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  Vampireaper: Threads of Fate

  Vampireaper Book 1

  M.W. Arita

  Vampireaper: Threads of Fate

  Vampireaper Book 1

  An Aeonian Covenant Universe Novel

  M. W. Arita

  Vampireaper: Threads of Fate is a work of fiction.

  The characters, stories, and worlds portrayed in this novel are creations of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © M.W. Arita

  Cover by Christian Bentulan

  coversbychristian.com

  Cover copyright © Aeonian Entertainment

  The unauthorized copying, distribution, or sale of this book is an infringement on the author’s intellectual property. If you wish to use material from this book, please contact the author at [email protected].

  First U.S. Edition, September 2020

  Version 1.0

  The Aeonian Covenant Universe and related content are copyright © 2019 by M.W. Arita and Aeonian Entertainment.

  Dedication

  To Family, Friends, My Wonderful Partner Yukari,

  My Greatest Fans Korravai and Sandra,

  And All Current and Future Readers Everywhere.

  Let Us Have the Courage to Chase Our Dreams

  And Change the World.

  I would also like to express my deepest gratitude to my editor, Amanda, and Alex, DeOnn, Drew, Jay, Jessica, and Justin for their insight, expertise, and encouragement that made this book possible.

  Additional thanks to Greg Leytman for his knowledge and insight on Russian language and culture.

  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

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  What’s next?

  Teaser: The Soulbound Scar

  Teaser: Spirit of the Night Sword

  Other ACU Books

  A Note From the Author

  About the Author

  Notes

  1

  Death exists, and I found myself hopelessly drawn to him.

  He stood tall and proud in the clear autumn night sky, a silhouette with the full moon glowing behind him. Chilly winds whipped through his tattered cloak and made it flutter like the torn flag of an unknown kingdom. His eyes, precious ruby and sapphire jewels, dazzled brighter than the stars. He unsheathed knife-like fangs with a grimace. Over his shoulder glistened a curved metal blade. A weapon ten times sharper than the daggers in his mouth.

  I lay prone across the damp grass. All I could do was close my eyes and scream as he swung the scythe down at me.

  Eight hours earlier…

  “Tasia!” Stan barked from the register. “What’s the hold up?”

  He always pronounced it wrong, saying “Tay-ja” when it’s supposed to be “Tah-see-ah.” Whenever I’d correct him on it, he’d just say “okay” and go right back to saying it wrong. Probably on purpose just to spite me.

  With my back turned, I banged the stainless steel whip cream dispenser against the counter. It made an awkward “clanging” sound that grew louder the more frustrated I became.

  “Stupid friggin’ thing,” I mumbled. I took in a deep breath. The scent of roasted coffee beans and stale cinnamon rolls filtered into my nostrils.

  Try to keep your cool, I told myself. It’s been a long day, but it’s almost over.

  “Tasia!” my manager repeated with increased annoyance. “C’mon!”

  I knocked the dispenser against the counter two more times then tightened the cap. A plastic cup sat in front of me filled with a dark mocha frappuccino. A grinning little demon was printed on it. The Howling Devil mascot. The cartoonish style it was drawn in—complete with those black Pac-Man-shaped pupils—reminded me of the characters in “Nu, Pogodi!” (Russian for “Well, Just You Wait!”) that Vivi and I used to watch when we were kids.

  I once thought The Howling Devil mascot was kind of cute, but right now I wanted to punch it in its stupid smiling face.

  After giving the dispenser a quick shake, I flipped it upside-down and pulled the lever. I let out a startled shriek as whipped cream exploded all over the counter, the side of the cup, my cherry-red apron, and on my face (how?).

  I sighed and braced myself for the coming storm.

  “Aw, geez,” Stan said, approaching me with a huff. A scowl formed under a bushy, silver-flecked mustache. “Now you’ve gone and made a right mess of things, you putz. Gimme it.”

  He held out a bony hand and glared at me through coffee bean-colored eyes. I handed him the dispenser and hung my head in shame. Like magic, the cream came out in perfect, neat swirls when he did it. In a smooth, seamless motion, he placed a lid on the cup, stuck a straw in it, and returned to the front counter.

  I glanced up at the customer, a bald man in a finely-pressed suit. He had his arms crossed and kept checking the Rolex on his wrist. My heart sank when I noticed a line of impatient people had formed behind him while my back was turned. I shivered, partly from the cold air coming inside and partly from the endless work that lay ahead of me.

  “My deepest apologies, Dave,” Stan said to the bald man as he stuck a straw in the drink. “Enjoy.”

  The customer turned his pointy nose up and sneered in my direction. “What took you so long? You guys are never this slow.”

  Stan bowed graciously and put on a plastered, ingratiating smile. “We’re very sorry about that.” He jerked a thumb at me. “New recruit. Still learning the ropes.”

