Call Of Blood
A Novel of The Unnatural Brethren
SILVANA G. SÁNCHEZ
Copyright © 2018 by Silvana G. Sánchez. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or undead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
With all my heart,
This one’s for you, Iker.
“When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that our foretold
Sorrow to this.”
When we two parted. Lord Byron.
Contents
DIDO & AENEAS
I. THE HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
II. THE SKULL SPLITTER
CAST IN BLOOD
Water
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Also by Silvana G. Sánchez
DIDO & AENEAS
In great depths underground, a blazing hearth cracks the pitch darkness of the room. Within the licking flames, the memories of withered days breathe new life.
Useless to precise the moment when her mortal eyes had cast their gaze upon him under a different light. A sharp sense of belonging had latched her to him from a tender age, true, but it was on the brim of losing him that she’d discovered how much those feelings had grown.
Lying on the wooden bench, next to the fireplace, his drenched clothing stuck to his shuddering body. At this sight, her heart constrained in pain. And her deep-blue eyes widened as they captured the frame of a young man who appeared much older than sixteen.
Beautiful, even more so now that his short mane of black hair glistened, and his full lips—pale, with a tinge of blue—quivered. A few drops of melting snow rolled down his flawless face… The face of an angel.
He’s dying.
Father struck his cheek and got a few words out of him. With a low jittery voice, he pointed them to the lake. But Alisa knew the futility of Ivan’s message—Viktor was dead. Their brother would never survive the freezing weather, much less if he’d drowned, as was her suspicion.
Viktor is gone. But you… You cannot leave me. You cannot die. I can’t envision life without you.
“You will survive this,” she told him in a low voice, thinking all the while that those words meant to soothe her anxiety, more than to comfort his.
Ivan had survived. After a lifetime of success in avoiding death, he had escaped it once more. And the frailty of life then convinced her—more than ever—that it was time to act upon her feelings… a trip to Europe would do.
“Ivan,” she whispered, holding fast the gold locket pending from her neck. “I need you.”
Trapped, in the dark, a song echoes in her skull. The old melody’s basso continuo plays in her mind, again and again. A broken record of sorts.
Part I
THE HOUSE OF THE DRAGON
我很樂意在天堂漫步，
但它很遙遠，沒有道路。
I would gladly wander in Paradise,
But it is far away and there is no road.
From Substance, Shadow, and Spirit.
Tao Chien
Ivan
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Ivan turned off the car’s ignition and got out of his red Ferrari. Straightening his jacket’s lapels, he crossed the sliding doors and stepped into the Emergency Room.
His lawyer had screwed up. Make the donation, he’d said. No need to mention my name. Ivan’s desire for anonymity had been clear, but not clear enough for Edgar Bolden.
The second the deposit had gone through, Ivan received a phone call from the board of directors. They wanted to meet him. They wouldn’t take no for an answer—and truth be told, their insistence much appealed to his vanity. The board had even pushed the schedule to fit Ivan’s time of preference—evenings, always on evenings.
Ivan took a deep breath. “Just a quick hello…” he mused, “a discrete thank you, and then, I’m out of here.”
Behind the Emergency Room’s reception desk sat a voluptuous woman with tanned skin and striking eyes. She was engaged at the telephone. Her light brown eyes kept track of his every move as he headed to the hallway.
The woman hung up the phone. Slowly, she rose from her seat and her hands met in the air at the beginning of an imminent ovation.
She clapped once more with the same steady beat. If he moved fast enough, perhaps he could flee the scene.
“Mr. Ivan Lockhart,” the receptionist said, giving him a knowing look. “You did good.”
Dozens of heads turned his way. Impossible to remain invisible now. Ivan thanked her with a quick nod—a very subtle nod.
“Oh, my God…” a nurse said. “It’s really him.” She stopped in the middle of the hallway and joined the round of applause.
How does she even know me?
A man emerged from the horde surrounding him and shook Ivan’s hand. “Well done, Mr. Lockhart!”
“God bless you, sir!” A woman tugged him by the arm. “You saved my nephew’s life.”
If God exists, I’m afraid he’s not very fond of me.
Escape was not an option as the crowd surrounding him turned into a raging mob. Raising both hands in the air, he begged them to bring this madness to an end—and lo-and-behold, it worked. Silence prevailed in the room, with a cough here and there (after all, this was a hospital). Dozens of expectant eyes stared at him.
“I’m afraid I cannot take the credit,” he said. “It is you and you alone who deserve my recognition… Keep up the good work.”
Keep up the good work? What was he thinking? Such a horrendous speech… Another round of applause echoed in the waiting room. But this time, Ivan had earned the right to graciously walk away.
First floor.
Had he actually blushed back there? His face felt warm.
