Crimson Tide

By Nathaniel Blackwood

Cynara: A warrior raised by Native Americans who struggles even now to fit into a world so different than the one she knew long ago.

Blain: A young man forced back into a life of crime to support what is left of his family.

Dmitri: A Russian crime lord who is much more than meets the eye.

Mikael: A vicious Clansman who will stop at nothing to rip Cynara and Blain apart, or simply rip Blain apart.

These and other characters clash in this supernatural romance, where time is fluid, cultures blend and human concepts lose their meaning entirely.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathaniel Blackwood
• Release date: Aug 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465814210

Nathaniel Blackwood

I have been writing books since I could read, fascinated with the ability to create and live in my own worlds. Since I was very little I wrote short stories, mostly horror and comedy, based off of things I loved when I was younger such as Goosebumps, Hank the Cowdog, The Secrets of Droon, The Hardy Boys and more. I completed my first full-length novel two years ago, a vampire book called Crimson Tide, inspired by stories such Underworld and, of course, Anne Rice. I am currently working on several projects including a Nortic story filled with Dryads and wolves called Mourning Tides, and a Pagan versus Christianity novel called Divinity. If you enjoy what you read, please feel free to follow me here or on my FaceBook page.

Book preview

Prologue

Rays of moonlight streamed down between the branches of the forest, falling upon a scene that contradicted the concepts of human reality.

Blain's legs pumped up towards his chest, and then plummeted downwards to slam into the soft earth, digging deep trenches as he sped along. He panted for breath, more out of panic than of any real need for oxygen. He didn't seem to require much of that lately.

He glanced over his shoulder at the giant wolf as it thundered along behind him, gaining ground with every leap and bound. The creatures' eyes glowed brightly and it's mouth hung open, eager to sink it's impressive fangs into it's prey.

How had it come to this? Just weeks before he had been a nobody, a city boy struggling to survive. Now he was plunged into a world that he had previously thought to be the works of fiction, running for his life through the mountains of Montana.

He returned his eyes to the front in time to dodge a tree and stumbled, his feet catching the protruding length of a root. His breath caught in his throat and he planted his hands on the ground, his momentum carrying him head over heels to land flat on his back.

The wolf's heavy panting drew closer at an alarming rate as Blain leapt to his feet and spun to face the monster head on.

The last thing he saw before he felt the impact was the wolf's gaping maw, open wide to swallow him whole.

Chapter One

Cynara Lativa strode into the Crimson Tide, the night club her family owned. It was around midnight and was just starting to get crowded. Music boomed and people danced, the bar area a sea of bodies.

Cynara walked across the room to the heavy oak double doors that led to the clan-only section of the bar. The guards allowed her to pass and she walked down a short hallway to another set of doors. Opening them revealed a much calmer scene, the loud music from the main section of the club not even audible in here.

A bar was on the far side of the room, the wall behind it lined with wine bottles. Seven seating areas with sofas and chairs were scattered about the room, all of them filled with patrons. Most sipped from their wine glasses, sitting quietly or talking to their fellow clan members.

She crossed to the bar, passing a group of Servenas' as she did, the serpent clan. One stood to intercept her as she passed, walking smoothly beside her to the bar.

Cynara, how good to see you. It has been a while, the man said. He was thin, very thin, and tall, his skin the pale white that was typical of a clansman. His voice rolled in a perfectly audible whisper, almost as though he were hissing his words.

Cynara smiled stiffly and nodded, not slowing her stride. Yes, Luther. You have not graced the Tide with your presence for months now.

Luther smiled widely in return, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. I have been busy of late. Traveling, you know. Preparing my clan for the coming Meet. Three weeks... The day draws near.

Cynara walked behind the bar, relieving her sister Dana, who went to check on their customers not at the bar.

Very close. It is hard to believe the decade has already passed, Cynara replied, picking up a glass and cleaning it out in the sink.

Time does fly for those of the clans, Luther agreed. Why, I remember my first Meet as though it were last year. The excitement, the mystery... Have you any Initiates to submit?

Cynara eyed him carefully. As a rival clan, the Servenas' didn't need to know such delicate information as that. Taking a new clan member to a Meet for Initiation was something that wasn't overly common, and it was considered fair play to take out an Initiate of a rival clan so long as they weren't officially of the clan yet.

