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  Synergist

  Chronicles of Tara - Book 1

  Chloe Adler

  Contents

  Copyright

  Signum

  Nubile Things

  Seven Hundred . . . and Fifty?

  Drama-Free Drinking

  Mind Reader

  TSTL

  Redwood

  Tara

  Total Cliché

  May I Drink?

  Door Ajar?

  The Bite

  What Rules?

  Ice

  Spells

  Look Up, You Dolt

  Naked

  Blood or Silence

  Take Me Back

  Abada

  Monolith

  Finders, Keepers

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Synergist by Chloe Adler

  Chronicles of Tara - Book 1

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of a brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Copyright © 2018 by Signum Publishing

  ISBN: 978-1-947156-03-6

  * * *

  © 2018 Cover Art by Cora Graphics

  Editor: Elizabeth Nover - Razor Sharp Editing

  Dear Reader,

  * * *

  Please join my newsletter, the Edge to receive author news, exclusive musings, sales and free books.

  Nubile Things

  Hungry vampires are intimidating. Even though I’ve grown up here in Distant Edge, where Signum can roam free, I’ve never seen a hungry vampire before tonight. My head swivels, taking in the starved looks and flashing fangs as I follow Miss Cheryl through the parlor of Ichor. I try not to shake my head at the décor. This place looks more like a whorehouse than a vectum. But then, I remind myself, I’ve never set foot inside either before now. Maybe a whorehouse would have been better. There, at least, it’s just sex for sale. Here, in this vampire blood bank, the appetizer, main course and dessert is human blood.

  Tacky baroque tapestries hang from two of the walls, hiding elegant velvet wallpaper beneath. Fleur-de-lys are etched into the dark red velvet, a symbol Janice, the previous owner, must have imported from her hometown of New Orleans. I have no doubt the tapestries are Miss Cheryl’s addition. I moisten my dry lips. I wish Janice hadn’t moved back to Nola.

  “Come, Amaya, stop dallying,” Miss Cheryl says. I hurry to keep up. “The bottom floor of Ichor is where you’ll be for now. If you want to earn more money in the future, we can talk about letting you upstairs.”

  I nod, having no idea what she means. Do I even want to know? Probably not. Why the hell didn’t I drill Jules for details about this when she pitched the idea to me? Oh, that’s right, sheer desperation. It doesn’t help that Jules has been here for months and absolutely loves it. I shouldn’t have let myself get caught up in her enthusiasm.

  “I need to make a copy of your driver’s license, and you’ll have to fill out a W2.”

  “I got the job?” I fish my license out of my purse and hand it to her.

  She takes it and looks me up and down, her eyes pausing at my hips and again at my bust. I give her the same once-over. The woman is gaudier than Lindsay Lohan’s mother, from her bleached-blond helmet hair to her studded, five-inch Miu Miu pumps. Her cloying Burberry perfume hangs in the air like a thick fog blanketing the harbor. The first time I saw her, from afar, she seemed a pretty woman, probably in her late thirties. But up close and personal, her doughy skin and sallow complexion make her look much older.

  “Why don’t you just ask your parents to pay the rent increase?”

  There is no way I’m doing that, not after everything they’ve given up. For me. I would work myself raw and ragged to give a fraction of it back to them. “Why don’t you ask your brother to keep up his end of the arrangement he made with my parents?”

  “You won’t last long here with a lip like that,” she clucks.

  If I didn’t need this job, I would slap her. She doesn’t know anything about me or my family. Not really. I’m the one who encouraged my parents to finally follow their dreams. That look on Mom’s face when she and Dad boarded the plane . . . There is absolutely nothing that will make me take that dream away from her.

  She fingers my driver’s license. “Twenty-three. You’re almost too old for this business.”

  My brows furrow.

  “Good thing you look so young. My clientele likes nubile things.”

  “Isn’t an age limit for hiring illegal?”

  Miss Cheryl rolls her eyes. “I’ll make a copy of your license and return it to you later.”

  “When do I start?”

  “Tonight.” She smiles but her eyes are cold, calculating. I shiver. “This is the kitchen.”

  It’s completely utilitarian, painted all white. It even sports white Formica countertops and whitewashed cabinets. At least it’s clean. Maybe too clean. The sterile, cold surfaces make the space feel like a meat locker. How appropriate, since the only people who use it are the human blood donors.

  Chills shoot down my arms, so rare for San Diego County, especially in the fall. Has she cranked the AC to make us uncomfortable or does it have something to do with slowing down our blood flow? Another question for Jules.

  “You are welcome to make your own meals here when you’re on break. You must take one ten-minute break for every four hours of work. Understood?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She arches a brow at me. “I still can’t believe they went to Taiwan and left you. Alone.”

