I shot a look at May, but she was avoiding my eyes.
Avalon read May’s statement. “‘Dave Carver never knew his father. On several occasions he expressed to me that Bill Foster was the closest thing he had to one. I am absolutely sure the only reason he would have killed Bill would have been for the good of the Round Table.’” Avalon looked up at me. “Is all of that correct, Captain?”
I swallowed heavily. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good.” Shuffling papers like a poker dealer, Avalon went on. “Next I would like to turn to the death of Abelard Taylor. Mr. Taylor was a well known expert in forms of ancient magics—such as the Gauntlet of Greckhite. I had the opportunity to escort a Swordmaker to New York last week. As most of you know, each sword has a unique form of magic, like a fingerprint. Only a Swordmaker would be able to recognize the differences, but the one who examined Taylor’s body confirmed that he, Taylor, was killed by William Foster’s blade.
“Fellow commanders,” Avalon said, looking around the table. “I believe that there is ample evidence that Captain Carver was acting only in the best interest of the Knights of the Round Table. I move that we put an end to this farce of a tribunal so this good, noble warrior can get back to doing his job.”
There was scattered applause in the stands, accompanied by a few enthusiastic cheers.
Gutierrez raised her hand and spoke for the first time. “Seconded.” She had an accent that was Puerto-Rican-by-way-of-Brooklyn. She smiled at me.
Avalon nodded. “All in favor of finding Captain Carver innocent of all charges?”
I held my breath. This was it. If fewer than two of the commanders raised their hands, I’d lose my head.
Avalon immediately lifted his hand. Gutierrez was right behind him. The to of them stared at Luther for a long moment. The German shook his head, took a shallow breath like there was a horrible smell in the room, and he finally raised his hand.
That was that. Unanimous decision. Flawless victory. My head wasn’t going anywhere.
The British commander smiled. “Very well. Captain Carver, you are hereby reinstated to your post. You are free to go. Congratulations.”
Cheers—real, hooting, applauding cheers—erupted from the stands. It got so loud that I couldn’t hear myself think. The elevator began to descend. Hank stood at the bottom of the elevator shaft. He clapped me on the back.
Suddenly, May was there. She flung her arms around my shoulders and buried her face in my neck. “Thank god,” she whispered. “Thank god.”
“No,” I said into her hair. “Thank you.”
Tony, Hank’s brother cleared his throat. “Commander Avalon would like a word with both of you. He’s in his office.”
May led the way to Avalon’s office. The underground hallways of the Table’s headquarters were narrow and cramped. I kept expecting a minotaur to wander around a corner. May stopped in front of a wooden door. Without knocking, she opened the door and stepped inside.
Avalon’s office was smaller than I’d expected. It was tiny and cramped, like most of the rooms I’d seen in London. The only furniture was a simple wood desk and a chair to match. Much of the floor was covered with paperwork and the only source of light was a single candle.
The commander was sitting behind his desk. He stood up, smiled coolly, and offered a handshake. “Congratulations, Captain.”
May looked at him. “Thank you, Commander.”
“Not at all, Ms. Strain. I was happy to do it.”
It was weird to hear May’s name without an Round Table honorific attached to it, and I told her so. She looked down sheepishly. “Yeah, like I told you in New York, I’m done. I’m taking that job in San Francisco.”
“At the magic school,” I said. “That’s great, May, It’s what you always wanted, but…”
“Yeah.” She smiled one of her sad smiles. “I’m gonna miss you, too.”
Avalon gave a small, polite cough. “Ms. Strain, I merely wanted to thank you for your years of service to the Knight of the Round Table, but I have urgent business to discuss with Captain Carver.”
“Of course,” she said. Looking at me, she hesitated. “Well…bye, Dave.”
I wrapped my arms around her and whispered into her hair. “See you around, May.”
She pulled away, kissed me on the cheek, and left the office in a flash of brilliant red hair and the scent of strawberries.
