Hotblood
by Juliann Whicker
A House of Slide Novel
Copyright © 2011 by Juliann Whicker
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any other means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Cover Illustration: Juliann Whicker
Graphic Design: John H. Whicker
The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, or events are coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1461017691
ISBN-10: 1461017696
For my Supportive Husband, John,
who kept me from starving while I wrote this book.
Contents
Prologue: Sleeping Beauty and Other Hot Zombies Worth Kissing 1
1. Whose Soul Is This Anyway? 19
2. Driving Me Crazy 33
3. Genetics and Other Excuses for Killing Something 52
4. Life Is But a Dream…or Nightmare 71
5. Hunting and Hunted 87
6. House of Slide or Genetics Strike Again 99
7. School and Other Tools of the Devil 118
8. It’s a Monster Eat Monster World 138
9. Smash and Jive 149
10. Round and Round We Go 160
11. Punks and Paintings 175
12. Soul Mate? 189
13. Hotbloods, Bankers, and Demons, Oh My! 199
14. My Scarred Psyche 216
15. What Not to Wear to a Shooting Gallery 236
16. Forget Genetics 260
17. Team Sanders Unites 277
Epilogue: Burning and Other Byproducts of Obsession 279
Sleeping Beauty and Other Hot Zombies worth Kissing
~Lewis
“It’s been too long,” Old Peter said, looking up at me. I stood on the worn wooden floor of the hall and let the screen door snap shut behind me. I glanced around the small house purposefully avoiding his gaze, focusing instead on the fading wallpaper peeling behind the door. Old Peter held a knotty brown cane in one of his age-mottled hands. I knew that cane well; intimately, you might say. In his other hand he held a card from a deck that was spread across the warped wooden table. I felt suddenly sick to my stomach as I stared at those cards, each suit depicting the most distinguished of the four breeds. The Ace of clubs in his hand bore my profile. It was a hand painted deck showing the Wilds as the suit of spades, Hotbloods as clubs, Cools as diamonds, and the hearts empty where Hollows would have gone if there were any left.
“That’s good. I only see you when I’m in trouble.” I edged around him towards the fridge pointedly ignoring the card he was still staring at. I’d left all of that behind me long ago. “Do you have anything to eat?”
The chair groaned as he lurched to his feet and straightened slowly then flipped the card onto the table. “Grab something then come along, boy. We’ve got places to go.”
“Yes, sir,” I said and rummaged through the fridge coming up with a couple of chicken legs and some sausage rolls. It looked like he’d been stocking up for me. “Where are we going? Do your animals need tending?” I followed him out to the porch where he stood bouncing slightly to get the circulation going. He took his time answering. He always took his time answering. I could feel the familiar mix of frustration and dread as I watched him.
He finally shook his head then handed me a jacket. “Funeral,” he said, slowly moving down the steps.
“Funeral? Is it anyone I know?” The dread was outweighing the frustration as I shrugged on the old zip sweatshirt and followed him down the gravel drive.
“The corpse is not the interesting one—well, not anymore,” Old Peter muttered as he walked past my car. It was a beautiful maroon Mustang that I’d restored. When I’d brought it down from the city, I was certain Old Peter would say something knowing his love for fast cars, but he didn’t give it a second glance.
“Why don’t we drive?” I asked hesitating by the car.
“Keep walking,” he said shortly. “What kind of accent is that anyway?”
I took my time answering as I finished chewing and tried to remember what I’d been using. “I think it’s South African. Do you like it?”
His scowl was eloquent. “Hmmph. Won’t go over too well around here.”
“I don’t think much of me would,” I muttered then more loudly, “What would you suggest?” I thought for a moment before quoting; “A thing of beauty is a joy for ever; Its loveliness increases, it will never pass into nothingness, but still will…” From the look on his face my crisp British accent wasn’t going over well either.
“No! Not that one. Suppose someone were to hear you?”
