Blood Treason: Book #3 of the Blood Tribe Series: Blood Tribe, #3

By Iris Kain

Michael and Vivian, undead soulmates fighting against the global network of vampires known as the Shévet ha Dam, or Blood Tribe, must face their greatest challenge yet. Lukas, Michael's son, has turned to the dark power of the Maleficence, and if the woman seducing him has her way, he may never return to the light.

But it's not just Lukas that Michael must worry about. A new curse courses through his veins, one with roots in the Maleficence. His craving for blood is now matched by an appetite for meat. The living kind.

It's a battle for the ultimate victory against the Maleficence, and the vampires fighting the Shévet ha Dam have never faced such insurmountable obstacles. Can they save Lukas and overcome Michael's affliction, or will evil triumph in the end?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Iris Kain
• Release date: Dec 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781957244129

Iris Kain

Over the years, Iris Kain has called Michigan, Arizona, South Carolina, Georgia, and Germany home. She loves gargoyles, spiders, and black cats, as well as anything that makes you laugh while checking your closet for critters with teeth. She's a fan of horror and hard rock, and enjoys playing the piano. She currently resides in Alabama with her son, cats, and two adorable Swedish Vallhund dogs.

Book preview

Blood Treason

Iris Kain

Also by Iris Kain

Shadow Hunter

Eternal Spring

Sour

Blood Tribe: Book #1 of the Blood Tribe Trilogy

Blood Trials: Book #2 of the Blood Tribe Trilogy

Blood Treason

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as factual. Any likeness to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 Pirate Farm Books

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher.

All rights reserved.

Acknowledgments:

ISBN: 978-1-957244-16-7

In memory of Craig Robert Dyess, our own gentle giant.

1999-2020

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Not even does the moon shine every night, but gives place to darkness.

—Henry David Thoreau, Walking

Chapter One 

October 2007

Melissa Vartalidis touched the cool October air as her fingertips emerged from the earth. She extended a slender arm and stretched upward, elongating her slim fingers. She followed that arm with the other, swimming upward through a sea of dirt, a grave of her own making. Sand weighed her down from her thick hair to her heels, now heavy with earth.

Pressing her palms on the ground, she emerged from her sandy burial place and brushed the dirt from her arms and clothes. Stars in a black sky free from the jealous moon projected pale light onto the skin that almost matched their heavenly brightness. Melissa extended her muscles, atrophied with sleep, and gathered her thoughts.

Sending out psychic feelers, she checked the status of the latest war and on Charles Dunning, the leader of the Shévet ha Dam, the Blood Tribe. The battle was over. Charles, the vessel of the Maleficence, had been killed in the fray, and the Maleficence power within him now resided in another vampire. Her shoulders slumped. Her confidence in Charles’ victory had been so firm that she had dug a grave for herself outside his home, following him from his previous home in Atlanta like a paparazzi stalker.

Charles is dead. I should have fought. I should have helped. Who cares what the Shévet ha Dam thinks of me or might have said? Now I have to hunt down the new head of the Tribe.

Such a waste. Over a thousand years ago, Charles had lived as a brutal serial killer in Scotland. After his mortal death, he continued on the same path of cruelty and bloodlust as a vampire, but he held the Maleficence within him for less than a decade. The vampire who held it previously—Joseph Cartaphilus, the father of vampires—had hosted it for over a millennium.

Fucking Cartaphilus. I would have been able to return to the fold with Charles. Perhaps. If I’d tried.

The massive French chateau-style home sprawled before her. Charles’ home was a colossal edifice out of place among the typical adobe styles found outside Sedona, chosen for its exclusive location and elaborate privacy devices. His security never considered someone willing to dig ten feet under the fence to be near the vessel holding the Maleficence. Earlier this year, Melissa had tracked Charles down and began her study of him, learning everything within her power about him. Her goal was to win Charles over with her abundant charms and thus return to the Tribe.

Charles was gone. Who held it now? How long would it take her to identify the next leader and win their favor? Dammit, this was so unfair! All of her hard work to get this close, wasted. Her plan to approach Charles alone as soon as an opportunity arose was gone. Now, she was stuck working her tail off to hunt down the new leader just to perform the same work over again.