“I apologize for that,” Avalon said, “but we do have important matters to discuss.”
“Like you explaining why you were acting like my lawyer in there?”
Avalon’s eyes narrowed. “I believe the phrase for which you are looking is ‘thank you.’”
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks. Now what gives?”
“Would you believe it was because I believe you are a good man and you do not to deserve your head?”
“No.”
He laughed. “Am I really so transparent? This war is over, Captain, but there is another one coming. I intend to announce my candidacy for the Pendragon’s office later this week. I would like your support.”
I frowned. “You sure about that? I was just tried for murdering the last guy in that chair.”
“Did you hear the ovation when you were acquitted? The rank-and-file knights adore you.” He surveyed me closely like he was trying to find a hair out of place. “Not that I can understand why. Nevertheless, if I have your support, I will have their support.”
“Politics,” I spat. “What if I say no?”
“Make no mistake, Captain, regardless of your support, I am the most qualified candidate. I will, in all likelihood, win the election and you will have made an enemy of the most powerful knight in the world.”
I rubbed my clean-shaven chin. “I guess I don’t want that.”
“I expect not.” Avalon was smirking. The expression was maddening. I wanted to punch him in the face, but I was beginning to think there was always an aspect of his face that made you want to punch him.
I sighed. “And what do I do when I’m not telling the people how much I support you?”
“Your job, Captain. Ambassador Flavian has reached out to me. He is very eager to establish a new paradigm between our two peoples. He is excited to work with you.”
I frowned. “With me, specifically?”
“He was insistent.”
I still didn’t trust Flavian—he was a vampire, and I doubted I’d ever fully trust him. But on the off-chance that what he was saying was true, this was a great opportunity. If I could figure out a way for the Table and the vampires to work together peacefully…well, that would do more to save lives than any number of wars could accomplish. I might be able to do something good. Something important.
I nodded. “Okay. When do I start?”
“Right away, Captain,” Avalon said. “You have a lot of work to do.”
The End
Author’s Note
Well, that’s all folks. Thanks so much for downloading Thicker Than Blood. I’ve been working on this book on and off for years, and it’s so surreal to have it finally out in the world. I hope you enjoyed it. If you liked it, please, please, please take a moment and throw it a rating and a review at Amazon. Word of mouth is everything for independent authors like me, and we can all really use the support.
Seriously, thank you. From the bottom of my black and twisted heart, thank you.
Don’t close your ebook apps just yet—we’ve got a bit of bonus content for you. Up next in a preview of the next book in the adventures of Dave Carver. It's called To the Dogs, and it's a lot of fun. Enjoy!
—Andrew
Preview: To The Dogs
Even without the heat from the fire, it was hot in the graveyard. Well after dark, but the temperature was still near ninety degrees and the air was muggy and heavy with the threat of an approaching thunderstorm. There was no one in sight, except for the five women of the Sisterhood. At least, no one alive. Only a few headstones were visible in the flickering orange firelig
ht, but they weighed on Sage's mind as heavily as the humidity in the August night air.
Sage was sitting cross-legged on the grass beneath a dead oak tree. Like her Sisters, she wore modernized versions of antiquated clothing—hers was a corset with nothing underneath, a skirt that didn’t quite make it to her knees, and thigh-high boots, all in black leather. Not exactly the most practical clothing for a late summer night in Newark, New Jersey, but looking like a witch was an important part of being a witch.
She hooked a strand of her midnight-black hair behind an ear and looked across the circle.
A woman in her early thirties, the unquestioned center of the circle, smiled at her and Sage’s heart fluttered.The Professor’s hair and eyes were dark, but not in the plastic, fake way of the rest of the Sisterhood. Even the warm glow of the fire did little shed light on them. Her shoulders were broad for a woman’s, and she was layered with lithe, powerful muscles. The Professor was dressed differently from the younger girls—a loose-fitting black robe was draped over her body and pooled at the ground around her legs. It was made of some kind of silk, the material so thin that Sage could see that the Professor wore nothing underneath.