I looked at an unimpressive low-slung building that gazed back at me dully. The green lawn was as bland as the suburban housing. Not a soul was in sight—not any bodies either. “How terrible the need for solitude: that appetite for life so ravenous a man’s a beast in his own house, a beast with fangs, and out for his own blood…” I took a breath, mildly surprised he hadn’t cut me off yet. Old Peter was not a fan of Roethke. “Dream of a woman, and a dream of death;” I finished but the words left a bitter taste in my mouth. My accent was a flat American that could have come from anywhere and nowhere. Old Peter looked at me for a moment and nodded.
“There. That’s the right one. Tell me what you know about Sanders?”
I shrugged as I gave another look at the quiet houses crouched beneath the trees, the woods omnipresent in the background. In the distance a towering gothic relic from another world stood out from the rest of town. It was a quiet village built around the pharmaceuticals company that had moved here two decades ago. There was not much interesting to see these days, but I could remember when the woods on the other side of the river had covered most of what was now residential housing. “Sanders is a new name for an old place; it used to be called Hollow Haven. What used to be the cathedral is the only thing left from Haven. This area is highly defensible, surrounded by the rivers and the woods. The woods across the rivers are old. They’re a refuge for some of the most dangerous creatures known and unknown to man. It’s a very good hunting ground.” This town used to be good hunting. Not so much anymore although it felt like the neat lawns and shrubbery would be swallowed by the tangled vines if you didn’t maintain constant vigilance.
“Get that smile off your face. We’re not here for fun and games.”
“No?” I studied him for a moment while he walked, one of the only people who wouldn’t ever shift nervously however long I stared at him. It was almost refreshing to be back however much trouble he would undoubtedly get me into. “Then why don’t you tell me why we are here?”
“Me?” He looked surprised then frowned. “How would I know?”
I smiled as he blinked back at me with watery eyes. “Oh I don’t know. You seem to be pretty well informed for an old guy. If you wanted an escort to a funeral, I could have worn a suit.” I jammed my hands firmly in the pockets of the hoodie and glanced down at my jeans. I could already feel the heat and hear the buzzing in my ears, and I hadn’t been here ten minutes yet.
“Put up the hood. We’re only here to watch and listen.” He frowned at me until I had the hood low over my eyes. “Sanders was established by Alex Sanders and his wife Helen. Helen is the daughter of the House of Slide. Keep up boy.” I glanced up at the sky and noticed how ominous the clouds looked.
“I’ve never heard of Sanders House,” I said trying to sound bored in spite of the chill running down my spine from hearing the words, ‘House of Slide’.
Old Peter looked irritated at the interruption. “Oh Alex
is no Wild. He’s very Cool.” I stopped walking again, then took a few strides to catch up when the implications had set in.
“Wilds don’t marry Cools.” It wasn’t only illegal; it was stupid—very stupid.
“Not usually, but this isn’t just any Cool. Besides that, they’re soul mates.” I snorted. I couldn’t help it. The idea of a daughter of any House, least of all The House of Slide, giving up her birthright for love, was ridiculous. “He didn’t used to be Alex Sanders. That’s a nice new name that makes people a little less nervous around him,” Old Peter said blandly.
“Oh? Do you know him?” Old Peter knew most people you should avoid.
Old Peter chuckled. “Know him? He thought he killed me a few times.” Old Peter was not easy to kill. “He’s even harder to kill than I am,” he said almost reading my mind. “He’s an interesting man. I can’t quite make out what he’s got going on right now. You need to stay far away from him at the funeral. Shouldn’t be a problem though since he’s likely to be otherwise occupied.”
“You’re taking me to a funeral so I can avoid the people who are there? That sounds like your idea of a good time. Why don’t you tell me exactly what I’m doing here, Old Peter? Oh that’s right, because then you’d have to explain things instead of just leaving me to blindly wade into all kinds of messes. What fun would it be to turn on the light every now and then?” All right, I did sound a little bit irritated, but with Old Peter I had to stay on my toes, and the buzzing was already growing into a headache.
“You’re not still bitter about that time in New York State, are you?” He chuckled. “You handled yourself very well, boy.”
