Year of the Vampire Read online

  Year of the Vampire

  Sakurapu

  Digitally Published by

  WordLink Echo Press on Smashwords

  Year of the Vampire

  Copyright © 2016 by Sakurapu H.

  Cover Art by SelfPubBookCovers.com/Fantasyart

  Digital Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Also available on other digital distributors from Echo Press. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Prologue

  "Mottknight!"

  The single word echoed in the depths of the Baltic vault known only as the Onyx Crypt.

  "Mottknight! Again you disgrace your family name and the immortal realm!"

  The youth kneeling before Sir Normander decided he'd played the remorseful student long enough. He rose to his feet, keeping his elder's stare. It was a lethal stare, one that had brought many a young and brash vampire to trembling. Not him.

  Normander was old, even by vampire lifespans, and the flicker of amber torchlight didn't help his features. He sat on the throne of bones that had been shellacked by enamel so many times that the contours of skulls blended together, making any individual skull indiscernible. It was a relic, belonging to another, more traditionally vampiric time, but a throne even so.

  "How many times must you come here after failure?" Normander demanded of the youth. His black cloak was wrapped bat-like around him, giving him the appearance of a bat sitting down, right-side-up.

  "I don't consider embracing my heritage—your heritage," the youth dared to add, "—a failure." He grinned, a charming grin by most standards in the Human world where he'd used it to get close to a slender, pale neck; several necks, in fact. "And since when is acting on tradition such a crime? When did we decide to neuter our heritage?"

  Normander leaned forward, leering at the youth until the smaller figure lost some of his grin and began to tremble slightly. Normander's own grin was a frightful skull-tight smile that showed every tooth in his lean face, his well-developed fangs glinting in the dancing torchlight. "That decision was made centuries ago by minds far brighter than yours, boy. In seven hundred years of being hunted, slain, hiding, and begging for a drip of blood-morsel, wiser Ravens of the clans have decided what is best for all of the vampire realm."

  The youth stood straighter, feeling the eyes at the back of his head—those who sat in judgment of him—silently screaming his doom. He clutched his ebony cloak, hiding his now dwindling trembling as he tried to bolster his nerves. He gave Normander's pointy smile a weak grin. He shrugged, chuckling. "It was just a little bite, on a little neck."

  Normander dropped his smile, a grim look crossing his austerely thin face. "She was just a little nun. You've sufficiently undone centuries of work, Young Mottknight. Do you know why Bone follows your birth year?"

  Barely had the youth opened his mouth when Normander leaped to his feet.

  "Because fools like you are born and make us prey again! Always the Year of the Bone follows Vampire on the zodiac!" Normander boomed. "Always smartasses like you take privileges during their final exam and break our trust with the Human world!"

  "But it's so natural—"

  "Your Uncle Mortifal Mottknight set us back hundreds of years!" Normander shouted. "We had to start over from nearly the fifteenth century!"

  The youth felt the eyes of his elders burning into his dark hair from the back of his skull, but he ignored the pain. "Maybe it should be that way again! Let Humans live in fear of us again! Make—!"

  "Silent! Remarks like that got you sent back to Limbo for a decade," Normander said, lips curling so that his fangs were prominent. "Do you want to follow your uncle into Neverfall?"

  Now the youth felt his confidence slip. He shook his head, pale complexion appearing even more bloodless in the wrath of the Lord Vampire. "It was just one neck, Sir—"

  "One neck of the Church!" Normander seemed to grow larger, his cloak bristling in the chill breeze that suddenly howled through the catacombs. "You know the significance of that!"

  The youth shook his head, feeling the Baltic salt air cut into him like the stinging of a hundred pinpricks.

  "Yes, you do!"

  "But, I only—"

  "Another decade in Limbo, Young Mottknight!"

  The words sank into the youth's mind like the death knell of a hammer. He shook his head as the judgment rang into the chamber. A few snickers came from the onlookers behind him.

  "Sentence passed!" Normander's stony look pressed into the youth.

  "No . . . No, not another decade." The young vampire shook his head, dropping back down to one knee, both edges of his cloak pulled to his bent knee in contrite apology, looking much like a bat folding up. "Not that. Please . . ."

  "This will be your last chance. Next time you fail to reach your final exam years," Normander declared, "you will join your uncle in Neverfall."

  He shook his head, feeling his senses drop, and then his body fall. For a moment the flickering torchlight swirled, closing in on him, and the whispers of his elders rushed like rattling reeds. The cold Baltic air grew frigid, and he closed his eyes as his body went limp.

  The onyx floor resounded with the thud of the vampire youth's fall. He struggled to rise to his knees, but his muscles and bones wouldn't respond.

  "Oh, my child . . ." a woman's warm tone reached him.

  "Let him rise by his own power," he heard Normander say.

  He could imagine his mother's face, her displeasure at his summons, her concern at his fall.

  His shaky hands unclenched, losing his grip on this cloak edges, as he felt his senses abandon him.

  Again.

  Chapter One

  "Welcome to Glenndale High School, home of the Stingrays. We hope your years here will be memorable." Ivy Lancaster smiled. "Well? How's that? Too chipper? Too giddy? Too eager?"

