkins was proving to be a pain in Devin’s ass. Hackles raised as though he was already facing his opponent, blood pumping—animal instinct told him Hocus was the Blood King’s domain. Charlie had led him in the right direction, of that he had no doubt. Finding Atkins had never been in question, though. Devin had tracked many a bloodthirster. Normally, it wasn’t too difficult, even with the Low working against him. He was good at what he did.

  This time it had taken some doing, but now he was closing in for the kill. Or circling the drain, depending on how things played out. Drawing Atkins out into the open, ashing him so his undead body imploded, leaving only a heap of dust, that was the part that set Devin on edge. This guy wasn’t just going to roll over and ask for a stake through the heart. Devin was treading dangerous waters here.

  Hocus: a wood paneled, beer-stained, seedy shithole bar. Had it been anywhere else in rural America, Hocus would’ve been nothing more than a small-town honky-tonk staring in the rearview mirror in the hopes of glimpsing its better days. Gaunt, unkempt men with cigarettes dangling from their lips. Waitresses with circles under their eyes wearing bright red lipstick and short shorts. Twangy, repetitive music playing from an old jukebox. The smell of stale beer, if your nose could detect anything through the thick smoke clinging to the room like a smile on a beauty queen. It was the sort of rundown tavern you’d expect to find in a place like the Low.

  Devin tried but failed to hate the place, which offered him an unwelcome, sentiment-inducing trip down memory lane. He’d grown up in a respectable establishment similar to Hocus, his father tending bar, his mother tending to the ass slaps of his father’s clientele. Everywhere he turned in Hocus, he saw his family’s dysfunction. What a twisted fuck he must be to want to park himself on a barstool and revel in it.

  Maybe he’d spent too much time in the Low. Work sent him here at least a couple of times a month. Plus, there’d been that time in his youth, a time he tried not to think about, where desperation had led him to the Low’s morbid embrace. That experience had been a waste and now it had led to this. Maybe its weird dark magic pull was starting to mess with his mind. If that was the case, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. There’d be nothing he could do about it anyways.

  Smoke assailed him from all angles. His fingers twitched. The feel of a cigarette between them reawakened in his imagination even though it had been almost eight years since he’d kicked the habit.

  “What’ll I get ya?” The bartender looked but didn’t look at Devin as he approached. Typical Low interaction. Eye contact inadvisable, especially between strangers. He had to wonder what sort of horror the Low folks thought would come to pass if they looked directly at each other. He wondered, but not enough to test out the theory.

  “I’m here on business.”

  “Oh yeah? What kind of business?” Head still down, feigning disinterest when clearly, he was interested. His attention stayed glued to his hand as it moved an old rag around the shiny brass surface of a beer tap.

  “The kind that involves your boss, not you.” He thrummed his fingers on the edge of the wooden counter. “Be a good boy and go get him.”

  The bartender sneered, but he did as Devin commanded. That was the only way to get what you wanted in the Low—by using unabashed force. Devin had learned early on that asking for things drove you right into a dead end. You had to start with the expectation that you were entitled to whatever it was that you wanted. If you could pull that off, you stood a chance. Half of a chance, at least.

  While he waited for the bartender to inform Atkins of his presence, he leaned against the counter and cased the room. A hall leading to the bathrooms to his left, double doors opening out to a beer garden on his right, the main entrance directly across from him. Everything was vaguely familiar, though he was certain that it was just its resemblance to his father’s bar that he was recalling. There w
as a term for that… Transference. That’s what a shrink would say it was.

  Of course, he had heard about this place. It’s not like there were loads of bars or any other sorts of businesses here in the Low. But this was a human hangout. Beer was on tap, not blood. There hadn’t been any reason for Devin to come here until now. This, of all places, was one for Devin to avoid.

  Bloodthirsters preferred the human population of the Low to be strung out—and not just on the cosmic crud they breathed in every day. Hocus was a drug front—had been for years. You couldn’t just order the shit the bloodthirsters were selling at the bar, but everyone knew someone here could get it for you. Charlie’s parents probably got it here or bought from someone who did. They didn’t even try to hide their addiction from their daughter. He’d already heard her make references to it, like it was no big deal. Like she knew that would be her someday because that’s just what adults do.

