Native Soil: Discord & Rhyme, #1

By Phaedra Weldon

Jason Lawrence died over eighty years ago, the day he invited the demon Mephistopheles to bond with him. From that day he's lived as a Revenant. A Vampire. A man forever bound to drink blood.

 

When Jason's former lover Rene sets a deadly chain of events in motion it is up to him to make things right. But will he succeed when he finds himself pitted against two Lamias and a secret shadow society intent on using his and his Ghoul's blood as weapons?

 

Read the first book set in The Abysmal Worlds. The story that started it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phaedra Weldon
• Release date: Dec 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215881071

Book preview

Native Soil

Discord & Rhyme

Phaedra Weldon

NATIVE SOIL

Discord & Rhyme

Phaedra Weldon

Copyright © 2022, revised October

Original Publishing Copyright © 2014 by Phaedra Weldon

Cover by Design By Trapdoor

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Note to the Reader

Native Soil is the first in a vast world that I once called The Abysmal Worlds. After finishing The Eldritch Files, I changed Abysmal to Eldritch, thus The Eldritch Worlds because…it just keeps growing. And since the meaning of Eldritch is:

el·dritch/ˈeldriCH/adjective

weird and sinister or ghostly.an eldritch screech

I figured that was a better word.

And it's one of my favorite words.

Native Soil's initial idea came to me in one of those dreams you remember when you wake up—the kind you try so hard not to leave. But the alarm rings, the day begins, and I hastily scribbled down the idea in a notebook I keep by my bed.

I have a LOT of notebooks.

It looked like this:

Man on roof. Halloween trick or treaters below. Windy fall day. Classic oranges, reds, browns. His long coat is billowing because that's cool. He is perfectly still. Until he hears a woman's footfall behind him. It's his lover. The one who stole his blood.

That's all I wrote down. I hadn't written or published much of anything at the time. But the image stuck with me through lots of experiences in 1993. Until one day later in the years, I was listening to 99X, Atlanta and they played a new Duran, Duran song. Ordinary World. I was/am a massive Duranie. I had no idea they were releasing a new album. I had to wait to actually buy the single, since electronic files weren't a thing yet. But when I had it, I sat down to write the first draft of what I would later title, Native Soil.

The story itself has been edited through the years to be Present Day, so if there are any anachronisms that slipped by, let me know. It's not dated for 1993. It's now, as you read this note.

In this recent edit and re-examination of Native Soil, not much has changed. It's still the same story that lead me to a series of books in a world of my imagination. I love the unconventional conventional, as well as anthropomorphic representations of cultural ideas, IE, Mother Nature, Death, etc.

A large note is the club, The Masquerade. Since this book's inception, the establishment has changed its location from North Avenue to Kenny's Alley in Underground Atlanta. I didn't change what's in the book, because the North Avenue location was part of the inspiration and it's still there in my heart.

I hope you enjoy the beginning of The Eldritch Worlds, and hope you continue on to meet the varied characters, as well as my beloved Jason and Mephistopheles. A reading list and its order is at the end of this book.

Phaedra

October 31st

Jason heard the soft patter of her bare feet behind him as he stood on the roof's edge. The October wind toyed with his sandy hair. His long coat billowed out behind him. Below, children moved along the street in the dusky light, dressed in dark costumes—witches, goblins, bats and yes—vampires. They carried treat-filled orange bags, escorted by parents seeking solace in numbers.

Jason, she said on the wind.

He heard the anger in her voice, felt the hunger echoing in her soul. He remembered the last words she said to him before she betrayed him. You don't love me. She said this because he denied her his blood, denied her the fulfillment of the fantasy she'd created, to become like him. He told her she was wrong. Becoming like him was different than what she'd seen in movies, or on TV.

She hadn't listened to him then. Would she listen now?

What's wrong with me? Her voice was so close, maybe less than a foot behind him. What am I?

He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling the demon inside of him stir. The creature that saved his own life all those years ago and irrevocably changed him. It smelled blood in the air. But not her blood. The blood of her recent victim.

Look at me, she said.

He didn't move.

Look at me!

It was there—an echo of the power she thought she could take from him. Her soul called out, searching for peace it would never know again, as long as she lived. Jason slowly turned, the wind at his back as he faced her.

His lover.

His abomination.

What's happened to me?

His Ghoul.

