Cranberry Blood

  Cranberry Blood

  Blood Series: Book One

  Elizabeth Morgan

  Urban Fantasy set in the UK

  Cranberry Blood

  (Blood Series: Book One)

  Copyright © 2014, Elizabeth Morgan

  Smashwords Edition

  Written in British English

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover Artist: Mina Carter

  Editor: Zee Monodee

  Blurb:

  Killing Vampires? Easy.

  Tracking someone? Simple.

  Helping, and protecting a Vampire slayer....Bloody hard work!

  Thirteen years ago, Brendan Daniels made a deal with a psychic. In exchange for information on the whereabouts of a Rogue Werewolf, he promised to help and protect Sofia’s granddaughter. Unfortunately, he had no idea what he was letting himself, or his Pack, in for.

  Nothing about Heather is simple, from her weird dietary needs to her life’s mission. The girl can handle herself, but the promise to protect her soon becomes a need, and one he can’t fully understand.

  Vampire Slayer.

  Born Infected.

  Addicted to blood...but not by choice.

  Heather Ryan is the current Slayer in a long family line. Like all before her, she has spent her life searching for her ancestor, Marko Pavel, the Vampire her family has sworn to kill. If that isn’t complicated enough, she is also a born "Infected", and to keep her from becoming insane or giving in to her darker side, she is on a very strict diet.

  Now that her Grandmother Sofia has passed, it is up to Heather to take the family legacy into her own hands. Or at least, it would have been...if her Grandmother hadn’t sent a Werewolf to help her.

  What is the irritating Brendan supposed to help her with? Sofia never told either of them. Luckily, it doesn’t take long for Heather and Brendan to find out that the Vampires have big plans, and that the Leeches have waited a long time for them both.

  This title contains explicit language, violence, and some scenes of a sexual nature.

  Available at most online retailers. Also available in print.

  Author’s Note

  I have waited a good few years to get the rights back for this book and its prequel, She-Wolf, so that I can revamp and polish both stories and publish them myself. The Blood Series is particularly close to my heart and I realized that I should have self-published them to begin with. What can I say? You live and you learn. I just want to apologize to those of you who have waited so long for the next book in the series. You won’t have to wait much longer, I promise. My aim is to publish book two—currently untitled—in Summer 2015.

  For those of you who are picking up this book/series for the first time, I feel it is important to tell you that this series doesn’t follow the pattern of other urban fantasy/paranormal series. Firstly, She-Wolf, the Blood Series prequel, is set before the main story arc. It is what I would like to call a taster to this world, particularly the Werewolf side of life.

  The Blood Series world opens up and the main arc actually begins in this book, Cranberry Blood.

  If it wasn’t for Cranberry Blood, there wouldn’t be a Blood Series. You see, I started planning this world back in 2009. It took me a while and I had to scrap a couple of drafts, but eventually, I was satisfied with the story and characters that presented themselves.

  Heather and Brendan have been with me since day one. Even though there are tons of characters in this world and they all have stories of their own to share—and if there is enough interest in this world and its inhabitants, well, secondary characters may get their own books in the future—the leads of this series, of the main arc, have always been Heather and Brendan. It is their journey we are following and I am just so happy that I have been able to revamp and polish both these books and send them out in to the world again. More importantly, I am happy that the rights to the Blood Series are mine once more and I can finally continue the story.

  Lastly, I feel I should tell you that these books aren’t standalones, which you may have noticed after reading She-Wolf and Cranberry Blood. These books are instalments of one big ongoing story, and one that I hope you enjoy and will follow to the end.

  Elizabeth Morgan xx

  Blood Series:

  She-Wolf

  Cranberry Blood

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  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

  Epilogue

  Series Glossary

  Acknowledgement

  About the Author

  Cranberry Blood

  Lights spluttered above me, fighting with some relentless attempt to come back on, even though the battle appeared hopeless.

  It is hopeless. I’m trapped.

  Fresh waves of pain rippled around my skull and down my spine as I fought to see everything around me, but thick grey smoke flooded the corridors. It crawled down my throat; the taste and feel of ash coated my tongue, making me gag. The need to cough kept grabbing me while ash blocked my nose and stung my watering eyes. My head throbbed, pressure in my skull tightened, as I fought hard to keep my eyes open.

  There has to be a way out.

  My eyesight had clouded from the smoke; my nostrils burned with it.

