Mysterious Blood Relatives (Obscure Blood Book 3) Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  © 2016 Christopher Leonidas. All rights reserved.

  Editor: C. A. Morgan.

  Cover Designer: Boris Dechovski.

  Published by Christopher Leonidas.

  ISBN: 9781310591884

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author, and the author hereby claims any responsibility for them.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Review Request

  Published Books

  Upcoming Books

  Social Media Platforms

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The bullet piercing Lucinda’s head was the last thing Detective Octa remembered before he passed out.

  It had been a month now and pain, both physical and emotional, resonated through his chest in the place where Juan had shot him. He adjusted himself against the wall in the same room where his wife had died. The moonlight shone in through the open window.

  “I shot him. I shot my brother.” Octa thought he had heard Juan say those words before he had fallen down from the pain. He couldn’t remember hearing Lucinda screaming, but the moment the bullet came out of Juan’s gun and disappeared into her head had been carved into his memory forever. He had passed out with the last blurry glimpse of Lucinda’s slack face dropping to the side as the blood trickled down from the penny-sized bullet wound in her forehead.

  Octa raised a hand and ran it through his hair, his eyes not straying away from the spot where he had been shot. Although the blood had been cleaned and all the ruined furniture from the room was taken away, the place still gave off the same deathly glow as it had that night. But, Octa reveled in it. Sitting in the empty room was doing him a world of good. At this point, he had lost everyone he cared about, everyone who had helped him find out exactly why his mother had been killed.

  His partner, Bob, had been taken care of, but that was only because of Bob’s own mistakes. He had shown up at Octa’s home and taken advantage of his hospitality. Trying to kill his wife, Octa drown him.

  Octa’s hand drifted to the wound site and massaged the skin around it absent mindedly as he took a still-painful, deep breath. Getting up, he took another deep breath and tried to calm himself. So much had happened, but he was still nowhere near solving the case of the missing children. Sure, it had been given to the FBI, but did the chief really think that he’d keep his hands off it? Especially with the teapots of blood present in every crime scene.

  Octa didn’t want to stop. That man who had told him that night to get in through the window had saved him, but who was he? While leaving an Italian restaurant, II Gabbiono, someone came up behind him in a sudden motion and muttered, “Do not turn around.” The man was very close to Octa’s back. He pushed the muzzle of a gun into Octa’s spine, warning him, “When you go home tonight, use the windows to access your house.” Octa felt a surge of frustration go through him. Grabbing the nearest thing, Octa threw it against the wall. The glass and metal smashed and fell. Octa realized it was a photo frame of him and Lucinda he had just thrown.

  “Damn it,” he muttered. He wanted to pick it up. Instead, he turned and left the room.

  “Everything in this damn place reminds me of you.” He mumbled as he walked down the stairs and into the kitchen to look for something to eat. There wasn’t much left in the kitchen either. Everything had either been taken away as evidence, or had gone rotten. Giving up, Octa opened the fridge and took out a can of beer. Popping it open, he was chugging it down when something moved in the corner of his eye. Slowly turning, Octa’s eyes widened.

  A person stood just outside of the open front door of his home, shrouded by darkness, as Octa had stopped using any of the lights in his house. Octa lowered the beer can as his other hand subconsciously moved for the gun on his belt.

  Oh, my God! Octa thought.

  The person had a heavy build and stood stock-still in front of the door.

  Hand resting on the gun’s hilt, Octa raised his voice. “Who are you?”

  The person didn’t say anything. Just stood there looking in as Octa’s mind raced.

  Octa drew his gun and he pointed it at the stranger, ignoring the pain in his chest. “Who. Are. You?” he asked, menacingly.

  Finally, the person’s shoulders drooped as if with a sigh. Turning, the stranger left the house, apparently unfazed by the gun pointed in his face.

  Octa was bewildered. “What the hell was that?”

  Keeping his gun steady in hand, Octa followed and saw the person walking slowly away from the house. Octa hurried after him, not wanting him to get out of his sight. It was as if the man didn’t care about being followed as he kept on walking a steady pace. Octa kept an eagle-eye out. There had been so many attempts made on his life that he didn’t want to take any chances.

  The man vanished around a corner and Octa panicked, quickening his pace. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a fist whooshed out and whacked him straight on his wound. Octa doubled over, but not before he took a swing at the invisible force that had hit him. He didn’t hit anything. The pain was too much. He gasped as his lungs struggled to breathe.

  A voice snarled in his ear. “I tried to help you. I let you live. I told you what to do and this is how you repay me?”

  Another fist made contact with Octa’s jaw and blood rushed into his mouth.

  “I took a real risk coming out and saving your ass. And this is what you do? What the hell is wrong with your family? Your father’s a killer, your mother was a whore, your wife was a slut, and you’re nothing but a failure that couldn’t even control his retarded brother? I should’ve known. And now look at what has happened. You’ve let your brother loose and it’s all your fault. Forget about the three-day rule! Had your relative not told me to not kill you tonight, I would have chopped your head off and put it on a spike in your front yard. I am tired of taking care of your messes.”

