Vampire Rising: Vampire Regalia, #1

By Scarsky

What happens when you wake up as a vampire?

 

Ella was just an ordinary high school student until strange events caused an irrevocable change within her. Once a human, she's now a vampire with no one to guide her and a desperate thirst for blood. Worse yet, unknown assailants want her dead at all costs and a sinister plot threatens to destroy her world completely. Who turned her and for what purpose?

 

In the dangerous and dark world of vampires, Ella discovers strange new powers and meets a charming boy who has a fondness for pop culture references. Despite their differences, they soon learn they share more than meets the eye.

 

Will Ella find the answer she seeks?

 

If you enjoy Stephenie Meyer's Twilight saga and Vampire Diaries, you will enjoy the Vampire Regalia series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pup Books
• Release date: Apr 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9789811413346

Book preview

Vampire Rising

Scarsky

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Scarsky

Copyright © 2018 Scarsky

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

To request permissions, contact the publisher at [e-mail]

ISBN: 979-8-35-430815-6 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-9-81141334-6 (Ebook)

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

First printing edition 2019

Scarsky

www.scarsky.com

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About Author

Chapter 1

Ella sighs with irritation, her shoulders stiff. Waiting tables at the diner can be a real pain sometimes. She checks the numbers and counts the coins and dollar notes one more time, but it’s short. These patrons are trying to take advantage of her. She’s had her suspicions since she heard the first snicker and she’s not happy to find them confirmed. When will they ever stop thinking that they’re so smart and cunning? Do they really think a waitress like her can’t process numbers? It’s because she’s just a high schooler, isn’t it? Or could it be just because she’s a girl? Shaking her head, she rips the bill from its resting place on the cash register and storms across the aisle. The loud voices and judgmental eyes that follow her are just part of a long string of terribleness in her evening so far. Thank goodness it’s nearly closing time.

Moving between booths, she arrives at the furthest table at the back, the chosen spot for troublemakers. A group of young men are seated there with their dopey smiles. One of them looks up, his eyes blinking slowly as he takes her in—her messy mane of dark brown hair, her pale skin, and her doe brown eyes. She must appear as a naive teenage girl to them. He doesn’t seem to process the displeasure on her face as he rounds up his fellow friends, armed with a smarmy grin. He’s decided that she’s not a threat.

Hey, blondie! he shouts, with a suggestive wriggle of his brow that prompts his friends to snicker. Back again? Are you’re gonna offer us some free drinks? He smirks with confidence.

Her lips twitch.

"Lovely idea, but no, she speaks slowly, eyeing the lost looks and slumped forms by the brick wall. You’ve underpaid your bill by a number of dollars—fifteen to be exact. You’re not trying to rip us off, are you?" she asks innocently, waiting to see how he’ll play it off. Their plan lacks all subtlety. They have the wad of cash, all small money, prepared and ready to throw at her when asked, no need to split the bill or count.

The boy blinks at her, uncertain. He eyes his friends for a moment before laughing with false bravado, a condescending sound that she’s heard throughout her life due to her small stature. Easy to dismiss someone when they’re tiny and weak.

No, no, course not, blondie. But, I mean, you’ll let it slide right? I’m out of cash and my friends are out too, you see? He smiles innocently, pointing to his closest friends who slump away dramatically. She sighs, tired, but puts on her job-ready smile, a sharp little thing that does more to intimidate than welcome. Standing on tiptoes, she glowers, her eyes flashing. They’re not going push her around this time, no way.

I’m sorry, but the diner’s policy states that all meals must be paid, no exceptions. I’m happy to lead you and your friends to the back to have a word with the owner, but I see that you do, in fact, have a bit of change in your pocket, don’t you? She smirks as she points to the wad of bills spilling from his pocket.

He looks down, blanching.

I’m sure you can scrounge together something, or can’t you count? Don’t tell me that a little high schooler like me has got you beat in that department.

The most satisfying moment of the night comes when the boy’s false confidence falls apart. His eyes look toward his friends again, lost. But whether to keep up pretenses or otherwise, they refuse to help him.

Right, uh… yes, of course. H-here, he stutters, fumbling to place the correct amount of change into her waiting hands.

"Great. She beams, her smile sharp. Enjoy the rest of your evening and please, do come again. She turns, her hair waving like a victory banner—a victory that she doesn’t quite feel as she walks away, returning to the massive crowd and the demanding calls of, Blondie!"

This is it. This is her life, she thinks as she returns to her place at the counter, talking down stupid fools and jerks who think they’re oh-so-funny. Blondie. Girlie. Kid. She’s heard them all.

She sighs again. It’s a tough summer gig, working at a diner. She thought it’d get easier, but every day she’s proven wrong. Harder than the juggle of getting orders sorted and delivered on time, she has to deal with people who’ve a special way of getting on her nerves. It seems she can’t catch a break. It’s a never-ending grind on her patience, enough to have her aggressively towel drinking glasses by the sink for the next half-hour. Every customer request is greeted with a sharp glare and a terse quip that she’s preoccupied and to find someone else.

But she’d rather be here than back home. That is, if she could even call that place a home. Her house isn’t what it used to be after her parents’ divorce, what with her father gone. Whenever she’s home, nine times out of ten, she’s the only person there. It’s a dreadfully lonely place, full of painful memories of when her parents had their explosive fights. Thinking back now, she almost prefers it. At least it wasn’t quiet.