No. None, she answered. Truthfully, as it happened. None of her family had found anyone that interested them this decade, which wasn't uncommon. Only two had been Initiated to clan Lativa since her, and that had been over two centuries before. What of the Servenas clan. Any new faces?

Luther smiled again, attempting to appear charming. No. No one has caught my interest, I’m afraid. We did find one, five years ago. But that is a long and dangerous amount of time to wait for Initiation, as you well know.

Cynara knew alright. She herself had been forced to wait six years before her first clan meet, hiding out with the Lativa's and keeping on the move before she was safely an official member.

Well, have a nice night, Cynara. Wish your father well from me, Luther said, placing his left fist over his chest and nodding in farewell.

I will. I am sure he will be pleased to hear that you came.

Oh, I am certain he already knows, Luther said. He turned to leave, his serpentine eyes glinting.

Of course he knows, Cynara thought to herself. When someone of Luther's stature entered the house of another clan it was noteworthy to say the least.

Her sister Dana came over from a group of Wylven boys, a rambunctious bunch indeed, howling with laughter and smacking one another enthusiastically.

I hate wolves, Dana sighed, rolling her eyes as she set a tray piled with glasses on the bar. They drink twice as much as everyone else and make ten times as much noise.

As long as they pay, who can complain? Cynara replied, taking the tray and carrying it over to the sink.

I can. Those bastards run on testosterone. One nipped at me as I passed, Dana growled, extending her right arm. A small cut marred the skin about six inches up from her wrist. If that scars, I'm going to be seriously pissed off.

Cynara smiled. Her sister Dana was the youngest of the Lativa family, having joined them when she was seventeen twenty years before. She had retained her attitude over the past couple of decades. It was to be expected, but it never failed to amuse, and annoy, Cynara.

Any special requests? Cynara asked, setting the last glass up on the rack to dry off.

No, Dana sneered. She tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder in contempt, her blue eyes alight. You know them. Dogs have no imagination. They just want their usual, three bottles.

Cynara raised an eyebrow and looked over at the Wylvens. Five of them sat, if you could call it sitting. So violent and energetic were they that they looked as if they were ready to leap out of their chairs. Three more bottles? That seems a bit much, even for them.

Bloodthirsty bunch, Dana shrugged. Gorging themselves to celebrate the upcoming Meet, I suppose.

Cynara pulled three bottles down and set them on Dana's tray.

Could you tend the bar in a moment? I need to speak with Jacob, Cynara asked, referring to their father and leader of the Lativa clan.

Yeah, sure. Everyone else is nice and quiet tonight, I should be able to handle it alone.

Thank you.

Cynara walked to the door that stood behind the bar and entered the hallway, then closed the door behind her before turning left and heading down to her fathers' office. A pair of large ornate oak doors much like those separating the two sections of the bar stood at the end of the hall, old-style pulls on them.

She knocked twice, then grabbed one of the rings and pulled. The door swung open easily on its hinges, revealing her father sitting behind his desk as he spoke with her brother Zach.

Zach was a huge man in his early thirties, standing at about six foot eleven with broad shoulders and long blonde hair. He looked like a true Norseman, which was fitting, because he was. He was the eldest of the clan at well over a thousand years, and had a kind heart. He had also been the first to join Jacobs' family six hundred years before.

He had always had a soft spot for Cynara and they were great friends. His real name was Bjorneggar, but a name like that brought with it far too much attention, which he already attracted with his sheer size.

Jacob, on the other hand, was a rather small and lithe man of about five foot six. He was unimposing and inconspicuous, which was misleading, him being one of the most powerful clan leaders in the world.

Cynara, Zach greeted in his deep booming voice, a wide grin cracking his handsome face. Nice to see you again.

Cynara hugged him and withdrew again, smiling brightly. You too, Zach. How is the ranch?

Zach worked on the family ranch along with their sister Deborah and brother Jonathan, a small cattle ranch of only about forty acres in Vermont where they raised cattle for the bars’ supply.

It's well. Father was just giving me an assignment to check out some land in Texas. We might be expanding our resources. Deborah is already there.

