by J. T. Hardy
On the run from beings that can’t possibly exist…
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Grace Harper has spent her life on the run, ever since her mother’s unnatural death at the hands of creatures that shouldn’t be real. It’s hard to believe in vampires, but the things chasing her fit every legend she’s ever heard. She dubs them “Pretty Boys,” though their beautiful faces hide ugly appetites.
For twenty years, she and her father have stayed ahead of them, but for the last five years, their lives have been quiet. Grace has found a home, a life, and people she could even care about. She thinks the nightmare is finally over, but then a man shows up asking questions about a missing woman who’s somehow connected to her and her mother. He might also have answers about her mother’s death, if she’s willing to take a risk.
Before she can decide, she’s attacked by a Pretty Boy and barely escapes. If the Pretty Boys have found her, it’s time to run. Reluctantly, she prepares to abandon her life, possible answers, and the only friend she’s ever had.
Until they take her father.
Fleeing is no longer an option. To find him, she must face ancient secrets, creatures from legend, and an unbelievable truth that will shatter her world. But to save him, Grace has to do the hardest thing of all: stop running and start fighting.
Blood Ties
A Grace Harper Novel
J T Hardy
Novels by J.T. Hardy
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The Grace Harper Series
Blood Ties
* * *
Novels as Janice Hardy
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The Healing Wars Trilogy
The Shifter
Blue Fire
Darkfall
For everyone who’s ever asked
“What if?”
Chapter One
The child was pure evil, no doubt about it. The bane of the entire prosthetics ward, so naturally they'd dumped her on me. Being the new gal anywhere had its share of drawbacks, and Andrews Medical Center was no different from any other hospital I'd worked at, hence the Saturday shift, and the problem-patient hazing. For five days I'd put up with Daisy's faux woe-is-me show, even though I'd stopped falling for that trembling lip and tear-soaked-eyes act on day two.
"I know it hurts, Daisy, but you can do it," I said, voice level. One did not cajole the Devil Child lightly.
"You don't know anything, Miss Legs."
Not her best rejoinder, but I admired her skill at avoiding repetition. I knelt beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I know if you don't do your therapy you'll be stuck in that wheelchair." I tipped my head at the chair, crammed into the corner next to therapy stairs like it had pissed off its father. "Put your other leg on and let's get to work."
"I hate these things more than I hate you." She glared at the prosthetic she hadn't yet put on as if she could make it burst into flames by sheer will.
"So don't let them win."
Her glare shifted to the floor in front of her and I mentally crossed my fingers. One, two, if she made it to five--
"They're not alive! They can't win anything!" she screeched, swinging her leg at me. I braced for impact. "You're so stupid! Go away."
I granted her two hits, then caught the leg in both hands and jerked it away from her. I was all for catharsis, but those things were expensive.
"Daisy, put your leg on."
"No! I hate it."
The newer patients shot her sympathetic glances while the regulars rolled their eyes and shook their heads. Many a physical therapist had fallen to Daisy's mighty tantrums, and she'd gone through every assistant on the floor. I was a little surprised they hadn't saddled me with her sooner, to be honest. It would be quite the coup if I managed to get her walking again.
To do that, though, I'd have to stay. The travel aspect was a big part of being a traveling physical therapy assistant. Thirteen weeks, then it was off to a new town, new hospital, new set of faces, and all the security life on the move brought me. Even if it did seem safe here.
Besides, nice as Ft. Lauderdale was, it was half a country away from Dad and the call I'd been dreading for far too long.
Still. I liked it here. Enough that I was on my third temp rotation, and actually knew most of my coworkers' names. For the first time in my life I actually had a life.
And Mrs. Johnson had even asked me about staying on permanently. A permanent home, a permanent life, no more running--was that even possible?
Dad would say no. I wished I could say yes.
