Blood Triad: Stories in the Blood & Ancient Scrolls Series

Praise for the Blood Triad

" Blood Triad sweeps readers across eras and locations, infusing each of these periods with her unique vampiric lore. Belasco’s action scenes are brisk, and her carefully-researched characters are memorable. Her vampires are so much more than the violence of their history—within their bloody hearts, they retain their humanity."

— Tara Campbell, author of City of Dancing Gargoyles & TreeVolution

This delicious series has bewitched me. Raven Belasco has built a convincing, detailed world full of violence and romance. Here is a sharp-toothed triple threat of sensuous, deeply-felt back stories. Highly recommended!

— Patrick Califia, author of Mortal Companion

By Raven Belasco

THE BLOOD & ANCIENT SCROLLS SERIES

Blood Ex Libris

Blood Sine Qua Non

Blood Ad Infinitum

Blood Triad

ALSO

Adventures in Bodily Autonomy (Editor)

This 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, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

Raven Belasco supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of author’s rights.

Copyright © 2024 by Immoral Influence Publications

All Rights Reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Belasco, Raven.

Blood Triad / Raven Belasco

p. cm.

ISBN: 978-1-960942-06-7

eISBN: 978-1-960942-07-4

Vampires—Historical Vampires—Vampire folklore—Fiction 2. Haitian History—Fiction 3. Nineteen thirties History—American 20th century—Prohibition—Fiction 4. Librarians—Fiction 5. Journeys—Journeys of personal growth—Fiction 6. American Fantasy Fiction 7. American Feminist Fiction 8. Paranormal fiction, American 9. LGBTQ fiction, American 10. Scottish History—Fiction 11. Khazars—Fiction 12. Vikings—Northmen—Fiction 13. Reproductive rights—Reproductive freedom—Abortion—Birth control—Fiction

In Memoriam Cairngorm McWomble the Terrible: Canis meus, terreus et ferox, semper desiderari.

And to Archibald Alastair McWomble: You have big paw prints to fill as my new co-editor, but as you are currently napping beside me as I type, I think just maybe I found the right dire terrier for the job.

The past is never dead. It's not even past.

― William Faulkner

Contents

Author's Note on Language

TEETH ARE BONES

Note on Teeth Are Bones

BLOOD BROTHERS

Note on Blood Brothers

ABYSSINIA

Note on Abyssinia

Index of Non-English Phrases

Glossary of the Am'r Language

The Blood & Ancient Scrolls Series

About Raven Belasco

About Immoral Influence Publications

Author's Note on Language

This book has a bunch of words and phrases that are not in English. Some are in the am’r language, and some are in languages from around the world, since the am’r get around and often speak the language of the country they grew up in, or the country they are in at the moment. The am’r words are given definition when they are first used, but if you forget any of them, there is a glossary of the am’r language in the back of the book.

Likewise, there is an index of all the non-English words and phrases you will encounter along the way. If the meaning of those words is vital to the understanding of the story, I’ve made sure they get explained in the text. However, sometimes our protagonist doesn’t understand what she is hearing. So you have a choice: you can experience the moment as she is experiencing it, or you can go to the index and look up the words if you don’t like not knowing.

Whatever you choose, I hope you enjoy the journey!

Raven

TEETH ARE BONES

Zoraida had turned up unexpectedly. Although I should know by now to never be surprised by anything an am’r does.

"Bonswa, Noosh," she’d waved casually at me.

Uh, hey, Zee, I replied with my usual aplomb, or lack thereof.

She nodded respectfully to Viv, leaning on the rails of the deck beside me, and to Nthanda, who was now the leader of all Britain. Well, not the living humans of the U.K., obviously. That was whomever was Prime Minster at the moment—and to be honest, I didn’t know or care; I had far more important things going on—Nthanda was leader of the British am’r, those powerful, potentially immortal beings who were as willful and unherdable as cats, and who really didn’t like being called vampires.

I have some connections that will be useful to you, she told Nthanda, and they went belowdecks to talk. Viv casually regarded the nighttime lights of the Port of London as we moved out to sea.

As did I, considering that I shouldn’t be on this ship at all. My patar and gharpatar (my maker, and his maker, and so much more than the word maker could ever encapsulate) were going back to Sandu’s underground fortress in Romania. I should have gone back with them, as a newly-made am’r in a dangerous world. And it was made all the more dangerous by the fact that Sandu had previously been called Vlad Țepeș—and he was only surpassed in enemies by his own maker Bagamil, who was the Eldest, the Aojysht-of aojyshtaish. The most powerful people always have someone wanting to take them down, and it was no different among the am’r—indeed, it was even more so. The am’r are more human than human, and that’s not a compliment. My undeath came with built-in enemies just because of who had made me, with no consideration of who I was as my own person.