Don’t rub those glasses too hard.

She turns with a start to find the tall, bulky figure of Khan, her boss, a dark-haired Middle Eastern man in his forties. He’s holding a bottle of tequila in each hand, with a friendly smile that’s enough to warm anyone’s heart. He owns Falafel House, a literal hole in the wall, having built it from the ground up over a dozen years, achieving success through pure determination in a way that would make anyone feel inspired. His kind character has made working at the diner bearable despite the unruly patrons. She’s certainly not staying for the pay.

I’m not… she begins indignantly, but with a purse of her lips, she eyes the towel in her hand and the glaringly shiny cup, then stops. She huffs out a load of air, hoping that her derision would leave with it. Sorry, she finally relents, trying to keep calm.

He shakes his head fondly, a peal of laughter falling from his lips as he turns toward her. He’s always been a jovial man, never failing to bring a smile to her face. One of the few good things in this place. With the absence of her parents in her life, Khan has become something of a father figure for her.

Eyes twinkling, he gives her a friendly nudge.

I can’t complain, I suppose. Anyone would be lucky to have a worker like you, so willing to fight for underpaid bills, he jokes mockingly. He’s light-hearted where she’s bristling fire, which is a fine mix, she supposes. They balance each other out. She only wishes she’d be half as good-natured as him when she gets older.

She snorts, pitching her voice higher for a chipper tone.

Yes, you are lucky to have me, she said. Who else could bring such bright and youthful energy to this gloomy establishment?

But rather than make him laugh like such jokes usually do, her words make him pause and look at her. His face bears a wary concern that makes her gnaw at her lips and look away.

Sighing, Khan grabs her shoulder and gives it an encouraging squeeze. I know you don’t like it here, kid, and that you’re tired. I’m sorry. No one ever said life was fair or easy. But don’t let it get you down. Cheer up. I believe in you, that you’ll go on to do great things, so keep that chin up. And besides, it’s the weekends. One more hour, Ella, and that’s it.

It should fill her with relief, knowing her shift would be over soon, but the end still seems so far away.

She rubs her eyes. Her fingers are wrinkled from the water and calloused by work. God, she wishes she could be a better worker for him. She’s hardly pulling her weight. More often than not, Khan has to step in and take over her tasks when she gets overwhelmed or makes a blunder. And though she tries her best, she can’t help feeling that it’s not enough. She’s half as efficient as the other servers and, in typical Ella fashion, she has a way of making sweet things turn sour. He’d be better off finding a replacement for her. Blinking away the wetness in her eyes, she grips the comforting hold.

I don’t mean to be so down all the time, she whispers, her voice hoarse.

I know. Things aren’t going so great back home, are they? he asks.

She pauses, thinks about lying, but… No. No, they aren’t, she murmurs.

He sighs and pats her shoulder, seemingly unsure of what to do. Just… chin up, Ella.

She smiles, small and sad, and she nudges him. I’ll try, Khan.

God, if only she could truly switch her emotions up on a dime, if not for her own sake, then for Khan’s.

Tiredly, she finishes her shift a few hours later, grumpy and worn, but with all the grace she’s developed through practice. Sitting in the dimly lit back room, she peels off her suffocating layer of work clothes and trades them in for scarlet jeans, a gray, woolly turtleneck, and black leather that protect her from the biting cold. Mindless, she folds up her black, vomit-smelling uniform and shoves it into the graffiti-laden locker as she ties up her hair, her arms feeling sore. She sighs and finally loosens, breathing in full and deep and alone.

With relief, she stands up, her belongings in hand as she prepares to leave. Just then, her old, dented phone chimes, making her pause. A message? With a frown and quirked brow, she fishes it out of her rust-colored backpack, her fingers moving tiredly to bring up the new message.

‘Birthday party in 2 weeks,’ it reads with an unfortunate smattering of emojis, ‘u coming? u missed the last one.’

Ella curses under her breath, knowing with a strange certainty that the sender—her friend, Lianna—would scorn her with extreme prejudice if she’s denied again. Groaning, she places her head in her hands, rubbing her temples as she commiserates. She doesn’t actually want to go. She has no intention of going, in fact, but she’s been ignoring her social life for long enough. Her friends, despite her numerous rebuffs, still want to see her, and that should count for something, shouldn’t it? The guilt over it all pushes her to agree, and so she does.

‘Fine,’ she types back, angrily stabbing the screen, ‘but you owe me a meal.’

She only gets a cheeky smile in response.

As she moves to turn off her phone, she can’t help but notice one name on her contacts list and the line through it that she’d once added in total anger. Mom Margaret the Tyrant, it reads, and all her old hurt feelings come back again, robbing her of her calm. After the divorce, her mom turned her controlling tendencies up to eleven and sought to keep close tabs on her every move. Growing up, those icy, judgmental jabs of hers managed to get under her skin in ways that she wished beyond anything that she could forget or ignore. Unfortunately, she can’t seem to escape them, those cruel thoughts hovering over her head like a dark cloud.

Looking up, the old mirror by her locker catches her eye. She takes note of her dull brown eyes, her too-pale lashes, and messy strands of hair, but her reflection isn’t the only thing she sees. Her mother’s snide comments are outlined in every part of her body like invisible scars. You’re putting on too much weight. Frowns give you wrinkles. Put on some make-up. Smile