Blood Threads: The Star Seamstress Book One

by Noella Royce

  Blood Threads

  The Star Seamstress Book One

  Noella Royce

  Sixth Toe Press

  Contents

  Biography

  Also by Noella Royce

  Blood Threads

  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

  Epilogue

  Before You Go

  Biography

  Noella Royce has been writing romance casually for about a decade, but she came up with an idea about demons and psychics and decided to fling herself into the self-publishing world whole hog and with bells on. She loves mixing metaphors, having about ten different books in ten different genres going at any given time, sewing, reading manga, and annoying her cats and husband in equal measure.

  * * *

  If you'd like to keep up to date with Noella's latest releases and what she's up to, please check out her webpage at www.noellaroyce.com and sign up for her newsletter!

  Also by Noella Royce

  THE ANGEL CRUSADES

  Assassin's Soul

  An empath and an assassin are drawn together during a dangerous mission. There's a traitor and murderer among them, and all signs point to the assassin being the culprit.

  He's an enigma.

  Seductive, dominant, dismissive, distant... and that just makes her want him more.

  * * *

  Empath's Curse

  She's able to read everyone's mind – except for his.

  He's crazy hot, but he may just be crazy. He could also be immortal.

  Seeing him again feels like an incredibly sexy, stupid idea.

  * * *

  Betrayer's Knife

  He betrayed them all and broke her heart.

  Now he and his perfect smile are back, pulling her into the shadowy world of demons and angels that is New Chicago.

  Can she and those she loves survive her traitorous passion?

  BLOOD THREADS

  Copyright © 2018 Noella Royce

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Sixth Toe Publishing

  Baltimore, MD, United States

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.

  * * *

  Cover Art by Natasha Snow (www.natashasnow.com)

  Created with Vellum

  Blood Threads

  I’m a former cosplayer and personal assistant with no fighting skills to speak of, wearing a ball gown for a battle with a bunch of powerful mages who specialize in raising the undead.

  * * *

  My allies are vampires, witches, and shifters, and I'm hoping the lone wolf bloodsucker I've fallen for shows up to save the day.

  * * *

  How the hell did I get here?

  I've just moved to a northeastern college town looking to escape my explosive past in LA. I just want to be normal and anonymous.

  * * *

  But before I can even settle in I'm witnessing a creepy kidnapping by hooded figures and clashing with this hot dude, Adin, who sometimes wears Victorian clothing without irony. Adin scares the bejeesus out of everyone but keeps showing up in my general vicinity, mostly at night. Yes, it's great when he saves my butt from more of those hooded weirdos, and he's stupidly attractive and kissable, but I'd really like to know what's going on.

  * * *

  And when my coworkers talk about 'daywalkers', 'shifters', and something about 'magic sewing' I just think they're nuts. Except, wait, I seem to have the ability to create sentient clothes that repels magic. Everyone wants a piece of me, and I don't even know what I am.

  * * *

  Why did I leave my lucrative cosplay and social media life behind? I can't even get a cup of tea in this place without getting threatened by witches.

  * * *

  Maybe I should have stayed in LA. At this rate, Maywen's going to kill me.

  * * *

  Blood Threads is a 90k paranormal romance and urban fantasy and the first in a three book series. Includes vampires, witches, necromancers, shifters, and talking bodies of water. Steamy sexual situations, no cheating and a healthy dose of humor.

  1

  The last thing I expected to see at 2 a.m. in a sleepy northeastern college town was a super-buff guy wearing a perfectly tailored, crimson red velvet Victorian outfit making out with a hot redhead wearing a tight and very revealing sparkly red dress.

  "Oh my," I said under my breath, feeling my face heat up. I looked around the quad I was walking through to see if there were any other audience members, but me and the neckers were alone. They probably had no idea I was there, as they were bathed in the light of a streetlight and I was in the shadows of a series of looming oak trees. The man was leaning back against the lamp, and the woman was pressed against him and clinging to his coat.

  I'm not saying I was shocked; no, I certainly wasn't that—I'm from LA, and attractive people in weird clothes publically sexing up stupidly pretty, mostly naked partners is not exactly a rarity in the City of Angels. But the Maywen I'd experienced in the scant week I'd lived there had been sleepy and charming, and all the weirdness I'd experienced so far was due to the squirrel-like natures of college kids.

  The scene really was next-level, and I couldn't put my finger on why. Maybe it was the five shots of tequila I drank with my charming fellow bartender to celebrate my first night on the job that had me all worked up, but I was pretty sure it was how good the two of them looked.

