A Vision of Vampires Box Set Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Image

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Copyright

  Title

  Image

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Thank You!

  Copyright

  Title

  Image

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Thank You!

  Copyright

  FAITHLESS

  Book 1

  Of

  A Vision of Vampires

  By Laura Legend

  For Buffy and Faith, my favorite badass vampire slayers

  Prologue

  Father Marquand sat up with a jerk from his unintended nap, dropping his half-read copy of Codependent No More onto the floor, wiping the drool from his chin.

  What the hell? he thought with a flash of anger—and then immediately felt bad for cursing.

  Someone was pounding on his thick wooden door. The whole cottage seemed to shake. Three thundering knocks—thump, thump, thump. The knocks were heavy but slow. Whoever was at the door, he was careful to keep those beats evenly spaced. Father Marquand pictured an ogre of a mathematician knocking on his door, someone strong enough to rattle the glass in his windows but with the suspenders, white socks, and pocket protector to account for the care and precision.

  The knocks came again, but faster now.

  The sound was commanding.

  The sun was setting. Dark clouds were moving in. The wind was picking up, cold and sharp as the night approached.

  The priest sighed. I’m coming, I’m coming! Hold your horses.

  His bones ached at the sudden cold front rushing in. He would never make it to the chapel in time for evening prayers, now. He hurried to the door and then, when he got there, hesitated at the thought of opening it. He couldn’t quite the shake the image of an enormous and angry accountant waiting for him on the other side of the door.

  While he dithered, an orange tabby cat curled between his legs and almost tripped him. He started to curse the cat and then stopped short, trying to remember if he even owned a cat.

  Get a hold of yourself, old man. Get to the door! What if it’s Christ himself, or one of his apostles, finally come to see you? Have some faith!

  With a trembling hand, Father Marquand pulled the door open and stepped out of the way. A thin, slight man in a dark, sharply cut suit stood on his welcome mat. Backlit in the doorway by the sun’s fading light, his eyes were deep in shadow, but his teeth flashed white.

  This man was decidedly not Jesus.

  “I have come at the agreed upon time,” the thin man said calmly as he smoothed a lock of dark hair back into place. “May I enter?” The man’s voice was formal, his tone measured. The accent was flat and homeless, unplaceable.

  The priest did not respond. He stared back at the man, confused, his mouth hanging open. How could this slight man make his whole house shake? How could he command him with a knock? And where was his protractor?

  “We have an appointment,” the thin man continued. “I am here about the holy relic that recently came into your possession. I must see it. Please bring it to me immediately.”

  “What? Who? Who are you again?” Father Marquand managed to say, wringing his hands.

  “You must remember our appointment,” the man cut in. “Perhaps you are tired, and have simply forgotten?”

  Father Marquand did feel disoriented. And deeply tired. His limbs ached with exhaustion. “I … yes, I am quite tired.” How had he forgotten how tired he was?

  “So,” the stranger continued, his voice hardening, “the relic?”

  Like a puppet on strings, the priest found himself turning to retrieve the relic. But before he could get very far, the man interrupted him.

  “But first,” the thin man said, “you must invite me in.”

  “Yes, certainly,” he responded hurriedly. He could feel the need to fulfill this man’s requests growing in his mind, spreading like ink in water, blotting out every other thought. “Please, please, sir, come right in.”

  The gaunt man frowned, paused for a moment at the door’s threshold, and then stepped decisively into the room. The walls of the house seemed to bow slightly outward and the house lights momentarily dimmed and flickered. But everything returned to normal so quickly the priest couldn’t tell if that impression was real or just imagined. He shook off the feeling of panic that gripped his old heart. The cat hissed and bolted out the door.

  Calm down. You’re so tired that you’re acting crazy. And quick, bring him what he came for!

  While the priest fetched the relic, the thin man took stock of the priest’s bare, shabby room. He ran a gloved finger across the window sill, leaving a trail in the dust. He frowned again and brushed off his hands.

  “Here you are, here you are, sir,” the priest said, rushing back into the room, his hands clutched protectively around a small package. “Here is the relic. See for yourself.”

  Father Marquand held out the relic, cradled in his hands, wrapped in a thick, brown cloth. The priest folded back its layers to reveal the object hidden inside: a very plain and very old piece of wood.

  The thin man flinched when he saw it, but, drawing a deep breath, steeled himself to lean in for a closer look. Beautiful. And dangerous. He was mesmerized by the sight of it.

