Bad Blood: A Vampire Thriller (The Spider Trilogy Book 1)

  BAD BLOOD

  A Vampire Thriller

  THE SPIDER TRILOGY #1

  by

  J.R. Rain

  Scott Nicholson

  H.T. Night

  Acclaim for the Authors:

  “Be prepared to lose sleep!”

  —James Rollins, author of The Devil Colony on J.R. Rain’s The Lost Ark

  “Sweet and heart-warming. I absolutely fell in love with H.T. Night’s Winning Sarah’s Heart—The Notebook for young adults!”

  —Ella Quinn, author of False Dichotomy

  “The love child of Stephen King and Sharyn McCrumb.”

  —The Mountain Times on Scott Nicholson’s The Red Church

  “I love this!”

  —Piers Anthony, author of Xanth on J.R. Rain’s Moon Dance

  “Vampire Love Story is a passionate story that is told from a refreshing perspective. This book was a blast. Night invents a brand new world for the vampire genre. Great Job!”

  —Summer Lee, author of Kindred Spirits

  “Scott Nicholson is a writer who always surprises and always entertains.”

  —Jonathan Maberry, author of Patient Zero

  “Dark Horse is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”

  —Gemma Halliday, author of Spying in High Heels

  “Night is a true storyteller. Winning Sarah’s Heart is thoughtful and inspirational! I enjoyed the ride.”

  —Elaine Babich, author You Never Called Me Princess

  “Keep both hands on your pants, because Scott Nicholson is about to scare them off.”

  —J.A Konrath, author of Origin

  THE SPIDER TRILOGY

  Bad Blood

  Spider Web

  Spider Bite

  Bad Blood

  Copyright © 2011 by J.R. Rain, Scott Nicholson

  and H.T. Night.

  All rights reserved.

  Ebook edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Bad Blood

  Chapter One

  Class was over.

  I was making my way to my car in the dark, my backpack slung over my shoulder, when the girl came running up behind me. We had exited class together, junior year United States history, when I heard her fall into step behind me. I didn’t have to turn and look to know I was being followed. I didn’t even have to turn and look to know who it was, because I could smell her.

  It was the new girl. Well, new as of two weeks ago. And she smelled of flowers and shampoo and clean clothing. She also smelled of curry, which is why I knew who she was, since most girls smelled of only flowers and shampoo.

  I’ve always liked unique girls, as much as I can like anything.

  I had just clicked my car door open, using the keyless remote, when I heard her footsteps pick up their pace. She was moving faster, coming up behind me. I heard breathing now—her breathing, and I might have heard something else, too. I might have heard, mixed with the sounds of cars starting and our classmates talking and laughing, I might have heard her heart beating.

  And it seemed to be beating rapidly.

  It should beat rapidly, I thought. Here be monsters.

  My back was still to her as she stopped behind me. Her scent rushed before her, swirling around me like a dust devil, and I inhaled her deeply and spun around.

  Her face was a little orange under the cheap streetlights. She had opened her mouth to speak, but instead she gasped. She hadn’t expected me to turn on her. Heck, maybe she even thought she had approached quietly.

  Maybe she wasn’t sure she had wanted to talk to me. Maybe, just prior to my spinning around, she had decided to do the smart thing, turn herself around, and leave.

  Maybe she had heard stories of me. Maybe she had heard that I was different from other students. That there was something odd about me.

  I heard the stories, too. Mostly, of course, I overheard the whisperings behind my back. They didn’t know I could hear them. They thought they were being discreet. But I heard their harsh words. I heard their hateful stories. I heard them speak ill of me. I heard their laughter, but mostly I heard their fear.

  I heard everything.

  Her gasp hung in the air, much like her mouth hung open. She was a pretty girl. Long, blonde hair. Brown eyes impossibly round. She was small but curvy. She looked like a doll all grown up into its teen years.

  “You are following me,” I said.

  She closed her mouth. Some of the students spilling out into the parking lot watched us. In fact, most of the students were watching us. I ignored all of them. All of them, that is, except this new girl.

  “Yes, sorry,” she said.

  “Why are you sorry?” I asked. I turned and opened my car door. I tossed my backpack into the backseat.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You look like you saw a ghost,” I said.

  I heard her heartbeat clearly now. It thumped rapidly. It even seemed to labor a bit, which might mean she had some sort of heart condition, surprising for one so young. She looked once over her shoulder, and I could almost hear her thinking, although my hearing isn’t quite that good. She was thinking, and I would have bet good money on this, I can still leave now. Make up a good story, or even a bad one. Anything. Just leave. They call him a freak for a reason.

  But she didn’t leave, and I knew why. Because they don’t just call me a freak.

  They also call me Spider.

  “You need help,” I said, draping an arm over my open car door, letting it support some of my weight.

