Blood Trial: Supernatural Battle (Vampire Towers Book 1)

by Kelly St Clare

  “I told you people, I’m not interested in selling!”

  Yelping, I gripped the base of my throat, spinning to the house.

  A curtain twitched behind the front bay windows.

  “Get off my property before I call the police.”

  I ducked my head, catching a glimpse of smeared bright-red lipstick and beady blue eyes behind the curtain.

  “I mean it!”

  From the woman’s attitude, I could assume this wasn’t really a prelim visit. Not like the first approach visits I’d been on with Katerina. This woman made it sound like Live Right bothered her constantly. They’d sent me to someone who hated them.

  Fine for me. I hated them too.

  “Okey-dokey, Mrs Gaughton. I’m leaving right now,” I sang out in the direction of the window—cracked open a sliver.

  The curtain twitched again. “Good. Stay away or I’ll get an order.”

  An order, huh? If she was going to bluff, she should research the terms for five minutes. “Sure thing. I’ll make a note on your file that you’re not to be bothered again.”

  Could I do that?

  I set off for the car again. Maybe I could pull over in a quiet street and take a nap. As I picked my way down the steep driveway, I spotted a wilting lavender bush in her tiered garden. The whole garden looked sad if truth be told, but I always noticed lavender wherever I went because it was Grandmother’s favourite.

  She hung lavender dry beads in her wardrobe and her clothes carried the scent. When she took her green tea in the afternoons, it was always in the lavender terraces. That was the only estate garden my grandmother tended to—the singular hobby she pursued around managing the estate’s finances.

  I glanced back at the curtain. It rippled. Mrs Gaughton was watching to make sure I left.

  I hesitated, then called, “You’re overwatering your lavender, did you know? My grandmother said you should only water them when the soil is dry up to your first finger knuckle.”

  There was no reply.

  “Okay, good luck with it,” I said.

  Naptime.

  I could swing by my old apartment and see what the state of things were. At this point, my stuff seemed a lost cause and not worth my time, but my second appointment was at three. I had time to kill.

  “Wait!”

  I peered back up the driveway. The tiny old woman had left her window station to squeeze her head through a crack in the front door.

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “I can’t get that lavender bush to take off. Do you have any other tips?”

  Ugh, apart from lavender being drought resistant and hard to kill? I actually did know a few things. My grandmother was most relaxed in the west gardens, so I gravitated there to be in her company at 4:00 p.m. most days. “I know that you shouldn’t have pruned it now. You should get it done before summer or if you—”

  “Yes, yes, but don’t shout it at me. I have to write it down. Come inside.” The crack widened.

  I tucked away my smile at her sudden change of heart but glanced at the car, thinking of that nap.

  Eh, I didn’t really have anywhere to be.

  I walked up the driveway. “Sure, why not. Do you have peppermint tea?”

  She swung the door wide and stepped aside to let me in. “Think I have a few bags leftover. I buy it for when my sister visits from Frankton Gorge.”

  I slipped inside and waited on the worn cream carpet as she shut the door. “I love Frankton Gorge. Bluff City is so flat, it’s nice to be in the green hills sometimes.”

  Mrs Gaughton cackled. “Especially with those wineries.”

  Wine.

  My stomach roiled and I blanched.

  “Are you okay?” the woman, mid-sixties from her file, asked.

  An excuse hovered on the tip of my tongue. Then I remembered Live Right could go suck a big dick.

  “I got plastered last night. A couple of bottles of wine. I’m hungover.”

  Mrs Gaughton snorted, patting my forearm before dragging me through the house. “Can’t say I envy you that. Two weeks ago, I overindulged in my extended Sunday lunch and was in a sorry state. Have you eaten?”

  I glanced around the house as she led me into a cramped kitchen with a round table in the middle of the space. Pretty nice for Orange, really. Some of the rooms were on the tiny side, but the place was in good repair. Nicer than Tommy’s.

  My stomach lurched again.

  Tommy hadn’t replied to my messages before I left the office for lunch. Beast would be dead in my pack by now, but I’d text her again as soon as I could, even if that meant Kyros reading my texts.

