The 3-Book King’s Blood Vampire Saga

by P. J. Day

  Blood began pooling around Raffi’s torso. The creature opened a slit where a mouth would normally be. A small gumline with equally small, sharpened teeth emerged. Its synthesized growl modulated into a layman’s enunciation. “Where’s the Apocryphon?”

  In excruciating pain, Raffi willed coherence. “What Apocryphon?”

  “The Apocryphon? You roach,” hissed the Seraph.

  Raffi knew what the Seraph was intimating; the Apocryphon that was given to him by Father Gutierrez from a parish in Riverside County, the one that was in the silly box with the silly writing. Raffi thought Father Gutierrez was a quack, but sometimes, even the unbelievable rants of crazy people tickled the part of the brain where irrational paranoia lived. He gave in to that sudden and momentary feeling.

  “I...I don’t know what you’re talking about,” stuttered Raffi.

  “The mortal apostate from the empire inland led me here through his death pangs,” said the creature.

  “I sold many things. Sacred things. Ancestral belongings. People pay cash. They trade. They barter. I don’t know the backstory of everything that comes through here. Let me go, please, demon.”

  “I am no demon,” hissed the Seraph. “Anger, wrath, indignation, trouble, are my sanctioned syntax. Demons toil in deceit; I toil in truth.”

  Raffi begged. His eyes wetted in desperation. “My father is ailing. Mercy, please. He needs me. I must go to Tehran.”

  The Seraph turned its head toward the large tinted window. People strolled by the store. Some with coffee cups in their hands, others walking their tea-cup mutts. Traffic, as usual, was congested. Everyone was bent on heading home. A man wearing a tattered cowboy hat pushed a wheeled cart. “Elotes, con chile,” he shouted into Raffi’s store, through the door that was halfway open.

  The Seraph, ambivalent to the action outside, placed its index claw into Raffi’s mouth, forcing him into his first sword-swallower’s act. The elotero continued his route, oblivious to one man’s nightmare inside the store.

  Losing patience, the Seraph barely moved its claw, tearing through the soft tissue that lined Raffi’s windpipe. Internal bleeding commenced. Raffi’s eyes bulged. His squirm lasted as long as his final grunt. As his body went limp, his eyes fell to the side, an empty gaze toward his last resting place and his final memory; the hustle and bustle halfway across the world from where his father waited for his son to come home.

  Chapter Ten:

  Failure’s Pride

  Breaking News from Patricia Garza, reporting from Riverside, at the scene of a bizarre homicide, said the cheap imitation version of the national nightly news anchor. Local Los Angeles newscasts liked their male news anchors handsome, but with a plasticky, real estate broker’s smirk.

  Miss Garza’s unnecessarily augmented breasts matched her unnecessary over-enunciation of conjunctions. That’s right, Alex; we are here at St. Matthew’s Catholic Church where Father Mario Gutierrez, a charismatic and universally loved pastor, was murdered in cold blood. Officials are killing the senseless killing, heinously sadistic.

  Keelen hollered toward the bathroom where Matt was done taking his shower, “Another bloodbath. This time involving a priest.”

  “A priest?” Matt asked loudly. “Is nothing sacred anymore?”

  Authorities aren’t aware of any motive, however, parishioners and colleagues have told Eyewitness 7 News that Father Gutierrez did help a village in Southern Mexico negotiate a truce with a violent cartel last year.

  “Well, there you have it. We now have drug cartel problems right here in Riverside,” Keelen said, sipping a glass of cheap wine. She shook her head and grimaced. “And I have an audition in Riverside next week, too.”

  “For what?” Matt asked.

  “Some golf course wants a pretty girl to say a couple nice words about their back nine.”

  “Be careful,” Matt’s voice echoed from the bathroom’s fine acoustics.

  “Why?”

  “Some of those golf courses out there are fronts for seedy activities.”

  “Eww, really?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She studied Matt’s sharp-boned, whisker-stubbled face as he emerged from the bathroom with nothing on but a towel.

