The 3-Book King’s Blood Vampire Saga

by P. J. Day

  Logan scaled Mark’s ten-foot east wall with one strong vault from his powerful calves. Like a supernatural-born parkour champ, Logan leapt through Mark’s neighbors’ gardened obstacles with ease and precision.

  Logan only had to cross the concrete strait of the San Gabriel River before using the underside of freeway overpasses as cover, guaranteeing a swift escape toward his warehoused respite. He knew that this wasn’t the time to be sacrificed; he needed at least one more week.

  Chapter Twelve:

  The 4th or 5th Commandment

  Exhausted and weak, Adam flashed his phone right above the RFID sensor at the entrance of his penthouse suite. As he entered, he flung his bag on the leather couch, and in a moment of sheer stupidity, with a slight and gentle flick, he attempted to land his phone on the couch as well. As soon as it left his thick hand, he immediately recognized his mistake. You stupid, fat idiot. The phone slid off the slippery cushion, breaking into three pieces. The screen landed flat on the ground, shattering the glass into nasty cracked webs; the back cover—utilizing the mysteries of quantum mechanics—mystically scurried underneath the couch in a perplexing angle. The battery skidded across the floor, hitting the soles of Adam’s flattened, brown leather Florsheims. He attempted to bend over to snatch the battery, but succumbed to his own girth and mass, and a task he’d taken for granted just a few days ago, was now a pathetic impossibility.

  “This is no fun…not fun at all,” he said clutching at his lower back.

  Adam walked toward the fireplace and grabbed the three remaining logs from the brass cradle and cast them into the hearth. It was imperative that Jrue found out about his encounter with Fisker, it was also an opportune time for guidance.

  All within minutes, the hauntingly blue fire crackled, spiked, and dimmed. Adam stood stoically staring straight into the fire. The flames flickered off his eyeballs like a man indulging in his masterful act of arson. “Father, are you there?” he asked. “I beckon your presence; it is urgent, my Lord.”

  Jrue’s rich voice resonated from the flames. “Lelantos, I anticipate success.”

  Adam bowed his head in submission. “I’m afraid our situation has worsened.”

  “How so?”

  “They know about Theolodus. They know about his rogue status. They have summoned Seraphs.”

  The fire roared through the fireplace. Adam shielded his face from the sudden spurt of heat, which curled the fresh stubble on his chin. “I’ve been punished enough,” deadpanned Adam.

  “Adonai is tempting all-out war,” groaned Jrue.

  “No, Adonai is not responsible for the summoning.”

  “Then who is? How did you come upon this revelation?”

  “The head of the FBI in Los Angeles told me. He represents the Kingdom of Caeli on Earth, but he didn’t say who ordered the Seraphs.”

  “Describe him,” Jrue commanded.

  “He has the letters INRI engraved on his knuckles and goes by the name of Fis...”

  “...Uriel!” Jrue affirmed. “That pathetic attendant is a known fibber.”

  “Would he lie to an overseer? Would he lie to me?” asked a flummoxed Adam.

  “Under our agreement, they are not allowed to hunt or harm our own. Are you sure Uriel told you the Seraphs are here to hunt Theolodus?”

  “He wants Theolodus dead. My brother. Son of Thalia. Scion of Pit. He explicitly stated they are here to hunt him.”

  The fireplace continued to roar with spectacular rage. The cobalt and azure hues flared off the walls, turning Adam’s living room into a bluish hell. “I’m amassing the legion from Notus immediately. If they wish to break the Concord, then we will be prepared.”

  “No, please don’t, my Lord,” Adam beseeched. “We are outnumbered, weakened. Our existence is at the mercy of Caeli. Don’t let your eternal pride put our existence in peril. I am close to Theolodus’s presence; I feel it in my bones. He’s near. We have amassed a few candidates. I know in my heart that one of them is Theolodus. As long as I’m in existence, our numbers will not diminish, I promise. I will not let the Seraphs assassinate my only brother, no matter how disruptive and rebellious he has become.”