Jacob stood and walked around the desk to her. He took her hand and kissed it lightly. Indeed. If all goes as planned we will be supplying more than just the Crimson Tide, he purred. In the mean time we are two short in Vermont. I would like you to go up and help Jonathan. The two of you should manage until Zach and Deborah get back in a few days.

Cynara nodded eagerly. Yes, father. I could use the fresh air, I never have quite gotten used to the city.

I know precisely what you mean, Zach replied. I still dream of the ocean spray on my face, the bucking of a ship beneath my feet.

One does not forget their past life, Jacob agreed. Not ever.

Cynara's throat tightened. That was precisely what she was afraid of. She sometimes wished she could forget it all, even the memories of her precious Hania.

Perhaps especially him.

She shoved those thoughts aside and snapped her gaze back to Jacob. When shall I leave?

Tomorrow, around noon. The shipment of feed should be in by then. I need you to stop by the grain warehouse on your way, Zachary tells me we are running low on horse feed.

Cynara nodded. As you wish. I will be there by tomorrow night.

She bade them both farewell and headed out the door and down the hall. She passed the door to the bar and headed through the storage rooms, where they had several large walk-in freezers.

She exited out the back into the alley and made her way to her truck, mind wandering. Perhaps she would ask her father if she could work on the new property in Texas if they bought it. She didn't much care for Texas. The humidity was painful, but she hated the city. She had lived in New York for fifty years and had loathed every second of it. The sheer number of people, combined with the lack of wildlife and polluted air made her feel suffocated.

She belonged in the wilds.

So caught up in her thoughts she didn't even notice when the man behind her shouted for her to hand over her money the first time. He accentuated the second request with a rough punch to her shoulder. She whirled around with a hiss, eyes burning brightly. She slashed at his wrist, long nails leaving four deep gashes up his arm and knocking the small pistol right out of his hand.

He stared at her in shock for a moment. You little-- he started, pulling out a switchblade and flicking it open.

Cynara stared at him calmly and he froze in place, knife extended with a dumbfounded expression on his face. She gazed into his eyes for a long time, and he began to shake and whimper softly.

After she was sure she had gotten her point across she turned and opened the door to her truck. Go, she said, closing the door and starting it up.

The man didn't hesitate. He threw his knife to the ground and scrambled away, fully comprehending how narrowly he had avoided death.

Junkies, she muttered in disgust. She pulled out onto the street and drove off in the direction of her apartment.

Chapter Two

Blain Walker was average at best. He worked two jobs, one of them just as demeaning as the other and their combined income not even covering half of his expenses. Tonight he was working at Le Petite Pierre's, a French restaurant that desperately sought to be snobbish and upper class, but never quite seemed to achieve the 'upper class' part.

He shoved past through the crowded kitchen, making his way to his place in the world, the enormous sink piled high with dirty dishes.

He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and stared at his reflection in the soapy water glumly. His short blonde hair looked as though it hadn't been tended to in days, and his icy-blue eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

He grabbed the nearest plate and began scrubbing it, hoping as always that the place would get robbed and that the thief would go crazy, wiping out the staff with a machine gun.

But he wasn't that lucky, and he knew it.

He glared hatefully over at Jean-Luc Pierre, the owner and self-declared head chef, his boss, who made it perfectly clear every single day that Blain was an insignificant insect that was lucky to be cleaning his delicious food off of his expensive dishes. Blain, having tasted the slop that the man delved out at fifty dollars a plate, strongly disagreed, though silently.

He snorted at the mans' name, for though the Pierre insisted that he was French, he had never heard the man speak a word of it other than oui, and always in that smug tone that made Blain want to punch him in the throat.

That and when he got angry, which was often, he reverted to a thick Brooklyn accent.

Blain scrubbed dish after dish, attempting to keep up with the constant flow, but by the time he cleaned a few an entire stack would be clunked down beside him. He sighed as he saw the fat blob of a man waddle over. Here we go, he muttered, continuing his scrubbing.

Walker! What ze ‘ell do you tink you are doing? You tink zis ees a diner, boy? Pierre barked in his awful faux French accent, his fat wet lips stumbling over the words messily.

No, sir. I'm doing the best I can to keep up. I apologize for my lack of skill, Blain replied sarcastically.

Yes, you do lack there significantly, Pierre agreed, totally missing his tone. Jeest speed things up, or you will never work in zis town again, are we clear?

