The 3-Book King’s Blood Vampire Saga

by P. J. Day

  The vision of Augustus Fisker, the men, and Thalia on the floor of the box, clearly suffering and in anguish, was real, but Cindy knew this was happening in her mind. Her senses were active, though. She could touch the floor, smell the burn coming from the fusers of the old Xerox machine in the office, and hear the faint gurgling of Thalia’s cough behind the glass.

  She felt compelled to vocalize, but the flesh underneath her tongue was dry. Her vocal cords felt anesthetized. But she forced words from her mouth, unintelligible, but in her mind, words, nonetheless. “Thalia, I’m here...I’m here with love,” she intoned.

  Fisker and the men didn’t hear Cindy, but Thalia stopped her heavy, intermittent breaths and slowly lifted her head. The skin on her forehead was milky white. Her eyebrows angled optimally with divine cosmetic geometry, and her eyes, hypnotically dark, as if staring into a black chasm filled with mysterious grandeur, penetrated Cindy deeply. Thalia’s thick, scarlet lips did not move, as her visage was enough to communicate with the mortal who had somehow stumbled upon her presence.

  “Are you here for a blessing?” the maternal voice echoed, weakly.

  Cindy felt the ground underneath her shake. She stood up and faced Thalia, as the office began to dissolve. A smoke-filled abysm took its place. She and Thalia stood on a thin slab of bedrock surrounded by perpetual darkness: their prison. Cindy quivered and stood stone-faced, knowing full well that she was now in the presence of a goddess.

  Chapter Twenty-nine:

  Gratitude

  “My neck looks like it has a neck,” Adam said, while he struggled to button the top of his shirt. “Just look at this bulge. It looks like I have some sort of goiter.”

  “There’s nothing else we can do,” Spencer added, while sitting on one of the rusted stools in the locker room of the Grand Olympic Hall. Adam just finished directing where to place Estil Magazine’s promotional material, such as banners, streamers, and signs.

  “The photographers...they’re gonna be salivating.” Adam managed to pull the bulge up through the collar. He cinched his necktie around the collar of the shirt. Spencer shook his head, as the knot resembled a black silk diaper.

  “Here, let me get that for you,” said Spencer. He stood from the stool, approached Adam, and adjusted the necktie with great care and precision. “Now, how’s that look?”

  Adam turned toward the mirror. He let out a deep breath. “I can’t wait for this to be over.”

  “You mean the fight?”

  Adam turned around and looked at Spencer. “Yeah, the fight.” He paused. “Spence, I need you to go home now. Spend the next few nights with your family.”

  “Family is in Ohio, but a couple of days relaxing with Ajax doesn’t sound too bad—Ajax is my cat, if you didn’t already know.”

  “I knew that,” Adam smiled. “Fly to your family. Take it out of your expense account. I won’t care,” he said, placing his hands on the sides of Spencer’s shoulders.

  Spencer felt strange. He hadn’t taken a day off since starting with Estil, or even asked for one, yet here was the hardest working editor in all the land insisting his staff take a vacation.

  “Are you going to lay us off or something? Are you dying, with this weight gain and all?”

  “Nope,” Adam said, peering straight into Spencer’s brown eyes. “I want you to do one thing while you’re gone, and that is to think about all the good you’ve done in your life. Call everyone you love and tell them how much you love them. But make sure you keep a mental list of all the good you’ve done in your life; you never know if that’s going to come in handy in the next few days.”

  “How come you’ve been sounding as if the end of the world is approaching or something?”

  Adam put on his size 74 blazer that seemed as large as a circus tent and adjusted his belt, whose tightness was somehow making his perpetual heartburn worse. “We’ve had our run, don’t you think?”

  “Wow, why such a fatalist?”

  “Humanity had a chance to change. Think about it, Spencer. We’ve gone all out with our stories of selfishness, shallowness, fluff, and glorification of the inane to the point of absurdity. We pounded stupidity over their heads and yet, they kept eating it all up like pigs at the trough. What else could I have done?”

  “I don’t know, maybe start focusing on the good of mankind...”

