DEAMHAN CHRONICLES
Books 1-4: Deamhan, Kei. Family Matters, Dark Curse, Maris. The Brotherhood Files, Ayden. Deamhan Minion
By Isaiyan Morrison
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means without prior permission from the author.
©2018. Isaiyan Morrison
Deamhan cover art: John Consentino
Kei. Family Matters cover art: Kellie Dennis. Book Cover By Design
Dark Curse cover art: Masoumeh Tavakoli. Digital Dreams-Art
Maris. The Brotherhood Files covert art: Hedieh Entekhabi. Shiny Shadows-Art
Ayden. Deamhan Minion cover art: Hedieh Entekhabi. Shiny Shadows-Art
CONTENTS
Deamhan
Prologue
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
EPILOGUE
Kei. Family Matters
Rule One
Rule Two
Rule Three
Rule Four
Rule Five
Rule Six
Rule Seven
Rule Eight
Rule Nine
Rule Ten
Dark Curse
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Maris
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
Ayden. Deamhan Minion
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Glossary
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Deamhan
Deamhan Chronicles #1
Some wounds never heal.
In Minneapolis, young Veronica Austin lives in suburban bliss with her parents. Wide-eyed and innocent, she's unaware of her parents' secret lives in The Brotherhood, a group created to observe the mysterious psychic vampires known as Deamhan. Soon, Veronica's world falls to pieces as her mother is tragically murdered. Wanting to shelter Veronica from this terrible memory, her father whisks her away to the safety of San Diego and leaves the past behind. But Veronica wants to know why her mother was murdered, and nobody - not even her father -- is willing to give her the answers she needs.
As she ages into adulthood, Veronica's newfound freedom and desperate need for closure draw her back to Minneapolis. On these seemingly serene streets, the scent of blood seems to be everywhere. And Veronica is determined to discover the tragic truth about her mother - no matter what her journey uncovers.
Prologue
The rain carried the yellow-imbued blood down the sewer drain behind Caroline Austin, leaving an uncanny trail. The water fell like sheets from the heavens, blinding and suffocating her while she ran down the empty Minneapolis streets. The small, open wounds on her breasts throbbed in uncontrollable pain. She swiped at the seeping blood in an attempt to dilute her trail, wishing the dark liquid would mix with the rain and disappear.
She heard the heavy footsteps closing in behind her. Her legs buckled, and she fell to the pavement, the dirty rainwater sloshing into her eyes, blinding her. Her mind raced with sordid thoughts of death. She didn’t want to die, not here, not now, but her body froze in fear, and she couldn’t move. She closed her eyes, focusing on the image of her daughter that glowed for a brief moment in the darkness. The image gave her unusual strength, and she shoved her body upward, forcing herself to stand. The sound of approaching footsteps snapped her mind back to reality.
In front of her, a bum sprawled on the sidewalk, was sound asleep. She ran toward him, opening her mouth to scream, to wake him from his drunken stupor. Yet no sound would come. The sudden, cold draft of death from behind kept her running. She turned the corner and there was Lucius.
She tried to catch herself, to turn and run the other way, but she slipped and fell in front of him. Looking up at his figure before her, she wondered how anyone as old as him could be so fast.
Lucius leaned against the building, his brown hair falling gracefully behind his back. His smooth, oval face shone, his concerned gaze releasing some of her fear. His eyes could lock even the most non-submissive Deamhan and bring them to their knees. She had never been this close to him. She always believed she never would.
He took slow steps toward her, holding out his hands. Surely he knew of her strong interest in him. She’d written detailed journals about him. These same writings were influential in her organization’s understanding of his kind. Before her, not much was known about his origins. She’d uncovered the rumors and silenced speculations without invading the privacy he had left.
He took another step toward her, and this time she moved back. It plagued him that she feared for her life. She noticed small droplets of rain glistening off his face in delicate drops.
Caroline turned to run, but he again appeared in front of her, blocking her way. She stumbled and fell to the pavement, her breath coming hard. His cold hands scooped her into his arms without effort, brushing her wet and matted bangs from her pale forehead. Her eyes turned away, unable to stare at him as he placed his cold hand against her right cheek.
He pulled back her shirt and noticed a fresh, wet bloodstain abo
ve her right breast.
She was dying.
He held her close to his chest and carried her to safety. How dare they not follow his decree! He’d been clear: they weren’t to harm or attack her. She was protected. His offspring disobeyed the law, which ratcheted the tension between Deamhan and humans.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her by touching his icy finger to her lips.