Jason expected the worst at seeing her—having recalled all the memories of the Ghouls his demon had created over the centuries. Whether on purpose or by accident. In comparison, Rene had handled herself admirably when it came to her looks. Ghouls—if the madness took them—usually allowed themselves to wither, no longer caring about outward appearances—succumbing to the hunger churning inside of them. It was a hunger that only two things could slate.

His blood—or the Ghoul's true death.

For Rene there would be no reprieve for her crimes, no blood to ease her pain. There was only one choice.

I tried to tell you what would happen if you took my blood. I can't turn you into what I am—

"You did this to me… she said as she pointed at him. Her eyes had the telltale gleam of red—the mark of a blood crazed Ghoul. Your foul blood. I can feel it inside of me. Damning me. Slowly killing me—"

She didn't understand she was already dead.

Don't do that, Rene, he said as he took several steps toward her. She was too close to the children below. Too strong now. He knew she could smell their blood; sense their living souls just as he could. Don't blame me for your greed. I warned you. I tried to protect you—

You kept it from me. You tricked me, her voice deepened as she crouched. Again he was amazed at the newness of her dress. Her make-up. Her cheeks were plump and ruddy—she had recently fed on some unsuspecting victim. But that satisfaction would last only for a few hours before the hunger would strike again and again.

And she would kill. Again.

Rene had been an aging model. She'd lost two well paying contracts because she was told she was too old.

At twenty-three.

And then she'd met Jason. In her he'd found a companion for a while. He was always looking out for a suitable lover—one that he could share his secret with—and if he were dealt a wrong hand—they would be someone who could replace him as the host for his demon.

You refused to give me immortality.

He had taken a chance on her, shared himself with her. He had been wrong.

I can't give you immortality, Rene, he said as he put his hands on his chest. This isn't an immortal body, Rene. It won't last forever. Four or five hundred years—maybe. It's not like in the movies—my blood isn't the elixir. Jason lowered his arms. I didn't drink blood from another vampire. Mephistopheles gave me this life. And in return, I give him blood and he experiences life. With me. And I have all those memories of all the other humans he's inhabited—

Liar!

He stared at her. I never lied to you.

You left me—abandoned me—

You wouldn't listen to reason, Rene. I had no choice.

He let his guard down and she was on top of him before he could react. This body was still young, and still unsure of its power. Though he—Jason Lawrence—had lived in it since birth, the demon that now dwelled within his soul was still adjusting, still testing his physical prowess. Another hundred or so years and perhaps the two of them would meld perfectly.

Her nails—the demon blood within her veins sharpening them, thickening them into talons—raked across his neck and chest, ripping away his clothing. He screamed out, pushed at her with a strength that still amazed him. She flew backwards—landing on all fours like a cat.

A large dangerous cat.

Careful Jason, came the voice of Mephistopheles.

I know, I know, he said aloud to his demon and mentor. The wounds across his flesh would heal—though not as quickly as legend would have one believe. Nothing was going to stop the pain but medical treatment—and a few swigs of Jack Daniels. But he'd have to get home for that and let his new lover Christina sew him up. I didn't expect her to attack.

She's rabid. She must be put down now or more innocent people will die.

But Jason had backed away. He stared at Rene—a tiny part of him wishing—hoping—searching through Mephistopheles' memories of one time or one instance where a Ghoul could be saved.

You know it's never been done, Jason. Once they go mad, there is no turning back. I never lied to you about that.

No. His mentor had never deceived him. Not intentionally.

Is he there, Jason? Rene said as she inched her way closer again, a cougar stalking its prey. He knew she could smell his blood. It's what her body craved. Can you hear him—this demon inside of you?

She'd never believed him. That the demon, Mephistopheles, was there. Inside of him. Changing him as the decades pass. He knew on the outside he still looked the same as the day he died—a man in his mid-twenties. But on the inside—he had lived for over eighty years beyond that.

Jason had been honest when he'd confided his secret to her—much to Mephistopheles's dismay. That being a vampire wasn't what she'd read in books, or seen on TV or in the movies. Blood had not transformed him. Blood had not saved him. Blood had not given him immortality.

His transformation had come in the form of a nightclub singer—fatally stabbed in an alley on the docks of Manhattan in 1931. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Yes Rene, Jason moved back from her. His wounds burned but he continued to stand straight, pulling from the centuries of combat memories his demon gave to him. His weakness was that he was still young and hadn't yet mastered how to integrate the experiences into his own body. He is always with me.

