BLOODLINES -- Blood War Trilogy: Book I

by Dylan J. Morgan

  How long will it take for Rebecca to crash the Mercedes? Can she handle a car like that? She wants the car for different reasons than you, my princess. She will deface it and squander its value. Greed will destroy my vehicle in the hands of that woman.

  Tamara had opened the door to the bedroom before being aware she’d crossed the room. The sound of their talking and carefree laughter grew louder, slipping easily up the staircase to ridicule her.

  You can feel your power now Tamara, I know it’s burning inside you. They have everything and you’ve been cheated. Anger is with you and you must use it, jealousy is there and it must be sated. Hunger. Can you feel the hunger princess? Hunger needs to be satisfied in order for us to live. Feeding the hunger sates us and offers peace and relaxation. Do not deny the hunger.

  She was starving. Her family fed on food provided by Granddad but she didn’t think about feasting on that. Nearing the foot of the stairs her abdomen constricted in painful bursts. It needed satisfying; she needed to be satisfied.

  You have an exceptional gift, princess. You need to embrace it. You need to use it to fulfill your destiny, to fulfill “our” destiny. They have everything except your gift. They have everything except your anger and your jealousy. They have everything.

  She ignored his signature of love and hope. The letter slipped through her fingers as she left the bottom step, consumed by acute anger and jealousy, transformed by her ancestry.

  Tamara joined the feast in the drawing room.

  She enjoyed the fact Dale Vernon stood nearest the door. He wasn’t family; he had no right being there. She caught a quick glimpse of shock and surprise on his face before she pushed his forehead back and clamped outsized jaws around his throat. His blood spurred her on as it gushed into her mouth and ran down her neck and chest like the delicate tongue of a lover. Shocked cries rang in her ears as she let Dale’s twitching corpse flop to the floor. Alison had stuffed food into her mouth, and she spat crumbs as she mouthed Tamara’s name. The blood of her sister mingled with that of Dale’s, coating her chin and lips as fangs severed Alison’s carotid artery. Tammy struggled to pull the flesh clear. She let her sister collapse to the floor, wriggling, hands clasped to her throat in a vain effort to stem the flow of blood. The girl’s face paled before Tamara’s eyes.

  Her father’s raised voice thudded in her ears. Tamara looked up as her stepmother fainted. Dad backed into the corner of the room, his hip knocking against a small buffet trolley almost picked clean. They’d not even left enough food for her—not that she needed it anymore. She didn’t want any of their leftovers.

  “My god, Tamara,” her father said, a hand outstretched towards her off. “What’s happened to you? What have you done?”

  The man babbled as always. It pushed anger around her in harder spasms, loathing climbing from the depths of her pool of revulsion. He had given her nothing except life and until now she’d hardly noticed she had one. He hadn’t acknowledged her—Rebecca and Alison had always been the ones. It would all change now, Granddad’s words ensured it.

  He walked into a ceiling-high bookshelf.

  “Please Tamara, I’m so sorry, I never meant to hurt you. I love you, I always have. You were always my favorite, please don’t kill me.”

  She relished the terror in his eyes as he looked at her. It seemed his hand wasn’t meant to keep her at bay but a way to shield her face from his view. She looked at an oval mirror fixed to the wall, at her reflection, and shock crept over her. She could make out the contours of her own face, but she’d been distorted: animalistic, with a snout and enlarged canines. She had to study her reflected features to form recognition. She looked bigger and stronger, distended with anger.

  “Please,” her father pleaded.

  For a moment, anger abated, shrinking inside like a flower withering in the heat. A pang of pity simmered through Tamara’s cauldron of abhorrence. From the corner of her eye she watched her shape shift, diminishing, her distorted countenance slipping away. Tamara Wyatt edged to the surface.

  She eyed the ring of keys to the estate clasped firmly in her father’s hand.

  He shrieked when she lunged at him. She had him cornered, a table to his right, wall to his left, and thick leather-bound books at his back. Tamara wrestled her father easily to the ground and ripped flesh from his shoulder. He screamed, kicking in agony. A fist slammed her cheek. Her hands had grown further, nails sharpening, and the starving predator tore into her dad’s body. She gorged herself, emotions withdrawing as her hunger receded.

