Calling the Blood Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Title Page

  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

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Other Works

  About the Author

  Calling the Blood

  © Elizabeth Bruner 2019

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is a coincidence.

  Calling the Blood

  Book 1 of Blood of the Fae

  By Elizabeth Bruner

  Cover design by Neil Wells

  Published 2019 by Shadow Ink Press

  Chapter 1

  A dark portal opened on the roof for the museum, just out of the lights of the party going on below. Dressed in an evening gown made of silk and illusion, the creator of the portal stepped out, a hand idly sliding down her dress to smooth imaginary wrinkles. With a barely audible pop, the portal winked out of existence behind her.

  “Impressive,” a smooth voice said behind her.

  Turning, a glowing scepter appeared in her hand. “If it isn’t the White Knight,” Listrial, Queen of the Fae, sneered. “I knew you’d be here tonight.”

  “Well, I was the one who made sure your invitation was sent. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “What, for unfettered access to the festivities?” She smiled and the darkness gathered around her. “I am no vampire to require an invitation. I come and go as I please. Your invitation was wasted.”

  The man stepped closer, his white tuxedo and blonde hair catching the light from the security lights. “For an excuse to walk through the front door and enjoy the party. You’re not crashing the party tonight, you’re a guest like everyone else.”

  “And what makes you think I desire such a place among the crowd? I was born to rule, to be above the pressing, glittering throng-”

  “In a court that’s been closed to you for a thousand years. Forced to be among the humans who, even then, were bumbling their way into your sacred circles. Stealing your relics to impress their own people.”

  Centuries of hatred glared at him, the scepter in her hand flashing with her anger. “And what would you know if it, knight? You act as their champion, protect them when they’ve eagerly brought destruction upon themselves.”

  “More than you’d think,” he said, stepping closer to her.

  “Are you here to act as their champion again?” she demanded. “To keep me from claiming what is rightfully mine?”

  “I wondered if it was yours,” he said, referencing the new exhibit set to open below them. It was spectacular, beyond anything the museum had ever done, and they’d held a gala benefit for its unveiling.

  “They’ve no right to it,” she insisted.

  “They’ve had it for months,” he answered. “Why didn’t you take it before now?”

  She looked away and he shook his head. “Theatrics. Or the need to inspire fear. It must be lonely to be the queen of an empty court. To be raised to rule over a people who can’t see you.”

  “You know nothing, knight,” she hissed. Power flashed from her scepter and hit him in the chest. Dark lightning flashed over him, eliciting a groan of pain as he was knocked off his feet.

  “Where is your armor, sir knight? Did you think all that would be exchanged up here were words?” Stalking towards him, she raised her scepter again.

  He laughed and she stopped. “I don’t generally wear armor on a date.”

  “You brought a companion to this? Knowing I would be here? Knowing what would transpire? What human do you care so little for that you would knowingly put them in danger?”

  “None, there is no woman I would feel comfortable exposing to any part of my life,” he said, rolling to his feet with a grace she’d not seen in centuries. “I’d hoped, and I know mostly in vain, to convince you to dine with me before you pursued your vengeance. The unveiling isn’t for hours, yet.”

  “You’d dare,” she sputtered. “You presume-”

  “I ask,” he said, holding his hands out. “I will beg, if your pride requires it, for your company. To delay a few moments would not be so bad a thing, it would lose you nothing, and could gain you much.”

  “You seek to distract me from my purpose,” she spat.

  “A delay,” he corrected. “With the promise of reminding you of your purpose long before it is necessary.”

  “And why would I need a reminder?” she asked.

  He took her hand and she gasped.

  “How?” she demanded.

  “Have dinner with me,” he said with a grin. Lifting her hand to his lips he added, “Please?”

  She nodded and he smiled.

  "My name is Christopher, by the way. I realize we've never been properly introduced but there's no reason we can't be civilized."

  She nodded in tentative agreement.

  He led her around the roof to a dark corner that held a table set for two. The candles jumped to life and she gasped with surprise.

  “How did you do that?” She asked. “No human has been able to do those magics since the doors closed.”

  “Not quite true,” he said, holding the chair out for her. “Rumors and rumors of rumors of mystics with that power have persisted over the last few centuries but they were men who spent all their days in contemplation. It was never as easy as a thought. And now it is.”

  He sat across from her and pulled a cart closer by reaching for it. It rolled closer and the lids came off the dinners one at a time.

  When he turned back to her, her wonder had turned to anger.

  “Did you bring me here to show off? To torture me with your renewed magic while mine stays locked away with my people?”

  “No, truly. This was meant as a demonstration, not an insult.”

  “What were you hoping to demonstrate?”

  “That I’m not lying.”

  “About what?”

  “Maybe it would be better to say I wanted you to see human magic in person, from me, before I asked you to watch something showing a subtler magic.”