  “Nah, not today,” I admitted. Or maybe four days.

  “A bit of grease to line the stomach then,” she declared, and got to work in the kitchen. “I always do the same on a Monday.”

  “Sounds like your extended Sunday lunch is a party,” I said with a small laugh.

  “Just a bottle of Shiraz and a few vodkas. But sometimes they go down so smooth, I add an afternoon cap or three.”

  Mrs Gaughton got wasted every Sunday.

  Withholding my grin, I took a seat at the table and within minutes had my hands wrapped around a piping hot peppermint tea. The woman whipped around the cramped space in a frenzy, pulling out cheese, onions, butter, and bread. She slapped everything together and set the sandwich to fry in a pan. Whatever it was, it smelled freakin’ delicious.

  Only then did Mrs Gaughton yank open a drawer to pull out a floral notebook. The word garden was scrawled across the front in black marker.

  “I need everything you’ve got on lavender,” she spat. “It’s the third one I’ve planted in the same spot. At this point, it’s personal.”

  I puzzled over her ferocity for a second before closing my eyes. “Right, let me soak up everything my grandmother says about them.” Overwatering was the main thing. And well-drained soil.

  Keeping my eyes closed, I pictured my grandmother—dressed in one of her token skirt suits—ambling about the lavender terraces. And I began to rattle off everything I could recall about lavender.

  At some point, the older woman slid a plate in front of me, and I opened my eyes to eat the cheese and onion toasty, chewing on the deliciousness when Mrs Gaughton was furiously writing down a tip.

  “You don’t think the lavender will die because I pruned it too early?” She studied her notes.

  “No idea,” I replied. “You’ll have to wait and see with that one.”

  She hummed, tapping the pen against her red lips, spreading the smear farther. “I’d love if the bush was thriving by my sister’s next visit.”

  “You have the one?” I asked. “I don’t have any siblings.”

  Standing abruptly—I was learning everything was that way with her—Mrs Gaughton placed her notebook back in the drawer and lingered at the bench, cleaning the pan and setting the kitchen to order once more.

  “Yes, just the one,” she answered eventually. “She’ll visit in two weeks.”

  I smiled at the yearning in her voice. “That sounds lovely. I hope the lavender plays game for you.”

  She turned and smiled. “So do I. If it does, it will be thanks to you.”

  “I’ll have to drive by and check on it.” I winked, getting to my feet.

  I followed her back to the door, checking my watch. Shoot, I’d spent more time here than I thought—I had twenty minutes to get to my second appointment.

  “Don’t just drive by, Basi.” She glowered. “You’re welcome to come in. If you have any tips on marigolds, I’d planned to replant a bunch of those next week.”

  I wondered why she didn’t give up when she so clearly had a black thumb. “Thank you, Mrs Gaughton.”

  “Please call me Mrs Hannah, dear.”

  My heart warmed. She really was a lovely woman. Eccentric, but completely adorable. I missed my grandmother so much that any old woman was endearing to me right now.

  “Thank you, Mrs Hannah. I might take you up on tha
t visit.”

  It wasn’t until I was bunny hopping my loan car down the road that I realised I hadn’t brought up the house once. Husky laughter tumbled from my lips. If Kyros was going to lock me in a tower, I’d be the worst fucking employee ever.

  Because I was going back.

  After a few hours to mull the coincidental turn of events, I’d decided giving me the means to escape was certainly a test. Kyros wanted to see if I was a flight risk. He probably had safety measures in place, and if I ran and they caught me, that was it.

  I had to out-bluff him.

  That meant figuring out what his edge was before I escaped. Kyros had an ace up his sleeve or he wouldn’t have let me out of the tower. A quick search of the work system, Monocle, had shown I had appointments tomorrow afternoon and next Monday, so I’d be out of the tower again. Knowing that, running at the first chance felt like a bad idea. I’d screwed up too much lately, and most of my fuck-ups had resulted from rushing into things.

  Not this time.

