Blood Family: Quest for the Vampire Key

By Mark Knight

“The important thing to remember is that vampires are not like what you see in movies, or comic books. They are evil beings, Daniel. And... they cannot be killed.”

Seventeen-year-old Daniel Dark is a dhampir - a half vampire. After a mysterious message reveals the truth about his origins, his superhuman powers and craving for blood begin to manifest with frightening speed.

On a desperate journey across America, Mexico, and mist-shrouded moors of England, Daniel searches for his birth mother, held captive by his real father - a master vampire named Dominus.

Hiding his dhampir identity, he teams up with Logan DuPris, a young English vampire hunter as deadly as she is beautiful.

To make matters worse, he is hunted by Pastor Nathan Dark, the man who adopted him... and now determined to destroy him.
The new dark paranormal adventure for Young Adult readers and beyond by Mark Knight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Knight
• Release date: Feb 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311246028

Mark Knight

Mark Knight grew up in Massachusetts, USA. Settling in the UK, Mark continued to write novels of differing genres, including horror and television scripts. Mark has worked on feature film scriptwriter, having scripted two horror scripts for Hollywood's Little Slices of Death production company and one for Illusion Studios. He also won several short story competitions, and has had his work featured in published anthologies. Mark concentrates now on Young Adult fantasy/horror/science fiction novels. 'Blood Family' - Seventeen-year-old Daniel Dark has a pretty random life - until he gets a message from his true father, a vampire. 'The Ones' - Psychic powers within a small group of fifteen-year-olds in a quiet American harbour town leads to a summer of self-discovery...and a life on the run. 'Solomon Grimm and the Well of Souls' concerns a cursed British teen as he enters the dark and dangerous realm of the Celtic Otherworld in search of a cure to his undead condition. 'The Powers' follows 18-year-old Gunner Robinson after his life is turned upside-down by the revelation that he originally came to earth as a Protector - a powerful warrior angel. EBOOKS OF THE ABOVE TITLES ARE ON THE WAY! COMING SOON. LOOKING FORWARD TO ENTERTAINING YOU. MARK KNIGHT, DECEMBER, 2012

Book preview

5.0 out of 5 stars Great Vampire Book!, July 9, 2013 By David R Bennett (Amazon Reviewer)

Mark brings on this dark tale from the perspective of a 17 year old teenage boy. His ability to weave the tale is smooth and easy. It is a great book to the beginning of a dark tale for Daniel Dark. It leaves you wanting for more.

5.0 out of 5 stars SPECTACULAR!, April 8, 2013 By Jessica S. Jessi (Amazon Reviewer)

I was given this book for an honest review

*TINY SPOILER ALERT*

I adored this book. The writing was clean and easy to read. what a great story where poor Daniel has no clue where he is truly from and WOW what his adopted father(truly uncle) wouldn't do to make him just want HE wanted him to be! SO glad it did not work!!

4.0 out of 5 stars Fantastic!, April 13, 2013 By K G (Amazon Reviewer)

This was a great read, so full of so much! The writing was excellent, and the story kept me reading. Daniel struggles to find himself, or rather, what he is. He's coming into powers and fighting urges he never expected.

I will say that this isn't my normal type of read, but I was thoroughly drug in from the very beginning. So, thank you Mr. Knight for giving me the opportunity to read and review this book. I'll be watching for the next one.

5.0 out of 5 stars First read of 2013!, April 9, 2013 By Sabrena Pattat (Amazon Reviewer)

To sum this book up in two words is easy: Mind blowing!

You know a book is great when the ending not only has you begging for more, but also wanting to chain said author to his or her computer in the hopes that the sequel will get done faster.

5.0 out of 5 stars Best book I've read in a long time!, April 14, 2013 By Jodie Pierce thevampirequeen1 (Amazon Reviewer)

Blood Family: Quest for the Vampire Key is an awesome, awesome, awesome book. Did I say awesome? I read a lot and believe me, I've not read anything like this since I read Anne Rice novels back in the 90's. You will not be disappointed with this book. It was worth every minute I spent reading it and I'm already looking forward to a sequel. Behind every door, and down every alleyway, we will be watching.

5.0 out of 5 stars I've Been Converted 30 April 2013 By Ellie Garratt (Amazon Reviewer) Let me start by saying I don't usually read vampire fiction. Though I was a massive Buffy and Angel fan, I'm not a huge fan of this genre. All that changed when I read Blood Family. The author managed to sink his teeth into me and I'm now a convert. In fact, I've been left hungry for more.

