Blood Leverage (Bloodstone Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

“Mom, it’s time for a trip to the vault.” I nudged a pile of books with the toe of my boot. “What’s the point of having built a storage facility if you still try and cram everything in here?”

She sighed as she struggled to stretch her bag around one last book. “Fine. I’ll talk to Skipper in the morning about helping me.” Her bag all but splitting, she leaned over to hastily kiss my right ear before staggering out the door.

Then she poked her head back in. “I heard from the conference committee today. You’re still welcome to attend.” Her tone was hopeful.

“Mom, I’m not changing my mind. My answer is still no.”

Looking disappointed, she retreated, locking the door behind her.

Too weary for anything else, I swept the remaining books off the sofa and flopped down to suck up the leftover body heat. As I snuggled in, I pulled our fraying afghan over my lap and considered my mom’s suggestion. Again.

The event in question was the first attempt at large-scale academia outside the vampire cities in centuries, and I’d been fending off pleas from my mother to attend for the past year. The summer conference would last two months in addition to driving two weeks each way over open fields. Sleeping in the primitive boxes offering shelter for people between squares at sunset? No water, no electricity, no thank you.

Every time she asked, I was grateful for the distance and discomfort involved. After all, I could hardly say the main reason I was staying home was to be away from her. After two decades of involuntary notoriety, the idea of living outside my mother’s shadow for three months was intoxicating. No matter how much I loved her, being raised by the woman who proved vampires innocent of the mass conversions wasn’t easy.

Of course, she never planned to be famous, but the arrival of my father sparked a strange chain reaction, even by today’s unusual standards. 

Though the vampiric cities and rural squares never made a formal truce, eventually everyone realized cooperation was required for either race to survive. With that in mind, the world’s surviving cities release a number of genetically unique human males each year to expand the gene pools of rural squares. Despite having the vulgar nickname of sailors for having a woman in every port, being selected to breed with a sailor is considered an honor.

Sailors only stay with a woman for one year after she’s given birth, and though there’s no law to compel a sailor to leave I’ve never heard of one who didn’t. The genetic material these men provide is so vital that no woman asks a sailor to stay.

I hated not knowing my father, but the union served its intended purpose. My red hair and blue eyes are nothing like my mother’s butter blond and hazel coloring—a successful genetic transfer. 

If my father was the first factor in my mother’s unexpected career, my birth was the second. Complications delayed mom’s return to the fields and my father taught her to read, hoping she might support us by teaching. As her classes grew in popularity, our apartment became the default home for every unwanted book within miles.

The information leading to
Mass Conversions
was initially brought to her by Gigi. Gigi and Nicky are in the business of foraging through civilization’s leftovers, an adventurous occupation known as scavenging. The near-annihilation of humanity left plenty of useful items behind, but few people have either the nerve or the means to go after them. 

When I was four, Gigi brought my mother a stack of moldering journals that she obsessed over for months. Back then, the idea of a human having initiated the mass conversions was unheard of. Previous theories ranged from a
vampiric conspiracy to an act of God, but survivors on either side had greater concerns than disproving perfectly reasonable guesses.

In a naïve attempt to set the record straight, my mom wrote
Mass Conversions
, finishing shortly before my sixth birthday. The initial distribution of the manuscript verged on non-existent, but the indignation spread like wildfire. People who doubted her called her crazy and the rest called her a traitor to the human race. And then the manuscript reached the vampires.

The day the vampires reached out to my mother in September 2358 remains the scariest memory of my childhood. Ironically, this fear had nothing to do with vampires. It was my first encounter with a helicopter that gave me nightmares.

The helicopter’s occupants were human representatives from the Toronto offices of Immortal Media, a vampiric communications empire we’d never heard of. After they identified themselves over the hysteria, they asked to speak to my mother and sent whatever remained of her popularity plummeting.  

