Bleeding Hearts: Book One of the Demimonde Read online

  Cover art: Red Fist Fiction

  Interior design/formatting: Red Fist Fiction

  First edition 2012

  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

  Bleeding Hearts: Book One of the Demimonde by Ash Krafton

  An advice columnist-turned-oracle must save her Demivampire lover from the fate that threatens each of his race: evolution and the destruction of his soul.

  Kindle Version

  Copyright © 2016 by Ash Krafton

  Bleeding Hearts

  Book One 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

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to my Beloveds—

  My husband, my children, my family

  Pap and his fondness for bleeding hearts

  In loving memory—

  Sally…a character by any other name

  would be as sweet

  P.S. Miss you always

  Dear Sophie,

  From the moment I first read your column, I knew you were special. Other columnists just do a job but you put your heart into every letter. I could tell you truly care for your readers.

  That's why it hurts so much to realize you let me down. You knew I wasn't strong enough to face my own fear. All you had to do was reach out, grab my hand, pull me back from that ledge.

  But you didn't. You let me fall.

  Why did I deserve to be abandoned by the one person who could have helped me?

  Signed,

  Forever Lost in Balaton

  "Well, Sophie, you've been busy." My editor placed the typed sheets on her desk and pushed her reading glasses to the top of her head, smiling in a way that suggested she wasn't simply commenting on my productivity.

  Barbara Evans was definitely fiftyish but her exact age remained a secret closely guarded by her mother and the clerk at the Department of Motor Vehicles. No gray, no dye. No kidding. The wrinkles around her eyes were laugh lines; gravity had yet to wage war on the softer parts of her body.

  I made a noncommittal noise as I fooled around at the coffee station in her office at The Mag. I swore I kept this job just so I could drink her coffee. An invitation to Barbara's office for coffee was like receiving royal honors.

  "Unfortunately, I felt really inspired this week." I took a shallow sip of the coffee so I didn't scald my tongue. Carrying the mug over to her desk, I flopped into the big red leather chair across from her.

  "I'll say. These letters make, what..." She shuffled through the perpetual piles on her desk until she found what she wanted. Barbara was old school, preferring paper to electronic files. "Seven. You made the regular issue as well as the summer bonus. I'm impressed."

  Nodding, I reached for my cup. The summer bonus was a pain, if anyone asked me. However, I got paid to do it. Money was nice, so I kept my opinion to myself. I had yet to master a passable poker face and Barbara was a champion player.

  "But you don't look like someone who's free and clear until next issue," she said. "You look more like you expect someone to jump out at you."

  "I just... eh, it's nothing." I tried to downplay it but her assessment was dead-on, hopefully no pun intended. Her slight frown insisted she wanted a better answer and I grimaced, knowing she wouldn't like the answer. "I've been thinking about Patrick."

  "Him again?" She clucked her tongue and walked around the desk. Perching on the edge, she softened her firm tone with a sympathetic look. "He needed professional help and you told him so. You did what you could."

  "I don't feel like I did."

  "Enough. You're not a psychiatrist. Let it go."

  Barbara was right. I was an advice columnist. People sought me out because they wanted my help. Didn't help matters that, before joining The Mag, I'd spent more than a decade in nursing. I was driven to help, to care, to make things all better.

  Didn't I have an obligation to help them? "But—"

  "But nothing," she said. "I know you like to dwell. At least dwell on something cheerful. Think about those you help."

  I scowled into my cup. She was right—I did get too hung up on people and their problems. It was just the way I was wired.

  "What brought him up, anyway?"

  "I got a letter from him yesterday," I said.

  She gave me a careful look as if she were determining whether or not our friendship would survive a phone call to Crisis Intervention. "You mean from someone who sounds like him."

  "No, him. His handwriting, his signature."

  "I thought you said—"

  "I did." I scooted on the slippery cushion so I could look up at her. "You saw the obituary."

  "Dead is dead, Sophie." Barbara flipped through the stack in her inbox before selecting several pages from the middle. She tugged a paperclip free and dropped it into a tray as she reclaimed her seat. "They don't come back. Maybe he sent it before he—you know."

  I cradled the cup, feeling the sting of heat through the ceramic. The warmth failed to travel past my palms and I tucked my arms to my chest. "It was postmarked this week."

  "Do you want the column mail screened?"

  "Wouldn't help. It was mailed to my apartment."

  Now I had her attention.

  She sat back in her chair, papers forgotten. "How could anyone have gotten your home address?"

  "Beats me. The column mail comes here and I use a post office box for freelance subs."

  "Anything else? Phone calls? Hang ups?"

  "No. Just the letter." After a brief deliberation, I added more. Might as well spill all the beans and not just the ones she'd believe. "And the feeling someone's... waiting for me."