Sighing, I dropped the prosthesis in Daisy's lap and a hint of sweaty neglect wafted up from it. Someone wasn't keeping it clean, but that was an argument for another day. "Okay, if that's what you want."
"Seriously?" She peeked up at me through her protective shield of blond hair.
"It's your life. I'll get your chair and you can go." I turned my back and headed for the wheelchair. Yesterday, tissue-paper flowers had been taped to the handles, but only a few bits of torn paper remained. They shone bright against the hospital-beige walls and the poster for the weekly amputee support group.
She let me reach the chair this time. That was new. She'd never struck me as a quitter, despite the tantrums and the attitude. I flipped the chair around and wheeled it back, locking it down in front of her. "All yours."
Summoning the melodrama only a twelve-year-old could muster, she dropped her leg to the floor, ripped off the second one in record time, and flung herself into the chair. "I hate you."
Maybe she meant me, maybe the chair; with Daisy it was hard to tell. "Take care of yourself, kid." I ruffled her hair for good measure.
"Stupid physical therapy," she muttered, rolling away. She slapped the wheels with every push. Determination, thy name was Daisy. If only she'd channel that into learning to walk again.
One of the other PTAs, Libby Torres, caught my attention from across the room and raised an eyebrow at me. I could almost hear the supportive, "You good?" that had started plenty of conversations my first week here. Her friendly tenacity had led to a bunch of dinners and a lot of laughter--and shockingly enough--an actual, honest-to-goodness friendship.
It had been years since anyone had been that nice to me at work. I wasn't sure anyone had ever put effort into being my friend. I'd never lived anywhere long enough to make friends.
I smiled and waved her off, a silent thanks for the backup. It's fine, my casual head toss said, but Daisy had never gone this far before. I'd only been working with her a short time, but I knew the type.
Hell, I'd been the type.
Come on, Devil Child, turn around. The "pity me" routine was a load of crap and we both knew it.
On our first session, she'd dug her fingers into her chair arms every time her mom fussed over her as if she were a delicate little flower no stronger than the ones taped to her chair--Mom's idea of course. The third time her dad had "atta girled" her she'd flipped him off when his back was turned. She'd made gagging motions through their entire "she's such a brave, brave girl" speech.
I didn't know about brave, but she was pissed, and it wasn't over losing her legs. First person to figure out why might be able to help her.
She rolled on, still no signs of stopping.
I couldn't have read her wrong. She was a fighter for sure. She needed an enemy to fight, and it couldn't be her legs. She'd never accept them if they took the brunt of all that anger.
Five feet from the elevators she stopped. Her head cocked to the right the tiniest bit, and I caught a flick of her eye checking up on me. Atta girl. I walked into her field of view and picked up her legs, then turned toward the trash bin on the far wall next to the nurse's station.
A cute guy in a cheap s
uit glanced our way while Nurse Williams eyed me over her bright pink glasses with all the disapproval of a foreman behind schedule. Please. As if I'd throw away perfectly good prosthetics. The frown reminded me of Dad, though, and the worry I'd been fighting all year chipped at my tough-love facade. Not here, not now. Focus on Daisy's pain, not yours.
I reached the trash bin, pushed open the lid, and wrinkled my nose. Someone had had fish tacos again for lunch. I made a show of trying to find the right angle to shove the legs in. Come on, cry uncle, kiddo.
"Ms. Harper, wait," Daisy said softly.
Yes! I heaved a sigh as dramatic as hers and turned around. "Need something?"
Daisy scowled at me, her shoulders stiff, pouting like a pro and clearly wanting to tell me to go to Hell. But I had her. I'd passed whatever test her parents kept failing. She rolled over to me and held out her hands. "Fine, I'll do the stupid exercises."
"Suit yourself. You paid for the full hour." I wiggled one of her legs. "You ordered the extra crispy two piece, right?"
I damn near got a smile.
"Just give 'em to me," she muttered. She shoved herself past the guy in the cheap suit and nearly ran over his toes. He didn't even glance at her, just kept his gaze on me.
