Blood Leverage (Bloodstone Chronicles Book 1)

by J S Hazzard

  Having created a clear path, Ian finally let me take the wheel on the trip back to his place. With all potential obstacles having been removed steering shouldn’t have been a problem, but it was dark and the curves of the new path were unfamiliar.

  My return trip to Ian’s took two hours and my second trip to the vault took an hour and a half. Finally, our last drive back to Ian’s took only an hour and fifteen minutes and we all agreed my driving skills would be sufficient to get me home after the sun rose.

  After I successfully parked without killing anyone—not a huge accomplishment when your passengers are immortal—Keanu surprised me with a hug goodbye and told me he’d see me next week. With a wave, he loped off to the buried trapdoor.

  Ian stayed in the truck until the sun began to breach the horizon.

  “Follow the path and you’ll be fine,” he said. “The gauge for the solar panel is down to a quarter full, but it’ll get you home. It’ll need sun before your trip back.” He tapped a dial on the instrument panel and I made a mental note before he continued.

  “Also, everything you requested for your friend is bundled in the back of the truck. I had to scuff a few things to age them, but they should all serve their purpose.”

  Having forgotten, I smiled gratefully. “Thank you for that. We can discuss my paying you for everything when I come back.”

  Ian shrugged uncomfortably and slid down from the truck. Instead of a hug he told me to avoid crashing—which spoke volumes of his confidence in me. Then he ducked into the shade of the trees as I drove slowly out of the lot.

  My actual drive home was uneventful, but my mind countered the calm by recalling every upsetting thought it could. It had plenty to choose from.

  Much of the drive was spent on Nicky: whether he was alive, whether he was suffering, what I’d tell Luigi if the worst had happened, and the most agonizing thought of all—whether Nicky would be safe if I’d done something differently. Insisted we go to bed earlier or stayed in the living room with him. Something. Anything.

  Whatever the answer, it was a question I’d ask for the rest of my life.

  After my heart had wrung those topics dry I considered my mother and the information she’d withheld. I didn’t know whether to confront her or leave things as they stood. She’d deliberately kept everything private but I could only guess at her reasons. Did she think I couldn’t be trusted?

  For that matter, it made me wonder about Gigi. What did he know about mother’s money? Had my introduction to blood patronage been solely for his convenience and commission?

  I also thought about vampires. I thought about Eggplant’s deadly grace and Keanu’s rigid devotion. And I thought about Ian, who’d spared my life and acted like my friend. Sort of. A bossy and somewhat arrogant friend, but a friend nonetheless.

  And finally, there was Ms. Parkes. I don’t know why I was measuring myself against her, but everything about her made me feel inferior. Then again, living with my mother I ought to be used to that by now.

  Despite everything crowding my brain, or possibly because of it, I made it home in an hour. Even with my lousy mood, I’ll admit to a twinge of pride after I’d successfully locked the truck in the vault’s unloading bay without having been seen.

  My mental respite was short lived.

  At barely eight in the morning the heat was already scorching, and the walk home was brutal. Between Nicky’s and my belongings (and Amy’s damn turkey roaster) I was dripping with sweat by the time I made it home, which at least gave me a reason to avoid conversation in the main courtyard.

  The few times I was approached I realized people were only interested in gossiping about my banishment petition, which I’d miraculously managed to forget in light of the more recent catastrophes.

  My head was ready to explode by the time I made it home, and as soon as I shut the door I dropped everything on the floor. My sweaty clothes followed seconds later and I bulleted into the shower. After I’d dried my hair and carefully stashed Nicky’s belongings out of sight, I was too drained to worry. I was too drained for anything but a nap.

  Unfortunately, sleeping in the middle of the day often messed with my head and today was no exception. My dreams were only vague memories, but my puffy face and damp pillowcase led me to believe my various dilemmas had featured prominently. As a minor plus, there’d been no kittens.

  In an effort to clear my head, I stuck my face beneath the faucet before staggering into the kitchen in search of food. The offerings in my fridge paled next to the assortment of pie at Ian’s, but my scrambled eggs and toast tasted surprisingly simple and good—like home. After washing the pan, I checked my front door for a message and found nothing, which surprised me.

  I’d been grateful for my reprieve from Amy earlier, but now I began to worry. We rarely went a day without seeing one another and the odds that she wouldn’t be anxious to see me—particularly when expecting presents—were slim.

  Then I laughed. I was stuck in adrenaline mode, constantly braced for disaster. If something had happened to Amy, I’d already know. Jenny or Robert would probably have arm wrestled for the joy of telling me first.

  More likely, Amy was stuck with her mother and hadn’t heard I was home yet. Or maybe she simply assumed I’d stop by the first chance I got, which meant I should drag my butt over there before she decided I was avoiding her.

  I mentally censored my story as I gathered everything I’d brought back. My adaption could feature my first day accurately, minus the functioning utilities, but I no longer wanted to discuss the night I’d spent with Nicky. Under the circumstances, I’d probably break down and sob if I tried. On the plus side, the information I’d learned about my mother could keep Amy occupied for hours and as far as I was concerned it was fair game.

