Lamashtu: The Blooding

By Jason Wallace

The ancient goddess Lamashtu has been reborn, and blood will be spilled.

Temperance has reached her sweet sixteen, and it isn't exactly what she pictured. The mystery of her mother's disappearance is about to be resolved, but not in the way anyone would have hoped, except for the creatures of the night.

Temperance must fight against the very natures of the two creatures stirring within her, transforming her to take her rightful place as the eater of souls. No one has survived such transformation before, but it must be done in order to save herself from the very mother that she has grown to near womanhood without and the master to whom all dark creatures bow. The fight against nature and time will take its toll, determining if Temperance truly is the ancient goddess, Lamashtu, reborn. She could die, or become the most powerful denizen of the night. Even in success, will the vampire spawns and all other dark creatures accept the rise of a new master?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Wallace
• Release date: Aug 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9780463128220

Jason Wallace

Make sure to check out my other poetry at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jasonwallacepoetry. There are books on Amazon that are not shown here because they are offered through Kindle Unlimited. There are also books shown here that are not available on Amazon because they are free at all times. http://www.amazon.com/Jason-Wallace/e/B00JG37PVO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1399103321&sr=8-1 Jason Wallace is an Indie author from the Midwest, aspiring to bring his works to the masses and through this, bring joy into their lives. He has been writing for more than 20 years, mostly poetry, but since 2011, he has been writing novels and short stories, in various genres. Come check out my new page and see what's going on. https://www.facebook.com/thepageofauthorjasonwallace

Book preview

Lamashtu: The Blooding

By Jason Wallace

Smashwords Edition

******

Published by:

Jason Wallace and JaMa Literary Agency

on Smashwords

Lamashtu: The Blooding

Copyright © 2016 by Jason Wallace

For my fans, new and old, and for anyone who may have bought this book on a dare, on a whim, by accident, or who might have had it given to them. Without each and every one of you, I could not do what I do. I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and I hope that you enjoy this book. You mean more to me than you could ever imagine or than I could ever tell you. I hope that this dedication, only in this third anniversary edition, conveys some of what I feel. God bless you all.

-Jason Wallace

This book is also available as an auidio book. Search for the audio title by putting it into any search engine, with the word ‘audio’ added to it.

Introduction

She lurks in the night, waiting to feed. Prey to her, you will be. You will bleed.

Some think her Lamashtu, demoness spawn of none. She steals the skies. She rules as one.

Beast as she is, she is the one true blood, created of man, born among sea, red, unending flood.

Love lured her to the demise that began her real transformation, but she was, truly, battle-bred. She was born of the falseness of mother’s embrace, in a torrent of destruction from the only hands that she ever trusted. Now, she is the terror that fills every late hour, Queen of two races of the deathly denizens. To her, both bow, though they were once immortal enemies. Where one had, once before, ruled the other, she united them in power and blood that had been prophesied in times ancient but had gone so long unfulfilled that most doubted. Her name elicits so much contempt and contradiction that it cannot be proven to be that of the dark queen. To many, she is simply, Master or She. To the others, those left of the vampire and werewolf races that have not fallen to her, she is their every fear, their constant reminder that they are not alone and that they must kneel. They know her as an eater of souls, growing with the power of every one of these that she consumes, and soon, it will be their turn, each of them, one by one.

Chapter 1

A gunshot catapulted young Temperance from slumber, late into the night, she wondering what it was that had just happened and why there was such a terrible noise. She was almost certain that she understood the noise and that it was far too close to her home to be of no grave concern. Someone had, surely, just been shot, and just as likely, killed. She huddled herself, knees to her chest, in a ball upon her bed, sometimes, rocking back and forth in deep worry. She worried that whoever it was outside that had done such an awful thing might soon break into her house and do the same to her. Maybe, she thought, if she kept quiet and kept the lights turned off, no one would come for her. Before too many hours, though it seemed an eternity, she heard the front door of the house creak open and then shut, her father, once again, returning and immediately trudging, heavily in his mighty steps, to the kitchen.