Brushing and shaking the remaining grime from her limbs as she crossed the yard, Melissa tossed her dark curtain of hair over her shoulder. With each step, she changed her walk from the stagger of a woman fresh from the grave to the saunter of a queen. She set her shoulders back, extended her neck, and added a swish to her stride. A foolish urge overcame her, and a broad smile spread over her face. She could do little about her protruding eyeteeth, but the servile Renfields who scuttled through Charles’ home didn’t care about trivial things like appearances. She held the royal blood of the vampire, and that was what they craved.

Never mind that she no longer wielded the strength she once possessed. No doubt Charles harbored enough Renfields within his walls to overpower her if they set their minds to it. One or two Renfields might know how low Melissa was on the branches of the family tree. How far removed from Cartaphilus. How weak. The trick was to keep them from thinking. They were Renfields, mindless servants. It wasn’t terribly complicated.

Melissa reached the side entrance and paused. The lingering scent of the Shévet ha Dam was strong here—odors of the grave, blood, and flesh long outlasting its earthly intention. Only hours before, she had enviously watched members of the Table launch themselves toward the battle from Charles’ stoop as she hid downwind in the darkest spot in the yard where the low sycamore branches hid her from view. Judging from Charles’ absence in the Maleficence, the war had gone poorly. How many members of the Blood Tribe had perished in the battle?

There was no reason for any of them to return to Charles’ home, was there? Surely, they preferred their fortresses to his, preferred their environments to these, and favored their Renfields over his.

With one last brush of grave dust from her clothing, Melissa’s hand started for the knob. No. The front entrance. Give them no reason to doubt your power.

This was going to be it. Fuck Joseph. Fuck Charles. She was coming back to the Blood Tribe, and it started now in Charles’ empty home. If the new leader didn’t enjoy having her there, she would figure out a way to win their favor. What was the expression? Better to ask for forgiveness than permission?

And she was ever so good at begging in ways most creatures—living or undead—found irresistible.

Melissa veritably skipped to the side of the home facing the road, nearly out of sight as she traveled a lengthy drive. Composing herself, she approached two massive, carved wooden doors with old-fashioned iron hinges the length of her palms. The handle swiftly unlocked under the influence of her mind.

Some power she retained.

Strolling into Charles’ former home, she cocked her head assuredly and elongated her five foot eight inch frame to its full height. She threw her shoulders back and placed a stiff, bright smile on her face. She caught herself stepping on tiptoe and brought her bare feet flat to the floor. No need to be so cautious anymore.

Before her, Charles’ superbly decorated home appeared drawn from the desert surroundings. Earthen tile, natural paint and wallpaper tones, lush plants, and plenty of wood and leather. Vast open rooms flowed superbly from one to the next. Boxy seating was painstakingly arranged around heavy wooden tables. Thick, masculine window treatments no doubt blocked out any trace of daytime sun. Tasteful wall décor in masculine themes hung in eye-catching spaces. Not a speck of dust or fingerprint lingered on the shining surfaces. The place screamed money. Every inch was faultless.

Having enough servants desperate for a swallow of vampire blood made perfection possible.

A tiny female Renfield caught Melissa’s eye from the opposite side of the living area before she skittered through the hall. Melissa smiled, wary of broadening it too far and exposing her youthful trait, and rolled forward.

Melissa had wandered the floors for less than five minutes when one of the larger male Renfields stepped forward. No doubt chosen for his size to intimidate human intruders. Tall and robust, he had been a handsome man before vampires roped him into his blood fixation. Now, deep blue circles ringed his gray eyes, emphasizing his drawn, pale skin. His hands twitched and jittered at his sides, and his pupils struggled to focus on her. Could he smell her last meal on her dress? Should his desperation concern her?

No. I’ve got this. Her lip turned up at a corner.

Madam?

It had been a while since anyone addressed her that way, and a measure of pride made Melissa’s chest swell. These Renfields had no idea who she was; they only knew the blood they craved flowed through her.

She peered down her nose at him, a challenging feat since he was the taller between them. Yes?

He swallowed. He stood at least four inches taller and carried several pounds of ropey muscle on his frame, but of the two, Melissa held the power, and he knew it.