A grave-looking group of executives stood at the end of the corridor, waiting by the sliding doors that led to the hospital’s newest wing. And, would you look at that? The media circus had already arrived—cameras, microphones, and cell phones dangling over their heads.
“Ah! There he is,” said the man with salt and pepper hair. “The man of the hour!”
Faces struck with curiosity turned to him. Lights flashed before his eyes, blinding him for a few seconds.
Why had he agreed to come here? Oh… That’s right. His lawyer’s mistake. Wretched Edgar Bolden.
“It’s a pleasure finally meeting you.” The man shook Ivan’s hand. Swift as a magician, he slipped a brochure into his jacket’s breast pocket. “I’m Thomas Novak, Chairman of the Board.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said.
Novak addressed the crowd. “I give you, Mr. Ivan Lockhart. It is, without question, thanks to his generosity that a new star shines in Saint Paul’s Hospital. What began as a dream, has now…” The man went on with his speech, but Ivan’s attention engaged in the red ribbon at the doorway. Was he expected to cut that thing? Seeing his name on the papers and his face on the six o’clock news was not at all his cup of tea.
But never mind that, people cheered and smiled, and encouraged him to approach the
podium. And here he was thinking his little speech downstairs had been the evening’s highlight.
Inches away from the microphone, he spoke:
“Dreams indeed are ambition, for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.” Ivan smiled. Having quoted one of his favorite lines in Hamlet, he wondered if anyone present would catch on to his little game. “Tonight, the dream comes to its end and the true challenge begins. And make no mistake, Saint Paul’s is up to the challenge.”
“Well said, Mr. Lockhart.” Novak handed him the scissors.
Cameras flashed again. A round of applause began as he completed the inauguration’s mandatory rite. When it was over, people shook his hand and extended their congratulations.
“It’s such a pleasure finally meeting the man behind the Lockhart Foundation,” a woman said. “You’re a true humanitarian.”
Am I?
No, Ivan was no humanitarian. This cause meant nothing to him. His sudden generosity answered to his lawyer’s advice. The donation had been the perfect device to handle his taxes.
“Excuse me for saying this but…” The woman’s hand landed on his arm. “You are younger than I expected. Exactly how old are you, Mr. Lockhart?”
“Forgive my intrusion,” Novak said. “But it’s time for a brief tour of the Lockhart Wing.”
The Lockhart Wing? This just keeps getting better.
Novak’s arm landed on Ivan’s shoulders. “Please, come this way.”
Well, I’m here now. Let’s see my money’s worth.
“The laboratory is fully equipped with cutting-edge technology,” Novak said as the tour began. Camera shutters went off several times before they moved into the next room. “The following area was designed for small procedures such as spinal taps and intrathecal therapy. If you look closer, you’ll see…”
Ivan’s attention drifted to another room where people sat in comfortable leather recliners. Their eyes fixed on television screens as the purest crimson liquid poured into their veins through several intravenous lines.
“I see you’ve discovered the transfusion center.” Novak stood beside him. “The high demand forced us to open early.”
“Of course.” Ivan took a step back. The hunger faintly rattled in the depths of his voracious soul.
“Up ahead is the hospitalization area, and next, the blood bank. If you’d be so kind as to follow me, Mr. Lockhart.”
The blood bank?
“Certainly,” he replied, but something quite different echoed in his mind. What have I gotten myself into? Ivan pulled the brochure out of his pocket.
Center for Hematologic Malignancies.
A new star in the heart of Saint Paul’s Hospital.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered.
“The rooms are equipped to the highest standards, providing…” Novak’s voice muffled in the distance as they moved further in the hallway.
Ivan’s mouth went dry. His heart raced. The room spun around him.
I have to get out of here.
The opportunity came as the press engaged Novak for an interview. Without sparing another minute, Ivan set off his cell phone’s ringtone.
Novak’s eyes turned to him. With a frown, Ivan shook his head and pressed his lips—the perfect pretense of an emergency call. He then slipped the phone in his jacket’s pocket and approached Novak.
“I’m afraid the tour ends for me here, Novak,” Ivan said. “Duty calls.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Lockhart.” Novak stepped away from the press. “Needless to say, you are always welcomed. Allow me to see you’re escorted to your vehicle.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Ivan said. “We’ll be in touch.”
Shamelessly, the press and board members engulfed Novak once more. Ivan seized the moment and walked away.
Moving down the hallway, he turned left, then right—where was the damned exit?
Phillip
It was a nasty habit, a vice that ran deep in his blood, impossible to shake off through the years. The seconds of anxiety preceding his sin were precious. His breathing raced, his blood quickened, and the thrill that followed was worth it every single time.
How can it be so wrong when it feels so damn right? A question for the ages.
