Blood Inheritance

By M. Benjamin Woodall

I learned at school that being a shapeshifter is in my blood. I found monsters are real. Vampires and werewolves, or even worse. In a letter from home, mom told me of her marriage to the infamous Dr. Frankenstein, and those were her last words. Now will I have the power to stand up to my stepfather and find out what happened to my mom? It looks like I'm going to need Uncle Van Helsing's help. Coming of age is terrifying enough.

Thus begins the story of Mr. Rushin, a vampire-werewolf hybrid (a verewolf) and his adventures through time to stop the diabolical plans of his stepfather Dr. Frankenstein.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Benjamin Woodall
• Release date: Mar 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005597283

M. Benjamin Woodall

M. Benjamin Woodall was born in Fort Lauderdale, Florida in 1972. He studied filmmaking at Columbia College Chicago and has worked in the independent film industry in the 1990s to 2000s as writer, script consultant, producer, and other roles. Mister Woodall is the author of Raiders of the Dawn, a young adult fantasy series, Archives of the Witch, a young adult paranormal romance series, and other works. Since Nov 2020 he has been host and producer of Pure Steam 2.0, a steampunk themed talk show which first aired on Youtube.Mister Woodall has held residence in many states in the U.S.A. He loves travel, books, and movies. As of this writing, M. Benjamin Woodall can be found in the Atlanta metro area with his wife and two boys, drinking coffee at his desk, working on his next novel.

Book preview

BLOOD INHERITANCE

By M. Benjamin Woodall

A picture containing text Description automatically generated

London’s Emo Kid Publishing

Marietta, GA

© 2021, M. Benjamin Woodall

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, without the written permission from its publisher or author.

The characters portrayed are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Every man was a monster first.

(Edward Albee, Tiny Alice)

CONTENTS

Prologue

Blood Kind

Breaking the Rules

Blood Game

The Ferryman’s Warning

Blood Clump

Blood Omen

Blood Swing

Blood Bowl

News from Home

Blood in the Heart

The Badboys’ Clump

Midnight Foray

A Love Like None Other

Blood Caught

Kitchen Duty

Blood Loss

Blood Under the Moon

Blood Announced

Return to the Kitchen

Matter of the World

Rat on a Skewer

Davie’s Blood

Two Dunces in Blood

Monster on Campus

Blood on my Hands

Monster Revealed

Dr. Frankenstein’s Castle

Father Frankenstein

Man or Monster

Garden of Blood

Blood in the Moors

Uncle Abraham

Blood Correspondence

Dr. Frankenstein’s Monsters

How to Kill a Vampire

Gillies’ Mound

Blood on the Floor

Dr. Frankenstein, King of the Monsters

Taming the Monster

Dr. Frankenstein’s Airship

Beyond the Garden Door

Blood Fusion

Airship No More

Away in Time

Epilogue

About the Author

Prolo

gue

Out the glass across the moonlit lawn of the estate, Julia’s aimless stare fixes on something new, something different—a large bird flying across the grounds toward the manor. No. Not a bird, but a humongous bat! Coming right at her! She drops to the floor, covering her head. Pieces of glass shatter over her. She looks up at gigantic wings flapping in the chilly air—beady, black eyes, glimmering gold, peer down into her fearful gaze.

The door opens, the light turns on. The monster flutters toward the door, hovering before Mister Rushin in the doorframe.

The bat turns and flies out the broken window into the vast darkness outside.

We’re not safe here, Julia, Mister Rushin tells her, drinking the rest of his glass of scotch in two quaffs. Something sinister has awakened this night.

Julia sits up, brushing the glass fragments off her nightgown with the back of her hand, and she hurriedly rises. God, what was that?

The creature knows what I am, and we are not safe, Mister Rushin elaborates, for a vampire knows its kin, and the blood of a shadow stalker is toxic to another. The vampire’s thirst was abated, but the creature will now lust for blood more than ever. No one in the manor is safe. Larson and that decent man, Douglas—they must be protected.

Julia shivers. She wants to know more, but she is too creeped out to talk about rainbows. Already at fifteen, she has smacked face-first into a bleak reality behind Mister Rushin’s deep-set eyes. What is your story, Mister Rushin? Who are you really?

You seem to have a searching soul, Mister Rushin puts forth, though never fully satisfied with the answers to your queries.

Julia looks up at him in something of a woeful smile. If I ever wanted to describe the emptiness inside me, I don’t know how I could have said it better.

The words come from an emptiness inside of me, Mister Rushin admits. "One which I have never managed to fill in all these long years on this earth. You see, back when I was about your age, back in the 19th Century, my dad sent me off to boarding school. It was very different from today’s world, but there were trains. And it was on a train out of Edinburgh, Scotland, that I first met my cousin, a Van Helsing—

Bloo

d Kind

I opened the door to the loud chuga-chuga-chuga clank of the train wheels. Cool night air slapped my skin while through the dusty glass of the connecting car the large boy laughed with three others. Was my head in the right place by wanting to join them? Would they accept me? Sure enough, as I passed through the next door, a hush came over the boys. Their eyes pressed upon me as if I were the most undesirable wretch of them all.