  The way his head bowed over her neck created the illusion that he was biting her, although I knew he was most likely just indulging in some nibbles. Regardless of what was going on, there was something magical about them.

  Or, well, there was something magical about him, specifically. I'm sure the woman's face was just as beautiful as her backside and legs, but it was him and his wonderful outfit that really drew my attention. Maybe he was some sort of historical society member, and had just left a meeting with like-minded sartorialists.

  Even in the faint light of the outdoor lamps, I could tell the embroidered detail on the cuffs was exquisite, and the intricately-carved buttons glimmered as if made from real silver. This amazing raiment was paired with a white shirt and tight leather pants, and despite the darkness, I had to admire the curve of a muscular thigh.

  I wished I could admire more, and I almost gave myself away with a giggle at the thought of asking the woman to move so I could get a better view of her partner.

  As it was, I just had to extrapolate from the bits and pieces of him that were visible. That cheekbone and that ear were quite nice on
their own—I like dude ears, don't judge me—and the thick black hair that framed his features made him nothing less than a romance novel cover.

  His partner was making breathy little noises of pleasure, and it sorta turned me on. I didn't want to think about how long it'd been since I'd gotten any. Also, it'd be nice to get a better look at that coat. Man, giving up cosplaying and costuming had been harder than I thought it'd be, and that outfit was making me thirsty to create something of my own. Sadly, I was broke, so all I could do was lust after other peoples' outfits.

  The alcohol had apparently made me rude and thoughtless, for as I ruminated on the past and my very uncertain, funds-free future, the man in the beautiful outfit had looked up from the woman's neck and was staring straight at me.

  I started in surprise and narrowed my eyes at him. I couldn't be sure, as it was dark, but were his pupils... red? My god, I think they really were bright crimson; they practically glowed.

  I grinned at him, impressed with his dedication to whatever character or look he was going for. I myself hated wearing colored contacts since they made my eyes water. Still, he was pulling them off and then some, and he had a hardcore Lestat vibe going on.

  My expectation was that he'd smile back, since most people who had the cojones to wander around in outfits like that in public, even at two in the morning, were gluttons for positive attention.

  Instead, he continued to stare. He wasn't blinking.

  Now uneasy, something in my gut told me that perhaps this situation wasn't quite what it seemed. There was something wolfish about him, and now I worried about the woman. Was she drunk? Should I help her?

  Then I remembered the noises she was making and changed my mind. If she was high on anything, it was him, and I should really stop interrupting her fun.

  I finally turned away, but it was like I could feel his eyes still on me.

  "Have fun, kids!" I said over my shoulder, and was pleased and relieved to hear the woman's laughter in response. Good; if she was able to take a joke, she probably wasn't being taken advantage of.

  I reached the end of the campus proper and was soon in a residential neighborhood filled with off-campus housing for students. It was a Thursday in early autumn, classes had started, and the back-to-school celebrations had left several front yards trashed and littered with plastic cups and cans.

  Why the hell did I live in this student hell?

  Oh yeah, I couldn't afford anything better within walking distance of my new jobs, and I really didn't want to depend on my fifteen-year-old car since it was barely held together by duct tape and a prayer.

  I idly pulled at a tree branch as I walked by. What a stunning autumn night it was. Why weren't more students outside, taking advantage of the weather and how early in the semester it was? For the two years I was at college in California, students would be up at all hours of the night, hanging out, having somewhat deep conversations, and giving the impression they knew everything.

  Little did we know what life had in store.

  My mind drifted back to the velvet, red-eyed hottie, and I sighed in envy for his ginger playmate. Not that I wasn't disappointed by most of the tasty-looking men I made out with in LA back when I was a fashion plate—they turned out to be attractive duds—but there was a certain pleasure in just admiring the divine symmetry of a perfect set of shoulders

  I found myself passing Greek Row, where the larger of the sorority and fraternity houses were, and I wrinkled my nose at how these grand old dwellings were festooned with crappy signs in celebration of pledge week. Oh, the things those buildings had seen through the years; if they could talk, they'd probably just start sobbing inconsolably instead.

  "Let me go!"

  I turned, startled, and saw someone struggling with a group of people. The shouting was coming from a young man with spiky blond hair and wearing an artfully torn T-shirt, but it wasn't his outfit I was surprised by. The people grabbing him were wearing long, dark, hooded robes, and the sight would have been amusing if it wasn't also creepy. What was this, some stupid fraternity bullshit?

  "Who the hell are you?" The young man tried to punch one of his attackers, but another hood grabbed his arm and pressed it behind his back. "What the hell! What are you doing?"

