Blood Ties (The Chronicles of Eridia)

by J. S. Volpe

  “Welcome to Fairfield,” he says. “I am Rufus Gorky, the mayor. No doubt you are weary and confused and fearful of your future prospects, but with the, uh, the help of Mr. Hull here”—a nod at the vampire slayer, who merely watches with his usual stony expression—”we have set up temporary accommodations until we can find you permanent homes and occupations.”

  Homes? Occupations? We had those until that pompous fool Hull destroyed everything. Every moment I spend here brings me new reasons to want to scream.

  The fat mayor leads us into the large building via a back door, and we find ourselves in a spacious meeting hall lined with rows of rickety cots.

  “You may sleep here for now,” the mayor says. “But rest assured we are doing all we can to ensituate you.”

  “Ensituate”? What language is this idiot speaking? And more importantly, what cretins would allow themselves to be ruled by such a fool?

  The mayor turns to Hull, who lingers in the doorway with Spiro lurking behind him. “Will you be staying?”

  Hull shakes his head. “We must be on our way immediately. There are other castles out there. Other vampires. There will be more refugees.”

  The mayor’s face darkens. “Not here,” he says, almost pleading. “We can absorb these, but any more will strain our resources to the uttermost. We cannot do it.”

  “Fear not; there are many other towns and villages. I will not lead them all to one place. Some will go to Wemberly, some to Mickleberg, and so on.”

  The mayor looks immeasurably relieved. “Ah. Quite superlative.”

  Hull and Spiro depart. As I listen to their wagon rattle away into the night, I want to race out there and pull Hull from his seat and throw him to the mud. I want to beat him and kick him and spit into his arrogant face. But perhaps I need not. The swift fall of Merrimont was due, in part, to the element of surprise. The other castles will no doubt learn of its fate and be prepared when Hull comes creeping in. They will not fall so easily. And some of the Masters in those castles are older and more powerful than any in Merrimont. Korrel Orloth alone surely has the ability to destroy this presumptuous mortal.

  Smiling at these thoughts of Hull’s destruction, I find a cot and sleep.

  * * *

  A year has passed. I, like all the other former residents of Merrimont, have been assigned a job and a hovel in the filthiest, most crime-ridden section of town. My job is in a flour mill, and it is monotonous, soul-crushing work. I wish I could burn down the odious mill, but at the end of the day I am too exhausted from my labors to do aught but sleep and consume copious quantities of beer, the beverage Spiro told me about so long ago. I can see why it is so popular here in the mortal world. It helps you escape your misery for a while. We did not require such a thing at Merrimont, of course; there was nothing there we needed to escape from.

  The citizens of Fairfield (and what a laughable misnomer that is; there is nothing fair here, especially the fields, which are weedy and often infested with barrow ants), while rarely openly antagonistic, do little to help us assimilate. They distrust us, fearing that we secretly remain loyal to the Masters. And one of us does, certainly. But my fellow refugees do not feel as I do. They live to live, and nothing more. They aspire to nothing higher than working and eating and fucking, for they seem to believe that life has nothing else to offer. Perhaps they are right. But once upon a time I had more than that in my grasp. I had a life of immortality and culture and pleasure awaiting me on the other side of a minute until Hull snatched it away.

  Hull. He was true to his word. Every few weeks after we came here, we heard a new report that such-and-such town had received a new batch of refugees, that another castle had burned, that another threat to the good citizens’ lives of mediocrity had been annihilated. These reports ended a few months ago. By my reckoning, all the castles were accounted for.

  Since then there has been no word of Hull or Spiro. Or of Korrel Orloth or any other Masters, despite rumors that some escaped Hull’s blade. One oft-repeated rumor states that all the vampires in one castle fled before Hull’s approach so that the only task awaiting him was to lead the mortals to “safety.”

  These stories may be only the masses’ fears given form, but most rumors grow from a seed of truth. Thus it seems quite likely that some of the Masters are still out there somewhere.

