The Edge of Hope: Bad Blood, #1

by ALINA POPESCU

BAD BLOOD I

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In other words, if you think this is about you, it probably isn’t! But, as an Internet meme says, if the shoe fits, then lace it up and wear it proudly!

No vampires, humans, animals, or other living things have been hurt in the process of writing this novel. My friends, my family, and my sanity might have suffered, along with my dog, but he’s the one who’ll forgive me the fastest.

Warning! This is an urban fantasy novel featuring vampires. Some blood sucking, violence, swearing, and sexual interactions occur that make it suitable mostly for adults. Bad Blood is also a serial, which means the books in this series follow a connecting story arc. If you dislike any of those things, maybe this isn’t the book for you.

The Edge of Hope

Bad Blood Trilogy, Book I

Second Edition

Copyright © 2014 Alina Popescu

All rights reserved.

Character design by M.P. Revita

Cover design by 8th floor studio

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To those who’ve loved and lost, then found the strength to go all in again.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Acknowledgments*

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Meet Alina Popescu

Book Two Preview—The Breaking of Bonds

Acknowledgments*

*long list of thanks; basically, your run of the mill, very long Oscar acceptance speech.

Before we start, I feel I need to tell you all I understand if you fall asleep during this bit. There is a long, long, extremely long list of people I have to thank for making this book possible. It’s like the credits at the end of the movies, but we authors insist on shoving this before the actual book. No, really, it’s a mile long! I’ll try to group them where I can, in a most surely failed attempt not to bore you. I have to start with the boy I fell madly in love with and who inspired my first solo novel. I was ten, he was older and cool… you know the drill! A big shout out goes to my grade school geography teacher who sometimes read my scribblings. Yes, during class. I remember I was working on the story of a female bull fighter, but I gave up. Tons of hugs and kisses to my high school classmates and Romanian Lit teacher who read and critiqued all the stories I played with.

Of course, I have to thank my family for showing me how to love books and for giving in to my pressure and teaching me how to read when I was five, and for supporting all my dreams, no matter how ludicrous they might have sounded.

Don’t worry, we’re now approaching the Bad Blood trilogy and The Edge of Hope part of the thanks. Some people have read this in the very early stages, back when Alexa’s story was fundamentally different. They stuck with me through quite a ride and kept reading and offering feedback, all sprinkled with a healthy dose of love and encouragement. In no particular order: Loredana, Alina, Alina (yes, two other Alinas. What can I say? Popular name in my generation), Tina, Mig, Adi, Alexandra, Joanna, Emma, and a ton more friends that have quietly nodded while I was ranting on about my stories. I love you all.

In July 2013, I decided it was time to take my writing seriously and I launched my author page. From that point on, I was taken in without question, protected, inspired, encouraged, and praised by a warm and lively community of authors, readers, editors, and book lovers (most of which also enabled my caffeine addiction). They made me feel at home and never ceased to amaze me. I hope I don’t forget anyone, but please know that even if I do, it’s just because I am so freaking nervous I am bouncing off the walls: Kerry, Kindle, Susan, Geoff, Algie, Lachi, Laz, Jaye, Jacque, Carol, John, Ash, Shanella, Janice, Matt, Taz, Jo, Eloreen, the entire MM Book Rec group and the Book Chat Group, absolutely everyone in my street team. I give all of you a big, fat, juicy thank you from the bottom of my heart! Seriously, I feel like I should add everyone but, trust me, there would be a few hundred names in here! Just so you know, if we’ve ever discussed writing or books, I appreciate you and I thank you.

I also have to thank the powers that be that gave me coffee, books, chocolate, the Internet, gadgets, pretty pens and beautiful notebooks, sunshine, music, dancing, and everything that ever inspired me to write.

This book has been edited by the amazing Kim Young. I have no words to express my gratitude and love for her, she’s just awesome and I will rave and rant about her forever.

If you’re reading this book, I love you forever. Yup, every single one of you!

