House Of Bones (Cast In Shadow Book 1)

by A J Brahms

  House Of Bones

  Cast In Shadow

  A J Brahms

  Caldwell Press

  For my father

  SUMMARY

  I’ve lived a longer life than most. And I survive by staying under the radar and not pissing off the local Night Walker Family here in Atlanta, Georgia.

  Until some schmuck left a dead body in the lobby of a local historic building for the public to see. A building that just also happens to belong to the city’s most prominent and powerful Families.

  So who do they call to investigate? Me. Why…because I can see things most people can’t. I’ve solved several cases where the perps aren’t human and the punishment not within the usual legal system.

  Who am I? I’m Ren Grainger. I’m a free Ghoul.

  But I’m also a Chevalier and bound to fight for the Night Walkers. Even if they take my life.

  One

  I learned a long time ago that if you think a person's art is bad—for God's sake don't tell them. Especially when the artist is a Banshee. They're not known for taking criticism very well. And I sure as hell didn't want her to start her soul-curdling wail. Not in a crowded room.

  Especially since she was my date.

  We were at the High Museum in Atlanta, Georgia. One of my favorite buildings in this city. Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, I'd come to appreciate the aesthetic blending of architecture in the Southern capitol, though after ten years in this town…I was never going to appreciate the weather. The drastic changes from hot to cold to hotter than freak'n hell were something I just couldn't get used to.

  The High was a marvel of modern engineering, with an almost futuristic look at what could be possible with creative ambitions in mind. It stuck out. Which I liked. Just like Jazzi stuck out. That was my date, the Banshee. Jazzi Fitzpatrick. Fiery red hair, skin like bleached bone, and lips as red as ripe apples. She was beautiful. And deadly. And she'd hired me for the night.

  Hired me as a photographer. And she wanted me to not only look good on her arm, but to make her work look fantastic for magazines and online promotion. Making Jazzi look good was easy…

  Uh…making her work look good…

  If there was something nice I could say about her paintings, it would be…er…unique. Because no one else would paint with her ass the way Jazzi did.

  Yes. You read that right. She paints with her butt cheeks. And though they were a nice pair to look at…I didn't think they made the most promising of brushes. So every garish, color-splashed canvas hanging in one of the most elegant buildings in Atlanta had the impression of her ass on them. The local writer for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution had mumbled something about the art being reminiscent of the sixties.

  My, my…how art had come full circle. When I was young, art had a more psychedelic surrealism to it.

  I didn't appreciate it in the sixties and seventies, and I didn't appreciate it now. Even if you used your butt.

  I came into this world on October 14th, 1939 as William Renwick Grainger. And for the first twenty-five years of my life I was called Will. For the two and a half decades that followed a foul night in June of '64, I was called many things. Dog, boy, servant, slave, and sometimes…William. From 1984 until I was reborn on paper in 1989, I went by a series of names. But for now, in this chapter of my life, I go by Ren.

  I'm a local photographer who makes his living taking pictures at weddings, events, and sometimes crime scenes. I wasn't fully employed by the Georgia Bureau of Investigations, but I was certified by them, so they could call on me when I was needed.

  Though, as known by only a few in the Atlanta Police Department, if I was called in to shoot pictures, it meant the crime was something a little outside of the norm.

  No. I take that back. A lot outside of the norm. It meant the team of detectives I worked with weren't sure where to go, and my…talent…could point them in the right direction. I'd closed all five cases I'd worked with them on. But no one knew I existed in that capacity. I would never take the credit, and frankly, I didn't want it.

  Anonymity was good for me. It kept me alive. Was I running from something? You could say that. My past. What I was.

  And what I am.

  "Ren?" Jazzi said in her lilting Irish accent. "You like this one?"

  I hadn't realized I was staring at one of her more hideous pieces and immediately plastered a smile on my face. "I was thinking of how to frame it—" I held up my camera. "For a shot."