  The man suddenly grabbed Octa’s hair and slammed his head against the ground. Octa tasted the sidewalk.

  “Solve this. I’ll give your regards to you loved one,” the voice growled. A rough hand grabbed Octa by the hair and slammed his head on the ground again. A moment later, footsteps faded away.

  Octa stayed on the ground a long time. His chest throbbed, and now his head hurt so bad he felt dizzy even laying on the ground. He wondered why no one had seen anything from around the neighborhood.

  Slowly Octa got to his feet and realized that he had followed the man to the corner of a playground near his home. He was partially hidden beneath a tree and as it was God knows what time at night, it was highly unlikely that anyone would have seen anything. Octa searched for his gun. The man who had helped him before was now angry, presumably, because he hadn’t controlled Juan.

  A month ago, the situation with Juan had gone horrendously wrong. Because of the noise, the neighbors had called the police, who had broken down the front door and gotten to Octa just in time to save his life. Juan was gone by then with the money he had collected from the hous
e. It had been stolen by his greedy, gambling, useless brother. But Octa hadn’t told anyone anything. He hadn’t reported how he had heard Juan ask his bound wife for a ‘last roll in the hay’ before he had attacked Juan. For all the chief knew, this was a home invasion which had gone terribly wrong. As for Octa, it didn’t matter now whether his wife had cheated on him with his brother or not. She was dead.

  He ambled home dazedly, trying to make sense of what had just happened. When Octa arrived home, he saw the front door was still wide open just as he had left it. He stumbled in, looking for the light switch, he realized that someone was standing in his darkened kitchen, holding his discarded beer can.

  Octa froze. This was the last thing he needed tonight, another person who wanted to kill him or wanted to threaten him. But then the person shifted as if sensing that someone was standing behind them, and turned. Octa took in the image of a slightly older woman dressed in a conservative pantsuit. He stepped closer. The light from the neighbor’s porch was shining through the window. With fair skin, darkish hair and a lithe figure, she cast quite an impression, but then Octa noticed something, green eyes.

  “Hello, Octa. You probably don’t know me,” said the woman. She had a raspy voice, the product of too many cigarettes, perhaps.

  Octa shook his head. “I know you.”

  The woman reached forward and extended her hand stiffly. “I’m Chelsea Cracker. I was your mother’s sister. I died two years after she was murdered.”

  Octa had a headache. “But here you are.”

  Chelsea Cracker slowly dropped her hand and smiled a sad smile. “But here I am.”

  Chapter Two

  Octa stared at the woman as his head started to clear. Something snapped in him.

  “You died from cancer. How did you fake your death?” he demanded.

  Chelsea Cracker sighed. “Perhaps we should sit down.”

  Octa gestured to the seats near the island in the middle of the kitchen. Chelsea went over and sat stiffly, waiting for Octa to join her, with her hands clenched together in her lap.

  Octa didn’t sit, but grabbed his leftover beer in the can and leaned against the island for support. He ignored the piercing pain in his chest.

  “Go on. Tell me,” Octa said, taking a swig of his lukewarm beer.

  Chelsea spoke. “Octa, you know why this was happening. You know what your father has gotten into. I had to get out before they got me too. My sister was dead. Her husband had vanished. You were just a child then, and so was Juan.” She didn’t notice Octa stiffen at the mention of Juan’s name.

  “Your father and I didn’t quite get along, so you didn’t even know much about me. It was quite easy for me to vanish forever. I had my own sources, and I used them wisely. It took me those two years to finally wrap things up, and my plan went flawlessly. A friend covered for me and told everyone that I died a painful death from cancer and I was cremated.” Chelsea took a deep breath. “Octa, I did this for my safety. And you know that no one looks for you once you’re dead.” She said, looking down at her hands.

  Octa observed her dryly. “Then why come back from the dead now?”

  His once-dead aunt shivered. “Because I’ve been seeing and hearing about those dead children, and the connection with the stupid teapot filled with blood. I remembered what had happened with your mother, Molly. It’s not like I could forget. I knew about all the other detectives as well. I know that they all died within days of taking over this case, and now you’re taking it over as well. I had to come and stop you. I can’t let you die.”

  Octa snorted. “Like your not wanting me to die is gonna stop that.” He crushed the now empty beer can with his hand and threw it away.

  Straightening up from the island, Octa glared at Chelsea. “I’ve been hunted down far too many times. You being here isn’t going to make any difference to those who are out to get me. I know someone wants to kill me. I don’t know who, but I’ll find out. I know a lot more than I did before. I know how many people on the force are actually on the wrong side, and I’m not going to stop until I finish this thing.”

  Chelsea stared at Octa.

  Octa continued. “As for your concern for me, I was doing fine without it. I lost my wife a month ago, for Pete’s sake. I’m still standing, and I’m a lot stronger than you think, so you can get out of my life and die again for all I care.”