There was a bright green cooler on the ground near the Professor, the kind that most college kids would use to carry beer to the beach. The Professor had refused to answer any questions about its contents, so Sage was forced to assume that it was somehow vital to the completion of the joining ritual.
“Sisters,” the Professor said. Her voice was calm, but powerful, and aggressively feminine. The sound made Sage snap to attention and stirred something deep in her abdomen. “Our hour is finally at hand. Tonight, we will complete the Ritual of Artemis and each of us will know power beyond previous imaginings.”
When the Professor’s gaze lingered on Sage, the younger woman shivered, despite the heat. “Are you ready?” She was speaking directly to Sage, anyone could see that. She opened her mouth to answer—
“I’m ready to get this done and get back inside with the A/C. It’s hot as balls out here, am I right, ladies?”
Sage glared at the girl who had spoken. Amy—with her bleach-blond bob-cut, skintight pink tank-top, shorts that barely covered her ass, and flip-flops—didn’t belong in the Sisterhood. Sage could see that, why couldn’t the others? As far as Sage was concerned Amy was a sorority girl who had wandered into a meeting of a coven. She didn’t take the Art seriously. She didn’t understand the power that was at stake. It was disgusting.
Ecstasy, then, when she could see that the Professor felt the same way. The older woman’s eyes narrowed to slits and her voice dropped to a whisper as she stared at the blond. “I this ritual a joke to you, Amy?”
Amy shook her head. “No, ma’am. I apologize.”
The Professor smiled, more tolerantly than Sage would have liked, but she had to admit the other girl seemed contrite. Maybe she did have a little bit of sense. If the rumors about Amy were true, she should take it seriously. None of the other girls knew much about Amy. She was a transfer student, from somewhere out west. Marigold had heard that Amy had more experience with the Art than any of the other Sisters, save the Professor. According to someone she’d met while shopping for supplies at the Rabbit’s Hat, Amy was actually sleeping with a vampire. A vampire! It was amazing, and Sage wondered what it would be like to be with something like that. Still, she wished that Amy wouldn’t make jokes during the Professor’s speeches.
“No matter,” the Professor said. “But please don’t do it again. Are we all ready?”
“I’m ready, Professor,” Sage said, a fraction of a second before the rest of the Sisters—Marigold and Chyna, both juniors like Sage—spoke up.
Marigold had violet hair and wore a complicated apparatus of leather and stainless steel chain-mail. Chyna apparently had some Asian heritage in her, but Sage had never asked to find out for sure. Although they called themselves Sisters, Sage didn’t feel particularly close either of them. She hadn’t felt close to anyone, really, until the Professor. Sage had grown up in a small town, where being gay was something that was still never considered an option. As a result, she’d never developed many female friendships back home because she was always afraid that other girls would think she was hitting on them. She’d never quite gotten over that feeling, so she kept herself cloistered from the Sisterhood.
Until the Professor. At the end of the spring semester, the Professor had swooped into a meeting of the Sisterhood where the Sisters were experimenting with a minor flame spell. All it was really good for was changing the color of fire, but Sage had been pretty good at it. She’d been proud.
And then the Professor walked in, older and experienced and fucking gorgeous, and Sage had been smitten. And then the Professor froze the flame. Froze it solid. Literally turned it into a rock-hard clump of ice. And she’d been barely trying. The Professor had power on a scale that the Sisterhood of Jackson Perez-Connelly had never encountered.
And then the Professor was gone, with promises to get in touch when they came back to school in August. And, true to her word, she had. She was waiting for the Sisterhood when school went back into session.
“Yeah, I’m ready, too,” Amy said, with a slight hesitation.
The Professor smiled and the butterflies in Sage’s stomach flapped even harder.
“Excellent.”