Heartfelt thanks to my family—Mom, Dad, David.

And of course the support of truly supernatural friends—Joe Salas, Odette Lemieux, Lesley & Stephen Clementson, Mike Hopkins, Martin Astles, Trev Ennis, Chris Mendham, Tahir Mir, Isabel Atherton, Noel Glynn, Heather Sheppard, Sharon James, Jim McGuigan, Steve Gooding, Jodie Pierce,

Sabrena Pattat, Cole Belanger, and Alex Gonzalez.

Special thanks to the amazing authors whose personal help and advice over the years has been invaluable to me: Anne McCaffrey, Patrick Tilley, Brian W Aldiss, Craig Thomas, Dr. Bob Curran, Darren Shan, and Matt Hilton.

And hey, big up to you, Universe—where would I be without you?

Dhampir (DAM-peer) ~ the child of a vampire father and a mortal mother. The dhampir gets most of its powers from its father—great strength, the ability to hypnotize, as well as the ability to sense and destroy vampires.

A dhampir may live a normal life for many years without ever realizing what it is…

~ Real Vampires in the Modern World by Quentin DuPris (glossary section). 1980.

Strapped down, like a lamb for the slaughter.

The boy didn’t know what he hated more, the coldness of the slab he lay upon or the tightness of the leather straps that bound his four-year-old arms and legs.

His dad was accompanied by an older man—an elderly priest with a seriousness that made the lines in his face taut and frightening. His hands held an open book, The Rituale Romanum.

Both men began intoning strings of words that the boy did not understand, words that scared him. They reverberated off the walls of the empty church, the same church that his mother took him to every Sunday to watch his father talk to the people and say prayers. He liked the church during those times. The singing soothed him. When his Dad preached, he would quietly listen and try to understand. It was, after all, his father up there. At the end of the service, the congregation would file past Dad, who stood at the door, and say nice things to him, sometimes shaking his hand. Old women liked him a lot. Children smiled at him, showing him their colored pictures that they had done in Sunday school or during the sermon.

Then the old priest opened a black valise and took out some containers. From one he scooped out a small amount of ointment with his fingertips and drew cross shapes on the boy’s forehead. Repeatedly he made them, shouting his strange words. Dad just looked on, tight-lipped and grim. The boy struggled mightily, yelling and crying. The two ministers looked at each other as though satisfied that something they were doing was working.

After an hour the ministers sighed, mopped their brows, and brought the torment to an end. His father kissed the boy tenderly on the cheek as he unbound him—saying how sorry he was that he had to do this to him. Saying that it was necessary. Saying that he loved him.

The boy stood upon the altar to which he had been strapped and looked across the chancel to the church of empty pews. The old priest was walking away down the aisle, his work done. This wasn’t his church, or even his denomination. Dad had called the man in from some other place. There was no doubt that he would return when needed.

Daniel, said Dad. Come on, jump down from there. We’ll do something fun. We can go for some ice cream. Or McDonald’s, how about that?

But the boy remained, concentrating on the receding back of the old priest. After a moment, the priest stopped. Turned.

The old man sensed the boy’s red-hot stare. Reaching into his vestments, he clutched the secreted wooden cross…

The boy flung himself through the air, eyes blazing, an unearthly roar gushing from his mouth. In a blur he was upon his target. Newly formed fangs clamped on to the priest’s neck, puncturing his carotid artery. The boy’s small nails grew into claws, tearing at the vestments, shredding them from the man’s body and covering his victim in glistening red gashes.

A strong pair of hands wrenched the boy away. His father was distraught beyond consolation, using every ounce of strength to haul his son back to the chancel. He dragged the child to the small, sunken pool, square and shallow, situated behind the altar.

I was afraid to put you in here before, Daniel, Dad said, but now I have no choice. May the Lord decide if you live or die!

The child continued to roar and thrash. Then… he was abruptly calmed. A voice sounded within his head. Deep… reverberating… familiar…

"Kill him before he kills you… my son."

The rage built again. The face of the man he had called father for all of his life now seemed to be nothing more than a mask. The voice in his mind was one with which he felt strangely comfortable. It was within that voice that he put his trust.

In five seconds, it was over. Teeth and claws—as well as strength far in excess of a normal four-year-old—tore the life from his father, all before he could wet the boy with even the slightest drop of blessed water from the pool.