Blain nodded silently and continued scrubbing.

What was that? Pierre spat, attempting to cross his short arms over his fat chest.

Yes, sir. I won't let you down, Blain said, looking up from the plate he was scrubbing and wondering to himself what kind of damage it might inflict if flung at this range.

I am sure zat you will, Pierre snorted, turning to hassle one of his chefs.

Blain kept on scrubbing over the next four hours, the place emptying out until he was the only one left. He finished up then went into the dining section of the restaurant, where he began vacuuming and replacing tablecloths where needed, getting the place ready for the next night of business.

He locked up and left well after one in the morning, making his way down the dark street to the subway three blocks away. On the way he passed several bums, sound asleep in their cardboard boxes. With a heavy sigh he considered what it would be like to have that kind of freedom.

He was meeting with his friend Benny the next morning, who said he had a job lined up for Blain that would pay well. Maybe he would actually cover his rent this month.

He pushed through a line of people that blocked most of the sidewalk outside of a nightclub named Crimson Tide, many of them about his age, early twenties, though heavily pierced and covered in tattoos for the most part. He shook his head in disgust at the smell of booze and cigarette smoke that clung to them.

He broke through the other side of the crowd and made his way down the steps to the subway. He had promised his mother that he would come over that night, though she probably wouldn't even remember him doing so, having been drunk at the time. As usual.

The subway smelled of urine and sweat and was lit with lights that seemed to be perpetually on their way out, flickering and buzzing softly. He moved through the filthy, tiled tunnels to the train station, reaching the platform just in time and jumping through the doors just as they closed.

At least something has gone right tonight, he thought as he sat down next to someone he hoped was a woman, though he sincerely doubted it.

He mulled over what Benny had told him over the phone during the train ride. Apparently he was going to be delivering some packages from the docks where Benny worked across town to some bar. It sounded illegal, not to mention dangerous, but it paid a hefty sum and he needed cash badly.

He exited the train several stops later and went up to street level. The neighborhood here was mostly apartments, but the general feel to it was the same. Dank and decrepit. But what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't afford his own rent, having to pay his mothers’ more often than not. She had to blow any spare cash she got on whiskey after all, as she apparently breathed the stuff.

He entered the apartment building and crept up the stairs quietly, trying not to alert the landlady he was there. Hopefully within a few days he would have the cash to pay rent, but at the moment he had seven dollars to his name.

He reached the fourth floor without the landlady barreling out to demand rent and unlocked the door to his mothers’ apartment. The door creaked open and the first thing he saw were the three bottles that were strewn across the floor, papers and pictures littered beside them.

He closed the door and sighed, closing his eyes for a moment and steeling himself, then walked into the living room.

As expected his mother sat on the sofa, teary eyed, a photo album in her lap. She held glass in one hand, a bottle in the other and she didn't even look up as he approached, so involved was she in her misery.

Blain's heart broke, as it always did when he saw her. His father had died a decade before when he was twelve, killed in a robbery at his shop for the thirty dollars in the register and a few packs of cigarettes. Blain had raised himself from that day on, having to take care of both himself and his mother, who had hidden herself in a bottle ever since. He hadn't seen her so much as smile in ten years.

Blain stood in front of her for a long time, waiting for her to notice him. As she sobbed and lifted the glass to her lips he cleared his throat and she gasped, dropping the glass to the floor.

She glared at him resentfully. Blain, you scared me to death! she slurred. How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me like that?

More times than I can count, Mom, Blain replied. He picked up her glass and pried the bottle away from her, ignoring her protests.

He walked to the kitchen, collecting the bottles off the floor as he went and set the glass in the sink. He poured what little was left in the bottle down the drain and tossed the four bottles into the trash can. Only four so far this week, then.

She’s cutting back, he thought grimly.

He moved back into the living room and began picking up the papers and pictures that littered the floor. His mother watched him blankly from the couch, lingering somewhere between drunkenness and passing out.

So, what have you been up to, Bunny? she asked, rubbing her wet, red eyes.

Not much, Mom. Just been working, Blain said, picking up a picture of his father and him playing baseball in Central Park.

Have you met any nice girls lately?

He stood and began separating the pictures from the letters and such. No. No girls. I've just been working and sleeping, no time for much else.

