by Tanith Frost
IMMORTAL SOULLESS: RESURRECTION
TANITH FROST
Copyright 2017 Tanith Frost
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by any means existing without prior written permission from the author.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be distributed via the Internet or by any other means, electronic or print, without the permission of the publisher. For more information, visit www.tanithfrost.com
Cover art by Jessica Allain (enchantedwhispersart.com)
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Resurrection/ Tanith Frost
First edition, June 2017
Created with Vellum
For Kathy
Not all heroes have fangs. Thanks for being one of mine.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Note from the author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tanith Frost
1
The faithful file into their little white church for the Easter Sunday evening service, oblivious to my huddled presence on the peaked roof across the street. Spring arrives late here in Newfoundland, and their breath is coming out in pale, smoky plumes like the sharply scented wood smoke billowing into the darkening sky from the brick chimney behind me.
When I was a kid, I pretended I was a dragon on days like this.
I draw cold air into my lungs, puffing up so that my leather jacket crushes my breasts, and hold it for a moment. When I force it back out, I can’t see my breath. One needs significant body heat for a trick like that. Shame. That used to be fun.
God. How long has it been since I’ve let myself think of those days? We’re not supposed to remember our lives, so I do my best to forget. A vampire is a vampire. A new creature, not a former… whatever. My childhood dreams, my school, my own little white church, my death. None of it matters now, and I’ve come a long way in letting go. But watching the people below me is making it hard not to remember.
The wind whips off the harbour behind me, tossing my bright blonde hair into a tangled mess in front of my face. I grab it in both hands and shove it under my grey scarf, then reach down to fiddle with the strings on my ripped jeans.
I should get out of the wind soon. Trixie will be looking for me. I haven’t seen her since this afternoon, when we woke and left the inn without eating. Our former hosts have no idea how grateful they should be that my sister trainee and I weren’t hungrier.
Those people will never know what slept under their roof the past few days. We look like living people, though perfected versions of our own genetic potential, and hide our differences well. Direct sunlight burns our skin and eyes, but we can venture out in the early morning or evening on cloudy, foggy days—which Newfoundland provides in abundance—as long as we put on protective creams and sunglasses and stick to the shadows. Thanks to our training, Trixie and I have learned to breathe and blink at a normal pace when we’re around the living. We speak carefully and keep a straight face so that no one sees our fangs.
That’s not to say we ever socialize with the living, but we know all too well how essential it is that we blend in. We must remain invisible should we ever find ourselves among them.
And now we’ve proved we can. The two of us have been in training for over a year, becoming proficient at all of the basics. That doesn’t make us tame monsters, but at least we’re well controlled ones. This five-day vacation was a chance for us to test ourselves away from the protections and restraints of our trainer and our clan. I think we passed, but it hasn’t been easy.
I adjust my sunglasses and settle my back against the warmth of the chimney as they close the church doors. The sky is overcast and the sun is quickly setting behind the clouds, but I hug the shadows. Even this light is too bright for my night-attuned eyes, and my skin has been tingling, warning me that this is not my place or my time. I belong to the night now, and this feels like cheating.
Still, it feels good to be out during the day for once. To remember, even if it sends a sickly wave of guilt through me when I do.
The electronic speakers in the church’s bell tower, which have been calling the faithful to worship through the overpowering melody of clanging bluegrass hymns, change their tune. Now the entire neighbourhood has no choice but to enjoy the congregation’s decidedly mixed vocal talents. I wince, but hold my place in spite of the racket.
They mean well. And it means something to them. Something I miss almost as much as my heartbeat if I let myself think about it too often.
I try not to. As it turns out, all of it—spirituality, the comfort of prayer, uplifting worship—was never really mine. I was born to become a creature of the night and the void. If I still feel a connection aching in my chest as the strains of Amazing Grace ring out, it’s an illusion. Maybe it always was. I’ll never know what would have awaited me on the other side of death if I’d been allowed to slip away.
Soft footsteps scrape over the rough shingles behind me. I don’t turn. Instead, I keep my eyes on the blue minivan with rusted side panels that races up the street, swerving into the school parking lot a few doors down from the church.
Trixie plops herself down beside me and stretches her combat-boot-clad feet out in front of her, sprawling like a ragdoll. She stretches her pale fingers over the roof between her slim, lycra-covered thighs and leans forward to see what I’m looking at.
“What’s happening, Aviva my dear?”
“Easter service.”
“Jesus Christ.” She wrinkles her pretty little nose, then rummages in her pocket and pops a piece of gum into her mouth.
I’m not sure whether she’s cursing or making conversation. “I feel a certain affinity for him this time of year,” I say, allowing a sardonic note to enter my voice. “Death. Coming back. Legions of unbelievers.”
