Blood Revolution (God Wars, #3) Read online

* * *

  Here's the mail I thought you might want to see, the note read. It came in a large envelope sent by Terry. Inside were a few thank you cards from children who'd benefited from my charity. They had no idea who I was—my name wasn't attached to any of the funds, but they'd taken the time to write anyway. I wiped tears away after reading them.

  At the bottom of the packet, I found another letter. This one had been addressed to me in care of Terry Johnston, Attorney at Law. Terry had opened it to read the contents, since I wasn't available for more than two years. The return address bore Mercy Crossings' logo. I pulled the letter out and began to read.

  Dear Ms. Hayworth, it began. Regarding recent events, i.e., the publication of Torture in Texas (yes that's what they'd named the fucking book), our legal department has advised us to terminate your association with the Mercy Crossings organization, as the book's impact could give our charity an unwelcome negative image.

  While we sympathize with you for any pain and suffering you may have experienced in your past, it is our hope that you will understand our position in this and accept it for what it is—an attempt to dissociate our organization from such deleterious social implications. Sincerely, Barry Stokes, Director.

  Well, that spelled one thing to me—Barry didn't want to offend any contributors who might have been (or still were) Joyce Christian fans or supporters. I sighed and folded the letter before slipping it back inside the envelope.

  While I had no plans to return to Mercy Crossings—too many people would stare and whisper and I certainly didn't want that—this was a blow I hadn't expected. He hadn't even bothered to thank me for the service I'd given to the charity—in fact, he'd glossed over it altogether. Well, maybe he was a Joyce Christian fan, too. If so, I didn't need him or Mercy Crossings. At least that's what I kept telling myself as I wiped tears away.

  * * *

  "Opal, I'm not sure we ought to close the files on Oscar Forde and Keir Arthur," Bill sighed. He leaned back in his leather armchair and lifted an eyebrow at Opal Tadewi. "Just because we haven't seen or heard anything from them and the college girl murders have stopped doesn't mean they're not still out there, waiting to do more damage."

  "I know." Opal stared at her hands. She was dressed as she usually was—comfortably—in nice jeans and a pullover shirt. "I know you still miss her," she added. "I do, too."

  There wasn't any need for them to say the name—Breanne had come to be a subject they approached carefully with each other. Bill had even sent Opal to San Francisco twice—looking for any sign of Bree. They'd found nothing. Bill figured that Breanne would approach Opal before anyone else, and he'd hoped that she'd turn up.

  More than two years had passed instead, and there'd been no sign. He still had Bree's crumpled cell in his desk drawer—and the suitcase from her hotel room in his closet. Those things were all he had left of her, and he held onto them as if the mundane items were the most precious things on Earth.

  "Is the Vampire Council still hunting those two?" Opal changed the subject.

  "I believe they're on the wanted list, but they've had no sightings either, so these two are dead or far underground. Wlodek agreed to let us know if they were found and eliminated."

  "I think they left Austin the minute Bree disappeared. I just can't figure out how the two things might be connected."

  "It is strange, I agree," Bill nodded. "I'm just concerned that we still may have two outlaw vampires on the loose, waiting for who knows what to happen before they start killing again."

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  I waited in line at the small deli a mile from my house. The salesclerk, brown-haired, blue-eyed, pretty enough and wearing a nametag proclaiming her Janine, moved slowly at best, and her disinterest tried my resolve not to read her. The only reason I came to this particular shop for lunch was for their freshly made potato and leek soup.

  "I'd like four servings of the potato soup to go, please," I said when I finally made my way to the counter.

  "I can't do that. We only have two servings left," Janine sniffed.

  "Then I'll take what you have," I said as politely as I could. I intended to make several meals out of what I was getting.

  "It may be only one-and-a-half," Janine lifted the lid from the soup warmer with a metallic clatter.

  "I'll take that, then. Charge me for two servings anyway," I said. Honestly, I'd waited in line for twenty minutes and now Janine wanted to annoy me.