  She quit looking around and now she held my gaze, and as she did, her heartbeat steadied. She was no longer afraid. Then her eyes pooled with tears, but she did not look away even as the tears spilled out.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you have a ride home?” I asked. I’d learned to never trust tears.

  “I walk.”

  I motioned toward the passenger seat. “Get in,” I said, “And let’s talk.”

  Chapter Two

  Seattle at night is beautiful. Seattle at night with a beautiful girl is even better.

  We drove in silence. My car is an old Mustang, not a classic, but old enough to give me problems. That night I had no problems with it. The windows were down as the cool air whipped through the interior. I glanced to my right once and saw the new girl was huddled in the center of the seat, hands in her lap, looking straight ahead. I sensed her fear, or at least trepidation. Serious trepidation. I’m good at sensing things. I’m good at sensing emotions in others. It’s a survival mechanism, one of many.

  I think, probably, anyone could have read her emotions. She would have looked nervous to any observer. I don’t know how it works for other people, I only know how it goes for me.

  And sometimes I’m not even sure of that.

  And I probably should have said something to help her relax. Perhaps something funny or sweet. But I didn’t feel funny or sweet. I felt angry and bitter, and it was all I could do to not pull over somewhere and tell her to get lost so I could be alone with my miserable thoughts.

  I reminded myself that there were far worse things in the world than sitting next to a beautiful girl.

  Far worse, and I’d experienced most of them.

  She sensed me looking at her and huddled deeper into herself, wrapping her arms tighter around her body. I looked away, focused on driving. Lately, it seemed I had forgotten normal social etiquette. Or, more likely, it
was that I didn’t give a damn about social etiquette. It was hard to care much about anything anymore.

  Then why did you offer to help her?

  Good question. I thought about the answer as I drove through the streets of downtown Seattle, past piercing skyscrapers and glitzy restaurants, past the many homeless and the many more tourists. It was late, sure, but it was also Friday night. Seattle was hopping.

  I knew that mostly I didn’t want to help. Mostly, I wanted to be left alone. And for the most part I was alone. Perhaps too alone. To say that I was in a strange place in my life would be perhaps the understatement of the decade.

  Mostly, I sensed a darkness filling my heart, filling my insides, and it scared the hell out of me. Helping others, even when I didn’t want to, seemed to keep the darkness at bay, or at least slow it down. And it helped fight off that creeping loneliness that was the eternal plight of my kind.

  “Where are we going?” Her voice was small and whispery.

  “Get you some food,” I said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I disagree. I know you’re hungry.”

  She looked over at me and I felt her eyes studying me closely. “Why do you think I’m hungry?”

  “We were just in class for three hours. And, besides,” I said, looking at her, “it’s either that or you have a small alien inside you trying to get out. I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

  She actually looked down at her stomach. Her brows knitted in a brief display of confusion. Finally she shrugged. “I didn’t hear it growl.”

  “It’s growling now.”

  She put her palms over her stomach. “How do you know that?”

  “Not only are you hungry,” I said, whipping past a slow-moving scooter. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

  “How do you—”

  “Your stomach is completely empty.”

  “But how—”

  “How do I know your stomach is empty?”

  “Yeah, how? Like you can read my mind?”

  Actually, I knew her stomach was empty by the sounds it wasn’t making. Sure, it would growl every once in a while, but mostly there was no indication of any digestion going on at all. I decided to keep some secrets to myself. “Call it a hunch,” I said. “So do you want something to eat?”

  I knew what her answer would be. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s only money. There’s plenty of it out there for everyone.”

  She looked at me and she might have smiled. “Thank you.”

  “No worries,” I said, and was pleased to feel the darkness within me subside a little, loosen its hold on my heart. Just a little. “What’s your name?”

  “Parker,” she said.

  I almost laughed. “Is that your first or last name?”

  “First, and don’t laugh.”

  “I didn’t, did I?”

  “No, but you almost did.”

  “What’s your last name, Parker? Wait, let me guess...Cindy?”

  “Ha, ha. It’s Cole.”

  “Parker Cole, huh?” I said. “You sound like a child TV star or something. Ever had your own show? ‘Parker With a P,’ maybe?”

  “I can’t tell if you’re being funny or mean,” she said after a moment. She had gone back to sitting in the middle of her seat, shrinking in on herself a little.

  She wasn’t in my car for me to make fun of, or even hurt her feelings. A part of me didn’t care about her feelings. A part of me didn’t care about anyone’s feelings. But I was forcing that part of me to take a back seat. With some effort, I said, “I was just being stupid. Actually, you have a very nice name.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but I had scared her off a little and she still sat closed on the seat. “Why do they call you Spider?”

  “It’s a new nickname,” I said. “I’m not sure why.”

  Actually, I knew damn well why they called me Spider. I heard the whisperings behind my back. I was creepy. Spiders were creepy.

