The Last Inheritance: The Bloodprint Series, #2

By Kristina Kairn

He survived a vampire blood transfusion. But can he survive its curse?

Detective Inspector George Cooper is alive. Thanks to the vampire he shot and killed in a church. And now the monster has left him his fortune: money, a medical clinic, and Heritage House. But he just wants to be a detective for the Cambridge Constabulary. With vampire blood coursing through his veins comes a new set of abilities—smelling lies, tasting anxiety, and hearing heart rates pick up. He's closing cases at a phenomenal rate.

But with his new abilities come a nightmare. Bodies are dropping along the shore of the River Cam drained of blood and with their necks mangled, and George can't remember what happens when he blacks out at night. Is he the murderer? Or is he, as the attractive pathologist protecting him, Dr. Abby Whiting, diagnoses, a hybrid vampire who needs vampire blood to stay alive. Which is worse?

If George can't solve the Cam River murders, he will lose more than his identity. He will lose his soul.

The Last Inheritance is the page-turning second novel in The Bloodprint urban fantasy series. If you like complex characters, surprising twists and turns, and dark suspense, then you'll love Kristina Kairn's thrilling series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristina Kairn
• Release date: Feb 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733413329

Book preview

2

Hard Evidence

The call had come in thirty minutes ago. George braced for the cold and Vic’s horseshit detector.

Hey boss, where you been?

I was at the pool.

Ah, that’s a good sign. Back to your routine. She sniffed. Did you have a little accident with your cologne?

He nodded. Slipped into the sink and got all over me. She nodded slowly, maintaining eye contact. Perhaps he was going to pass her snuff? Although his hands no longer had bloodstains or bruises, they still carried the stench of death. Which obviously was all in his head, but that hadn’t stopped him from dumping half a bottle of cologne over them. What do we have? he asked.

Young white male. Probably in his mid-twenties. Attacked sometime between midnight and three in the morning. Martin should have a tighter window tomorrow. SOCOs have been here for the last hour, gathering trace and other evidence. She handed him shoe covers and gloves.

George followed Vic to the tent. Who found the body?

Retiree out walking his dog.

At six in the morning? He leaned over to slip on the shoe covers.

Says the man who gets up at five to swim a hundred laps? The whole point of the dark is to sleep through it.

George waved her off with a quirk of his brow. How would he ever tell her? She pulled back the tent drape and he entered. Martin, the coroner, was hunched over the body, blocking George’s view of the victim’s neck and torso. The young man’s eyes were still open and beginning to cloud. This wasn’t George’s first corpse, but he suddenly felt like a new recruit, unprepared and unsure. He shook off the cold.

Martin glanced at George over his shoulder, and the world went off kilter. There was a large gash in the young man’s neck as if someone had taken a bite out of it. Vic grabbed George’s shoulder, righting his balance.

You okay? she asked.

If he wanted to keep the world he understood locked in place, he needed to replant his convictions. He plastered his insides with cement and steadied. Sorry. I forgot to eat and I wasn’t expecting that. He pulled out his notebook. Martin, cause of death?

Besides getting his jugular ripped out?

George covered his mouth, bile crawling up his throat.

Martin, can you give us a sec? Vic asked.

Martin looked at each of them, covered the body, and stood. I could use a coffee. Do you want one? he asked Vic.

Sure, that’d be grand.

Vic waited for Martin to be out of earshot and repeated her question. You sure you’re okay? You look a little green.

George took a deep breath and squatted next to the man’s body. The drive to prove he was worthy kicked into overdrive. He lifted the sheet. Rigor mortis was beginning to set. It was hard not to stare at the torn flesh in his neck, but George was more struck by the man’s expression—he was terrified. He gently replaced the sheet.

There’s blood spatter there. Let’s have the SOCOs take samples. George pointed at the ivy and Vic narrowed her eyes to where he was pointing. What have they collected so far?

Maybe I should get my eyes checked? Vic leaned over the ivy and shook her head. You’ve always been more keen. Must be the swimming. Anyway, there was a set of footprints there. They made molds. I’ll get them to swab that. She pointed to the ivy, squinting again. They scraped under his nails. The forearms and hands are bruised pretty bad, defensive wounds. She stole a glance out of the tent. But given the injury, Martin doesn’t understand why there isn’t more pooling.

What?

She squatted next to the victim, pulled the sheet. That’s not a lot of blood loss. She pointed to the ground under the victim’s neck. I’m beginning to wonder if we have another Stuart situation.

