Deamhan Chronicles, Books 1-5: Deamhan, Kei. Family Matters, Dark Curse, Maris. The Brotherhood Files, Ayden. Deamhan Minion

by Isaiyan Morrison

  The music changed tempo and volume. A slow song oozed throughout the club. One of the dancers left the stage with a line of men trailing behind her. She stopped just outside the bathroom door, blew a kiss, and entered, closing the door behind her. As if the spell she’d held over them had broken, the men glanced at each other in confusion, then each headed back toward the dance floor.

  The waitress seemed to appear out of nowhere again, and she placed a shot of whiskey on the table in front of Veronica.

  She handed her a five. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.” She folded the bill between her fingers with one hand, and tucked it in her cleavage. “Anything else I can do for ya?”

  “Yeah. How long has this place been open?” Veronica glanced around, feigning awe.

  The waitress rolled her coal-rimmed eyes to the ceiling and tapped her chin. “It’s been here forever.” She shrugged.

  “It’s always packed like this?”

  She smiled. “Oh, yeah. Everyone comes here. There’s nothing else to do in boring Minnea-snore-a. You here by yourself?”

  “No, I’m with a friend.”

  “Well, have fun. It’s a kick ass club.” She waved and walked away.

  Veronica tossed back the whiskey and gagged as it stung the back of her throat. The volume of the music increased again, and the crowd’s jollity changed with it. They cheered, pumping their hands at the DJ booth in unison. The DJ whistled into his microphone in response. She finished the rest of her whiskey, sipping slower this time, as she scanned the crowd. Her stomach gurgled a complaint against the harsh liquor. She sought the bathroom door again and noticed a crowd of women pushing in. Better go get in line.

  She excused herself through the crowd, passing another group of scantily dressed teenagers. She pushed open the bathroom door. A group of women stood in various poses in front of the cracked and broken mirrors near the far wall. She stepped over the clumps of matted hair and wet, crumpled toilet paper on the bathroom’s white-tiled floor, noticing the wet garbage lining the sinks and stalls. The toilet in the last stall overflowed, spilling its nasty contents onto the floor. The bathroom’s filth contrasted the rest of the club.

  Dozens of different conversations overlapped one another, and the sound of the running toilet grated Veronica’s nerves. A few of the women glanced up, then continued pasting on make-up in blotches of cherry, amber, peach, tan, purple and black.

  Not all of them were human. One woman, particularly ghostly, applied a heavy layer of face powder to give her skin a normal hue. She painted her eyes, lips, and cheeks to eliminate her Deamhan markings. Veronica saw the dancer, now standing in front of the mirror brushing her hair. She chatted freely with the Deamhan woman, giving her tips on what kind of makeup appealed to men.

  A chill snaked up her spine.

  The dancer shoved her hand into her red backpack and pulled out more cosmetics to add to the many bottles and tubes littering the sink.

  She approached the sinks, her steps tentative. The dancer watched her silent approach in the mirror. In one swift motion, the female Deamhan scooped her belongings into an oversized handbag and pushed her way out the door. The other women followed, leaving her and the dancer alone.

  Veronica adjusted the water temperature to cool and prepared to splash her face.

  “You have to wait a minute,” the dancer said.

  Veronica jerked her hands from the milky water gushing from the faucet. In a moment, the water ran clear. “Thanks. I nearly put that on my face.” She noticed a healing scar above the dancer’s collarbone, slightly discolored. A scab wound extended from the middle of her back down to her cleavage, stitched together with dried blood. Healed bite marks covered her neck.

  The Brotherhood called them minions—humans who spied and reported to their Deamhan owners the details of who, what, when and where. They vied to be sired by serving their masters well.

  “How did you get those?” she asked, pointing to the dancer’s scars.

  The dancer glared. “That’s really none of your business.”

  Veronica dropped her head and murmured an apology. She snatched a paper towel and dried her hands. “Sometimes I don’t think before I open my mouth.”

  The dancer’s shoulders relaxed and she returned to brushing her hair. “It’s okay. You aren’t the first person to ask.”

  Veronica knew she wouldn’t be the last, either.

