Vampires of Moscow (Blood Web Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Vampires of Moscow

  Blood Web Chronicles Book One

  Caedis Knight

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Caedis Knight

  Verity Knights

  About the authors

  VAMPIRES OF MOSCOW

  Blood Web Chronicles Book One

  By Caedis Knight

  Copyright © 2020,

  Caedis Knight.

  All Rights Reserved.

  The right of Caedis Knight to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patents act 1988.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To all the men I’ve banged before

  (none of these sex scenes are based on you)

  Chapter One

  My editor is going to kill me. I don’t mean rip out my throat and eat my heart whole, or whatever the hell Shifters like him do on weekend getaways in Jersey City. I mean, like, normal human kill me. Or fire me - which is infinitely worse.

  I speed up and step right into a puddle gathering at the corner of 57th and 8th Avenue.

  “Fuck!” I curse at my suede boots. These were an amazing Salvation Army find, vintage Chloe boots for twenty dollars and now they’re ruined.

  Just like my day.

  Just like my life.

  I sigh and trudge on to the head office of The Blood Web Chronicle, my soon-to-be-former place of employment. To the naked eye, it looks like a mid-level insurance firm - grey carpeted hallways, IKEA-esque cubicles, the smell of cheap coffee wafting from a too-plain kitchen, and yogurts with people’s names on them. But under the generic disguise, it houses the Blood Web’s most widely read news source for the international English-speaking Paranormal community.

  Ten million unique hits a month. That’s how many Paras read my work.

  But I’m not going to get a big head about it, mainly because it’s hard to feel smug when you can barely pay your rent. The second reason is that no one knows who I am. My investigation pieces on The Blood Web Chronicle are anonymous, like everything else on there. The Blood Web, our little Para corner of the human dark web, is where my kind goes to fill their day-to-day needs - from female Werewolves looking for someone to share their litter with, to Vamps searching for custom blends of blood, or Fae seeking to buy ancient artefacts.

  It’s also where you go to buy Para sex toys. But that’s beside the point.

  As a reporter I fill the Para curiosity need. The desire to know what’s happening in our underworld; what the truly wicked Paras are up to and how to stay the fuck away from them. So, if like me, you expose murderous clawed, winged, and fanged monsters for a living, then anonymity is key.

  As I walk toward Midtown, I play my usual game to make me relax. A little game I like to call - What’s he lying about?

  That man nursing a six-dollar latte and chatting to his girlfriend at the cafe is lying. But what’s he lying about? Probably about where he was last night. Or about how he feels about her sister.

  I pass a hot dog cart owner lying to his customer. What’s he lying about? Probably the freshness of his buns. Or maybe, like his makeshift sign, he’s lying about having the best dogs in town.

  I pass a man lying to his child and hear the last bit of his sentence. “The zoo if we have time…” Liar! He has no intention of passing by the zoo even if they do have the time.

  I play a couple more times but it’s all boring run of the mill stuff. The game has worked though, I’m feeling a little calmer. Thoughts of who might murder me because of my job have all but escaped me.

  You see, I get this ping feeling when someone is lying. This tiny, insignificant ability makes me a Verity - the lowest type of Witch. That’s not my self-esteem talking, I’m literally ranked as a low Witch. Witches usually make money from their special gifts, but all I can do is conduct lie detector tests (not hugely useful seeing as human law enforcement doesn’t know us Witches exist). In theory, I can tell people if their partners are cheating, or if their employee is scamming them, but none of that is going to pay a regular salary.

  Which is why this investigative reporting gig is a lifeline - something interesting to do with my gifts that pays the bills. And, of course, I did with it what I’ve done with all my lifelines.

  I cut it.

  The Blood Web Chronicle head office isn’t hard to find if you know what you’re looking for.

  1. Cross the 20’s midtown marble lobby.

  2. Ride up to the 32nd floor.

  3. Walk down the hall to Smith, Burley and Browne Accounting.

  4. Waltz in, because the buzzer doesn’t work on purpose.

  5. Sign in with our receptionist Joan, who will do everything in her power to deter you from using our accounting services.

  But, if you’re as curious and persistent as a man named Garth, who a few years ago made it all the way past our receptionist on his search for an accountant, you might end up sitting across from Jackson Pardus. Jackson is my editor, and on his desk, he has a fake name plaque and fake business cards to match. He will be your last hurdle as he will straight up tell you that we are fully booked for a year and send you away.

  The only problem with using Jackson as a final deterrent is that you will want him to do your taxes. You’ll look at all six feet of dark Shifter muscle peppered with conceptual tattoos and you’ll think, “Fuck it, do my taxes a year late. What do I care?”