Stuart situation?

I’ve seen this kind of injury before. Well, close to it. At the mausoleum. Where Abby was attacked. Except those bodies didn’t make it past sunrise. She stood.

The air sparked between them. Vic was excited. Her eyes were dilated, and her skin was flush and pulled tight. She wanted to chase monsters.

That’s all over and done with. God, how he wanted it to be over.

Is it? She leaned closer. What if by offing Stuart, we’ve set others free?

Others? George stared at the sheet, his mind stumbling through the blankness of his memory.

Vampires. She said the word quick and under her breath. Like any good cop.

That’s quite a leap into the make believe.

Do you see that kid’s neck? What else does that?

I don’t know. Let’s allow Martin to figure that out. George exited the tent, turning toward the west side of town. He woke up that morning roughly less than ten kilometers away. Next to a pile of ash and clothing. He guessed he could’ve attacked the young man and ran into the woods until he found someone else. Something else.

Are you really going to pretend we didn’t discover what Stuart was?

George turned on her and she almost walked into his chest. The man is dead. There’s nothing left to discover much less discuss. Because he didn’t have it all figured out. God, how much time was left? Forever? Or a few weeks until everything went to shit?

Right. She stepped back and crossed her arms. You don’t want to talk about a lot of things.

Does the victim have any family? We should notify next of kin.

She stood her ground, her mouth open, ready for an argument. Jesus, she could be taxing.

Let’s go get some coffee and wait for Martin’s autopsy. He walked away but stopped when he heard her curse and no footsteps following him. His head fell back. How was he going to explain any of this to her without her throwing him into a holding cell? There was one last tactic. He clasped his hands together and begged her with his best smile. Can we go get a coffee and an egg sandwich and have a chat? I’m starving and it’s making me a little mental. She had no idea.

She pulled her cigarettes out of her pocket and pointed one at him. He turned down the offer. She lit one up and through the cloud of smoke said, I want to hear you say it.

He pursed his lips and shook his head.

She turned away from him, heading back for the tent and the new victim.

Fine, he huffed. James Stuart was a vampire. But we have no concrete evidence of that, right? What we have is circumstantial at best. Happy?

Yeah. She tipped her head to the side and stared at the ground. Let’s go get some toast and tea. Probably don’t want to run to the station anytime soon.

What are you not telling me?

Hsu says there’s some fancy barrister waiting for you back at the station with more papers.

At this hour?

I guess you should’ve opened those parcels.

Fuck’s sake.

Sure you don’t want a drag? She held out her fag.

It won’t kill me fast enough.

3

Past Tense

It had been seventeen days since James had perished at Lazarus Chapel. There was an airline ticket lying on top of my passport that was seventeen days old. Seventeen days since I had exchanged more than cold glances with George. I had left dozens of voicemails and messages for him at the Cambridge police station. And not a word. For an Englishman, he wasn’t subtle.

After losing James and promising to look after George, I was making confrontation a singular pursuit. I was getting ready for an estate meeting and preparing for rejection by a man I constantly thought about. Life had really changed. Confrontation wasn’t my area of expertise. I had spent my time identifying disease and classifying pathogens, confronting the invisible things that can destroy a life. And hiding from people.

First, do no harm. For the last couple of weeks, I wondered if I had misinterpreted those sacred words. Those were the words that had registered in my chest when I had decided to pursue medicine. I wanted to help people. I wanted to ease their pain. I wanted to delay their deaths.

My stomach pinched with pain and I struggled to breathe.

I had come to Cambridge to figure out why, since childhood, I had never been sick. Since James’s death, I was sick all the time. The bubbling black acid I had expended after Nate’s funeral was now a daily occurrence. I took one last sip of my ginger turmeric tea, hoping I wouldn’t toss my toast during the estate meeting. Although my blood had done a good job holding off James’s disease, his blood still lived in mine.

Sleep continued to elude me. Why sleep through the constant ringing in my ears, or the sting of light on my eyelids, or fight all the questions running rampant through my head? It didn’t feel right to rest while my mind was restless.

Were there signs I had missed? Yes.

Could I have stopped James’s death wish? Most likely no.

He had lived for well over a century eluding the public, hiding his strange, miraculous condition. He had decades to plan. I had a few weeks to finish a puzzle with deliberate missing pieces. Could I have said anything differently? Hell yes. There were so many words I wanted to take back.

Why didn’t you just kill yourself, you selfish bastard?