  He took a step closer and pulled the
leather glove off his right hand. Most of the flesh of this hand was black and necrotic. Father Marquand stared.

  Time seemed to slow. The wind stopped howling, the clouds stopped moving, and everything went quiet. The house itself seemed to hold its breath.

  The man reached out with his rotting hand. The relic began to tremble and glow and the flesh of the thin man’s hand, haloed by this glow, appeared to heal.

  But just as the thin man was about to touch the wood itself, the priest suddenly shook himself awake, as if he’d still been dreaming up until that moment, and jerked the relic out of reach. He quickly wrapped it up again, pulling it protectively against his chest.

  In response, the thin man straightened his tie, adjusted the cuff of his jacket, and slipped his glove back on.

  “How much?” he asked. “What is your price?”

  “I, I—” the priest stuttered. No matter how tired he was, there was no way he would willingly sell this relic—if it is what he thought it was, he’d been looking for it his whole life!—and especially not to this strange, thin man whose hooded eyes cut into his soul.

  He gathered his courage: “This relic is not for sale, sir. And certainly it’s not for sale to you.”

  “How much?” the thin man hissed.

  The priest remained silent.

  “Do not make me ask again,” the stranger said, almost whispering now.

  “I, I said—”

  “How much,” the thin man asked a third time, stepping in close to the priest. “Three is a powerful number, as you well know Father. I have asked three times and I will have what I came for.”

  “We’re done here,” the priest gulped, retreating down the hall. “Please leave … now …”

  “Oh, Father, it’s too late for that now. You already invited me in.” The thin man sighed with regret. Curious. The priest had been fairly certain those hard eyes were incapable of regret.

  The stranger adjusted both of his black gloves, flexing his hands. He met the priest’s eyes, rooting him to the spot. He stepped close and gently whispered in the priest’s ear.

  “Oh, Father. Dear Father. It’s too late for you. And I will have what I came for.”

  * * *

  The sun had long since set by the time the thin man returned home. His rooms were dark and dry and cold. The furnishings were expensive but spare.

  He carefully removed his gloves and hung his tailored jacket on a wooden hanger. He washed his hands methodically, like a surgeon, up to his elbows, careful to remove any lingering dirt or blood. He examined his right hand in the bright bathroom light, noting how the blackness was starting to creep beyond his hand and up his arm, following the lines of his veins.

  He may have less time left than he’d thought. He needed to finish his work.

  He dried his hand and buttoned his shirt sleeves. He sat down at his desk, the relic centered on his blotter. He considered it for a moment and then, leaving its wrapping intact, hefted its unnaturally heavy weight in his hand.

  “You,” he whispered to the relic, “are precious to me. And soon, everything will be ready.”

  He unlocked a display case and added the piece to his collection.

  “Soon.”

  1

  For a twenty-six-year-old barista, Cassandra Jones had some unusual skills. Forget her grad work in archeology—what barista worth their salt wasn’t a failed PhD?—or even the swords in the trunk of her car. No, what really made Cass unusual was that she saw right through people. She could tell right away when people were lying. She could tell, in her bones, if something was true.

  For Cass, figuring out the truth was the easy part. The hard part was figuring out why.

  She could tell if someone was a liar, but that didn’t mean she could understand why people did what they did. Sometimes she felt like she could almost hear her cat thinking out loud—“Scratch behind my ears! Bring me some Fancy Feast! Find me a giant cat-pyramid filled with cat-sized tunnels! Never buy a dog!” But people, on the other hand, were all black boxes. She didn’t understand them. And, often enough, this made it hard to like them.

  She could tell, for instance, that she was probably not going to understand this lady that had just walked into the coffeehouse. And she was sure she wasn’t going to like her.

  The lady walked into Java’s Palace like she owned the place. She didn’t look like a Hutt, but she sure acted like one. She was in her late forties, platinum blond, big diamond ring, boob job, chin tuck, expensive yoga clothes, botox around the eyes, laughing too loudly on her phone.

  The lady saw Cass from across the room and, first thing, her voice dropped and her eyes narrowed. She didn’t like what she saw as she sized Cass up.

  Cass was beautiful in a careless way. She didn’t style her dark hair, she just pulled it into a sloppy ponytail. She didn’t worry about clothes, she just slipped into a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. She didn’t wear make-up, she just washed her face in the morning. She wasn’t tall, but she didn’t need to be.