She opened the cooler and pulled out an object. It was red and wet, a little smaller than a baseball. The mass of the thing looked soft in the Professor’s fist, like a piece of uncooked meat. Veins could be seen running through it.
“What is that?” Chyna asked. She sounded as nauseated as Sage felt.
“The heart of a German shepherd,” the Professor said. “The heart of a guard dog.”
Sage swallowed hard. Her stomach churned. Marigold and Chyna covered their mouths with their hands. Only Amy seemed not disgusted, but her eyes narrowed into something like suspicion. “Did you kill that dog?” Her voice was flat and toneless, but still somehow accusatory.”
“There can be no power without sacrifice, Amy,” the Professor said. “I would have thought you would understand this.”
“I was under the impression that the sacrifice of domestic animals was only used in black magic.”
“I don’t know where you heard that, but it is false. All magic requires sacrifice. If all you had to do was butcher the occasional goat, it wouldn’t be much of a sacrifice, would it?”
Sage found herself nodding. She wasn’t thrilled by the sight of the dog’s heart in the Professor’s hand—it made her think of her dog, Peaches, who was probably asleep on the porch of her father’s house back home—but she had to admit that the Professor had a point. Amy frowned and leaned away from the fire, folding her arms across her chest.
Satisfied that she’d get no further arguments, the Professor muttered something in a language that Sage didn’t know and tossed the heart into the fire. Then she took another one out of the cooler.
“Is that…” Marigold began.
“A boxer—the dog, not the athlete,” the Professor said. Then she tossed the heart into the fire. “This one’s a pit bull. She took out one more heart and added it with the others.
Next she pulled a silver chain from the bottom of the cooler and wrapped it around her forearm. The chain was long and ended in three huge loops that could have been large enough to use as shackles for a bodybuilder. The loops scraped the ground as the Professor used her free hand to reach inside her robe—Sage’s heart leapt at the sight, forgetting all about the organs in the fire.
The Professor took out a short knife. She closed her eye, rolled her head back so the cordlike muscles in her neck stretched and popped, and began to chant. Quietly at first, but slowly getting louder, the Professor spoke what Sage knew to be an ancient prayer. She didn’t know the language, but she’d heard the Professor refer to as the tongue of the goddesses. Sage shivered at the thought of what the Professor could do with her goddess tongue.
Mi
les overhead, the storm clouds rolled in, far faster than the still night winds would have allowed. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. The clouds concentrated into a whirling mass overhead. They reminded Sage of the sky right before a tornado appeared.
Slowly the Professor raised her hands to her sides until she was posed like the statue of Christ in the town square back home. Then, with one last word, she slammed her palms against her hips, and the fire roared, leaping to double its previous height.
Sage rocked back, sucking a breath through her teeth. Her mouth fell open as she stared at the Professor, at the way the fire lit up her features, lovely but harsh. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw the Professor let out a breath, a sigh of relief that the spell had worked. Sage, on the other hand, wanted to jump up and down, clapping her hands like a child—the Professor had made the flames more powerful! How cool was that?—but she held it together. She wasn’t an excitable child, she was a member of an ancient sisterhood, and she had to act like it.
The Professor lifted her knife high above her head. Sage panted quietly, more excited than she’d even been with any guy before she’d discovered herself, or any girl after. What was sex, after all, compared to the pure power that was obvious in the hands of the Professor? Then, in one sudden motion that actually made Sage bark in surprise, the Professor slashed steel across her palm. Pulling the blade away, she flicked her hand at the fire, sending blood cascading into the fire.
There was a roar like something inside the fire trying to escape, a rush of air, then the fire changed color, turning a deep, blood red.
Wordlessly, the Professor turned the knife and offered the handle to Marigold. The violet-haired woman took the blade. At the Professor’s encouraging nod, she also cut her palm. Unlike the Professor, who had taken it without so much as a blink, Marigold winced as steel cut skin. She took a hesitant step towards the fire, held her hand over the flames, and opened her fist.
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