Finally, I have to thank my dog, Ares, lovingly referred to as The Dog from Hell, for cheering me up every time I needed him to.

That’s it. I’m done for now. You’ve survived!

The road to hell is paved with bad relationships.

It felt like liquid fire… a searing substance filling my mouth, eyes, and nostrils, making it impossible to breathe. As it dispersed through my body, it melted every cell of what used to be me, flooding my brain, and torching my conscience as I was floating through this life-ending sea. This sensation must be what hell really is—knowing there’s no way you can live through the torture yet realizing it will never end; perpetual deep-frying into a liquid tunnel as you slip away to nowhere. How did I end up here? How the hell did I get caught in all of this? What good or bad intentions of mine or others led to this drastic resolution? Bad relationships, trusting who I wasn’t supposed to, investing too much of myself in helping others, running around like crazy trying to please everyone but myself… I should have spent all that time and energy on myself. Who knows? If I had, I might have been swimming in an actual sea, one that was cool and refreshing and not so keen on melting me away.

Chapter I

I STARED AT THE INTERVIEW questions, wondering why they baffled me. I knew them by heart, but I kept looking, as if I would eventually see beyond the words on my computer screen and understand how and why they had been written and sent to me. When my vision would get too blurry, I’d hit Alt + Tab on the keyboard and switch to the enticing and surprisingly high-quality photo that accompanied the online profile of the man who had sent them.

Whenever I got an idea I considered brilliant, I’d somehow convince myself it was just as marvelous to the rest of the world. That was why I had talked myself into believing not only that I’d make it big as a writer, but that I was a gifted marketer, so I’d started promoting my book long before I’d gone past drafting the first page. Getting people acquainted with the characters and promoting the story idea right from the start meant I’d have plenty of time to build tension. Then everyone would be dying to buy the book by the time it was finally published.

It wasn’t an entirely innovative idea, though. I wasn’t the first author to start making waves about a book before its release, but most would have at least half of it written before the full-on PR campaign. Even HBO used role-playing Twitter users to help promote True Blood!

I was writing a vampire story and those types of characters always had a strong appeal. I was also one of the genre’s raging fangirls, but I felt I needed to put my vampire version on paper. So why not create a Twitter account and Facebook page for the main character? Why not write a blog about her, the novel, how I experienced the whole writing process, and so on? You could have asked anyone, they would have agreed it was a brilliant idea.

I had gotten quite a few followers on Facebook and Twitter, and the traffic stats of the blog (which I’d obsessively check throughout the day) were getting better and better. After a long struggle, I had the plot, the main characters’ bios, and something that could pass as an outline, but I had only written ten pages and it was going at a never-before-seen slow pace. A snail would crawl faster than I’d type an opening for, well, any paragraph in any chapter. My creativity would normally flourish when I was sad and depressed, but that happened because I almost always still liked myself or still thought I had any brains. That wasn’t exactly how I was feeling when I’d started working on this book, however.

But these interview questions were seriously digging for way too much information. What had gotten me staring at a stupid email for over an hour, though, was an eerie feeling that the person who had written it had looked deep within my literary brain, getting a first-hand tour of everything even remotely related to my book. As if that alone wasn’t enough to get me worried, the journalist, Anthony, wanted us to meet in person. He had sent me the questions so I could have time to prepare, but he wanted to see me and record the interview one evening. He’d said he could fly to Bucharest in a couple of weeks.

This was not your average friendly blog. This was All Things Vampire, an online magazine dedicated to everything about the fangers: books, movies, actors and actresses in said movies, games, art, comic strips… anything under that sun even remotely related to vampires, they covered it. Sure, they were known for paying attention to indie authors, but I wasn’t comfortable calling myself a writer and I was far from becoming an author. I was still struggling to get past the first few chapters. So why would a magazine with hundreds of thousands of monthly readers be interested enough to send a reporter to interview little old me?