  The dancer turned to her again. “I’ve never seen you here before. You a first-timer?”

  “It’s obvious, huh?” She appraised her own clothing in the mirror. Her faded black shirt revealed its age and tiny holes. Her blue jeans were ripped at the knees, but that was fashionable, right? She looked down, noticing the fraying cuffs and her scuffed shoes. Fashion had never been her thing.

  The dancer coughed a laugh. “No, not really. Anything goes at Dark Sepulcher.” She struck a pose in the mirror, pursed her fire engine red lips, and blew herself a kiss. “See ya, toots.” As she strutted out the door swinging her tote behind her, two women rushed in, nearly knocking the dancer down, but she never spoke up nor broke stride.

  The two shoved into the nearest bathroom stall together, slamming the stall door behind them.

  What the hell?

  A loud bang echoed from the stall, rattling the adjoining booths in a domino effect. Following loud and furtive whispers, a leg covered in bruises and welts jutted from under the door.

  As she tiptoed to the exit, the stall door flew open and slammed the wall.

  A tall, dark-skinned woman stood up, straightening her black leather mini skirt. “Mmmm.” Her eyes bored into Veronica’s. “Your scent is intoxicating.” She curled her upper lip into a snarl and jerked her thumb toward the other woman. “Better than this whore.” She cocked her head back, closed her eyes, and sniffed the air again. “You’re a virgin,” she cooed. “Untainted.”

  When she smiled again, Veronica noticed the blood on her lower fangs. She took a step back toward the door, her hand hidden behind her, frantically searching the air for the knob.

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  Her voice felt sensuous in Veronica’s ears, and her eyelids felt heavy. She grasped the doorknob, jerked open the door and fled into the club.

  “Where’re you going, baby?” the throaty voice called behind her.

  Veronica rushed back to her table, her heart pounding out a cadence in rhythm with her hurried steps. What she learned on her own about the different kinds of Deamhan ran through her mind again now, in an effort to calm herself.

  They were called demons, hell spawns, and even vampires. Centuries ago researchers in Ireland finally settled on the name Deamhan, due to their licentious behavior. Based on their feeding habits, they then split the Deamhan into the Ramanga, Lamia, Metusba, and Lugat.

  Through blood and with sharp teeth, the Ramanga drained every drop of blood from their victims. Being the only Deamhan with retractable fangs, they relied on the psychic energy within the blood to survive.

  Conceited, the Lamia fed by draining the same energy through the mouths of their victims. They had no need for fangs. All they needed was a viable opening and a willing or non-willing participant.

  Metusba, the quiet of all the Deamhan, fed off the psychic energy contained in their victim’s auras. They took what they needed, nothing less and nothing more.

  Lugat fed off the leftover psychic energy by using their hands. They could feed off of almost anything; where a person sat, what a person touched.

  Though all four clans differed in feeding habits, they all died the same; beheadings, staking, starvation, and sunlight.

  “Hey!” The waitress appeared in front of her. “You okay?”

  How does she do that? Veronica glanced toward the bathroom, afraid she’d be followed. Her chest heaved and beads of sweat collected on her forehead. “I need a drink.”

  “Another whiskey?”

  She nodded, and the waitress disappeared into the crowd. The pulsat
ing bass emanating from the speakers grew louder and more intense, causing her to rub her temples. Fog machines released a steady stream of mist from above the crowded dance floor, giving the huge room an ethereal atmosphere. The lights dimmed, and she could hardly make out the waitress as she returned, carrying a shot of whiskey.

  “Here ya go.” She handed her the drink.

  Veronica gulped her drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, this time thankful for the sensation of the amber liquid searing her throat. She preferred vodka, but at this moment, any liquid running down her gullet was good enough.

  “You want another one?”

  She nodded, and the waitress left. Damn, this is harder than I thought it’d be. Her mind raced: hide your thoughts, don’t show fear, stick to the plan.

  She felt a tingling sensation deep in her forehead. In seconds, it had increased to the extent of a migraine. She looked up squinting, the pain becoming more intense with each passing moment, and she knew.

  Someone’s reading my thoughts.

  The waitress returned with two drinks.