"Grace Harper," he said. Short, clipped, not a question.
I froze for a second longer than I should have. Daisy had already identified me, so it wasn't as if I could say no. "Yes?"
"May I ask you a few questions?"
I gestured at Daisy, glowering at us from a minimal safe distance. If this guy screwed this up... "Sorry, I'm with a patient right now."
"It'll only take a minute." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a yellowed piece of paper. Nurse Williams shot me a look that said, "Keep it short." I planned on it.
"And you are?" No badge, but he acted like a cop. Hopeful, yet wary blue eyes hinted that he'd seen things he wished he hadn't. His black hair had a distracted scruffiness to it--neat on the back and sides, a tad long on the top. Almost a professor vibe, though he couldn't be older than thirty.
"Nate Cavanaugh. Are any of these names familiar to you?"
"I don't have time for--"
"Please, Ms. Harper, a woman's life is at stake." He held the paper closer.
I took it. Not paper, something thicker and glossier, even though it was yellowed and old. It reminded me of the scrolls I saw at a museum Dad took me to once. Eight names were listed in delicate script, four names crossed off. The ink looked just as old, faded and dark red.
Except for the name on the bottom. That looked brand new in bright blue ink.
"Why is my name on this list?" I asked, chest tight.
"That's what I'd like to know."
The first two names on the list were so faded it was tough to read them--the top name was crossed off, but the second one wasn't. I squinted closer. Rebekah Antonelli and Hannah Antonelli.
All the air vanished from the room.
"Ms. Harper?" Cavanaugh said. "Do you recognize another name?"
"Where did you get this?"
"It was found in the apartment of a woman who disappeared two days ago." He pointed to a crossed-off name third up from the bottom--Anita Rosenberg. Her ink also looked fresh. "Does that name sound familiar to you?"
"Are all these people missing?"
"Have you given blood recently?"
"Have I what?"
"Bloodmobile, office blood drive, that sort of thing?"
"What does that have to do with this list?"
He frowned, his brow furrowed. "Did you have any blood drawn recently? For a procedure perhaps? Routine physical?"
An awfully personal question for a total stranger. "Are you sure it's me? Grace Harper's a common--"
Daisy's exasperated sigh cut through the room, louder than the grunts of the patients and the clank of the machines. "C'mon Grace-face. You're eating up my minutes here."
I jumped, shaking off the urge to get the hell out of there. Running only drew attention. "Be right there," I called to her, then handed him back the paper. "Sorry Mr. Cavanaugh, I need to get back to my patient. I'm afraid I can't help you, but I hope you find Ms. Rosenberg safe and sound."
His shoulders slumped a little, and he offered me his card. "I understand. If you think of anything that could help find her, please give me a call. Her family is devastated."
"Of course."
I tucked the card into the pocket of my scrubs, mentally repeating the names until Cavanaugh was gone and it was safe to write them down.
"Sorry about that," I said, walking beside Daisy's chair. I didn't turn around, didn't give any indication that all I wanted to do was grab my phone and call Dad.
Cavanaugh left, but there were four people I didn't recognize still on the floor. Any one of them could be his backup, waiting and watching to see what I'd do after he'd gone. I couldn't afford to be anything but normal until I was sure I was alone.
"What are you looking at, butt-head?" Daisy snapped at Libby's patient as we passed her and a muscled guy about twenty with high-and-tight hair and a Semper Fi tattoo. He did not seem amused. Neither did Libby, but I spotted concern for me under her irritation.
I cleared my throat.
Daisy stopped rolling. "Sorry," she tossed back. "Legs made me do it." Then she was off again, headed for the parallel bars.
Libby gasped and put a hand on her chest, her dark eyes wide. "She apologized? Where did you learn to do exorcisms?"
