Blood Rush: Book Two of the Demimonde Read online

  Cover art: Red Fist Fiction

  Interior design/formatting: Red Fist Fiction

  First edition 2013

  Second edition 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information can be found at www.ashkrafton.com

  Kindle Version

  Copyright © 2016 by Ash Krafton

  Blood Rush

  Book Two of the Demimonde

  by

  Ash Krafton

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  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

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to my Beloveds—

  My husband, my children, my family

  Dear Sophie,

  I've read your articles on relationships so I know you'll understand my situation. My own relationship ended several months ago when "John" woke up one day, a completely different person.

  We haven't spoken since we split, but recently I changed jobs and discovered he works for the same firm. Seeing him again awakened so many feelings I thought I'd conquered. I realize, despite the pain he'd caused me, I never stopped loving him.

  Our contact is purely professional right now, but I want to re-connect with him on a personal level. Sometimes it seems like a good idea. Other times I worry he'll run away, or say something to devastate me again.

  Should I take the chance? I mean, I don't have anything left to lose. Do I?

  Signed,

  Lonely yet Hopeful in Harborview

  Dear Sophie,

  This is another fine mess you've gotten us into. How are you going to help that lady when you can't even help yourself?

  Sincerely,

  Sophie

  I don't believe in happily ever after. These days, I'd settle for alive until sunrise.

  I never thought I'd become a nine-to-fiver. Certainly never thought I'd be too preoccupied to make fun of myself for being one. Sometimes the irony was too great to appreciate.

  While I waited for the elevator to arrive at The Mag's foyer, I smoothed my scarf along the back of my neck and hefted my tote bag a little higher on my shoulder. Every chime increased my trepidation, tightening the fist of anxiety in my chest and the sensation of bees swarming in the top of my stomach. I hated quitting time.

  More underappreciated irony. Why not?

  People chatted around me but I fidgeted with my zipper, keeping my gaze lowered and my mouth closed. Leaving at five in the afternoon meant more than crammed elevators and crowded buses; it meant the light would fade soon and with it my peace of mind. The autumn wasn't a happy golden foliage time of year for me anymore.

  Although it was only early October, already the longer nights and shorter days made me feel nervous and brittle. Bad enough I didn't have a sweetheart to share the long nights but even worse now that I knew what came out when the sun went down. Although I hadn't had any problems with vampires over the last year, the threat never left my mind.

  Vampires were out there. It was just a matter of time until I had to deal with them again.

  Halfway during our descent, I felt a vibe. It was a mild one but, over the past year, my empathy had become sensitive to the point of being squirrelly. The thin thread of power wound its way around each of the passengers as the Demivampire who owned it checked out who else was in the car. When it reached me, it felt like a poke on the arm. I glanced over my shoulder, catching the eyes of an older dark-eyed woman near the back. She sent a tiny pulse of apology-laden power and lowered her eyes.

  I smiled politely and concentrated on tugging my scarf loose. The DV didn't approach me in public where any old human could see. We kept our dealings distant and private. That was the way I preferred.

  The door opened and I flowed out with the crowd, sunglasses on and scarf over my hair. I hoped everyone would more or less continue on together today so I could hide in the crowd a bit longer.

  Without turning my head, I saw a rail-thin guy, his scruffy head and jeans out of place amongst the exiting office employees. He leaned against the wall, scanning the people emerging from the other elevators. Seemed to have missed me—good. Taking shelter behind a taller woman and her chatty companion, I hustled out the front doors.

  Outside, my luck ran out. My camouflaging crowd of co-workers suddenly scattered like roaches when the kitchen light is turned on. I hesitated, taking too long to pick a direction.

  It was all he needed to spot me. I looked back through the glass into the foyer of The Mag's building. He was on the move, eyes locked onto me.

  I bolted.

  Startled faces blurred past as I hurried through the five o'clock exodus, bumping into one man, dodging another, and rounding the corner at a speed unfitting for heeled pumps. Steve Madden would be horrified if he knew what I did in his shoes.

  Well, Steve could kill me later. Right now, I was facing a much more immediate threat.

  At the corner, a bus was loading and at this point I didn't care if it was mine or not. An elderly lady with a big shopping bag struggled on the steps and I danced behind her like a first grader with a full bladder. Once she cleared the last step I leapt up, slamming my token into the fare box.

  The door closed behind me just as my pursuer caught up. For once I was glad for the driver's rude efficiency. The bus leveled and lurched forward. I grabbed the bar, almost swinging into the laps of the front seat passengers. As we pulled away from the curb, I met the man's stare through the grimy glass of the door.

  Rusted-orange eyes with wide pupils.