  A sound wormed into her mind. Now a feeding beast, Tamara straightened, on guard. She glared at Rebecca. Standing in the corner of the room, her sister cried in the manner she always seemed to when she was a child and unable to get her own way. Tamara moved towards her. Rebecca breathed in harsh gasps, mascara painting dark lines across her cheeks. Disgusting, Tamara thought, a pathetic wreck of a woman. Rebecca held her keys tight, not wanting to let her inheritance go. Selfish bitch! Rebecca ran to windows overlooking the driveway and the cluster of cars parked upon its gravel. None of the panes slid open. She threw her handbag at the glass in an effort to break free. The bag bounced off the frame and flopped to the floor. What a sad, feeble creature; hopeless, and she inherits the Mercedes. Tamara vomited pieces of her father onto the rug. New hunger welled in her stomach. She edged towards her sister. Rebecca moved away and stumbled over Alison’s corpse, regaining her footing a second before Tamara came for her.

  The chase was short and swift but it filled Tamara with an excitement she’d never felt before. Dragging the squealing woman to the floor and tearing into the nape of her neck almost pushed her to orgasm, ecstasy powering through her as her sister’s spine cracked and blood gushed onto the carpet.

  Tamara fed on the cooling body. Hunger withdrew, anger sliding with it.

  Death’s stench hung in the air and Tamara pulled herself from her sister’s torn body. She reached to the windowsill and hauled herself to her feet. Sweat popped on her brow. She leaned against the wall and looked at Alison and Dale’s bodies: together in death as they’d been in life, her sister’s hands clasped around her throat as if she were still trying to suppress the blood flow. Books in the shelf along the opposite wall wore a coat of crimson and Dad’s torn corpse spread over the carpeted floor. His outstretched hand appeared to search for a book. Bile rolled up Tamara’s gullet, legs weakening, anger and jealousy pushed deep into her core. She looked down, trying to compose herself and gazed over the rent body of her eldest sister. The woman still held the car keys in one clenched fist, blank eyes searching the room’s macabre scene.

  Tamara worked at the collar to her shirt, peeling the wet garment off her back. She backed away, her foot slipping in a spreading pool of blood. Sickness coated her throat and she spat lumps as she moved towards the door.

  “Oh god, what have I done,” she mumbled. “I’ve killed them all, oh god.”

  She tried to think how she would explain this to the police. Young woman cut from her Granddad’s big inheritance kills and eats family—the papers would have a field-day, and she’d be looking at a life sentence for each of the corpses in Granddad’s drawing room. She wondered if she could make Christchurch airport before anybody made the discovery. She wondered if her bank savings could stretch to an air ticket that would take her far enough away. She sobbed with as much feebleness as her dead sister used to.

  A moan filtered through the room’s heavy atmosphere, and for a moment Tamara thought it was her. A body moved in the centre of the room, an arm reaching out to cup its head. My god, they’re coming to life. They’ll haunt me forever and follow me to the ends of the earth and torment me for letting my emotions claim me. Her stepmother rubbed both hands across her face and issued another whimper.

  Her stepmother would inherit the estate in Wellington, and the villa and Mercedes would now belong to the government. The other family members were dead, and Tamara would be locked up on a quadruple murder charge.

&n
bsp; Tamara’s stomach cramped and she puked bits of partially consumed body parts over the floor. She heaved, purging herself of the sickening contents of her stomach. She felt certain some of the blood in the vomit was her own.

  Tamara could picture her stepmother sipping champagne on the patio to the rear of the Wellington estate, watching the summer sun sparkle off the ocean. She sank to her knees, eyes sealed as another retch surged through her and an image of her stepmother imprinted itself on her eyelids: enjoying her inheritance with her new lover. It would happen, and the woman would grow old surrounded by everything Tamara deserved, while she herself rotted in Christchurch Women’s Prison.