Does madam know if Master Charles will be returning this evening? Restless and twitching hands danced from his side to his chest and back. He scratched his forearm unselfconsciously. His eyes shot from corner to corner and then to the floor as if afraid to meet hers. When he did, he looked away, too fearful to hold her gaze for long.

Does he care for Charles, or does he need a fix? Or is it both? How to tell them Charles was gone? Did they want to know the truth, or would any pretext she offered suffice? Her servants had harbored no loyalty toward her. Did the leader of the Shévet ha Dam treat his help better than she had? Might as well be honest. He will find out in time. They might believe I’m in good graces with the Tribe if he learns it from me.

Master Charles is gone, she said, and will not be coming back.

Dead? he ventured, his voice turning up in the short syllable. Jerky speech. Yes, this one was withdrawing. His eyes met hers from behind a curtain of wavy brown hair.

Dead, she confirmed.

He released a frustrated breath, followed by a subdued groan at his insubordination.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, he said, his voice pleading with soulless regrets. It did not fool Melissa. He longed to exchange his blood with hers, to shed his dependency and become one of the Shévet ha Dam.

There were two types of Renfields: vampire blood drinkers and those whose gave their blood to the undead. Neither was transformed into a vampire. Instead, they hovered on the verge of death as a vampire servant. The takers of vampire blood were addicts, junkies whose dependency on the undead resembled a dependence on other potent drugs. Any vampire would do. Drained Renfields remained loyal and dependable once they revived from their anemia—not the jittery mess she saw. He was a taker.

Hungry? she asked, offering an arm.

The man’s eyes glowed in disbelief at his luck as he studied the blue veins under her pale skin, tracing them with rough fingers. What was his position here? Caretaker and handyman? Chosen for his size and brute power to be an intimidating doorkeeper?

Melissa withdrew her arm and, careful to keep her face impassive, cut a shallow trench in her forearm with her fangs. A trickle of blood flowed, then a small stream. She proffered her arm once more.

The young Renfield didn’t hesitate. Snatching her arm into his callused hands, he held the ruby flow to his lips and drank. Melissa closed her eyes at the sensual feeling of his lips brushing against her flesh. The undulating sensation of his tongue on her skin as he drank gave her a pleasant tingle down her back that ended in her feminine parts.

Her head tilted back. She opened her eyes a crack and saw the longing faces of others as they peered from the hallway behind walls, countertops, and furniture, drawn by the promise of vampiric blood. Pale faces. Curious, dependent beings in need of a new leader. In a humongous, paid-for house with no one to head it.

Melissa had shown herself willing to satisfy their cravings. She was more than welcome.

She was the queen of the castle.

Chapter Two 

Lukas Graves willed the SUV to move. Any distraction was better than sitting in it as the temperature climbed, waiting. Waiting for what? What the hell are we sitting here for?

He was careful to hide the feelings that flowed through him as he clenched and unclenched his fists in the backseat of the Tahoe. The borrowed blood in his veins churned like bile, seared like fire. And the rage—he had never experienced such fury! All of it directed at Vivian Black, the vampire in the driver’s seat. He stared at the back of Vivian’s head and envisioned pulling a fistful of her shiny dark brown tresses from her head by the fistful to hear her scream.

Who was she? Vivian Black, formerly Jerusha, the second vampire on earth. His father’s lover. Former nemesis to Joseph Cartaphilus— who years later, was also known as Jude Shepherd. Vivian successfully escaped Cartaphilus, her sire and the father of vampires, only to show up on Lukas’ family’s doorstep.

Two thousand years ago, the power within Joseph had been cursed by a young teacher named Yeshua to linger, earthbound, until Yeshua’s return. This change turned Cartaphilus into an immortal being, as long as he offered the evil within him an endless supply of blood.

When Vivian met Michael, her birth as Jerusha, a young Hebrew woman captured by Cartaphilus, was a mystery even to her. Joseph longed to control her because of her pure heart and incomparable ability to harness the Source.

Joseph—who, two thousand years later went by the name Jude—launched a relentless global search for Vivian after she got away, culminating in a war between those siding with the Maleficence and those with the Source, forcing a division within the Blood Tribe itself. Lukas’ close friend Gina had been killed at the zenith of battle.