After my mom finally consented to publication, she insisted that no one from Immortal Media ever visit again without her written authorization. Other than the occasional letter we never heard from the vampires, but mother’s manuscript is now the universally accepted authority on its subject. Her contribution to world history earned her financial security, a place in the history books and the disd
ain of nearly everyone we knew.

CHAPTER TWO

“A
URORA! If you plan on writing, you need to get up
now
!” It was hard to imagine anyone capable of such volume on so little sleep, but the proof rang in my ears. Due to the risk of accidental vampiric eye contact, our buildings have no windows. Still, I can’t help but think it would be more pleasant to awaken to sunlight rather than someone yelling.

I grudgingly eased out of bed and flipped the lights on.

Flinching at the glare, I fumbled some clothes from my ancient wardrobe, hoping I’d be warm enough. (Another disadvantage of no windows is never knowing the weather.) Hurrying downstairs, I smiled affectionately at my mother’s endearingly off-key whistling of
“Dixie”
as I grabbed my pens and letter paper on my way out the door.

My tenure as the village letter writer began at age nine out of loneliness. Through no fault of my own I’d become
that
girl, the one whose mom worked for vampires. Sometimes writing letters was my only social interaction for days at a time.

Over the past decade, I’ve taught hundreds of people to read and write, and demand for my services has consequently dwindled. Still, letter writing gives me an opportunity to share my ideas about the council proposals and articles I write when I’m not busy teaching. It’s also a great way to hear the gossip. 

As mom and I rounded the corner of the hallway, we took our place in the never-ending exit queue at the courtyard gatekeepers’ apartment. Our communities are rectangular, with a large courtyard in the center. As the courtyard gatekeepers, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Benelli serves as a revolving door to let nearly two thousand people in and out. Fortunately, both of them are much more social than Robert.

After tromping through the Benellis’ living room, we reached the courtyard. As we emerged into the weak sunlight, people fell silent, with many turning to stare. Though I’d long since grown accustomed to unwelcome attention, this wasn’t typical behavior.

Doing my best to appear oblivious—something I’d had a great deal of practice at—I nudged my mother. “Do you think this is because of Robert?” I’d hoped he’d be too embarrassed to blab my ‘ass-cusation’ to the world.

My mom kept her smile in place, another skill we’d acquired over the years. “I doubt it, unless he wants to be known as a dirty old man.”

I didn’t have to fake my responding laughter.

Then I spotted the young woman blocking the path ahead and exhaled through my teeth. It was Jenny Pisano, a neighbor who likes me almost as much as Robert. Her intention to confront me couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d been wearing a sign. 

Jenny and I had been childhood best friends, but her mom quashed that after
Conversions
. Then, on her sixteenth birthday, Jenny embraced her life’s ambition to birth as many children as possible—joining a group I sarcastically refer to as the sacred vessels. The only labor a sacred vessel knows is in childbirth and I’d written a scathing article denouncing the practice years ago.

The resulting antagonism from Jenny had become commonplace, but this public fascination with it was new. Nearly half the square stood waiting for some sort of showdown. What did they expect me to do, challenge a pregnant woman to pistols at dawn?

My mother felt the same vibe. “This setting is all wrong,” she murmured as we kept walking. “It should be high noon with an old saloon sign creaking.”

“Don’t forget the lone tumbleweed blowing across the road,” I muttered, contemplating my adversary. With her dishwater brown hair and muddy eyes, Jenny is the poster child for our local gene pool. (Until the first sailors made
their way here a few generations back we were on the verge of inbreeding.) 

We came to a halt in front of Jenny’s stomach—currently serving double duty as incubator and blockade. Not only was there no graceful way around it, but the sooner Jenny spoke her piece, the sooner things would return to normal.

She gave me a toothy grin that unnerved me more than any of Robert’s scowls. “Good morning, Rory. How are you today?”

If her bristling posture and feral smile hadn’t already alerted me to her intentions, the syrupy sweetness of her tone would have. There was no doubt I’d walked into some sort of ambush, but short of sprinting back inside I had no other option but to let Jenny take whatever shot she planned to take.