  The retching ceased.

  Jealousy rose in her.

  Once more, Tamara sated her hunger.

  * * *

  Tamara staggered from the room, legs unsteady, death scattered over her disheveled clothing. She hurried across the hall into the downstairs toilet and ran water into the sink. Splashing her face, she let the cold water clear her mind and gulped mouthfuls until she nearly choked before looking in the mirror. Her pale face taunted her, dark hair hanging in threads over her countenance as if they were the harbingers of the prison bars she’d soon be facing.

  Tamara looked at her hands. They were normal but she couldn’t shake the image of her digits: long, thick nails ripping easily through her father’s abdomen. The memory of eating her family cart-wheeled into her mind and she swayed, her balance shifting. She sat on the toilet seat and placed her head in her hands. No matter how unfair the situation seemed, in spite of receiving nothing from the will, she never expected to murder her own family. What had happened? What had happened to her?

  They have everything except your gift. What gift? The gift of metamorphosis? It was the only thing that resonated logically in her confused mind. Had madness enveloped her? Surely she hadn’t imagined the bestial face staring at her from the mirror, or the taste of her family like nectar on her tongue? She’d been sane when she gazed over the rent carcasses of her family; and rational when she walked unsteadily from the drawing room.

  What else could it be? she asked herself.

  She held her hands in front of her again. The nails were short—no longer hooked talons—but drying blood caked the creases of her knuckles.

  Is this my inheritance?

  She had to think of a way to dispose of the bodies, to cover her tracks.

  Tamara steadied herself on the sink as she stood and panic sank her heart into her guts. Had anybody seen? What about the old lawyer, Bowers, maybe he had witnessed—or at least heard—the slaughter and left the premises in search of help? She listened for a moment; sure she would hear sirens drifting up the long, twisting driveway. She heard rainfall, gentle tapping on the bathroom’s frosted panels as rain clouds finally settled over the villa.

  She left the toilet and stopped as she looked at the old lawyer standing at the far end of the hall by the study door. He stood motionless, aged eyes watching her. They held no accusation, no clue as to whether he’d already telephoned the police.

  Tamara tried to find something inside her: fear maybe, or perhaps anger again. She willed a change like before, a chance to alter and get rid of the lawyer before he saw too much. Adrenaline came but she couldn’t hold it enough to start shifting shape. She didn’t even know how the transformation happened.

  She couldn’t find anything, frustration the only emotion she located.

  “Please, princess,” his voice came soft but surprisingly deep in the hallway. “Don’t try to accomplish what you, as yet, have no control over. It will come in time, just be patient.”

  She stared blankly at him, unsure if the huge hall had distorted his words.

  He offered a hand. “Come, princess. Come into the study, there’s some matters we need to discuss.”

  Her feet didn’t move, as if her shoes had fused with the smooth floor. Bowers stepped back and waved his arms to usher her into the room where he had read the will only a short while ago. Tamara looked across the hall, into the open doorway of the drawing room. Alison’s legs protruded behind the door and Rebecca’s body lay twisted beyond it. When at last she stepped forward towards the old man, she felt surprisingly calm. Bowers smiled at her, offering reassurance.

  “It’s okay, princess,” he said. “You have no secrets from me.”

  She walked into the study, eyes drawn to the large window facing landscaped gardens lashed with rain. The paintings on the opposite wall seemed much clearer and calming than before, and as she sat in the solitary leather-bound chair, tranquility washed through her.

  Bowers walked to the other side of the desk, sat down, and linked his fingers. “How are you feeling?”

  She tried to speak but words collided in her parched throat. Bowers poured a drink and offered it to her. She took it from his blotchy hand and gulped back a mouthful.

  “How the hell do you think I feel? I’m as shocked as hell.” If the truth be known, Tamara considered ‘as shocked as hell’ to be a gross understatement.

  “Yes, well, discovering your ancestry is quite a big thing to take in. I must say, you’re a determined woman, I’m surprised your emotions didn’t bring your gift to the surface sooner.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Bowers, but I’m not sure what the fuck you’re talking about. What gift? And why the hell do you keep calling me princess?” Anger tugged at her again but she found it easier to control this time.