  He rubbed the back of his head with a sudden snap of anaerobic vigor. The sound of hairdryers irritated his sensitive eardrums that he developed from all the years of getting hit in the skull. He also claimed the dry air fried the tips of his marketable locks. “Pajamas?” he asked, with a toothy grin.

  “What? What’s wrong with these?”

  “They’re all right, if we were married.”

  Keelen tucked her long legs underneath her thigh and bottom, keeping her naked feet warm from the horrible cheap tile Matt had in his studio apartment. “Well, too bad. Maybe if you spent a little more time with me, I’d probably be watching TV spectacularly in the buff,” she playfully quipped.

  Matt’s towel continued to hang on by some miracle.

  Despite the nagging feeling of slight neglect, Keelen’s eyes always trailed toward Matt’s chiseled torso and imagined the prospect of his towel succumbing to gravity. “I hate you,” she blurted.

  “Now, why is that?’ he asked, inching closer to her, his hips leading the way.

  Keelen sat up and hugged the satin pillow that had the distinctive hole in its corner, close to her chest. “Because it’s hard to let you know what I really feel. You come out of the shower all wet, your skin exfoliated, your small, cute nipples hardened, and my mind drifts away from what’s important.”

  “You think my nipples are cute?” Matt asked, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

  “Yes, you have perfect nipples for a guy,” Keelen said, with a playful smirk.

  With the skill of a sly snake, his athletic body glided a few feet, and he sat beside her. Keelen curled into the far corner of the couch.

  “You compliment me, and then you turn ice cold,” he said, stroking Keelen’s thick mane down to the ends.

  “Believe me, I’m gonna rip that towel away from you in a second,” she confirmed, with the raise of her manicured eyebrow. “But this whole Olympics thing. Don’t you think you’re getting carried away just a little?”

  Matt gently twirled Keelen’s locks with his finger. It was sensual and smooth, as he knew that a tangle or two, and an undeserved knot was instant taboo. “It’s the Olympics, baby, the Olympics.”

  “Will you stop saying that?”

  “What? It is though. Sorry if I’m single-minded at the moment.”

  “It’s good to be focused, but not so focused where you forget everyone around you.”

  Matt sat back on the couch and spread his legs. He deliberately scratched his thigh, pulling back his towel, attempting to tease Keelen.

  Keelen grabbed the part of the towel that was riding up Matt’s thigh and tugged it toward his knee. “No, just listen.”

  Matt threw his neck back and let out a deep sigh. “What?”

  “I’m here because I had to force myself here.”

  “I planned to call you after I took my shower.”

  “No, you weren’t. I’m the one that has been calling you for the past month or so, it seems.”

  Matt looked up at ceiling and reflected on Keelen’s words. He bounced his head trying to drum up a defense. “I called you to get breakfast the other morning.”

  Keelen crossed her arms and droned. “You called me because you wanted me to bring you breakfast to the gym. Remember, I kinda forced you to meet me at the diner.”

  Matt turned his eyes and paused in deep thought. He leaned forward placing his lean and cut forearms on his thighs, which jutted out on both sides, and seemed hard as stone. “You can’t be upset at me because I have potentially great things ahead of me.”

  Keelen furrowed her brow. “You can’t say I’m upset because you have things going on. I’ve been extremely supportive.”

  Matt’s light eyes squinted as he turned to Keelen. “How have you supported me?”r />
  “I’ve left you alone, for starters.”

  “You’ve left me alone? That’s support?”

  “Yeah, for the most part, I’ve stayed out your way while you’ve trained.”

  Matt blew a sudden breath through his nose. “You’ve never once asked me how my sessions went. But I don’t bring it up because I know boxing doesn’t interest you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “You know why I don’t ask how your sessions went?”

  “Why?”

  “Because the thought of you getting your head bashed isn’t something I like to start conversations about.”

  Matt snickered. “I don’t believe that.”

  “How come?”

