Book 3 of The Martyr's Vow series
Horror/Paranormal
Date Published: 12-15-2024
Publisher: Shadow Spark Publishing
A bloodline curse haunts monster hunter Armand Tarkanian, granting him the ability to summon the dead. But the more spirits he channels, the more supernatural energy threatens to tear him apart.
An unexpected invitation from distant relatives gives him a chance to learn more about his curse. What Armand finds in their moldering mansion is an odd assortment of Armenian traditions, dark secrets, and personal grudges.
Besides a history of genocide and tragedy plaguing his kindred, things aren’t what they seem: paintings shift and change, bones hang from trees, and the family’s elusive patriarch is a dakhanavar – a vampire from Armenian folklore.
When his undead host hungers for vengeance, Armand finds himself trapped between worlds.
He must choose: either take the Martyr’s Vow and pledge to sacrifice himself, or succumb to the dark impulses that claimed his ancestors.
Blood Family is a harrowing tale of generational trauma, folk magic, and ripping free from the past.
Excerpt
The biker in the corner has murder in his eyes, and he’s
staring right at me.
He’s a Neanderthal—a brute with a wild mane of unkempt hair
and a
beard down to his nipples, like some kind of hog-riding
Gandalf. He
occasionally glances at Vonnie, his mouth curled downward.
Breath reeking and leather jacket caked in what I hope isn’t
blood, the
beast grunts loudly to himself. At one point, he pauses and
scratches his
sideburns, like a dog with fleas.
Honky-tonk music from the jukebox fills the air and twanging
guitars
assault my ears.
Yee-haw.
Not that Vonnie and I aren’t strangers to places like this.
We’re both
wearing our denim vests—biker club patches prominently
displayed.
Legion of the Lamb. Fresno Chapter.
The clientele in that dive bar on a lonely stretch of
Highway 99 outside
Fowler is the kind of “grizzled” that would punch you in the
mouth for
looking at them the wrong way.
And now I’m staring at the barbarian who is still glaring
at me.
He’s thrown down beer after beer, and, after number four,
homeboy gets
really nosey and encroaches on my personal space.
“What’s his problem?” Vonnie mutters to me.
“Maybe they’ve never seen a beautiful woman in here,” I say.
Vonnie cracks a smile. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s it.”
I sip my beer, a cold pilsner we paid way too much for. “My,
Miss
Hudgens, what could it be then?”
“I think it’s that they don’t want a beautiful Black woman
in here,”
Vonnie says, gesturing at the nearby wall with her head. Her
hands slip into
her pockets, where I know she’s got her brass knuckles.
My eyes wander over the bar’s decor; shadowboxes filled with
medals,
a framed proclamation from the Daughters of the Confederacy,
more biker
paraphernalia than you can shake a stick at, and a framed
photo of Adolf
Hitler hanging near a Nazi SS flag.
“Oh, great. It’s a racist bar,” I mumble.
Vonnie also scans the room.
How had we missed it? I guess once you’ve been on the road
for hours
and you’re tired and thirsty, you don’t immediately notice
the decor.
The creep in the corner pushes himself away from his table
and starts to
stagger over. He has an awkward and stilted gait—like he’s
shit his pants.
He smells like that’s possible.
“Let’s see what the caveman wants,” I mutter to Vonnie.
The biker stares at Vonnie like he’s going to spit on her.
“We don’t get many darkies in here,” he says.
My eyes stray from the hairy beast to do a head count of all
of the other
bikers who are also staring at me and Vonnie. I realize
that, while the music
is playing, no one is talking. If shit’s going down, it’s
going down soon.
Instead of getting angry, Vonnie leans back against the bar,
her hands
still in her pockets, and replies, “What? You say
something?”
Now, the biker can do one of two things: Pretend that he
didn’t hear her
and repeat what he said or throw down.
Since I don’t really want the latter, I clear my
throat and intervene.
“Excuse me, my dude...” I immediately pause when the
Confederate
flag hanging on the wall catches my attention. “I see you’re
no stranger to
lost causes.”
