The Preternatural Chronicles: Books 0-3

by Hunter Blain

“Let me get right to it,” Father Thomes said with his tone transitioning from warm and welcoming to all business. “I prayed on our potential alliance, and I had some concerns I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Finding my voice, I quietly said, “Okay. What are they?”

  “First, you must understand that I wouldn’t be able to tell of our…partnership to the Church. I feel my reasoning should be obvious to you.” He looked at me, expecting a response. I nodded in agreement. “Now, this doesn’t mean I will never tell them. On the contrary. But first, I would like to accumulate some data before presenting it to them.”

  “You mean test me, right?” I asked softly. I was uncomfortable at how exposed I felt.

  “In simpler terms, yes. Do you blame me for wanting to see firsthand your dedication? I could be excommunicated for allying with an unholy abomination such as a vampire.”

  Though what he’d said was not pleasant to hear, I had no choice but to see his reasoning. He was risking everything to give me a chance.

  “I-I understand. I’ll do whatever you ask if it means doing the right thing.” Father Thomes was about to speak again when I interrupted with, “Just know this: I am a vampire, and I must feed on blood energy. I also have no compunctions about erasing those I deem evil from the face of the Earth. I need you to understand and accept those facts.”

  Father Thomes looked at the stage as he dissected what I had just said. It was my only nonnegotiable demand. Silence screamed through paper walls as doubt began to spread like wildfire in my chest.

  “Accepted,” he said, turning back to face me. Relief washed over the doubt-fueled fire, extinguishing the flames. I noticed then that my shoulders were almost touching my ears. I forced them to relax.

  “I-I must admit, I’m a little surprised,” I said, turning in my seat to better look at the Father.

  “There have been a number of instances across the Church’s history wherein it’s been necessary to act within parameters such as these. As long as you work for the Church, I will absolve you of your sins while guiding you toward salvation.”

  “What’s the second concern?” I asked, bracing for the question. The conversation was going too well to be true for someone like me.

  “You answered it already.”

  “Which part?”

  “Where you said you’d go in whatever direction I pointed. This will be a partnership. You will aid the Church by vanquishing any and all threats against us, and I will steer your soul through the churning waters of past indiscretions and toward the calm harbor of divine purpose.”

  It felt like a building had been lifted off my chest. This was my opportunity to not only help the innocent—like my parents had been—but also purify my tainted soul. I would do whatever it took to not let Satan get his hands on me. A shudder ran down my spine as my mind flashed to the scene outside the barred window. The memory of that night would forever be a festering wound that would never heal. It was said that time healed all wounds, but that was only true for mortals. Defining moments that were once vivid movies slowly became still images, as if snapping a picture of the silver screen. Sharp pangs of grief dulled into an ache that the mind grew accustomed to. My vampiric memories did not degrade with time, which provided a perfect recall of every experience I had ever had. Because of this, I had constructed a mental city to store information, lest the memories flew chaotically around like trailer homes in Oklahoma during tornado season. Even so, certain memories haunted my mind like a ghost in the walls, whispering in my ear as I passed.

  “John? Are you alright?” Father Thomes asked with concern.

  “Huh? Oh yes, I’m fine. Got…lost in thought,” I said, trying to project an aura of serenity.

  “You closed your eyes and trembled for a moment before looking at the ground with a blank expression.”

  “It was a bad memory about my parents. It’s actually what drives me to try and help the innocent…and why I punish the wicked.”

  “Please, if it is alright, would you tell me your tale?”

  “Alright, Papa T, but popcorn is extra,” I joked. The father smiled at me in response.

  Taking a deep breath, I shared my tragedy from the beginning.

  As I finished, a single tear escaped from my eyes and rolled down my nose to splash on my hand. Father Thomes had sat back in his seat, facing forward, and stared at the stage in quiet contemplation.

  Without taking his eyes off the stage, he said, “I can only imagine the pain you must have endured, John. Thank you for sharing your story with me.” He turned his body toward me again. “I am convinced that we were destined to meet.”

