Stones End: The Bloodstone Quadrilogy, #4

By Calinda B

Magical creatures are the stuff of fantasy. I thought they were unreal...until one of them started stalking me.

I'm William Ward. Moving back to Ballynagaul, nothing could have prepared me for meeting evil head on. Does it have anything to do with me falling for a vampire? Can't tell. Does it have something to do with the rift between me, my twin sister, who shares my freakish abilities, and my family and friends? Not sure about that, either. But when something starts stalking me, wrapping its bony fingers around me, I'm suddenly in over my head. Now I'm talking to kittens, praying to a dead goddess, and defending my right to love the undead. 

Things are about to get crazy. I only hope I get out of it alive.

Stone's End is the exciting epic conclusion to the Bloodstone Quadrilogy, a four-part tale of vampires, monsters, myths and mayhem set in Ireland. This series should be read in order. Contains mature themes.

The Blood Stone Quadrilogy:

• Grave Stones: Book 1
• Heart's Blood: Book 2
• Iron and Salt: Book 3
• Stone's End: Book 4

• Language: English
• Publisher: Calinda B
• Release date: Aug 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393661474

Calinda B

Author Bio: Calinda B was told early on that she should be a writer. She heard frequent praise for her writing, as well as her sense of humor. Scoffing at such admonitions and praise, she went on to pursue her life of adventure, chock full of the things that make up a well-rounded adventurous life: music (yup, she was a singer in a rock and roll band), dance (even performed hip hop in Russia), rock climbing (ever hung from a rock wall a few stories up? Yikes!), fire walking (taught high-ranking Moscow fire officials how to walk the coals), kayaking, scuba diving (she’s in love with sharks), travel, and falling in love again and again. Living in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with the love of her life and her two cats, she has now chosen to put fingers to keyboard and write – when she’s not in pursuit of another adventure!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Today, if Cerridwen, the keeper of the Cauldron of the Underworld looked upon him kindly, William would soon be living with a formerly undead vampire who was now a restored human with amnesia. He’d never been a particularly reverent man, preferring to live by his own lawlessness, but one of his latest hookups had left her copy of Cerridwen: Her Power and Her Magic in his apartment. He’d skimmed it one night and found it entertaining. Who better to count on than a bad-ass bitch goddess whose cauldron had the power to resurrect the corpses of dead warriors? Yep, maybe Cerridwen would help him find the answers he so desperately sought. Gods knew he needed some.

He’d thought his life couldn’t get more surreal. But now it had taken a new twist. Not only could he transform into a butt ugly Leviathan monster since birth, but now he’d taken a shine to a recovering vampire?

The whole thing made his balls twist like they were in the grip of some magical spell-casting demon with a bone to pick.

Dressed in the cleanest pair of jeans he could find, and his good luck black t-shirt—the one he’d deemed was good luck for no reason he could recall—he placed the book on Cerridwen in the packing box in his soon-to-be-old-news smarmy apartment. The single bedroom dwelling sat atop the Devil’s Arms pub in Dungarvan, Ireland. He gazed at the dingy yellow and gray triangle wallpaper, dirty windows that overlooked the parking lot, and crappy triangle-patterned furniture complete with tears, stains of unknown origins and cigarette burns. How did I ever think this was a good place to live? This place is a shithole, he muttered, closing the lid of the box sitting on the dilapidated wood dining table. That done, he stooped to scoop up Mothball, his frisky gray and white kitten.

Ready to get out of this pigsty, hmm, baby-girl? he cooed to the small feline. He’d rescued the kitten from a dumpster a block or so away from the pub. She’d got her tiny head stuck in the narrow opening of a Mrs. O’Malley’s jam jar. Once he’d freed her gooey, strawberry preserve covered head, he’d been smitten. He’d taken her home, drawn a shallow bath, and plunked her in the water to wash her sticky fur—which turned out to be easier said than done.

Whoever said it was easy to bathe a cat had his head up his arse. He’d come away from that attempt at human kindness with arms that looked like they’d just been fed through a wood chipper, a soaking wet bathroom and a tiny but clean spitfire of a cat who peed on his favorite socks that later that night.