  “Uh, thanks?” She couldn’t recall ordering two whiskeys, but she pulled out a ten dollar bill.

  “It’s already paid for.” The waitress pointed to a man sitting at the opposite end of the bar, his long brown hair slicked back in a ponytail. He wore black jeans and a long black see through shirt, revealing his six pack.

  He stared back at her with deep brown eyes and smiled, his pale skin resembling a Deamhan at its finest. She felt the pain in her forehead ebb and flow, subsiding a bit each time. She turned to the waitress, but she’d again disappeared.

  Muddled, she downed the whiskey and slammed the empty glass on the table in front of her. She shut her eyes and concentrated on emptying her mind. The pain diffused into a mild tingling.

  Her eyes open when a male voice told her to not be afraid. She whipped around, but no one was near.

  The voice came from within her head.

  “It’s okay,” the voice said.

  She looked at the man, who still fixed her in his stare. He slid from his seat and headed her way. She dropped her head and stared at the counter, quickly visualizing the brick wall.

  “Your thoughts stick out.” He sat on the empty stool next to her.

  His penetrating stare caused her head to tingle again, but the tingle stopped as quickly as it started. She’d clouded his attempt to rummage through her mind.

  “Beautiful women like you shouldn’t drink whiskey.”

  What a line. His respectful approach did nothing to impress Veronica. The Deamhan were naturally devious. She cupped the whiskey glass and stared into its glowing liquid.

  The stranger smiled and reached for the glass, grasping it from the rim and placing it front of him. “I’m trying to start a conversation,” he prompted.

  From the corner of her eye, Veronica saw him examine her. His eyes roved her semi long brown hair. She tried hard to block her thoughts from him, but the tingle sensation told her she was failing.

  “You should know it turns me on when you do that,” he said.

  She made eye contact for a second then quickly looked away. He mumbled something, but his voice was too low for her to hear over the blaring speakers. Most of the men in Dark Sepulcher were attractive, but this man was hot. She stole a covert glance from under her eyelashes. Tall, medium build—stop it. Stay off that bandwagon.

  His full lips broke into a smile. “Sorry I intruded on your thoughts. But I gotta admit, I like what I see in there.”

  She felt heat rise in her chest, neck, and face. Busted. He offered his hand, another trick she wouldn’t fall for.

  “I’m Remy and you are?”

  She fixed her thoughts on her napkin, staring at the condensation ring left by the wet glass. Still, her mind wouldn’t quiet. What Deamhan type is he? Teeth aren’t sharp and pointy. He’s not a Ramanga. She stared again at her drink, wiping the droplets of water from the side of her glass.

  “Am I scaring you?”

  She shook her head and remained silent.

  “Do you talk?”

  “Not to strangers.” She immediately regretted her gutsy remark, knowing it would intrigue him further.

  “Maybe you should.” He traced the rim of the glass with a slender finger. “You’re new here.”

  She studied the woodwork on the bar.

  “Nervous?”

  He’d read her like an open book. She felt a tiny tingle as he tried again to read her thoughts.

  “Your thoughts. They come to me kinda like a movie: sometimes clear, other times fuzzy.” He chuckled. “Right now, they’re crystal. Do you really find the bar’s wood grain that intriguing?”

  Veronica couldn’t help but grin.

  “Do you smell that?” His voice dropped to a loud whisper. “I smell a vampire.” Remy’s eyes fixated over her shoulder.

  The dark woman from the bathroom sashayed over and leaned against the bar. Veronica hardly recognized her. She now wore the professional attire of a business woman: grayish slacks, a red blouse, and a gray suit jacket. She’d styled her hair into a chic ponytail and glossed her lips in red.

  Remy and the woman locked eyes.

  Veronica felt a fierce, electrical tension emanating from the two, and glanced back and forth between them. The woman smirked, and he smiled nonchalantly.

  “She’s mine, Remy,” she said. “He said I can have her.”

  He revealed his even, pearly teeth, his finger still tracing the rim of the glass. “Already tired of the other one?”

  Unable to stand the crackling air between the two, Veronica slid from the stool. The woman placed her hands on her hips, blocking her escape with her elbow.