  The awareness under my skin blazed as hot as the fire that currently threatened to bring the entire structure down on my head, but I had to walk down here; every impulse in my body forced me forward. I had no idea what I hoped to find, but I knew in my gut that I could get out.

  My right hand hit the uneven wall before me; my heart sank as I stood before the dead end.

  My lungs burned as the smoke continued to consume my body.

  I wasn’t supposed to die down here.

  Chapter One

  ~ Heather ~

  Air scorched my throat as my body jerked into consciousness. Eyes wide and unfocused, I shot into a sitting position, fisting my hands against my chest as I fought to breathe. My heart hammered, each beat loud and clear as it thumped in my ears. My gaze darted around the room. Relief settled over me like a gentle summer’s breeze as each small familiarity of my bedroom filtered into my jumbled mind: the tall, old mahogany wardrobe to the right side; the window, where light desperately tried to seep through the blinds; and lastly, across from the foot of my bed, the vanity table in the same dark shade of wood. Everything exactly where it should be, including me, in my bed,
exactly where I should be.

  I inhaled, the simple motion causing a stitch to run up my sides, but I ignored it. Sinking against my pillows, I rested my head against the wooden bed frame and closed my eyes. One breath, two, three; my heart steadied back into its usual rhythm. I rubbed my hands across my face, wiping away the sheen of sweat that had broken over my skin. On my exhale, the quietness of the room embraced me. The usual knots in my stomach started to tighten as the confusion of the recurring dream faded. I forced my mind to reach out and grab the escaping images, but, as always, reality quickly settled in and made my vision nothing more than a blank canvas.

  Dull throbbing picked up at my temples. Shit. A sigh escaped me. Not again.

  I threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed, suddenly aware of something gripping the skin of my stomach and back.

  “What the—?” The raised hem of my black vest allowed a glimpse at the white bandage strapped around my torso. “How the hell did that get there?”

  Shuffling steps took me over to the mirror on the vanity table where I studied the clean dressing that clung to my washed-out skin.

  Brow furrowed, I stared at the white patch. “Okay. I really don’t remember hurting myself, let alone bandaging myself up.” My focus snapped to a smaller bandage, taped on the left side of my forehead. I studied my half-naked reflection with confusion. My already pale, peach skin looked pasty white, my golden curls nothing more than flat frizz. The throb in my temples increased as I forced my mind to conjure some memory of what had happened last night.

  Blurred snippets of my most recent trip to London skipped through my brain. Standing on the roof across the way from some club.... Then nothing but blank.

  I grabbed my comb and sat down on the edge of the bed, a hiss escaping my lips as pain shot up my left side. I took a deep breath and began to pull the comb through my matted hair, clenching my teeth as agony bit at my skull with each sharp tug. My mind continued to sift through snips of the night: going out to look for Carlson, finding him with Antonio. They had followed three drunken women from a club and dragged them into a loading bay behind one of the larger shops. Me following them and helping the three women get away.... At least, I think I did.

  But what happened after that? More blankness. Damn.

  Hair pulled over one shoulder; I plaited the limp mass and then placed the comb on the vanity table. My forehead began to tighten, and the painful awareness of the familiar thirst that started to crawl up my dry throat assailed my system. My stomach gurgled.

  God, I feel rough. I needed food and my mixture, followed by a long, hot shower.

  Rolling my head in a circle, I listened to the small pops of tense muscles as I walked to the head of the bed and reached behind the pillows for my sword. My hand met the mattress. My heart stopped. I threw the pillow aside.

  Where the hell is my sword?

  A strange reckoning tickled below the surface of my skin as my gaze tripped over the room. Something isn’t right.

  I walked around my bed to my wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black jogging pants. My focus landed on my sheathed sword, which leant against the white wall behind the bedside table. I slipped into the garment and grabbed my sword, unsheathing the blade as I tiptoed to my bedroom door.

  The leather sheath got tossed on my messy bed and the door eased open. Daylight flooded through the slim stairwell window, lighting up the narrow, cream-coloured hallway.

  I walked over to the next door and opened it gently; the familiar smell of my Grandmother’s musky perfume hit me as I stepped into the room. I lowered my sword since no one stood there, but my feet refused to move. Her furniture sat where the pieces always had been. The purple bedding laid neatly, not a crease in sight. A layer of dust covered her bedside table. The faintest trace of her scent still lingered. A ball of grief swelled in my chest, lodging tightly between my throat and heart.

  I hadn’t taken a single step in here for over a month. She would have wanted me to clean, to open the window and air out the room, but I honestly couldn’t bear the thought of dusting her away just yet.

