Bloodwood: The Chronicles of Max Mayhem

By John Rykken

When skateboarding, fifteen-year-old Max Mayhem learns that his neighbor, Peter, is a vampire whose girlfriend has gone missing, Maxs dreams for a normal life are turned upside down. Before he knows it, he and his best friend, Lydia, are sucked into a daring hunt for Peters missing girlfrienda hunt that leads them to a suspiciously empty town in northern Canada, where Max guesses things are not what they seem. As the sun sets over the ice-blue mountains and the town falls into shadow, cries echo through the woods and Max realizes its too late. Now the missing girl is the last thing on his and Lydias minds, and it will take all their cunning to survive until sunrise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462006557

John Rykken

John Rykken was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. He spent time studying in Germany in his early twenties before returning to the States and receiving a degree in political science from Portland State University. Since then he has worked various odd jobs, including long stints in the insurance and health care industries. He has freckles, plays chess and guitar, and has been an avid reader since a young age. He likes the wind in the trees, the city, and black coffee. He first realized how much he loved books, language and the written word in a high school English class. Bloodwood is his first published work.

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Copyright © 2011 by John Rykken

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-0657-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0656-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0655-7 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011904970

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 05/31/2011

For my parents

Contents

PROLOGUE

1     

2     

3     

4     

5     

6     

7     

8     

9     

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

Black Wine

Vancouver, BC, September

The rain was visible under the light cast by the old streetlamps.

It fell soft and cold, glistening on the pavement of Abbot Street. Revelers crowded the walks, huddled under black umbrellas in groups of two or three, laughing, arms around each other as they skipped over the puddles.

Abby sat under the awnings among the tables outside Gastown Coffee and ignored them. She had short, blond hair and wore leather pants, candy-red heels and a denim jacket. She had her legs crossed and stared down the street, her latte steaming away on the table, forgotten. When the men threw glances at her, she pretended like they did not exist. In fact, everyone who looked her way frowned and moved on in a hurry. Something about her was off.

For another ten minutes Abby did not blink or lift a hand to wipe the bright raindrops from her pants. Her drink had gone cold when, quite suddenly, she moved. She tilted her head to the side and sniffed. Then she grinned. And with that grin she seemed to come to life. She stood up, smoothed her jacket and looked expectantly down the street, smiling.

She smiled wider as a young man with his hands shoved in his pockets rounded the corner and came toward her. When he was close enough, she squeezed him in a rib-cracking hug and they kissed. Next to the man’s ruddy cheeks, Abby looked pale.

Hi, Pete.

Peter was dark-eyed, slim and a little bowed at the shoulders. He had a dark shadow of stubble, ragged curly brown hair and wore a pea-coat buttoned to the chin. He looked like a musician or an artist of some kind.

Hey, you. You’re Abby of Abbot Street tonight. He sat down and grabbed the latte, but his hand trembled so badly that he spilled it.

Are you alright?

I’m fine. Peter set the cup down and held his hand in front of him until it was steady. This is just, you know, intense.

Abby put her hand on his arm. Pete, we don’t have to do this.

Peter smiled. Stop. It’s already done. He took a deep breath. Are we ready?

I am if you are.

Peter did a drum-tap on the table and nodded. Let’s go. He stood and offered his arm. Abby took it. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as they left the coffee shop.

Your last day, Pete.

I know, babe.

I hope you did everything you wanted today.

Much as I could, said Peter. I hung out in Stanley Park, sat in the sun.

You took care of everything?

Yeah. The letter to my mom and sisters, my bank accounts. I even did a will.

You won’t need that.

I know. It was just in case.

Well, whatever you think. Suddenly Abby grew nervous. She stood straighter and glanced over her shoulder. They had come to the corner of Alexander and Powell, and an old, brown-brick flatiron building loomed in front of them. Six stories high, it looked like a giant door-wedge tilted on its side. Antique lampposts lined the cobbled walks and a green sign with gold letters hung above the door. It read Queens Hotel.