"My dad. Old family tradition." The familiar pang tightened my chest, worsened by Cavanaugh's visit. Dad had to be safe--the schedule he'd e-mailed me said he'd have chemo all morning, surrounded by nurses and doctors. No one was heartless enough to go after a man in the cancer ward--not even out there in Vegas.
Libby grinned, but still looked worried. We'd gotten close enough over the last few months that she'd probably figured out all was not well in Graceland. "That's it, you have to stay now. You've made progress with the Devil Child."
If only I could. Grace Harper's life was a lot better than any of the half dozen others I'd had before this.
I smiled back. "We'll see."
She glanced at her patient, then leaned in closer to me, her black braid sliding forward over her shoulder. "You good?"
Until today, everything had been great, which was the problem. I nodded, but couldn't fake the smile to back it up. "Yeah, it's nothing."
"If that changes, you can call me next week if you need to."
Libby was on vacation as of 4 p.m. today. I hadn't even asked her where she was going, and she hadn't wanted to talk about it, so I hadn't pushed. It was one of Dad's many rules--don't get involved. I suddenly wanted to know her plans. I wanted to make plans, do the best friend stuff we'd joked about, but hadn't quite gotten to yet. "I'll call if I need you," I said instead.
I trotted after Daisy, hope and dread fighting for control of my heart. Cavanaugh's list of names might finally give me answers, and those answers could give me my life back.
Maybe even let me keep the one I'd grown really fond of.
After Daisy had finished her therapy and I was sure Cavanaugh had truly gone, I slipped outside and headed for a picnic area that was always deserted this time of day. By the time I arrived, sweat dampened the hair along my neck, despite it being February. Florida had its sunshine and beaches, but it was like living in a sauna with giant flying cockroaches and lizards the size of toddlers. The flowers smelled nice, though. Sweet and citrusy.
Weird as it was, I'd miss it if I left. Not a lot of places had it rain in the front yard and not in the back. The state had character.
I sat on a nearly concrete bench and pulled out my phone. The list of Cavanaugh's names I'd jotted down earlier was still on the notes screen, but I swiped over to the phone and tapped Dad's name. I'd research the names as soon as I knew he was okay.
The phone rang a few times before Dad's voice broke in. "Stella's House of Massage, we never rub you the wrong way."
His bad j
oke code phrase told me everything was fine, though he'd obviously gotten a new nurse. I relaxed against the picnic table. "Stella? What happened to Tracy?"
"They moved her to cardiology." He paused, and I caught the distinct tone of scolding nurse in the background. I grinned. I guess Stella didn't appreciate Dad's sense of humor. "I miss Tracy," he mock whispered into the phone.
"You miss the sponge baths."
"And the drugs."
I laughed, my heart lighter at how good he sounded, even if it wouldn't last long. "She's glad to be done with you."
"Stella has a better use for my bed is all. Has her eye on a cute dentist with stage two non-Hodgkin lymphoma."
More grumbling in the background. I smiled. "Be nice to people with access to defibrillators."
"Oh, all right. How's it going, Butternut?"
Question of the day. I hesitated, sliding my Star of David charm along the necklace Dad had given me when I was ten. "A man came to see me today, asking questions about a missing woman. He showed me a list of names." I rattled them off.
Pained silence. "Haven't heard some of those in a while."
"Why is her name there? Why is my name there? Who are those other people?"
"Cops asking?"
"No ID, but he acted like one."
Dad paused. A siren wailed and faded as an ambulance pulled into emergency. Finally, he spoke again. "Pretty Boy?"
"Didn't feel that way. He gave up too easily." Plus, I was still alive.
"You sure? Was it the same one we saw the other day outside that ice cream store you like so much?"
I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut. "That was in Birmingham, Dad."
"Oh yeah, yeah. You're in Florida now," he said, voice rock steady, even if his mind mixed up dates and places at an increasing rate. I imagined the father from my childhood--his smile, his bright eyes, the dark curly hair the chemo had stolen from him.