  Devin shut down that thought. He had a job to do. He couldn’t keep thinking about that little girl, didn’t want to imagine her ten years from now, bat shit crazy, all doped up.

  Dammit, he hated the world sometimes.

  He walked over to the table nearest the double doors and sat with his back to them. Should he text Sybille now? He hoped he was close to finishing this job, but it was going to take more than this happy hour meet-and-greet to do it. He needed Atkins alone in order to send him to the World Beyond without Devin himself being taken down by the Blood King’s entourage.

  He was going to have to go in deep, play a role he didn’t want to play. The thought set his blood pressure to boil, but there was nothing to be done about it. He couldn’t leave without achieving his aim.

  Normally, Devin was able to stay inconspicuous in the Low. He didn’t want people to know who he was—that would make his repeated hunts in their terrain increasingly dangerous. Maintaining a low profile wasn’t usually a problem. Bloodthirsters kept to themselves. There were opportunities to find and kill them without having to come out of the shadows. And most of the time, no one missed the little cocksuckers. A staked bloodthirster’s body disintegrated within minutes. There was little evidence left behind once the deed was done. Since they weren’t the type to move in packs, it might be months or even years before someone realized one of them had disappeared, if they ever did. Maybe there was no such thing as the perfect murder, but staking a bloodthirster in the middle of a forest came pretty close. Not that it was murder per se. You didn’t murder monsters; you put them down. That’s what Devin did. That’s the job he was paid to do.

  The bartender was taking his sweet time. Phone in hand, Devin brought up Sybille’s picture in his contacts list. He texted her, let her know to get things started but also warned her that it would most likely take longer than usual. She was going to be pissed—not at him. She was smart enough to know Devin wouldn’t prolong a mission unnecessarily. But the longer this took, the longer she’d have to play hostess to the Patron, and that guy was a total dick.

  “Is that your girl?”

  Nearly dropping his phone, Devin shut off the screen and stood up, awkwardly turning around to face the mammoth man standing between himself and the doors leading out to the patio.

  The Blood King.

  So much for being aware of his surroundings.

  “She’s just a friend.”

  “Women like that are never just friends.” Atkins stood with his thumbs looped into the arm holes of a leather vest, a casual stance attempting to mask his at-the-ready demeanor. Turquoise and silver rings circled each of his tattooed fingers. “Why do you think you have the right to call me up like I’m the leg of lamb you’re purchasing for Easter dinner? Who are you, anyways?”

  Devin swallowed.

  “I’m a businessman, just hoping to do business. Should I take it elsewhere?”

  “That depends on what this business is that you’re hoping to do.” Atkins took a step around him and swung a chair so that its back was facing the table, then sat straddling it. He ordered two of his men to frisk his guest. When they came up weaponless, he motioned for Devin to take the chair across from him. “Spill.”

  Devin would spill all right. He was working on a hunch here. If he was mistaken, he could kiss his ass goodbye. Out of all the things he’d gotten wrong in his life, though, his hunches usually proved good. As Charlie had said to him before pedaling away earlier that afternoon, “Everyone does business with the Blood King.” That business? To sell Low’s human population Crave, an addictive drug that when consumed made their blood extra tasty. Addicts, of which there were many, were too strung out to object to being fed upon by the local bloodthirster population.

  “You’ve built something here in the Low. You have a solid thing going. Solid, but not huge. It could be, though. Don’t you think it’s time to expand?”

  “Are you saying I don’t know what I’m doing?” Atkins leaned in towards Devin, grinning. Red stained teeth the texture of tree bark, breath like a dead cow rotting in a sunny field—they’d had toothbrushes when this clown was a human, right? Devin did his best not to heave.

  “No! God, no.” Devin patted his own chest. “Why would I say that? I wouldn’t even think it! I know you have your reasons for staying within the Low. I’m just saying that if you wanted to expand, I’m the man to help you do it.”

  Grin departed, Nathanial’s hundred-mile stare blazed a trail over Devin’s skin. “And why would that be? I don’t know you, don’t know your name or who you run with. All I know is that you’re human and you seem to know I’m not. I gotta say, that’s suspicious. Most of the humans I’m around every day don’t have a clue what I am. Hell, even the ones I feed off of aren’t so sure.”