“What?” He’s in my face now. His hot breath smells like ass
and he
looms over me like a mountain.
“What I meant was, we don’t want trouble.” I get to my feet
and stare
him down. Me and Vonnie kill things that go bump in the
night, so I’ll be
damned if I let some knuckle-dragger intimidate her.
“Too late for that, you race-mixing piece of shit. Go on,
before I kick
your ass.” It feels like he’s a foot and a half taller than
me, and massive.
The name “Gary” is embroidered on his dirty denim vest.
When you’ve had as many near-death brushes as I have, you
always
wonder the same thing. So, is this how it ends? Beaten to
death by a biker
named Gary in a white supremacist bar?
I glance away from Gary and notice that everyone else in the
bar is
wearing the same denim jacket. Large patches identify them
as “Fenrir’s
Minions,” a one-percenter biker gang with a
less-than-stellar reputation. I
imagine these guys participate in drug running, armed
robbery, and the odd
murder.
And me and Vonnie are right in the middle of their turf.
“Look, Gary. I don’t want any trouble...” I begin, but Gary
interrupts
me.
“Well, you got trouble, motherfucker.” He growls, like a
feral dog.
“Let’s start over. I’m Tark. Me and my girlfriend have been
riding for
hours and...”
“That... thing is your girlfriend, huh?” Gary smiles.
A bunch of his teeth
are missing. I wouldn’t mind making sure he loses a few
more.
“Excuse me? I’m not a thing. I’m a person,” Vonnie
says.
You could hear a pin drop. Not even the bartender, a bald
man with
sleeve tattoos up to his shoulders, makes a peep.
All is silent except for Gary’s low rasping growl.
“You fucking race mixer!” Gary gets up in my face. Ignorant
pissants
like him are always overconfident when they shouldn’t be.
“You don’t even
look white. I’ll bet you’re some kind of foreign
piece of shit. What are you?
Arab? You a terrorist, boy?”
“I’m Armenian.”
“What the fuck is that?” Gary grunts.
Second by second, I realize that this is not going to end
well.
“Come on, Tark. Let’s get out of here,” Vonnie nudges my
elbow.
Vonnie has always had better instincts than me. We’ve spent
years
hunting monsters—from vampires to demons to ghostly serial
killers—so a
brutish racist in a dive bar isn’t worrying me. But
protecting humanity sort
of meant all humanity, including ignorant turds like
Gary.
“You letting your bitch do the talking for you?” Gary
chuckles. Some
skinheads nearby laugh.
So far in my life, I’ve been abused by a domineering uncle,
pushed
around by my bigoted father, tortured by a cult leader,
marked by the
Armenian goddess of death, and attacked by everything from a
possessed
serial killer, ghosts, and zombies. If it’s from this world
or beyond, it’s
made my life a living hell. The last thing I’m going to do
is take shit from a
nonentity like Gary the Racist Biker.
“Listen, you worthless motherfu –”
I don’t get the rest out.
Gary pulls his fist back to punch me. Vonnie moves a few
steps to the
side and I grab the biker’s arm, throwing him off balance.
With a quick
lunge forward, I put my other hand on the back of Gary’s
head and drive
him face first against the notched wood of the bar. I catch
a glint of metal in
Vonnie’s hand as she brings her fist down against Gary the
Racist Biker’s
jaw. He slumps over, out like a light.
About the Author
ERIC AVEDISSIAN is an adjunct professor and speculative fiction author. His published work includes the novels Accursed Son, Mr. Penny-Farthing, Midnight at Bat Hollow, and the role-playing game Ravaged Earth. His short stories appear in various anthologies, including Across the Universe, Great Wars, and Rituals & Grimoires. Avedissian received a 2024 Fellowship in Prose from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts. He lives in New Jersey with his wife and a ridiculous number of books. Find him online at www.ericavedissian.com if you dare.
Contact Links
Twitter: @angryreporter
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