“Sleep, my love.” His voice was soft. “You are safe here . . . with me.”
CHAPTER ONE
Veronica Austin stood in line behind a tall woman with long black hair, her blonde roots clearly visible in the streetlight brightening the corner. A circular tribal tattoo of jagged black lines decorated the base of the woman’s neck between her broad shoulders.
Dad never liked tattoos.
He didn’t like the idea of Veronica returning to Minneapolis after twenty years either, but that didn’t stop her.
A huge neon sign hanging above the entrance glared “Dark Sepulcher,” with the “L” blinking in rapid succession. Black paint peeled from the brick walls, now discolored from years of treacherous Minnesota winters. Posters of upcoming concerts and events lined the wall. Veronica wasn’t interested. At a glance, you’d mistake the building for an old factory, but she knew better. She’d been told that the building housed secrets—dark secrets—and she planned to discover each one. This was the starting point in the search for her mother.
She cleared her throat and the woman glanced back, giving her a half-smile. Instead of real eyebrows, the woman had drawn severe black swathes with an eyeliner pencil, and she’d colored her lipstick line above her upper lip, giving her mouth a full, yet abstract look.
Two bouncers stood at the front entrance dressed in black T-shirts with “Security” printed in white letters. Veronica handed the taller bouncer her California driver’s license and waited while he studied it under the glare of his bright flashlight. She sucked in her breath and prepared herself for questions about why she’d come and what she wanted with Dark Sepulcher. Instead, the bouncer flicked the license back to her and motioned for her to enter.
She slid a five under the steel bars of the cashier’s window, who snapped up the bill without a glance as she bobbed her head to the beat from her earphones. Veronica thought she recognized the chorus of “Devil Went Down to Georgia” by Charlie Daniels escape from the girl’s earphones, but it drowned under the bass coming from behind a thick, dark curtain blocking the venue’s entrance. She stepped forward, sucked in another deep breath, and pulled the curtain back.
She wondered how her mother felt, walking into this same mysterious environment nearly twenty years ago. The question repeated in her head like a broken record. She needed an answer.
No one in her father’s bastardized organization—The Brotherhood—had the balls to question her mother’s disappearance. No one except for Veronica. Her father buried all photographs and mementos of her mother and he sent her to San Diego to live under the care of The Brotherhood. His actions had since festered inside her wounded heart. He’d sold family heirlooms, pawned his wedding ring. He’d destroyed family pictures—the frozen moments that captured family outings, picnics, and celebrations.
She’d become a threat to her father who now had the title: President of the Midwest Division. The Brotherhood had split America into three divisions long ago with each division answering to the Head Master—the overall leader of the organization. During the time of her mother’s disappearance, her father held the title of Region Leader, a step below President, and his duties included handing out orders to the researchers under his control, one being his own wife.
The group was known throughout the Deamhan world as humans who watched but never interfered. But something happened during the time of her mother’s disappearance. Somehow they crossed the line. The President of the Midwest Division was killed and the Chapter disbanded shortly after.
Veronica had no clue what she might encounter in Dark Sepulcher. As she pulled back the heavy curtain, her eyes jumped frantically back and forth as they tried to adjust to the darkness. Life-sized macramé figures hung from the ceiling. White smoke spewed from fog machines and drifted ghostlike toward the crowded dance floor. Writhing bodies moved in trance-like motion to throbbing music blasting from massive speakers surrounding the floor. She felt an unexplainable euphoric vibe circling the club with the fog. It enthralled her.
This wasn’t the scary Dark Sepulcher from the story told to children at bedtime to frighten them from misbehaving. “If you act up, the scary Deamhan will get you!”
No, this is party central. Or so she thought.
She focused her stare on a small stage standing erect to her left. A wooden beam hung horizontally above the stage with a woman tied fast to the beam. Though mesmerized, she moved on, passing a row of silver-tinted booths next to the wall. A group of boys and girls, none appearing older than eighteen, huddled in the corner booth talking over a small lit candle in the middle of the table. They laughed aloud, shouting over one another until their voices jumble together. The music changed to a faster rhythm and they fled the booth, pushing past her in their rush to reach the dance floor.
Much to her relief, everyone looked human. None of the clubbers possessed traits of the Deamhan: the dark hollow eyes. She’d expected them to ooze from the woodwork, romping around like drug addicts looking for their next high.