  “...in a fashion magazine? Really? It wasn’t up to me to make humans recognize their shameful ways, my friend. Now, look at them. It takes some insane, last-minute revelations of their own corruption for 30 percent of them to take to the streets, but it’s too late, Spencer. Go home now. Don’t look back.”

  Even though Adam’s words were borderline crazy, his inflection was eerily sincere. Spencer swallowed hard and bounced up and down with slight anxiety. “You really think something is going to happen?”

  “Look around you. Something big is gonna happen. I’m letting you know because you’ve been my best employee. You’re a good guy and I want what’s best for you.”

  “You’re freaking me out, Adam. You sound so sure.”

  As soon as Adam made it a point to peer into his assistant’s eyes, his eyeballs shot out small bursts of flame. Spencer took a step a back, startled at Adam’s sudden freakish display of power. “How’d you do that?”

  “Go...” said Adam, with a gentle smile.

  Spencer didn’t hesitate. With his heart racing at the speed of a Maglev, he backpedaled and waved at Adam with a quivering hand, but also with sorrowful eyes. Ones that longed for Adam’s direction, and ones that still sparked with admiration for a mentor. A mentor that was quite literally larger than life.

  “Thank you,” said Spencer, before exiting the locker.

  Adam nodded. Tracy stood at the locker’s doorway, as Spencer sped away.

  “Can I come in?” she asked

  “I’m decent,” Adam said.

  “Why was he in such a hurry?” she asked, walking into the musty locker room.

  “He couldn’t wait to see his family.”

  “I never thought Spencer was a family man.”

  “Well, nothing like revolution in the air to make someone change their perspective on things.”

  “Mr. Cagle, according to the promoters, they’re expecting half the projected attendance for tonight’s fight. Things are getting dicey out there, with the protests increasing in attendance.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Things must continue as planned. I need your eyes and ears to be ready. This is going to be the best article you’ll ever write, you got me?”

  Tracy nodded. “On another note, Mr. Cagle, I still haven’t received confirmation that Logan Drake is gonna make it.”

  “You met his girlfriend, right?”

  “Yeah, I gave her his ticket.”

  “Believe me, if she’s at the fight, and Logan Drake is who I think he is, he’ll be here.”

  Adam lumbered away from Tracy for a moment and readied himself in the mirror one last time before exiting the locker room. He was confident that his brother would make an appearance at the fight. “I’m ready, my lord,” he said to himself. “I’m prepared to leave this wretched plane and have humanity fend for itself, as prophesied.”

  Tracy stood behind Adam, her face contorted with mild confusion. “Everything all right?”

  Adam turned his head. “Remember, you’re seated in the press box. In case of an earthquake, make sure the table you choose to go under is the sturdiest table in the entire arena.”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “We’re in L.A. where earthquakes happen all the time, and this auditorium is older than dirt.”

  Chapter Thirty:

  The Fight

  Why the U.S. Olympic Committee chose the Grand Olympic Hall—a dreary, dilapidated relic of L.A.’s sport’s past—was a mystery to those who followed boxing closely. Many analysts felt it was boxing’s desperate attempt for nostalgic appeal, which its main competitor, mixed martial arts, lacked. However, f
or Matthew Nix, there was nothing romantic or nostalgic about doing sit-ups on an old splintered, squeaky, locker room floor right before his fight, which made the skin on his back feel like it was teased with the dull edges of razor blades.

  “Don’t do too many now. Save some of that stamina for Cesar,” said Jacob Jacobs, who met Matt on the ground, crouched on one knee, spittle jettisoning from his weathered and curly lips. “We just want to warm up that core.”

  Matt’s opponent, Cesar Torres, was a fast-talking wunderkind from San Antonio, whose jabs were as fast as his mouth. Although Matt was the heavy favorite, he knew he couldn’t take Cesar’s quickness for granted, but dismissing Cesar’s baiting sound bites was an entirely different story.

  Keelen stood in the shadows outside the locker room as Matt finished his last sit-up. Jacob turned his head and noticed her standing under the dim hall light.

