Chains of Blood

  Chains of Blood

  The Second of Severn

  J. L. O’Rourke

  Copyright 2015

  Published by Millwheel Press Limited

  (originally published 2013 as Daisy Chains)

  Discover other titles by J. L. O’Rourke

  Blood in the Wings: The First of Severn

  Power Ride: An Avi Livingstone murder mystery

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be distributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoy this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favourite authorised retailer. Thank you for your support.

  ISBN 978-0-473-31770-6

  Acknowledgements:

  While the majority of the characters in the Severn series are fictional inventions of my imagination and are not based on any real person, my thanks to the two real theatre crew who gave their permission to allow me to exaggerate their personalities and reinvent them into vampires. Those people know who they are – thank you. If anyone else thinks that they recognise themselves in a character – I guarantee that it is purely unintentional. Thank you, too, to my cover models, Skip and Tama.

  Cover photo by Bethany Nehoff.

  Table of 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

  Chapter 31

  Other books by J. L. O’Rourke

  Blood in the Wings excerpt

  Power Ride excerpt

  About the author

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Not again! I don’t believe it!”

  “I believe it. The guy’s a moron!”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” I flicked a switch on the comms unit that was hooked, with a multitude of other gadgets, to the utility belt around my black jeans. “Okay, okay,” I spoke into my headset microphone, interrupting the voice yammering at me through my headphones, “I know we’ve got no sound. That stupid little idiot has turned his pack off – again! Can you drag him off stage and turn him on or do I need to come down – ‘cos if I do I’m going to beat the crap out of him then stuff the ...” I bit my tongue and left the sentence unfinished. Pulling my black beanie tighter under my headphones, I flicked off my microphone and grimaced at the man beside me. He grinned back and pointed across the expanse of lush green lawn to the makeshift stage on which a boy in green tights and a brown jerkin was singing soundlessly.

  “I think they got the message,” he laughed as a large woman, also clad totally in black, stormed angrily across the stage, grabbed the boy by his shoulders, spun him around, lifted his jerkin, fumbled with something on the back of his tights, spun him back again and stormed off. I pushed up a slider on the huge sound desk in front of me and the boy’s trembling voice sounded through multiple sets of speakers, “Should I start again?”

  From a folding camp chair on the lawn in front of the stage a strained male voice called out through obviously clenched teeth, “No, no. Let’s take a break. Tea break, everybody! Start again at 7.30 from the beginning of scene two. With our microphones turned on!”

  “What a way to spend our Christmas holidays,” my companion muttered as he removed his headphones and straightened his own beanie.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, stretching as I stood up from behind the sound desk, “but at least we’re getting paid.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if we weren’t,” Danny the lighting man replied as he disappeared over the edge of our raised platform and climbed down the scaffolding to the lawn below.

  Alone on the platform, I slowly took off my headphones and looked out over the scene below. Two weeks previously the lawn had been a pristine part of the beautiful Mona Vale public gardens. Now it was a hive of theatrical activity with two huge towers of scaffolding carrying banks of lights and providing tenuous platforms for the crew that worked them. Black cables ran from their bases like tree roots, snaking across the lawn to smaller towers holding lights or speakers. Across the lawn were two stages; one a large fake castle with cardboard walls, the other one smaller with an equally fake hut including a door that led nowhere. A tiny stream meandered behind the stages, curving around the castle to feed into a large decorative lake, its edges festooned with flaxes and native plants that provided homes for the ducks and those funny little black scaups that spent most of their time under water. I watched one dive and counted to fifteen before it reappeared a metre from where it had gone under.

  Slowly I scanned the groups of people in strange costumes who began appearing from the two large tents on the other side of the stream, wandering across the tiny bridge that spanned the stream and settling themselves on the lawn, cups of tea and coffee in their hands. I recognized the evil Sheriff of Nottingham by his bright purple cloak and waved to him and to the slovenly peasant woman he was talking to, then I scrambled down the scaffolding to join my parents.

  “You look tired,” Mum said, holding out a can of coke as I crashed on the grass beside them.

  “It’s crazy, I’m going insane,” I replied between gulps.

  “Problems?” Mum asked.

  “It sounds fine to me,” my step-father, Grant, added. “Apart from that little hiccup with young Tom.”

  “Young Tom will get more than a little hiccup if I get my hands on him,” I muttered darkly. “He keeps playing with his radio mic – turning it off, pushing the mute button, playing with the batteries. He’s a little brat!”

  “Unfortunately, he’s the president’s little brat,” Grant said pouring himself a coffee from a thermos he produced from a bag at his feet.

  “Unlike in our own theatre company where you are the president’s brat,” added Mum, grinning.

  “I have never been that awful!” I said indignantly. I might be turning into a vampire but that’s different – and it doesn’t show in public – yet.

  “True,” said Grant, answering my spoken sentence not the one I was thinking, “but then you don’t have Heidi McCormack for a mother. Her idea of discipline is to stuff another bar of chocolate in his mouth.”