Go to hell.

I’m not your miracle.

Those were my top three. Not sleeping was an anesthetic to my disappointment and the recurring nightmare of James drowning me in the River Cam. There was no way to hide my fatigue, but I blotted tinted lip gloss onto my lips anyway. Not surprised by the dull numbness the act of touch registered. Another stomach cramp pinched the air out of my lungs.

James had been blood-starved and we had been locked in a mausoleum together. In order to save my life, he had consumed my blood and given me his. At the time, I had no idea what was happening. I had just wanted to survive the evening. James had assured me it wasn’t life changing.

But he was the world’s best liar.

I took a shaky deep breath of air from the open bathroom window. The scent of crabapple trees was once a wonderful treat when I had first visited Heritage House. Now they were like a morning cigarette—cleansing. My eyes watered and I swallowed the chalky bitterness. After a minute of deliberate deep breaths, the cramps subsided.

When it was apparent I had nowhere to go, Helen had taken me in. Believe me, the irony was not lost. The three-story Georgian mansion where Hele lived was James’s home. Helen managed the house as a high-society social club where people came to read the Financial Times, drink top-shelf alcohol, and hide from their families. Which was funny, because although James was forced to avoid his family, it was all he ever thought about.

Had he been reunited with his family? That was the one question I obsessed over the most. I’d stare at the River Cam, waiting for his apparitions to reappear. So far, I had not seen one. I had even taken up jogging along its banks early every morning. Not only for some kind of confirmation, but to show I was no longer afraid.

Because up until seventeen days ago, I had never admitted to anyone I could see ghosts. The lone person I had confessed to was now dead. I guess he had taken that secret with him too.

Helen had not asked which of the sixteen bedrooms I wanted, she’d just had my suitcases taken up to the citrine bedroom. Perhaps she believed the bedroom’s sunny appearance would cheer me up. But the room haunted me, not in a scary way. This was where the truth had started, got wrapped and twisted, and had been buried. Where I had given into my fear of loneliness by sleeping with my patient. This was my Dunkirk.

I rubbed imaginary dust from my new suit—black crepe trousers with a black fitted blazer. My old suits were a size too large now. The line of oxblood red stitching along the lapels and cuffs of the new suit was a nice touch.

This meeting was about blood anyway.

I walked downstairs. My legs mimicked the right action but there was no muscle to it. The soles of my new shoes glided along the fine rugs and shiny hardwood, reminding me of the forced family pictures we had posed for at Christmastime. Before my brother had died. When things had been normal. I managed a small smile.

Voices carried up the staircase, voices of strangers entering Heritage House. My heart pounded in my chest. Odd, I had been looking forward to the meeting. I stopped in front of a pastoral portrait, very standard British décor. The country was literally littered with green hills, unlike the drought-ridden hills of the San Francisco Bay Area where I’m from.

The painting’s rolling hills were dotted with bluebells and creeping oak trees. There was a man and his hunting dogs, the focal point of the painting. All I saw were the bluebells. Like the bluebells running along the River Cam. The bluebells I had crushed running from my past and James’s ghosts. An immense chokehold of sadness threatened to take my vision. I was not going to choose this morning to finally cry about his death. No freaking way. Not in front of George.

A lone, tall figure entered the hall and I stole a glance. And when my breath was stolen, I knew I wasn’t staring at a ghost. George looked good for a man who was forever changed. He opened his mouth, and a startling thing happened. I gasped. I was happy to see him. Or relieved.

He snapped his mouth closed and blinked quickly as if he’d gotten dirt caught in his lashes. Or he just didn’t know what to say to me, which was odd because he’d never had a problem speaking his mind before he had shot James.

With a curt nod, he turned down the hall. The oddest sensation burned in my chest. Like I’d swallowed sand and my ribs were now crushing it into a pearl of anguish. Fantastic, I whispered. He hated me. Why not? He had killed James, because when James had asked me to do it, I had lacked the courage. First, do no harm, remember? James had banked on that.

And the man, who had outsmarted time, certainly had a backup plan for my shortcomings. Forcing air back into my lungs, I shoved my hands into my pockets and headed to the meeting.

The meeting room had been a formal dining room once. That’s what Helen had told me on my first tour of Heritage House. The room held the same large mahogany table James had used to entertain guests for over a century. The table had intricate clusters of fruit carved into it at the corners and held a high enough polish to give everyone a ghostly reflection.