  I’m thinking about this, five minutes later, as Jackson contemplates me across the table. He’s frowning at me. When he’s this mad a vein in his neck always pops up. It reminds me of the dick vein on a Snickers bar.

  Great. Now I’m hungry and horny.

  “What the hell are you smiling about, Saskia?”

  God, I love his English accent. This isn’t helping. I wipe the involuntary smirk off my face and my editor’s frown deepens.

  “I sent you to investigate an unregistered Paranormal brothel in Queens and you did what?”

  I’m definitely not smiling anymore. I can feel the scorch of his glare on my skin, the heat of what I did. Stabs of stupidity and self-hate start a picnic in my brain.

  “But there were Shifter girls there,” I say. “Locked up. Scared. They were young.”

  He looks back at me with a flicker of empathy. His brown eyes are speckled copper when he’s happy, but they glow yellow when he’s not. Like right now. Jackson’s never told me what
kind of Shifter he is, but I’m pretty sure he’s a panther, maybe, or a cheetah. Whatever, something feline and powerful. I have a little notebook at home where I keep a running tally of what I think he might be based on different titbits of information he let slip. Which is next to nothing, because for a man who founded the largest whistleblowing platform in the Para world, my boss is ridiculously private.

  I’m guessing there’s a good reason for that. But I doubt I’ll ever know it.

  Jackson’s eyes are still shining gold against his dark skin, and I find myself leaning in closer.

  But his empathy drains a second later.

  “You’re meant to write about traffickers, Saskia. You expose them. You don’t burn their headquarters down.”

  “Right, because when rich criminals get exposed by the media they are immediately stopped.” I roll my eyes.

  “We are not law enforcement. You have a job to do.”

  “The victims were your people,” I murmur, trying to fish that empathy back up. I’m telling the truth. There were Shifters there, of all ages, imprisoned and sold to god-knows-who. It’s disgusting how many sick people like to keep young Shifter girls as pets. Write it up and walk away? Nope. I waited until the sun was a promise in the sky, until the place was nearly empty save for the owner, and I burned it to the fucking ground.

  Yeah, it cost me a pretty penny to have the place evacuated just in time by some Shifter cronies I paid off. Thus, furthering my inability to pay rent. But it was fucking worth it.

  I shrug. “They deserved it.”

  “You don’t get involved,” Jackson growls. “You report on it.”

  “And what good would reporting on it do?”

  “That’s an odd thing for a reporter to say.” He pauses and rights his fake name plaque. “What do you want to do, Saskia? Call the police?”

  I breathe loudly through my nose. Police are for humans, they don’t know about our world – and those who do work for us.

  “I wish the Paranormal world had a governing body,” I mumble, not for the first time.

  Jackson laughs. “Yeah, OK. I’d like to see that. Witches have their Mage Association and Wolves have their pack hierarchy, but beyond that everyone is free to do whatever the fuck they want. You think anyone or anything is powerful enough to tell a Vamp what to do?”

  I shrug. He’s right. There’s no democracy in the Paranormal world. Everyone is out for themselves.

  “This is why we exist, Saskia,” Jackson continues. “To shed light on situations where Paras get out of hand. We are not vigilantes – but our reports will direct those who are to those who deserve punishment.”

  I bite my tongue. I know I’m in the wrong, but surely my boss can see the justice here. Surely, he understands why I acted knowing no one else would.

  “Saskia, this isn’t the first assignment you’ve fucked up on. I know I hired you because of what happened in LA with the Sirens, you’re ballsy, but that doesn’t mean you need to destroy everything you touch.”

  Ouch.

  “They all deserved it,” I mumble.

  Jackson sighs heavily, and it makes me feel like a child.

  “Look, I probably shouldn’t have put you on this assignment, considering what happened with your sister. I get it. Missing girls are a trigger for you.”

  He’s musing out loud, but what he’s really doing is ripping my heart out through my mouth.

  “Don’t bring Mikayla into this!” I shout, my voice hoarse.

  Jackson’s face twists in regret and I look down. Shit. I’m really not doing myself any favors today.

  My pregnant sister disappeared eighteen months ago and no one has been able to find her – not me or Jackson with all of his Blood Web connections. Not even my mother and her powerful network at the Mage Association. Jackson’s right - places where people are held against their will, unknown to the world and tucked away in the darkness, are very triggering for me.

  How many of those Shifters disappeared one day?

  Is that why I burned it down?

  No, I burned it down because they deserved it. That’s what I tell myself.

  With every report and every cry for help I hear on my missions; my first thought is always that it’s linked to Mikayla going missing. That today I’ll find my sister.