  “It’s a long story, Tamara; a story that’s centuries old—almost a thousand years if you want to trace its origins to the beginning—but we have no time for tiresome anecdotes. Your gift, princess, is your ancestry: it’s who you are, it’s what you’ve discovered—it’s what you’ve just become. It’ll become clear to you in time. You have many years ahead to master it, to embrace it. You will learn to love it.”

  Tamara could tell he saw her confusion but he didn’t give her time to dwell on his words nor the opportunity to interrupt him.

  “I call you princess because you are, quite simply, a princess.” He sighed heavily and grief trembled his bottom lip. “The man you nursed through his final months of life, the man you laid to rest in that plain coffin, was not your grandfather—he was your father, my princess: your blood father.”

  He paused, giving her the chance to speak but Tamara found no words forthcoming. She sat on the comfortable leather seat and stared at him in disbelief.

  Bowers continued, “You, my gracious child, are a hybrid. The blood that flows in your veins is the amalgamation of two species, vampire and lycanthrope. You are a supreme being. You are immortal; you will not die a normal death, if you die at all. Your father has given you the best gift any daughter could wish for.” Sadness altered his countenance once more. “Samson was one of the very first hybrids, a great leader. It will not be easy to accept princess, but your father was poisoned by those heinous vampires, about two hundred years ago. His death has been horrific, but he refused to end his reign despite his illness. He led us until his conclusion, and that should make you proud. It has taken so long for him to find release; we must grant him his peace.”

  Controlling the onset of a coughing fit Bowers wiped away a threatening tear. When his hand slid away seriousness clouded his features as though his expressions were make-up and he’d just applied a new layer.

  “There’s a war raging, princess,” he said. “It is time for you to accept your position amongst us. It is time for you to take your father’s seat in counsel.”

  “Do you seriously expect me to believe all this bullshit?” she questioned.

  Bowers replied with a staid nod.

  “Vampires and werewolves?” Tamara said. “Hybrids? A war? I’m not even sure I believe all of this. I’m not sure I believe that I am who you say I am.”

  Bowers opened his briefcase and took out another large envelope. He peeled back the lip and pulled out a small handful of photographs. Bowers spread them on the desk and Tamara leaned forward, shock cascading through her to u
ndermine her quiet calm. She recognized her grandfather, in reality her father, in the photographs. One faded black and white image revealed him on a huge chair with a high back, exquisitely decorated in what she assumed were golden carvings. Scratched into the corner of the picture she saw a four-digit number, a year: 1780. Bowers smiled and pulled the photograph away, the second picture revealing her father again, standing with four naked people, some of them disfigured in the same cruel way she had been a short time ago in the drawing room. Her father looked human; but on the ground at their feet lay the form of a huge wolf—one that did not resemble the wolves she had seen on documentary programs. Oversized, with arms and legs more human than animal, the creature looked exactly as Tamara would have imagined a werewolf would be.

  Confusion and shock rebounded inside her.

  “Is this for real?” A tear itched her face.

  He nodded, his wispy hair waving like long grass pushed by a summer’s breeze. She sat back in the seat and the calmness she felt earlier thickened within her, forming some sort of recognition: accepting the old man told no lies.

  “Them, in there,” she said and nodded at the wall behind her, beyond which lay the drawing room and the shattered bodies of four innocent people. “Who are they? My family?”

  Bowers shook his head. “You had to be protected for a while, princess, especially when your father’s illness became so acute it threatened his, and your own, position within the clan. They adopted you through normal procedures. Unfortunate for them, but a small price to pay for your safety. Their passing should not trouble you. I watched over you constantly, princess, with the loving support of your father.”

  “And the letter?”

  “Just a nudge in the right direction. You are not a purebred hybrid like your father, and as such a little motivation—a little emotion if you will—is needed to release the gift.” In an effort to hurry the meeting along Bowers said, “It’s time for you to take counsel, princess. Our clan needs you.”