I grabbed a high-backed wooden chair from the table, but it was much heavier than expected and it almost pulled me forward. A soft, maternal touch took my shoulder and I turned. Helen smiled. Her smiles, although comforting, had become more worrisome over the last two weeks. They were too frequent and held a note of pity or melancholy or shock. I’m not the best judge of smiles, but they weren’t the same.

She pulled my chair back for me. Was I really that weak or just preoccupied?

James’s estate attorney, Portia Sharpe, entered the room. She had come to the clinic Tuesday to serve me with some formal but not arresting papers. She wore a silk canary blouse with a dark blue skirt and jacket. There wasn’t a whole lot to her besides the nice suit and large designer bag. She cleared her throat and opened her bag, pulling out a dossier. She flipped open the dossier with a glossed red nail.

Her associate was a young Asian man with black-framed glasses. He leaned over the table and whispered something to her. She nodded and he proceeded to give everyone a business card. He poured two cups of water and placed one in front of her. Maybe I needed an assistant? I definitely needed a manicure.

George took a seat across from me. He was cool and collected and didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Ignoring a symptom didn’t mean a disease would go away. But what did I know? I only held a degree in medicine with a specialization in pathology and immunology. I let out a disapproving sigh, the one you give a patient after they admitted to smoking.

Since all parties are represented, Ms. Sharpe said, I will begin outlining today’s proceedings. I’m here representing Knightsbridge and Heller, the firm contracted to execute the estate of James Henry Fitzwilliam Stuart.

Bile rose up in my throat and I attempted to stand, almost knocking the chair over. Helen caught it with the grace of a Russian ballerina.

Is there a problem, Dr. Whiting? Ms. Sharpe asked.

The room tightened. Which had to be a total mind trick, because I knew how huge the fucking dining room was. It was unexpected to hear James spoken of as if he wasn’t in the room. As if he didn’t own the universe I occupied. No longer a person, just some tiresome paperwork needing to be executed. Executed. He was the past tense, no longer the present. And it was my fault.

I was responsible. I had failed to do no harm. I hadn’t prepared for this confrontation.

George stood. Are you alright? he asked.

All the static in my head cleared.

How many times had he asked me that question before? His gaze was warm with worry again. It was the first intimate connection we had shared since I had tackled him in the parking lot of Lazarus Chapel. I needed him to trust me. I needed him to believe in me. I needed him, because otherwise, I was alone in this nightmare. I sat back down.

Good. Let’s begin. Ms. Sharpe elongated her spine. Most estate executions are private matters, but Mr. Stuart was very explicit with his instructions and wanted all of you gathered for the secondary phase. There was an initial distribution of papers and funds upon his death, which concluded ten days ago.

There was a note of unease in her tone, as if her firm had spent exhaustive hours with a client they didn’t completely understand or want. But I had the funny feeling she had been a companion and owed James more than legal hours. James’s existence was built on a web of strangers he had fed from in order to feel human. Somehow, that had made him a monster.

The young man handed George a large envelope and Ms. Sharpe continued. This secondary phase was to be concluded last week but both Dr. Whiting and Mr. Cooper have been difficult to reach. The young man slid both George and I a single piece of paper. It noted each day and time Ms. Sharpe had attempted to reach me by phone and at the clinic. There were a dozen notations. I glanced at George’s paper. His had similar notations. Well, at least we both had attorney phobia.

I also want to make it known that Knightsbridge and Heller also manage the Hastings Clinic’s holdings and foundations. There is no conflict of interest here, but after this meeting we will be irrevocably severed from the estate of Mr. Stuart.

I wasn’t exactly a people person, but even I could tell that buried under all the legal speak was a solid note of relief. A part of me grew heavy with envy.

Mr. Stuart held a substantial position in the Hastings Clinic. That position is now transferred in full to George Cooper. I swore I heard Helen’s skin snap. James’s vampire blood was seriously screwing with my ability to feel removed from others.

His land holdings, specifically Heritage House and all its contents, are still to be managed by Helen Robson until her death. Upon her death, the control and management will transfer to her stepson, George Cooper. Upon receipt of a gift of five-hundred thousand pounds, none of Ms. Robson’s next of kin may contest. If Mr. Cooper produces no issue, the holdings will be held intestate.

A cold slap of surprise knocked me back. Helen was George’s stepmother? Not only had James been lying to me but so had Helen, and by omission, George.