I responded in a voice so deliberately calm it sounded lifeless. “Good morning, Jenny. I was just on my way to see if anyone had letters to be written.”

Though I’d said nothing unusual, I could tell I’d given her the exact opening she’d hoped for.

“Why, what a coincidence! There’s a letter I was hoping you’d write for me today. I want to assure my friend Meredith that the mandatory youth education requirement you proposed two months ago has failed to pass. Again.” Her smile stretched so widely it rivaled her stomach.

It was a verbal sucker punch, and I lost my breath for a moment. A few sheets of the city-manufactured, white paper I ordered especially for Market Day drifted from my limp hand into the mud, forgotten.

Despite my rule to never be seen upset in public, I couldn’t help myself. “But the vote was scheduled for September!”

Jenny exhaled in a show of regret. “I know, Rory, but we decided this matter wasn’t really relevant to the council.”

I stared at her, incredulous. “How can community education not be relevant?”

She patted her bulging stomach, once again smiling. “The mothers of this community believe parenting decisions
should be left to those charged with the sacred duties of motherhood. We have the right to decide what our children do, and who we’ll allow them to spend time with.”

And that was the crux of it. Because of my mother’s book, I was deemed unworthy to teach their children. As my hands fisted at my sides, my mother laid a gentle hand on my shoulder, a reminder that punching a pregnant woman in the face wouldn’t go over well.

Not trusting me to speak, my mother intervened. “It was gracious of you to let us know, Jenny. It truly shows your character. And if you ever change your mind, our classes are always open to anyone who wishes to attend—including adults, if you’d like to broaden your own horizons. Perhaps if
you
learned to read you’d have a better grasp of what you’re denying your children. Have a lovely day.”

I offered no resistance as my mother steered me toward the bakery, churning my paper further into the mud and rendering it a lost cause. The bakery line had dwindled during our exchange and I mustered a smile for Skipper, one of our favorite students and the son of Barbara, our local baker. After we’d received our breakfasts, we parted ways and I walked to the corner of the courtyard.

Since letter writing demands little space, I have no formal setup for my services. Instead, I work out of my best friend Amy’s booth. Amy Bingham and her mother moved here ten years ago and quickly established themselves as the finest garment makers around.

It takes someone strong and loyal to befriend the town outcasts, but strength and loyalty are two of Amy’s foremost qualities and she owes them to her mother. Comparing my maternal baggage to Amy’s is like comparing a lunch bag to a steamer trunk.

Ms. Bingham suffers from some sort of mental disorder and her former square petitioned for her removal after a series of violent outbursts. Since Amy’s siblings had already left home, Amy came with her, telling everyone here Ms. B. suffers from Alzheimer’s. It’s not the strongest cover story, but it makes people uncomfortable enough not to question it.

Some days Ms. B. is pleasant, and other days she’s… not. Today looked like a good day, and Amy smiled gratefully as I delivered the muffin I’d brought for Ms. B. Amy’s hands didn’t break rhythm as I plopped onto the rickety stool beside her, blinking at her latest outfit.

Though Amy camouflages her mom’s problems with tidy braids and navy blue dresses, she wears her own personality for the world to see. She refuses to waste her leftover snips of yarn and fabric and today’s ensemble featured an explosion of hand-knit pastel ruffles. As always, her golden curls were piled atop her head to avoid getting tangled in her work. This hairstyle also serves as a receptacle for spare knitting needles and crochet hooks and is constantly at some stage of tumbling down.`

With her sense of fashion, Amy is adorable in a way reminiscent of a fugitive from a faerie asylum. She has enormous gray eyes with long lashes, a ridiculously pert nose and her mouth quirks up when she smiles.

I took a fritter out for her next break and dug into my own, but she was more interested in chatting. “How are you holding up after your encounter with Jenny? You look pale.”

My pallor had more to do with last night’s blood draw than Jenny, but Amy knew nothing about that. “About as well as you’d expect. How’d you hear about it?”