  "Oh." She didn't frown, but I could hear her disappointment in her tone. She wanted praise. Banshees craved praise. And they usually got it. "I'll be in the other room while you work. Come see me when you're done." She kissed my cheek and I watched her walk away.

  Me and about five other men…and a few women.

  I was sure she'd sell most everything tonight. The thought of that ass nude on these canvases? It spoke to the pervert in most of the males in this room.

  So I set about doing my job. I had one of my modern cameras with me tonight. A Canon I'd purchased a month ago. Good zoom, high resolution, lots of buttons I didn't use, but it did have access to my Cloud. I liked that since I'd had a few cameras stolen over the years, and lost rolls of film.

  People moved out of the way as I positioned and clicked, zoomed and drew back, and made a path around the room. The feel of the place was mostly jovial. People having a good time, lots of alcohol (something I don't touch), and it was Friday night. I'd made it nearly a month without a call from the police and my life had ground into a routine. Normalcy.

  I wasn't complaining. I loved feeling normal. It was something that'd been taken away from me over fifty years ago, so I took it where I could get it.

  Then something brushed past my peripheral senses. A part of me was always on the prowl, always watching, cautious, listening, paying attention to the shadows. It was the animalistic nature of what I was and manifested itself in the shape of a raven I called Occam. Though she (yes, she) was a part of me, she also had a mind of her own and represented my link to the paranormal world. I could see through her eyes and she could see through mine. She was good at warning me when something was out of sync with that normalcy.

  Hearing her caw from a great distance and feeling the rustle of her wings against my subconscious, I walked out of the event and looked down the long spiral walkway around the atrium, up from the front of the building. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I refocused my attention outside, through the glass walls to Occam. She showed me the night and the wind as it blew the orange, yellow and red fall leaves across the street and over the shrubbery.

  She also directed my attention to something disturbing below. Standing there on the sidewalk, on the other side of the street, were three men. Each dressed in black. Possibly leather. Occam's vision had a fishbowl quality to it. My own eyesight was better than a human's, but not as good as a Night Walker's. And that's exactly what these three were. I knew this because I could feel them, their power, their age, their serene sense of justice.

  And they sensed me.

  All Night Walkers would know me by sight, sound, smell, and feel. Because I was something each of them craved to have but were forbidden to create. A knight. A body guard. A servant dedicated to attending their every need and whim.

  A Chevalier.

  Here I was. A prize roaming free. Unfettered and unmarked by any Night Walker.

  I was also something they detested. A rogue. An abomination.

  A Ghoul.

  After tossing my camera into the trunk of my car, I approached the three of them as Occam landed on my left shoulder. She could be seen by others who had the sight for the paranormal, or ultra-normal. That was the term my mak
er used. The three moved away from the High when I stepped out. Since I didn't know why they were there and I felt them calling, I figured answering that call was better than putting every human in the museum in jeopardy. Jazzi? Well…she could take care of herself against Night Walkers.

  They wouldn't put a fang on her.

  As a Ghoul, I'm sensitive to all things Night Walker. We share the same origination, from that of another Night Walker's blood. I was faster than the average human. Had better eyesight, smell, and I was much stronger. But all those abilities paled in comparison to what an enraged Night Walker could do. And even though I was technically immortal, I could still be killed if one of them ripped off my head.

  I'd been trained as a Chevalier in my youth as a Ghoul. A protector and benefactor of a powerful Night Walker. So as I approached, I stopped, put my right hand over my heart and went down on one knee before them, my head bent as I felt Occam flutter her wings. I didn't speak, and I didn't move until one of them spoke.

  "You still practice the origins of your maker, Ghoul," one of them said. "You may rise."

  I stood as fluidly as possible and faced them, my arms at my sides. I'm pretty sure it was an interesting sight. Me in a tux, and the three of them dressed like players in a goth industrial band from the nineties. They each had pale hair, which spoke of their age. The legends and Hollywood always talked about Vampires as if they were stagnant at the age they were made. That just wasn't the truth. They did change. And the older they became, the paler their hair turned. This designated age.