The boy stood up, shaken and… exhilarated. He looked down at the slain body of the one he’d known as Dad and felt no remorse. Quietly, he watched the blood that slicked the pastor’s hand seep into the pool, a silent ribbon of red. Then, something caught his attention. He looked up.

An odd thing was happening to the large portrait of the Savior that hung at the back of the chancel between two stained glass windows. The painted figure seemed to be moving. No, not moving—a dark and misty shape had superimposed itself over it. Wraithlike arms stretched outward in the same way as the Lord’s. The black ghost-figure broke softly away from the canvas and floated down towards him. The boy felt no fear.

The tall, infinitely black figure hovered before the child and put forth huge, semi-transparent dragon wings, practically dwarfing the figure from which they sprang. An angel?

It was then that he saw its fangs.

The entity flew around him faster and faster. It was exciting as well as confusing for the boy. He didn’t know where he was, what end was up, anything at all, until finally—

The set of super-sharp teeth snapped down hard on to his neck. The boy screamed with pain, with ecstasy, with sheer childish delight. Screamed until –

The clock next to the bed glowed 4:12 a.m. All was silent, save for the crickets outside that rasped at the night. Swinging his legs out, Daniel Dark noticed his sheet screwed up on the floor like a piece of unwanted writing paper.

His hair and body were hot and slicked with sweat. Heart was pounding. There was a residual feeling of exhilaration. It was like that after-sex feeling, though without the inner glow of satisfaction.

Reaching through the window, he grabbed the beer can he’d secreted out on the ledge and took a gulp. Daniel had been chugging beer since he was fifteen, unbeknownst to his parents. What they don’t know won’t hurt me, as he so often told himself. Sitting on the pile of car mechanic books he liked to have at his bedside, Daniel looked out into the streetlight-frosted hedge that separated his house from the McGuigans next door. The cool air felt good on his face.

Rolling the night-chilled beer can across his forehead, he thought about the dream. Part of it—the terrifying rituals that his father had made him endure every six months for the first nine years of his life—had been true. But the rest…

Crazy dream shit. No point thinking about it. It was the middle of the night. His head hurt. All he wanted now was to get back to sleep. Later on in the day, he was going to have a rendezvous of the sexual kind and wanted to have as much energy as possible.

Daniel! Daelin protested. Are you kissing my neck or trying to suck it dry?

Jeez, sorry. I thought you liked it.

Daniel Dark had been enjoying the time-honored tradition of ‘parking’ with his girlfriend, Daelin. He had taken her out for an evening drive in his beloved 1969 Ford Mustang fastback—gun-metal gray, fitted with Cooper Cobra GTs and, as Daelin had so often pointed out, a contender for pole position as the true love of his life—and had found an out-of-the-way clearing by the local reddening woodlands. This was one of the most stunning of the year’s autumnal forests in this part of New England. There, away from the eyes of parents (or anyone else) they began their teenage rituals. Daniel, like the time before, found that licking and sucking at the skin of her neck proved to be of so much enjoyment to him that he almost forgot that his girlfriend had a face.

God, Daniel, she rebuffed, not enjoying herself as much as she’d been anticipating. "What’s with you lately? I mean, this month." They had been going out for nearly two years. It was only recently that she had noted a change in her boyfriend’s behavior.

This month?

"Yeah. You’re just so… ravenous."

He laughed. And that’s a bad thing?

"What happened to kissing, huh? We used to kiss. Now it’s all this lips-all-over-my-neck stuff. Extracting her mobile phone from her jeans pocket, she checked for messages, a clear sign to Daniel that she wanted him to take her home. I guess it’s just one of those weird boy things. You obviously enjoy it."

Shoving his fingers back through his mass of dark brown hair, Daniel slumped in his bucket seat and folded his arms. Yeah, and you didn’t.

She sighed, trying to find the right words. "It’s like… you don’t see me anymore."

He took a joint that he then remembered having put behind his ear and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Hey, I see you. I love seeing you. Was this the right thing to say? What the hell is she expecting me to say? Whatever I say, it’ll be wrong.

As always, Daniel said the first thing that came into his head.

Want an ace?

She slapped the proffered joint from his hand. You know I don’t like that stuff, Daniel. And I don’t think you really like it, either.

