Michael Spradlin: Blood Riders

Jonas picked up the glass and stared at the detective through the amber liquid.

“Mr. Pinkerton,” he said. “Someone, somewhere, is always dying.”

Chee and Pinkerton turned and left the saloon, leaving Hollister alone with his whisky bottle and his thoughts.

Four months later

The ship tossed and rolled in the storm. The smell of the salt water made Shaniah so nauseous she thought she might pass out. Never had she felt this ill.

It had taken her three and a half months to reach Boston from Denver. She took a combination of riverboats and trains, and some days she rode Demeter, afraid that Hollister might try to find her and bring her back. She could not go back.

At Boston Harbor, she had found a ship with a captain who would be willing to take her back to the Black Sea. The gold she offered kept him from asking questions. She had known she could not travel such a great distance alone in her condition.

In the name of the Old Ones, what had she done? Hollister, she saw his face every time she closed her eyes. She had left part of herself behind in Denver. She did not know what the Old Ones would say when she returned. When they saw her. Would they cast her out?

She had been forced to break her vow regarding Huma Sangra. There was no other way. She traveled to a section of Boston filled with Gnazy from Eastern Europe, what the Americans called gypsies. The Gnazy knew what she was and were spooked immediately. As she walked the streets they disappeared until she passed; crucifixes and cloves of garlic went up in storefronts and the smell of garlic was everywhere. Businesses closed at sundown, no one walked the streets.

But she finally had found what she was looking for: an elderly woman, a midwife, who lived alone. She could not enter the woman’s home without an invitation, so she caught her on the street one night on her way to see a patient that could not wait until morning. The woman could not fight her off. She sank her fangs into the gypsy’s neck. After so many centuries without it, her blood should have tasted like ambrosia, but instead it made her ill, like she wanted to vomit. Still she kept her composure long enough for her to bite her own arm and force the woman to drink her blood. She turned. It was done.

Now they were on the ship in the middle of the Atlantic, and Shaniah thought she might die. Her face was bathed in sweat. Archaics never sweat. She felt pain in her joints like she never had before.

The woman, who would remember her midwifery for a while until her human memories faded, gave Shaniah a drink of some god-awful concoction. Shaniah threw it up immediately.

“What is happening to me?” she asked the woman. She made the woman watch over her constantly, letting her feed off of animals she had bought and loaded aboard the ship. Only enough to keep the woman from going mad and attacking the crew.

“It is time,” the woman said.

“Time! Time for what? It is impossible,” Shaniah screamed, as another wave of pain rolled over her body.

“Perhaps it is not. Perhaps the legends are not true?” the woman asked.

“No!”

“Was there an Archaic?” the woman asked.

“God, no! You miserable hag!” Shaniah shouted at her.

The old woman shrugged. “Then it is a miracle. She lifted Shaniah’s blouse and put her hands on her round and swollen belly, the movement of the baby easily visible beneath her skin.

“AAAAAH!” Shaniah screamed.

“It is time,” the woman said. “This baby will be born tonight.”

Michael P. Spradlin

Blood Riders

Acknowledgments

I’ve often said before it takes a village to raise a book. Sometimes it’s an entire city. Blood Riders wouldn’t be possible without the efforts of so many friends and colleagues. I thank my editor, Emily Krump, for suggesting, listening, and collaborating, and helping me bring a world to life in ways I couldn’t have imagined. And the book is so much better for her efforts. Thanks to my agent, Steven Chudney. Having me as a client is an endless game of whack-a-mole, yet he always manages to keep me on task.

I thank my friends and colleagues at HarperCollins, especially Mike Brennan, Carla Parker, Mark Hillesheim, Rachel Brenner, Jeff Rogart, Dale Smith, Liate Stehlik, Adrienne DiPietro, Kristine Macrides, Pam Spengler-Jaffee, Donna Waitkus, Michael Morris, and my sales reps buddies in the field. Space prevents me from listing all of you, but know that I’ll never forget your efforts on my behalf. You are the best in the business.

A special shout out to Tom Egner for giving me a cover far better than anything I could have dreamed of. You’ve been a friend for more than twenty years, and your talent has never ceased to amaze me.

And, of course, my family, without whom none of this is possible. For my daughter, Rachel, my son, Mick, and my daughter-in-law, Jessica, who find new ways to inspire me every single day. For my mom and sisters, who keep me on my toes. And my eternal love and thanks to my wife of thirty years, Kelly. Every time I have stood before the abyss, you have been there to pull me back. My heart is big enough for all of you. Come on in.