  And demanded respect.

  Night Walkers, as they preferred to be called, though sometimes I still called them Vampires, formed Families throughout the world. Units that centered around a common matriarch or patriarch, depending on the original blood donor. I recognized these three as belonging to the oldest of the Vampire Families in the Southeast. The Talmadge Family. Begun long before the Civil War, they were the only Family to survive the fighting by living on the corpses in Gettysburg.

  They were proud and genteel, and I'd made it my purpose to stay out of their way since moving to Atlanta. But of course, as a Ghoul, they'd sensed my presence and run me through a rigorous month of torture as they searched to find my bloodline. I think their Grand Inquisitor, aka Torturer, Phillip Angevine, had been very disappointed to learn my Master had been destroyed, and with no other Childe left alive, that left me free.

  They respected the rules of the game…they just didn't like them.

  I knew one of the Night Walkers standing in front of me. The one in the middle, the one that spoke. Jedediah Talmadge. Grand Patriarch of the Talmadge Family. He wore his white hair back in a ponytail, neat and tidy. And his clothing wasn't as leather-bad-ass, like the two Night Walkers flanking him.

  I gave Jedediah another bow. "I was trained by the best, Grand Patriarch."

  "Let's dispense with the pleasantries," Jedediah said in a less than patient voice. He approached me and I stood my ground. Never let them see you sweat. With Night Walkers it was always a game of dominance. And I had no plans to ever be dominated by them again. "We have a problem, Ren. And it's going to take your talents to repair this problem."

  I pursed my lips. "What can I do for you…Jedediah?"

  "You will address the Grand Patriarch as Mr. Talmadge!" said the Night Walker on my left. He stepped forward, his eyes red and his hands balled into fists. Since I could feel his power, I was pretty sure his claws were out, stabbing into the palms of his hands.

  "That is enough, Aubrey," Jedediah barked, but kept his brilliant blue eyes focused on me. "I said to dispense with the pleasantries. Weren't you listening?"

  I stared back at Aubrey. No flinch.

  "Ren Grainger won his freedom fairly. The Talmadge Family respects his position, and you will do as you are told." Jedediah looked away from me and to his right. "Or you can go."

  Aubrey might not have liked it…but he did as he was told and piped down. His hair was dark and streaked with white. Though he was old in years (older than humans ever lived to be), he was pretty young by the Talmadge standards. I assumed he was in training with Jedediah as an aid. The other Night Walker remained obediently silent.

  "Ren," Jedediah said and his voice lowered, but still held power. It was a mesmerizing power. Not something they could help really, and since I was a creation, technically property in their world, he spoke to me like I was a puppy. He couldn't help it. Age and all that. "Earlier in the evening, before the sun's rays released us, someone placed the body of a young girl just inside our Family Repository and then summoned the police. When we woke, it was to find the entire building blocked off as a crime scene. We're not even allowed inside." He frowned at me. "We're afraid the police will trample our holiest of places and possibly destroy…or even reveal…what is most personal to us."

  Jedediah was speaking in code. As a Ghoul, I knew the terms, but not what they meant. Most Families kept a central home, a base of operations, a stronghold. In medieval times, those were fortresses or castles, but here in the more modern age, they were sometimes mansions or historic buildings. I knew the Talmadge Family claimed one of the older buildings downtown. It was known as Cimitir Hall, a castle in the middle of a Southern metropolis. A historical society ran its business from inside the first floor and paid the Talmadge Family rent. I was pretty sure the humans who loved the little castle didn't have a clue it was owned by blood suckers.

  Jedediah called the home their Repository because these strongholds were the places the Families kept their family records, historical events, personal diaries, accounts, as far back as the first of the Family and their Sire. Safe and away from a world who didn't need to see these documents. I'd overheard my own Master talking about wanting a Repository once, a place to keep her Sire's essence.

