Arc 2 Read online

  Contents

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Content Notes

  Dramatis Personae

  Act One: But If You Try, Sometimes...

  Act Two: Witches Gotta Stick Together

  Act Three: Missing You/Touching Me

  Act Four: It's Not Easy Being Gray

  Act Five: Come Back to Me

  Act Six: Boys of (Endless) Summer

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by the Author

  STAKE SAUCE, ARC 2: Everybody’s Missing (Somebody)

  Copyright © 2020 by RoAnna Sylver.

  Published by Kraken Collective Books.

  krakencollectivebooks.com

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by RoAnna Sylver.

  Interior formatting by Key of Heart Designs.

  Typefaces by Misprinted Type.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, trademarks, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For Corey, who gave me armor, and showed me how to write my deepest truths with honesty, bravery, and joy. My gifts are my words, and I don’t always have them, but these are for you.

  Vampire violence/blood-drinking.

  Missing persons.

  Memory loss

  Stress-related (unintentional and non-romanticized) weight loss.

  On-page murder; light on gore, big on dramatic horror imagery.

  Textbook, recognized deliberate abuser behavior from the villain on-page, both physical and emotional/mental.

  Unhealthy (non-romanticized) vampire/human familiar dynamics.

  References to past and current/ongoing abuse, including sexual.

  Assault, kidnapping, attempted human sacrifice.

  Reference to a near-death experience.

  Family dysfunction.

  PTSD, grief and abuse processing, neurodivergent brains dealing with trauma.

  Depression, brief suicidal ideation. Sustained injury (concussion).

  One sexually charged scene—not non-con or threatening, but does have (addressed) boundary/mental health problems.

  Jude, who is doing his best to figure his life, brain, and self out, and could use a nap.

  Pixie, who was lost, then found, and now belongs. Could also use a nap in Jude's pocket.

  Eva, who is done playing games, and strongly feels that communication is the foundation of any relationship.

  Letizia, doing her best to do right by her friends. All of them. Even when her best isn't the best.

  Jasper, whose presence is a gift even if he doesn't do anything.

  Felix, who hasn’t given up yet. So don’t give up on him.

  Nails and Maestra, forever a pair, and finally free.

  Milo, whose reflection is theirs alone.

  Owen, the picture of devotion, but seen through a mirror darkly.

  Sanguine, who wasn't always like this.

  And the incomparable, inimitable, despicable Wicked Gold.

  “Kneel.”

  The large man dropped to his knees without question, but not without protest.

  “Wicked Gold,” he said in a harsh, grating voice with an edge of panic. He’d always been imposing, tall and muscular and eager to bare his fangs, which he did now, but his mouth was twisted in despair instead of fury. His head hung down low, hiding his exhausted, defeated face with stringy gray hair, wrists tightly tied behind his back. “You don’t want to do this.”

  “You’re right, I really don’t,” said his captor, hands in the pockets of his expensive, muted violet suit, and far too relaxed.

  The vampire, who’d been known by many names, but most recently Wicked Gold, was hundreds of years old and still kicking. Old enough to hide the most obvious signs of his nature, at least outwardly, behind the face of a middle-aged white man with an average build, average looks, and above-average tastes. He was many things—including discerning enough to know when someone had failed him, and more than ready to exact punishment for that failure.

  “Unfortunately, in your case, the cost of your mistakes is much too high to justify keeping you around. Too rich, even for my blood.”

  Wicked Gold let out a short, wholesome-sounding chuckle, as if they were friends shooting the breeze over a beer. Then, without warning, he reached out and shoved at the larger man’s back with much more strength than a human his size should reasonably have, sending him sprawling across the ground.

  “Cruce, old friend, do you have the first idea why you deserve this?”

  Tonight was a strange night, in a strange place. Nobody happened upon this stone circle unless they already knew it was there. The ring of black crystals, like irregular and jagged obelisks, remained unnaturally silent, off the beaten path literally and figuratively; no trails led to it, and no joggers or dog-walkers happened upon it. At all hours, the air seemed charged, stinging static making hair stand on end like every moment was the one just before a lightning strike.

