Blood Cure Read online

  BLOOD CURE

  A KEIRA BLACKWATER NOVEL

  K.R. WILLIS

  Copyright © 2017 by K.R. Willis

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher's note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited, formatted, and interior design by Kristen Corrects, Inc.

  Cover art design by coverbookdesigns.com

  First edition published 2017

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  About the Author:

  For my husband, Tracy.

  Thanks for not laughing when I told you I wanted to be an author,

  and for believing in me way before I believed in myself.

  CHAPTER 1

  The predicament I somehow managed to find myself in ranked somewhere between burning my lip on a hot curling iron and having my head lopped off by a medieval executioner. My bangs fluttered as the sword passed mere inches from my face, threatening to take my nose with it. I bent over backward to avoid the blow just in the nick of time, forcing my body into an uncomfortable ninety-degree angle. The muscles in my abdomen screamed in protest.

  I tried to right myself before the sword made another pass at me, but failed. It made a slight whoom as it flew through the air, this time striking me across the ribs. I grunted, the impact vibrating through my bones. It hurt like hell, but luckily for me, the sword was made of wood, and the person wielding it had been my best friend since childhood.

  Every muscle in my legs and abdomen shook from the strain of holding myself in such an awkward position. I let go, allowing my backside to hit the hardwood floor. The air rushed out of my lungs, leaving them deflated and useless for a few pain-filled seconds. I sucked in several deep breaths, my lungs burning with the sudden intake of oxygen. I signaled for a time-out. When the friend in question, Sam Lightfoot, offered me a hand up, I shook my head.

  “Crap, Sam. Were you trying to rearrange my face?” I dropped the wooden training sword, known as a waster, on the floor next to me and wiped the sweat off my brow with the back of my hand. Sam kept me in good shape from our workouts five days a week, but I still found myself winded and covered in sweat, tank top and bra unmercifully glued to my body. Sam had been happily kicking my butt for the last forty-five minutes. Sometimes it felt like he took way too much pleasure in my training.

  Sam crossed his trunk-sized legs at the ankles and sank to the floor so gracefully I wanted to smack him just for spite. He wasn’t bulky, just well muscled. How he could lower his large frame to the floor like that, I’d never know.

  “Well, if you hadn’t stayed out half the night, maybe you wouldn’t be so slow this morning,” he said. As if to prove his point, he not-so-gently smacked me on the leg with his waster.

  “Hey!” I protested. Sam sat close enough for me to snatch his weapon without having to move from the spot I’d claimed as mine. The waster clattered on the floor several feet away when I tossed it out of his reach. It was bad enough he had an excuse to use that thing on me during our training sessions; I wasn’t about to let him have his way with it while we weren’t. I had enough bruises.

  “It’s not like I was out carousing the bars looking for a guy,” I grumbled. “I was here working.” The spot on my leg where he smacked me stung, making me sound whinier than I intended.

  “So how much you got left on the Ford?” Sam asked, changing the subject. He’d been with me when the old truck came into the shop we co-owned.

  Sam sprawled out on the floor beside me, moved his dark ponytail out of the way so he could place his hands under his head to form a makeshift pillow, and stared at the white tin ceiling.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I still have the whole interior to do as well as having Kit come in to sandblast and repaint the outside.”

  Sam grunted. “Still can't figure out why you like that kid. He tries to ‘beautify’ the firehouse with a couple cans of spray paint and a bad attitude and what do you do? Give him a job instead of filing charges.” Sam shook his head.

  “Yeah, well, he turned out to be one of the best auto body painters in Montana,” I said proudly. Kit had proved himself to be a trustworthy kid; he just needed somewhere to appropriately direct his talent. “Anyway, there’s a lot left to do on the Ford. That’s why I’ve been putting in so many extra hours.” I had a deadline with the owner I didn’t want to miss.

  “Well, if you need any help with it, you know where to find me.” He disentangled his hands from under his head and rolled to his feet in one smooth motion. “Have you talked to Sally lately?” he asked of our other best friend, as he held out his hand again. This time, I took it, letting him pull me up as well. Guess break time was over.

  “Yeah, we’re going out clubbing tonight,” I said. It was Friday night, one of the few nights I didn’t work late. “Wanna come?” My joints crackled as I stretched my arms over my head. We’d taken enough of a break so I wasn’t breathing hard anymore, but the sweat had dried, leaving me feeling crusty and gross.

  Sam stretched as well. “Nah. I have two classes tonight, and one early tomorrow morning. You girls would keep me out too late.” Sam’s passion centered on teaching self-defense, so when we renovated, he turned the second story of the firehouse into a full-service dojo where he taught classes six days a week.

  “Ah, come on. Where’s your sense of adventure?” I waggled my eyebrows at him. “You must be getting old on me…Grandpa.”

  Sam laughed, one of those deep throaty laughs that made his whole body shake. “Damn, Keira,” he said when he could talk again. “You’re a bad influence. Unlike you, I need my beauty sleep.” He shook his head. “You two go have your fun, though. You’re more likely to pick up guys without me.”