The speakers pulsed with beats of industrial music. She felt the bass thumping and vibrating each inch of her body. She’d been to raves and dance clubs in San Diego before, but the music had never been this loud.
Of course, The Brotherhood had an explanation for the loud music. A vampire, quite different from the Deamhan, owned Dark Sepulcher. To her, they were one and the same—evil, foul and wretched, yet they also had differences. While vampires lived off the blood of humans, Deamhan lived off the psychic energy generated by humans in different ways.
The fog-filled room, the gyrating bodies, the electrified air, it all combined to assuage her worries. Despite herself, she felt her lips part in a seductive smile.
And that’s when she saw her first Deamhan.
In the writhing crowd, a woman tossed back her head and laughed. She twirled her pale hands above her head as she danced, her long brown hair bouncing around her shoulders. A true professional at mimicking human movements, she’d made a flawless attempt to hide her true identity. The darkness hid the most visible signs, but her razor-edged teeth could not be masked. “She’s a Deamhan Ramanga,” Veronica whispered into the deafening din. Even as she said the words, she felt her heartbeat pick up its pace.
A baby-faced guy dancing with the Deamhan seductively snaked his arms around her tiny waist and ground his pelvis against her. Is he crazy? He had to see those teeth up close and personal. He had to know she could sink them into his tender flesh at any moment. Why didn’t he run?
These ruthless creatures didn’t think twice about killing anyone. They maintained their secrecy by hiding, remaining unknown to the world around them. But here they stood, in a vampire club, doing what they wanted without anyone to tell them otherwise. They walked, talked, danced and conversed with their human food.
Alert to their presence now, she scanned the crowd. Deamhan, it seemed, popped up everywhere. Many danced in groups, though some danced alone. Others danced with a single partner, human and Deamhan alike. Yet fear didn’t exist, except in Veronica’s fluttering chest. No one else cared.
To her right, a large crowd had gathered at the bar, cheering on a man who chugged a full bottle of vodka. A cadaverous woman with blonde dreadlocks stood behind him, caressing his shoulders with red-tipped fingers. Her formal black dress accentuated svelte curves, and her crimson lips formed a perfect “O” as she cheered on the drinking man. Even from several yards away, Veronica saw the bright white contrast of the woman’s spiky teeth.
She turned away, immediately spotting two Deamhan males. They ogled the dancing crowd with lusty eyes a
s they moved like liquid throughout the club, indifferent of being known and unhindered by any repercussions it might cost them.
She felt a gentle tap on her right shoulder and jumped. She whirled around, coming face-to-face with a young waitress with a tray tucked under her left arm, her right hand perched on a pillar.
“You want anything?” she screamed above the music.
Veronica only shook her head, startled by the woman’s bizarre appearance. She wore a black wife beater, faded black pants, and her mascara was smeared and smudged. She winked then turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.
The music thundered even louder now, and Veronica returned her attention to the dance floor. Two dancers clad in sheer white shirts, micro-minis, and fishnet stockings gyrated on a raised stage in the center of the dance floor, while a horde of men below them clawed at their feet. One of the dancers placed the spiked heel of her knee-high boot against a man’s forehead and shoved him backward. Like shamans in a ritual trance, the men and women twirled their hands and moved their hips from side to side.
She stared at the performance until the rapidly blinking dance lights caused vertigo to set in. Feeling nauseous, she turned and leaned against the railing that separated the dance floor from the rest of the carpeted venue. She swallowed back bile, resisting the urge to regurgitate the ham and cheese sandwich she’d wolfed down earlier.
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck danced. She felt the waitress standing behind her and stiffened. She knew it was vital to hide her thoughts from Deamhan, and she did her best to make her mind a blank slate by imagining a brick wall.
It was just one of their various abilities. They couldn’t control humans like vampires could with the sounds of their voices. Instead, they forced themselves into a human’s brain, scouring it for any information they desired.
“You okay?” The waitress tapped her on the shoulder. “You sure you don’t want anything?”
A bottle of Jack popped into her mind. “Whiskey.”
“Whiskey?”
“Yeah, just whiskey.”
The waitress twisted her mouth into a wry smile. “Whiskey it is, then.” She headed for the bar.
Deamhan Chronicles, Books 1-5: Deamhan, Kei. Family Matters, Dark Curse, Maris. The Brotherhood Files, Ayden. Deamhan Minion Page 1