  She never did tell me what that meant. About the essence.

  I knew how important these Repositories were to the Families and how they would fight to keep them safe. Not being allowed to enter…this was bad. Occam ruffled her feathers again on my shoulder, then took off. I knew she was heading to Cimitir Hall.

  "Have the police questioned the society renting from you?" I asked him.

  "Yes. They are still speaking with them, and a few of us. The ones more…" Jedediah shrugged. "Visibly human."

  I knew Jedediah, Aubrey and the third Night Walker would all fail the police sniff test. In subdued light, an aged Night Walker looked pretty cool. Gothic maybe. But you couldn't see them in bright light because they couldn't stand it. Their eyes were too sensitive and would look too blue. Too intense. Their skin was too smooth, too pale, and their teeth… Well…the older ones, like these three, seldom bothered sheathing their fangs. Aubrey might be able to pass the test. Might. But I could see Jedediah's fangs as he spoke to me.

  This is where the use of Chevaliers, Ghouls, came in. Ghouls were created and trained to take care of their Masters. They did the day-to-day routine of the modern world, allowing the Night Walker anonymity, because a Ghoul could exist in both worlds. Even now, I could see these three as if it were a bright spring day, instead of close to ten in the evening.

  There was something else about Ghouls that so few knew.

  We don't sleep.

  Ever.

  I couldn't remember the last time I shut my eyes for longer than a blink. A Ghoul can be knocked unconscious…we just don't dream once changed.

  The biggest question most asked when they learned about us, was why the Families don't use Chevaliers anymore. Well…because the making of Ghouls was banned in the late seventies. Even I didn't know why.

  And now you know why I was such an oddity. I had never asked how many of us still existed, especially those of us no longer held as servants.

  "I know you have a relationship with the police," Jedediah was saying. "I need you to find out who placed that girl there, and who called the authorities."

  "You want me to find out who's trying to expose you?" He didn't say this, but I could see it in his
eyes.

  "Yes, Ren. I do. Because if this becomes a problem for us, and we lose our Repository, if they discover our secrets there, the Talmadge Family will have to flee. And then there will be no one here to protect this city, Ren. And no one to protect you."

  I understood the threat, though it wasn't him threatening me. The Talmadge Family respected me to a point, and they used my services from time to time. They made sure no Night Walker tried to do the unthinkable to me by taking me as theirs. They could do this, by re-Ghouling me.

  Yeah…it was a fear that was always on my mind.

  "I'll find out, Jedediah," I said to him and bowed. "That's a promise."

  Two

  After excusing myself from the party, and seeing Jazzi off with some beefy guy in the corner, I headed to Cimitir Hall. It wasn't far from the High. I turned my Prius down Peachtree Street when my phone went off. I dug into my pocket and glanced at the face.

  Right on time. "Grainger."

  "Hey dude," Lt. Luke Meehan said as I spied the blinking lights and yellow police tape up ahead. "You got plans tonight?"

  "I did, but I just left them. What's up?"

  "Got a murder here…at Cimitir Hall of all places. Can you come in as photographer?"

  I smiled. "Official or unofficial?"

  "Both. Kinda. I can give you details when you get here. Oh…never mind. I see Occam. You gotta be close."

  "Yep. Be there in two," I said and disconnected.

  Parking was behind the building in a scary-looking lot under a bridge. I parked the Prius, grabbed my camera bag and set the alarm, and jogged to the back of Cimitir Hall and then up the sidewalk to the front. I spotted Detective Meehan's broad shoulders and distinctive profile immediately.

  I also felt Julie Wallace nearby, Meehan's partner and the only woman I knew who could strip me of my manhood with a look. She was also the only woman I'd ever fallen hard for. So hard I compared everyone else to her. Including my former Master, but then, my infatuation with her had been purely blood related. Her blood.