You still expect me to believe that?

It's the truth.

She hissed at him as she tried lunging again. But this time Jason was ready and moved away, putting himself behind her. He thought for a second she would go over the edge of the roof, but stopped herself gracefully on the ledge.

She continued to stare over the edge—and he knew she could smell the life beneath her and he was worried for the helpless trick-or-treaters below. And if the blood demanded to be sated—she would be a slave to that monster again.

But then—to his surprise—she turned slowly and looked at him. You fear for these children, Jason? You? The real monster?

Leave them alone, Rene.

The corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile. Would you trade their lives for the truth?

It was no use. She would never believe him. Come to me, Rene. I can ease the pain.

So you would give me the truth? She glanced back at the ledge. But the children tonight would taste as sweet as the Halloween candy they eat, wouldn't they?

You will not kill another innocent child, Rene.

She straightened up. Then what about Christina? She's not innocent. What about me dropping in on her while she waits up for you?

Regardless of what the legends said his heart still beat. Strong and healthy. But at that moment it broke. He thought he'd been careful to keep knowledge of Christina hidden from Rene. All thoughts of her were hidden from the Ghoul—kept masked from their connection.

But somehow she'd known—

Jason stumbled back as he took another look at her. He knew now why she was in better shape than he expected. Why her make-up was perfect. Her teeth clean. The dress un-marred. He'd seen that dress earlier that day—worn on the body of another woman.

Oh no. Oh Jason…I am so sorry.

Christina.

In that instant as Rene began to laugh he knew. He realized the scent of blood he smelled was his lover's. Rene had gone to his home—probably to find him and finish the job she'd started a week ago, when she came unwanted into his home and stabbed him before stealing a pint or so of his blood. Only this time she'd found Christina there.

He pulled his hands into balled fists. You killed her.

Rene put her hands behind her back, bent her knees and tilted her head to one shoulder. Aw…is Jason mad now? She moved a hand around to her front and licked at each of her fingers. She was good, Jason. Delicious.

She's baiting you!

But Jason didn't care. Anger burned deep inside of his stomach and he felt the stirring in his upper jaw. Strength surged through his muscles; poisoning them even more than the toxins Mephistopheles' presence released every year. He crouched low as the animal instinct of his ancestors descended—but she met him in the middle—attacking him at the same time.

Without fangs she used her talons, slashing at him again, barely missing his jugular.

He knocked her arm away, his strength capable of tearing it from the socket. She screamed out, startling the trick-or-treaters below as she skittered across the roof's tar, her arms and legs scraped and bruised. Jason was on top of her, straddling her, pulling her up by her head. Her arms lay at her sides, and he realized they were both dislocated.

She laughed at him. Her breath wreaked of old blood, spoiled and dead.

I have my revenge… she laughed up at him. I have my revenge.

You think by killing my lover you have control over me? He could drain her. Take every last drop of Christina's blood back. But she was a Rogue Ghoul—her blood fouled.

No, there was a more fitting way for her to die. He leaned in close to her, allowing her to see the demon through his eyes.

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened into a perfect O. But there was no scream. Mephistopheles wouldn't allow it as the demon connected with her mind and burned it out.

He quickly twisted her head to one side, felt the satisfying snap of her neck, and let it fall back on the roof, her eyes opened wide, her mouth parted in an eternal scream.

It was several minutes before he could catch his breath. The adrenaline that kind of power pumped throughout his body was sometimes draining and he eased himself off of her. He could hear the voices below—

Who made that noise?

Was that a scream?

Is someone on the roof?

It was time to disappear.

Mephistopheles spoke to him as he pushed up on wobbly legs. She didn't kill Christina.

He nodded, again amazed at how easily they could connect thoughts, and yet how their thoughts often remained separate. I know, he said breathlessly. She forced her…to drink blood. He paused. Oh no…whose blood did Christina drink? Rene's or mine?

When the demon didn't answer, Jason felt panic rise inside of him. It meant he didn't know. Rene had taken his blood in a container. If she made Christina drink his blood, she would be in the first stages of being a Ghoul, and he could help her. But if she drank Rene's blood…

I hope this is not what happened, Jason. A Ghoul cannot make another Ghoul. What they make is worse. Far worse.