  Remy smiled. “Not every female who strolls into Dark Sepulcher belongs to you, Alexis.”

  Veronica made a mental note of the vampire’s name.

  “But this little catch is stirring up the attention.” Her lips puckered.

  “Oh, that’s it,” he said. “You just want to be the first to take her.”

  Veronica eased sideways. They were playing a game to see who would be the first to have her. Well, she wasn’t going to be “had” by anyone.

  She decided to leave. “Excuse me.” She slid past him with the intent to walk away.

  “But we haven’t talked yet, researcher.” He tapped his index finger on the counter.

  His comment stopped her in her tracks.

  “Researcher?” Alexis visibly cringed at the mention of the word. “Well, then. You can have her.” She snarled her lip in distaste. “I don’t like them. Their blood tastes funny.”

  A cold chill blew up Veronica’s spine. Try as he might, she couldn’t allow herself to be associated with The Brotherhood. She was not a researcher, her father made sure of that. He kept her away from it, shielding her just enough to tell her what she needed to know.

  “I’m not a researcher,” she blurted. Not like my father.

  “Then who are you?” Remy asked, fixing her with his penetrating stare.

  The bad memories of The Brotherhood were fresh in the execrable minds of the vampires and Deamhan alike. She couldn’t risk allowing him to peg her with that title, thus immediately black listing her in the club—and in the city. She buried the important pieces from her memory like names, cities, places, and the reason why she came to Dark Sepulcher from her mind.

  “What? What is it?” Alexis asked Remy. “What do you see?”

  He smirked. “A brick wall.”

  “That’s why she interests you?” She rolled her eyes. “Because she knows how to hide her thoughts? That should make you want to kill her even more.”

  “Now, now,” he said softly, “let’s give Veronica a chance to explain.”

  He knows my name! The tingling sensation in her head returned. This time, it hurt.

  She ran toward the front exit, plowing through the crowd until she made it passed the security guards outside. Her heart thumped in her chest, and she
drank fresh air in huge gulps.

  She slowed her pace once she reached the corner.

  Sloppy. Mom would never have acted like that.

  As she continued her walk home, thoughts about her father’s warning before she left San Diego repeated over and over in her mind. He’d said she wasn’t ready to come back to Minneapolis. Nonsense.

  She had to be.

  The full moon filled the night sky. She zipped her jacket as the wind picked up. She turned her face to the wind and inhaled, letting the crisp air fill her lungs. Fall was the best time of year in Minnesota. She shoved her hands into her pockets and mounted the steps home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aloud slapping sound woke Veronica, and she jerked upright on the couch, startled. She cocked her head, listening for the arcane sound to repeat itself but nothing came.

  Moving her head from side to side, she stretched her neck. A sharp pain in her back reminded her why she should have slept in the bed last night.

  The apartment building, Palm Oaks (once a shoe factory that fell victim to a wave of new development) sat facing the bank of the Mississippi River. She’d considered a larger apartment, but the river view kept her there, despite the fact that in only a few days, she felt she’d outgrown the tiny space.

  She released an audible breath as she turned her head to look out of the window. The leaves on the trees that banked the edge of the river were in the middle of changing colors. Her gaze drifted near the red asphalt bike path to the old gazebo. Now weather beaten, its white paint cracked and peeled at the edges. Its once detailed walls were non-existent, destroyed by the harsh Minnesota weather.

  Yep, I’m in a great location.

  The apartment building was also located near many of the dance clubs and bars littering downtown Hennepin Avenue. The area seemed perfect for her. At night, the street came alive with tourists and Minneapolis citizens crowding the sidewalks along with young adults who bar hopped to relieve themselves from the job pressures of corporate America.

  Hennepin Avenue ran the length of two miles from east to west, beginning at the bank of the river and ending near the freeway. Its warehouse district rested near the eastern edge, close to Dark Sepulcher. With huge, boarded up vacant buildings, the district felt desolate and quiet until nightfall; except for the occasional police sirens in the distance. It agitated her that many of the buildings, part of original downtown Minneapolis, was shamefully left to rot in disrepair. Finally, the city decided to renovate half of the buildings, turning them into condominiums and businesses instead of tearing them down.