Phillip took one more drag off his cigarette. The smoke swirled in the evening air and drifted towards the Bay where a multicolored sea of lights flickered. In the distance, waves broke on the beach and ebbed away in a cycle that numbed his senses.
8:15 PM.
Another drag off his cigarette and then he would put it out for good. Phillip’s every muscle relaxed as he exhaled the poisonous vapors that filled his lungs and released them to the cool September wind. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it, stepping over it before he opened the balcony’s sliding doors.
A rock ballad welcomed him into the room. The music blasted off the speakers as the video played on the television mounted on the wall. The sudden fragrance of roses filled his lungs. A trail of red petals lay scattered on the carpeted floor, the bouquet rested on the dressing table. A swell idea, all in all—the perfume of roses was far more desirable than the stench of death and decay.
Beneath white satin sheets was his prey, a red-haired woman in her mid-thirties with a taste for danger that ultimately led to her end. And though she seemed to sleep, her unnatural stillness and the paleness of her skin told a different story—one Phillip had written a few minutes ago.
Night after night, Phillip killed and drank human blood. It was a nasty habit, a vice that ran deep in his blood, impossible to shake off through the years—after all, he was a vampire.
Jiao
Amidst the hurried murmurs of the growing horde gathered in the Assembly Room, clamors rose and dissipated in the echo of their voices.
“He'll never return! It's been fifty years, why should he come back now?”
The mob stirred, and a fist rose above hundreds of heads. “He will! He’s King and Lord forever!”
“Shut up, you fool!” a voice replied. Laughter and cries of fury followed.
“Look at us!” An elder emerged from the crowd. “We're aimless, divided! Our Kin is weak. Our ancestral blood is all but spent!”
“Hear me, my brothers.” His voice outshone every other in the assembly. Silence prevailed. All heads turned to face him with inquisitive eyes.
Defying the Coven’s laws, Jiao Long climbed the three sacred steps and stood by the empty throne. The golden Renaissance armchair lined in red velvet bore an embroidered herald on the back—a tree sewn in golden thread. Carved in an exuberance of royal detail, this was no ordinary chair, but its intrinsic value surpassed any historical worth it could ever possess. The Red Throne was a key to absolute power, and it waited for the return of its keeper, The Skull Splitter, Eirik Bjorn.
“Fifty years…” Jiao began. “We have waited for fifty years, and in that time, we have done nothing but hide in the darkness. We have stopped living in hopes of the day when Eirik Bjorn will deign to return and spring us back to life…” Jiao paused. “But I tell you this, my brothers: Eirik Bjorn will not return to preside our Coven’s assembly.”
“Liar!” a voice cried.
Jiao Long’s hazel eyes gleamed with an unnatural fire. He clenched his fists, ready to make that voice disappear forever when he remembered his true purpose.
“A son of the House of The Dragon never lies,” he said with a serene voice. “This news I bring to you as was passed on to me from The Skull Splitter himself.”
The coven stirred, astonished by Jiao’s revelation. Fear brewed in their immortal hearts, fear of knowing themselves slighted by the millenary vampire, Eirik Bjorn.
“Do not be frightened, my brothers,” Jiao said. “The time to grieve our loss is over. The past is Death and I am Life! Pledge your loyalty to me, and I will make you rise from the ashes! I will give our coven a new era—an era of Light!”
A wave of applause c
ame in reply.
“Hear, hear!” Liam said. He was as trustworthy an apprentice as there could be amidst his brethren.
Other voices joined Liam’s in celebration. However, Jiao Long raised his hand, and the cheers came to a stop.
“Embrace me as your leader, and I will deliver you to the world as the most lethal force History has ever known!”
“We’re with you, Jiao!” The lone cry of an overexcited vampire in the back of the room.
A low humming stirred in the room. Male and female blood drinkers stamped their feet on the ground in a slow beat. The chant became clear.
“Regem In Tenebris!”
King in the Dark. His thin lips stretched into a malicious smile. Jiao Long had waited for this moment for centuries. With eyes gleaming in the torchlight, Jiao opened his arms in a welcoming gesture. “Our coven will thrive again!” he said, and the clamoring voices rose even more. “I am Jiao Long, son of the House of The Dragon, and from tonight onwards, proud Leader of the Devil's Coven!”
“Regem In Tenebris!”
The chant continued, and with it, a delicious warmth wrapped his body, exalting his preternatural senses.
Jiao took one hard look at the ancient armchair, his fingertips smoothed over its velvet arms. And as hundreds of voices announced the beginning of his reign of darkness, Jiao sat on the Red Throne—his throne.
Ivan
Ivan was nowhere near the parking lot. Down a long and narrow corridor, he moved. Such stillness filled the air that it rendered him anxious.
Call of Blood: A Novel of The Unnatural Brethren Page 1