  If so, their ranks will need replenishing.

  And I will be waiting.

  * * *

  Another year has passed. Life here is torment. Last night Mary Magdalene VII was raped and murdered by a drunken tailor’s apprentice. That never would have happened at Merrimont. We had order there, order born of reason and wisdom and mutual respect. There is none of that here. Here there is only ignorance and desperation.

  Hull said we would be free, but that was a lie. We are merely slaves to different masters, masters who care nothing for us. They are fat men who grow rich off our toil while we subsist on crumbs. With the Masters it was different. They needed us to survive, and thus they took great pains to ensure our own survival. They saw to it that we were well-fed and well-protected. They never overworked us. They listened to our complaints. We were not equals, of course, but they cared for us in a way that my employers never will.

  Sometimes, usually when I have had too much beer, I fantasize that I flee this dismal existence and return to Merrimont where I discover that a few Masters survived the slaughter and are hard at work re-establishing the old order. I tell myself that this fantasy is not impossible: Nimbus and the three other Masters sent to track down Spiro were never accounted for, and there were those rumors about one castle’s entire population of Masters eluding Hull’s grasp.

  But in my more sober moments I know that this is simply wishful thinking. I could never return to Merrimont: The Wilds are too dangerous for one man to travel through alone, and I doubt I could find my way back to the castle anyway. As for Nimbus and the other trackers, their failure to attend the Ceremony of Ascension suggests their unhappy fate. And any Masters who did survive would never dare resettle in the castles now that Hull has learned of them.

  No, were I to return to Merrimont, I know exactly what I would find: a burned-out shell inhabited only by wild beasts.

  I must face reality: The paradise wherein I lived most of my life is gone, and I am stranded forever in this mortal purgatory.

  * * *

  Five more years have passed. Nothing has changed. I work. I sleep. I shit. I hate it all.

  Sixteen of us from Merrimont have died since being “ensituated,” a high mortality rate even in this section of Fairfield. Four of them, including Sinead O’Connor, were suicides. Franklin Roosevelt was crushed beneath a mill wheel at his job. Jehovah XXIII was murdered in a bar-room brawl. The rest died of illnesses born of malnourishment and squalor.

  Far more upsetting to me is the fact that even after all this time, I still dream about Larissa. In the darkest hours of the night I feel her smooth hard flesh beneath my fingers, hear her melodious voice whispering in my ear, shudder at the silken touch of her lips on my neck…

  And then I awaken to this cramped, dingy room, and I weep quietly and alone while in the street outside drunken whores shriek obscenities and then cackle at their imagined wit.

  * * *

  I have begun taking long walks on the outskirts of town at night. Thrice in the last month townsfolk have been found dead in these more sparsely populated areas, their throats torn out as if by a wild animal and their bodies drained of blood.

  Everyone suspects a vampire, and the panic is amusing to watch. Curfews have been implemented. Hunting parties daily root through desolate woods and empty buildings. Citizens accuse anyone different or strange of being responsible for the deaths.

  Such hysteria is to be expected. The vampires have been gone for ten years thanks to that detestable Hull, and the people had begun believing themselves free from that particular threat. Thus these new attacks have driven everyone into a frenzy. Rumors sprea
d like the plague, whispered tales of new vampire clans settling in the area, of new castles being built, of new abductions of mortals to serve as livestock.

  I believe none of these rumors. The Masters I knew did not tear out throats in such a violent fashion. They were civilized.

  But I think I know the nature of the being responsible for the attacks. And so I take long midnight walks in violation of the curfew. I slink through deserted alleys and idle beside lonely paths, waiting.

  * * *

  As I lurk near the terminal wall of a dead-end alley, I hear a shuffle behind me near the alley’s mouth. I turn and see a tall figure lurching toward me. He is in shadow at first but soon enters a strip of moonlight, revealing his form.

