Ria's Blood Debt: Ria Miller and the Monsters, #4

By Nigel Henry

ALL DEBTS COME DUE.

For more than five years, my parents and I have risked it all hunting monsters. Every monster we've faced, every chance we've taken, it's all been one big gamble. 

We've been lucky so far. But our luck is about to run out.

Because when an old friend of my fathers comes looking for help, it sets off a chain of events that no one could have seen coming. And all those gambles we've taken? They're finally coming back to haunt us.

The endgame is coming. I only hope we all make it there.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nigel Henry
• Release date: Dec 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9798201861230

Book preview

One

"Hello, everyone. I hope you don’t mind if I interrupt."

Alexander Pratt beamed as he stepped through the white French doors into the lobby of Gracie Mansion and greeted the Sunday afternoon tour group. He loved dropping in on tours of the mayor’s residence whenever his schedule allowed. And as all the tour-goers frantically whipped out their cellphones and snapped photos and videos of him, he straightened his gray suit before he started shaking hands and posing for selfies.

You’re doing such a great job, Mr. Mayor, a young, clean-cut black man said to him.

This city’s lucky to have you, a gray-haired Asian woman said.

You’re way better than that phony who was here before you, a middle-aged white man said.

Thank you, thank you, Pratt said after about a dozen handshakes. Listen, as you can imagine, my schedule really is packed and I’ve got to run off in a few minutes. But I did want to say how much I appreciate your support. We’ve gotten a lot done these past four years, and we’re not done yet. I hope I can count on you in November.

The crowd broke into applause. Pratt smiled and waved them down. Now, I have to leave to present an award, but I’ve got time for one question. Does anybody have one?

Dozens of hands went up into the air. Pratt’s eyes fell onto the smallest one. It belonged to a little black girl no older than age seven. She sat on her father’s shoulders, her hair tied in pigtails.

Pratt pointed to her. Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve obviously got to take this one. Go ahead, young lady. My name is Alex. What would you like to know?

What’s the hardest thing about being mayor?

The question took Pratt by surprise. Not because he wasn’t expecting it. Visitors always asked that question whenever he dropped in at the end of a tour. What was the hardest part of the job, what was the best part, and how it differed from the business world were the three questions he was asked the most.

No, Pratt was surprised that this child had asked it. He was doubly surprised that she still held his gaze, keeping eye contact far longer than most did these days, human or supernatural.

That’s why Pratt loved human children. They were so unafraid. Werewolf cubs just wanted to fight all the time. But human children, they were curious. And bold.

Pratt smiled as he answered, truthfully, as always. Well, little girl, that’s a very tough question. I think you have a future in the news business. I think the hardest part about being mayor is knowing that there are so many people that need help in this city, and no matter what I do, I can’t help them all.

Why not? The child followed up.

I guess that’s just one of the lessons I learned when I became mayor: some people don’t want to be helped. Some resist change and some don’t believe you’re trying to make things better. So, I just try to do what I can every day. And I hope that everyone will eventually see the truth.

The tourists nodded their heads in agreement as Pratt clapped his hands together. Okay, this has been wonderful, but I’m afraid I’ve got to run. Please, enjoy the rest of the tour.

Pratt headed back toward the French door, his mind already moving ahead. Before the awards dinner, he had a meeting with Councilwoman Blake. He was trying to get her to support his weapons ban, but the Staten Islander was giving him trouble.

He could always kill her.

No, that would raise too many questions. You don’t get to become mayor of New York City by being reckless.

A knot formed in his stomach as he saw Trevor Ross, his chief of staff, waiting on the other side of the door. It was never a good sign when Trevor came to find him before a meeting. It usually meant troubled awaited.

Pratt closed the door behind him and studied the grimace Trevor wore. Don’t tell me Blake’s in a mood already? I’m not even late.

I’m afraid it doesn’t have to do with Blake, Trevor said. I’ve already canceled your meeting with her.

What? Why would you—

Trevor held out his phone, a beat of sweat running down his forehead. Pratt took it and stared down. It was cued up to a video. He pressed play and gasped.