  “I get that feeling too, Father,” I said with a refreshing enthusiasm. “So, what’s first?” I asked, clapping my hands together and rubbing my palms in anticipation.

  “As it so happens, my resources have uncovered an alarming number of activities that deserve our—let’s say—intervention.”

  “Neat,” I exclaimed with excitement. “I didn’t bring my driver’s license or Social Security card for the I-9 though.”

  “You actually have those?” the priest asked, intrigued.

  “I have a guy for that sort of thing,” I said vaguely. I wasn’t ready to expose all my cards just yet.

  “Understandable. Shall we begin?” Father Thomes asked as he stood and stepped into the aisle, extending his hand. I mirrored his actions and grasped it in mine, shaking it. Our alliance had begun. God help those in our path.

  Epilogue

  Houston, 2019

  Happy anniversary!” I exclaimed to Father Thomes as I raised a generic grocery-store cake. Tonight marked a momentous occasion, and I wanted to celebrate it right.

  “It says, ‘Happy Birthday, Papa T’ on it,” said Father Thomes with a rueful smile. After twenty-nine years together, he knew I had chosen the wrong cake on purpose. Lowering his head and squinting while lifting his glasses, he then said, “And ‘Papa T’ is written with sharpie.”

  “I slave, all night, over a hot conveyor belt and sharpie that I didn’t pay for while in line at Walmart, and this is the thanks I get?” Even though I was overplaying the drama for levity’s sake, it still meant a lot to me that this holy man had spent nearly three decades helping to guide my soul toward the Light. Though it was the wrong cake, I had spent longer than I cared to admit picking out the perfect wrong cake.

  “How did you even manage to use a sharpie on icing?”

  “You say icing, I say concrete. Tomato, tomahto. Though I haven’t met anyone these days that actually pronounces it with the ‘h’ sound.”

  We stepped inside the church, and Father Thomes slightly winced as he took the full weight of the cake and shuffled off to the kitchen. I noticed the liver spots had multiplied on his hands. Father Thomes, my only mortal friend, had gotten old on me. His hair had gone stark white, and his once light wrinkles were now deeply etched all over his face. I couldn’t help but notice how his robes fell loosely on him, signaling a reduction in weight.

  As I thought that, my mind immediately corrected course, knowing that Father Thomes would lecture me on life being short and where he was going when he died and that I shouldn’t worry and blah blah blah. I lifted my chin, abolishing the thoughts on my friend’s aging, and walked into the cathedral.

  I sat in my usual spot, leaning my back against the armrest and setting my legs down the bench, crossing them to maximize comfort. I sighed obnoxiously as I clasped my hands behind my head and cradled my beanie-covered head.

  “Don’t get too comfortable, dear boy. I have a task for you tonight.”

  “Oh?” I said, letting my feet slide off the bench and onto the ground as I twisted to face Father Thomes. My hands unclasped, with one falling to the armrest and the other to my lap. “Give me ah tahget to turmenate,” I said in my best Arnold voice.

  “It would seem a potentially dangerous group of cultists is preparing to summon a demon. I am convinced they have the ability to do just that.”

 
“How neat—fresh meat,” I said, standing. “Where they at, bro?”

  “They are at a warehouse near downtown. I wrote down the address for you,” he said, holding out a piece of paper.

  “Cool. I won’t return until I deal with them,” I said as I stepped into the aisle and grabbed the directions. “Oh, I want to try my new secret knock tonight.” I told him what it was and made my way to the front door. I threw it open before turning to him with a mischievous smile and summoning my inner Beetlejuice. “It’s showtime!”

  * * *

  THE END

  …but not really. It picks up immediately in:

  I’M GLAD YOU’RE DEAD—book 1 in the Preternatural Chronicles. Turn the page for a sample.

  Or get your ebook copy HERE:

  argentopublishing.com/l/1306078

  I’m Glad You’re Dead (Book 1)

  Epigraph

  “I intend to live forever, or die trying.”