Good evening, I said to the large boy just the same. He was not big in the waist but tall and broad-shouldered—to me, being of short stature, a giant. A fine evening, is it not? Soothing air, peaceful countryside— I simply had to remove myself from my compartment. I had to stretch my legs, you see? Stretch my legs and take advantage of the pleasant atmosphere. Sitting on the hard seats provided, one feels compelled to remove one’s posterior now and then, huh? This train ride leaves so much to be desired when it comes to comfort.

The boy glared down at me. His callous eyes bore right through me. What did you say?

I bid you a good evening. And I thought to make polite conversation.

He loomed over me, looking down at my shoes—scorched brown, button-up boots with at least one button missing on each. I suppose you think I care what you think about the weather?

Nervous, I nearly choked on my saliva. I’m new to Pugminster, and I just wanted to get to know my fellow students.

You think a low raff like you could ever be pals with us?

I took a deep breath, trying hard to roll in an air of confidence. But it just wasn’t working. My dad says that in friendship all it takes is having resilience and an open respect for others.

Uh, huh. The boy charged forward, causing me to stumble against the door. My heel kicked into the wall, but I kept my eyeballs on his. As much as I hate to admit it, he said, your dad may be onto something there. Just allow me to tell you a little something about respect first. Respect is owed. Owed by someone like you to someone like me. For us to be pals, I would have to show a wretch like you the same respect. And that would be absurd. He chuckled.

I kept my posture firm and strong, straightening my suspenders. How could I respond to that? As the boy grew larger, I become smaller—much smaller in fact, shrinking to a mere speck in comparison.

You are new to school, he said, so it is proper you learn now that I am in charge at Pugminster. Anytime you want something, and you are not sure about it, you ask me first. And when you get chink, you give a shilling to me. And if not, we will nobble you down. Got it?

Got it.

He breathed heavily upon my chest, grabbing my necklace to pull it up out of my shirt, showing the crucifix. He sneered with his teeth and shook his head. I knew it. He ripped it off my neck and threw it onto the floor behind me. He and his pals walked away.

I turned to stare down at my crucifix, the broken necklace chain around it, nearly coming to tears at my anxiety and fear of the lonely term at school that was sure to come. The car door opened and a skinnier boy, more my lowly social stock as shown by his tattered wooden shoes and dirty nickers, stepped up to me. He bent to pick up the crucifix, admiring it for a moment.

It landed face up, he said. Dat might be a good omen.

Of what? I wondered.

Maybe your attempt at goodwill with Davie might not be for naught after all.

It is special to me. A real treasure—it being like a magical amulet of sorts. Still, I hadn’t expected it to tell the future.

My father wears one. He wears it prominently, so much so dat sometimes I think he is trying to make a mountain out of a molehill when it comes to showing off his holiness—his Christianity. He is not fake, mind you. Have no doubt about his sincerity. But he does come across as if he is putting on a show. Still, he believes in the cross’ power to ward off evil, so seeing it dear to you means a lot to me in that way. I am not very religious, other dan believing in God. But my dad is.

My mom and dad were never very religious, like praying before meals and adhering to sacraments like the Holy Communion. My mom does attend St. Andrew’s on special occasion and truly believes in the power of good over evil. I guess I do too.

Same here.

My mom gave it to me for protection, I explained. It is not silver, but nickel and iron. But it is still ever so special to me.

Of course it is, he complimented. It was a present from your mom.

My fashionable school uniform is really her gift to me. It was my thirteenth birthday present, as itchy and constraining like my life in Edinburgh—my mom working at the poorhouse and my dad at the bank. He is not rich but provides well for us. Still, having to wear a flannel and broadcloth sown shirt and trousers, and not the finer wool attire as Lord Aubrey’s boys, sets me apart. I am not proud of it, but I plan to wear it proudly without even loosening my suspenders or removing my waistcoat.

The boy smiled and slapped his suspenders back against his faded blue, stripped seersucker shirt. You’re not the only one without fancy attire, pal. It may look new, but my dad bought it for me from a picker.

A picker?

A mortician he knows. Takes clothes off the bodies—and sells them. Makes a tidy sum, I understand.

One is lucky it is not blood-stained.

Some of what he sells are, the boy smirked. And believe me, in London, there are many poor folk who would desire less.

You are from London, then?

Sometimes, he replied. I’m really from nowhere if you want to think of it dat way. I grew up in London, but my dad—he moves around a lot. He is a doctor from Amsterdam. And he worked for the Queen when there was a string of unexplained deaths at Buckingham Palace.

The Queen! I asserted, though not really as impressed as I had let on. He should not be buying clothes from a picker.