She nods, and her candy-floss pink pigtails bounce on her shoulders. I told her not to bleach and dye it last night, but it actually looks pretty cute. “Fluffy bunnies and chocolate. I hear you.”
“That, too.”
I squint at the cross on top of the steeple. So much more tasteful than the crucifix on display at the far quieter Catholic church down the road, but both symbols seem strange to me now. I was killed by an asshole with a gun. If I had followers, I sure as hell wouldn’t want them wearing pistols on gold chains around their necks.
Maybe I never understood it properly. Too late to ask now. Questions have a habit of getting me in trouble, anyway.
And I don’t care. I really don’t.
Trixie lifts her sunglasses and narrows her exquisite almond-shaped green eyes at the family that piled out of the minivan, who are now approaching the broad front steps of the church. The mom is juggling a baby in a car seat, a massive diaper bag, her purse, and several coats. No wonder her lipstick is smudged and her slip is showing below the hem of her shapeless dress. I’m impressed she managed to
get her shit together enough to almost make it to the evening service on time.
Trixie clucks her tongue. “Shameful tardiness. Lines must’ve been long at Walmart.”
I don’t answer. The dad is coming, taking long, purposeful strides. A little girl trails behind him. New dress for Easter. No question. She’s the most cheerful thing in this bleak springtime landscape, all blonde hair and pink cheeks and bright floral dress. Sleeveless. She must be freezing, but likely didn’t want to cover up her pretty clothes. She stops at the bottom of the steps to twirl, giggling as her skirt flares out in a tidy bell shape around her legs.
A living person wouldn’t hear the laugh or see the details that I do at this distance. Even with my senses dulled after almost a week without feeding, I catch all of it.
“Mommy, look!” she calls.
But Mom is gone. Dad hears and thunders back down the steps, grabbing the girl by her upper arm. His fingers dig into her flesh as he leans in to hiss something in her ear. Her chin trembles, but she nods and follows him into the church.
I don’t realize I’ve bared my fangs until Trixie pokes me in the ribs, pulling me out of my hyper-focused outrage.
“Forget them. Assholes happen, remember? Even in the best neighbourhoods.” She glances back over her shoulder, taking in the dull water of the harbour, the laughable grocery store beside the school, the dead grass of the yard below. “And this ain’t one of the best.”
“You don’t have to remind me. I knew plenty of those assholes in my time.”
I’m trying to shake it off. The living are supposed to mean nothing to us. Even the families we left behind. I guess I’m lucky that I left just a grandmother and a sister to mourn me. I managed to make it past my teen years without a spouse or a kid hanging off me, and I’d already lost my closest friends before my death. It’s made it a little easier to cut ties to the life I lost. To distance myself from my past.
But this fucker grabbing his kid is pissing me off. If I had a heartbeat, it would be racing right now, sending adrenaline coursing through my system, making me do something stupid.
Instead I lean back on my elbows. “Guess our vacation must be almost over.”
“Just what I was going to say. And here you are, wasting our last moments of precious, glorious freedom mooning over useless people we can’t even feed on. Get your ass up. I want to get out of here before Daniel tracks us down and makes us get back to work.”
The sound of a throat clearing rumbles behind us, and Trixie winces.
“How unfortunate that you’ve missed your opportunity,” Daniel drawls. His voice comes closer, but I don’t hear his footsteps. That’s chilling enough, but it’s worse that I don’t feel him coming. I can often sense Trixie before I see her, and I should know Daniel almost as well by now. He’s been training the two of us in basic skills ever since he was assigned the thankless task of shaping two new vampires released from the acclimation facility. Teaching us to fight. To fall. Kicking our asses every day until we learned to ignore the pain.
Showing us how to keep the secret of our existence. Demanding that we control our appetites and feed in approved locations without killing.
A deep ache spreads through me at the thought of feeding. Much as it’s been nice to have a few days off, to have time and freedom to race at top speed across rocky meadows and over pebbled beaches, to scent the night wind and experience the world without Daniel breathing down our necks, judging every action… I’m starving. I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t been hard spending the past few nights in that little inn with living, breathing humans under the roof, their pulses calling to me like a love song.
My mouth waters, filling with the sharpness of the mild poison that enters our victims when we feed. Stock, we call them. The hopeless addicts who return again and again to offer us their blood. The taste of my own venom makes me feel half alive. Awake. More aware than I’ve felt since we left the city and the possibility of feeding. It’s like lust, but so much deeper than what any living person will ever experience.