When would I have time to meet women? he wondered to himself, shocked as he always was at how blind his mother was to their situation. One mishap and they would both be living on the street.

Aw, Bunny, you should know better than to work yourself that hard. When was the last time you had a date? Amy Summers? That was almost two years ago, she chided, pulling herself to her feet shakily.

Yes, almost, he sighed. It had been over three years since he had dated Amy. He placed the neat piles on the coffee table, knowing they would be all over the room again come dawn.

He walked over to his mother, steadying her and guiding her to her room. He flicked on the light as they entered and he wasn't surprised to find another two bottles on the floor, along with several dozen photos and a bed that hadn't been made since he visited the week before. He eyed the bottles wearily. So much for her cutting back that week. Six bottles in four days. That was about average. He helped her into bed, and then began cleaning up the bedroom.

He sorted through the pictures and his throat tightened as he picked up a picture of all three of them, dressed up for a Mets game, a foam finger on his hand.

You look so much like him, you know, he heard his mother croak.

He closed his eyes, a tear running down his cheek. Yes, Mom. I know.

He was so handsome...Did I ever tell you about the night we met? she asked in a dreamy tone.

No. No, you never have, he lied, forcing the lump down his throat and standing. He sorted through the papers and stacked them on the desk.

I was at a school dance. I couldn't have been more than seventeen. No one had asked me to come with them. I was sitting alone, feeling like the only person in the world, when he came over and held out his hand. She sighed and closed her eyes. He never said a word. He just took my hand, and the moment we touched I knew I would love him for the rest of my life. We danced the whole night through, until we were the only ones in the gymnasium. We danced long after the music had stopped, and until the janitor told us we had to leave.

Blain turned and forced a smile onto his face. What a beautiful story, Mom, he said in what he hoped was a cheerful tone. He had heard it a thousand times before of course, almost every time he visited. It seemed to give her some measure of peace to tell it though, so he continued to listen to it, time and time again.

He collected the bottles off the floor and turned to say goodnight, but she was already fast asleep. He clicked off the light and went to the kitchen to dispose of the bottles, glancing at the clock. He shook his head in dismay. It was half-past two in the morning. He wouldn't get home until almost four at the earliest if he tried. He may as well just sleep on the sofa.

He turned out the lights and lay down, propping his head up with a cushion and gazing out the window at the apartment building across the street. All of the windows were black, the people inside fast asleep. He wondered if their lives were as bad as his. He drifted off, mumbling two words to himself before sleep took him.

Probably not.

Chapter Three

Blain awoke to the bright light that poured in through the window. He yawned and looked around, confused for a moment as to where he was. He nodded glumly in recognition and got up to go to the bathroom.

He exited the bathroom several minutes later and went down the hall to check on his mother. The door creaked open and he peeked in cautiously. She was passed out, buried under the covers. She would probably remain there until late afternoon.

Blain sighed and looked at his watch. His eyes widened and he closed the door quickly, rushing down the hall and out the door. He snagged his jacket as he departed. It was ten in the morning, and he was already an hour late to meet with Benny for his new job. The warehouse was at least a half hour away.

He flew down the stairs, skipping down three at a time and grasping at the railing for dear life. He heard a door slam above him and Mrs. Valdez began shouting about rent being due.

I'll pay you tonight! he called up the stairs, barreling out the door and onto the sidewalk. He paused for a moment to get his bearings, then ran full out to the subway station, weaving between complaining New Yorkers who always had something colorful to say.

He couldn't believe he overslept on the first day. Hopefully Benny could swing it so it didn't look too bad, or maybe he could somehow make up the lost hour somewhere. Who knew when they needed the package to be delivered, after all?

He ran down the stairs and swiped his subway card, hardly slowing.

It was wishful thinking he knew, though. Knowing Benny and the type of people he associated with, the clients he would be delivering to wouldn't be too appreciative.

He arrived at the appropriate platform just as the train pulled away with an indecipherable crackling message over the intercom.

He swore loudly and glanced around. Nobody else even seemed to notice him, doubled over and gasping for breath though he was.

A half an hour later he shot out of the subway cars’ doors like a hockey puck, shoving past several people and dodging through the station as he scrambled up the stairs and along the street. He glanced at his watch. A quarter to eleven. Benny was going to kill him.