  “Sad, but true,” I agreed, flopping backwards on the grass. “I’m exhausted! Like I said, it’s crazy. Props and wardrobe have got more assistants than they need while Danny and I are running around like headless chickens. His helpers are stuck ten metres in the air on the followspots and I’m by myself trying to operate the desk out the front and troubleshoot any problems out the back at the same time. If we were being paid by the number of times we climb up and down that tower we’d be sweet. I could do with two more crew – one backstage on radio mics and one willing to crawl under that stage every time we lose a connection. Have you got any food in that bag?”

  “Taking a leaf from Heidi’s Little Book of Brat Handling – have a chocolate bar,” said Mum, throwing me a handful of Cadbury products. “You obviously fixed that squealy noise you had problems with yesterday,” she added. “I presume Severn’s email held the vital clue.”

  “Yeah, I now know a lot more abo
ut earth loops than I did before. But that’s one of the things that make this so hard. I’ve only worked the sound board on one school production – I don’t have the experience to rig and run this thing. I thought I was only operating the board – no-one told me that the usual guy was going away and leaving it all to me. I could do with Severn here, not on the other side of the world. It’s not even our theatre company! Tell me again, when we could have been spending our holidays lying on a beach watching Grant burn sausages on the barbie, why we are here, getting burnt to a crisp during the day and freezing our butts off in the evening, watching Grant prancing around in a pair of green tights?”

  “Because,” said Grant sagely, “your mother is undoubtedly the best mezzo soprano in town and they couldn’t resist my commanding presence or my fabulous legs.”

  “Speaking of commanding presence,” I interjected, “I see the stage manager heading this direction, rounding up the troops. I’m off to find that monster child and gaffer tape his microphone before I head back up the tower. Bye.”

  “Hang on,” said Grant, putting out a hand to restrain me as I rose, “leave me the gaffer and I’ll deal with Monster Child. Mic on, mute off, batteries in, right?”

  “Right. Thanks. See you later.”

  “She misses him more than she lets on, you know,” I heard Mum say quietly as I walked away.

  “Tough thing, keeping up a long-distance relationship,” agreed Grant.

  Oh yeah, you got that right!

  CHAPTER TWO

  17,500,000 sites, according to Google. I checked out the first three. Wikipedia said vampires were mythological or folkloric, were bloated and wore shrouds. Not the ones I know, mate! The ones I know are all skinny dudes in t-shirts. And if I am turning into one, the last thing I need is to be bloated. Exit Wikipedia. The next site had lots of pictures of people in black costumes snarling fake pointy teeth to the camera. Well, I can identify with the black clothes, especially for practical purposes back stage. The third site was more of the same so I gave up. Any more would just get boring. Plus, it’s not as if it was the first time I had done the search. What did I expect to find anyway? A tourist link? “Spend a blood-curdling weekend in a medieval French monastery with a tribe (horde? swarm?) of real vampires.” Or maybe a “So you’re turning into a vampire – FAQs click here”. I don’t think so. I stopped day-dreaming and clicked back onto the unfinished email to my personal vampire.

  To: Severn

  From: Riley

  Subject: 101 ways to murder bratty boys

  RANT BEGINS. I am soooo pissed off – in a big way. We had the shittiest rehearsal yet. Danny and I are trying to get it through their thick heads that this isn’t the same as an ordinary show. We’re not in a theatre where we pack it all in then spend a week or so getting it right before the show starts – we’re outside, running cables and gear across lawns and hanging it in trees, we have to pack it all away every night in case it gets stolen then spend another hour or so the next day running it all out again, so the problems we have today are completely different than the ones we had yesterday, or the ones we will have tomorrow. And there’s only one of me. I fixed that earth loop, thanks for your advice there, but today I kept losing sound to the main speakers – I have no idea why – and that horrid child turned his mic off three times then broke the pins on the connector. Grant had to end up giving him his mic and shouting his own lines at the top of his voice. Then the know-it-all lead guitarist from the musicians yet again tried to be “helpful” by “neatening” the cables – yep, I know you’ve already figured out what I’m going to say next – the stupid prat laid them all nicely side by side and then I copped the abuse when the dmx signals fed from the lighting cables into the sound system. Their committee called a meeting after the rehearsal “to discuss progress” - Danny tried to stick up for me but apparently I’m “head of sound” so I’m supposed to be able to fix it. I tried to point out that I am a 16 year old schoolgirl who has learnt enough about a sound board to know when to push the sliders up, but they basically said “tough luck – do it”. There are so many other things on during the ‘Summertimes’ programme that all the professional techs were already booked – so I’m all they’ve got. Yay! This is NOT FUN ANYMORE!!! I should have taken Dad up on his offer – even with his horrid new wife and ugly new baby Australia would be BETTER! THAN! THIS! RANT ENDS

  How’s France? Is it cold? I saw on the tv news how it was snowing and flooding over there. I suppose you can’t flood though if you’re way up on top of a mountain. I’ve attached a picture I took on my phone today – just to make you jealous. The guys paddling in the lake are musicians. The director is the one in the awful towelling hat. I don’t know the name of the lady in the multi-coloured skirt but she’s been there every day so she must be wardrobe or make-up or something. Send me a picture of the snow from the top of your monastery. Tell me more about the strange little room you found. The place must be huge if there are whole rooms that people have forgotten about. Surely the Reverend must have known it was there.