You remember the plan? said Abby. Just go in, act like you know what you’re doing and head down the stairs at the far end. I’ll meet you down by the pool.

Peter sucked in a deep breath and nodded.

I have to put on my haughty expression. Abby ran a hand through her hair and scowled. Ward likes it best when we act that way.

It’s a good look. See you in a few. Peter winked and went through the door.

Abby’s mouth moved as she silently counted to sixty. Then she followed after Peter. The lobby was a grand room with beige marble floors, potted ferns and old Victorian armchairs. French doors at the far end opened into the hotel restaurant. On the left, behind the concierge desk, stood a prim man with an immaculate mustache. He wore a nice suit and was scribbling in a book when he saw Abby. He dropped the pen and bowed absurdly. Ah, Ms. Crane, so nice to see you this evening. I missed you when you stepped out.

Stop bowing, Ward, you’re embarrassing yourself. Abby swept past him.

Is there anything I can get for you? Ward called after her. A fresh shipment came in earlier tonight. I can bring a few pints down, if you like.

Abby spun on her heel and faced Ward. You’re not supposed to mention that in public, she hissed. And I don’t want anything, especially not tonight. I may be having company. Do you understand?

Ward’s eyes widened. He smiled and bowed again. Yes, madam.

Abby scoffed and marched away. Out of sight, she rolled her eyes. Peter was waiting for her downstairs by the pool, which smelled like chlorine. The water was aqua-blue and there were white columns and fluffy lounge chairs.

Problems? said Peter quietly.

He’s an idiot. We’ll be fine.

Behind the locker rooms was a maintenance hallway with slick, gray concrete and naked bulbs shining from the ceiling. Peter and Abby followed it, passing mops and yellow wet floor signs until they came to a steel door that read no trespassing, management only. Abby unlocked and opened the door. Stairs led down into darkness.

Hold my hand, said Abby. They went in. She shut the door and blackness surrounded them.

Peter fumbled after her as they went down. Half a minute later came the jangle of keys and then a click as a door opened. Another click and a lamp came on. They were in an old boiler-room that had been turned into living quarters. The boiler stood like an ancient relic in the corner, rusty paint flaking off in spots. Lamps and Persian carpets had been added for comfort. There was a bed, a flat-screen TV and a tottering stack of DVDs. Piles of books were chaotically strewn about, and clothes and shoes bulged from the dresser.

We’ll have to buy bookshelves, said Abby.

Peter did not reply.

What is it?

He turned to her. I love it.

You don’t have to do this, you know. There are other ways.

We’ve talked about this from a hundred different angles. There’s nothing left to discuss.

But this is the disgusting part, dear, and it’s going to hurt.

Then let’s get it over with, said Peter.

Abby said, Turn around.

Why?

I don’t want you to see.

Peter snorted, smiling, and faced the door. He could hear Abby moving behind him. Glass tinkled and then came the sound of liquid spilling into a glass.

Okay.

When Peter turned back he saw that she was covering her forearm with her sleeve.

Abby held a glass out to him. The drink looked like black wine in that light, but the red was unmistakable.

You love me?

Always, said Peter.

Abby’s lips peeled back. She snarled and her gums rippled as fangs slid down over her teeth. Forever then.

Peter grasped the glass and raised it to his mouth.

Abby’s eyes opened wide. Then she smiled.

1     

The December Letters

Portland, Oregon, three months later

The study at the back of the Mayhems’ creaky old house on Knott Street was everything a study should be. It was one of those rooms you had to step down into. And it was a mess. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, crammed with books, manuscripts and rolled-up maps, covering every conceivable subject and place you could think of. The windows at the back looked out on the overgrown hydrangeas and the mossy oak tree in the side-yard. There was a coat-rack with a lot of pegs, hung with Dr. Walter Mayhem’s tweed and corduroy coats. A coffee table sat in the middle and at the back was a cluttered desk and a high-backed leather chair. In one corner stood the wood stove. In another, the big, golden globe of the world hung in a dusty wood frame.