True enough. As usual she was able to read him like a book. He sucked on the occasional joint because it made him look cool, especially when he was in his Mustang. He also did it to piss off his father, Pastor Nathan Dark, who had never actually caught him, though had often smelt the lingering pot odors coming from his son’s room. The stuff made him lethargic and indifferent to just about everything. From the ages of thirteen to seventeen he had been generally so anyway, even without the substance usage. Nothing in his life excited or challenged him. When school had ended the previous year, both parents bombarded him with prospectuses for all the best state colleges. Emerson College, Benjamin Franklin Institute of Technology, and—just kill me now—Boston Baptist College. Daniel wasn’t interested. He wanted to take cars apart and get paid for it. Getting a minimum-waged job at a local garage, he became the first grease monkey in the Dark family, much to the mortification of his father. The immaculate Baptist minister and his oil-slick of a son. At least, he consoled himself, Mom seemed to be on his side. She was pleased that he’d found a job he enjoyed. Thank fuck for small mercies.

And then there was Daelin. He’d known her all his life. The one-time tomboy in braids had blossomed. Now, at seventeen, she was slim and ever so slightly taller than Daniel, with shoulder-length honey-blonde hair that shone like silk in the sun. Up until the age of fifteen, a platoon’s worth of teenage boys would ask her out each month. But it was Daniel she had chosen. He couldn’t even remember their first date. They just sort of fell into a relationship, as though it was meant to be. The bank she worked in was right down the street from the garage, and so every day they had lunch together. Often she would bring sandwiches or baguettes she’d made herself. On sunny days they sat on the grass in the town’s small central park. It didn’t matter one bit that this immaculately dressed career girl was shoulder-to-shoulder on a picnic blanket with a boy whose face, hands, and coveralls were smeared with car oil. She accepted him for who he was, and this was who he was. She liked to dampen a napkin with her tongue and dab at the black smudges of grease on Daniel’s forehead and chin. And he liked the little smile on her face as she did it.

Yes, he had Daelin. He had a job that paid an okay wage. He had a secure if often frustrating home life. But something was missing. He just didn’t know what.

One thing he knew was that he loved and cared for Daelin, even if she sometimes didn’t see it.

He drove her home as dusk began to fall over the quiet little suburb. Shifting light patterns from living room windows told the world that TVs were on and couches were full. Cats hurried across the streets in pursuit of their own nocturnal activities. His own house—a modest ranch-style house built in the 1970s—was not all that different from the other houses on Chacato Street, except for the front yard collection of six tiny garden gnome statues so beloved by his mother, and so utterly despised by his father.

Garaging his Mustang, Daniel made his way to the front door.

He wasn’t prepared for what he walked in on.

The living room was full of priests.

Okay, ministers, really, pastors—of the Baptist variety like his father. They didn’t wear white collars like their Catholic counterparts, though Daniel knew they were pastors all the same. The conservative dress sense and lame haircuts were dead giveaways.

His father, the only one who wore glasses, threw his son a fake smile.

Ah! Daniel!

Yeah, right. That was sincere. He might as well have said ‘there he is—the son who’s a constant embarrassment to me!’

Hey, Dad.

Pastor Nathan Dark stood and began his introductions. I’m sure some of you know my son. I think you were the last to see him, weren’t you, Bill?

Pastor ‘Bill’ set down his coffee mug and stood, shaking Daniel’s hand as though cracking a whip. Of course! He was only about fifteen then. Changed a bit, haven’t you, Danny?

Daniel forced a weak smile. In other words, I should clean up my act and dress like a minister’s son, right? Jesus Christ.

We’ll be having our monthly meeting here from now on, Dad informed him. So…

Yeah, I got it.

Nathan was never a lover of his son’s dress sense, unruly hair, slouch, or general attitude. Whenever he saw his son coming through the door he was tempted to say ‘you look like something the cat dragged in’, had it not been such a cliché. The boy’s shirts were oversized, dark, and moody. And as for his hair—the chestnut brown tresses that seemed to form a permanent curtain over his nose had caused Nathan to forget the color of his son’s eyes.

Nathan had to admit to himself that most of the pastors he knew had rebellious sons—and daughters—who tried to be everything their parent wasn’t. Perhaps it was just a natural part of growing up in a clerical family, he mused. Don’t deceive yourself, Nathan, the pastor thought. It’s worse than that. Much worse.

The eldest of the reverends had to be at least seventy. He’d waited until the other men had stood and shaken the boy’s hand before finally doing likewise. Unlike them, he didn’t smile. Instead, he wore a knowing gaze that unnerved Daniel. The snowy-haired pastor looked directly into the teenager’s eyes, unblinking.