  Gotta go now – have to sleep. If it’s nearly midnight here it must be nearly midday at your place so I guess you lot will have just had breakfast if you are all still on theatre-tech time???

  Love you, miss you heaps, Riley

  From: Severn

  To: Riley:

  Subject: Re 101 ways to murder bratty boys

  Breakfast at lunchtime?? Cheeky cow!! I’ve been up and working since 6am thank you! Unfortunately. It’s a monastery – they don’t do sleeping in. In fact, they think 6am IS sleeping in!!! It sux. And yes it is snowing. Been snowing for 3 days solid. Snow sux! Yes it is bloody cold! The monastery has no heating at all. Some of the main rooms have open fires but even if somebody bothers to light them, the rooms are so big they don’t make much difference and they certainly don’t warm anywhere else. The older guys don’t feel the cold but Aiden and I do. I guess we’ll get used to it eventually but in the meantime we both look pretty strange with all the layers of clothes we have on. Today I can barely move as I am wearing thermals, jeans, t-shirt, sweatshirt, big woollen monk’s robe with hood, and a ski jacket – plus fingerless gloves and a beanie!

  The strange little room is apparently called the Redemption Chapel. Rev says of course he knew it was there – it’s just that nobody has bothered to use it for the last 400 years or so. So now it’s mine. Rev agrees it is an ideal spot to run the new computers from – we can put a satellite dish on the roof and it won’t be seen over the parapets – can’t have the locals thinking the monks have gone high-tech (even though we have). I will have to put a generator on the roof as well for the power but then I can have some heating as an extra bonus. I showed your pic to Rev and Aiden – we are all jealous, even if it does sound as if your show sux – they both say Hi. I’ve been thinking about your speaker problems – there’ll be an email coming shortly from Rev with some ideas he’s had.

  Luv ya, Sev

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thrusting our trays before us like battering rams, Mum and I fought our way through the holiday crowds in the mall’s food court, staked our claim to one of the few empty tables and tucked into our oversized muffins, spread with gooey white icing and a smattering of yummy raspberries. I pushed the froth on my cappuccino around with a teaspoon.

  “I hate it, Mum,” I confided. “I never thought I would hear myself say that I hated doing a show, but I am truly beginning to hate this one. Without Grant’s rubbish about his no-way-sexy legs, why are we doing it?”

  “Well,” said Mum, sipping her coffee delicately, “the City Council called for tenders from theatre companies wanting to supply the outdoor show and we decided to give it a go. Then we discovered a) how expensive it is to run, b) how much money you could lose if the weather turned nasty and c) that the Mad Hatters wanted to do the same show. Grant cunningly suggested that, instead of taking all the financial risks ourselves, we should just support them in their tender – so we did and so they got it and
we are tagging along, supposedly having all the fun without the hassles – although I gather it is becoming the other way around with you.”

  “It sure is. It was fun for the first couple of weeks but then their sound guy went away and I was left all by myself – then everything started to go wrong and I have no idea how to fix some of it. I can’t believe they were so mean last night, basically saying it was tough luck. Surely they could find me someone else to help. What if I tell them tough luck and quit?”

  “I hope you won’t – although I must admit that I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Between you and me I’ve come close myself once or twice. Don’t tell Grant I said that.”

  “Why? I mean why did you want to quit, not why shouldn’t I tell Grant. I thought you guys were enjoying yourselves?”

  “We are, most of the time. But that Heidi McCormack is a Grade A bitch. You would think she was the star of the show the way she acts – even though her part is even smaller than mine – and Grant is the Sheriff while her husband is only the King who doesn’t come on stage till the very end – but her husband is “THE PRESIDENT” so she thinks she can push everybody around.

  “But your husband is “The President” of our company and you’re not horrible to people.”

  “That you, my dear, I try not to be. I think of us as all taking turns and doing our best to make things work for the good of the show. Heidi, on the other hand, thinks the sun shines out of her own bum and that we should all kiss it whenever she approaches.”

  “I thought the sun was supposed to shine out the bum of her bratty monster.”

  “I’d like to slap the bum of her bratty monster,” Mum agreed. “But I think I would have to stand in line behind the rest of the company, stage manager first.”

  “Me first – she can take her turn if there’s anything left of him.”

  Mum laughed. “Enough poisonous talk – let’s cheer ourselves up with a bit of heavy-duty shopping. It’s a lovely day and because the set builders want to strengthen the steps behind the stage with no actors around to get in their way, we’ve got eight glorious hours before we need to be back at Mona Vale so where shall we start – clothes or shoes?”