“Thanks. The compliment makes me all warm inside.” I grinned at him, and he raised his hairy eyebrows. I wasn’t kidding. I could feel my heart race, beating faster, and my entire body heated up. The fury was controllable, of course. I’d been working on it for some time. The headache was something I could do without.
“You came here fast, boy, faster than you should have if you’ve been loafing in South Africa. What brings you to the area? Good hunting?”
I shrugged. “For somebody.”
Old Peter glanced at me, a quick darting glance with those sharp blue eyes that made me feel like the rabbit instead of the hawk. It made me even warmer.
“I’m here. You don’t have to play games with me,” I said keeping my voice level with a ridiculous amount of effort. Apparently I’d spent too much time with rational people if I was already edgy.
“But you’re so good at playing games. Listen, Lewis…”
“Lewis? I haven’t heard that name for awhile.” It brought back the kind of memories that spread the heat in my chest through my limbs. I had to force my shoulders down and to relax hands that wanted to clench into fists. Being a Hotblood got rather tedious some days. Maybe it was being a disciplined Hotblood that was so trying. If I ripped off Old Peter’s head like I wanted; it would be more fun.
“It’s Lewis now, or it will be soon. Listen Lewis, the cemetery’s getting close. Can you smell the rain and feel the electricity in the air? This is going to be some storm. Who knows when it’s going to end? Whatever happens, stay with me. Do you hear me, boy?”
I nodded and closed my eyes trying to slow the beating of my heart. I hadn’t had trouble with a fury for years. It wasn’t simply that Old Peter knew how to get under my skin when he wanted. For the past few months, I’d been on what felt like a scavenger hunt that had led me to old places I’d tried to forget. The sense of being manipulated by an unknown hand had me nervous, but walking along with Old Peter, whatever he said, shouldn’t trigger a fury. I let the fury build up until my head pounded in time to my pumping heart. I concentrated on the heat and let go of my will becoming lost as I submitted to the consuming rage. For an instant there was that feeling that my body would fly apart under the strain, but with the next breath the anger was gone leaving me a little light headed.
As we got closer to the cemetery, I noted the line of cars parked along the road. From the looks of things it would be a full house. People hurried through the windy May morning towards the iron gate that clanged against an ivy covered wall with each gust of wind. At the end of the wall to the right was a slope dotted with headstones, and dead center was the coffin where people gathered, pale faces and hands in stark contrast to their black clothing. There were countless faces, each wearing an expression of deepest sorrow as they gazed at the coffin. We slowed down when we were on the fringe of the crowd.
“We are gathered together,” began the quavering of the priest. In spite of his weak voice we heard him clearly—the sound carried to us on the wind.
I let my eyes and attention wander to take in the crowd. It looked like the entire town and then some had turned out for the event. I saw a few high schoolers standing around the coffin. One girl had white blond hair that stood in sharp contrast to the requisite black. When I looked past the coffin, a flash of lightning illuminated a line of men with umbrellas. It took that flash of light for me to see them in the growing darkness. I sighed at the heat and rush of adrenaline as my body prepared for a fight. I inhaled deeply trying to contain the fury as my senses filled with the stench of their blood. If I didn’t contain my irrational anger they would kill me, or worse.
For a moment I contemplated how many I could take out first then shook off the thought. I’d put a great deal of effort into convincing Wilds and the rest of the world that I was already dead. The dead were the only souls they didn’t try to meddle with. Wilds were always tricky with their tenacious belief that whatever they were doing was morally superior, along with their abilities to manipulate elements, but the House of Slide were trained to kill. All of them had fought hand to hand in real battles. The big one, the one called Satan had taken out more Hotbloods than I cared to think about. He actually liked fighting. Most Wilds thought that was below them when they could manipulate things without getting their hands dirty. That was one reason Hotbloods were so often used to do the dirty work. I felt assaulted by their Wild blood but struggled almost successfully to smother out the heat in my eyes. Old Peter had warned me about the father, but he hadn’t said that every one of the legendary House of Slide brothers would be in attendance. It was the kind of thing he would know.