In the few short weeks he’d had her, she’d rescued him from his lonely, isolated life. She brought a measure of cheer to his existence and seemed to remind him that he was flat-out bored with his tumultuous life of drugs, drinking, screwing, calming hothead bikers, and listening to the drunken rants of the pub’s patrons where he tended bar.

He needed a change.

He kissed the kitten’s moist little nose.

She wriggled, struggling to get out of his grip.

Oh, no, he said, gently squeezing her small body. If you escape from my clutches, you’ll be staying here by yourself. You’ll be back on the streets living a life of kitty crime. Is that really what you want to do?

She stilled and began kneading his shoulder, purring madly.

That’s my girl, he said. You know when to submit, don’t you? Your meal ticket only has your best interests at heart. He scratched her back with his fingers, propped the box against his hip with his free hand, and stepped into the grimy hallway.

After closing the door behind him for the last time, he trekked down the stairs, entering the back of the pub.

Wood paneling covered the walls and the ceiling. Rays of sunlight struck the round stone-top tables near the window where a few tourists huddled, seeking that real Irish experience without immersing themselves fully in it. That type of action happened in the back, where the leather-clad biker dudes gathered with the locals.

Most of the bikers were good guys. A few of them were assholes, but he held his own with jerks. He often shared a drink with the bikers when he was through with his shift, hadn’t scored for the night, and needed to feel like he belonged somewhere.

Chip stood at the bar, toothpick between his teeth, handing a biker dude a shot of late morning Jameson. He lifted his gaze when William strode closer. So this is it, huh? he said.

Afraid so, man. It’s been…it’s been… William thought for a moment. It’s been like a long slow-dance in Satan’s butt-crack. He let out a guffaw.

Chip snorted. It couldn’t have been that bad.

Says the guy who goes home to his sweet sidepiece every night and escapes the Devil’s Arms. William placed the box on the bartop, stepped behind the counter, and gave Chip a man-hug, using the shoulder not supporting Mothball.

Gonna miss you, dude, Chip said when he stepped away from the embrace. Didn’t know you had a pet. Who’s this?

Mothball studied him intently.

He tapped the kitten’s nose.

She hissed and clawed, snagging his skin.

Whoa, kitty, easy. Chip shook his scratched hand.

Shite, I’m sorry. She’s been super protective today like she knows something’s up. William said, reaching for one of the cocktail napkins stacked behind the bar. He handed the square paper piece to Chip. Bad kitty, he said to the cat.

No worries. She’s a cat. Cats have claws. And I’m more of a dog man. She probably senses that. Chip wiped his wounded hand with the napkin then pitched the paper serviette into the orange plastic waste bucket. Then, he reached for a bottle of cheap vodka and poured some over the wound, letting it dribble into the small sink. I’ll live. He gave William a sober-eyed gaze. Take care of yourself, you hear? And don’t be a stranger.

I’ll see ya around, William said, hoping he never returned. After grabbing his box, he trekked across the floor, nodding to bikers as he went.

A young woman sitting at one of the small tables against the wall turned his way. William! she called.

He turned to give her his full attention. Yeah?

She had bleached hair, abundant makeup, and tight fishnet stockings on her long legs—a combination best served for late nights or dim lighting. Or maybe she was doing her walk of shame and stopped by for a pint to wash away her guilt.

Where ya going? she said, giving him a slow, seductive look.

Normally, it would be game on. But today it seemed like game over.

Away from here. I’m moving. He shifted the box on his hip, which now felt like it weighed two tons.

Aw, she said. She pushed from the table and did a slow sashay in William’s direction. Once she stood next to him, she traced an undulating line on his chest.

Mothball let out a low growl.

The woman’s eyebrows flew up, and she stepped back. Remember me? She stuck her forefinger in her mouth and moved it in and out. Then, she released it with a loud pop.

No clue. He wracked his brain for two short seconds before shaking his head.

Come on. We had a lot of fun together that night. Want to do it again? I’ve got space in my day. She started to step close, but Mothball hissed.

Sorry, uh… He snapped his fingers. His mind refused to cough up any details.

Glenna, she helpfully suggested.

Right, right, I remember now. Not. Sorry, Glenna, I’ve, uh, got to meet with my landlady. She’s waiting for me. Liar.