  Cass tried to ignore the lady. She looked back at her phone. Between customers she’d been trying to secure her entry into an underground mixed martial arts tournament. Her thumbs flew. She had to get this squared away before the deadline tonight.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Zach, her friend and fellow barista, watching her as he put the finishing touches on another latte. From the crooked smile on his face, she could tell he was already anxious to see what would happen when this diva finally made her way to the counter.

  The lady jammed her huge, pink, bedazzled phone into her purse and strutted up to the register, wobbling in her absurd heels as they click-clacked on the polished concrete floor.

  Cass started taking bets in her own head—offering generous three-to-one odds to all imaginary takers—that the lady would tip over before she made it to the counter.

  Also, who wears heels with yoga pants? Cass barely avoided saying out loud.

  She was almost done with her text. The lady arrived with a minor crash, flopping her purse next to the register and trying to look casual as she leaned against the counter for support.

  Without looking, Cass held up a finger to ask the lady to wait just a moment longer.

  This lady was not going to wait. She cleared her throat and launched into a complicated order, not caring if Cass was ready.

  “Hey, I want a caramel macchiato, venti, skim—no, soy—extra shot and extra hot with extra whip, sugar free and caffeine free. To go. And hurry, I’ve got a pedicure in ten!”

  So, you want a coffee, but without any caffeine, sugar, fat, or taste. Got it. One Crazy Bitch Coffee coming up. In just … one … second …

  Case still didn’t look at her. She finished the last line of the text, hit send, and sighed with relief to have that off her plate.

  She turned to the woman, looked up, and, for the first time, their eyes met. Or, their eyes almost met.

  This was the part Cass hated. This was part where she never quite connected with other people.

  Cass had a lazy eye. She’d had it since birth. The muscles needed to focus that eye had never fully developed. The result was that, from across the room, Cass was a knock-out. But once people got up close and tried to make eye contact, they didn’t know which eye to look at and generally just got confused and annoyed. Cass’s eyes were dark, the lashes long, and their slight tilt hinted at the fact that, on her father’s side, she was fourth generation Japanese-American. But there was no helping it: the wobbly-eye-thing just freaked people out.

  The lady visibly recoiled.

  Geez. It’s not like I’m trying to freak you out. Cass looked down and pretended to prep her register in a helpful way.

  Recovering from the initial shock, the lady now looked like she might laugh, but she managed to rein herself in with just a huge, snarky smile.

  Cass tried to get things back on track.

  “Ma’am?” Cass asked. “Ma’am? Could you please repeat your order?”

 
The lady didn’t respond. She just looked around the room as if to say, Have you guys seen this?

  Cass had had enough. What do people want from me anyway? What do they expect? Nobody’s perfect. She could feel the hot hand of frustration on the back of her neck.

  “Ma’am, give me your order or get out of line. People are waiting,” Cass snapped.

  “How dare you,” the lady snarled in return, back in her element. “You ignore me and then insult me? I won’t stand for it. I’m important. I’ve got places to go. My driver, Mr. Andropov, is waiting for me. I don’t have time for your nonsense and backtalk. I want to speak to the manager. Immediately.”

  Cass groaned inside. She already regretted her frustration. This piece of work wasn’t worth it.

  “Immediately!” the lady almost shrieked.

  Cass looked over at Zach as she went to get the manager but he just frowned and shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing to be done now.

  Her manager was not pleased. She’d already heard the ruckus through her door. She was trying to catch up with last week’s episodes of The Young and the Restless. She stood up slowly and shook her head in a theatrically disappointed way.

  “Cass, go on break. Now.”

  The manager said it loud enough that everyone in the coffeehouse could hear. This was a performance for the sake of the lady. But, still, Cass didn’t like the tone of her manager’s voice. She’d been fired before and she knew what that tone sounded like. She didn’t need any kind of truth-powers to tell she really was in trouble here.

  The manager arrived at the counter with a flourish, like she was a knight come to rescue this trophy wife in distress. The lady started to rattle off a long list of complaints about Cass, most of them manufactured on the spot. She clearly had a deep reservoir of experience to draw on when it came to professional-grade retail complaining. The manager listened patiently and nodded along the whole time.

  “I’m so sorry ma’am, I’ll take care of everything. Now, what would you like? It’s on us, of course! And here’s a gift card for next time …”

  Cass couldn’t quite hear the woman’s reply, but she recognized that tone. Snippy, entitled … She shook her head. So not worth it right now.

  “Yes, I agree …” The manager’s voice floated back towards the break room. “Oh, wow! I love that bedazzled phone case you have there … great taste, so you!”