  And I can’t believe that her brother raised the rent on me with only thirty days’ notice. Is that even legal? My parents paid them a year’s rent in advance and there is no way I am going to ask them for more money. No. This one I’ll figure out on my own.

  Miss Cheryl brushes a strand of my dark auburn hair out of my face and her eyes narrow. “We’re going to have to do something with your hair. It’s a complete mess and having an Afro here won’t go over well. Follow me.”

  I dutifully obey. Why did Janice leave this place in Miss Cheryl’s hands, as opposed to the hands of someone . . . nicer?

  She leads me into a huge dressing room. “This is unisex. Both girls and boys change here so if you have a problem with that, get over it.”

  I don’t have a problem with that. I have a problem with the way she talks to me, but I bite my tongue. For now.

  The dressing room is as large as my bedroom at home. Both sides are lined with mirrors and stools. On the counters are hair clips, blow dryers, styling brushes and makeup. Two women and one guy are primping in front of the mirrors. Beyond the mirrored area are lockers, bathroom stalls and sinks. Like the kitchen, the space is utilitarian, but the clutter makes it much warmer.

  “This is where you’ll put yourself together before coming onto the floor. Sit down.” She points to a stool and I sit.

  “As you can see, each meal has a different style.”

  I narrow my eyes at her.

  “Well, that’s what you are here. A meal.”

  I look at the others with renewed interest and sure enough, one woman is dressed as a Japanese geisha in a kimono, complete with pancake-white makeup, tiny red lips and an elaborate updo
held in place with chopsticks. The other woman wears tight black leather and a spiked necklace that looks like it could take out an eye. Her lids are outlined in thick black liner, and she’s applying black lipstick to match. The male is punked out with a colorful Mohawk, facial piercings and an “outfit” made of black netting.

  Miss Cheryl stands behind me, turning my face to the left and the right, watching me in the mirror.

  “I like to have each person play up something they already posses. An inner quality that’s hidden, just beneath the surface.”

  Neither of the two women turn to look at me, each one focusing on their faces, but the guy offers me a lopsided grin in the mirror. I smile back quickly, then glance around for Jules, even though I know she must have started her shift two hours ago. My new boss yanks my head forward again. More than my face, this woman also has my housing in her hands. I force a smile.

  “You have that fresh-faced, nubile virgin look.”

  Uncomfortable, I clear my throat.

  “I’m not saying you are a virgin.” She shakes her head at me in the mirror. “I’m saying that’s what we’re going to play up. Sweet. Innocent. Never been touched. Are you on board with that?”

  I have the feeling that if I say no, I won’t get the job, so I bite my lip and nod.

  “Good.” Her eyes narrow. “So you’ll wear very little makeup. You don’t need much anyway. Your skin is completely unblemished.”

  She sits next to me and holds up different bottles of foundation. She pauses with one bottle next to my skin.

  “You have your mother’s features but she’s much darker. I can see your father’s eyes in you.” Flipping the bottle over, she shows me the color. Spicy brown. “You’re going to appeal to so many of our clientele on so many different levels.”

  Turning my head back to the mirror, she opens the bottle, dribbles some foundation into her palm, and applies a layer to my cheek with a foam applicator from a jar on the counter. “Hardly noticeable at all, see?”

  She turns my face from one side to the other and she’s right, I can barely tell I have anything on at all. But the makeup gives me a glow under the lights I have to admit is alluring.

  “But if you’re ever running late, change into your work uniform and come out onto the floor with just a dab of lip gloss.”

  She reaches into a glass container, pulling out a series of lipsticks.

  “You apply these with a Q-tip, the same with everything here, so the girls can share and everything remains sanitary. Yes?”

  I nod.

  “Use your words,” she barks.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The two other women titter. The goth guy rolls his eyes. How does Jules deal with these people?

  Miss Cheryl helps me apply the right amount of makeup, and when she’s done, it doesn’t look like I’m wearing anything at all, except my entire face looks brighter. She dabs a peach-colored lip gloss over my full lips and coos. “Lovely.”

  She moves behind me, gathering my kinky hair. “This is your problem area.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her in the mirror and bite down on my tongue. When I was a little girl, about five or so, we were all at the beach. Mamma was spreading sunblock on my skin and Dad was taming my hair into a high ponytail. A white lady walked by and snorted. Then under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear, she said, “Black skin doesn’t burn and nappy hair can’t be tamed.” I wanted to fling my sand bucket at that woman, but I didn’t then, and I refrain from punching Miss Cheryl in her doughy face now too. I force a smile but it’s more like a sneer.

  Cheryl gathers my hair into two sections without brushing it, pulling each portion tight at the side of my head. At least she knows how to treat curls. If she’d reached for a brush, I would not be held responsible for my actions. Grabbing a black band, she wraps it around each piece, forming pigtails. I grimace. They make me look twelve. The woman ignores my discomfort and reaches for a pink-sequined band to place over the black one.