  "All right, I'll charge you for two," Janine fiddled with keys at the register. I handed her a twenty, she handed me bills and coins back and went to dip the soup.

  "Can we move a little faster?" the man behind me demanded.

  "You want to come back here and help?" Janine snapped before knocking the container holding my soup off the counter and snarling angrily at the man.

  I stared at the mess that was meant to be my lunch, which I'd already paid for. Well, it was the way my life was destined to be. Without a word, I turned and walked out of the deli while Janine and the man began a shouting match.

  * * *

  While I ate a peanut butter sandwich later, I switched on the news. A microphone was shoved in Hank's face and I blinked at him in shock. He was angry—extremely so—and not just with the reporter—I could tell by his words.

  "Yes, my assistant manager didn't show up for work last night. I called the police because John is always on time and never misses a shift. I am only discovering now, through you, that his body was found near the wharf an hour ago."

  "The police didn't call you?" The reporter—a young woman—feigned surprise.

  "No. I assume they notified John's family first. How did you learn of the murder?"

  "Through ah, well, the usual channels," she stuttered. I figured she'd gotten information through a source or listened in on police communications.

  "You probably shouldn't mess with Hank right now," I spoke to the television screen. Too bad the reporter couldn't hear me.

  "Are you involved in your assistant manager's disappearance?" Her question proved (to me, at least) that she had very little common sense.

  "My whereabouts have already been disclosed to the police, who are in charge of this investigation, no matter how much you'd prefer to believe otherwise," Hank growled. "Where were you when my assistant manager disappeared?"

  "What?" she squeaked.

  "I can account for my time last night. Can you?" I almost laughed as she turned a bright pink. Yes, I dropped my shield and read her. She'd been in bed with her (married) producer. The station quickly cut to commercial while I snickered.

  * * *

  "Jayson, I need to hire another assistant manager. Trey can't handle everything by himself, and John's family is asking for help with the funeral as soon as the medical examiner releases the body," Hank sighed into his cell.

  "I saw the ambush on television," Jayson replied. "I have no idea what that trollop thought she might accomplish by accusing you. How is John's family doing?"

  "Not well. They knew where he worked and what he did, but that's about it. They didn't interfere with that, as far as I know."

  "They need money?"

  "Yeah—I'm planning to pay for the funeral, but John left instructions on what he wanted done with his brother, and quite a few from the community will be there."

  "Will his family be able to deal with that?"

  "I assume so, but this will be a private service, in case the media wants to show up."

  "You know I can't come—I can't be seen there in case reporters are parked outside," Jayson pointed out.

  "Yes. I'm well aware."

  "Do you think somebody's targeting the community?" Jayson turned to a new topic.

  "It looks that way, doesn't it? Sometime after the funeral, I want to check out that new club. I know it's been open for six months, now, but something about this bothers me."

  "I've driven by a few times—it's certainly upscale. Has valet parking, even."


  "For wannabees with money?"

  "Possibly. You know the subject's gotten hot the past couple of years. Too many wanting to experiment, when they don't have a clue about safety or where to start."

  "Yeah. Got a call from Paul the other day. He's still working as a paramedic, and says he's seen some interesting injuries lately."

  "No surprise," Jayson snorted.

  * * *

  "Well, he's handsome, but rude." Colbi Wayde muttered to her producer.

  "Sweetheart, he shouldn't have said those things to you." Mitchell Graves, producer for the morning and afternoon local news segments, married with three children and having an affair with Colbi, muttered. "Come here. Sit on my lap." He patted his knee suggestively. "I'll tell you the best news you've heard in a long time if you do."

  Mitchell, in his early forties, kept himself fit. He also felt protective of his wife—and his girlfriend.

  "What did you find?" Colbi's sunny blue eyes narrowed as she sauntered toward Mitchell.

  "I found," Mitchell began as he pulled Colbi onto his lap, "That Hank Bell has a co-owner for his club. It's a BDSM oriented business."

  "Really? We can run with that," Colbi whispered, her eyes lighting with immediate interest. "We can drag him through the muck for being an asshole."