And satisfying that lust…
I force my thoughts away from that. There’s no one here we can feed on. I understand now why no vampires live in these pretty little towns. These places might have been tempting for a stopover back when lone vampires could hunt and feed at will. But now St. John’s is where the stock gather, where we give them the illusion of safety and the promise of pleasure in exchange for their precious blood.
Daniel steps in front of us and crosses his arms. He’s almost too gorgeous, even for a vampire. He’d look like a stereotypical surfer dude if he wasn’t so pale. Broad-shouldered and strong-jawed, with killer cheekbones and this thick brown hair that refuses to behave—which I imagine drove him crazy when he was alive, back in the days of slicked down styles and swing music. He looks fantastic, strong and rested. A few days away from us has agreed with him.
“You need to learn to hide your thoughts better, Aviva.” A smirk spreads across the chiseled features beneath the reflective aviator shades that cover his cold hazel eyes. His voice is rich. Not chilling like the scary monster-type vampire from the movies. Not douchey like the teen heartthrob ones. Deep. Warm. “A fellow might get the wrong idea from the expression on your face.”
I sneer up at him, but it’s half-hearted. I leave the mouthing off to Trixie. She’s better at it than I am. I care too much about doing well, about pleasing my trainer. An unfortunate holdover from who I was when I lived.
Good girl. Teacher’s pet.
The irony of it is that I’d be far better off with Trixie’s attitude. She’s a pain in Daniel’s finely shaped ass, no doubt, but her devil-may-care personality lets her take risks and let go of the past. She’s taken to unlife as a vampire like the proverbial duck to water.
And if we’re being honest and sticking with metaphors, I’m the fish that’s struggling to breathe on land.
Daniel frowns at Trixie’s pink hair. “Beatrix, really.”
She purses her lips and stares up innocently in spite of his disappointed dad tone. “What?”
“Should I assume that this is another room deposit I won’t be getting back, or did you manage to clean up after yourself?” He learned a year ago that there’s no point yelling at her, but there’s nothing pleasant in his tone.
Trixie tilts her head at him and sighs. “Well, Daniel, if you would release us from training and let us have real jobs, it would be me not getting the deposit back.”
“I would if I could. Believe me.”
Trixie blows a massive bubble that matches her new hair colour and pulls it back into her mouth with a loud smack. “Then I guess we’re all stuck, aren’t we?”
Daniel casts a long-suffering glance up at the clouds, and I try not to laugh. He’s not so bad, really. Terrifying at first. Cold. Deadly attractive, but with a predatory look in his eyes that never leaves, even when he seems like he’s relaxed. He trains us like he’s trying to prove something, even though it’s the last thing he wants to be doing. It’s not a labour of love for our Daniel. He used to have a more important job in clan law enforcement, but he’s never told us how he ended up sheltering our sorry asses under his roof for the past year.
Maybe I’ll ask him. Some day. In another eighty years or so, when I’ve been dead as long has he has now.
Despite everything, he’s a good trainer. I’d be too easy on my students. Too soft. Too understanding when their newly turned bodies objected to the torture I put them through. Too encouraging even when they failed.
I once wished for understanding. An occasional “good try” when I fucked up a sparring match. I wanted to be coddled. Respected.
Like a living human.
Now? Now I’m ready to get back to work. The fact is that in this new world I’m living in, you earn respect. You don’t get it just for showing up. And if Daniel is hard enough on me that I hate him sometimes, if he yells back when I scream at him, if he breaks me down and demands that I do the hard work of building my
self back up so that I know how to stand on my own… That’s the only way I’m going to survive.
I don’t like it, but I’m learning to appreciate it.
Sort of.
Getting some distance from him has probably helped. I’m sure I’ll hate him again tomorrow.
“We going back?” I ask, not sounding like it matters. We’re supposed to be working on patience and presence, accepting what comes. We have hundreds of years ahead of us. More, if we’re lucky. No need to be in a rush.
“Vacation is over,” he tells us. “You’ll have to leave this community to its—what in the name of the void is this racket?”
The speakers, which were turned off during the speaking parts of the service, have interrupted Daniel with a fresh wave of song.
He shakes his head and winces as a sharp soprano overwhelms the rest of the choir. “I remember when church music was at least pleasant, if you had to put up with it at all. Do people around here actually tolerate caterwauling carolers every week without complaint?”
“Carols are for Christmas,” I remind him.
“As if it mattered.” He glares down at me, sending a chill down my spine even though I can’t see his eyes. I remind myself, not for the first time, that it’s not attraction I feel when he gives me that look, but fear. Daniel could chain me up and hang me by my ankles from a rooftop in the sunrise if he wanted to teach me a lesson, and no one would step in.