  Lornie winced. "Why do you even want to be on the Welcome Wagon committee anyway?"

  Ivy shrugged, pushing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "It's a nice thing to do. Don't you think? And the NHS really looks fondly upon that kind of stuff for candidates."

  "But it's so slow."

  They stood at the juncture of hallways that made a hub of H-connections near the main office and counselors' offices. Thronging in from the front entry doors were 200 students, the last of the bus route, all rushing or trudging to first hour classes.

  "We only get new students what? Half a dozen times a year?" Lornie smiled and did a little finger wave to a tall, lanky boy walking by.

  Ivy followed her gaze as Jeremy Daniels wove out of sight with the other students. "Then I get first look-see of the new stock." She giggled. "Never hurts to see what new blood we've got to choose from, right?"

  Lornie looked at her with shock, brown eyes wide. "Ivybelle Lancaster. Stock? Is that how you view boys? Mere objec
ts?"

  "Oh, don't go all PC preachy on me." A blush rose from Ivy's neck to her cheeks. "We've got to start somewhere here. We're freshmen, Lornie. Three junior highs pour students into this high school. That's about nine hundred students. We'll get lost in the shuffle if we don't assert ourselves."

  "You? Assert yourself?" Lornie gave a throaty laugh. "Yeah, Ivy the Mighty."

  "Maybe not mighty, but . . . maybe just not a wallflower this year." She sent a wistful gaze out across the students milling the hall. "All the good ones will be gone if we don't move fast. Not all of us have a built-in love interest from the summer."

  Lornie's attention snapped to where Jeremy had last been seen. "Yeah . . ." She shrugged. "At least I didn't stalk my interest like Camille did."

  "He was a slippery one, wasn't he? The rare Vohn spotting in Rasperville." Ivy smoothed her long hair from her face and slipped her purse strap higher on her shoulder. "Anyway, an early look-see never hurts."

  "I never thought about it that way." Lornie smiled and waved at the front entrance. "There's Camille now. I'm going to first hour with her. You coming?"

  Ivy shook her head. "There's a new student in the counselor's office. My turn to greet." She smiled widely. "A boy."

  Lorni's attention shot back to her. "Oh?"

  "Freshman. Maybe in some of our classes."

  "I guess you do get first look. Okay, I'll catch you in third hour."

  "Bye." Ivy watched her meet up with Camille Anderson, the third spoke in their triangle of childhood friends. They were the blonde, the redhead, and the brunette; usually Camille was blonde, too, but since seventh grade, she'd gone dark, keeping her fair roots a shade of brown. Ivy headed to the counselor's office to meet with the rest of the Welcome Wagon and their new student.

  Counselor McMerkin was out, so it was just three other students in the cozy blue and burgundy office.

  Ivy closed the door behind her, a ready smile on her face. "Hi."

  Maeve Gretels stood at the counselor's desk, sleek in her black graphic T-shirt dotted with a constellation in glittery aurora borealis seed beads and jeans fitting snugly over her curvy figure. She wore a knowing smile, her clear complexion framed by wavy, deep brunette hair holding violet undertones, a brassy bronze chain at her shoulder holding her small purse. Ivy had never seen Maeve any less than perfectly put together in the three weeks of school. Maeve had been present during the freshman Welcome Wagon three-day workshop last August.

  "Hi," returned the other Welcome Wagon team member in the room.

  Ivy kept her smile in place and nodded at Damon Rogers. As a junior and more senior member of the team, she knew Damon would probably get first dibs on showing the new kid around.

  "Hey, sweetheart."

  Ivy's senses perked up at the male voice. She turned around, finding herself face to face with the new student.

  He slouched in the chair, smirking at her with an unspoken arrogance that needed no words. His black hair was combed back, but a few belligerent strands had fallen over his dark brows, his green-to-blue eyes holding Ivy's stare of wonder. He was layered in black T-shirt and black leather vest and Levi jeans, one shoulder lifted as he rested his elbow on the chair armrest.

  Ivy giggled a bit and blushed, watching him grin. "Hi. Are you the new student?"

  "Sure am." His eyes dropped over her, head to chest, then lower, to her skirt's hem, and then languidly lifted to meet her blue gaze. "Welcome to you, too, yeah."

  "Enough with the pleasantries," Maeve said. "Ivy, this is Dred Jacobin. He's a freshman and new to Glenndale High and Rasperville. Dred, this is Ivy, in your grade here." She looked to Damon. "Guess Ivy can handle this one."

  Dred chuckled.

  Ivy resisted a new blush.

  Maeve's tone grew icy. "So you can leave, Damon."

  First hour bell rang through the school of 900 students.

  "I'll need a hall pass," Damon said. He pushed his glasses back on his nose, his sandy blond hair in a thick shag over his face. "Mrs. Bruck—"

  "Tell her you were with me for the Welcome Wagon." Maeve smiled.

  "But she—"

  "Will accept." Maeve nodded to the door. "Don't worry about it, Damon."

  Damon nodded slowly and lifted a hand. "See you later, Ivy. Dred."

  "Later, daddio," Dred said.

  Ivy stared at Dred as the door closed.