He ran, his legs and lungs burning, until he covered the last block and slid to a stop before a filthy old warehouse in a neighborhood of filthy old warehouses. He banged on the door loudly and then entered, gasping for air.

Benny? he called breathlessly.

Blain, get your ass in here, Benny yelled back from his office.

Blain winced and jogged across the room to the office. He wove through tables piled high with various objects such as DVD players and televisions, most if not all of them hotter than the sun.

Blain walked into the office and found Benny standing behind the desk, a scowl marring his already rough features. Benny was a thin man in his early forties who had seen a hard life. It had left its mark on him, giving his black eyes a dead and sunken appearance. He had a long scar from his nose to his jaw on his left side, and a thin, wiry mustache.

Blain had known Benny for about ten years. He used to do odd jobs for him, breaking into empty apartments and such. One apartment had proved to not be so empty about three years before, giving Blain a nice gunshot scar on his right shoulder and ending his career as a burglar. Blain hadn't spoken with him much since then, but he was desperate for cash, so when Benny had called him up he had responded.

I can't believe this, Blain. I do you a favor getting you this job, I promise my clients that you'll come through for them, my very dangerous clients I might add, and you show up late. Almost two God-damned hours late, Benny growled, shaking his head and moving to the back of the room to a refrigerator. You sure as hell better hope they're in a good mood.

Benny, I'm so sorry, I-- Blain started, but Benny just waved his hand over his shoulder, scoffing and pulling a package out of the refrigerator.

Save it, he said, handing over the package. Just get this across town like your life depends on it.

Benny told him the address and Blain turned to leave.

Oh, and Blain?

Blain paused in the doorway, looking back.

Your life does depend on it. Mine too.

Blain nodded blankly and rushed out of the warehouse, his already exhausted legs pumping furiously, propelling him along back to the subway with the package tucked tightly under one arm.

He came up out of the subway forty-five minutes later, finding himself in Chinatown. He moved through the throngs of people, ignoring the vendors shouting about their wares and made his way out of Chinatown and down a couple of blocks to a run-down bar. The sign out front was faded and dangling from one end, swinging slowly. It read; The Yellow Foxx, Est. 1943.

He knocked on the door nervously and glanced at his watch. Noon. Two hours late. This would be fun.

The door swung open with a creak, an enormous man in an expensive suit standing just inside. He took a huge bite out of an eggroll, seeming to swallow half of the thing without even bothering to chew.

Courier? he asked in a thick Russian accent.

Yeah, sorry I'm so-- Blain started, but the man stepped aside and waved him in impatiently, stuffing the other half of the eggroll down his throat.

Blain entered the dark bar and found it to be empty other than a few broken and scattered chairs and tables here and there. Most of the lights were shattered and stains marked the walls.

I, uh, like what you've done with the place, Blain said nervously, noting another two equally large men in the corner playing poker. Chinese food cartons sat on the table.

The man nodded, appearing to be one part bored, two parts stupid. Against the wall, legs apart.

Blain paused for a moment, then complied, praying that he was about to be searched for a weapon.

The man patted him down, blessedly avoiding his crotch, and then grabbed him by the shoulder roughly and turned him, shoving him in the direction of a stairwell. Blain stumbled and headed that way, the big man keeping close behind him.

He ascended the stairs and found himself in a slightly better lit and well kept area of the building. He walked down the hall and the man pushed past him, knocking on the door.

Boss? He is here.

Send him in, someone called from the other side, his accent much less obvious than the guards’, though still Russian.

The guard turned to Blain and pulled his jacket aside, revealing a very large glossy black gun. Watch yourself, yes?

Blain nodded quickly and forced a smile onto his face. The guard opened the door and motioned for him to enter, then closed the door behind him, staying outside.

Blain looked around the room for a moment. It was well lit and in much better shape than the rest of the building. A bookcase sat on one side of the room and a window on the other. A desk sat directly across from the door. A pale, thin Russian man in his late forties was seated behind it, looking through a stack of papers. His gray hair was slicked back, his face unshaven and rough, a pair of glasses resting on his hooked nose. He wore a spotless white suit with a blood red tie, and ignored Blain for a long time as he finished up reading the papers.