Being the newly-risen am’r descendant (the frithaputhra, in the am’r language) of those two was my future (hopefully a very lengthy future) but I hadn’t had time to ruminate on it. I’d been too busy arguing with my beloveds that I should do this Very Stupid Thing; that is, go off on my own to help hunt down Lilani, the am’r who had betrayed us. She’d directly led to my dying the mortal death and rising in my full am’r powers, forever sundering me from the kee (living human) world.

With Nthanda’s help, I’d won the argument. The fact that Nthanda and his frithaputhra Viv had both promised to take care of me had definitely swayed the outcome of that dispute, but there was no point in feeling shame about that; in am’r terms, although I was stronger than when I was still living, I was an inexperienced, puny weakling. I still had that new am’r scent and factory-fresh-shine. In argument with my beloveds I had refused to admit any of that, insisting that my experiences before I underwent the vistarascha had made me stronger than most newly-risen am’r. Since that had indeed been their goal, they couldn’t actually argue it. They didn’t like me leaving their side so soon, regardless.

I had no idea why Nthanda had bothered to argue my case. It was not impossible that he just found fucking with Sandu enjoyable.

Anyway, here we were, on the MSY Luis, en route to Morocco. In the few days we’d been aboard, I’d seen Viv wandering around the ship, but Nthanda had closeted himself in his cabin with a laptop and phone, reaching out to connections to take us even further on our hunt. Sometimes Zoraida was with him, probably giving him that useful information. Tonight, she was sitting in the saloon with me. I was marveling that I was on this James-Bond-style yacht, in the saloon. I’d never been in a saloon before. (Of course, I’d never been on a Lifestyles-of-the-Rich-and-Famous kind of boat before.) It was all bright, highly-polished wood, overstuffed cushions in cream and navy nautical stripe, and gleaming brass trim. There were huge windows around the sides and back, which was no good for an am’r during the day, but gorgeous at night, particularly with this brilliant full moon lighting the ocean out to the horizon. If a kee had owned this boat, there would have been bottles of champagne in an ice bucket on the table, and plates of fancy hors d’oeuvres. Probably cigars as well. But we were am’r (except for the day crew, hand-selected kee staff who I was eager to get to know at some point on this trip, as I’d met very few kee who even knew the am’r existed, never mind worked alongside them) and so there was nothing except a mirror-polished table between us as we lounged on the sofas that stretched along the curves of the ship.

Zoraida was glowing in the moonlight, with that shining beauty that suffuses a well-fed am’r. I wondered if she had been sampling one of the day crew, something I myself was not ready to even contemplate. She seemed entirely at ease, but also felt entirely distant. I was practically sitting in this saloon by myself. She’d come in wordlessly, sat down on the other side of the long sofa, and had been looking out the window, away from me, for at least an hour now. I wondered if I never said anything, if she’d sit there in silence until sunrise, and then leave without having exchanged even one word all night.

Zee…? My voice was sotto voce, because I respected her in an almost pathetic fan-girl way and wanted to give her the excuse to ignore me if she didn’t want to talk. But, of course, with am’r hearing, she could hear me above the throb of the engine, the whoosh and crash of the Atlantic waves, and the wind, which was pretty brisk at twenty-some knots.

"Wi?"

I don’t want to interrupt you…

You are not interrupting. My thoughts were old thoughts, not vital to our pursuit.

You say, ‘old thoughts.’ May I ask about them?

Zoraida laughed. It was rich and low and infectious, a sound I didn’t hear often. I’d spent more time with her than most of the am’r, in our underground library in Sandu’s stronghold. Zoraida was tech goddess supreme, builder of the am’r intranet, and essential supporter of me in cataloguing the am’r archives, the ostensible reason why I thoughtlessly bolted from my old life to run around like a fool with superhuman monsters, living nightly on the edge of pointless and painful death. Not that I’d gotten much chance recently to work with her in our lovely, dark, climate-controlled library cavern. Thinking of that ultimate safe space made me deeply reconsider the fuss I’d made, insisting on going off with Nthanda on his journey of vengeance. But since Zoraida had shown up for this adventure, she wouldn’t have been back there with me anyway. I might as well enjoy this moment while I had it, before the inevitable violence began, when it could just be two am’r women talking in a saloon lit by patterns of moonlight reflecting off the sea.

"My old thoughts… I know you have been very curious about me—non, non, pa enkyete! You have been very respectful of my privacy. And I am very private. So, I appreciate your restraint. By not asking, you have earned the right to know me better."

I let my breath out slowly. Zoraida was right—I had been painfully curious about her. It was common for an am’r to take a special kind of lover, an am’r-nafsh, that is, a living vampire. After a ritual of exchanging blood (or vhoon) three times, there was a transformation of body, blood, and spirit. The lovers were now connected—not just a deep soul-bond, but the am’r-nafsh blood became more nourishing to the am’r. The am’r-nafsh, while still technically alive, had become part am’r, starting to experience their strengths—and weaknesses!—before, when the mortal death came upon them, they would rest for a while in the vistarascha and rise again as full am’r.