  “All right, Matt, I think that’s enough. You’ve got a visitor.” Jacob picked up Matt’s sweat towel from the floor and walked toward the trainer’s room to gather the items for the fight kit. “He’s all yours,” he said, making brief eye contact with Keelen, as she drifted into the room, wearing jeans and a form-fitting beige leather jacket, fashionably zipped up to her neck.

  Jacob disappeared through the adjacent doorway.

  With nervousness wrinkling her face, Keelen walked up to Matt, who sat up on the floor with his arms on his knees, and asked, “You ready?”

  Matt took a deep breath and stretched his arm, by twisting it behind his head. “I trained seven days a week for half a year for this fight.” He stood up, picked up the mouth guard from the stool next to him, and mumbled, “I’m ready.”

  “You take care of yourself in that ring,” Keelen said. “I saw some of Cesar’s highlights on YouTube...he can hit.”

  Matt took out his mouth guard and stretched his neck. He placed both his arms out on Keelen’s shoulders. “I’ve got 10 pounds on this guy easily. My reach is also about half-inch longer than his. As long as I protect my jaw, I’m golden.”

  “Overconfidence isn’t a good trait to have, you know.”

  Matt threw one of his arms around Keelen’s waist, and jerked her toward his chest. “I’m not overconfident, I just know I’ve got Lady Luck on my side, and she’s gonna be ringside,” he said, his handsome nose an inch away from hers.

  Not feeling it, she softly pushed off Matt’s chest.

  “What’s wrong—you still mad?” he asked.

  Keelen looked downward. There was a lot going through her mind, and yes, she was still somewhat cold to Matt, who thought the relationship was back on the golden road to happily-ever-after. “I’m just not all there,” she said. “How about you just focus on the fight and don’t worry about me, okay?”

  “Sweetie, you’re fine. I’m fine...we’re all fine. You’re gonna have fun in the front row with Cindy. Estil Magazine has pulled out all the stops for this fight. The after-party is gonna have an open bar...it’s going to be incredible. You’ll be hanging out with the winner. Imagine being seen alongside me; it’ll help with your acting career, too.”

  Keelen backpedaled. “It’s not that I’m not excited for you, but Cindy’s missing. Her phone’s been off since yesterday. I’ve left a dozen messages. I feel like I’m barely here. I’m constantly thinking about her whereabouts.”

  Matt tilted his head back and grunted softly. “Fine, come here...”

  Indifferent, Keelen stood still with her arms crossed, staring at the grimy floorboards at her feet. Matt embraced her by placing his large hand on the back of her head and tried to comfort her. “We’ll look for Cindy after the fight,” he spoke softly. “You know how she is. She’s caught up in her research. She’s gonna turn up.”

  Keelen nodded her head, which was snuggled against Matt’s chest.

  “I’ll help, if my cranium isn’t ringing after the fight...” he joked.

  Jacob walked into the locker room, with a white smock, and wearing latex gloves. The fight kit in hand. “All right, lovebirds, we need to get going.”

  Matt sloped his forehead downward, his eyes bridging with Keelen’s. “Can I have a kiss?”

  Keelen tiptoed and connected with Matt’s soft lips. She closed her eyes as a collection of thoughts raced through her mind. They weren’t romantic in nature, just dreadful and shuddersome thoughts, while Matt’s were full of glory and strategy.

  Jacob turned toward Keelen, as he untied the knots on the back of Matt’s protective headgear. “I need the next fifteen minutes to make sure Matty boy here has his head on straight. We don’t need your pretty little self messing up his concentration.”

  “Good luck. Take care of him, all right?” Keelen said to Jacob. She then turned around, and exited the locker, walking the long, dimly lit hallway that led to the ground floor of the arena.

  She walked past the white-jacketed security guards who stood watch over the four exits at ground level. The arena was still buzzing despite the scattering of empty seats. Estil’s logo was everywhere. From the ring’s skirt, to the floor in the ring, high above in the rafters, and on the plastic cups the spectators had in their hands.

  As soon as Keelen approached the ring, she was immediately greeted by an usher who escorted her to the rows of seats ringside. Her seat was in a row behind the one Estil had sponsored for all of Adam’s candidates.

  “Thank you,” she said to the usher, as she scooted through the row of knees.