Max Mayhem turned the light on and went in. In the past few months he had grown at least an inch, maybe two. He was fifteen years old, thin, gangly and now six feet tall. He had dark-gray eyes and sandy-brown hair that used to be past his ears, but during the summer he had chopped it short. Now he molded it with gel. His friend and fellow skateboarder, Joe, had called him a sellout. But Max did not care, he liked the new look.

It was a Saturday afternoon and, except for Max, the house was empty. His cheeks were red from the freezing-cold run he had just finished and sweat ran down his face. It was a bitter winter day outside: crisp blue sky, ice in the sidewalk cracks and ice crusted in patches on the grass.

Max blew into his numb hands, went to the desk and withdrew a pen and a few sheets of letter paper. Man, it was cold. Didn’t his dad ever turn the heat on in this house? Max tossed a bundle of newspapers and some kindling in the wood stove, lit it and warmed his hands for a minute before returning to the desk.

He had just put pen to paper when a glint from the picture frames on the mantle made him look up. He quickly looked back down. His hand was steady but he could not write. The pictures were right there, staring at him. He could feel the eyes of the woman in the picture, smiling, piercing him. Max tried to keep his gaze averted. Why did his dad insist on keeping those things around? Why didn’t he put them in a drawer, someplace safe, somewhere where they didn’t hurt?

Max looked up again and this time he did not turn away. He stared at his mother’s face, the usual sinking feeling in his stomach. She had passed away when he was two. She was tall and pretty and looked a lot like Max: sandy-brown hair, gray eyes dancing with a smile. He barely remembered her. He remembered warmth and soft arms and laughter, but otherwise, nothing. Then why could he not stand looking at the photos?

Max stood up and lightly knocked one of the frames with his knuckles.

Hey, mom.

She smiled silently at him.

He gathered his writing materials and moved to the kitchen. An empty bottle of wine stood on the counter and a leftover plate of cheese cubes with toothpicks lay in the sink. Miss Black must have come over again the night before. She had been around a lot lately. Max often heard her and Dr. Mayhem laughing late into the night.

Well, that was his dad’s business.

He sat at the table and began writing the letter.

Dear Lydia, he started. He frowned at it, crossed it out and started again.

Hi, Lydia!

Worse. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. After three more sheets, a few mild curses and a sore thumb, Max sat back, reading his work.

December 5th

Lydia,

Hey, how are you? How did your soccer season end? Okay?

I am fine. I don’t know if you heard, but I joined the track team this winter. We’re just practicing. Competitions don’t start until spring. Joe and Eugene keep making fun of me, but I think I’m getting too tall for skateboarding. I can’t balance anymore.

Classes are good. Dad’s still making me take Latin, but I don’t mind it too much. Miss Black’s been around a lot. I like her, of course. We both know she’s cool. It’s just strange seeing them, you know, together or whatever.

So, I was wondering, do you maybe want to see a movie or something sometime? You don’t have to if you’re too busy. It’s just been awhile since we’ve talked. Well, I hope you’re good.

Max

Max frowned at it and shrugged. It sure wasn’t Shakespeare, but it worked. He stuffed the letter in an envelope and carefully wrote Lydia across the front. Then he set it aside and rifled through the cupboards until he found a box of mac-and-cheese, which he cooked on the stove, adding cut-up hot dogs. He ate from the pot off the burner and washed it down with chocolate milk. After that he went to his room on the third floor—a converted attic with slanted ceilings—made a few moves in his on-line chess games, showered and got dressed in a pair of clean jeans, his green beanie and warmest fleece. Back down in the kitchen, he grabbed his scuffed skateboard and Lydia’s letter.

It was dark and frosty-cold outside. Christmas lights on the neighboring houses glowed in the chilly air. Dr. Mayhem’s old, white Volkswagen van was still missing from the driveway. Then Max remembered that his dad, a history professor, had a meeting with the Xenopus Society that evening.