  He sounded genuinely terrified and angry, and I lost confidence in my frat theory. They wouldn't let things get this violent and nonconsensual, would they?

  "Help, please!" the kid shouted, and I swore he was talking to me. He twisted, both his arms now trapped. The terror in those words triggered the crazy, impulsive part of my personality and sliced through the drunkenness, and I went running across the street, wielding my handbag like a weapon.

  "Get the hell away from him!" I yelled, and brought my bag down on the head of the shortest hooded weirdo.

  "Fuck!" a woman's voice swore, and she turned and punched me in the stomach. Surprised, I fell to my knees and tried to catch my breath and winced at the pain that had exploded in my gut. I'd never been punched before, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.

  "Come on; get him out of here."

  I scrambled up, but they'd wrapped fabric over the boy's eyes and mouth and were ignoring his muffled shouts as they dragged him away towards the street corner.

  My plan was to follow them, but one of the figures stayed behind and moved towards me. The cowl was deep, and I couldn't see his face. "Don't worry, miss," he said in a deep, soothing voice. "We're his fraternity brothers. It's just a prank."

  "He didn't react like it's a prank," I countered. "He seemed very scared of you. Also, since when did fraternities have women?"

  "We're a professional frat, and yeah, he's terrified. Isn't it great?" The little bastard was laughing at me, like there was some private joke I wasn't privy to. "They never know we're coming. It's more fun that way."

  "Your sense of fun seems pretty fucked up." I was pretty sure I didn't believe him, but by then the young man and his captors had disappeared. Fuck.

  "Sorry to bother you, miss. Do have a good night." His tone was annoyingly smug, and he turned and walked off after his buddies.

  There was a feeling again, that something wasn't right here, similar to the feeling I'd gotten from the necking couple.

  Screw it, I was calling the police, and they could confirm it was just another prank if they wanted to. I refused to feel guilty for weeks because some costumed douchenozzle insisted snatching people off the street was just harmless shenanigans.

  I heard a noise behind me as I pulled out my phone and I whirled, terrified that one of those freaky hooded jerks was now sneaking up on me.

  What I saw instead was the man in the velvet jacket, on the other end of the block.

  He stood there, watching me, and I felt that tingly sense again, the one that confused me and had me wondering if I was reacting to him or his amazing outfit. Here, in the early fall night, it seemed to glow, like it was something unusual and not of this world.

  We stared at each other, and then the ground rumbled and the street lights blinked. I looked around in shock. "What the—"

  When I turned back to the stranger, he was a flash of red turning the corner.

  Taking a deep breath, I dialed 911 and wondered what the hell I'd gotten into by moving to Maywen.

  2

  I poked at my breakfast yogurt, finding it inadequate fare after a night spent drinking, getting punched, and then being haunted by vivid dreams of dark hallways and starry skies. Then there was the 911 call, the experience of which had me still fuming.

  I looked up at my roommate and landlord. "Breanna, you're originally from Maywen, right?"

  She tilted her head at me, her soft blonde hair glowing in the morning sunlight. She had it cut into a pleasing bob that framed her lovely bone structure perfectly. I would kill to have hair like that—it must be so manageable, compared to my dark, easily tangled waves. "More or less, yes. Why?"

  "Are the police here any good?" I was trying to be diplomatic. After my encounter with the
m, I was pretty convinced they were the worst.

  I'd called them as I walked home, and the woman who answered the phone and heard my tale of the young man and his attackers had sounded bored and disbelieving.

  She'd interrupted me halfway through. "Ma'am, are you new here?"

  I'd bristled at the question, but couldn't deny I was.

  "Thought so." She sounded very self-satisfied. "Look, ma'am, this is a busy college town, and those kids do lots of weird things during pledge week. Did you know we have no less than ten secret societies in town?"

  No, I did not, but that seemed rather excessive. "Really? And they're separate from the fraternities?"

  She'd snorted with lazy contempt. "Of course they are. They're violent little idiots, but their activity is rarely illegal. I'm sure that young man is now happily ensconced in a little group of like-minded, equally rich friends, and they're all laughing about the good scare they gave him. I wouldn't worry, but we appreciate you keeping an eye on the community." This last was said with dripping sarcasm and my hand had tightened on my phone in rage.

  "Okay, sure, but can't you—" She hung up.

  What an asshole.

  So now it was nine in the morning, I'd barely slept, and was faced with my brand-new, gorgeous roommate, smiling at me like a confused angel. I could figure her answer before she even started talking.