  I turned right up Denny Street and headed toward Capital Hill, which is an unofficial “district” of Seattle. Capital Hill is also known as the “Freak District,” and there, as we passed the homeless and junkies and fellow creatures of the night, I made a right onto State Street and soon turned into Dick’s, Seattle’s infamous burger chain.

  Dick’s only served burgers and fries and Cokes and so I didn’t need to take her order. I told her to wait in the car and a few moments later, I returned with a single order of food. I gave it to her as I sat back down in the front seat.

  She looked at the meal, then looked at me. We were sitting under a parking lot light and her face was glowing palely. The oddballs and freaks were consuming their hamburgers nearby, since Dick’s didn’t have any indoor seating, and were laughing and talking and sometimes arguing. I caught one or two of them looking our way, sort of like a wolf might that had observed some sheep that were almost within range.

  “Nothing for you?” she asked.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said. Which was a lie. I was very, very hungry, and I was watching some of the lost souls sitting on curbs just outside the glow of the parking lot light. They should have been in shadows, but to my eyes, they weren’t. They were clear as day, and the darkness in me wanted to do something very bold and very stupid. The darkness in me wanted to hurt and kill and suck and drink. I closed my eyes, and did my best to ignore the darkness.

  “I can hear your stomach growling,” said Parker, and I knew she was teasing me.

  “Ha, yeah. I’ll eat later,” I said, and decided to change the subject. “So tell me why you need my help, and why I’m the guy you picked.”

  She took another bite, chewed slowly, and washed it down with some Coke. She set the Coke carefully in the cup holder, then turned and faced me, tucking one leg under her as she did so. Girls can do things like that. I couldn’t tuck my leg under me like that to save my life.

  If I had a life to save, that is.

  “They say you like to help people,” said Parker. “But most are afraid to ask you for help.”

  “Afraid of me? That’s hilarious. I’m a buck forty, dripping wet. Who are these people you speak of?”

  “Well, maybe not people, just the guy I asked about you.”

  “Well, don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “I heard what you did to those bullies. It didn’t make the papers, but word on the street says you’re either a hero or a lunatic.”

  “Maybe a little of both,” I said, not even bothering to lie about what really happened. Word on the street trumps the truth, anyway.

  “If people are afraid of you...why do you still like to help?”

  “Helping makes me feel good.” And it kept the darkness from consuming me, which of course would have caused me to consume others. I looked at it as a little preventive health care for the universe.

  “What kind of problems do you help with?”

  “Any problems.”

  “How do you fix them?”

  “Any way I can. Whatever it takes.”

  “But you’re my age...I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to understand,” I said.

  “But these are adults.”

  “I fix adults, too,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  She had completely forgotten her food. She wondered if some punk teenager could help her with her problems, and I was beginning to suspect her problems were very, very big.

  “Look,” I said. “None of us wind up in night school without a seriously screwed-up life. All the normal kids are getting trained for day jobs in regular society. We’re the sort they don’t want peeing in the pool. So whatever it is, it’s okay.”

  She chewed without tasting, staring blankly out the window at her past.

  I reached out and gently touched her forearm with my finger. I knew what the reaction was going to be, and so I was ready for her to shiver.

  “I can help you, Parker. But y
ou need to tell me what’s wrong,” I said, and something interesting happened as my fingers rested on her arm, as I spoke sincerely and honestly with her. The darkness in my heart, the dark whisperings that sometimes filled my mind, subsided. Subsided significantly. I almost, almost, felt human again.

  “There is a man who likes killing girls.”

  For most people, something like that would be a shock. But I’m not most people. I’m not even people.

  “That’s terrible.” I didn’t ask if she was making up a story. She wasn’t.

  “You believe me?”

  “Who is this man?”

  She turned and looked at me, and I saw the tears in her impossibly round eyes.

  “My dad,” she said.

  Chapter Three

  I hoped this wasn’t a pervert case. I hate pervert cases.

  “And you know this how?” I asked.

  “That part I need to fill you in on later.” Her once-sweet, shy exterior had now turned a tad darker. Which was okay with me. Darker was right up my alley.

  “So what can you tell me?” I now grabbed a pencil from my pocket and began writing on a piece of paper.

  “What are you writing?” she asked abruptly.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “My notes will be cryptic.”

  She didn’t get the wry humor. “Alright, my dad is one of the most intelligent men in the world. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. He’s a world-renowned physicist. He does a lot of research for Berkeley and Ivy League schools. Over the past eight years he’s been delving into a different, ah, kind of scientific method.”

  “Different how?”

  “It’s not even really scientific. It’s more...metaphysical. To put it simply, my dad runs a cult. He has this big compound called ‘Cloudland’ on a property near Mount Shasta.”

  “A Moonie-type thing? Branch Davidians? Suicidal comet-hoppers?”