Max pursed his lips and tossed his board on the ground. His breath clouded as he boarded down Knott Street, the letter tucked safely in his back pocket. He liked the stinging air and the sound of the wheels rolling over the concrete. He was warm by the time he came to the hill on Thirty-Third. He flipped his board under his arm, walked up the hill and boarded the rest of the way to Lydia’s place.

Lydia lived in a nice, white house with a trim, green lawn. Her dad, Jack, had put Christmas lights up. The upstairs lights were off but Max saw a few yellow windows near the back.

He rang the doorbell, fingering the letter in his pocket. Somehow it had gotten damp on the ride over. Max did not hear anything inside. He waited a minute and then rang the doorbell again. Still nothing. He waffled, eyeing the mail slot, the envelope in his hands. Maybe he should just leave it and go. That would be easy. Where had he gotten this idea, anyway? Why didn’t he just write her an e-mail or send her a text message? Why hadn’t he just called her? Because he’d gotten some weird notion that a letter was somehow romantic. Now the idea seemed dumb, immature.

He had just put the letter back in his pocket and turned around when he heard footsteps in the hall. Max looked at the door. A lively green eye flashed in the peephole and the door opened.

Max!

Lydia, hey, how’s it going?

Max felt his ears go warm. Lydia smiled and it carried up to her eyes. She had a nose ring and a bunch of small, silver loop earrings in her ears. Her raven-black hair was tied back in a ponytail and she wore soccer shorts and an old T-shirt that had St. Anne’s written on the front.

What are you doing here? I haven’t talked to you in forever. How are you doing? Lydia gave him a hug. Do you want to come in?

I— Max had his hand hidden behind his back. His voice did not seem to be working.

Lydia frowned, bemused. You alright, Max? You swallow something?

No, no, I’m fine, said Max, finding his voice. I just, it’s good to see you.

Well, you too, dummy. Why don’t you call more often?

Oh, you know, just busy. A lot of homework.

Tell me about it. I’m taking a bunch of advanced placement classes. Chemistry, Anatomy, Physiology. But I love it. I think I figured out what I’m going to do in college.

Oh yeah?

Doctor. I want to be able to help people.

That’s great, Lydia. You’d be really good at that. Max knew his smile was too big. This was perfect though. He would just give her the letter and be on his way. He reached his hand around.

More footsteps sounded in the house.

Hey, Lyds, who is it? said a voice.

Max’s smile faltered.

Oh, sorry, Dan’s here. Lydia rolled her eyes. We’re kind of, you know.

For a moment Max was not sure he had heard her correctly. Dan? The footsteps became louder and a blond boy in a golf polo came into the hall. Max’s smile froze and fell from his face. A sick black feeling slid into his chest.

The sick feeling grew larger as Dan rubbed Lydia on the shoulder.

’Sup, said Dan, unsmiling.

The letter in Max’s pocket was suddenly heavy.

What’s up. Max nodded imperceptibly.

Dan looked at him as though Max was amusing and raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled and tried to put an arm around Lydia. Come on, we’re missing the movie. You gonna watch with us, dude?

Lydia shrugged Dan’s arm off and stepped out of the house. Go pause it.

Well, hurry up. Dan walked back into the house.

Lydia frowned. Max, what’s wrong? Is everything alright?

Everything’s great. Max knew his voice

Reviews for Bloodwood

[missmajicmarker · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I think John Rykken has got something here with his first Max Mayhem novel, and I am excitedly anticipating book 2. I found myself pulled into the story every time I sat down to read and ended up finishing the book in three sittings, had I the time I would have ended up reading it cover to cover in just one. I think Rykken did an excellent job making the book exciting without making it too much for a young adult book. As always I suggest parents read the books themselves before using my reviews for a bases as what is and is not appropriate for their child but don't be surprised if you end up getting just as caught up in the story as they do.