Aw, she said again. She stuck her lips out in a pout.

Nothing about her appealed to him. He must have been flying high as eagle’s nuts to have had sex with her. The box on his hip grew heavier with each passing second. I’ve got to jet. I don’t want to piss off my landlady. Who just so happens to be my mum. She’s letting me stay there rent-free until I get my legs under me.

Glenna’s pout grew more pronounced. She stuck out her boobs in a blatant invitation.

Sorry, he said again, barely giving the twin globes a glance. I’ll catch ya around, okay?

Promise?

Cross my heart. I vow to never step foot in this dump again. Without a second glance, he turned to head out the door.

Once he stepped outside into the parking lot, for a brief second, William’s eyes grew moist. Devil’s Arms had been his safe space when he was estranged from his family. It allowed him time to counter-stalk that sick fuck serial killer, Father Gillespie while wrestling with his own inner demons. It gave him plenty of opportunities to score meaningless sexual encounters. Meaningless didn’t mean unpleasant, not by a long shot. I thoroughly enjoyed most of the encounters. He chuckled. Even though I’ve felt like a freak outcast Leviathan, thank fuck I never transformed while screwing. And, I think the Leviathan thing gave me some additional stamina. Not that I had a problem in that area, to begin with…I made the ladies’ howl my name with my loving dick inside of them.

And, living in Dungarvan gave him just enough distance from his mum, dad and twin sister, to work things out without being subject to their endless scrutiny. But in truth, on the rare occasions he allowed himself a bit of honesty, he missed them.

You’d better hope you’ve made the right decision by moving back to Ballynagaul, dude, he told himself. It kind of made him queasy about moving into his great, great whatever Roberta’s old cottage, near the former gravesite of Maggie Strongbow, aka the Dearg-due.

A few weeks ago, the previously undead vampire had come back to life after Father Gillespie shoved a cross into her heart. She didn’t remember a thing about her centuries of killing sprees of innocent people as she sought revenge for the sleazy actions of her husband in 1742. Nor did she remember choosing her victims based on their perceived crimes and making an example of them—like the story his mum had told him of how the Dearg-due killed his once best mate Paul’s dad, Dylan when Paul was just a wee toddler.

According to Mum, Dylan had an affair with Ailis, a woman known as the village bicycle, thanks to her tendency to get a pint or two of Guinness down her throat and offer herself up for a ride with whoever was the closest. Of course, Dylan lied about the affair, his mum had told him, betraying the loving heart of poor Siobhan, his faithful wife.

The Dearg-due had killed Dylan, cut out his tongue, and made him hold it as he bled out. No more lies would be leaving Dylan Riordan’s mouth. But, no, Maggie remembered none of that. She was suffering from total amnesia. And as soon as William’s eyes had locked with hers, much to everyone’s surprise, she didn’t bleed out from the wound in her chest. Instead, she’d spontaneously healed.

And now she’s waiting for me at the cottage, at my invitation. I hope to convince her to live with me. She can’t stay at my parents’ forever. He lifted the trunk lid of his Audi and dropped the box next to the others. He closed the lid with a solid thwack and glanced back one last time to view the sputtering sign over the door. The e and the r frizzed in and out. So long, Dvils Ams, he said, smiling, as he approached the driver’s side door of his vehicle. The door opened automatically, alerted by his presence. Smart cars these days drove themselves, knew their owner's biorhythms and could also be guided manually, should the need arise. And lots of homes were even smart —they turned the lights on when one drove up the driveway, started the stove, whatever the owner programmed them to do.

These modern-day touches of life in Ireland in 2042 took nothing away from the bucolic pastures, the crumbling ruins, or the green hills dotted with sheep. And, they certainly didn’t exist inside Roberta’s old cottage.

His mother, who’d tried to sell it twenty-four years ago, then took it back, insisted it retain its Irish heritage.

He settled the kitten in a blanket inside an empty Jameson whiskey box that he grabbed from the back room for that express purpose. Then buckled himself in and setting the Audi to auto-drive the pre-selected route, he took the scenic route alongside the harbor, driving along the stone road lined with red, yellow and blue houses.