  “Seraphs are unruly beasts. They are impulsive and lack nuance. If they harm one human or are discovered, the Concord will be in jeopardy,” Jrue breathed through the spitfire. “In the unlikely event Uriel is telling the truth, the only one with the authority to unleash Seraphs, other than Adonai, would be Israfel.”

  “The trumpeter?” asked Adam, with a worried look.

  “You must find Theolodus,” reiterated Jrue. “You mustn’t worry about the Seraphs. There is no time for negotiations or compromise.”

  “Where is Israfel?” asked Adam.

  “It does not matter.”

  “I want to speak with him.”

  “I don’t know where he resides.”

  “I can convince Israfel to tame the beasts and send them back to Caeli so I can locate Theolodus and assure his safe return back to Pit. I have no doubt that I can locate him, but I need assurance that my search cannot be interrupted or rushed, therefore it is important that I speak with Israfel. I’m an overseer and a diplomat.”

  “If there are Seraphs in Los Angeles, then Israfel is close by,” roared the fire. “Lelantos, don’t waste our precious time. He is an obsessed messenger who never relents.”

  “I’m meeting Fisker again.”

  “No, he is a liar, Lelantos.”

  Adam grabbed a small pail full of melted ice water that contained an open half-full bottle of champagne he had popped the night of his curse.

  Water slopped from the top of the bucket, splashing the floor and the tops of his shoes. “I’m sorry, Father. I need to do everything in my power to show these cretins that the scions of Pit are off-limits,” Adam said.

  “My son, you are not on Earth to play politics. There is not much time. Find your brother. I have felt these ominous signs before. Time is running out.”

  Adam stayed silent. He held the bucket with his chubby hand; as it began to slip from his grip, he lifted the bucket and poured the water all over Jrue’s bright flame. He then grabbed the bottle and emptied whatever was left of the champagne on the cinders. Sparks flew upward, like a miniature fireworks display. Adam’s intentions were set. He did not want Jrue to convince him otherwise.

  “I ask for your mercy, Father,” Adam mouthed quietly.

  Adam looked at the ground and used his feet to gather his antique footrest. He methodically sat on it and bent down toward the floor. His meaty knees lodged up against his large breasts. After twenty minutes of trying, and almost losing his balance and falling face first into his floor a couple of times, he was finally able to retrieve his phone. As soon as it rebooted, he received notification of a missed text from Tracy.

  Thank you for the opportunity.

  Adam smiled, despite knowing what was coming to a head within the few days or possibly the next few hours. Still, it was a moment of positive human interaction that tickled that little part inside his divine mind that every now and then, made him sympathetic toward the human cause—but just a little though and not enough to shake the loyalty he had toward Pit.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  A Trivial Pursuit

  “Psst, Keelen, are you awake?” Cindy asked nervously, as she peeked her head through the bedroom doorway. Light sneaked through from the living room, pulsing Keelen’s closed eyelids as she lay in bed.

  Keelen turned her cocooned body away from the light and grumbled. “Cindy, it’s past midnight, can this wait until tomorrow?”

  “Raffi’s dead.”

  Keelen lifted her upper body from her thick sheets and squinted toward Cindy. “What?”

  “Someone murdered him right after I left his store yesterday,” she whimpered.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “It was on the news this morning. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Who murdered him?”

  “The police don’t kn
ow, but he died of internal bleeding, trauma. Like someone forcefully shoved a sword down his throat,” Cindy said, weeping uncontrollably.

  Keelen pulled her sheets off, walked toward Cindy, and gave her a tight hug. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He was a friend.”

  Keelen pulled back and looked into Cindy’s eyes. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary? Was there someone else inside the store when you left? Maybe you should speak to the police.”

  “I was the only one in the store. He was deathly scared of something. I could see it in his eyes. He rushed me out the door after giving me something that was important to him. I think he knew something was wrong.”

  “Oh, my God. Here, let’s sit down.” Keelen kept her arm around Cindy’s shoulder as they both walked toward the living room and sat on their early aughts, patterned, secondhand couch. “What was it that he gave you? Maybe you should take it to the police.”

  “No...no...no...I can’t do that.”