Now, just because one works for the Queen, and a doctor, does not make one wealthy.

I suppose not. I recalled my own dad, and the hole in my heart needing to be filled by any emotion from him. My dad’s gift to me, I guess, was his investment of two hundred pounds for the term at Pugminster. He never once gave me a present, even at Christmas.

My dad is the same way. He barely seems to recognize me often times, when he is working or going after all the evil in the world like he is its protector or something. What about the evils of neglect?

Thinking about my mom, I recollected again when they had seen me off. I cannot get over seeing my teary-eyed mom through the dusty train windows when we left the station, I said. Her look at my dad had me guess she would go into an aromatic fit at him for sending me away to school just as soon as I was out of sight. But really it was all for my own good, since my careless disregard of authority, or so they tell me, will not do me well as a future gent. My dad knows best. His solemn glance, watching me off, was more disagreeable than compassionate. He cares deeply for me just the same, though he never really showed it.

The Dutch boy handed me back my pendant. I have no idea about protection, but there is evil out there in the world dat would never touch such a thing. It is a sign one are a good person, not like Davie and his pals from Fachan Clump. They are truly ugly as their clump name implies. It baffles me why you would want to be pals with his like anyway.

Why wouldn’t I want to be pals with him?

Davie is a monster, he said. He cares little for anyone other than himself, and he preys on others just because he can.

Like David, from David and Goliath.

I think you got dat backward. He is Goliath. Goliath was the giant, a monster.

Ah, that is what you think, I pointed out. Goliath looked tough, being tall and having all his armor. But would that not make him slower and more cumbersome, especially with all that armor on? He was the weak one. David had a more powerful weapon. Standing far enough so Goliath could not hit him with sword or spear, with a good aim, he was sure to be the victor because he knew he could easily hit Goliath in the vulnerable forehead and bring him down—to mercilessly stab him when Goliath was not able to fight back. Who is the real monster?

Only a monster to the foolish eye! the Dutch boy declared, bright-eyed.

A man can be a monster, just the same as a monster can be merely a man.

I see we will have the most interesting conversations together. He offered his hand to shake. My name is Gerrit, by the way. Gerrit Van Helsing.

Securing my crucifix into my pocket, I took his hand. You must be my cousin, I said, gleeful I might have had a pal at last. Pleased to meet your acquaintance. My name is Ranald, Ranald Rushin.

Ja, he related, I was told you might be onboard, but I just did not know what to expect. What clump are you assigned to?

Clump?

I keep forgetting you are new to the Academy. Dat is what we call your team or housing group you will be with.

I guess there is a lot I’ll have to get used to.

The glow from the train guard’s lantern caught our eyes as he approached. Ye lads ought not be wandering about the train this time of night, he instructed.

I was just about to walk my cousin back to his compartment, told Gerrit.

Good, the guard said. And when ye get back, put your light out.

Break

ing the Rules

"You had better put your light out, Otto, Gerrit spoke to the pudgy boy who shared my compartment. The train guard is on his patrol."

Otto unhooked the lantern from the wall, jittering as it was from the train’s rumbling motion. Lifting the glass, he blew out the flame. How was your walk? he asked.

Shockingly dreadful, I said. And what of you? How are you keeping? You have been asleep since we left the station.

And now I cannot for the life of me shut my eyes. Sleeping in such a manner, against the wall on these— They look so soft, don’t they? But, good gracious, they are some of the hardest seats I have ever sat upon!

I don’t suppose I feel the need either.

I say, Gerrit said, neither do I. But what have we to do now but revel in darkness?

If I may be so bold, Otto offered. In the caboose there are girls. We three gents might go and, dare I say, spy on them!

Spy on girls?

I saw them boarding, in Edinburgh. Destined for Rydle. They are a such pretty bunch. So much so, I desired some self-abuse, if one catches my fancy.

Self— abuse? I queried.

You know—

Slapping one’s wanker, Gerrit expounded.

I found my hands flicking back at my suspenders. My dad said gratifying myself in such a way would stunt my growth.

So you have never done it?

I cannot say, politely anyhow.

Can’t you see how stunted he is? Otto remarked with a lackluster look, but his eyes sparkled. He may be the shortest twelve-year-old I have seen.

Thirteen, I corrected. I am thirteen.

Even more so.

You are not tall yourself, I thought to come back at him.

That is because I revel in self-abuse.

Fitting rebuke, Ranald, noted Gerrit, but you will find Otto here has no scruples.

Otto shrugged in a smirk. Once outside a bathhouse last summer, I peeped in a hole in the wall and saw a girl, skin totally revealed, subtle breasts, nipples—sticking her fingers into her fancy bits.

God, my heart was racing into my loins. I had to change the matter of our talk. What is Rydle? I asked.

Rydle Harrow School for Girls, explained Gerrit. Not far across the moors from Pugminster.