  Sitting by the aisle was the debonair Hanz Ratliff, wearing his custom-made L.A.P.D. uniform from Hugo Boss. His chrome buttons, velveteen trim, and Italian leather holster, made the handsome policeman, the apple of a 1930s fascist fashionista’s eye. Next to him was Bobby Smith, sporting his oversized black denim jacket and matching jeans, his can of spray paint missing, but his dead eye displayed front and center, making the producers in charge of broadcasting the fight nervously request their cameramen avoid focusing on the young man’s roughened and street-corrupted visage. Next to Bobby was an empty chair with a sign on its back. It was reserved for Logan Drake. Keelen glanced at it and sighed.

  As Keelen settled into her seat, a young blonde, wearing a short black skirt, approached from behind, her bulbous cleavage greeting her face. “Do you want anything to drink?” asked the cocktail girl.

  “Diet Coke?”

  “Is Diet Pepsi fine?”

  “I guess.” Keelen smiled.

  High in the nosebleed seats, Adam Cagle sat next to a concrete pillar stained with the adhesive and colorful strips of old posters that spanned decades. Parts of his thighs spilled over to the chairs next to him, his large egg-sized fingers gripped a set of binoculars. Through his smartphone, he radioed Tracy using a direct talk app, who was sitting in one of the press boxes. “How you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “The walls in here are stained with nicotine, eww.”

  “Yeah, this place is a dump. You see any sturdy tables around you?”

  Tracy glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah, there’s one behind me. It looks quite firm—why are you so obsessed about the possibility of an earthquake?”

  “I don’t know, I had a nightmare about one a few nights ago, I guess. Also, this building is older than anything in the entire city,” Adam said while cleaning the lens of the binoculars with a handkerchief. “You’re my eyes and ears, remember that, Tracy. I want you to observe the minutia of an event such as this. I want to see what you’re made of when you write the article. You got heart and courage, right?”

  “Yeah, but this is just an amateur boxing match, not a war zone.”

  “Would you cover a warzone if you could?” asked Adam.

  “Sure,” Tracy said, while her eyes focused on Keelen Grant ringside. “Hey, she’s here.”

  “Who?” asked Adam.

  “Logan Drake’s girl.”

  “Is Logan with her?”

  “Nope, seat is still empty.”

  “Believe me, he’ll show up, if he’s my man. Once the main eve
n gets going, he’ll show up,” Adam said, lathering the black finish of the binoculars with the sweat of his palms.

  Keelen thanked the girl for her Diet Pepsi. The waitress lingered for a tip. Feeling the perturbed energy of the waitress behind her, Keelen looked over her shoulder and snagged a quarter from her jeans and placed it on the waitress’s metal tray. The waitress gave Keelen a cold stare.

  “It’s all I got,” Keelen explained, with a submissive smirk.

  Surprised by the ringside frugality, the waitress huffed and walked away. Soon thereafter, the lights in the arena started to dim.

  The crowd roared as the spotlight centered on Matt, who wore his satin royal-blue robe. He kissed his gloves and threw them up in the air, further intensifying the feverish pitch from the thousands who showed up to support the charismatic, homegrown pugilist. Matt sashayed lightly toward the ring. The Olympic committee frowned upon grandstanding, so Matt’s swagger was subdued, but showy enough for all his future sponsors that were in attendance.

  “Go, Matt!” Keelen cheered, raising her fists in the air.

  Adam, squeezed into the cheap seats, an entire section to himself, stood up and clapped for Matthew Nix. “Such a beautiful man,” he said out loud. “Wouldn’t surprise me if you were my brother. I hope if you are, you show your hand when the entire arena is in rubble...”

  Across the 10 freeway, across the neighborhoods filled with Craftsman and Victorian homes long forgotten, and beyond the bodegas and muffler shops, Logan sat in his hotel room in his favorite black hoodie, typing his yet-to-be-released Sunset Edict on his laptop. Matt’s qualifying fight played on the flatscreen TV in the background. He leaned back in his chair, turning his head toward the television. “Kick his ass, Matt,” he said, before turning his attention back to his work.