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Bloodletters: Kyle

(Bloodletters #3)

by Olivia Hennis

Copyright 2017 by Olivia Hennis

Cover art by Cyna Martinez

Smashwords Edition

Published February 14th 2018

ISBN: 9781370053360

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living or undead is unintentional. The author humbly begs your pardon.

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Abuse, Torture; Strong Language; Sexual Language and Situations; Drug and Alcohol Use, Addiction; Emotional Manipulation and Abusive Relationships.

For HR

because the inspiration

had to come from someone

Bloodletters: Kyle

By Olivia Hennis

The first few hits wake me up from the booze like a scorpion bite. Well, Zane, old buddy, old pal, we did what we could. At least I don’t remember how I got up on this hotel stage. Guess they judged me guilty of making a phone call. Lenore’s right: the Unseelie are a bunch of hypocrites.

This whip hurts like a motherfucker, gouging my skin with each hit. What's it got, glass on the ends? Zane’s not pulling his punches, or whippings, or whatever it’s called.

There’s a sound coming out my throat that I didn’t put there. Am I screaming? Man, I can’t believe I’m being such a punk.

And all those Unseelie of the Black Apple Promise are watching me squirm. What, you like this? Bet they’re storing it away in the spank bank. Do the undead ones even jerk off? I hope they do. I want to know that when I’m gone, they’re wanking it to memories of me dying up here. That sounds about fucked up enough to be worth all this.

My blood’s dripping down my back and legs now. I can feel it getting into my socks and boots. Fuck, that sucks.

The next few hits and I can’t even scream. My vision’s getting blurred.

A few more strikes and I’m out.

That’s it. The end. Turn the house lights up.

* * *

I hear Ma’s voice calling me to get ready for school. I try to get out of bed, but my arms ain’t working and the bed is like molasses.

I’m dreaming. Or dying.

Aren't I dead already?

Ma. Geez. I haven’t thought about her in years.

You know, she never said she was disappointed in me—she was a level broad like that. But her voice always hung around the tone of, “I want you to want better for you.” And that was without her knowing any of the details!

I haven’t even spoken to her since before the levee broke. I let her believe I got washed out into the Gulf to make it easier on her.

I remember, once, I was thinking about trying out that Facebook thing. But when I saw my little cousin’s page, she had a link to my missing person’s profile and one to the “In Loving Memory” website our family had made. A whole site about me, filled with condolences and stories from people I could hardly remember. I felt like such a shit. There were over a hundred pictures, all twenty and thirty years old from wrestling meets and school dances and New York City Halloweens. Yeah, no thanks, I didn’t need the guilt trip of coming out of hiding after however many years. I was raised Catholic; got all the guilt I need right there.

If this is my Judgment Day, and if I’m still a Catholic, I think I’m going to Hell. I’ve done a lot of things that Ma’s God wouldn't only be upset about but probably shriek at in terror.

What do you got to do to formally get out of the Church, anyway? Is there somewhere I was supposed to send a letter of resignation the first time I blew a guy for a couple of fat nugs? Or could I have gone up to any random priest on the street? Said, “Yo, Father, I thought you should know I’ve been a stripper the past six months to pay the bookies I owe, and I helped a coworker kill a guy who was abusing him.”

I mean, I have done some shit. Try anything once, that’s my motto. Twice if you can’t remember doing it the first time.

I don’t think Ma’s God even wants me to go to Hell. He probably cut me out of any Almighty plan ten years back. Get me if I’m wrong, but I doubt God’s will ever involved a good little Catholic boy falling in with a sadistic ghoul.

* * *

I can’t move. But there’s water, so I drink. I see pretty brown eyes looking at me, frantic, scared. It’s for me they’re afraid. So I pull up a smile.

I pass back out.

* * *

While I’m dreaming, I remember this oracle hottie I used to know in New Orleans. I'd met a few Seelie fae living in the City growing up and working, but she wasn't part of their bullshit. Meaning, she was the first of her people to give me the time of day.

I was down for my third visit to the city, my first Mardi Gras, when I met her working at one of those tourist shops selling voodoo artifacts. I let her read my tarot and she let me eat her out in the St. Louis Cemetery.

We spent a lot of that week together. I learned that she’d moved there from Ohio after college. Women’s Studies, she'd said, couldn't pay her bills. But she always made me watch my tone when I would laugh at that mystical fae woo-woo she worked with. She kept saying how I didn’t know who I was going to upset.

Then, maybe to prove a point, she took me to a Mardi Gras party like nothing I’d ever heard of. I’d already finished three drinks by the time we showed up at what I guess was a three-story house once upon a time. You know, before the swamp and the creeping plants decided to take back what was theirs.

My girl told me it used to be a plantation. I teased and asked her if she was looking for a little scandalous role play that night, but she just sneered at me and said, “The party’s inside, lover. Let’s go.”

It was only a few more steps toward the house before I could feel the bassline pumping out of that crumbling old building. Before we got there I’d been expecting some kid’s stereo and a few kegs of beer. What I got was practically a club, light show and all.

The whole crowd was on something, I swear. In the mansion’s rotted out ballroom, I saw more lips on the half-naked girls shaking it than my drunk-ass could count.

My fae girl disappeared with the host for a while, this real punk dude with big goggle-looking shades covering his eyes. I don’t mean punk like a chump, I mean punk like crawled into New Orleans after the bender he’d been on since the Seventies. Talking together later he even claimed to hang out with Jello Biafra and Iggy Pop back in the day. Yeah, maybe, when he was like, what? Five years old? Crazy fucker!

I gave him this one though: dude knew how to scare up a good time.

I plopped my ass down on a beat-to-shit antique sofa, trying whatever bottle and pipe were passed to me before hot rolling some meth. After that, the whole party could have sat around singing Beatles songs and it still would have been the best rave I’d ever hit.

When my girl finally came back from the host, she wanted to introduce us. I told her I’d do whatever she wanted, so long as after she’d use some of her charms to ease the meth-induced tent I was pitching in my shorts.

The host’s name was Zee. He owned the place, or so he said. He asked me how I liked the party, and I let him know.

My girl told me she was getting a drink and left the room.

I didn’t see her after that.

Zee and I shot the shit for a while, which is when he told me about his punk rock days. Annabel, this Spanish cutie perched next to him on the arm of the tattered velvet couch, asked where I came from, so I told them that too. Gave them the whole run down of being on vacation and having a good time. Told them I almost didn’t want to hop in my car and head back on Monday.

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