  “Is that so? What happened to Michelle? I don’t see her around anymore.”

  “She quit about two weeks ago or so.”

  “That’s a shame. I liked the way she made them. And…” He shot me a dirty look. “She never made me late to get back to work. My break’s not that long, you know.”

  “Once again, we’re real sorry.” Stan pulled a tray out from the window of pastries and gave him a blueberry muffin. “Here. On the house.”

  Dave didn’t thank him or even say a word. He simply nodded, gave me one last glare, then shuffled out in his shiny dress shoes. I imagined him tripping, spilling his drink all over the sidewalk, and landing with his face in the muffin. I grinned to myself, satisfied with my little revenge daydream…

  …until Stan’s gruff voice snapped me out of it. “Don’t just stand there! Get a move on!”

  I nodded and rushed over to ring up the next customer. My apron had come untied at the back, which drove me crazy. Call it OCD or whatever you want, but ever since I was a little girl, I’ve had an obsession with tying knots. Shoelaces, ropes, hair braids, you name it. Leaving something untied or undone felt the same to me as a slight itch that needed scratching. We were so slammed for the rest of the night that I had barely a second to myself to tie the apron, so it kept bugging me, a “brain itch” I couldn’t scratch for hours.
>
  Everything that could go wrong went wrong: not just the whipped cream dispenser, but the receipt printer ran out of paper and wouldn’t work right even when I replaced the paper. I spilled some drip coffee all over my clothes, too. Geez. Was I always this clumsy? The worst of it was when an irate customer—a chubby woman with a pruny forehead—chewed me out for putting too much ice in her cup, even though I actually used less than we’re supposed to. I was so tempted to spit in her coffee, but one, I’m too nice to do that, and two, Stan’s laser-vision stayed locked on me the rest of the night.

  I didn’t even have the end of the shift to look forward to ‘cause I had algebra homework to finish. I put off doing it until the last minute. I mean, screw math, you know?

  Day after day, night after night, it droned on like this. About the only thing I had to be excited about was seeing Rachel at school and talking up bookish stuff as usual. Maybe I could squeeze in a chapter or two before bed.

  After what felt like fifty eternities, my shift at The Howling Devil finally came to an end. The clock struck at 11 PM. Stan and I moved the “Come on in! We’re open!” sign inside and started cleaning everything up. He pulled me aside, his scrawny skeleton-like body standing between the door and me.

  “What’s the matter with ya?” he said. “I’ve never seen you this bad.”

  I lowered my head and stared at the tiled floor. The bit under the pastry window was caked with dust. I’d have to give it another sweep before leaving.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t just say ‘sorry.’ What happened tonight? Explain yourself.”

  “I…I don’t know. Lately, I’ve just had trouble focusing, I guess.”

  He sighed and tugged at the collar to his black dress shirt. Wiry hair stuck out from underneath. “Look, I know you’re a good kid, and I appreciate you bein’ so nice to Rachel and all, but…if this keeps up, I’m gonna have to start interviewin’ some more people.”

  My eyes went wide and I panicked. “But…but I’ve been so helpful, haven’t I? You said revenue’s been up lately since I started, right? And last Saturday, I even covered for Andrea when she called off, and—”

  He held out a reddened palm. “I know, I know. That’s why I haven’t kicked you to the curb yet. I’ll give you one last chance. Another disaster like tonight and you’re done, all right?”

  I nodded. He patted me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Now go on, get outta here. I’m sure you’ve got homework to do.”

  I threw on my peacoat and slung my purse over a shoulder and headed for the door. I used a key on the store lanyard and opened it. I shook when the fall winds smacked me in the face.

  “Hey, Tay-ja,” Stan called behind me, saying my name wrong again. “Be careful out there. Some real shady stuff’s been goin’ on. People disappearin’ and all. You sure you don’t need me to give you a ride?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head. “And hey, Stan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s ‘Tah-see-ah.’”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Have a nice night.”

  I strolled through the parking lot, passing by Stan’s Prius and crossing to the other side of the road. It took about 15 minutes to walk from The Howling Devil to my place. You might be wondering, “Hey, Tasia’s a teenager, right? Why doesn’t she drive?” There’d be a good reason for that: Vivi wrecked my car a few months ago (even though she’s supposed to be too young to drive). A used ’11 Corolla Papa had given me for my 17th birthday, but as with anything I get in life, Vivi ended up breaking it or ruining it somehow.

  My route involved getting across the parking lot, crossing the road down Meyer Avenue, and cutting through Whitewood Park. Technically, it wasn’t exactly the safest place around, but it was no Central Park, either. Just a handful of nature trails and benches that couples made out on. You’d hear about the occasional smackhead getting cuffed on the news, but otherwise, Whitewood wasn’t particularly dangerous.