  Groucho Marx

  “My name will live on throughout history.”

  Anonymous

  “I’ll try anything twice.”

  Shayne Silvers

  Chapter 1

  Present day

  I stood on the edge of a rusting warehouse in an industrial park in Houston, Texas. The targets were in the building across the alley, which was illuminated by a flickering floodlight.

  Wind blew against my face, making my ancient black leather trench coat billow behind me—that might have been on purpose. The trench coat had been with me for several decades, and it showed its character with several patch-up jobs of whatever leather my tailor had had access to at the time. It reminded me of a quilt made by a granny who also happened to be in a biker gang.

  Long, dark hair spilled over and down my neck, stopping at the top of my shoulders. Wind tugged at the exposed strands while a weathered gray beanie kept the majority secured.

  The only missing component from my ominous, crime-fighting look was a bolt of lightning shooting through the night sky behind me.

  From my vantage point, I could see inside the building through the second-story window. There was a group of shrouded figures painting a circle on the ground. They were using the limbs from some poor bastard as paintbrushes. And for the paint, you ask? Well, they weren’t using Behr, that’s for damn sure.

  After the crimson circle was finished, they started making the lines to form a pentagram. I had planned my entrance, and the time to act was now.

  As I stepped off the warehouse ledge, I whispered in my best Kevin Conroy voice, “I am the night,” and dropped to the ground below. The wind was cut off by the buildings around me, causing the trench coat flaps to land over my face. I jerkily corrected the mishap then casually pivoted on one foot to look all around me. No one had seen. Good. Still cool, I thought to myself as I turned toward the steel doors I was about to burst through.

  On the inside, the men had finished their pentagram and were setting up the candles, skulls, and other sundry items that were probably not from Hot Topic. They were all slightly startled after hearing a thunderous BOOM from the other end of the warehouse, followed closely by a thump and a muffled cry of, “Lilith damn it!” Glances were exchanged in tandem with shrugs that said, “Dude, I have no idea.”

  There was a pitter-patter of footsteps on the roof, and then an explosion of glass from above as a sexy figure (spoiler alert, it was me) landed with a shower of sparkling shards in the middle of the circle in a classic Batman move.

  With both knuckles on the ground and one leg perched in front of me, I lifted my head and said, “Pardon me, but do you have any gre—” I was cut off when someone pulled a gun and shot me right in the face.

  I fell back and lay still, also a classic Batman move. As if on cue, the one who had shot me approached slowly, kneeled down beside me, and felt for a heartbeat.

  “He’s dead,” he said as he turned to the rest of the gang, relieved and still somewhat perplexed.

  That’s when the group got to try on a brand-new, fresh-off-the-shelf look of terror. The gunman looked at them, confused, until he felt breath on the back of his neck. Panic made him give shallow gasps, and before he could move, I reached around and grabbed the front of his throat, pulling him against me while he tried to fight against the unwavering grip to no avail.

  While looking at his cult friends, my normally light-purple eyes turned dark crimson, and I pulled my lips back to reveal elongated canines with surgically sharp points.

  “Technically, you aren’t wrong,” I whispered in the gunman’s ear.

  In a blur of motion, I sank my teeth into his carotid and yanked back, tearing it apart. Red life spurted in an arc several feet into the air and coated one of the goons. The few drops that had gotten into my mouth were making me euphoric.

  With bulging, dismayed eyes, the soon-to-be-dead goon—let’s call him Goon 1, or G1 for short—tried in vain to cover the hole with trembling hands. The blood that was still gushing out slowed, stopped, and then quivered in midair. With a quick focus of the mind, it congealed and morphed into the shape of flying snakes, complete with adorable little bloodwings. I sent them flying toward the remaining men as G1 slumped to the floor, eyes now glazed over. It was a bit theatrical, but had the desired effect on his comrades; they scattered in all directions.