  "Wait, you haven't heard the best part," Mitchell grinned before leaning in for a kiss. "You'll never guess who his business partner is."

  "Who is it?" Colbi held her breath.

  "Breanne Hayworth."

  "Torture in Texas Breanne Hayworth? Oh my God!"

  Chapter 3

  Breanne's Journal

  I almost choked on my cereal when I saw the news the following morning. Three more deaths the night before—two men and one woman, all found in an alley of the Tenderloin. While crime in the Tenderloin might be a common occurrence, these three died from slashed throats, just like all the others, and the murders were already being attributed to the same killer or killers.

  My guess was that all three victims were prostitutes, but I couldn't say for certain. Part of me was relieved that the Sirenali seemed to be branching out from Hank's community, but it wasn't any consolation for the families the victims might have left behind.

  I hadn't considered it before, but it did look as if the killers were targeting people with—in Jayson's terms—non-vanilla lifestyles. Like Jack the Ripper, or something. That concerned me, because Hank and Jayson could still be targets. Hank's assistant manager had certainly been.

  The local news stations were still going on about the murders, and frankly, the body count was growing. I knew a Sirenali was behind this, and worried that more vampires might be involved.

  If it were the same Sirenali who'd orchestrated the college girl murders, then he or she was certainly branching out. Keir Arthur and Oscar Forde crossed my mind, too, but my research and Looking after arriving back on Earth told me they'd disappeared and the college girl murders had ceased after I left.

  "This is so confusing," I muttered, shoving my half-eaten bowl of cereal away. All I had so far was three men I'd killed already, two scents belonging to humans unknown, a pile of bodies and a mystery the size of a small planet.

  * * *

  "This is so frustrating," Bill muttered. Ashe looked up from his ham and eggs as Bill dropped Kay's breakfast tray on the kitchen island. "She's in another world again today. I had to put the fork in her hand and tell her to eat a dozen times before she even focused on me."

  "Bill, I'm sorry, but you and Franklin are the only two who can get through to her at all. I'd love to feed her, but she's terrified of me."

  "Do you think Frank might come for a visit, then? I could use a break."

  "I'll ask, but Trace may be able to persuade him better."

  I'll talk to Trace, then," Bill nodded determinedly.

  * * *

  "I want Gavin on this," Wlodek muttered, shoving the file across his desk toward Charles.

  "Honored One, Gavin is in Stockholm at the moment."

  "Might he be finished there soon?" Wlodek's face held no emotion, but Charles knew the Head of the Vampire Council was quite irritated.

  "He may be closing in on the rogue, according to his latest report."

  "Tell him to move swiftly, then. I want him in San Francisco as soon as possible."

  "Of course, Honored One."

  * * *

  "What are you planning to do?" Mitchell lifted an eyebrow at Colbi, who tapped notes on her computer. They were alone inside Colbi's small office, and the door was closed.

  "I'm going to wait outside Dom Bell's until Hank Bell shows up tonight, ask him if he's involved in Breanne Hayworth's disappearance and then follow up with the question of whether his assistant manager's death is connected, somehow."

  "I love how your devious mind works," Mitchell squeezed Colbi's shoulders affectionately. "I'll be watching the live feed from here. This'll be fun."

  "Oh, yeah," Colbi brushed dyed-platinum hair over her shoulder. "I'm looking forward to this."

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  John hadn't been murdered where his body was found—just like the others. That had been evident, not only to me but to the authorities investigating the murders as well. I misted past the crime scene tape, but there wasn't much left now for me to examine. One of the same human scents came to me—he'd come alone to dump the body.

  It made me want to sniff around the body in question, to see what I could get from it, but the thought of misting into the coroner's office and getting close to a body that was likely cut open unnerved me. Yeah, my vampire mojo probably needed work.

  Sighing, I misted toward the Lean Bean for a latte. Late afternoon fog rolled in as I materialized in a nearby alcove and walked half a block to the coffee shop. The difference in the service I received from the coffee shop barista and grumpy Janine was astounding. The young man was smiling, joking with his customers and serving them with cool efficiency. I had my vanilla latte in only a few minutes and found a small table near a window to enjoy it.

