There’s war brewing and only one group of Slayers to protect their race. Their second-in-command must choose between the life he’d be forced to live and the life he’d kill for.
Something inhuman is taking out the upper crust of society, and it’s up to the Slayers to confront an evil so great that it threatens to destroy all they hold dear.
Blood Alley will earn its name, as the war between the Slayers and the Rancor Order spills from the trenches and onto the streets of Van City.
For Slayer Zylan, his demons haunt him as he comes face to face with his own personal hell. For ten years, Zylan—Zy to his friends—has been deep undercover infiltrating the Rancor Order.
Now, shoulder to shoulder with the Slayers, Zylan must choose between his birthright and his heart’s desire. He is forced to call in his one true love, his Fyrvor, Neri. He is given a taste of pleasure unlike anything he’s had before—until fate comes knocking on his door holding a blade.
You can’t run from fate. You can’t hide from the darkness.
Reader Advisory: This book contains some scenes of public sex, abouse of women, violence and blood sharing.
Publisher's Note: This book is best read in sequence, as part of a series.
General Release Date: 14th June 2016
Zylan-Nefarious Bloodletting must die.
Zylan—Zy to his friends—was born cursed and heir to the throne of Sola-Nosfer, a ruling Vampyre hamlet, the settlement of the upper crust of their society. He was the blood descendant of Rhival-Enmity Bloodletting and Vestal Virgyn Zylamon-Vhenom Bloodletting. They were the ruling king and queen for almost six hundred years.
Upon his birth, he was promised to the hand of Amity-Rhuin Blooddawn at the age of thirty. Amity was the blood descendant of Vhenom-Ash Blooddawn, High Councilman, and daughter of Ayla-Dhemise Blooddawn, Vestal Virgyn.
With his thirtieth birthday upon him, Zy needed to die his first death. It was law. It was to be celebrated with the Reaping. His people would come from around the world to watch him take his last breath as a Day Walkyr, his first life harvested for the betterment of his people and the continuation of his bloodline. Basically, he’d be held down and his throat slashed, while the uppity-ups drank wine and laughed full-bellied, pretentious laughs, lifting their glasses, spilling their wine, all in the name of some tradition that most of them couldn’t remember why they even celebrated. There would be free booze, free food and free access to royalty. That was all that mattered to them. Zy grimaced at the idea. Useless, each and every one of them.
Zy had left Sola-Nosfer at the age of twenty. He was granted ten years, less one day, to explore the outside world. Due to his childhood training in the Vampyres’ version of The Art of War, the Netherworld had accepted him right away. He’d been put into the field within months, and he’d finally landed undercover with Cael and Riam. To him, it was the best thing that could have ever happened to him. With Cael and Riam, Zy finally felt at home, with a family who truly cared. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t as long-lasting as he would have hoped. He knew the drill. You can’t run from fate.
Day Walkyrs were called home the day before they turned thirty in preparation for the first death. Nothing says ‘welcome home’ like having your throat slashed.
To not return meant being banished from society for the rest of the Vampyre’s days and having a black smear placed upon that family name. Zylan would’ve been happy with being banished. But, in his case, he would have been hunted. It was absolute law for him to return to marry his promised one. The duty flowed through his veins, as it had done for his parents and their parents. Some traditions weren’t easily dismissed—not for him and not in his family.
Sitting in the corner of his bedroom on the floor, he held his invitation to the Reaping, his name listed as the one to be celebrated. In exactly three months, a blade would be dragged across his throat, his blood flowing into solid gold bowls and fed to the high born and patrician of his society. They’d toast his death with the very blood that kept his heart beating.
He’d met Amity-Rhuin Blooddawn once, if he could call it that. The day he was leaving Sola-Nosfer, she’d been there. He hadn’t stopped to talk to her, and he hadn’t bothered looking in her direction. He hadn’t wanted to marry her then, and those feelings hadn’t changed with time. With a taste of the outside world, he hated the idea more now than ever. How could he go back? How could he marry someone he didn’t love? How could he abandon his fellow Slayers?