After another session of ogling over the photo, and a few deep sighs yanked out of me by his onyx eyes, raven-black hair, and full lips, I was still wondering why on earth they would care? I kept trying to find clues of a hoax. Anthony had the sort of smile that said I know every woman and gay man wants me. I’m even making straight ones fall in love with me, along with the dose of smugness and cruelty such knowledge comes with. He wore a leather jacket, tight shirt, and tighter jeans in the photo, as if the magazine wanted groupies and not just readers.

It eventually registered that the issue was easier to deal with than I’d thought because I wasn’t even in Bucharest. On the first of February, I had landed in Malta and made my way to Silema. I had booked a month-long stay at a small beach hotel. As it was the off-season, I got a room with an ocean view for a smidgen more than my rent in Bucharest. The official reason for my stay was writing my novel, but I was also doing freelance work for an old client to support myself instead of depleting my savings. Back in Bucharest, I was a freelance web developer working with a few designers to build the apps and websites they had created, but I had stopped doing most of that. The only client I was still helping needed something extremely basic that required 5% of my skills, at best, so my brain was free to dream up the plot. My initial one-month stay got extended so I kept busy with the client project and did some writing. My startling progress of five pages a month wasn’t bad. It was terrible.

I eventually emailed Anthony and told him that, sadly, I wasn’t in Bucharest for the time being, nor did I know when I’d return. I then switched off my email client and returned to turning more PDF pages into HTML code. Later that night, when I checked my email again and deleted a whole bunch of spam messages, I also read the reply from Anthony.

Valletta is actually closer so I could get there soon. Would ten days from now be a good time for you?

I stared at the email, jaw slack, eyes wide, and just didn’t get it. I was hardly the big name that would prompt a reporter to book a flight and a hotel room to come see me. The wheels started turning and my very fishy alarm went ballistic. What magazine would have the travel budget to have him chase a writer wannabe around the world?

In the end, the photo helped me decide. He was too hot for anything else to matter. I wrote back and agreed to the interview, then re-immersed myself into my work. I had this feeling he wouldn’t reply that night because it just seemed like the sort of thing a man like that would do. I was wrong, though. Anthony let me know he’d have his assistant make the arrangements and asked which hotel I was staying in so that he could book his room at one close by. He sent me all his contact details, including his cell phone number, and promised to let me know exactly when he’d arrive and where he’d stay.

After spending a large part of the night going over the hotel’s security and trying to use all my TV and movie knowledge to figure out what could happen if I did say where I was staying, I realized if Anthony really was on a killing spree, not saying where I was staying would just slow him down, not stop him. So I sent him the hotel name and my own cell number, then waited for the details he’d promised.

The big Anthony interview, as my mind chose to think of it, completely changed my routine. I actually left the hotel a few times within those ten days for more than just an evening walk or my morning exercise. I went shopping, got my hair done, and went to a small beach-side café, where I got that month’s five pages written. I also made time to look over everything I’d made public on the website and Facebook to see what everyone knew about it and try to figure out why Anthony’s questions felt so weird. Most of the information he’d hinted at was there, but some details had never been disclosed. How did he know about them? I told myself it was nothing more than guesswork on his part but, on some level, that didn’t feel like a good enough explanation because his guesswork was spot on.

Chapter II

WHEN THE DAY I’d meet Anthony finally arrived, I was so wired, I’d make an addict going through withdrawal seem mellow. I had been pacing my hotel room since 5 am. I tried having breakfast at some point, but my stomach couldn’t take more than a few cups of coffee. I changed outfits a few times and had completely redone my makeup twice already. It was barely 10 am and the meeting was not till 11. Anthony wanted to meet me and get to know me first, leaving the actual interview for Sunday. He’d suggested a walk on the beach and light conversation over some cold drinks. It was March but, apparently, the 24-degree peak temperatures of Malta were enough for cold drinks. I finally decided on black fitted jeans. They made me look good enough. I added a bright red, somewhat revealing top just because I was still quite proud of my breasts (having men drool and women ask if they were real kind of helped), and a black jacket. It clearly wasn’t hot enough for me to switch to iced drinks.