The video was black-and-white and grainy, but it depicted five figures on a rooftop. One was a man moving aggressively. The other four stood against him. Three were human, their faces hidden behind domino masks. The fourth appeared to be a dog.

As the video played, the man took a swipe at one of the figures, a young woman. She ducked and appeared to pull some sort of weapon from her chest. She aimed it at the man, and he fell. The dog bit the man in the arm and the second masked individual, a slightly older woman, stabbed him in the arm.

Then the third figure, clearly a man, stood over the prone man and produced a pointy object. He stabbed the man in the chest and stepped back as the victim appeared to vanish.

This came to us this morning, Trevor said. It was about two weeks ago.

Pratt’s pulse quickened as the video stopped. He gripped the phone tightly as he processed what he watched.

The vigilantes.

Alive.

Pratt handed the phone back to Trevor. How is this possible? I thought they were taken care of.

Trevor looked through the windows of the French doors to the crowd still filing out. Perhaps we should move this conversation to someplace more secure?

Pratt nodded, his thoughts already moving to Idina, queen of the witches. She promised to rid him of the vigilantes. He thought she’d accomplished the job since he hadn’t heard a single report of vigilante activity since December.

Such was the danger of assumptions.

It was time to get a status update from Idina.

Yes. Get the transport, he said. We’re going to have to check up on an old friend.

Thirty minutes later, Alex Pratt stepped out of the black mayoral SUV onto the small lower Manhattan street. Though most businesses were closed, pedestrians still milled about, going in and out of a nearby coffee shop. Shivering in the January cold, Pratt drew his baseball cap over his eyes, pulled up the collar of his jacket and began the walk to the brick colonial building where he’d find answers.

He barely noticed the building as he pushed past the peeling red-painted doors and climbed the creaking stairs, his thoughts so consumed by the vigilantes.

They’d killed Carl Foster and Molly birch, jorogumo he’d planted in the school system. That was a minor annoyance. They’d killed detective Malone, a werewolf in the police department. That was concerning. Then they’d killed Leonard Brooks, the cecaelia he’d placed in the city’s housing department.

That was a problem.

The vigilantes were an infection in a wound. Pratt could not allow them to fester. He didn’t know how much they’d figured out, but what they already knew threatened his plan. The plan he’d spent a decade crafting.

They couldn’t be allowed to get any closer.

He arrived in the run-down living room, lit only by candles that lined three corners of the room. A wooden table sat in the center of the room, a pentagram carved into the wood. Two wicker chairs stood next to the table, and Pratt sat in one, his patience already growing thin.

Pratt held out his left hand, watching as it grew bigger and as tufts of black fur started to grow. His fingernails hardened and elongated until it was a long, sharp black claw. He then raked the claw against his left hand, drawing blood.

He held his wounded hand over the pentagram, watching as the blood fell onto the wood and clearing his throat.

Idina, it’s Alex. There better be a hell of a reason why those vigilantes are still alive.

He looked around the room, waiting for a response. There was none. He held his tongue for a moment longer, the anger inside him threatening to bubble up to the top.

Idina, if you don’t show up right now, I swear to God, I will come down there, drag you off your throne and break every bone in your magical body.

No answer. Rage flowed through him, turning his vision red. His right hand began to grow, the wound closing as his claws grew.

Stay calm, he thought, taking deep, soothing breaths. Nothing was to be gained by transforming in the middle of lower Manhattan, especially not if he lost control.

The chair across from him interrupted his breaths as it slid back from the table. A white glow formed above the seat. The glow turned into a mist, and, slowly, a woman’s figure began to appear.

The moment the woman was solid, Pratt reached across the table, grabbing her by the throat with his left hand. He rose, lifting her by the neck and pinning her against the wall. The woman struggled, thrashing against his grip as Pratt checked his watch.

Idina, you have five minutes to convince me not to kill you. He said, checking the time. It was six thirty-five. He’d need to be on his way soon.