Temperance Valance was only thirteen years old when her mother disappeared. She never understood why her mother left, or, if she’d even left. Something happened to make Missy Valance go away, something awful. Perhaps, Temperance often thought, it was dealing with Roger Valance, the all-too-strict and rigidly terrible patriarch of the Valance family that got to Missy. Roger was no easy man to be with, nor was he quick to forgive or forget the slightest of errors; however, he was also a dedicated man, dedicated to protecting his family from anything that lurked in the night or in the day, anything that might overtake them and steal away their joy or even their very beings.

Night after night, Roger seemed to disappear as well, always coming home in the wee hours of the morning, always looking distraught and downtrodden, his face a mess, covered over much with dirt and debris of only he knew what, his hair always matted and sweaty. After months of this occurrence, Temperance was no longer worried and no longer asked questions about her father’s sinisterly serious whereabouts at such hours. He told her, time and again, that he had work to do and left it at that.

After three years, it all started to eat at Temperance’s mind once more. She had only recently gotten herself to some small place of peace, in regard to her mother’s disappearance and in regard to her father’s nightly wanderings. For three years, Roger Valance had this habit of exiting the house not long before midnight and coming home just before dawn or, sometimes, after dawn. His job was forfeited because of this, and, had it not been for the family’s small savings, he and Temperance would have found their home in the same streets upon which Roger so frequently tread. Now, it was all nearly gone. There was nothing to safeguard the girl and her father from the colder elements or from general starvation. The time had come to survive mostly upon the cheapest of life’s increments of dole, what charity there was being largely used up, as no one saw any reason that Roger Valance could not work. In all truth, he could, in speaking of his physical prowess and ability, but, for all of his nether workings in the night, he could hold no job in the day. His task was far too important, he felt, and, until it was completed, there would be no seeking of other work.

Not long past Temperance’s sixteenth birthday, when everything built up so heavily within her fragile mind, she decided that she would follow her father out of the house that night, to see, once and for all, what it was that kept him so long gone from home. It seemed that Roger had more secrets than ever his daughter could have imagined, not that he ever allowed her much in the way of assuming what it he held hidden, the two of them having never been close, Roger always seeing his position as one of provision and protection and little else. As long as his family was kept clothes, fed, and had a roof to shelter them, his role was fulfilled.

Roger, by this time, was so used to leaving every night and so used to Temperance knowing about his leaving, that he took no care in concealing it anymore; however, he still attempted concealment of the tools taken with him on his nightly journeys, namely, a shovel, several knives, and two handguns, plus a small wooden box that was slipped into the pocket of his overcoat. These were his aids in protecting himself as much as he’d always protected his family. It was, more than anything else, his having failed in the protection of Missy Valance that kept him out nightly. It was his biggest regret, his life’s greatest failure. He had failed as a husband, and, in allowing Missy to be quit of the family, failed his daughter. He often wished to show this sad forlornness to Temperance, to explain to her what had really happened to her mother, and why he could not let it go, why it hinged his entire life upon it now. He could, of course, never tell these things to her, no matter how much he wanted to do that. She could never know. The only way that she could remain protected was to be kept far away from it all, far away from all knowledge of the true nature of things.

Temperance thought of her mother every day and every night. Her mother was the reason that she often could not go to sleep or stay asleep if she were so lucky to fall into that drifting nether world. She missed everything about her mother but not about the fights that were always had between Missy and Roger, a nightly occurrence. Before long, it seemed, Missy began to stay away from home longer and longer, to spend much of her time in bars, visiting with only God knew who. One night, she did not come home, but only Roger knew why, or, at least, he later learned why. He knew about the places in which Missy hung out so often. He knew what they were and who went there. They were not safe places, but he could scarcely convince her of such a fact. Those that frequented one of the bars, in particular, were not of any normal sort. They were night walkers, denizens of the darkest elements of nature, freely given to the unlit reaches of those cold hours. The bar, The Devil’s Dungeon, was exactly the place that no ordinary person would go, said to be the den of murderers, thieves, rapists, and everything in between. Many that entered never came out, or, so the story went. Most knew not to venture even within a mile of the place, but Missy Valance did not care. It was exciting and new, and she made a lot of friends there.