The Source. What Source? Source of what? Misguided directions. Enigmatic, useless clues that wound up getting people hurt—or worse, killed. What good was a power that only occasionally offered guidance when it meant a good person—or vampire—was hurt or killed? Shouldn’t it do something more substantial?

The scent of burning wood brought his attention to the fiery motel in front of their vehicle. Their newfound friends, Lightning and DB—Dragon Boy—had used their strange powers to set the building on fire to hide the evidence of the battle from the previous night. Those who stayed behind pulled scores of corpses from the parking lot of the shabby motel outside Little Rock and disposed of them in the nearby bauxite mine.

Though their family wasn’t part of the Shévet ha Dam, there were protocols understood amongst the undead. Allowing humankind to learn of their existence was unthinkable but the Tribe had fled in defeat, leaving Vivian’s clan to do the necessary cleanup.

Vivian’s clan. Even in your thoughts, you know she heads this family. It used to be your father’s. She’s taken over everything, and for what?

His unbeating heart clenched in his chest like a fist, and he closed his eyes to block out the sight of Vivian’s stupid skull. Now, instead of tearing out her hair, he repressed the urge to bash her lovely face in. To see the last, fearful expression those large brown eyes held.

Megan, his undead progeny and lover, was dead as well—another victim of the frantic events that transpired after Vivian’s arrival. Lukas knew from the minute he’d seen Megan’s angelic face and her striking blue-gold eyes framed by those auburn curls that she was the only one for him. And, because of the Source, that useless, pathetic power, Vivian had practically set Lukas into Charles Dunning’s hands. Right to Megan’s death.

Forever Lukas would be cursed with the memory of Megan’s neck torn out before his eyes as he laid immobile, beaten senseless by Charles’ cronies.

Lukas opened his eyes to stop the deluge of freakishly vivid images that spurred him to wrath. And with that fury came a strength he had never known—one that might have saved Megan, had he held it days before.

Lukas had fallen asleep a mortal and risen as the undead grandson of Joseph Cartaphilus. His transition to vampirism had occurred in his sleep. Gina had carried out Jude’s orders to transform him against her will. Her fight was valiant but futile; Jude was unconquerable, and she became his plaything.

When he awoke as a vampire, Lukas’ hunger for blood stood second only to his body’s weakness. However, Jude’s plans for Gina didn’t involve Lukas ripping out her throat because he was starving for blood. No, Jude kept her around long enough to torture and play with her like a cat with a terrified mouse, feeding her his blood until she became his slave. Then he let her die when Vivian exposed her to the Source’s brilliant energy. She was that far gone. Unsavable.

The power Lukas inherited from Jude was incredible—a decade later, he was still discovering its depths. The ability to sense the paths of the undead. Telepathy. He learned he could sprout wings the day that Megan died. They had unfurled from his back as he fought to escape Charles’ goons. He wasn’t sure who was more surprised—him or the goons.

Why hadn’t the Source told him about his wing-sprouting power before Charles tore Megan’s neck open? Why hadn’t Vivian known? If he had only known, he would have taken Megan in his arms and fled to the skies...

Vivian’s been nothing but problems. She’s gotten everyone killed! Well, almost everyone.

In the shotgun seat beside Vivian sat Michael, Lukas’ biological father. Thirty years before, a pair of Blood Tribe hoodlums turned Michael into a vampire and left him for undead with a slain wife and his toddler—Lukas—beside him. Now, they looked the same age—more like twenty-something-year-old brothers instead of father and son. Lukas inherited his mother’s blond curls and ruddy complexion, whereas Michael’s hair was dark and straight and his skin fair. Lukas was robust and tall—nearly seven feet tall. Michael’s build was on the muscular side of average, and he stood a head shorter than his son.

Blu, who Lukas had come to think of over the years as an honorary uncle, sat in the passenger seat to his right. Stocky, with long black dreads tipped with azure dye, his dark face reflected his exhaustion. Blu’s shoulder nearest to Lukas bulged under a red and gray tracksuit where a large bandage covered a massive wound. A Tribe opponent had ripped Blu’s left wing from his body during the battle. Thankfully, Blu’s recovery period was that of a five-hundred-year-old vampire. The injury would not be fatal.