  He is as pale as a grub, and his sneering lips reveal two needle-sharp fangs. A vampire, yes, but not at all like the Masters, for he is streaked with dirt and offal, his hair is wild and knotted, and his clothes—if such they can even be called—hang in tatters from his rake-thin body. He does not even wear shoes.

  It is one of the brain-damaged vampires Larissa told me about so long ago, an abomination created by another vampire—perhaps a mad, shambling thing like himself—and let loose to wander the world.

  “Hello,” I say to it with a smile. “A lovely night, is it not?”

  Troubled by my lack of fear, he stops an arm’s length away and sniffs the air as if to confirm that I am indeed a human being. Then, having determined that though I act in a decidedly unusual fashion my blood is as warm and rich as any other human’s, he snarls and seizes me. His grip bruises my upper arms, his long, broken nails scrape my flesh, his breath reeks of rotten meat and his clothes of mold and worms. But I voice no protest; my smile merely widens, and I breathe out a small laugh.

  With a growl he sinks his teeth into my neck. He does not do so gently, as Larissa did. He is rough. He tears. I feel the blood coursing down my neck and plastering my shirt to my skin as he smacks and slurps at the hole in my throat like a stray dog devouring a bowl of meat-scraps.

  That dreamy floating sensation, unfelt for a decade but never forgotten, sweeps me up, and I sigh with bliss. I know that he will kill me, of course, that he lacks the foresight and self-control of the Masters, but I do not care.

  I care only that this is as close to home as I shall ever get again.

  Other works by J. S. Volpe, available from fine e-book retailers everywhere

  THE CHRONICLES OF ERIDIA

  The Singular Six

  An action-packed novel set in the world of Eridia.

  Frankenstein’s Monster…Dr. Frankenstein’s courageous niece…a superhero with the power to turn to stone…a robot who performs psychoanalysis…a tweenage queen…a snarky Incan jaguar god…

  These disparate individuals must team together to hunt down and vanquish the Marauders, a horde of evil bandits who aim to conquer the land of Erizan. Each of the six has their own reasons for undertaking this dangerous mission. Only together do they have any hope of succeeding.

  Their journey takes them across a bizarre patchwork landscape and pits them against strange and terrible foes—from an abandoned research lab overrun by a peculiar variety of zombie to an idyllic woodland populated by carnivorous stuffed animals, from the mazy lair of a huge, hateful serpentine beast to the Marauders’ blood-soaked battle arena where the sextet must fight for their lives.

  Join a team unlike any other in a world unlike any other for a story of bravery and heroism, friendship and sacrifice…

  91,000 words

  Scoundrels’ Jig

  A darkly comic novel set in the world of Eridia.

  When a dying man staggers into a crowded underworld tavern and tells the assorted desperate characters gathered inside that there’s a huge block of gold hidden in a remote canyon half a day’s journey west, it sets off the craziest, bloodiest treasure hunt Eridia has ever seen.

  Among the many crooks, scum, losers, and fools vying for this priceless prize are Bastard Jack, the biggest, baddest, and probably hairiest bandit in the land; Kirby and Blunt, small-time thieves whose schemes always backfire; John Grommet, a timid scribe in need of money to save his dying mother; Gaspard and Merizen, lusty con-artists who find the thought of all that gold stimulating enough to necessitate the occasional time-out for a quickie; the Yellow Pawns, a trio of nihilistic cultists who plan to use the treasure to further their apocalyptic agenda; Illyana and Luornu, young barmaids who dream of a life free from the pawing hands of drunken idiots; and then there’s…Ludwig van Beethoven?

  In their mad scramble to get the gold the various competitors must contend not only with each other but also with a team of local constables, a race of monster-people called the gorgim, a peevish dryad, a killer robot, and a gibberish-spouting, pistol-toting serial killer in a plastic snowman mask.

  And if they think that stuff’s bad, wait till they find out what’s in store for them when they actually reach the gold…

  70,500 words

  Till the Mountains Turn to Dust

  A sweeping, eon-spanning novel set in the world of Eridia.