Temperance knew that her mother could not have simply left her. She would never do that, Temperance always thought. Even though she and Roger had plenty of problems, and it seemed apparent to everyone that they would, soon enough, split for good, Missy would not leave Temperance to wonder about her or to think that she did not love her. She would have come back for her by now. Temperance could never comfort herself or get any straight answers, though she tried many times to get them from her father. He was as closed off as anyone could ever be, and there was never more than his simple grunts or demands that Temperance drop the matter and leave it alone.

Roger was no prize, and in that alone, Temperance would never have blamed her mother had she really chosen to leave but only in leaving her only child that she could have placed any such detriment to the good woman’s name. Oftentimes, Temperance even wished that she had never been born. She would not have the constant worries and pains that so plagued her daily and nightly, and Missy would have had a much happier life, somewhere else. She could have gotten away from Roger Valance, so far away that he would have become only a distant memory, instead of the terrifying annoyance to Temperance that he was and the obvious cause of Missy’s disappearance. He was, clearly, only present and a provider for his only daughter out of sheer obligation, and Temperance stayed only because of the reciprocation of said obligation and for her being unsure that she could take care of herself; however, something, anything at all, had to be much better than her life.

Temperance was left with only these thoughts, these haranguing, disabling thoughts to give her any kind of comfort, comfort only in their being all that she knew and in their stealing time from her, bringing her, ever-thankfully, to the end of another day, ready to welcome the next, hoping that it would be a little better than the one before it, that it would spell her own death, or, at the least, that it would bring her that small bit closer to being rid of her father and left to fend for herself. With a little more surety in herself, she might leave already and never look back. The reciprocation toward Roger could easily be amended in her mind and shoved away like some bitter refuse of a forgotten life. That would be all the better for her, she thought that she knew.

Suddenly, without warning and without previous sound from the outside, save for a small whist of the wind, the front door of the house crashed open, slamming into the wall behind it, making Temperance shiver and pull her blanket close to her face. Daughter, a voice cried, seeming to be that of Roger. It was strange, though, Temperance mused, after the second cry of the word. Her father never called her by such a name. He always used the word, Girl, or sometimes, just Temp and nothing else. Daughter, as far as could be remembered had never come from the man’s mouth, not once.

Temperance could not bring herself to spring from the bed and run to the door. A part of her wanted to do it, but what if this was not at all what it seemed, she reminded herself, and even if not, so what? Roger hardly deserved for his daughter to come to his every beck and call. What moniker of father had he really earned? The same as he so seldom called Temperance by anything more than, Girl, she seldom called him, at least, under her breath, more than, Asshole, or, Him, the first far more than the latter.

Daughter, came the voice again and again, growing closer to Temperance’s room, she now pulling her blanket a little further up her body until it nearly covered her entirely. Daughter. Daughter. Daughter!

Finally, the door to Temperance’s room burst open, just as had the door at the house’s front, slamming into the wall, in the faint hint of moonlight streaming through the window, the shape of a man, appearing to match the height and proportions of Roger, but there was no guarantee of it. The black of night cascaded rapidly down the face and chest of the man, evidencing much shimmer of fresh blood.

Come with me. We aren’t safe here, the voice beckoned, though Temperance still felt unsure of the possessor of the utterance.

Why?

They’ve found us. Get up, Girl. There it was, Girl. This seemed enough to convince the recipient of the unwelcomed and much decried epithet that it was, in fact, her father to whom she was now speaking and that his order must be obeyed.

Who are ‘they?’ Why do we have to go? Temperance asked these questions in an almost unheard tone, not really expecting answers, nor wanting to show that she doubted or disobeyed anything. As she threw on her jeans and her shoes, she felt an overwhelming sense that something was not right, but she couldn’t pinpoint why she felt this or what it was that she felt.

Father and daughter headed for the door of the house as swiftly as they could move, but before they could exit into the moonlight, a man sped through the doorway,