I parsed through common traits I had observed—the crunching of sugar cubes, the gentle grace, and the warm smile in their gazes that made you feel welcome and safe. I couldn’t even connect stepmother to son. When it came to people, the true nuts and bolts of their making, everything had to be spelled out for me. And James had known. Known it from day one.

He was never going to let me forget my shortcomings as a doctor. As a human.

I politely accused Helen with a glare, but she kept her eyes locked on her stepson, and he wouldn’t look at her. He was staring at the thick dossier. How had I been so blind? Everyone had been protecting George.

I reached for a water glass.

Helen cleared her throat. I’m sorry. Land holdings? Are you implying Mr. Stuart’s estate is more than Heritage House?

Mr. Stuart was the ninth Earl of Cambridgeshire.

I almost overfilled my water glass. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but it sounded huge because George looked like he just received a big punch to the gut. Suddenly, it was really good to be in this meeting.

But the Duke and Duchess—

Mr. Stuart never made claim to his title, but all of his land holdings fall under peerage law. And his last descendant is George Cooper.

I looked through my glass and watched the color drain from George’s kind face. Watched the shock of underhanded surprise consume his eyes with hatred, which he promptly directed at his stepmother. That’s why Helen took the seat next to me, to be out of physical range. I placed the glass down before it shattered under my teeth.

What is she talking about? George asked Helen, his contempt seething, verging on lethal.

Helen wrapped her hand within mine, and out of guilt, I held onto the woman who needed no protection.

I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question, Mr. Cooper? Ms. Sharpe asked.

It’s Detective Inspector Cooper. And I am not related to that bastard.

I’m afraid all the documentation… Ms. Sharpe took a sip of water. All the documentation Mr. Stuart provided proves his claim. You have inherited a large parcel of land in Cherry Hinton, a parsonage in Grantchester, and upon Ms. Robson’s passing, you will inherit Heritage House, unless she wishes to assign it to you before. With his stake in the Hastings Clinic combined with all other financial assets, you’ve become one of the richest men in the country.

I let out the breath I’d been holding. It sounded like a groan, causing a disapproving arch of Ms. Sharpe’s sharply lined eyebrows. I reached for the water glass again.

George clutched his tie. Is this some sort of sick joke?

No, I said. But it was muffled by the water glass.

What? George asked.

You’re related, I said. I wanted to kick myself for leaving my two most precious assets upstairs in my room—the X-ray of George’s injured spine and the DNA report confirming the blood tie. The finger bones I had stolen from James’s corpse were in my pocket, but this wasn’t the time to produce those as evidence. And I wasn’t ready to let them go.

Ms. Sharpe stared at me her mouth slightly ajar. The only reason I noticed was because I didn’t have the strength to look at George.

No, this is another one of his lies, George said, his voice sharp as a blade.

I shook my head. You wouldn’t have survived— But he cut me off with a don’t-you-dare-say-it glance. Treatment. You wouldn’t have made it if you weren’t related.

How long have you known? George asked.

I placed the glass on the table, my hand shaking. Not long.

How long?

Since Nate’s death.

George stared at his dossier; that ugly tick in his jaw surfaced with a vengeance. If I thought it was life-threatening to be trapped in a dark, tight space with a vampire who had been blood-starved I had been wrong. Dead wrong.

I was going to tell you, I said. But you refused to talk to me or come to the clinic.

George’s cheeks regained their color and his eyes took on the glimmer I had noticed upon first meeting him. When he was trying to string a pearl of clues. I own Hastings Clinic? he asked Ms. Sharpe.

I had to admit, one of the best qualities about George was his unshakable confidence. He couldn’t have been a good detective without complete confidence. I wished I had it. And if I had, maybe we wouldn’t be sitting in this room going over James’s estate.

Yes. Sixty percent majority, Ms. Sharpe said.

Big gears were grinding away in George’s mind. Finally, his gaze rested on me. I got the odd feeling I was butterfly stuck to a board. I had made several attempts to tell George the truth. That he was James’s last living descendant—a great-great-grandnephew. But he didn’t want to talk about James, or how James had saved his life, not even the flipping weather. How was I the bad guy?

So I can determine what to do with it? He didn’t remove his gaze from me. The question was meant for the attorney; the warning was for me.

With one additional board of director vote, Ms. Sharpe replied.

I can sell off my interest?

Yes. There are already several offers.

I can shut down any department?

Again, with one additional board of director vote.

You wouldn’t dare, I blurted.

He smiled. A James Stuart kind of smile.

My stomach churned.