  "Dred is transferring in from Canada. He's a little out of the loop," Maeve said as he put his boots up on the desk across from him, sufficiently blocking her off from Ivy. "He's being held back a year from his old school," Maeve added, wiping his feet off the desk with a quick flick of her hand. "He's got some catching up to do."

  Dred jolted as his boots hit the low-carpet floor. He scowled at her.

  "Because he couldn't keep up, most likely," Maeve said with a saccharine smile for Ivy.

  "Oh, remedial classes?" Ivy offered.

  "Now wait a minute. I don't need—" he began.

  "Hopefully it's not that much of a case," Maeve said, smiling more fully at Ivy. "Since he's in your grade," she said, grabbing a manila folder from the desk and thumbing through it, "I guess he can tag around with you for the day." She pulled out two pieces of paper and handed them to her. "Class schedule, petty info on Dredge."

  "Dred," he said.

  "Dred." Maeve watched Ivy glance through the pages. "Let him figure out his locker combination on his own. A small test of his reading and comprehension ability." Before he could speak, she turned on him. "Ivy is in your grade, not your class. Get that through your head right now, hotshot. She's a nice girl and has friends here, so hands off."

  He blinked twice and slowly stood up.

  Ivy looked far up at him. Nearly six feet, she estimated.

  Maeve turned to her, as if reading her mind. "It's mostly boots, Ivy."

  Ivy couldn't help but look down to Dred's feet. Yes, the boots did add several inches.

  Maeve opened the door and nodded to it, smiling. "Off we go. If you need any help, Ivy, let me know." She handed Dred a paper. "Dred, welcome to Rasperville and Glenndale High. May you graduate in peace."

  The door closed behind Ivy and Dred once they were in the hall and when she looked back, Maeve stood leaning against the office doorframe, her arms crossed over her beaded chest. Ivy couldn't quite read her expression—something between criticism and doubt.

  "First, I think we should find your locker," Ivy decided, smiling up at Dred.

  He tore his eyes from Maeve's pointed stare. "Yeah, that." He opened the folded paper Maeve had given him.

  "This way." Ivy stepped off down the side hallway that met the hub. "All the freshman lockers are down here."

  "Yours, too?" He grinned when she nodded over her shoulder at him.

  "The school is pretty basic," she said when he caught up with her and fell into step. "It's old, even for our county. Everything on the first and second floor is at right angles. Lot of the town has roots in European Old Countries, like Poland, Germany, Bulgaria, Russia. The official town dish is sauerkraut and kielbasa with pickled beets and pierogi on the side."

  "That should work." He looked high up at the dome high overhead. "Basic, yeah? What about the upper levels?"

  She followed his gaze, taking in the spectacular sight. Overhead rose four stories of Jacobean Revival architecture, topped by the Byzantium influenced dome spreading atop the arched stonework. The school walls were sable and deep amber tones, but the dome was lined with brass and bronze trim, the windows set with thick beveled glass. It was a style that ran through some of the older buildings in town. "Those vary," she said, head tilted to take in the magnificent sunlight glinting in from the autumn day. "The top is mostly angles, but the third floor has some usable space."

  "Yeah?" His arm nudged her shoulder. "You go up there much?"

  She glanced to him, swallowing quickly at the way he grinned at her without really smiling. It was in his eyes, something dark and quick. Something, Lornie would say, t
hat shouldn't be touched. "No." She hurried down the hallway as the class bell rang out. "Wow, first hour gone already. Come on. There's nothing on the upper levels anyway."

  "Very regal." His long arm swept up the side of the green and brown lockers set into the brick walls as they entered the freshman hall. "All this old building stuff."

  She nodded. "Character. Old buildings have character."

  "And ghosts."

  She shook her head and laughed, watching him chuckle. "No," she said, searching the locker numbers as students crowded. "No ghosts here."

  He leaned close to her ear. "You should make some."

  She bristled at his cool breath on her neck. She looked up at him.

  He laughed. "You look like you've seen one now, Ivy."

  She dropped her gaze back to the lines of lockers that made up the freshman hall. "So . . ." she looked at the paper he held, "locker four-seventeen." She pointed ahead to the left. "That should be near the corner."

  "So what is it? Ivy . . .? Ivy what?"

  "Ivybelle Lancaster."

  "Ah, so proper sounding." He stood straighter. "Ivy-belle of the House Lancaster." He chuckled. "Very proper. Got a boyfriend, Ivybelle?"

  "It's just Ivy. No one calls me Ivybelle." Except when they're mad or shocked at me, she thought, but didn't add that. "Just Ivy."

  "Okay for now."

  She led him through the shifting bodies of freshmen that had let out from class, wedging between four tall boys that represented the talent of last year's junior high basketball team. She ducked as one threw a bottle of water to another.

  "Where's your locker?" Dred was at her side as she presented locker 417 against the brick wall. He leaned against the slim metal door as she reached for the combination lock. He grinned and caught her hand, moving it too low for the lock.

  And too near his jeans pocket, she deemed. Her fingers curled in his grasp, her wrist automatically recoiling. "Uh, it's . . . it's over . . . over . . ." She cleared her throat and tried to pull her hand away.