  “It could be important, Cindy. What if what he gave you is the reason he was killed? Where is it? The killer is probably still looking for it,” Keelen said. Her eyes popped out as she became increasingly nervous. “Let me see it. I’m telling you right now, we need to turn this into the police as evidence. Hell, once they finished interviewing witnesses, they might have identified you.”

  “There’s no way,” Cindy said, sobbing. “The news reported people didn’t see anyone enter or leave the store. His body wasn’t discovered until late last night, when police saw the store lights on, way past closing time.”

  “What did he give you? Bring it out. Let me see it.”

  Cindy got up from the couch and retrieved the box and painting from her room. She placed them both on the coffee table. Cindy looked at Keelen and rotated the box, gauging her reaction.

  “This is what you want to keep? It’s just a crate.”

  Cindy’s face was flushed red. She wiped the tears away from her eyes and then pointed her finger up in the air. “Let me show you what’s inside.”

  Cindy pulled open the flimsy wooden lid that slid into two uneven grooves. She reached in and pulled out an old, thick, leather bound, red book. The Latin-inspired inscription on its binding was faded and stained with a black substance. The corners were bent and torn.

  The faded figures on the cover of the book were quite peculiar. Two angel-like figures sat on both sides of a bearded holy man with a halo who held up two crossed fingers. The heads of the young, cherubic angels were nestled in between six red wings. Below the angels and the prophet-like figure, a muscular naked man, with a forked tongue, laid on his back in a submissive position. Anyone with an elementary and passing interest in art history would recognize the man as Greek or Roman.

  “I know this is going to sound cliché,” Keelen said, as she held the book firmly in her hands. “This doesn’t look like something that should’ve been sold in some dude’s pawn shop; this belongs in a museum.”

  “You think so?” Cindy asked, feigning Keelen’s concern. “What if it’s a prop or something? I heard about these guys who would break into prop shops, and then they would try to turn around and pawn this stuff to Raffi, hoping to rip him off.”

  Keelen gave Cindy a skeptical look. She lifted the book toward Cindy’s nose. “No, come on now. Smell it.” Sure, it had that old book smell, but it was a different kind of smell. Not like those old Bibles you would find in antique stores from the early 1900s or an old collection of mass-produced Dickens’ stories from the late 1800s. There was a hint of frankincense and myrrh in there, a stubborn aroma of incense, the kind of incense you’d find in old rectories and altars, not the hippie kind.

  “Raffi got this from a church, didn’t he?” Keelen noted.

  Cindy shrugged. “I don’t know, but he really, really wanted me to have it—check this out.” She reached into the box again and pulled out an old, brass, foot-long rod with the same engravings that were on the box. At the top of the handle, a small dragon with six wings perched on a tiny ball. On the other end, a dull but pointed tip was made of a purple quartz-like material. “I have no idea what this thing is for. A fancy letter opener, perhaps?”

  “It looks like it would tear a letter in half,” Keelen joked. “We need to find this stuff a home. I don’t want what’s in this box in our apartment, do you understand?”

  Cindy nodded halfheartedly. She reached into the box again and pulled out the tattered business card Raffi had given her and handed it to Keelen.

  “Paolo Rivers,” read Keelen. “Professor of Linguistics, University of Southern California—who’s this?”

  “Raffi says it’s his friend. He urged me to see him.”

  Keelen sat back in the couch. She stared pensively at the thick, red book. Then she gazed at the apartment door. “Do me a favor. Can you tie some cans to the doorknob, and help me place some shot glasses on the floor under our windows?”

  “Why?”

  “We’re gonna go to USC tomorrow morning and if someone tries to come in here tonight for what’s in this box, we’ll hear them coming into our apartment.”

  Cindy flashed a brilliant smile and hugged Keelen. “This is what Raffi would have wanted. Thank you.”

  “Let’s just hope Logan lets me work a little later tomorrow, since I’m gonna be tied up with your silly quest.”