  The corners of her lips crooked into a wry smile. “I should have known you wanted something from me.”

  “I want a lot of things from you. Unfortunately, the most important right now is your expertise.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him and he could tell she wanted to ask more questions. “I assume you have something with which to show me whatever it is you want me to see? Or shall there be another live demonstration?”

  “I wouldn’t want to see this live,” he said.

  He handed her the phone and watched her delicately hit play. There wasn’t any sound, most of the footage coming from security cameras. That the first few segments were in color was an improvement.

  A man and a woman, obviously on a date, enter the restaurant. It’s a bit run down in a bad part of town. She’s wearing a long black skirt, a brightly colored shirt and a black cardigan. Her dark brown hair is down and flows to her waist. She has a small purse that barely fits her phone and car key. He is wearing a pair of khaki pants, a polo shirt, and a red baseball cap turned backwards.

  The waitress comes to take their order and seems to hesitate when she sees the mans hat. After the waitress leaves, the man smiles and holds out his hand to the woman sitting across from him.
She smiles back and puts her delicate hand into his. She doesn’t look like she should have delicate hands. Though shapely, she matches him for size; same height, same width across the shoulders.

  He strokes her hand with his other one and she runs the fingers of her free hand up and down his forearm. It’s an easy intimacy and they seem relaxed with each other. A pair of young men approach the table and start talking angrily at the man. He talks back, obviously undisturbed, though he drops his companions hand.

  She puts a hand on his arm and turns to speak to the men. A spark of light flashes in her eyes and the men leave the restaurant. The couple turns back to each other and continue their meal. The waitress grows increasingly irritated and the manager finishes waiting on them.

  When they get outside, the video goes to a black and white feed from a nearby security camera. The young men had been waiting for them outside and one of them grabs for the woman while the other pulls a knife on the man. The woman steps behind her date and touches his back.

  The one with the knife rushes but doesn't know how to use it in an actual fight. His form is terrible and the man lets him get close before stepping aside and punching him hard in the face. Staggered, he steps back into his companion who is still reaching for the woman.

  The young man with the knife slashes at the man and succeeds in catching his shirt and the mans complete attention. He moves in to close, squaring up like he's had his share of fights and lets loose with a series of hits that would fell most people. The kid staggers back against his friend again, trying hard to stay on his feet.

  There's no longer a knife in his hand. The woman steps to the side, her fingers extended, her face a mask of anger. Her companion puts a hand out and looks down at his side. The knife is sticking out of a fleshy part, near but not damaging, several vital organs.

  An evil smile crosses his face and he throws his head back and laughs.

  The man pulls the knife out of his side and lashes out with it, catching the young man who stabbed him across the neck. Blood sprays, catching him in the face. He backs up while the man falls to the floor. Reaching up to wipe the blood from his face, he looks down at his hand and watches it absorb into his skin. His hat pulses a low, sickly light and blood begins to drip down the sides of his face. He turns to the second man with an evil grin.

  Panicked, the second young man turns to leave when the woman touches his shoulder. He turns to look at her and a wind has picked up, rushing over her and pushing her skirt and cardigan back to look like a pair of unholy wings. He stares at her, his fear obvious, but he can’t move.

  The man, covered in blood, turns him around and starts hitting him, the knife lying forgotten on the ground with the first rapidly cooling body. The wind whips around them and the fight is over quickly, the second attacker lying in a spreading pool of blood.

  The couple look at each other and embrace, blood running down his face dripping onto hers. Lights started flashing and they looked up. Turning away, they walked off. She fairly floated and he stomped, heavier than he’d been before the fight.

  The video ended and Listrial looked up at the man in the white tuxedo watching her."What do you want from me?"

  "Who are they?" Christopher asked, reaching out for the phone.

  She held it close and looked down at the video. Moving the video back to the best views of the subjects faces, she frowned. "I've no idea."

  "They're not members of your court?"

  "No, they're none of mine. The doorway is still shut and any who made it through would be more powerful than that and unlikely to toy with the attackers the way they did."

  "So you agree, he prolonged the fight?"

  "Oh, certainly, you could see him pulling his punches. He was looking forward to the fight."

  "That's not human magic. It's too dirty."

  She smiled at him. "My brave sir knight, you have no idea how dirty human magic can get. But, you're right. That was fae magic."

  "Then who are they?" Christopher leaned forward eagerly. "And when did they get here?"

  "I don't know who they are but I can tell you they're human mixed with a little something else."

  "Half-breeds?"

  "Half? Oh, dear me, no. Someone a thousand years ago survived a battle and the aftermath of a battle and walked away with a full belly. They may have even both enjoyed it."

  "I thought your kind went more in for seduction than rape."

  "And who's to say it was rape? If it was, he wouldn't be here, for one thing. Red Caps don't leave their victims alive."