With the invitation came a photo of Amity. He stared at the photo, finding himself glaring. He almost hated her in all her beauty and perfection. She was as beautiful as she should have been for the son of a king and queen. He knew her manners would be impeccable, and she would give appreciation for any verbal assault her husband would offer her. And she’d do it with a smile and not a tear in sight. She’d likely not know what the word ‘no’ was, as she was raised to be agreeable and free of complaint. She would be nothing like the spitfire and hellish women found in the clubs around Van City. Here they dressed in stilettos, wore an inch of makeup and had an attitude. The only silver lining? Amity wouldn’t be coked out of her skull or need to be shoulder-packed home, lost to drunken oblivion. In all honesty, Zy would sooner foot the bill for a coked-out bitch.
For Amity to fail was to sign her death certificate. She would be entombed with a small amount of food and water then left to die, unless the Orygin decided to save her, which he wouldn’t. He never did. It was his society’s way of putting the responsibility of her death onto someone else, someone their traditions said was untouchable, the Orygin. Amity would be dressed it up in a pretty dress and the act would be called something other than what it truly was—murder. Yep, these are my people, lost to their ignorant ways.
Amity would be like the rest of those promised to the royal born. She’d kowtow to her husband and thank him for any cruelties he saw fit to bestow upon her delicate body. Her breeding was exact. There would be no flaws. She’d come from a long line of Vestal Virgyns, and she would produce all female children to take their places within the Vestal Virgyn ranks, save one or two male children to carry on the family name. For every three females, a male child would be born. Most Vestal Virgyns did not produce more than eight children, if they weren’t killed by their husbands beforehand. But that didn’t matter. Zy didn’t want a single one with her, let alone eight. Eight little reminders of what he could have had, but he’d had to settle for.
Her skin was china doll white and flawless, and she had ice-blue eyes and white-blonde hair in waves to her hips. She had an ample bosom, small waist, long legs, and she was hairless everywhere but her head. The photo left nothing to the imagination. She stood nude, not being allowed to cover her body in any way. It is our way. She belonged to Zy, and she could hide nothing from him. It was more of an ownership than anything else. His people put more care into trading livestock than marriage.
Blood of my blood, blood of your blood, cemented an eight-hundred-year-old truce. Zylan’s father’s father had conquered the neighboring lands, and the practice remained. The neighboring council members now presided over one council. Zylan was to marry the most influential of them all, the daughter of the High Councilman.
He wished he was like Cael, the Aegys of the Slayers—their protector, leader and guardian of the newbies. Cael, of a lost family line, was free. Cael was adopted after damn near dying at the hands of his abusive parents. He’d been thrown away, left for dead. He was Vampyre, without any ties to the godforsaken society. Lucky him.
Zy opened the invitation, oddly careful not to rip the thick-papered envelope. The whitest of white—only the purest for his mother, a once-was Vestal Virgyn. Everything was perfect, as always. She didn’t sleep unless it was perfect. Perfect breeding wasn’t something a Vestal Virgyn outgrew.
Zylan pulled the blood-red card from the thick envelope, running his fingers over the embossed white lettering. He knew his mother had spent months, if not years, designing this card perfectly. It was who she was.
L.A. Kennedy, beyond the story…
L.A. Kennedy is a Canadian born writer, living in the ever-growing city of Vancouver, Canada. Here, she spends her days getting lost in the beauty of reading and writing. L.A. Kennedy mainly writes fictional books. And can be found researching myth, folklore, and everything in between, with a special interest in edge-of-your-seat paranormal romance. L.A. Kennedy can be found behind a mountain of books, on any given Sunday.
L.A. Kennedy’s writing credits include two hit series that mix mystery, horror, paranormal romance, fantasy, and intrigue.
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