  But tonight went beyond otherworldly, into the flat-out sinister. In the center of the stones burned a fire, unwisely large for the flammable surroundings. Eerie orange light illuminated the otherwise pitch-black, overcast night, and cast strange, flickering shadows over the scene and all its players.

  “I don’t deserve this,” the bound vampire—Cruce, named after a grisly method of execution and now facing his own—snarled, struggling up onto his knees again. “I did nothing wrong. I’ve been your faithful servant for a century and a half—your servant, when you promised we’d be equals!”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Wicked Gold raised one foot off the ground and placed it on Cruce’s shoulder. Then he rested his elbow on his knee and leaned on his bound thrall like he was nothing more than a rock or piece of sturdy furniture. “But I seem to recall you promising that nothing like exactly this would ever happen on your watch. That I could leave you in charge of my other servants and my pets, focus on my responsibilities overseas and rest easy, no need to worry about anything back here. Seems like we’ve both broken promises, haven’t we?”

  He paused, waiting expectantly for the apology, and his eyes drifted to the edge of the circle. Wicked Gold’s drama had an audience in the form of two young men watching from the edge of the light.

  One, dressed in another suit much too expensive and shoes too shiny to be taken for a night hiker, leaned casually against one of the stones. The other, slight and painfully thin in a black hoodie that covered most of his face, stood with his hands jammed into his pockets, head hanging low and everything about his posture screaming deep unrest, as if it were him kneeling, impudently silent, at Wicked Gold’s feet.

  Wicked Gold gave Cruce a kick with one shining, gold-tinted shoe that sent him tipping over and sprawling again onto his side, rolling out a bit into the center of the stone circle.

  “Fine, if you won’t admit when you’re wrong, I’ll do it for you,” he said, stepping forward and turning to circle Cruce again as he struggled on the ground. “I come home after a hard week’s work, and what do I find? You let not one, not two or even three, but four of my thralls escape—”

  “The girls were mine!” Cruce yelled, struggling fruitlessly against his bonds and failing to rise to his knees again without the aid of his hands. There was a definite edge of desperation in his voice now, a panic unbecoming a predator. “And I lost just as much as—”

  “You’ll lose a lot more than that!” Wicked Gold’s gleaming foot shot out and slammed into Cruce’s broad chest. “They were yours, yes, and you were mine! And that meant they were mine too, and you los
t them! But that’s not all, you didn’t just lose your own thralls, you lost both of the ones I hand-picked, I sniffed them out and hunted them down and made them mine, just like I did you, and then in a single night, you lost them both! And that’s after you let my new favorite escape in the first place!”

  “Your favorite,” Cruce sneered, spitting out a gob of thick black blood. “After everything I’ve done—and helped you do? All the plans, all the sacrifices, all the unquestioning obedience—”

  Wicked Gold let out a derisive snort, but Cruce kept going.

  “All the talk of us being equals! All the promised rewards, all the assurances that it’ll just be a little longer, and I’d be living like half the king you’ve called yourself—the centuries by your side! And what do you do? Forget all about that as soon as you lay eyes on a tasty little treat—”

  Cruce wasn’t even trying to stand up anymore, but Wicked Gold gave him another kick for good measure, closer to his head this time.

  “You let my tasty, pretty, ripe-and-ready favorite escape,” Wicked Gold continued as if Cruce hadn’t spoken, pacing around him with more purpose now. “And you never got him back. Promised that too, didn’t you? Broke it, didn’t you? And then when Felix got it into his head to fight back when I wasn’t looking, you let him go too! And end up running away while they chase you down, your own thralls! You ran, and from what? Some little girls, some soft, breakable humans, and that—that woman! That witch!”

  Cruce wasn’t struggling anymore at all. He wasn’t protesting either. He just lay there, conscious and aware but silent, and very still, like an animal freezing to escape a predator’s notice. It wasn’t working.