  Reynard is a trickster who lives only to sow chaos and sate his basest desires. Solace is a Good Samaritan who strives for society’s betterment. The two of them seem to have nothing in common, yet they do: They’re both immortal, and roughly once every thousand years their paths cross in unexpected ways and in various fantastical locales throughout Eridia. As the world evolves from a brutal, anarchic war-zone to the hub of a peaceful intergalactic civilization, Reynard and Solace’s peculiar relationship likewise evolves in ways the self-serving Reynard never could have imagined.

  Spanning twelve millennia, with settings ranging from the squalid alleys of a medieval city to an interrogation room in a high-tech prison satellite, with a motley cast of characters that include elves and vampires, killer robots and shapeshifting whores, Till the Mountains Turn to Dust is a kaleidoscopic tale of time and change and their sometimes beneficial, sometimes devastating impact.

  82,000 words

  ANOMALY HUNTERS

  Book 1: Into the Woods

  The Anomaly Hunters saga begins here!

  When high school seniors Calvin Beckerman and Cynthia Crow set out to investigate the disappearance of Cynthia's little sister Emily, they aren't prepared for the surprising twists and turns that await them. They soon find themselves under the tutelage of Robert May, an elderly anomaly investigator who believes that Emily's disappearance is connected with a string of bizarre and possibly paranormal tragedies stretching back two hundred years. The group's dogged pursuit of the truth uncovers shocking secrets and terrible crimes, and brings them face-to-face with a mysterious force that will change their lives--and the world--forever.

  98,000 words

  Book 2: From Finland with Love

  Two years have passed since the fateful events of Book One. Now sophomores in college, Calvin and Cynthia investigate a campus murder linked to the legendary Ur-Tarot, the original Tarot cards created by a psychic monk a millennium ago. Along the way, the duo befriends Kaarina Nurmi, a beautiful bisexual Finnish girl who helps out with the investigation. Unfortunately Kaarina’s involvement might prove to be more trouble than it’s worth, given that Calvin is straight, Cynthia is gay, and both of them are frustrated virgins who see their sensual new friend as the answer to their lonely prayers. Will the duo’s ensuing rivalry for the delectable Finn derail both the investigation and their friendship? Then again, considering the way the dead bodies are piling up, they might not be alive long enough for it to matter…

  Join the Anomaly Hunters in a tale of sex, death, Tarot cards, and some really bad poetry. Oh, and did we mention the sex?

  77,200 words

  Book 3: The Thing in the Alley

  This is it—the whole team working together for the very first time!

  When horribly mutilated bodies start turning up in Kingwood, the Anomaly Hunters determine that the culprit can only be a leucrota, a supposedly mythical monster th
at can mimic people’s voices. With Violet’s history-geek sister Lauren helping out, the team combs the city in search of the man-eating beast. Will they stop the leucrota before it kills again, or will they only become its latest victims?

  Plus, an unexpected discovery in Mr. May’s office leads Calvin to a young woman named Tiffany Fish who has strange links to both the Anomaly Hunters and their current investigation. It’s a meeting that will change Calvin’s life forever. How? Well, if you thought his near-fatal involvement with a cute blonde in the last volume might have put him off cute blondes for good, you were very, very wrong.

  Love and echoes are in the air, and the writing is most definitely on the wall in the third remarkable volume of the Anomaly Hunters saga.

  94,000 words

  RARE FINDS

  Dark Secrets

  Gilbert Solomon, a finder of rare objects, is hired to locate the sole surviving copy of the unaired final episode of an obscure 70s TV show called Dark Secrets. Barely has Gil begun to nose around than the show’s producers start turning up dead. Someone, it seems, is afraid he’ll uncover some decades-old misdeed connected with the show. What dark secret lies at the heart of Dark Secrets? Frankly, Gil doesn’t give a damn. He just wants to find the tape and get his money. Alas, it looks like he’ll have to play detective if he wants to stay alive long enough to reach that lovely payday.

  10,100 words

  Chain of Desire