Blain stood very still, getting more nervous by the moment and trying not to breath too loudly.

The man finally set the papers down, tapping them on the desk. He removed his glasses and looked up. His thin lips parted to reveal yellowing teeth.

You are late, he said simply.

Unsure of how to respond Blain stared at him, the silence stretching on.

The man nodded and took a breath, standing up and setting his glasses down lightly. He walked around the edge of the desk and stood before Blain. He stared at him, a horribly calm expression upon his face, revealing nothing. He was about an inch taller than Blain, who was himself six foot one, but he must have weighed thirty pounds less, so skeletal was he. His grey eyes never blinked, boring into Blain's soul for several moments.

Package, he said finally, extending his hand.

Blain handed it over eagerly.

The Russian took it and set it on the desk, his back to Blain as he opened it and checked the contents. He glanced over his shoulder. Did you open it?

No, of course not. Not any of my business, I'm just the delivery boy, Blain stammered.

The Russian nodded and closed the box, turning back to Blain.

I am Dmitri, and as far as I am concerned, you are in my debt.

Blain flinched at that, but nodded in agreement.

Dmitri smiled humorlessly. Good. You are smarter than my last courier. He asked far too many questions.

The Russian went back behind his desk and opened a drawer, then bent and withdrew a beeper. He closed the drawer and came back over, handing the beeper to Blain.

When this goes off, you will drop everything and go to your friend Benjamin. He will give you a package, and you will deliver it to me promptly. You will not be late again.

Blain hooked the beeper to his belt, nodding yet again.

Dmitri stared at him for a moment, then pulled an envelope from his coat. You will go and give this to Benjamin. He will give you your share. If you even think of taking all of it and disappearing, I will ensure that you regret doing so very quickly.

Of course, sir. I would never be so foolish.

Dmitri slapped him lightly on cheek. Good. I am glad we understand one another. Keep it that way, and we shall both benefit greatly from this relationship.

The Russian sat at his desk and placed his glasses back upon his hooked nose, picking up the papers once more. Blain stood there for a minute longer, then turned and opened the door. He walked into the hall and past the guard, who winked at him and grinned widely.

Several moments later he stepped onto the street and heard the door snap closed loudly behind him.

Benny, what the hell have you gotten me into? he muttered to himself. He looked at his watch. He had to be at his second job in a half an hour. He would be late for that too. He swore and turned, heading for Benny’s warehouse.

Chapter Four

Cynara sat in her apartment, reading from an old leather-bound book. It was a history of her race, and had been written several hundred years before by an Outcast, one who had been forced into hiding shortly before the formation of the clans.

She looked out the window, closing the thick book carefully so as not to crack the parchment. It was about noon, time for her to head over to the warehouse to pick up the shipment of feed.

She got up and walked over to the bookcase that stretched along the wall, hundreds of books of all shapes and sizes lining it. She had read each one dozens of times and treasured them all. She slid the thick tome into its place on the shelf, then turned and left the study, walking through the kitchen on her way out. The kitchen was completely bare, containing no pots, pans, plates, utensils or even food. A cabinet door stood half-open, revealing several cobwebs. She walked into the hall and grabbed her jacket and keys on her way out the door.

She thought again of the ranch in Texas. It would be so nice to get out of the city permanently. A few decades out in the open was just what she needed. She entered the stairway, moving down from the third floor.

Maybe after a few years I could convince Jacob to let me run a place in Colorado, she mused. That would be a job she could spend an eternity doing up in the crisp mountain air.

She exited the stairs and walked out onto the sidewalk, turning right and heading for her truck, which she had parked in the car garage two blocks away.

She walked quickly with her head down, lost in thought, bumping into people now and then. The clans were more excited than they had been in years. They were looking forward to the clan Meet that drew near, where the new clan members were Initiated and their leaders debated on trade agreements, territories and the like. Every clan and every member would be there, hundreds of them. The only ones of their kind who would be absent were those poor souls unfortunate enough to not be of a clan, Outcasts that were scattered around the world, alone.

She moved through the throngs of people, becoming more and more aware of her surroundings. An unconscious hunger built as she was distractedly considering her course. She felt the people move around her, hearing their pulses thump, seeing their eyes, so unknowing and bored, lost in their own tiny little worlds. Her own eyes drifted down a bit and she examined their inviting, smooth throats as she passed.