  I leaped through the air, coat billowing so hard it sounded like a bike with playing cards in the spokes going at light speed, and landed on the back of G2, who was closest to the exit. My feet went into his lower back and my hands grasped together under his chin as I pulled, ripping his head off with a yummy tearing sound. His spine came with, from neck to posterior.

  G3 and G4, who had been just behind G2, skidded to a halt. I turned, smiled maniacally, and tossed the head at G3. I forced my own blood to snake out from my palms and form ropes several feet long. I whipped them back and forth like a lion tamer, the bloodwhips making piercing cracks. G3 caught then quickly dropped G2’s head, turning to run. G4 stood frozen with his mouth agape. I whipped both bloodropes around their necks and concentrated on razor blades forming down the lengths. Both men gasped in shock and reached for the razor wire, shredding their own hands in the process. I commanded the goons’ blood to flow from their grievous wounds, up my whips, and into my body. It had been a while since I had fed, and the infusion of their blood with my own ironically felt like the warm sun piercing a cold morning.

  After they had been drained, I forcefully tugged at the ropes, cleanly cutting all the way through their necks, and leaving their heads precariously perched atop their shoulders. Half a second later, both men collapsed to the ground, heads rolling away from their bodies. The ropes slithered as they retracted back into my outstretched hands.

  The next blood donor, G5, was a little braver and stood his ground while holding a ceremonial knife. His face displayed a controlled fear that I immediately respected. I ran straight at him at a slower speed so he could see me coming. Just before reaching arm’s length, I preternaturally darted to his side. He thrust his knife straight at where he thought my neck would be. With a smooth karate chop to the pit of his elbow and a grab of his wrist, I guided his own knife into his forehead, killing him instantly. He deserved a warrior’s swift death for his bravery.

  After prying open dead fingers and grabbing the handle, I attempted to pull it out like a warm knife through butter; turns out, it was more like pulling a cold spoon through ice cream. “You lied, Rick Grimes!” I yelled and yanked the blade free with a tad more effort.

  Turning to one of the few remaining bad guys, I threw the blade at center mass. Ridley Scott must have been in town because it pierced his back and burst through his chest. His arms didn’t go up. His face didn’t clench in agony. He didn’t make awesome, “Ugh, oh no! I was only two days away from retirement!” noises. He just went rag doll and collapsed to the ground.

  “Et tu, Arnold?” I mock cried (it wasn’t mock). Was everything I saw on TV a lie?

  Only two left, and they were both
running in different directions. G6 was reaching for the gun the first Snuggie enthusiast still had, so I went for G7, who was already halfway up a ladder to the roof. A quick leap and a scary pose through the air later and I was at his back. His body went rigid as he yelped in surprise.

  “Don’t let go,” I whispered in his ear just before I pierced his artery with my fangs. Blood flowed like a broken dam from his panicked state and exerting muscles. His frantic heart pumped fiercely.

  The feeling of drinking blood is intoxicating. The strongest mortal drug is a sip of the weakest beer in comparison. I’ve been asked how I’ve been able to survive for centuries and not go insane from the repetition and boredom. The answer? I live for the next fix. It’s like having your lover lightly drag their fingernails down your skin, but everywhere at once. Colors shine brighter. Smells are sweeter. I feel stronger after each mouthful, and that strength accumulates over the years, providing power to be used at my command. If the donor is a bad guy, well, that makes it all the better.

  After a few gulps, I drained several pints of his life essence and his grip gave way. We fell toward the ground, with me still getting the last few drops. Just before we hit, I rolled off and landed on my feet as G7 smashed headfirst into the ground, doing his best impression of a turtle as his head retreated back into his neck.

  “Neat,” I said as I admired the aftermath.

  There were several deafening cracks as an entire magazine was hastily emptied in my direction. Only one bullet hit its target—my gray beanie was ripped off my head and thrown to the floor in front of me.

  My shoulder-length black hair spilled out around my head in sharp contrast to the neatly trimmed dark-red beard.