The black-haired woman in the center shared their blood. I could smell it. She must be Helen, former daughter to the House of Slide who had given up her House for love. I held my breath as I studied the Wild woman. She looked as calculating and icy as any Wild I’d known. The whole thing made my head ache. Why was Slide making such a big show for someone who had been disowned? The man at her side opened an umbrella and covered her and the slumped figure between them. I shifted trying to make out who it was.
The wind began to pick up, and I could smell the sorrow in waves and gusts as the grieving people looked yearningly towards the coffin. I’d known more than enough Wilds in my time, but I’d never been to a packed funeral where everyone felt real regret at the loss.
“Who’s in the box?” I whispered.
“Devlin, Son of Helen and Alex Sanders.”
I looked down and for some reason felt a wave of heat as I looked at the umbrella the man held. “It’s not even raining yet. What does he think the umbrella is going to protect her from?”
Old Peter glanced over at me, and I tried to shake off my irritation. I had more important things to worry about than a single irrelevant girl crouching between Helen and Alex Sanders. I tried to put her out of my mind then, shrugging, I breathed deeply and tried to focus on her scent. It would give me something to distract me from the Wilds who made it so difficult to stay cool. It was something to do, to trace a scent while the wind blew hundreds of different smells at me. I had the strong odor of the woman Helen to guide me. I caught a flash of something enticing from the mystery girl just before the subtle scent of the man holding the umbrella struck me like a physical blow.
I exhaled and closed my eyes as the first spattering drops fell from
the sky. I let my senses drown in the smell of ozone. When I thought I had myself under control, I opened my eyes and studied the threesome closest to the casket. The man’s silver hair trailed down his back. His scent was difficult to pick up like all Cool ones, but he was much more than simply Cool. He was a Cool enhanced by Nether blood. As a rule I stayed away from Cools. I didn’t like the way that they could manipulate people. While most of them were willing to relax and embrace nature they weren’t anything like defenseless or stupid. If the Cool was who I thought he was, you couldn’t let him get inside your head or he would never get out. Some people thought Wilds knew how to play games and scheme, but they were nothing compared to motivated Cools. Happily, most Cools were content to let things go. This one was not. Old Peter hadn’t mentioned why he was so dangerous. If he had there was no way I would have come. He was tall like all Nether and slender. I couldn’t be certain at this distance but I had a strong suspicion that his face was on the deck of cards at Old Peter’s house. Cools lived a very long time even without the Nether blood. Did the woman beside him know what he was? She watched nothing and everything like a Wild, but she always kept her body between the slight figure beside her and everyone else. I noticed that every individual was centered, not on the coffin as I’d first thought but on that threesome and the single person in the center.
Who was she? I wondered if it was an old grandmother from one of the families, but nothing I’d smelled of her was Wild. I tried to recall everything I’d heard about the House of Slide. While they’d had a long and inglorious past for the last decade or so they’d been ominously quiet. The only news was that although Helen had been disinherited, her son was the future of the house. Apparently the future now lay in a coffin.
The crowd began shifting as the wind picked up speed, flapping dresses against legs. The sound of rain beating its way across the hills triggered a running exodus towards the cars. Not a lot of people had brought umbrellas and this wasn’t going to be your run-of-the-mill May shower. Old Peter didn’t flinch as we were pelted with rain that stung my cheeks. It felt good. I would have found it refreshing if I weren’t still preoccupied with the brothers of the House of Slide, a Nether Cool, and her, the mysterious central figure. When the hail began, I shifted to block Old Peter from most of it wishing I could run away or fight something. I watched the three huddled together under the black umbrella with the same attention that Old Peter gave them. Another flash of lightning illuminated the seven Wild brothers of the House of Slide as they gathered near the grave. It grated that it was nearly impossible to see them in their nondescript trench coats even with my eyes. The largest of the brothers motioned, and two others lowered the casket.
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