  Jackson breaks the silence.

  “Look, Saskia, you’re one of our most talented reporters.”

  Ping. He’s lying.

  “I want to keep you on, I really do. But I can’t.”

  This time it’s the truth.

  “No,” my voice is still a croak. I steady it. “Please Jackson, I need this job. Just give me one more chance. Please. One last chance.”

  I need the pay. I need the resources. I need The Chronicle if I'm ever going to find Mikayla.

  “Your last mission was your last chance,” he reminds me.

  “Just one more. Please, pleeeeeease.” I beg and pout, doing my best impression of a gender-bent sexually mature Oliver Twist. “PLEASE.”

  Jackson frowns and reclines in his seat, giving me his famous James Bond stare. “Saskia.” He sighs. “I have to prove to my superiors that you can come through on a big story.”

  Even though Jackson founded The Blood Web Chronicle he still has superiors. He needed the money to get the stories out, so a large part of the newspaper belongs to wealthy Paras who have added it to their investment portfolio. Though Jackson has never told us who they are.

  “I can do this, Jackson. I promise not to let you down. Give me any story. I’m on it like white on rice.”

  What the fuck am I talking about?

  He sighs again and pulls a photo out of his drawer, sliding it toward me. Two men – one dark-haired, one blonde, and beside them a larger than life brute clad entirely in a white Adidas tracksuit.

  Who the fuck are these guys?

  I pick up the photo.

  “What’s the deal?” I ask.

  “I got a tipoff about a Vampire crime ring run by these two brothers.”

  I point at the huge guy. “I’m assuming Mr. Adidas is their security?”

  Jackson nods. “The brothers have fostered a mini-empire, no surprises there, but their workers keep disappearing or dropping dead. It’s your job to find out why. Preferably without burning anything down.”

  Vampires. That’s a new one – but I’m sure I can handle them. “Sounds simple enough. Where do they live?”

  Jackson swallows, making that sexy neck vein throb again. “Russia.”

  This time I’m the one who swallows hard. I knew I was in the doghouse, but this? Russia is beautiful, sure, but it’s also a cozy hub of Paranormal lawlessness. The stories you hear coming out of Moscow make the New York and London Para communities look like the Amish.

  I don’t know any of my newspaper colleagues, except our receptionist Joan who is the closest thing I have to a friend. Chronicle journos stay secret even from one another, but that doesn’t stop me trying to palm the mission off on them.

  “Why don’t the other reporters want it?”

  “Why? Because it’s in RUSSIA, Saskia. A Paranormal community with little regulation, high crime rates, arctic temperatures…”

  “You sure I’m the right woman for the job?”

  “No, but no one else wants it. It’s this or the door. You’ll need to pack something warm.”

  His eyes catch on my black leather mini skirt. Another Salvation Army win. I uncross my legs and bite down on my bottom lip.

  “Oh, Jackson,” I purr, “Don’t look at me like I’m a fresh can of big cat food.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Please. You know Witches’ blood tastes like piss to my kind.”

  That’s true. My blood is poison to Vamps, Werewolves and Shifters.

  “I didn’t say it was my blood you wanted to taste,” I say with a grin.

  Jackson clears his throat. Flirting with him is kind of a hobby of mine, but only because I know nothing will ever come of it. As usual, my editor brings
it back to business.

  “Saskia, this assignment is your last chance and my last offer. Take it or it’s over.”

  “OK. No problem. I can do it, Chief.”

  He smiles. “You can, because you’re also the only reporter we have who speaks Russian.”

  “I speak every language. It’s one of the reasons you hired me. That and my pretty face.”

  He rolls his eyes. Only Jackson and my direct family know about my lie-detecting skills and linguistic abilities. My truth-seeing abilities also somehow translate to me “seeing” the truth in each language, and therefore understanding and speaking them all. This is the only thing that sets me apart from most other Verity Witches. Although a lot of the time I stick to speaking English and just listen. Playing dumb is the quickest way to the truth. You learn a lot more when people think you’re not listening.

  Jackson slides a file over to me along with a thick envelope.

  “Most of the intel is here, and all your documents are inside. Everything else you need to know is encrypted on your Chronicle account. I’ll get you on a flight to Moscow tomorrow.”

  As I grab the file I bite back a smile. Jackson is always one step ahead, knowing full well I’d take this job. I head to the door.

  “And Saskia,” he calls out. “Don’t worry about anything, you’ll be fine. We’ll keep you safe.”

  I feel the ping of a lie but I smile anyway.

  “I’m sure you will,” I lie back as the door shuts firmly behind me.