Resurrection (New Blood Rising #1)

Prologue

Fear is useless.

Leaning my back on the damp wall of the building, in an equally wet alley, I came to this conclusion. It took me long enough to realize it. After ten years of having it as a constant companion, always there to hold my hand, reliable and consistent, it leaves me feeling bare.

Vulnerable.

If I don’t feel fear, then what should I feel? Numb is not an option. That can get you killed in no time nowadays. Terror, on the other hand, keeps me alive.

At the age of ten, I was left curled up in the corner of a sewer by my parents, with the promise that they would come back for me after they found food.

A ten-year-old girl alone, and afraid of her own shadow waiting for their return.

Needless to say, they never did, and I never found out why.

I assumed, but to this day there was nothing to confirm that they didn’t just run away from the one thing that assured their deaths.

Me.

That was only a few months after they came out of the woodwork, claiming their birthright.

Or so they said, anyway. No one was prepared to face something they thought was made up to scare children, or fiction characters created only to feed their dark fantasies.

Calling themselves gods, proving it by their superior strength and enhanced senses, left us all bewildered and ripe for picking.

They didn’t pick, no. They harvested.

A shudder rattles my bones at those memories.

Like a swarm of insects, they infested the world overnight.

Literally. Apparently, the oldest ones were placed in an eternal sleep until they got awakened because the monsters were tired of hiding.

They are the ones calling themselves gods.

Whatever name or title they want to use, we all know better now.

Vampires. Night dwelling, fang fleshing, red-eyed monsters. They rule the world.

In the beginning, the governments thought they could deal with it.

Wait until dawn, and with the first rays of the sun, exterminate.

It didn’t go as planned when they faced brainwashed fellow humans standing as a living shield, protecting their masters.

Mind control apparently was a real thing.

Humans had two options, serve the monsters, or die.

One by one, governments fell, only to be replaced with puppets by the Council.

Eight thrones were carved out of crystal, placed in the largest cathedral between Hollywood and South LA.

It was done methodically, purposefully, to make a mockery of our prayers and rub it in everyone’s faces that no holy water or crosses could ever be our saving grace.

The statues of saints, sacred objects, and elaborately painted windows were dumped in the front yard as they gutted the building to make it what it is today.

The Council Towers. Ten years later, everything is still scattered wherever it was placed then, like discarded bones of a once great beast, a reminder for everyone that will see it.

‘You tried everything, yet here we stand, ruling over your pathetic lives’ is the statement it makes.

It’s a powerful one, to be sure.

Nothing could touch them, no weapon or strategy worked in our favor.

Then, out of nowhere, we started finding them dead, one at a time and never in the same place.

Doctors and scientists worked behind closed doors to figure out what caused their deaths.

Hope, the cruel bitch that she was, started blooming.

We had a chance. It was like the world was holding its breath, anticipation building as everyone sat at the edge of their seats, biting their nails.

The longest week passed before the news spread about our weapon.

It was our chance to go back to the life we knew.

One thing the self-proclaimed gods did not expect was that individual humans were their downfall.

They drained people left and right, using them the same way we used cattle for our food, not knowing this little tidbit.

What the scientists found changed everything.

Those with type O negative blood were poisonous to the monsters.

We finally had something to use so we could fight back.

We had a chance.

Whispers spread like a tidal wave of the ocean, gathering everyone willing to help.

There were so many brave souls ready to make a stand and save us all.

I was only ten and didn’t know my blood type, but I was willing to help, too.

To be a part of those that would save humanity from the monsters ruling the night.

My parents were horrified to hear my older brother’s proclamation that he would join the effort, and me telling them I would go to stand by his side.

They couldn’t stop him, but I was a different matter.

The night when humanity made a stand, they bundled me up—my father holding tight to my tiny writhing body while I tried to escape—and after grabbing only a few necessities, we ran.

For weeks we didn’t know what happened. Living in the tunnels under the city, we waited for my brother to return.

To hear a word. None of that happened. After three weeks, we started seeing the vain hope of that stand.