Amy gestured toward her mother, now contentedly detangling a clump of… something. “I overheard it on our way here. We were running late this morning. Mom had a fit about wanting clam chowder for breakfast.”

My lip curled at the thought, but Amy and her mom were originally from Massachusetts. Things occasionally got ugly when Ms. B. forgot there was no ocean in western New York. “She accepted her corn muffin, so maybe she’s over it?”

Amy watched her mother successfully extract an ice blue ribbon. “She looks better, but we’ll skip tonight’s community dinner to be safe.”

“Aw, that sucks.” Market day dinners weren’t nearly as much fun without Amy.
             

She shrugged. “Not the first time, won’t be the last.”

Her mouth had tightened and I changed the subject. “Did you hear about my fun with Robert last night?” My diversion worked and I brightened to see her mouth quirk back up.

“How’d you earn demerit number two? I overheard the mayor ask about it and Robert practically foamed at the mouth.” Amy set her knitting down and massaged her fingers before popping a miniscule crumb of fritter into her mouth.

I hastily swallowed my own mouthful. “Was he still working from previous scripts?”

She giggled. “What do you think?”

We scowled and spoke in unison. “
She CIRCUMVENTS the demerit SYSTEM!”
Robert was nothing if not predictable. Credits serve as our currency, with each demerit deducting five credits from next month’s allotment. Ironically, the money from mother’s book makes me independent from the system, and therefore from Robert’s attempts to punish me for being her daughter.

Having exhausted the subject of Robert, we turned to greet my mother as she returned from the vault with an encyclopedia of plants. She barely acknowledged us before heading to the adjoining stand run by her own best friend, Beverly.

As an herbalist, Beverly can afford to buck public opinion regarding the company she keeps. People take botany seriously in a community with no commercial medication. One of the foragers must have found something unique because mom and Bev began squabbling immediately.

Personally, I caught the phrase ‘variegated leaves’ and tuned them out.

Amy wasn’t interested either. “Will we be seeing Nicky today?” She fluttered her lashes as she spoke.

Since it was Amy, I laughed. “He’ll be here later, but I’ve told you a hundred times, Nicky is only a friend.”

“You’ve told me
two
hundred times.” She broke into a giggle. “I just don’t believe you,” she sing-songed. “He likes you
and
he’s gorgeous.”

“He has to like me. Our parents have been friends forever.”

Amy folded her arms and stared me down.

“Okay, he’s gorgeous,” I admitted, “but that’s not how it is between us. You know I’d tell you if something happened.”

“I don’t know. You two spend an awful lot of time alone for just friends…”

I grabbed the nearest knitting needle and gave Amy a quick jab in the thigh. In response, she whipped a similar scimitar from her hair (which promptly collapsed) and started a mock swordfight.

Our battle ended in a stalemate when my first customer arrived. Sheepishly, I surrendered my weapon to its rightful owner, who used it to re-anchor her curls into a lopsided mound that would be lucky to last fifteen minutes.

Five monotonous letters later, I was ready to head to dinner when a pair of tanned hands grabbed me from behind and swept me into equally tan arms. As my feet left the ground, I realized the Carriero men had arrived—or at least Nicky had. I didn’t see Luigi, but Dominic made it difficult to look elsewhere.

If Jenny Pisano represents the worst of the local gene pool, Dominic Carriero represents the best. His golden skin never pales, his Italian eyes can make even Ms. B. blush, and his hair is a tumble of brown curls he conveniently ‘forgets’ to trim. (This absentmindedness also extends to his shaving, leaving him with stubble that ‘coincidentally’ accents his cheekbones.)

My feet hadn’t touched the ground before a crowd of bargain hunters began swarming in hopes of catching Nicky’s attention. Hamming it up, he dipped me backward until Skipper and a few other kids applauded. As soon as he hauled me upright I blushed like only a redhead could while
Nicky blew kisses to the crowd, accepting the laughter and approval as his due.