  “You don’t ask me about my potential endorsements. You don’t ask me if I’m excited. You don’t ask me about any of the non-boxing related stuff,” Matt said, winding himself. He paused and continued. “Are you jealous of my success?”

  Keelen pulled back immediately in a guarded posture. “How dare you insinuate that I’m jealous? I love you, Matt. Why would I feel the need to compete with the person I love?”

  “You love me so much, that you couldn’t tell me what happened at the gallery, or how you took a job from Logan without at least asking me about my opinion.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I don’t have to run every decision I make past you.”

  “You don’t? Well, maybe if you did, your life would probably be a little bit easier.”

  Keelen’s nostrils flared with sudden agitation. She raised her voice, which she rarely did at Matt. “You can be such a dick sometimes, you know that?”

  “What did you call me?” Matt said, standing up and gripping his towel tightly.

  “I’m not calling you a dick. I said you can be a dick.”

  Matt’s arms, chest, and shoulders tightened like a ball of twine. His face flushed red. He pointed at Keelen. “I’m sorry that things are going well for me and shitty for you. But I don’t throw it in your face. I get this weird mopey energy from you and it’s dragging me down at times.”

  Keelen looked away, and her eyes began tearing up. The reality that both their lives were becoming incompatible dawned on her. She looked up at Matt. “Is there someone else? I feel like you’re pushing me away.”

  “No, I don’t have time for anyone else. Like I said, I’m sorry for being distant, but it’s only temporary. How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

  Keelen pursed her lips. Her eyelids grew pink with woe. She took a deep breath while standing up from the couch, and exhaled deeply, flapping her lips, trying her hardest to hold back a stream of tears. She picked up her clothes from Matt’s small, Ikea-made dinner table and put them in a plastic bag.

  Matt looked on stoically. “You’re leaving?”

  Keelen nodded as she put on her slippers.

  “You’re not going to change out of your P.J.’s?” Matt asked, subconsciously trying to buy time, just in case the conversation sparked a flurry of apologies. However, there weren’t going to be any. Keelen was hurt on two fronts: Matt’s callousness and the growing schism between the directions their lives were taking.

  “I’m fine,” she said, as she opened Matt’s apartment door.

  “Who’s gonna take you home?” he asked. “Let me change so I can drive you.”

  Dispassionate, she turned to Matt. “I’ll take the bus, it’s okay.”

  “At this time of night?”

  Keelen gave no answer. Her face remained still as dried concrete.

  “Fine,” Matt said, dismissively. He crossed his arms and tried again. “It’s cold out there, don’t you think?”

  “Not as cold as you,” Keelen said before closing the door.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Claret Clarice

  The middle-aged banker was tall and thin. His fine suit cleaned and pressed to a knife’s edge. Not a speck of lint or dust dared touch his luxurious fabric. A salt-and-pepper, half-moon tuft of hair surrounded the back of his smooth and spectacularly shiny bald head. He sat in the library of his 10,000-square-foot mansion in Bel Air; it was his home away from home, as he also owned a penthouse overlooking Central Park, one which he’d playfully named the Lion’s Den. It was his strategic abode where gazelles’ succulent carcasses, in the form of acquisitions, were served.

  Mark Cohen was chairman and CEO of Marcus and Samuelson, the largest and most successful investment and banking firm in the world. He was admired and revered by the powerful and connected, including those in the government who happened to serve him.

  He would retire to Southern California toward the end of the second quarter of every fiscal year. His wife, Rachel, had grown up in nearby Pacific Palisades, where they’d purchased a ranch in the dried brush hills that overlooked the ocean.

  The rays of a drowning sun strewed on the polished oak shelves of the library as the banker held his tablet in one hand, drink in the other. He purposely avoided the riff-raff of mainstream news sites and home pages that catered to the masses. Income disparity, bailouts, Occupy Wall Street, one percenters: all catchphrases that riled up those who lost in the game and lacked the nuance needed in understanding both sides of the invisible hand, he thought. Mark was affected by the media storm that fed off those who felt his kind caused the latest economic crisis; he was human, after all.