  Devin had to bite his tongue not to reply to that. The Low went a long way to muddy a person’s mind, but beyond that, the Blood King made sure they were more concerned with how to get their next fix than with what sort of person provided that fix. Drug addicts didn’t tend to ask a lot of questions. Their misgivings ended when flame hit pipe.

  Devin needed to be extra careful. One false note and who knows what sort of frenzy Atkins could get worked into. Perhaps some fuzzy half-truths would do the trick. “My sister was a volunteer donor for a number of years. She used to live here.” No lie there, just not the whole truth. “I know because she knew.”

  “And where’s your sister now?”

  Devin shrugged, hoping the nonchalant movement would stop his fists from clenching and his arms from swinging in the direction of Atkin’s face. “She moved on.”

  “Ah, always a shame to lose a donor.” The Blood King wrapped his knuckles on the table. Whether he was buying Devin’s story or not, there was no way to know for certain. “That doesn’t explain why you’ve taken an interest in my people.”

  “Money. It’s as simple as that. Bloodthirsters maneuver through the world undercover. Humans believe you’re no different than themselves. But I know better, and I see where we can work together for each other’s benefit. I’ll make money and you’ll be expanding your interests. I’d call that a win-win.”

  “If you know better, then you know that the Low is our protector. The outside world doesn’t come knocking; it doesn’t bother us here.” He narrowed his eyes at Devin. “At least, not very often. Do you really expect me to move outside of its protection at the suggestion of a stranger?”

  Here was his in. “I don’t have to be a stranger.” He rolled up his sleeve, letting his bare arm fall onto the table in front of Atkins. “I wouldn’t expect you to align yourself with me without getting to know me a little better first.”

  The Blood King remained still, his eyes in assessment mode, while Devin cursed himself. He was being too obvious, too pushy. Then again, anyone mad enough to propose a partnership with a bloodthirster was bound to act like he didn’t know a good decision if it came and knocked him on the head.

  Come on, take the bait.

  Atkins pushed Devin’s arm away. “Not here. Let’s go to my office.”
>
  The Blood King motioned for Devin to walk ahead of him. “Last door on your right.” His guards followed, then stationed themselves on either side of the door. If the office didn’t have windows, Devin would be screwed.

  Inside, door closed behind him, relief hit. Not only was there a window, but a door that looked as though it led to the outside world.

  Atkins retrieved a small metal box from a drawer in his desk, then motioned for Devin to have a seat on the leather couch across from it.

  “There are easier ways to get dosed than approaching the Blood King with a business proposition.” He sat next to Devin and handed him the box. “If this is all an elaborate plot to get a fix, you’re the stupidest, most unconvincing junkie I’ve ever met.”

  “Would you even be sitting here with me if you thought I was a junkie?”

  “Would you be offering me your arm if you weren’t?”

  Devin paused for a moment, then opened the box, watching Atkins and his well-practiced poker face out of the corner of his eye. “I want you to know you can trust me. And the best way I figure I can do that is if I show you that I trust you.” He tapped the box. “So here we are.”

  “Here we are.” Atkins reached over, pulling out a spoon, a lighter, a narrow glass tube, and finally a small translucent green block. Crave reminded Devin of unpolished amber, the more imperfections in its composition, the more beautiful. And the more desirable.

  Handing him the tube, Atkins placed the square of Crave on the spoon and ignited the lighter. Within seconds, the block had melted into a syrupy goo. A flowery aroma with the slightest hint of pine wafted towards Devin. His mouth watered in anticipation, as though Crave was a juicy quarter-pounder instead of the harbinger of a hellish existence. As Atkins lowered the flame, Devin brought the tube down to the spoon, breathing in through his nose.

  The world became a watercolor painting. Purple, green, orange blotches of obscured light…a foggy brilliance. Devin’s tongue thickened like a fluffy pancake, tasting as though it had been coated with maple syrup. He slid back and rested his head against the couch, eyes closed, breath deep and even. It had been a long time since he’d been under Crave’s thumb. Long, but not long enough. It was the most pleasurable sensation in existence and he hated it.