Her breath quickened and she shoved through the crowd, turning down into the parking garage and away from the mob. She leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes and forcing her breathing to slow. Her heart pounded against her ribs and she fought the convulsions that racked her body.

Once she had regained some semblance of control she berated herself for not feeding before she had left her apartment. Such a huge mistake could lead to her becoming an Outcast herself.

She stood there for a long time, eyes closed, waiting for the urge to pass. When it did she slowly opened her eyes, taking a small step forward in the direction of her truck. She still felt lightheaded, but she was in control at least. She sped up until she was jogging, hoping she didn't meet anyone between there and her truck.

Luck was with her, and she reached her truck with no incidents. She jumped up into the bed with a twitch of her ankles, fumbling with her keys. She opened the lockbox in the back, revealing a handful of items in case of an emergency. These included several lengths of rope, a tarp and a blue cooler. She pulled the top off of the cooler, bringing into view several mostly-melted icepacks that she had to replace every few days, and three floating packets of blood, the air in them keeping them bobbing at the surface.

She snatched one up eagerly, puncturing it near the top with one fingernail and bringing it up to her mouth, drinking deeply. It tasted sweet, like an apple. The red fluid poured into her mouth in a fountain. Her eyes closed, and she lost herself in the amazing sensations that rippled through her body as she fed.

She drained the packet dry, lowering it and breathing deeply. She stood for a moment, then dropped the packet into the lockbox once more and closed the lid, jumping down and getting into the trucks’ cab. She couldn't believe she had allowed herself to become that desperate. It always surprised her how suddenly the urge came.

She pulled down the visor in front of her, examining herself in the mirror. Blood shone on her lips, stains streaking out around her mouth. She sighed and opened the glove box, pulling out a small black rag. She wiped the blood from her face, staring long and hard at herself in the mirror. She thought back to a time so long ago, when she was young. When she was human. She wondered what that girl would think of the Cynara she saw in the mirror today, a ravenous monster whose bloodlust was paralyzing if left for too long. She scowled at her reflection, snapping the visor back up, then tossed the rag back into the glove box and started up the truck, driving to the feed warehouse.

She arrived at the warehouse a short while later, pulling up out back and getting out. She was met by a fat, greasy haired man of about fifty years, his clothes looking as though they were the only ones he had ever worn.

Can I help you? he asked, his voice rough, almost as if he were coughing out the words.

Yes, I am here to pick up a shipment of feed, she replied, moving up next to the short man. Cynara wasn't tall by any means, measuring in at about five foot three, but the greasy man before her was even shorter.

Name? he growled, boredom that no doubt took years to perfect verily dripping from his every syllable.

Lativa.

He looked at his clipboard, and Cynara was disgusted to see stains all over the page there, probably from him running his hand through his hair. She hoped so, at least.

He nodded and waved her in the direction of the warehouse, grunting and adjusting his suspenders before turning and leading her inside.

She looked around the crowded warehouse curiously. Countless sacks of feed were piled throughout the huge room. Every possible variety of animal food was here, from goat feed to dog food, horse feed to bird seed.

The man led her to a pallet of about a dozen sacks of horse feed. This look alright? he asked, already scribbling on his clipboard that it was.

She nodded, amused, and knelt to ensure that the bags were all intact.

Walker! she heard the man bark.

She glanced up and saw a young man in his early twenties quickly move through the stacks of feed, tying a company apron around his neck as he did.

Walker, you're a half an hour late. Again! Remember what I told you last time? the greasy haired man spat.

Yes, sir, the Walker muttered in resignation. If I'm late again I'll be out on my ass so fast my head will spin. I'm sorry, sir, my mother, she needed--

Save your lies, boy, and load this into the lady’s truck. I'm deadly serious when I say I'm going to start looking for a replacement for you. You'd best hope I don't find anyone even a little less useless than you are.

Cynara stared at the young man, her heart fluttering weirdly in her chest. His short blonde hair was messy, like it hadn't been brushed in days, and though his blue eyes had dark rings around them from lack of sleep they still sparkled with fires of determination.

He glanced at her for a moment, then moved to a forklift nearby, starting it up and picking up the pallet of feed with it.

Cynara's gaze never left