Bodies were placed all over, pinned like billboards for everyone to see.

It didn’t work. Our last hope was snuffed like the blown-out flame of a candle, leaving only smoke and stench in the air.

My brother never returned. I never looked too closely at the pinned bodies around the city, and we never spoke about him again.

Hatred for the monsters grew stronger, right alongside the fear in my heart.

That was when the hunts started. The world was turned upside down while they searched for more of those that carried the same blood type. Kill on the spot was their motto. An effective one. The numbers dwindled until no one carrying that blood type was left.

Absently, my fingers trace the scar on my neck, the puckered skin a screaming reminder that they missed one.

For five years after my parents left me, I held hope that we would find each other again.

I stayed in that sewer for days, hungry, cold, and scared out of my mind.

The minutes ticked by, every sound making me jump while my heart lodged in my throat, but they didn’t return.

When hunger became unbearable, I crawled out like a drowned rat, scuttering from one shadow to the next until I found an alley behind a restaurant.

The dumpster was the buffet to my starving stomach.

I lived in that same place for years, hoping, but never leaving the sewer unless it was for food, and even then, I was always looking over my shoulder.

Fear was the guide, and I the willing follower. It kept me alive.

One night, after my belly was full, and my eyes were glazed over from all the food bloating my stomach, I was found.

The large shadow blotting out the light at the mouth of the alley still haunts my dreams. Bile rose in my throat, the precious food threatening to come up, while my wide eyes darted left and right looking for a way out.

There was nowhere to run.

The erratic jackhammering of my heart, like a bird frenetic to escape its cage, made the monster glide closer and sniff the air.

A sinister smile was visible on one side of his face where the light was strong enough to illuminate his features.

Seeing his beauty stopped my desperate attempt to escape.

A thing of nightmares disguised as an angel.

Like a deer caught in headlights, I watched him come closer, slowly kneel beside me, and move my hair away from my face.

It felt like I was watching it happen to someone else.

I stood frozen, watching his fangs gleam in the light before he struck like a viper, piercing the skin on my neck.

The warm air from his breath puffed against my skin, and his tongue glided on my neck while he sucked a mouthful of my blood.

When my mind finally recovered enough to remind myself that I was about to die, I opened my mouth to scream.

His stiffening body and the crushing grip of his hands on my arms killed the sound before it reached my throat.

One second, he was draining my life, the next he dropped like a sack of potatoes next to me, red eyes slowly losing their light as he stared at me with an incredulous look on his face.

“You!” he rasped.

I stared back at him, unable to move. The warmth was spreading over my shoulder down my chest while we watched each other.

When there was no life left in the monster’s eyes, I glanced down and realized my blood was flowing freely, soaking my threadbare shirt.

That would bring all of them on my tail.

With hectic movements and herculean strength out of fear for my life, I ripped his shirt, wrapping it around my neck so tight I could barely breathe.

Taking my own shirt over my head, I wiped the blood the best I could with jerky swipes before burying it in the dumpster.

I bolted out of the alley bare-chested, as fast as my shaking legs would carry me.

I didn’t go to my sewer. That night, I ran as far and as fast as I could.

Stumbling and falling, tears streaming down my face blurring everything around me, I ran.

The realization that my parents left because I was one of the hunted ones hit me like a rock in the head, making me stumble and fall on my knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

I was a curse. A one-way ticket to meet Death.

And I was alone.

Pulling out of the memories, my fingers are still absently caressing the scar from that night.

I did a full cycle. Ran all those years ago, and here I am today.

Same city, same alley, even the same dumpster.

Only I am different. Until this moment, I can’t tell why I feel that way.

That’s when I have my realization. A snort passes my lips, the sound bouncing softly off the damp walls in the alley.

Jumping at every sound, cringing at every flicker of the shadow didn’t keep me alive.

I kept myself still breathing by being smart.

Smart and lucky, you can say. Being afraid only messes with my mind.

Fear is useless, indeed.