  Non-people eyes.

  Werewolf eyes.

  I sank onto an empty seat, heart thumping, gradually slowing. Glancing up at the sign over the driver's seat, I realized I'd ended up on the round-about route. Close enough for me. I tugged my necklace out of my shirt and kissed the pendant, my good luck charm, and offered a silent thankful thought to whatever divine powers had saved my behind, yet again.

  Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a book of poetry and readied for a long ride home. Ironically, when I'd flipped to a random page, I opened to one of Dylan Thomas's poems.

  Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage ag
ainst the dying of the light.

  I had no energy left for rage. All I could muster was a thankful thought because at least today's escape had gone better than most.

  A beast of a different sort met me at the door once I got home, but I was prepared for this one. Since moving to my current apartment, Euphrates had become a one-hundred-percent-indoors cat and poor kitty was not coping well.

  I squeezed through the narrowly-opened door and blocked his escape with my tote bag. He'd made it out into the hall twice since moving here, which could have caused major fallout. The other apartment on this floor was occupied by a No Pets Allowed vigilante who seemed intent on catching me with the furry goods. Mrs. Petterson already suspected Euphrates wasn't a television and frequently warned me something dire would happen should I dare bring in a dog.

  As if. I definitely didn't swing that way.

  Luckily, Euphrates wasn't up to any cat acrobatics so my bag was enough to contain him. He accused me with a heavy-lidded glare and a toothy wail that made me pity his near-solitary confinement.

  Scooping him up, I dropped my bag on the couch and glanced around with dismay. Stacks of cardboard boxes exaggerated the tight fit of the room. I'd begun to unpack when I moved in three months ago but quickly grew disheartened by the lack of space. If I'd had time when I was planning the move, I could have picked an apartment that was at least big enough to fit the couch. Instead, it sat at a strange angle across one corner of the room. Either that or block the doorway.

  I would have gotten a place that allowed pets, too, but I just didn't have the luxury of time to browse through rental listings. Once that Were had discovered my last apartment, I was out of there in four days flat.

  What was the point of unpacking when it didn't feel like home?

  Life hadn't been exactly all new-pumps-and-Oreos since my soul mate Marek and I split more than a year ago. Well, more precisely, he split. Demivamps pushed to the brink of evolution tended to do that, since their own society generally wants nothing more to do with them. Evolution is a one-way street, more or less. Nothing can bring a brinking DV back from that terrible edge.

  Nothing, except maybe for me. Still, it didn't make me immune to being dumped. Marek had made it crystal clear he didn't want to see me anymore when I tracked him down after the Crap That Almost Killed Me. I was an old fashioned girl, you know? If a guy made love to you one night then tore out your throat and exsanguinated you the next, he should at least call you in the morning.

  I sighed and pulled out a stack of mail I'd brought home from the office. Before meeting Marek and the rest of the DV, writing my column was barely enough to justify my gainful employment at The Mag; I usually contributed to other features in order to claim a regular paycheck and benefits. (It shames me to admit the lengths to which I'd go for health insurance.)

  Unfortunately, being Sophia for the American Demi-vampire also made writing my advice column a full-time job, since the DV decided it was the perfect way to petition me. Every once in a while, a letter would contain an emotional signature so strong it evoked the Sophia. I couldn't risk having my eyes change color in front of the mail clerk again.

  It was almost like face-on petitioning, really. I could simply sort the petitions from the human letters and get on a roll. Once the Sophia responded, the answers flowed smoothly. First drafts were last drafts and, when I included select petitions for print in the column, they were the ones that impressed my editor most. I would then mail the remaining responses off to their respective petitioners.

  Sometimes the petition was doubled with a pushy compulsion, a "read mine first" or some other obnoxious request. That sort of thing really bunched up my boy shorts. Of course, I couldn't complain about it at work because no one knew about the Demivampire, much less that I was their spiritual guardian. Hence, all the off-the-clock work.

  Give Until It Hurts Sophie, that's me.

  Flipping through the mail, I breathed a tiny sigh of relief. None of the envelopes triggered a compulsion so I figured there was probably nothing I couldn't handle today.

  I sliced open the envelopes and began to sort the letters into piles.

  Column, column, petition.

  The petitions were easy to spot even to someone who couldn't sense DV power; each was addressed Dear Sophia and signed with a real name, not a witty pseudonym. I had a growing number of regulars who made me think I ought to start charging them.

  Column, petition, column, Rodrian.

  I blinked, trying to focus my eyes and dispel my surprise, recognizing the handwriting on the envelope at once. Rodrian Thurzo preferred writing to typing and he had a real thing for fountain pens.

  Yep, that Rodrian. Marek's brother.