  Rehearsing my conversational outline, I nested Amy’s loot into her roasting pan and ran back upstairs to get dressed. Tired of grubby jeans and sweatshirts, I pulled on a sleeveless aqua tunic sweater Amy had knit and cinched it with a narrow leather belt over a black pair of trousers Ms. B. had retailored. I was locking up when I realized I’d neglected to bring home any ‘scavenged’ items for myself.

  “Damn it!” The words burst out of me, causing two small girls to giggle as they hurried past and I murmured a weak apology that only made them giggle more.

  As the girls turned the corner, I shifted the weight of Amy’s treasures against my hip and began stomping down the hall, furious at having neglected something crucial. When I gave Amy her spoils she was certain to ask what I’d found for myself, and I had nothing to say. It would’ve been simple to borrow some clothes or some books.

  A solution came to me and my footsteps resumed their normal volume. If Amy asked, I’d say I brought back a pile of books and had stored them in the vault.

  With one problem solved, I took a deep breath in an attempt to relax. Amy had no reason to be suspicious if I remembered the basics of my story: Nicky and I had visited a few abandoned homes, and then he’d dropped me off this morning. Short and simple, I warned myself as I knocked.

  As it happened, after all my worry, Amy had no interest in discussing my weekend. After expressing her appreciation for her new toys—which she barely glanced at—she changed the subject to my upcoming hearing, tugging me into the living room.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I let myself in and brought your banishment paperwork back here. I’ve been studying it while you were gone.”

  “My banishment paperwork? How’d you even know I had it?” I thought back to the morning of my departure, certain I hadn’t mentioned it.

  Amy shrugged. “I saw it in your living room the morning you left and recognized it from my mom’s hearing. I’ve been planning your defense arguments from the moment I heard about the petition, but I didn’t want to put a damper on your trip. I went back later and borrowed the paperwork to start researching.”

  Touched (and rather impressed), I nodded. “I didn’t have a chance to review it before I left. How do t
hings compare to your old square?”

  She smiled stiffly. “Well,” she pulled a document from the pile on the table, “your procedure will be much shorter than my mother’s. The only two people slated to speak are you and Robert. He’ll list his grievances to make an argument for your banishment, and then you have a chance to refute his argument before the vote.”

  “That’s it?” The hearings I’d witnessed had been more complicated.

  Amy flicked a disdainful finger at the papers. “Given the pitiful charges against you, the petition isn’t very complex. My mother’s hearing involved statements from the people she’d attacked, the people who’d witnessed the attacks and several neighbors.”

  “Why the neighbors?” I didn’t understand.

  “Character witnesses,” she said crisply. “Both good and bad. Each side can call up to three people to speak about the character of the person being petitioned.”

  Embarrassing as it was, I wasn’t sure I had three people who would stand and defend my character. Amy would, and Beverly, but I couldn’t think of a third. Wait, Barb! She’d help me, if for no other reason than she’d love being the center of attention.

  “How do I get these people permission to speak? Do I present them at the hearing or do I need to inform the council first?”

  “You won’t be having character witnesses,” Amy said firmly.

  “I won’t? Why not? Don’t I want all the help I can get?”

  Amy shook her head. “No. My mother had people speak on her behalf because she did need all the help she could get. She’d attacked people in public. You, on the other hand, are sometimes late after educating people in half a dozen different squares, and behave rudely to a man who’s hated you since before you were born.”

  She smiled triumphantly. “With these charges, you don’t need to defend your character. All you’d be doing is giving people more ammunition. Your refusal to let others defend you will not only look noble, it will make Robert’s accusations look even pettier than they are.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought,” I said doubtfully, unsure if Amy had the right perspective. Then again, she’d been through this before and I hadn’t. She’d also read the paperwork I’d barely glanced at.

  “Damn right I have!” She picked the papers up and shuffled them into a neat pile. “We’ll focus on three different points, the first being an attack on the petition itself. The accusations against you are downright warm and fuzzy compared to petitions your square has heard before. Previous petitions have involved rape and assault and repeated theft, so we’ll argue it should be dismissed for lack of merit.

  “Second,” she continued before I could respond, “you are a productive member of this community. You are not only productive, you are important. As a teacher, you perform a service offered by only one other person here, your mother. If we lost you, we’d lose both of you, and that brings me to my final point.”

  “Which is what?” I hung on her words, impressed. Though I’d never doubted Amy’s intelligence, this was an entirely new side of her. I’d never seen her so fierce about anything other than protecting her mother.

  “The bottom line is that this petition isn’t an attack on you. It’s an attack on your mother, made when she isn’t here to defend herself. Everyone knows your mom would follow you anywhere. The purpose of this kangaroo court is to get rid of her, not you.”

  Determination surged through me. “No one is going anywhere. To hell with Robert, let’s sit down and figure this out.”

  PART TWO

  From the desk of

  Lawrence Nickleby, CEO, Immortal Media

  October 20, 2359

  Dear Eleanor,

  Happy Holidays in advance from everyone here at Immortal Media! We’re all in the jolliest of moods here, largely thanks to you.