Michael took Vivian’s hand and entwined their fingers. Lukas’ stomach revolted.

She’s got everyone moving around her little plots and devices. What proof do we have of the Source that motivates her? For all we know, she could be a magician!

He rejected the thought as soon as it crossed his mind. He had shared in the power that flowed through Vivian at the first battle when she defeated Cartaphilus. Thanks to the aid of a spell given to her by a witch priestess, Lukas had been privy to the flood of vitality that Vivian channeled—a powerful, light energy that had filled him with love and joy. Today, the thought of that power nauseated him.

He stared at his father’s masculine profile and glared. Michael was nothing more than another victim of Vivian’s Source-based schemes. How long before he died? Before Vivian sacrificed him to the force that moved her?

How long until Michael decided that his love for Vivian was worth more than his love for Lukas?

What do I care? If he chooses her over me, he deserves whatever comes.

Lukas caught the anger swelling in him like a tidal wave and struggled to stifle it. No matter what happened in Vivian’s plots, Michael was innocent of any wrongdoing; he was sure of that.

Are you? How sure can you be?

The voice was dark and alluring, but Lukas was sure. His father successfully fought his hunger during the first night for Lukas. Any other vampire would have killed the first human to walk by, driven by the unquenchable thirst and the instinct to survive. Michael had conquered his appetite so Lukas could live.

That was thirty years ago. What has he done lately?

The answer wasn’t nothing, but so help him, Lukas hadn’t the power to think of a response to the question. His anger swelled until it became his driving strength. It thrust knowledge of love, joy, and happiness from his body, replacing it with anger and a craving for power.

And it felt good!

Lukas gnashed his teeth and his long canines pressed against his lower cuspids. Thanks to inheriting Jude’s bloodline, he could withdraw this telltale vampiric trait, but his yearning for blood and violence made his body respond with a strength that was nearly erotic.

Gina died during the first war. Then Megan was taken from him. Now Blu nursed a grievous injury. Who was next? Michael?

His hands became sinewy crescents that moved toward Vivian’s neck, and he fought to lower them.

Not now! It’s not time yet! Not until...

Until when? He blinked. Where had that come from? It was as if his mind wasn’t his own.

Michael smiled, a silly, insipid smile toward Vivian filled with love and pride, and Lukas’ anger seized hold of his body. As if yanked by an outside force, his arms leaped forward, toward his father. An unfamiliar voice from out of nowhere passed through Lukas’ mind.

The father. The father is expendable.

A snapshot of his father, eyes glazed in death, body covered in blood, flew through Lukas’ mind. His stomach turned at the vile image as panic gripped him. He didn’t want to kill Michael. Did he?

No! Lukas cried. And he was gone.

Chapter Three 

W ell, he’s got it,

Harmony Novak ran a hand through her hair and flopped onto the edge of a bed in the studio apartment where they had set up temporary quarters. She and Eoghan O’Rourke had broken into the empty residence since it was close to where the battle had occurred. It wasn’t the best place to hole up, but it sufficed while they watched the teams—Maleficence versus Source—choose their next steps. The October weather was mild, so they opened the creaky windows, releasing the stale air from the disused home and letting in the mild Arkansas autumn air.

Honey-colored strands escaped her finger comb and tickled her nose. She brushed them away and turned to Eoghan. 

Tall, Scottish, with bright red hair and eyes as blue and intense as a butane flame, beautiful described him more accurately than handsome. His pale skin contrasted with the dark tones of the imitation Reschi painting behind him. Ageless, as she was, they both embodied the Balance—what her mother taught her to call the Harmony—the force that fought to keep the earth in spiritual check. 

Aye, but who’d have thought we’d have to send the Maleficence to Lukas? Eoghan said, grimacing. The corners of his eyes wrinkled as he frowned with displeasure. He sat across from her in a beige leather armchair that almost, but not quite, clashed with the yellow rose-striped wallpaper. The apartment they hid in was a strange collaboration of masculine versus feminine. The home was owned by a couple vying for decorative control or a gender-nonspecific individual.

Anyone should have seen it, Harmony said