  When I pulled out the letter, the power signature tripped a switch in my brain, triggering my Sophia. My eyes changed so fast I swore I could feel them flow from brown to oracular blue. I had to sit down before I fell over and felt behind me for an afghan to wrap around my shoulders. The chills were so intense I thought my teeth would chatter.

  Damn that Rodrian.

  Once my Sophia settled, I unfolded the letter and read it. The letter contained a brief request to meet him at his Tenth Street office. Some sort of business proposition. I couldn't imagine what business he could possibly have with me.

  I especially couldn't imagine what was so important that he'd send enough power to turn my intestines into balloon animals. I came this close to throwing up on Fraidy. I'm sure the cat would have loved that.

  So. Business with Rodrian. Now the question remained: would I go?

  I arrived at the Tenth Street offices ten minutes early.

  Not that I was in any particular hurry. It had been almost a year and a half since I'd ridden this elevator or stood in this reception area or looked at the broad door that led to the interior of Rodrian's office. Fifteen months was a long time—time enough to change wall art and hire new receptionists and make strangers out of two people who had once been as close as family.

  I arrived ten minutes early only because I was nervous. I walked quickly when I was nervous.

  At the receptionist's polite nod I took a seat near the windows. The sparse waiting area had not been designed for comfort. People waiting to see Rodrian Thurzo needed no distractions or trivial ways to pass time. I longed for a stack of well-worn magazines, something to occupy my hands and my mind.

  Instead, I curled my hands together in a quiet semblance of patience and dreaded the moment the door would open. I never had to sit out here before, waiting to be granted an audience.

  My composure slipped and I squirmed. Technically I hadn't asked for an audience with Rodrian. I'd been summoned.

  Bossy jerk that he was, Rodrian probably wouldn't have thought twice about commanding me but he hadn't. His letter had been politely written, a carefully worded request.

  However, the moment my skin touched the paper I knew this was no ordinary letter. Mental actions spoke louder than words. Request or not, I really had no choice. He had laden it with emotion and was clever enough to use the one particular emotion I couldn't ignore.

  Need.

  I wrinkled my nose and grimaced at the mahogany door, promising to come up with new descriptions for the type of jerk he was. Conniving, opportunistic, and manipulative seemed a good way to start the list.

  Eventually, I gave up and sighed. Someone else would have to come up with the right word because Rodrian wasn't my jerk anymore. As far as I was trying to be concerned, I was here on official Sophia business. I sat still and stared impassively at the door and tried to look professional.

  I was sure I failed. Par for the course these days.

  "Ms. Galen?" The receptionist's inquiry broke through the nervous buzz of my thoughts and I sprang to my feet as if she'd pressed an ejection seat button. "He'll see you now. Do you need a guide?"

  I quickly shook my head. I knew it wouldn't be an escort who guided me to his office but rather a compulsion. "No, that's all right. Left wing, at the end?"r />
  She beamed a Stepford Wives smile at me and turned to answer the phone. The door slowly swung open and I walked through as if it was something I did every day. No big deal, right? Just official Sophia business.

  I paused in the bend of the V-shaped hallway as a hum of power enveloped me, making the air feel sandpapery. The subtle wards buzzed like dull electricity and I recognized Rodrian's "signature" upon each one. They were a new addition; I hadn't known he could set wards like these. They seemed alert, like guardians. Watching. Waiting.

  Nonetheless, they were easy to disregard. My control over the Sophia had improved a bit since it first emerged and now I wasn't so simple-minded that I could be swayed by suggestive spells. In fact, I'd come to attribute the foolish antics of my youth to influence by spiteful Demivampires. I didn't make those mistakes anymore.

  Now, mistakes wouldn't leave me humiliated. They'd leave me dead. A real motivator if ever there was one.

  Tugging a strand of hair out of my eyes, I turned to the left and headed down the hall. Time to take care of business and get home before the daylight died.

  Rodrian leaned in a doorway across from his own office and I took in the entire sight of him at once. His dark hair was shorter; his bangs used to fall chin-length when he didn't gel them back. Now, despite the gel, stubborn strands broke loose to fall around his eyes, making him look younger. As usual, he wore dress pants and a tailored shirt, wide cuffs closed by glinting cuff links, but he slouched against the door as if wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

  I heard his voice as he made some light comment, saw the smile playing on his mouth and in his eyes. My approach made him look up. His smile didn't fade but it changed.

  His power reached me a moment later. It was only a brief touch before he pulled it back but it was enough. More than enough. I had been sitting on empathic pins and needles anticipating this moment. That little bit of Rodrian that leaked out at me blasted like a radio with the volume turned all the way up.