  He placed his tulip-shaped glass filled with a fine Cuvee on his table and browsed continuously, furiously, and with the same dogged determination that fed his professional vulturing—for the creator of one Claret Clarice, which he’d hung proudly over the mantel in his library.

  As Mark unexpectedly found out, no pictures, or Wiki of Logan Drake existed. He grinned at the mystery that enveloped his favorite painting’s creator. He knew that enigma was one of the principal drivers of value. All that mattered was that the art world was taking notice of Logan’s work and that was enough for him, especially in a world of saturation and overexposure. The art itself buffered Logan Drake, just as the politicians did the same for the moneyed elite.

  Rachel Cohen, an imposing woman in her own right, walked toward her husband. Her heels tapped the gorgeous hardwood floors that Mark had won in a high-stakes poker game with New York’s premier interior designer.

  “That floor is amazing, isn’t it?” he told Rachel with delight. “Look how that fire in the hearth reflects on the polished wood. Brett knows how to turn someone’s home into a magical realm. My goodness.”

  Rachel stood in front of Mark, unimpressed or oblivious to his remark. “Mark, you really need to think about some PR measures. I’m starting to get the cold shoulder from Oprah and Melinda.”

  “Melinda who?” asked Mark.

  “Gates.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was part of this event to promote better lifestyle choices for inner city kids, and the director told Oprah that she was uncomfortable with my presence because of your firm’s handling of credit default swaps that supposedly affected some of these kids.”

  Mark sat back on his black leather chaise lounge. He put his tablet next to his cognac. “Where is this fundraiser taking place?”

  “Downtown, at the concert hall.”

  “Double the contribution,” he said.

  “No,” Rachel said, firmly.

  Mark’s eyebrows tilted upward. “No?”

  “That’s going to look like I’m trying to buy favorability. Plus, the director of the program is an extreme idealist. She turned down $50,000 from B of A.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Mark. “Does this event mean a lot to you?”

  “Well, kinda. I mean, I would like to get a head start on producing that talk show I’ve always wanted to do and Harpo is the way to go, but this has clouded everything.”

  “Sweetheart, I can look into your own production company.”

  “No, that’s going to look like the wife of the banker got her own talk show. It just
looks insincere. People are so cynical nowadays,” Rachel said as she sat next to Mark.

  Mark crossed his legs and folded his hands around the front of his knee. “I don’t know what else to do, sorry.”

  “Your website has too much emphasis on international clients. No word of our middle-class, small business, or anything to remedy the controversy that looms over Marcus and Samuelson.”

  Mark grinned. It was hard to faze the man. It had taken a whole year after becoming CEO to settle into his own skin, an impenetrable skin. “I’ve told you that the world is changing. Our focus is international business now. Eric is thinking about moving the majority of our operations to Singapore. Less regulations. Less politics. All they want over there is money and respect. We have that in droves.”

  “Yes, I understand, but honey, if you turn on the television, listen to the radio and read internet message boards, the country is heated,” Rachel implored. “While we have a presence here, while you still have many friends in Washington, while the economy is in shambles, we need to release some of the pressure. People have lost their homes. They’re broken. They’re getting desperate and we are constantly being brought up in conversations. Frankly, it’s starting to scare me.”

  Perturbed, Mark puffed his cheeks and exhaled. “Sweetie, we’ve already talked about this.”

  “I just feel so guilty,” Rachel pleaded. “I don’t care how good you are at avoiding everything; this has to be affecting you, too.”

  “Capitalism is a game. In a game, there are winners and losers. People who should have better educated themselves have gambled and lost. With free will comes responsibility.”

  Rachel was unfazed, as this was not the first time she’d heard Mark’s lectures about the lessons of capitalism. She placed her hand on his lap and tried to get Mark to change his mind by appealing to emotion. “What about the kids? These kids, who have lost their homes, displaced from their schools, friends. It’s horrible.”