  Until tonight.

  I made my way through the park, taking care to stay on the main paved path. Autumn leaves crunched under my boots. The area was bathed in the light of the streetlamps and the full moon overhead. I loved this time of year. The cool, crisp air, the shades of color in the trees, and pumpkin spice. Gotta love pumpkin spice.

  Yeah, yeah, I can hear you now. “What a basic bitch.” I know, but I’m such trash for that flavor. I can’t help it.

  As I came past a playground with a rusty swing-set, the sound of crunching leaves and footsteps resounded from behind. I wasn’t alone. I whirled around, but no one was there.

  “Hello?” I called out into the evening skies. “Anybody there?”

  I clung my purse tighter to me as my heart rate sped up. I swallowed a hard lump in my throat. Picking up my pace, I fumbled through my purse for some pepper spray. I felt around, feeling a wallet, make-up case, a compact mirror…but no pepper spray.

  “Chert,” I swore in Russian. That figured. Vivi must have taken it.

  My cold breath turned into a visible fog as I breathed more rapidly. The footsteps continued, but every time I glanced over my shoulder, there wasn’t a soul around. They grew louder and seemed to come closer and closer.

  Time to run, I told myself. Now.

  I started to make a break for it, but was thrown off-balance when the earth underneath me rattled. I stumbled around and caught my footing. An earthquake? Here in Upstate New York? How weird was that?

  Right as I regained balance, a powerful force shoved me in the lower back. I was sent flying with the night sky and stars whirling around me. I fell face-first in the grass. The ground trembled, this time with greater intensity. Who—or what—hit me?

  I didn’t have time to ponder over that when he appeared. The cloaked figure with sparkling deep-blue and bloody crimson eyes. They shone from underneath an arched hood. His robes waved in the wind.

  With both hands, he wielded a gigantic steel scythe. It was adorned in strange symbols and glyphs that hummed a teal glow. He lifted it over his head, revealing arms that were wrapped in mummy-like bandages. I closed my eyes and gave out a cry as he brought the blade down, the tip threatening to pierce my skull.

  2

  I expected sharp pain followed by nothingness. Instead, I was unharmed, but an otherworldly, agonizing wail came from just behind me. I opened my eyes. The cloaked figure knelt and offered a hand.

  “You okay?” a surprisingly boyish voice spoke from inside the hood. “That was quite a nasty spill you took, huh?”

  “Get away from me!” I screamed, pushing myself onto my knees and trying to escape.

  “Woah, woah, don’t have a cow. Here, maybe this’ll be better.”

  He tugged on his hood and lowered it. My racing heart skipped a few beats when I saw what was underneath: a handsome boy around my age with pale skin and a positively gorgeous face. His bushy eyebrows were raised under bleach-blond bangs. He had that “mop top” or “emo” hairstyle that was popular a decade ago.

  And those eyes. Those stunning, spectacular eyes. I could get lost in them forever. Prettier, shinier, and with more streaks of color than even the most high-quality gemstones. The left eye shone shades of sapphire while the right one blazed like a brilliant ruby. After gazing into his eyes and audibly sighing, my attention came to his smile.

  He had a goofy, disarming grin, the kind you see on somebody like Tom Holland. Except Spider-Man never had vampire fangs. Sure enough, the stranger’s canines were long and sharp like ivory daggers. Fear and adrenaline crept back into my veins.

  “No!” I yelled. “Don’t bite me!”

  “Chill out there, Red,” he assured me. “I’m here to help.” He arched an eyebrow. “I…I can call you Red, can’t I? I really dig your hair.”

  “Wh-wh-what’s going on?” I stammered as he helped me to my feet. His touch was warm, kind, alive. He smelled of dried blood and sea salt. “Who are you? What are you?”

  “Not much time left for chit-chat, I’m afraid.
For now, all you need to know is I’m just ‘Your Friendly Neighborhood ‘Pire-Man.’”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind that. Duck!”

  I did as he commanded and crouched. His scythe whistled over my head. Loose strands of my fiery red hair drifted into the air. As he completed the arc of the swing, that strange otherworldly voice gave out another pained cry. I turned my torso and checked where it was coming from. My eyes widened in shock.

  There, staggering and clutching his chest, was Dave, the impatient customer from the coffee shop. Veins throbbed from the top of his shaved head. A ghostly blue fire danced madly in his irises. He snarled at the bleach-blond boy like a rabid dog and frothed at the mouth.

  “You bastard,” he said in a voice that wasn’t quite his own. It echoed in an unnatural way as he spoke. “It hurts!”

  “Well, yeah, dude,” the boy said with a casual shrug. “It’s not like there’s a ‘tickle’ setting for my scythe. Sorry about that.”

  “Stay out of my way, reaper. I must tear the girl limb from limb.”