  Sam walked over to where his waster landed and picked it up, then turned to face me. “Come on,” he said, motioning for me to grab my weapon. “You’re mine for ten more minutes.”

  “Fine.” I sighed in defeat. “But don’t say I didn’t invite you.” I leaned down and picked mine up. “Can you at least keep the bruises to a minimum? I’d like to go out tonight without looking like someone’s punching bag.”

  When he grinned, I swear I saw horns sprouting. “Not a chance.”

  Sam didn’t believe in taking it easy on me because of the whole me being a girl thing, or the fact we were best friends. Our workouts always left me a little battered and bruised, though more often than not, I gave as good as I got.

  I twirled the waster several times, the piece of hickory a familiar weight in my hands. Placing my left foot out in front,
I balanced on the balls of my feet and held the weapon in the crook of my right arm. Grinning like an idiot, I extended my left hand out and wiggled my fingers in the classic come-get-me gesture.

  Sam shook his head, and then granted my wish.

  ***

  Two new bruises and a quick jump in the shower later, I slid down the old metal fireman’s pole. Sleek and worn, the faded red pole had seen countless years of use. It was our preferred method of travel from Sam’s dojo on the top floor to my shop on the bottom, though not always practical after a punishing workout.

  While waiting for my ribs to stop throbbing, I glanced around, still captivated by the place after two years. The building was an old firehouse built back in the 1800s, all red brick and mortar, designed to house the horse-drawn fire engines of the day. Remnants of horse corrals still survived out back, one of the many characteristics that drew me to the property two years ago when my father loaned me the down payment for the bank on my twentieth birthday. I didn’t know the dimensions, but could easily fit two vehicles side by side, three deep, with plenty of room left for all my tools, plus a small room in the back corner, which served as my office.

  I took a deep breath, letting the comforting smell of car exhaust, motor oil, and grease relax me. I’m sure most people found the smells of a mechanic’s shop to be obnoxious and off-putting, but for me, they reminded me of home. My father ruined me the day he took me with him to look at a ’66 Chevy truck he was considering buying from a friend of his.

  “So what do you think of her?” he’d asked. Father made a slow trek around the Chevy, stopping periodically to examine one spot or another.

  “She’s beautiful.” My fingers slid down the length of her fender, skipping right over a rusted out, fist-sized hole. The old Chevy’s lines were straight and true, but her paint had faded and rust spots marred her body like blemishes.

  “So you think we can fix her?” Father finished his examination and came to a stop beside me.

  “We?” I asked. There was no side mirror to see myself in and the windows were too dirty, but my eyes must have lit with the prospect of helping him restore the old truck. I’d watched him over the years, but never helped.

  Father smiled and crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course we. I can’t do this without you.” A total lie, but my heart raced at his words. “In fact, you get to decide whether we buy her or not.”

  I tried to hide my enthusiasm, but failed miserably. I threw my arms around Father and yelled over his shoulder, “We’ll take her!”

  That cemented it for me. Totally hooked, I ate, slept, and breathed classic cars. Father taught me everything he knew about fixing and restoring them. A year later, he gave me the old Chevy for my sixteenth birthday. When I turned eighteen, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I spent the next two years doing odd jobs, saving every penny I could get my hands on. The old firehouse, which I named KNB Classics after my initials, resulted. Father loaned me the down payment, Sam and I paid for the renovations with what we had saved, and we split the monthly payments.

  Smiling from the sudden memory, I eased around one of the many tool chests scattered throughout the shop, making my way toward the Ford. It resembled a faded black blob, propped up on jacks along the back wall closest to the office. The hood creaked and groaned when I lifted it; small chunks of reddish brown rust flaked off. I grabbed the old broom handle leaned up against the fender and shoved it under the back corner of the hood, close to the hinge, to hold it open. I rolled my long black hair into a tight bun, pinned it with a couple bobby pins I kept stashed in various spots around the shop, then set to work on the engine.

  ***

  Some time later, I heard the telltale squeak of skin on metal as Sam slid down the pole. His boots thudded loudly as he hit the floor. “Goodnight, Keira!” he yelled loud enough for me to hear.

  “Night, Sam!” He knew better than to wait for me. The sound of his ’70 Mercury Cougar, all 400 perfectly tuned horses, roared to life. The squeal of tires hitting asphalt as he left our gravel parking lot for paved city streets drifted in through the open side door. I smiled. Boys and their toys.

  Fifteen minutes later, I finished connecting the new wiring harness and decided to call it quits for the night. If Sam had left, it probably meant I should too. I untangled myself from beneath the dashboard, somehow maneuvered and slid out the passenger door without hitting my head. I grabbed a new shop cloth and wiped as much of the grease off my hands as I could, then tossed the blackened rag on top of one of the tool chests on my way to the office.