  I backed out of the room and shut the door, letting out a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.

  I’m finally going crazy. Somehow, I got myself home; it doesn’t really matter how. Maybe I came in, sorted myself out, and then passed out in bed? I must have. What other explanation could there be?

  With a sigh, I walked across the landing to the bathroom door. The throb in my temples increased. My muscles felt tighter than a bowstring. A shower and something to eat and drink; these should do the trick. Then maybe my brain would decide to start working, and I could fill in the blanks.

  The scent of wet dog flew into my face once across the bathroom threshold. My clothes from last night sat in a shredded pile on the black marble floor, along with my set of daggers. The first aid kit lay open in the sink.

  A deep inhale revealed more; combined with the smell of dog, the bathroom held traces of blood. My blood.

  I stepped into the room and peered into the waste-bin to see a large amount of dried, red cotton wool.

  “I don’t remember doing this.” My eyes bugged at the mess.

  Surely, I would remember doing this? Why the hell do I smell dog? Another inhale. And pine?

  Something really didn’t feel right. I had never been so bad that I couldn’t remember what had happened on a hunt, and by the looks of things, I’d been in real bad shape.

  Back into the hall and to creep quietly down the stairs. The odour of dog grew with each step, the smell of coffee and bacon gradually joining in. My stomach clenched at the familiarity of walking down these stairs every morning to find my grandmother happily cooking breakfast in our kitchen. Minus the smell of animal, though.

  I couldn’t believe she’d died almost six weeks ago. God, I miss her.

  As I stepped into the lower hall, a glance out of the side window showed my black Range Rover sitting in front of the house, between the front door/porch and the closed, wrought iron security gate. A long, silver scratch marred the paintwork on the bonnet. Antonio’s face flashed through my mind.

  I remembered stumbling back to the car to find him there, waiting for me. The bastard had dragged his filthy claw along my Rover. That son-of-a-bitch!

  I killed him, though. I think. He lunged and.... I looked down at my left arm. Two pale lines slashed across my skin. He’d stumbled and caught me on the arm, but I got him in the neck....

  The sudden sound of rustling paper snapped me from my thoughts. Tension grabbed me, the awareness crackling beneath the surface of my skin.

  Someone is in my house.

  Stepping through the open living room door, a new scent invaded my nostrils. Tangy, manufactured, like expensive cologne. An unfamiliar, black travel bag sat tucked away between the red leather sofa and the TV stand. The papers rustled again. I moved lightly toward the archway that lead into the dining room, my sword still gripped comfortably in my right hand.

  “Your breakfast is getting cold, Heather. I suggest you stop trying to sneak in here and just come in so that we can get this over and done with,” said the deep male voice of whoever was in my kitchen.

  What the hell is going on? Who is he? Why is he in my house? How does he know my name? And why the hell has he cooked me breakfast?

  I took a deep breath, and then exhaled before slowly walking through the archway into the empty dining room. When I turned my head to the left, I saw a strange man seated at my kitchen breakfast bar. He sat casually, in jeans and a forest green T-shirt that clung to his broad, sculpted back and defined biceps. The sun flooded into the kitchen through the side window and glinted off his copper-blond hair, which brushed his shoulders.

  “Are you going to come into the room or stand there drooling all day?” He turned a page of his newspaper. I couldn’t place his accent, although certain words had a dull edge to them...a Northerner, perhaps?

  I inhaled again; nothing new amongst the scent of dog, pine,
bacon, and coffee, which meant he wasn’t a Vampire. Leeches smelled like mouldy, wet earth; not an overpowering smell, but hidden underneath the products they wore. Not that a Vampire could get in here, anyway. They could only come in with a personal invite, and since they all wanted me dead.... No matter what state I’d been in last night, I wouldn’t have invited one in. So, who the hell is this guy?

  I walked toward him, my sword glinting in the sunlight, the hilt gripped firmly in both hands. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my house?” I stopped three feet behind him.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “Wrong answer.” The tip of my sword found the firm space between his shoulder blades. “I said, who the hell are you and what—”

  “Killing me isn’t going to help.” He turned another page of his paper.

  “I disagree. I think killing the stranger who broke into my house is a very good idea.”

  “I did not break in,” he replied calmly. “My name is Brendan Daniels and I’m actually here to help you.”

  I snorted. “Like I believe that.”

  “It’s the truth. Besides, if I really wanted to hurt you, I would have. I also wouldn’t have left your weapons with you.”