  Barbara's expression said Okay, I think you finally cracked but her mouth issued more diplomatic words. "Seriously? Maybe you're being stalked."

  "No, I don't think so. Just a vague feeling, like someone's waiting for me to..
. I don't know, open my eyes. See them." I didn't ask if she ever had that feeling. Most people didn't get impressions the way I did. I'd stopped asking that question a long time ago.

  However, this was the first time a simple impression worried me. It was a solid, hovering kind of expectancy that killed my concentration and made me look over my shoulder wherever I went.

  "That's probably because the letter came to your apartment." The phone rang and Barbara poked the voice mail button. "You feel vulnerable. Keep your eyes open and try to ignore it."

  I half-agreed with her, raising the cup and hiding my mouth behind it. I couldn't shake the distinct feeling something awful loomed. The sense of foreboding was like wearing a turtleneck—a constant, constricting pressure. "Maybe I'll take self-defense classes."

  "Never a bad idea for a woman living alone in the city. Then again, you might not need them. Your witticisms are sharp enough to draw blood."

  I grinned. "Eh, it's a defense mechanism I developed from working with Donna. I used to be such a nice person."

  "Speaking of her, she's looking for you."

  I slid down in my chair so my head wasn't visible from the door. "Maybe I'll just stay in here while I finish my coffee. Wouldn't do to be caught out in the open."

  Barbara removed her glasses and tossed them onto her desk. "What did you do now?"

  "Nothing," I protested. "Just--that Expo thing. She's in charge."

  She pressed her lips into a stern line. "Haven't you signed up yet?"

  "Heck, no. I have stuff to do. Me stuff."

  "Your job is me stuff."

  "Easy for you to say. You're salaried. Saturday is my day off."

  "Well, I won't blow your cover." She glanced over my head toward the door before she waved her pen warningly. "But she'll get her claws into you. One way or another."

  I scowled and took a double mouthful of coffee so I wouldn't have to respond. Claws, Expo, anything Donna—they all topped the list of Things I Wanted Least.

  I stayed long enough to complete my hedonistic coffee experience before slinking back to my desk. This was work, after all; I wouldn't remain a staff writer if I didn't act like one.

  I lived in Balaton, a harbor-dependent city halfway between Philadelphia and Wilmington. Halfway was an apt description in more ways than one. Big enough for a downtown but lacking the sprawl of a mega-city. Too small for a subway but wide enough for several bus routes. Taxes weren't as high as Philly but we didn't get a free ride on sales tax like glorious Delaware, either.

  We weren't a major tourist destination, just another city people passed through on the way to somewhere else. I guessed that was why I never left. Balaton was midway between point A and point B—just like me.

  This job was the closest fit I'd felt in a long time, even if the inseam wasn't quite right. I had a leg up in the game, at least. My inner voice. My gut instinct. My compassion.

  The job was easy. All I had to do was tell people what they probably already knew. Nine times out of ten it was what they wanted to hear anyway, but they didn't trust themselves enough to follow their own advice. If people were brave enough to listen to the spark of wisdom that lived in each of us, I'd be out of a job.

  Thank God for that one out of ten who actually needed my advice; they went a long way to validate me. Only problem was, they were the ones who kept me awake at night.

  I sighed and plucked my mail from the basket hanging outside my cubicle before dropping into my chair. My position at The Mag was a haven for me. At least, it had been until Patrick's needy letters arrived. Damn those depressed men who get attached to the first sympathetic person they encounter. Damn the way they kill themselves and leave the rest of us to feel like it was our failure, not theirs.

  Damn them for coming back.

  I knew it couldn't be him. I knew dead was dead. Plenty of dead had happened around me in the past and never once had it been undone. Patrick could be no exception.

  Question was: Who? Who now? Who was going to yank my heartstrings, get me completely tied up in their emotional plight, and bail on me at the end? Who would be the death of me?

  I didn't want to find out.

  A block away from my bus stop, an unkempt man with a gravelly voice and a coat that had seen better days crouched against the wall of a pawnshop. He raised a pleading palm when I passed. "Scuze, miss. Gotta quarter?"

  No matter what I wished, I couldn't fix the homeless problem. I still had a long way to go in learning how to choose my battles. So I compromised: half the time, I walked by. The other half, I stopped. I left it up to fate to decide. Well, fate and how much change I had.

  Sounded shallow when it was all laid out like that, but hey. Even a deep chick like me needed to have a shallow spot somewhere inside. Wasn't that what made us human?

  "Yeah, sure." Digging into the front pocket of my cords, I pulled out some coins and surveyed the findings. I picked out two quarters and a bus token and dropped them into his outstretched hand. "Here you go."