  I’d take the first opportunity for a successful escape. Kyros had said that failing my trial would result in further compulsion. I had to be smarter than I’d been so far.

  The next address was in Orange too. Which I suppose made sense—the clan had landed on Orange last night which meant they had twenty-four hours to get as many contracts signed in that suburb as possible. The GPS took me past Tommy’s place, and my heart jerked in the direction of her familiar home.

  God, I could go inside, crawl under her covers, and never come out again.

  Except I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t do so many things because I was in another fucking mess. One that I wasn’t sure would ever end. I knew about vampires now. That couldn’t be undone ever.

  Turning one of the levers by the wheel, I narrowly avoided a honking car as I turned onto Friar Close. The indicator kept switching damn sides! I turned off the windscreen wipers, and ripped the wheel right, narrowly missing someone’s hedge.

  “Shit,” I said, choking on a laugh.

  Driving was pretty fun. Though a quick look in the mirror by my head told me the hedge hadn’t survived intact.

  Crap.

  I gunned it to the end of the street around the curve of the close to 190 Friar Close. Hopefully the owner of the hedge didn’t see me. Better get this prelim over and done with quickly just in case. This visit was probably to another person Live Right had pestered before.

  Grabbing the house file, I leaped out of the car and strode along the short driveway.

  I whistled low. Double garage in Orange. What a rich guy.

  I knocked a few times and retreated, arranging my face into a smile.

  A minute passed, and I slid a foot toward the car.

  The door swung open.

  Dammit.

  “What do you want?” a lean fifty-something asked. His tone was polite, but the tightness around his eyes told me he didn’t appreciate the visit one bit. Mr Yersaw retired three months ago and was a widower—or so Monocle said.

  His face fell. “Oh, are you one of those blasted Live Right people?”

  Yep, they’d visited him before. I opened my mouth, but he rushed on.

  “Bad time. I’m watching Truth Ranges.”

  My eyes rounded. “You are? What season?”

  He faltered. “Seven?”

  “Before Macy Lane breaks her finger while fixing the roof tiles during a storm or after?” I gasped. “Shit, spoiler alert. So sorry!”

  Mr Yersaw’s mouth twisted. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen every episode and keep up to date.”

  “I’m usually the same, but I’ve missed an entire week,” I confessed, grimacing.

  He blinked and then consulted his watch. “It’s 3:20 p.m.”

  We looked at each other, faces slackening.

  Every Thursday at 3:30 p.m. something happened that every self-respecting TR fan tuned in for.

  “Truth Ranges omnibus!” we chorused.

  17

  “Hey, Basi?” A hand shook my shoulder. “Hello?”

  My surroundings came to me and I bolted upright. “Frankenstein!”

  Mr Yersaw frowned down at me. “Huh?”

  I was sprawled across his couch. Dang, I’d fallen asleep during the Truth Ranges omnibus. “Transportation.”

  He mouthed the word, eyes scanning my face.

  I glanced around, trying to kickstart my brain after the nap. I’d intended to stay for a couple of episodes—not the entire thing—but now another show was on, Harkies Hullabaloos—a cooking show following elderly divorced women who travelled the world on motorbikes.

  “Sorry,” I said when I could trust my mouth. “I speak nonsense when I first wake.”

  The skin around his eyes crinkled. “Had a friend in the Navy who used to do the same.”

  “I apologise for falling asleep,” I muttered. “I got really, really drunk last night and I’m nursing a hangover.”

  He returned to his seat. “Is that why your shoes are cream and your dress white? My wife used to say they shouldn’t be worn together.”

  I blinked down at my flats which clashed with my outfit. “Yep, that’s why.”

  “I never was one for drinking. Didn’t like the person I became with it.”

  Neither had I last night.

  “But I hope you had a good time with your friends,” he added when I didn’t reply.

  My lips twitched. “I drank by myself in a hotel room.”

  “Always thought that was the way I’d do it, too, if I took up alcohol,” he confessed. “Though that seemed a lot like being an alcoholic.” The middle-aged man coloured. “Not that you’re one—an alcoholic.”