  The old fluorescent strip light flickered twice before humming to life. The small office included an undersized desk and chair, two padded office chairs I kept for customers, the occasional plant, and something that passed for a kitchenette.

  The pungent aroma of burnt coffee permeated the small space from the ancient coffee maker I accidentally left on. I scrunched my nose and flipped off the temperamental piece of equipment, thankful it hadn’t caught fire. The two customer’s chairs squeaked when I rolled them into place on my way to my side of the desk.

  The sound of gravel crunching caught my attention as I locked the cash box in the safe. I grinned. If I had a dollar for every time Sam forgot something, I could pay off the loan on the firehouse. Or at least that’s how it seemed.

  The office door clicked shut behind me, the soft sound echoing through the building. “What’d you forget this time, Sam?” I asked, then froze as I looked toward the front of the shop. It wasn’t Sam. The shoulders were too narrow, and the height was all wrong.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m closed,” I called out, grabbing the tire iron on the closest shelf as inconspicuously as possible. “Come back tomorrow, I’ll be in around noon.”

  “My apologies, Miss Blackwater, but I am afraid that is not possible,” a silky male voice answered. Although his French accent had faded, it was still noticeable. “You see, sunlight…tends to disagree with me.”

  Damn, I know that voice. “Mr. Trevelyan?”

  “How many times have I asked you to call me Leo?” he said as he stepped further into the light. His narrow, muscular frame filled out a high-end charcoal gray suit.

  “Mr. Trevelyan, what are you doing here?” I asked. My boots thudded on the concrete as I strode toward him. I stopped when I reached the ’Cuda, cocked my hip against the front grill, and crossed my arms, making sure he could see the tire iron. “If you’re here about the firehouse, I’ve already given you my answer. It’s not for sale.”

  Léonce Trevelyan, or Leo as he liked to be called—which I had yet to do—had contacted me several times over the previous couple weeks, offering to buy the shop.

  His auburn hair curled forward around his face, right above his shoulders, giving him a regal appearance, and bringing my attention to the infinity charm hanging from a gold chain around his neck. It glinted in the overhead light.

  Damn.

  He eyed my improvised weapon. “Is that intended for me?”

  Some of my bravado faded. “Maybe.”

  Leo smirked. “You know such a thing will not protect you against my kind,” he stated matter-of-factly. He folded his arms across his chest and relaxed his stance.

  I sighed and dropped the tire iron on the tool mat draped across the hood of the ’Cuda. He could break my neck faster than I could dial 911. Leo was a businessman, an entrepreneur, and, as his necklace declared, a vampire. That last part being the most significant. I could care less about the other two.

  Leo must have come out of the closet back in the late 1970s with the rest of the supernatural community. As luck would have it, a government scientist in the ’50s witnessed a group of humans change into werewolves one full moon night while out hunting. It took him two years, but he finally captured a specimen (a young boy who hadn’t yet learned to control his shifts) in a bear trap and began experimenting in order to prove his sanity.

  Supernaturals suffered through twenty years of being tested and experimented o
n as that scientist and others found more specimens, not just werewolves, before they felt the time was right to announce their existence to the world and loosen the government’s hold over them. When they came out to the world, the government forced them to register as “not human” in a huge database. The authorities used it primarily for their purposes, but not all civilians had quick access to it so they came up with the symbols for quick recognition. It kept the playing field a little more even.

  “I ask again, Mr. Trevelyan, why are you here?”

  Leo glided past me, his footsteps barely audible as he circled the collectible icon I leaned against. “Have you reconsidered my offer since last we spoke?” He extended a manicured hand and ran his fingers down the side of the car in a gentle caress. “I am looking to expand. This building would be an excellent new venture for me.” Leo finished his trek and came to a stop in front of me, leaving very few feet separating us.

  I laughed, I couldn’t help it. For some reason, it made me feel better knowing that vampire or not, he was still a man, not used to taking no for an answer. The cool metal beneath my fingers made me bold as I said, “Mr. Trevelyan, I know you’re used to getting whatever you want, but I can’t make myself any clearer. The firehouse is not now, nor will it ever be, for sale.”

  Silence surrounded us and settled in as we stared each other down: his hazel eyes against my chocolate brown. A cool breeze blew in from outside, bringing with it the smells of the city: car exhaust, a hint of rain in the air, fast food. The smell of greasy burgers from Benny’s Burger Barn two blocks over, though not very appetizing, reminded me I hadn’t eaten dinner yet. I ignored my stomach’s plaintive growl by listening to the hum and buzz of the overhead lights.

  After what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “Your stubbornness is apt to get you into trouble one of these days, Miss Blackwater.”

  Instead of taking that as the implied threat he intended it to be, I relaxed, confident in the small measure of built-in protection I had. My blood held the only known cure for the virus that created supernaturals, something my father told me when I was only five years old. I was pretty sure Leo wouldn’t hurt me, but my fingers still inched a little closer to the tire iron.