  "Red Caps," Christopher repeated with a shudder. "At least he's not a full blooded one."

  "Indeed. In these soft times, there would be rivers of blood in his wake."

  "What's she?" he asked.

  Listrial scrolled the video back to the woman with her clothes billowing in the wind and her eyes flashing.

  "She is impossible," she said, closing the video and handing him back his phone. "Because, if she is not, the world will be covered in blood."

  Chapter 2

  "Winnie, stop poking at it," Nathan said, slapping his girlfriend's finger away from his side.

  "It doesn't hurt, does it?" She asked, her finger hovering above the slit in his side. He'd gotten stabbed right there and they'd gone home to clean it only there wasn't any blood. Now, several days later, she was trying to figure out why it was healing the way it was.

  "No, it doesn't hurt." He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips, drawing her gaze up to his face. "It's healing. It's not bleeding, it's not infected. Stop worrying and let me get dressed."

  "But you have a hole in you and I want to know why."

  "Because I got stabbed, woman."

  She frowned at him. "I know you got stabbed, doofus. I want to know why it's not bleeding and how it's healing without it. Blood has a purpose, you know? Especially when you're wounded."

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her nose. "I know. You've told me. A couple dozen times at this point. You need to chill out and let whatever's going on take its course. I'll take not having to change bloody bandages every few hours for a few days if I have the choice."

  "I'd change them for you," she said, kissing him back, her voice small.

  "I know you would, my love, and I'd let you if we needed to. I'm not about to refuse help when it's offered when I need it. But I don't need it and that's a blessing."

  She stuck her tongue out at him and he kissed her hard and deep. When he pulled away, she was breathing heavily, her eyes glazed.

  "I love you, crazy man," she told him.

  "I love you, too, woman. Now, take your shower if you're going to and come to bed. I know that's why you were hovering."

  "I wasn't hovering," she protested. "I was observing."

  "Observing me naked," he leered at her.

  "Well, yes," she agreed. "What's the point of having a naked man right there and not watching him walk around all wet and sexy? Then you had to ruin it by putting on pajama pants."

  Nathan laughed and pushed her gently into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He looked around the motel room they were in and pursed his lips.

  They couldn't stay there forever. He didn't know what had happened after they'd left but he'd seen enough of the local news to know they were wanted for questioning in the violent and bloody deaths of two local activists.

  He hadn't know they were activists when they attacked him but he might have guessed. They'd been hassling him about his hat and calling Winifred nasty names while they were in the restaurant. From the dirty looks the waitress had been giving him, he guessed they were her friends. He hadn't really cared about the names they'd called him but he wasn't about to let them insult his favorite hat or his favorite girl.

  The hat in question was sitting on the table next to the bed. It was just a plain red baseball cap, stained slightly darker in strange patches now, but he'd thought it was mostly inoffensive. Apparently, he'd been wrong, as the young men who'd jumped them o
utside the restaurant had shown him.

  He didn't remember most of the attack, just the red haze that had filled his vision and the desperate need to make the creatures in front of him stop moving. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, though it hadn't been that strong since he'd hit his twenties. The scars on his knuckles told of endless bar fights where he'd gone looking for someone to pummel.

  Part of him thought he'd grown out of it but it wasn't really that. Adult responsibilities had caught up with him, mostly caring for aging parents and trying to please a series of ever more demanding wives. The wives had all left, citing the very things that had drawn them to him in the first place, as the things that had pushed them away. After every divorce, he found himself in a seedy bar in a part of town where he knew he wasn't welcome, and he lost himself to the red haze of battle.

  Winifred, though. Winifred was different. She liked him, truly liked him, for who he was. There hadn't been anything he could do that would drive her away. Oh, they fought. Way more than he had with any of his ex-wives, at least while they'd been married. But there was something about the way she did it that told him it wasn't personal. What ever differences of opinion they had were merely that.

  It hadn't surprised him when he thought back to the red haze descending across his vision that she'd been the reason why he'd wanted to beat their attackers to death. Now, in the relative safety of a cheap motel room with the lights on, he could convince himself it was because they'd been threatening her. In the dark of the night, with her curled gently against his side, he knew that wasn't the only reason.

  He'd wanted to kill those men, to beat them to death and revel in their spilled blood, because he thought she'd like it. Whether he thought she'd be impressed or enjoy the gore, he didn't know, but her reaction to the fight was like something that had come from one of his darkest fantasies.

  In his dreams, he remembered the spray of the first man's blood, how it hit him in the face dripped down his cheek. The crunch of bone under his fists when he'd beaten the second man had been more viscerally satisfying but had done nothing to quench the hunger for blood he'd felt with the first. The spray of blood couldn't have been nearly as bad as he remembered because there hadn't been much on him by the time they got to the motel.