  I am thrilled to inform you that in addition to the currently available English and Spanish versions of your book, its translations into Russian, French, Indian, Mandarin and Cantonese are almost complete. We’re looking at your international debut in a matter of weeks.

  Your book continues to sell out around the country and you’re on all the “must have” lists for holiday shopping, which brings me to a new and rather sticky subject…

  I am now in receipt of no fewer than seven letters from Ms. Charlene Tompkins, the human President of the Frontier Bank of Niagara, who is nowhere near as jolly as I am this fine holiday season and claims you’ve been avoiding updating your financial arrangements.

  At the risk of becoming repetitive, Ms. Tompkins is correct in that, even with your new trust in Aurora’s name, your accounts are all in excess of the five million dollar VDIC insurance limit. And I cannot in good faith continue to make deposits into uninsured accounts.

  Eleanor, my most treasured of authors, please don’t give me trouble on this. I’m aware that our monetary arrangements are of little concern to you and are largely unwelcome, but you need to accept the following reality:

  Whether you like it or not, your money will not go away simply because you refuse to acknowledge it. I have enclosed a list of possible investments – everything from educational opportunities for rural children to the ongoing development and installation of tidal power plants. If you’re not interested in the money itself, I suggest you find a project that interests you and throw the money at that. You could do great things.

  Furthermore, I am aware you possess a large book collection and that you value the knowledge of humanity’s past. Knowing this, I am compelled to point out that you’re in a unique position to help preserve it.

  I suggest you utilize some of your funds to house your growing collection indefinitely. Although your location would make construction of an ‘artistic’ building difficult, the inner storage systems could be of museum quality. I took the liberty of having preliminary plans drawn at my expense and have enclosed them for your consideration.

  And speaking of things enclosed… you’ve probably noticed the brightly wrapped boxes accompanying this letter – after all, they’d be rather hard to miss! Please consider the contents as early Christmas gifts from us here at Immortal Media. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of selecting some presents for your little Rory as well. After all, my daughter has been grown for a very long time now, but some things you never forget!

  Very Fondly Yours,

  Lawrence Nickleby

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE next week passed in a crazed blur. Amy was always busiest with her mother in the mornings, so I spent that time down at the vault dealing with Nicky issues under the guise of getting organized in mother’s absence. Not only did the truck’s solar batteries need to recharge, but after nearly hitting a tree during my first attempt at driving in reverse I was determined to practice driving daily.

  On top of my driving practice, I spent a considerable amount of time with Nicky’s delivery manifest and my mother’s map collection. Though Nicky was presumably used to his father’s eccentricities, instructions like ‘Pick up twelve crates from the southernmost stop’ were useless to me. If not for the longitude and latitude coordinates listed by each entry, it would’ve been hopeless.

  My afternoons were divided between preparing for classes and research/rehearsal for my upcoming hearing. Though Amy professed confidence in my eventual victory, she grew more nervous and pushed me harder with each day that passed. She did ‘allow’ me to keep teaching my evening classes, but only due to her belief that teaching was vital to my image. All remaining time was divided between worrying about Nicky and listening for any word of his absence, but so far I’d heard nothing.

  The day before I was scheduled to return to Ian’s, I spent more than three hours looking for a storage facility only forty-five minutes away. Then, after I’d found it, it took ten minutes for me to find the proper key on Nicky’s key ring (though I was at least smart enough to mark it after I’d found it), and an additional painful hour to maneuver the twelve crates onto Nicky’s truck and bind them d
own with a series of knots that would make a sailor slit his wrists in despair. Altogether, not one of my best days.

  Perhaps unsurprisingly, my crappy day was followed by an equally crappy night. My brain was stuck in a distracting and unwelcome countdown: Only seventeen more hours until I hear about Nicky. Only fourteen more hours until I hear about Nicky. The only time I stopped obsessing was when the twinges in my back developed into full blown muscle spasms. I finally drifted off to sleep at five in the morning—only eight more hours until I hear about Nicky—so naturally I overslept by three hours.

  Consequently, the morning of my first delivery began with a frantic leap out of bed followed by an ear-piercing shriek of pain as my back seized up. Since Ian hadn’t specified a time for lunch, I rationalized anything before one o’clock could be considered reasonable. If I drove like a maniac, I’d have just enough time to throw some clothes in a bag and limp to the vault.

  That said, I had no idea how to dress for deliveries. Half my clothes matched one or another of Ian’s rooms, which reminded me of the way Eggplant had blended into her surroundings like a homicidal chameleon. Anything that reminded me of Eggplant was unacceptable and most of my other clothes were brown. Eventually I gave up and tossed everything brown into my bag. At least nothing would clash.

  On my way outside, I stopped by Amy’s and told her I’d be helping Nicky until tomorrow. Since I’d anticipated a lecture about neglecting my petition, her response was surprising.

  “Hey, are you two starting something? I mean, bringing you into the family business implies a certain level of commitment, don’t you think?” she enthused. “His father adores you, and—Oh wow, if you got married, mother and I would make you an amazing dress. The most fabulous dress ever!” She began bouncing in a reverie of bridal gowns, not noticing as her hair toppled and sent a needle clattering to the floor.