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Know Your Place

  A ragged Adam stood in Fisker’s doorway. His cheeks sagged below his jawline. He wore a brand-new gray suit Spencer had purchased for him earlier in the morning, as the other one stank like sunburnt road kill. However, the new suit did nothing to revitalize Adam’s once confident demeanor. The added weight was beginning to wear on Adam both physically and psychologically.

  Walking around had become quite a chore. Adam’s foot pain was unprecedented as the cartilage between his ankles’ joints splintered from the friction caused by his body’s overwhelming tonnage. His patience for games was dwindling. Pain tended to cut straight to the point. “Did you grant me more time?” he groaned.

  Fisker, who was on the phone, gave Adam a brief but annoyed glare. “Can you please hold?” Fisker said, as he covered the phone’s receiver while focusing his attention on Adam. “Have a seat, please. This won’t take long.”

  Adam glanced over his shoulder. He felt uneasy that he made it to Fisker’s office without much fanfare this time around. Jrue’s words about Uriel’s penchant for deceit consumed him.

  “Billions? Are you sure? Has the market gotten wind of this yet?” asked Fisker, who maintained strained eye contact with Adam. “It’s just a transfer right now? No news of a merger that I know of. Nothing on CNBC or the other business channels about some sort of huge acquisition by Marcus and Samuelson either. I called Gabriel at the SEC and he’s never seen anything like this either. Get a warrant. Find out who requested this transfer. We need to know if this is going overseas, nefariously. Contact Mark’s office, ASAP.” Fisker hung up the phone and briefly covered his face with both hands. He wiped the sweat that had collected on his forehead.

  “What was that?” Adam asked. “You look like you just woke up in Cerberus’s den.”

  “What happened to that thing?”

  “Hades had to put him down. Hip dysplasia.”

  “No wonder Hades wants fifteen percent of the harvest, he’s lonely.”

  “Seriously, though, what was that phone call all about?”

  Fisker rubbed his chin and pursed his thin lips. “I don’t know. We have one of your scions running around on Earth doing who knows what, Seraphs murdering humans, risking the Prophecy, and now this; the biggest and most powerful financial institution on the planet just liquidated billions of dollars to who knows where, all of this just days from the fulfillment.”

  Adam didn’t flinch. His mind was focused on the scion part of Fisker’s rant. “Was more time granted?”

  Fisker sighed empathically. “I couldn’t. There’s just too much at stake.”


  “I wish to speak with Israfel,” Adam said, holding back the escalation in his voice.

  Fisker’s eyes grew wide as he squirmed in his seat. “Israfel?” he asked, playing dumb. “Israfel is far, far from here. He’s out in the farthest reaches of Caeli, practicing his calling.”

  “Bullshit,” Adam snarled.

  “Must we go through this again?”

  “Right now, you’re flirting with the possibility of breaking the Concord by hunting down Theolodus...”

  “...again, Mr. Cagle,” Fisker interjected. “Wait, Theolodus...Theolodus…it all makes sense now, your brother, huh? You have personal connections, how interesting. Well, as you can tell your brother has the potential to disrupt the entire harvest; therefore, it is within reason that the Concord is being honored. Blood can absolutely be shed...”

  “...you don’t know that,” yelled Adam.

  “Well, we can’t take chances now, can we?”

  “I wish to speak to Israfel.”

  “The answer is no. Now please leave,” Fisker said dismissively, getting up from his desk. “I have to take care of the Marcus and Samuelson problem.”

  “Goddamnit, Fisker!” Adam stood up and shouted.

  Fisker pulled back his upper lip, exposing his tiny teeth and gumline. “You will not disrespect the Lord, you petulant has-been from a pathetic, defeated plane—know your place.”

  Adam’s new suit, which was already too snug for his portly frame, began tearing at its seams, as his body tensed with rage. Streaks of light emanated from the slivers of torn fabric, like an impromptu laser light show.

  The fabric from the back of Fisker’s suit began throbbing and pulsating like a Surinam toad. He hunched over his desk and barked at Adam, “Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come...”

  Adam interrupted with snide. “...Sing of him, the father of the gods! Appeal to the God of gods! When you thunder, O God of light, they tremble before you! All gods beneath you have heard your thunder...”