It sounds like a great idea, to get a taste for being am’r before fully committing to it. In my experience of the past two years, it was more often frustrating and humiliating. You spent that time being neither fish nor fowl, with the worst of all worlds. And completely dependent on your am’r. I’d hated that part. It might be one reason why I was moving in the opposite direction of my patar at twenty knots an hour at this very moment.

"Thank you, Zee. I would be truly honored to hear anything you don’t mind sharing with me. Am’r are touchy creatures; polite respect is your best policy. But I also just honestly felt that way about Zoraida. I’d made the mistake once of thinking she was just" a talented tech geek. I’d seen only her beauty, seen only her skills for music and technology, just the very surface stuff that she’d been willing to show me. When Sandu had told me that she never made loving connections with anyone, because of past unbearable heartbreak…well, I still hadn’t fully forgiven myself for such a shallow perception of her. I was quiveringly anxious to hear Zoraida’s life-story now, but I tried to keep the overly-enthusiastic fangirl energy from showing.

She was smiling at me, and I had the rueful guess that she could sense I was like a puppy wagging my tail eagerly. Her rare smile was wide and bright. Her lips were too full to thin out in a smile and stayed their perfect bow-shape, just slightly rosier than her skin, which was the same gorgeous ruddy brown shade as the Smoky Topaz Crayola crayon. (Remember that I used to work at a very small public library, please, and spent more time picking up crayons in the children’s area than my degree in library science called for.) Her eyes were wide-set, almost too large to be called almond-shaped, set off by high-arched brows. Her nose was wide and viewed from the side had an adorable little aquiline arc. She usually wore beautifully complicated braid styles, but had arrived in London with that all shaved off, revealing a perfectly-shaped head. Enough days had passed that she now had a hint of wave pattern grown in.

She glowed darkly in the moonlight, and I realized she had recently vhoon-taken, that is, drunk blood. Although if it had been vhoon-vayon, am’r love-making, I couldn’t know. The ship we were on was am’r-owned and captained, but there was that day crew. It seemed like they were all available and willing to offer up their blood and bodies to the ship’s am’r guests. I’d never been around this kind of fully-aware consensuality between am’r and kee before, and it made a very nice change. There truly was nothing like sharing vhoon-vayon with an am’r. For any kee crew, working on this ship had unique perks.

"Bon, get comfortable. It is a long story I have for you." She paused, and the smile was entirely gone from her face. I realized that it was not so much my body that I needed to get ready, but my heart.

My story starts before me, for I have the privilege of carrying the vhoon of Kgosi—she almost caressed the name as she spoke it: Kho-see—"frithaputhra of Asdrúbal, in my veins.

"Kgosi was brought over as a child in a slave ship fout sal. I do not know the year; the enslaved peoples had different calendars back in Africa, and then they had no calendar once they got to Saint-Domingue, only endless days of suffering and torture.

"Kgosi was sold to a French planter, renamed Hyacinthe­ —she spoke this name with vitriolic drips of irony—and put to the grueling work of harvesting sugar cane. I do not know how much of the history of Ayiti you may know, but he was at the Bwa Kayiman. That means in English, ‘Alligator Forest.’ In 1791, it was where the slaves met to plan the first rising up of the Haitian Revolution. He learned how to fight with bamboo knives and spears, while the French masters thought that their slaves were merely doing heathen dances.

"My Kgosi fought with the other heroes of the revolisyon ayisyen. But that first uprising in August of 1791 was just one birth pang. The colonizers did everything in their power to deny ayisyen their freedom. It was not until 1804 that Ayiti declared itself an independent nation, and France wouldn’t even recognize that for years. As those thirteen brutal years ground on, an aojysht, who had been abiding in Spain in that time, heard about our struggle and decided to come and join us. He was named Asdrúbal—a Latinization of his kee name, ʿAzrubaʿal—and he was a frithaputhra of Bagamil, from whatever time in the ancient past Bagamil spent in Carthage. So you see, you and I are close cousins, zanmi mwen, and it is one reason your Sandu and I became such comfortable friends in these recent lonely years.

"Asdrúbal fell in love with the spirit of Ayiti. And he even more fell in love with Kgosi, who was at the height of his kee strength and beauty. In the midst of the bitter bloodshed, Asdrúbal made Kgosi his am’r-nafsh, and they fought side by side to liberate the island they had both come to love."

Zoraida looked thoughtful. "Now that I tell this story, this way, I realize how like Sandu’s own story it is. When he was Vlad Țepeș, fighting to keep Wallachia safe from the Turks, and Bagamil fell in love with him and joined his fight. We am’r certainly prove that one can be both a