I’ve been a pastor for a lot longer than the rest of these men, he began. "And I know what’s what… and who’s who."

Daniel didn’t know what to say. He didn’t like this. His palm was sweating, and not just because the elderly pastor was squeezing it.

Finally the old man released his grip and sat back down, picking up his tablet of lined yellow paper and looking over his meeting notes as though he hadn’t seen Daniel at all.

"I’m telling you, Pearce. It was weird."

Daniel lay on his bed with his dented-but-functioning cellular phone sandwiched between his ear and a propped pillow. The TV on the dresser opposite was flickering out a rerun of The Munsters with the sound turned down.

God, Pearce reacted, mouth stuffed full of takeaway hamburger. Walking in on a bunch of priests. I’d freak. But I guess you’re used to that.

"I’m not. Dad’s never had a preacher party like that before, not in this house. And get this: they’ll be having it here every month from now on."

With the creepy old guy?

I dunno, Dan said after a shudder, hand recalling the elder pastor’s grip. Probably. Shit, I hope not.

So what do they talk about?

Sermons and shit.

Yeah, God stuff…

"Not just that. I overheard my Dad a few weeks back. He wants to open a new church or something. Or a new branch of the church. I think that’s what they’re organizing. As if I don’t have enough grief. So, Pearcey, you going out later?"

What—tonight?

No, not tonight. It’s too late now. Dad would have my nuts for fuzzy dice. Tomorrow night. You know, just to hang out somewhere. A few cans, a few joints.

Cool. You bringing Daelin?

"I’d sure like to, Daniel said, and he meant it. He nostrilled out a long sigh. But…Daelin’s been acting kind of weird lately. I don’t know where I stand with her at the moment."

Women. I can’t make sense of them, either, man. But hey, Danno, at least you’ve got one. Daniel could hear his friend choke down another chunk of hamburger. The burgermeister is what they called him, and not because of his Germanic ancestry. Daniel had always said that Pearce would K.O. his heart before he was twenty-one if didn’t reign in his appetite for greasy foods. So, what you doing now?

"Kicking back, watching Munsters."

"Shit, dude, Munsters again? You live for that old stuff. Even when we were kids you used to think you were that fanged little brat, Eddie."

No way.

Ya huh! Every Halloween you were Eddie Munster. He was your idol. It’s like you identified with him or something.

Whatever. Okay—my battery’s gonna kick. Catch you tomorrow?

Yeah, catch you then.

Daniel loved Sunday mornings. The folks had gone to Sunday Service of course, leaving Daniel with the entire house to himself.

Mom and Dad had given up trying to keep their son going to church. He hated the place, and made no bones about it. Considering all that his Dad had put him through in that building—the chanting, the laying on of hands, the constricting straps—they really couldn’t protest too much. So, they went to the church and Nathan gave his sermon and Annie helped with the communion, while Daniel sat in the living room at home blitzing out on a slew of Jackie Chan DVDs and cramming down junk food. Bliss.

After the Sunday roast (which even now was sizzling in its own juices in the oven, sending mouth-watering aromas into the living room) Daniel would have a catnap in his room, and then would get ready for an evening out with his cronies. He still hadn’t phoned his girl to see if she wanted to come. Maybe I should just hang loose for a while, he pondered. Daelin can call me for a change.

Yeah, like that would happen.

Impatience would win. Daniel would make the call.

The doorbell rang. Hoisting himself up from the couch, he ambled over to the front door, surprised that there was a caller on a Sunday morning.

Shit, he thought, I’m just in boxers! He shrugged inwardly. Whatever. They’ll have to take me as I am.

He got a fleeting glimpse of the caller through the slim stained glass window that bisected the door. If he had looked a few seconds longer he might have thought twice about opening up at all—but he’d already turned the handle and was swinging the door wide open.

What stood there before him was a courier holding a parcel. Then—no courier, just the parcel on the doorstep.

He’d just imagined the courier.

Just… imagined…?

The parcel was not large, perhaps the length of a loaf of bread, and wrapped in plain brown paper, tied off with string. He picked it up.

Oddly, there was no return address. No postmark. The handwriting of his name and address looked ordinary enough, however. Taking one last look left and right to see if he could see who had left it, he took the mysterious package inside and closed the door against the cold.

The package, by strange contrast, was warm. It was making his palms tingle, as though thousands of miniscule, electrified worms were eating their way out of the package and into his skin. It’s a bomb, he thought, only ninety-seven percent