  “You were too busy having fun to use your head,” Wicked Gold said with a scornful shake of his own. “Or at least the right one. And look where it got you. Not having much fun anymore, are you?”

  “I made a mistake,” Cruce said in a low voice, just above a whisper. He’d begun to curl in on himself, nearly into a fetal position, and didn’t look up. “Just one. One, in all these years. I was so sure... that counted for something.”

  “Four,” Wicked Gold corrected, crouching to clamp one hand around Cruce’s throat.

  Each finger was tipped with a long, viciously pointed silver claw, digging into Cruce’s skin with the audible hiss and wisp of smoke that carried the smell of burned undead flesh. His hand didn’t begin to make it around the larger vampire’s thick neck, but Wicked Gold stood and raised him easily, until Cruce knelt before him once more. When he spoke again his voice wasn’t furious, not sharp, instead something close to gentle, but even more menacing in its savage contrast.

  “You lost me four prizes, which is four mistakes too many. I expected better from you. Much better. But I suppose that was my mistake. Now, anything to say? Besides ‘goodbye?’”

  Cruce stared back at him, face now free of panic or desperation. Instead his dark eyes were cold and resigned, and now, very tired. He let the silence stretch between them for a few long and tense seconds and stared back into his sire’s eyes, finding no mercy there, no hope for a reprieve, and no question. “What else is left to say?”

  Wicked Gold considered this, and him, for a moment, head tilted to one side and eyebrows raised. Then, instead of answering, he gave a one-shouldered shrug and raised his free hand, admiring his deadly silver claws that gleamed in the firelight as brightly as his gold-tipped shoes.

  Without a word, he plunged his hand, fingers together, straight and flat like a blade, into Cruce’s chest.

  “This isn’t what I wanted either,” he said in a low tone, as thick, black liquid gushed from the gaping hole he’d ripped into Cruce’s chest. It covered his hand as well, but he made no movement to pull it out or wipe it off, not yet. Wicked Gold watched the look of unadulterated agony replace the resignation on Cruce’s face. His own expression until now had alternated between boredom and fury, but now his face twisted into real and pained disappointment.

  “God damn you, Cruce,” he said, almost fondly, almost smiling. “You’re right about one thing. We really could have had it all.”

  With an ease that bordered on gentleness, Wicked Gold lowered Cruce down until his back hit the ground. The motion almost seemed intimate, like laying down a lover, but it would soon prove lethal. Wicked Gold’s claws had pierced his heart dead-on, each small, pointed tip like a stake from the stories. And, just like in the stories, the silver did its burning work. But that wasn’t the only thing searing Cruce’s undead body from the inside out. Wicked Gold curled his hand into a fist around what remained of Cruce’s heart—it had been said he didn’t have one, but some stories really were just stories—and his hold became a crushing grip.

  Then, at last, Cruce’s heart ignited in his palm. Fire licked its way up Wicked Gold’s thin fingers and wrist, forearm up to his elbow, but didn’t seem to burn him in the slightest. The fire also radiated outwards, radiating from the hole in Cruce’s chest like flames across an oil slick. Soon his entire torso was ablaze, and as his tortured eyes and mouth widened, light spilled from them as well.

  Wicked Gold held Cruce down for a while longer, watching the flames overtake him and the second, undead life leave his eyes. Then, slowly, he withdrew his hand and stood as the larger vampire shook and spasmed on the ground, letting out helpless and incoherent gasps.

  He waited patiently for the wreckage that had once been his thrall to stop its agonized squirms and soft, dying sounds. Even as Cruce burned, his black blood continued to run out onto the ground of the stone circle, which soaked it up unnaturally fast, as if it was dry from a year-long drought instead of regularly dampened by frequent Oregon rain.

  Dirty deed done well but not cheaply, Wicked Gold leaned back on his heels, clean hand in his pocket, and waited. For almost a full minute, he stood there, looking expectant but increasingly confused, a thin line appearing between his eyebrows. At one point he checked his shining gold wristwatch—which remained clean. The other hand, the cause of Cruce’s demise, was still covered in the bloody evidence.