When he entered the grassy tree-lined road outside of Dungarvan, William swallowed harshly. The enormity of his imminent transition from one life to the next pressed on his back, causing his chest to collapse. He had lived most of his adult life by his own impulses, not caring what others thought or felt. Now he was heading back to the land of his family, surrounded by people who had all knew him since birth. He’d sworn he’d never move back. And his parents—Mum, the labor and delivery nurse turned Leviathan, and Dad, the three-hundred-year-old priest Leviathan--were formidable figures. Only a handful of close confidants knew their secrets, but everyone knew not to mess with Mum. Ballynagaul’s lone, outspoken, no-nonsense labor and delivery nurse, working at a clinic alongside Doc Breslin, his former best mate Paul Riordan’s stepfather, she had a tongue of fire and a heart of gold.

But Dad? Dad was always a nice guy, but everyone sensed there was something different about him.

Same with me. Everyone knows I’m different. He rubbed his palm across his chest, massaging the knots of anxiety into submission. As the car zoomed ahead, William pondered his move back to Ballynagaul, measuring against his life at the pub. Living in Bally meant having his mum breathing down his neck like a dragon. He’d have to mend things with his dad, but that would be easy—Dad was the most forgiving soul on the planet. But, still, he anticipated some awkward moments. He’d been a shithead to his dad the past couple of years.

And, living in Bally meant living near his twin sister, whom he adored, but they only recently had begun to mend fences. Their alliance was a tenuous one, at best.

William rolled his lips between his teeth, staring out the window at the ocean, rippled by wind, and the endless fields of fecking green that countless tourists flocked to see. He never understood the attraction—it was what it was—green grass and sheep with pink and blue butts. Hadn’t people ever seen sheep before? Didn’t they have the woolly bastards in other parts of the world?

His mind clicked and skittered back toward his destination. He’d soon be living in the same town as Paul again, the guy who’d been his closest friend since they could barely toddle around in the yard.

Now Paul could barely stand to look at him. They’d only just begun to heal the rift that had formed when William had gone all rebel-loner, living in Dungarvan. But when Paul saw the vampire in William’s old room at his parents’ house a couple of weeks ago—the same vampire who had killed his bio-dad, he’d gone stone cold. An icy demeanor had emanated from Paul that chilled William more than their indifference, or frequent fights in the last couple of years ever could.

His hands clenched the steering wheel. He wrested control back from the car, cranking a knob to take it into manual drive. Can I do this? Have I really changed enough to live with someone and not fuck around whenever I feel like it? Can I immerse myself back into the village where I was born? I guess we’ll soon see. Because when he lifted his head, a sign for Ballynagaul, a mere ten kilometers away stood like a stone beacon. If he drove slowly, attempting to stave off the inevitable, he’d arrive at his new home in about fifteen minutes, tops.

He released one hand from the steering wheel and bounced his knuckle a few times against his mouth. Well, Mothball, he said to his kitten, who sat curled inside her whiskey box. What do you think can happen in fifteen minutes? It’s no big deal, right? What we’re about to do? He cocked his head as if listening to her response. What’s that? You think life can be irreparably changed in that amount of time or even less?

She gazed up at him with her clear blue eyes.

So, your life changed in a snap when I found you? he said. I hope that’s a good thing. He shook his head at the conversation he was having with this small creature. Perhaps the changes had already started. Maybe he was turning into a lunatic who talked to cats, was seeking help from mythical creatures like Cerridwen, and it heralded the beginning of a complete mental breakdown.

But, since he’d already given up his apartment and quit his job, there would be no turning back. He’d soon be living in Ballynagaul whether he liked it or not.

Chapter 2

Marie sprinted through town, trepidation over how Ryan would greet her warring with the burning desire to get home to him. She clutched two small side table lamps in her hands—recent purchases from Sally O’Malley’s Fine Furnishings’ downtown store. She’d moved in officially with Ryan yesterday, taking the last of her things from Mum and Dad’s. Ryan had told her to fix the place up with your cozy comforts, and, since he only had one side lamp in the bedroom, she’d splurged on two matching ones, hoping it might please him.

In the last two weeks, since he’d agreed to be with her, he’d been a tortured and guilty lover—hot one minute, cold the next, for reasons she couldn’t wrap her head around. So what if he was nineteen years older than her?