  My grin widened and I held up a hand. “Mr Yersaw, I’m not offended. Don’t worry, it was a one-off. Kind of. Happens a few times a year, tops. I should be going though. It has to be getting late.”

  “7:00 p.m.,” he told me. “I didn’t know if I should wake you. You were out to it.”

  Yeah, no wonder. I hadn’t taken good care of myself lately. My stomach was begging for food again, and the last few hours of sleep was the best I’d had all week. “Thank you so much for letting me watch the omnibus with you—even if I fell asleep.” I gave him a lopsided smile.

  He smiled tentatively.

  Mr Yersaw’s eyes slid to the file I’d chucked on the seat next to me. “You know. Watching TV with someone was nice. I retired a few months ago, but when I imagined retirement, I was travelling the world with a friend or catching up on a million hobbies. All I’ve done is sit in this house. As soon as I retired, my body decided to fall apart.”

  I listened patiently as he rattled off his list of ailments.

  “I’m beginning to hate this house.” He finished.

  My heart panged. “No one likes feeling trapped. But maybe you’d like the house better if you got out of these walls for a while? Did some travelling.”

  “No,” he said firmly. “Last week, I went to an RV sale yard. I want to drive something like that around—a new place every other week—for as long as I want. Weeks, months, or years. The rest of my life. They have convoys you can join, did you know? I could meet people.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said. “Why don’t you do it?”

  “I need to pay for the RV.” He gave me a pointed look.

  That blows. “That’s a real shame. Is there anything you could do for cash?”

  He peered at the file. “I have an asset.”

  I caught his second pointed look. Oh. Oh!

  “You want to sell your house? If so, I can certainly help you.”

  Excitement lit the man’s face. “You know, I hadn’t planned to sell for another fifteen years. I can keep up with the maintenance and I’ve lived here since I scraped together the house deposit thirty years ago. But I guess the last three months have shown me that I’ve spent my life working. I’ll be dead in thirty years at best. I need to do something now.”

  Okay, shit. I was maybe about to sell a house. />
  Shaking back my bed hair, I picked up the file and perched on the seat. “If you’re looking for something right now, you are talking to the right woman. Live Right has a same-day signing option.”

  All prelim files came with a valuation and a few contracts with different values on them.

  “You’re kidding?” he said, slumping back on the two-seater. “Today?”

  “If that’s what you want, I can make it happen. But are you sure you’re not rushing into this?”

  Good one, Basi. Talk him out of it.

  He stared vacantly, then frowned at his hands. “It’s the opposite. I should have rushed into living a long time ago. This world just made me think I couldn’t.”

  His words hit me with force.

  “What’s the offer?” Mr Yersaw said firmly.

  Blinking, I opened the folder. “Well, we had your home evaluated two months ago for four hundred and sixty thousand,” I said, reading the bottom number of the valuation range as Katerina had taught me.

  Mr Yersaw considered that, and sighed, “Should have sold five years ago, but I could buy four brand-new RV’s with that. My Navy pension would be enough to cover travel costs. I’ll take it.”

  … He would?

  “Uh, uhm.” I shuffled through the contracts. “Let me just see…”

  The man burst to his feet, pointing at the cooking show on TV. Four women were racing down a country lane on their Harleys. “Why not? Anyone can start at any time, right?”

  Wasn’t that what I’d tried to do when I left the estate? My voice was soft when I answered him, “Yes. I really do believe that, Mr Yersaw.”

  “Where do I sign?” he said with a nod.

  “You haven’t read the contract,” I said weakly.

  He paused in the act of searching for a pen.

  “Is it a good contract?” he suddenly asked, glancing at me. “You seem like a nice person, but I guess this house is all I have. Shouldn’t be stupid with it.”

  Angelica had assured me their clan operated and obeyed human law to the letter. Still, I was securing someone’s home so they could fulfil their retirement dream. “How about you take a seat and we go through the contract together?”

  I drew out the back contract and read the value print on it. “And Live Right would be delighted to offer you five hundred and ten thousand for your home.”