I’m not the Sorceress, the woman coughed.

Pratt drew his eyes from the watch up to his cornered prey. Sure enough, this witch was a young woman, with dark blonde hair and blue eyes. He had no idea who she was, but she wasn’t Idina.

Pratt’s patience was being tried. He pulled the woman close his face. She tried to raise her wand, but he pinned her hand against the wall.

Idina would have gotten five minutes, Pratt growled, his teeth growing sharper in his mouth. You have one. Where is she?

Imprisoned. The Sorceress has fallen.

This caught Pratt by surprise. He released the witch and she sank to her knees, clutching her throat.

What happened? Pratt asked.

The witch looked up at him, and her eyes flicked quickly to her wand.

Pratt scoffed. You’d be dead before you could even raise it. What happened to Idina?

Princess Marisol happened. She reclaimed the throne.

Pratt arched an eyebrow up. It didn’t surprise him that Idina had been defeated. The witch’s carelessness was always going to be her undoing. But Marisol?

Idina’s niece? She’s a child. How did she pull that off?

She had help. A band of loyalists, a vampire, a shape-shifter and a group of humans fought with her.

Pratt’s breath caught in his throat. It couldn’t be. He’d sent Idina after a group of humans.

These humans, what did they look like?

They hid their faces behind masks.

Pratt punched the wall, putting a hole the size of the woman’s head into the plaster. The witch shrank into the corner. I’m sorry, he said, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his hand. I’m having a hard time with masked humans myself. Tell me, did you see their fight?

I did. I was at the ceremony when they attacked.

And did you get a good look at the humans?

The witch shook her head. I was too far away. But I did see the vampire that fought with them.

She stood, pointing her wand at the table. Her eyes began to glow green, as did the tip of her wand. Green strands sprang from the tip of the wand, streaking through the room until they reached the table. Then they began to entwine, over and over, until they formed a ball.

The ball began to take shape and the color began to change. And soon, Pratt found himself staring at the pale face of a vampire with chin-length brown hair, black eyes, and a cleft chin.

You’re sure this is him? Pratt asked. The woman nodded.

Pratt reached into his pocket, drew his phone and took a photo of the image. He turned back to the woman. Congratulations. You can go. I’d better not ever see you in this world again.

He headed toward the stairwell, not bothering to wait to see if the witch left. He knew she would.

He kept walking until he was out of the building and back to the SUV. Trevor was waiting for him, and Pratt handed him the phone.

Spread this photo to every vampire, every ogre, every fae, druid, and elf. I want this vampire found and I want him brought to me.

The vigilantes had taken down Idina. He had to give them credit, that was an accomplishment. But they’d made a mistake: they’d turned to a vampire for help. Pratt could exploit that.

Consider it done, Mr. Mayor, Trevor said. Anything else I can do for you?

Yes. Seal off the witches again. Let’s see how the vigilantes do without help from the broomsticks.

He checked his watch. And get me to the Bryant Park Library. I’ve got an award to hand out and I don’t want to be late.

Two

"I’m telling you, you’ve got this in the bag."

I lean back in my chair, grab my glass of orange soda and take a gulp. Calming down your nervous father takes it out of a girl.

My dad starts fidgeting with his tie and Mom slaps his hand. Thank you, I say to her.

To Dad, I point to the dark blue dress I’m wearing. If I can wear a dress, you can enjoy a dinner in a tie without losing your mind.

Mom laughs and nudges Dad with her elbow. "And we’re supposed to be the grown-ups."

I glance around at the six other tables to see if anyone else is having to keep their parent in check though dinner. I can’t be the only one going through this.

This is the Morris West Investigative Journalism Award Dinner. It’s held once a year to honor the city’s best crime reporting, and guess who’s nominated for the first time? If you said David Miller, congrats, you’ve won the prize.

Well, technically he’s winning the prize. I hope.

Mom, Will, and I are here at the Bryant Park Public Library’s event hall to cheer Dad on as he hopefully claims the award. Dad, apparently,