Original Sin (The Order of Vampires 1)

Prologue

Deep in the Pennsylvania Mountains

1934

The metallic stench of blood permeated the air. Pine needles and leaves cushioned each step, as the men crept closer to the putrid sounds of tearing flesh and growls. Blood trickled from a branch. Moonlight caught in a tangle of human hair matted to the rough bark of a tree. Ezekiel knew then, there was no salvation left for his brother.

Their heightened sense of smell hindered each step, as the rotting stench of littered corpses laced the wind. Underbrush, slickened by sticky massacre. Blood traveled like little tributaries into the nearby brook, dying the shallow waters red.

Greedy snarls tangled with hungry grunts as Ezekiel and the hunters eased in, none of them prepared for the sight that greeted them. His jaw trembled as his gaze twitched away, rejecting the slaughter before him. His brother, once the kindest immortal to ever grace this earth, bared his fangs and screeched an unholy, predatory growl, warning them not to take another step.

A knot of bloodied limbs hung limply over Isaiah’s crimson stained claws. His grip so intense, his nails embedded in the lifeless woman’s flesh. She was not his mate. None of them were. Thus the delirium swirling in his eyes as he gored himself on female mortal, after female mortal, in an endless search for the missing half of his soul.

“He’s feeish,” one hunter wheezed, while others gagged over the stench of carnage. “Step aside, Ezekiel. You shouldn’t have to watch.”

He couldn’t move. Rooted into the blood drenched ground, he burned the grotesque image of his bloodthirsty brother into his mind, promising to hold it there for eternity. This is what became of their gentle people when God’s call was not heeded. This was his brother’s forsaken fate.

A trail of genocide lay in Isaiah’s wake, and as Ezekiel stared upon the massacre, he felt responsible, on some level, for the crimes his brother had committed. This was the merciless gluttony of a madman—an animal—whose peaceful nature had been snuffed away.

“Isaiah, what have I let you become?” he rasped under his breath, brokenhearted by the tragedy before him.

So wild were Isaiah’s eyes, he did not register their threat, only their presence as he rutted into the limp corpse gripped in his arms. The instinct to bond remained, but his humanity had been stripped down to a raw nerve of instinct, a predator’s hunger now starved of benevolence.

Ezekiel reached a hand toward his son, who stared at his beloved uncle in shock. “I’ll need a weapon, Jonas. One that will end this.”

With trembling hands, his son loaded a bullet into the rifle, his gaze wavering between the gun barrel and Isaiah. They all wore the shame of this moment, each one of them responsible for not recognizing the insistence of the call when it fell upon Isaiah. As a mated Elder, Ezekiel should have been more attuned to his brother’s well-being, heeded the symptoms before they overtook his brother’s gentle manner and turned him into this.

As immortals, they were all susceptible to evil, each one running the risk of becoming the world’s most vile creature. But there were ways to avoid such horrific fates. If they had just helped Isaiah find his mate, his salvation, this could have been prevented. This was what their ignorance had cost them.

“Father,” Jonas whispered, handing him the rifle with quivering hands. “It will only anger him and put us all in danger. The human blood has made him strong.”

Ezekiel understood the boy’s fear. A bullet wound could only maim their kind. Bringing down an immortal of his brother’s age would take much more. Ezekiel would not allow anyone else the task. Isaiah was his kin, his responsibility.

“When I shoot, you run. Do not look back no matter what you hear.”

Jonas’s blue eyes widened with fear, but obedience kept him silent. The boy nodded and for the first time, Ezekiel saw him as a man.

He gripped his son’s shoulder, sensing the tremors under his skin. “Look at him, Jonas. One day you will have sons of your own and you must know their fate. Let this be a painful reminder of what becomes of us when we ignore the call of God.”

Jonas stared at his uncle as Isaiah impaled the sagging corpse and bared his bloodstained teeth with disregard. Jonas’s brow knit with confused disbelief, his gaze lowering to the ground as his body turned away from the horrific display. His fists clenched at his side.

Jonas and the other males would never forget the threat that accompanied God’s calling. Tradition dictated obedience, not only for the continuation of their species, but to save the human race from mass genocide. Left wild, one of their kind could easily exterminate legions of mortals. A feeish immortal put their kind at risk of exposure. Isaiah’s blessing had become a curse, and now it was Ezekiel’s duty to put him down like the animal he’d become.