  “On to the costumes,” she says and drags me out of the dressing room. I stumble along behind her into a large room lined with racks of costumes and full-length mirrors. Like all the employee-only areas I’ve seen so far, everything is white, brightly lit, and purely functional. Miss Cheryl stops at a rack with—no way. Catholic schoolgirl uniforms?

  My eyes grow large and I suck in my lower lip.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No ma’am.” Suddenly my old waitressing job at the Harbor House Cafe is looking better and better—lying, asshat manager and all.

  “Good. You’ll choose a plaid skirt and either a white button-down shirt or a white midriff shirt that ties in the front.” She pulls out several outfits and holds them up to me. “You’ll have to experiment and see which outfits draw a bigger crowd.”

  What the hell did I sign up for?

  “Keep the accessories simple. I want you to match your hair ties to whatever color skirt you choose. If you wear the red plaid, you’ll have red hair ties. Green plaid equals green ties. Yes?”

  I can’t keep it in anymore. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t understand why I’m dressing up like this.”

  She snorts. “All the girls dress up. That’s partly what the vampires that come here are paying for.”

  “I thought they were paying for blood.”

  “Vampires can get blood at any blood bank. But I turned this failing vectum into so much more. Having the girls dress up, do a little role-play, has drawn a huge crowd. If you want to roll out of bed and slouch into a vectum with PJs and flip-flops on, try the ones in San Diego. Or Mexico. But you won’t make even half the money you’ll make here.”

  An hour later, I’m perched alone on a red velvet couch with my legs crossed, looking around. Where the hell is Jules? Her shift started three hours ago. Men and women in all manner of costumes lounge around with stately looking vampires. This is not what I expected, but at this point I am on the verge of desperation. After getting fired from my job at the restaurant, I couldn’t find employment anywhere else. No one would hire me after the smear campaign my last manager drummed up. And there was no way I was going to ruin my parents’ second chance at a life by calling them in Taiwan and begging for money. They’d leave their dream behind again and move back to help me without a second thought. And I could not do that to them. I already had once—by being born.

  “You’re new,” rumbles a deep voice behind me.

  I turn, my eyes meeting those of a tall vampire leaning over me.

  “Yes sir,” I reply, looking back down at my lap.

  “Stand up,” he growls.

  I do as he asks, tugging my plaid mini skirt down.

  “Name?”

  “Amaya.”

  “Surname.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “Reynolds.”

  “I knew it.” His finger is under my chin, lifting it up. “One of the founding human families. You were born here.”

  How does he know that?

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “No sir.”

  “My name is Vasily.” He offers no surname. The finger remains, crooked and cold, nestled beneath my chin. I force myself to look up at him. Penetrating eyes, so dark they’re almost black, are framed by long black lashes. The man—vampire is gorgeous. My breath catches as my gaze wanders over his features. His dark, dark skin looks airbrushed, blemish-free. Cropped curly black hair is shaved on the sides, drawing attention to his handsome face. He’s so put together that the five o’clock shadow seems out of character on him, like he was so rushed to get here he skipped a shave. But it highlights his square jaw and those black-cherry lips.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he says, pulling me out of my daze.

  “What? Me? Why?”

  He waves his other hand in a flourish. Not the way most people do when they’re trying to dodge a question, though. Somehow he makes a simple wrist flick into an elegant statement, like something out of a BBC drama about roya
lty. “No matter.”

  I wet my lips.

  “Your mother is black.”

  And your mother never taught you any manners.

  He drifts closer, the intensity in this gaze dragging me closer still. “Have you seen things?”

  Finally, a question. Too bad I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. “What things? Who are you?”

  He drops his finger and I pitch forward, shocked at the sudden absence of his touch.

  “Later.” His voice thickens. Those dark lids droop. “For now, may I drink?”

  The vampire’s voice lulls me and even though every conscious thought left in my head says run, my body betrays me. Surely it’s safe to be with him here. This is why I’m here, after all. I tilt my head to the side in invitation. His laughter, deep and booming, echoes in the expansive space.

  “Not here, pretty one. I secured a room.”

  I stiffen. “I’m not allowed upstairs.”

  “You’re allowed anywhere I wish to bring you. Come.” He takes my hand and leads me toward the grand staircase. The bloodred carpeting runs throughout the main floor and up the stairs. My throat tightens as he leads me up, and the toe of my patent-leather Mary Janes catches on the rug. I grab for the polished mahogany banister. Vasily lets go of my hand, stepping down to my level. His eyebrows draw together as he holds out an arm.

  “I apologize.” He clears his throat. “Forgive me, I’m used to getting my way.”

  I nod, swallowing repeatedly as bile rises in my throat.

  “Do I make you uncomfortable?”