  Chelsea remained silent as Octa’s breath rose heavily. He was frustrated now.

  About fifteen days ago, Octa had tracked down Juan in a mental institution and had talked to him for only a few seconds on the phone. Octa had only said two words, “Get ready,” and after that he hadn’t contacted Juan. He already had a lot on his plate. Juan was placed there for mental evaluation after he murdered Lucinda.

  His aunt stared at him, but he recognized pity when he saw it. Before he could say anything else, his aunt asked him. “Do you realize how much of an idiot you are?”

  Octa made a face at her.

  “You’re so angry over everything. You want to solve this case and yet you don’t realize that the biggest lead in this case is sitting right in front of you!” she exclaimed angrily. Getting up from the chair, Chelsea came close to Octa.

  “You’re missing the other reason why I’m here. I looked at all the details in the newspapers. I read how the children were murdered, and now I want to stop this, because I know why these children are being killed. I don’t want any more of this,” she said passionately.

  Octa cooled down quickly. She was right. He didn’t know the reason behind these murders. A serial killer was out there. Could it be his own father, who apparently suffered no guilt over killing people, as he had already done with to his mother. But even that case was so complex that he couldn’t make head or tail of it.

  Taking a deep breath, Octa nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He looked down at his feet.

  His aunt backed down, but he could still hear the sound of her rapid breathing.

  “You want to tell me all about this, so tell me. I’m here,” he said, looking back into his aunt’s green eyes. The intensity in them softened at his words.

  “Not here, Octa. I took quite a big risk coming here to talk to you. For all we know, you might be under surveillance, and by now, they already might even know that I’m not actually dead. We need to meet some place safe,” Chelsea said, looking over her shoulder at the same door through which Octa had spotted his mystery guy.

  “You’re probably right. How about I find a place? Somewhere where it’s safe?” Octa offered.

  Chelsea dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “No. You don’t know the safest places. I’ll contact you and tell you the details. I’ll find a way,” she said resolutely.

  Octa nodded in agreement. They stood silently, looking at each other. Octa’s head spun with all these new revelations, but he still wanted to know what the mystery man meant when he mentioned Juan.

  Chelsea suddenly raised her hand and slowly put it on her nephew’s cheek. “You know, you don’t look like either of them. Molly always wondered who you took after. It’s just a good thing that you got your father’s hair color and his stubbornness, otherwise we might have been in danger of him accusing Molly of adultery.”

  Octa raised his eyebrows. Not the best of compliments, but it was a start. Removing her hand from his cheek, Chelsea cleared her throat and stepped away, making her way to the back door in the kitchen, which led out into the garage. She stopped at the door, with her hand at the knob.

  Turning, she spoke softly. “I’m sorry about your wife, Lucinda. It can’t ever be easy to get over the death of a loved one.”

  Octa shrugged. “It’s not.”

  “At least you have me. So we both understand the nightmares the other has about the person who died so violently,” she said.

  Octa was silent. Chelsea nodded her goodbye and gestured toward the still-open front door. “You have a visitor.” And with that, she was gone.

  Octa turned just in
time to see a police officer enter slowly, his hand on his pistol. He spoke loudly. “Detective Octa.”

  Octa called back, “It’s alright, officer. I’m here.”

  The officer visibly relaxed and Octa recognized him as the same officer he had spoken to when his childhood home had caught on fire.

  Walking from the dining room into the living room, Octa looked back at the now-closed kitchen door.

  The officer reached down, unsnapped his walkie-talkie, and said something in hushed tones. Placing it back, the officer spoke anxiously. “Sir, we need you on scene. The station tried contacting you, but you weren’t picking up, so they sent me over to check on you.”

  Octa blinked. “But I’m on leave. The chief knows that,” he said, annoyed.

  The officer nodded quickly. “We know, sir, but it’s Chief Albany who wants you on the scene. She said that you’re the only one who would get any semblance of what’s going on over there.”

  Octa paused. “How bad is it?”

  The officer grimaced. “Let’s just say that with the serial killer whose butchering children for fun, we all thought we had seen everything. But apparently, we were wrong.”

  Octa was curious. “Are we looking at a serial killer?”

  The officer’s expression said it all.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Octa arrived at the crime scene, the whole incident had already become the subject of a media frenzy. Vans from numerous media outlets stood near the barricades as the reporters spoke above one another, reporting the scene as ‘a brutal bloodbath’.

  Fighting his way in, he spotted the chief standing next to a member of a forensics team near the entrance of the home where the murder had taken place. The house was in a typical suburban neighborhood, which was why many were shocked that a murder had occurred there. He caught snips of conversation. “…How could no one hear anything?” “There had to have been someone—I mean, look at the state of that place. They must have screamed.”

  Octa had had only take two or three step inside, when the chief spotted him. “I know you’re on medical leave, but this case requires your expertise, so thanks for coming.” Octa nodded as the chief motioned him to her, and where, at first glance, Octa balked.