I know… Mephistopheles didn't answer, his voice rose as he hissed out, Oh God please…don't let it be Rene's blood.

Rene's revenge had not been to kill Christina, but to make her like herself, a Ghoul. Only Rene might have done something worse.

Rene put Christina on a plane. Within a day the hunger would come, and then the madness.

Then the killings would start.

I didn't see… he stumbled to the opposite edge of the roof. The building was only four stories—but still—his human side still suffered from occasional acrophobia. All he had to do was jump down, and the demon's will would lower him gently to the ground. Where.

Atlanta.

He could hear footsteps on the stairs. Soon there would be people on the roof. Jason found it was often better not to think about jumping when he did it, and felt the familiar rise in his stomach as he half-floated to the ground in the shadow. He moved behind a tree and watched as a police car and ambulance arrived, lights flashing.

Touching his neck and feeling the tattered puckering of his skin as it tried to reconnect to rendered flesh, he turned and walked in the shadows away from the building to his BMW parked several blocks away. He pulled a burner phone from his pocket and dialed a number and got into the driver's seat.

What kind of trouble are you in now? Nick Shay, Jason's personal assistant, answered the phone.

And Mephistopheles' only successful Ghoul.

I'm not sure. I think a Ghoul tried to make a Ghoul, and then put her on a plane to Atlanta.

Oh shit. Jason—Ghouls can't make Ghouls. They make Lamias—creatures that not only drink their victim's blood but eat their flesh.

Jason closed his eyes. Damn.

What's the name?

His voice was even, reflecting a calm he did not feel. Christina Bergstrom.

Christina? Aw shit, Jason. I'm sorry. Did Rene do that?

Yeah…

Dammit…I should have stayed at the condo with her.

Jason slipped into traffic, careful not to drive erratically. I told you it would be okay. It's not your fault.

Nick was quiet. Then, You know Lamias can't be saved, Jason. They can only be killed.

Jason nodded, aware it was a gesture Nick couldn't see on the phone.

Nick sighed. You want me to call our contact there?

I'll call her. She might be less grumpy if it's me.

She really needs to get over me eating the chicken, Jason.

He smiled. Normal people cook it first, Nick. Oh and have the salves ready. I'm afraid I got a little damaged.

Nick made tsk-tsk noises before hanging up. Jason pulled the BMW to the side of the road, held the phone and thumbed through the contacts. He found the number and checked his watch. It was just after eight o'clock. She should still be there.

He hoped.

After two rings, Nona's Botanical and Tea Shop, Zoë speaking.

Hello. I know it's late, but is Rhonda Orly still there?

Present Day

Hartsfield International.

Christina

The airport was crowded.

She stood in the center of the terminal's atrium. Behind her people moved like sheep along winding paths past glass partitions into Security. Some stood with their phones in front of them, texting, reading emails, catching up on social media. Others camped out on multi-colored couches as service men and women moved past or conjugated in groups of gray and white.

Voices paged overhead as she stood in the center, clutching her purse on her shoulder. Did she have baggage? She couldn't remember any. But she couldn't remember why she was here. Sometimes it was harder to remember her name. Christina, right? Christina...something. She pulled her bag from her shoulder and rummaged through the contents until she found her wallet. She opened it with shaking hands and stared at the image of a woman smiling up at her.

That's me. Christina Bergstrom. Me. And I'm in Atlanta.

Miss?

But...I was in Chicago, wasn't I? I was at Jason's apartment. He was...gone and there was another woman…her name was Rene.

Ma'am, are you all right?

She turned then, to look up at a handsome, tall man in army fatigues. Gray and white. Like the others. His eyes were the color of chocolate and he looked genuinely concerned. Nice southern boy. His eyebrows rose high on his forehead as he watched her. Studied her face.

She noticed his jawline as it sloped down to a strong neck. She admired the visible pulse just below the surface. Young. Healthy. Vibrant. And she was...hungry. I'm—yes I'm fine. Thank you for asking.

You sure ma'am? 'Cause you look mighty pale. Didn't want you to pass out here in the terminal. He nodded to her and turned to rejoin his friends.

Wait, she reached out and caught his left wrist.

He stopped and looked back to her. Yes?

What...what's your name? I'm Christina.

Nice to meet you Christina. I'm Corporal Vance Lowery. He glanced down at her hand on his wrist. "Are you sure you're all right?