  "Whaz this?" He squinted at the token. "Canadian?"

  "No, a bus token. If you take the Green Line to Fifteenth Street, there's a church-run shelter nearby. Food's decent."

  His scrutiny turned doubtful. I thought he might give it back but he shoved his fist under his coat. He gathered himself and tore away from the cold grip of the sidewalk, shuffling off with an uneven gait. "Thanks."

  After a sweeping glance to make sure no one was nearby, I dug around my purse for another token. The pizza shop on the corner sent out enticing aromatic invitations of tart tomato and garlicky goodness and I suddenly had half a mind to turn right around and have a slice or three, regardless of the fact I was full of coffee and not the least bit hungry.

  Reminding myself of the trouble I'd had getting my hand into my front pocket, I pushed the nagging temptation clean out of my head.

  "What a waste of money." A hard voice startled me and snapped my spine taut. It was hard to misinterpret that particular tone.

  I counted to five before turning around. "Sorry? Did you say something?"

  A hefty mountain of olive drab, mirrored Oakleys, and black work boots leaned against the wall of the pizza joint where the awning cast the deepest shadow. His black knit cap, the kind I imagined muggers favored, enhanced my perception of a threat. Strong. Harsh. Dangerous. Funny I didn't see him the first time I looked—he was sort of hard to miss.

  "Of course I did." Caustic words dripped like acid as he snapped the collar of his canvas coat up around his ears. "You're delusional if you think he'll go to your little soup kitchen. He's a drunk. You gave him rum money."

  "How do you know? Just because he's a bum doesn't mean he's..." I floundered, flustered, fishing for words and not finding them fast enough. "A bum."

  He laughed, Brillo-Pad-on-skinned-knees mean.

  "Of course he is. It's his nature. Why do you think he's on the street? Kiss your charity goodbye." He jammed his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders and looking, if it were at all possible, even more menacing. "You won't survive in this city if you don't stop being so naïve."

  "I am not naïve!" My retort drew alarmed looks from a lady who clutched her bag and quickened her pace as she passed me. I should have followed her. "I just don't think the worst of everyone I meet. Unlike some people, apparently."

  "So when a bum asks for a quarter, you offer to feed him for a lifetime? This is the city, lady. Learn the rules."

  "Good advice. First rule is, don't talk to strangers." I never wanted a medal for being nice but I didn't need to be criticized, either. Turning on my heel, I stomped away.

  Mr. Tall Dark and Pushy didn't seem to get the hint. His low voice grated across my nerves, sounding uncomfortably close behind. "I'm not finished."

  "Oh yes, you are." I spun around, but when I saw he still hadn't moved, I faltered. I guessed arrogance made a voice carry.

  Remembering the focus of my irritation, I jabbed my hands onto my hips, fighting the overwhelming urge to
march over to him and do something foolish. Usually I'm more flight than fight. I should have been running, but my smart mouth had taken over. "I don't know who you think you are but you're messing with the wrong lady."

  "No, I don't think I am." He straightened and shrugged his jacket into place.

  I backed up a step, as if the distance between us were inches instead of feet. It was his reach that worried me. "You don't think, period. Who even talks to people like that?"

  Even his chuckle was arrogant. "You've got spirit."

  "You've got nerve. And no, I'm not coming any closer so quit telling me what to do."

  "I didn't say a thing."

  "Well—" I sputtered. Didn't I hear him say it? "Stop—thinking it, then."

  He laughed, sounding delighted to have irked me to the point of incoherence. Dismissing me with a wave, his tone became more condescending. "Forget I said anything and go home."

  I fisted my hands, wanting nothing more than to leave, but I had a historic need to have the last word. When sufficient words failed me I stamped my foot.

  He leaned at the waist, looking over the tops of his sunglasses. His bright green eyes flashed, much brighter than if they'd simply captured a glint of sun. "I said, go on home."

  I snapped an about-face and marched all the way to my stop without pausing. His sardonic laughter taunted me, scalding my cheeks long after I caught the bus. By the time I got home, I'd forgotten every odd detail, including the brief realization I hadn't seen his mouth move when he told me to leave. The weird occurrences had been swept from my mind, leaving behind a diluted version of a generic encounter.

  I'd forgotten everything except being angry. What can I say? I could hold a grudge with both hands tied.

  "He had a point, you know," Barbara said as we rode the elevator the next morning. "You are naïve sometimes."

  "Oh, not you, too. Please, forget I said anything. I don't need another lecture."

  "Don't worry. I'm not going to give one. I just think the bus token was excessive." The elevator dinged and spilled us into The Mag's foyer. "What's got you so hot, anyway? Maybe this guy hit too close to the truth, hmm?"