  “Hm!” the last vampire standing said in an interested but disappointed tone. Heedless of the flames, he leaned forward and gingerly nudged his thrall’s unmoving body with one gold toe. Then, finally, he wiped his dripping hand on one of the last remaining clean sections of Cruce’s jacket. “Well, that didn’t work. I was hoping for some fireworks. Ah well. Still can’t always get what we want. But then, sometimes…”

  He straightened up and turned his attention to the pair of figures still standing on the edge of the firelight. The thin young man in the hoodie visibly tensed as Wicked Gold raised one manicured hand to point at him, then beckon him closer with a deliberately curled finger. Black blood didn’t quite drip from it anymore, but it clung beneath his silver nails. It would take quite a while to get it out entirely.

  “Sanguine!” Wicked Gold called, sounding much more upbeat than he had a moment ago, as if he hadn’t just killed his longtime partner in vampiric crime and left his remains on the ground. “Come over here.”

  At the Latin word and the beckoning hand, the uncomfortable-looking young man stepped forward. He moved slowly and reluctantly, taking his bony hands out of his pockets and quickening his step when Wicked Gold’s summoning gesture became an impatient wave.

  “Yes?” His voice was a faint rasp, like he had a bad cold and sorely needed to clear his throat and have a warm drink, or at least get out of the wet Portland-in-winter night that chilled anyone with a pulse to the bone.

  “Yes what?” Wicked Gold asked immediately, like an automatic reflex. His cold eyes fell on a long scar stretching from forehead to jaw on the left side of his servant’s face, and he frowned.

  “Yes, Lord,” Sanguine said just as quickly, but with an edge of anxiety instead of boredom. Now he dropped to his knees before the vampire, who stood casually over him. He brushed stray bits of matted, ginger red hair over his face, hiding the scar and earning himself a very slight nod. “What can I do for you?”<
br />
  Wicked Gold didn’t answer, instead just waited for him to figure it out on his own. Sanguine's eyes, blue and feverishly bright, underlined with dark circles, flicked over to Cruce’s remains, and just for a moment, the wary tension in his face was replaced by grim satisfaction. His chapped lips didn’t quite turn up into a smile, instead set in a hard line as he gave an almost imperceptible nod. A small, quiet victory.

  Then his anxious gaze followed Wicked Gold’s hand as it reached down toward him, its long fingers and claw-like silver nails. The vampire made as if to stroke his face or play with his untended hair—but at the last second his hand darted forward unnaturally fast to clamp around the young man’s throat and drag him to his feet.

  “I know what I did wrong,” Wicked Gold said, conversationally, like they were discussing a business strategy over coffee instead of rainy midnight in the middle of an ominous stone circle with a dead vampire in the center.

  Sanguine hadn’t made a sound as the vampire’s hand seized his neck, and he didn’t protest or struggle as the grip tightened now. His only visible reaction was to close his eyes, looking tired and long resigned.

  “The spell asked for blood, and shame on me, I thought dead blood might suffice—two birds, one stone, wouldn’t that be nice for once?”

  Wicked Gold turned, steering Sanguine at arm’s length by the neck until he stood beside Cruce’s remains, worn and dirty shoes almost stepping in the growing puddle of black, sludgy fluid. He was squeezing too hard for the young man to speak, even if he’d tried to reply. But he didn’t. His knees wobbled, and he surely would have fallen if the vampire hadn’t been holding him up by the throat. Wicked Gold continued his one-sided conversation in the same disarmingly casual tone.

  “But no, nothing can ever be that easy, not even for me. Fortunately, I’ve got some of the best blood in town right here. Which means it’s really a shame to waste it—yours is just so sweet, so deliciously addictive, you know how I feel about you by now, Sanguine. Taking of your blood and body...” He put the gathered fingers of his free hand to his lips and kissed them. “Ah, closest thing to heaven my sinner’s soul will ever see. But if I’m right about this circle and its secrets, it’ll be more than worth the loss.”