  My thoughts turned to Bill and Opal as I sat there, drinking my latte and recalling breakfasts and coffee with both of them. For me, it had only been a month and a half since I'd seen them. To them, I'd been gone two years and four months. I could only imagine how upset they might be if I suddenly appeared again, with no prior word and no good excuse for my prolonged absence. Aside from the book and betrayal, that is, which neither of them had anything to do with.

  Well, the coffee shop sold little racks of cards. I knew Bill's office address. Writing a note was the polite thing to do, and maybe he wouldn't be too mad at me. I walked to the counter, bought a handful of blank cards with envelopes and went back to my seat to sort out messages for Bill and Opal.

  * * *

  After delivering the cards, I misted through the alley behind Dom Bell's. I detected no scents there from any of the murders and I was grateful for that. The club wouldn't open until six, and it was four in the afternoon. I misted home and wondered what I might put together for an early dinner.

  * * *

  A spoonful of homemade minestrone was almost to my mouth when Colbi Wayde's image appeared on the news. There she was, dressed in a pale-blue suit, microphone in hand, a malicious gleam in her eye and Hank Bell cornered in the doorway of Dom Bell's.

  "I hear you have a silent business partner," Colbi's voice indicated triumph as she spit the words in Hank's direction. My spoon clattered into my bowl, splashing minestrone on my T-shirt. I barely noticed as I stared at Hank and Colbi in shock. In my wildest dreams, I never imagined things might come to this.

  "Did you have something to do with Breanne Hayworth's disappearance, too?" Colbi asked with false sweetness.

  "Fuck," I muttered before folding space.

  * * *

  "What the hell is this?" Bill stared at the envelopes left on his desk. One was addressed to him, the other to Opal. No last names.

  "Sheila," Bill snapped, bringing
his assistant into his office at a run. "Where the hell did these envelopes come from?" He still hadn't touched them—there was no return address and for all he knew, they might be dangerous.

  "Director, I'm the only one who's been inside your office, and those envelopes weren't there when I arrived this morning."

  "But where did they," Bill squinted at the writing. "Sheila, hold my calls for the next half hour, please."

  "Would you like me to leave, Director?"

  "Yes. Thank you, Sheila." Bill waited until his assistant closed his office door before lifting the envelope addressed to him.

  Bill, the note began. I'm so sorry I haven't contacted you sooner. I just couldn't. I'm still really upset and depressed, and I hope everybody who's read that stupid book has a short memory. I worry every time I walk into a store or restaurant, because I'm terrified somebody will recognize me and start asking questions. I hope you understand how painful that would be. Love, Breanne.

  Bill read the note six times before lifting his cell and dialing Opal's number. "Bill?" Opal answered right away.

  "Opal, you have a note in my office from Breanne."

  "I'll be there in half an hour."

  * * *

  Breanne's Journal

  From my position on the inside of Dom Bell's door, I listened while Hank answered hostile questions from a bitchy reporter on the opposite side. Gulping air into my lungs, I worked to forced down the panic attack that threatened to reduce me to a shivering mass.

  I was about to reveal myself to everyone on live television, and it was to save Hank from uncomfortable questions and a potential investigation. Yes, I was transferring his suffering onto my shoulders. It wasn't a fair trade, but I had no desire to see Hank bullied.

  "You can do this," I mumbled, struggling to convince myself. "You can do this, you can do this, you can do this." I gripped the doorknob in my hand and pulled. Hank almost fell over the threshold; he'd been leaning against the door so hard.

  "Hi, honey," I said brightly, once I got Hank fully upright and steady again. "Who are you?" I glared at Colbi Wayde accusingly.

  "What, uh, what?" Colbi, at a momentary loss for words, jerked her head from me to the camera, and then back to me again. The very person she'd just accused Hank of doing away with stood before her, while her cameraman recorded the whole thing. I'd just taken the wind out of Colbi's sails and she floundered for a moment.