I went downstairs two minutes before the meeting time. I was never late if I was able to help it, but this time I had to make an effort not to be too early. I was heading for the exit when I heard my name called with that strange sound foreigners give to my Romanian name.

Alexa, over here.

I turned and saw Anthony in one of the armchairs in the lobby. He was wearing faded jeans and a white button-down shirt, and he had that very same smile I had noticed in his photo. The only difference was that he looked so much better in real life. I felt like jumping around him like any self-respecting groupie would do right after asking for a rock star’s autograph. Instead, I went for a neutral smile. Well, I hoped it was neutral.

Hello, Anthony. Nice to meet you, I said, holding out my hand.

Likewise, he said. Or, at least, I thought that was what he’d said. His touch was electrifying, melting all my coolness. But I was good with appearances when I had to and I could have sworn he never even noticed.

Should we go, or do you want to get a cup of coffee first? I asked when I was sure my voice wouldn’t betray me.

Oh, I’d like to go for our walk, if you don’t mind. It’s lovely outside.

So that was what living in London did to people? Pushed them to treasure absolutely every minute of sunshine they could get and wear short-sleeved, almost see-through shirts in 15 degrees Celsius weather? I had been under the impression global warming had changed that somewhat. But I couldn’t really complain. I could freely indulge in admiring every single muscle adorning his upper body, so I decided being thankful was the right approach.

When did you start writing? he asked when we got down to the beach, walking slowly near the waves.

A long time ago. I’ve been writing stories and essays most of my life.

But you’re in a different line of work, isn’t that right? he cocked his head and bore his intense black eyes into mine.

That’s right. I take the same pleasure in coding that I take in writing. Different types of music, same keyboard.

He looked at me and smiled warmly, but it was accompanied by a condescending huff. I instantly felt like a child being questioned by an older, wiser member of the village, who held the true meaning of life and was amused by the ramblings of the youngling.

I looked at the sea, focusing on the steady move of the waves. What’s so amusing?

Oh, I just can’t understand what code and music have in common. Writing…that I can understand. But programming? Seems to me you’re just trying to make your job a little more interesting than it is, he said, the same annoying smile on his face.

Why had I turned to him, again? I was better off staring at the waves. He was getting on my nerves, and fast. That’s just because you haven’t seen me write code. My ex used to get a kick out of seeing me type my code or write my stories, I blurted out, reminiscing on the past. He said it looked just like playing the piano.

Then he knows nothing of playing the piano, Anthony said, matter-of-factly.

I thought he looked very pleased with his wits and superiority. Naturally, it was time to cut him down. You are probably right. What would a musician know about playing the piano? Or music, in general?

I turned my back on him, wondering if I was better off cutting our time together short. I’d just about had it with his smugness.

I have offended you.

Brilliant deduction. Anthony should thank the gods he never chose investigative journalism. Wrong. You’ve stepped on my toes by forcing me to defend my ex. These days, I have a hard time doing that, even when he’s right.

Sorry, that was not my intention, he said, looking at his shoes and shaking his head.

No, just the consequence of your need to act all superior and pretend you’re all-knowing. Unfortunately, you are not the only person on earth who thinks the world of themselves.

"Usually, I am right. That can be my biggest weakness at times," he replied, smiling shyly. I would have never taken him for someone capable of shyness.

That’s all right. It is part of my heritage, as well. I was born being right. Or a smartass, depends how you look at it.

Apparently, you’re better at dealing with it than I am.

I couldn’t help but laugh. The guy I thought had a direct line to how my brain worked based on some lucky deductions about my book had no clue about me.

The difference between you and me is that I clearly see all my flaws and everything that’s less than perfect about me.

And is that why you are not so taken with yourself? His smile had faded and his lips were pressed in a thin