Preacher:Sons of Sangue

By: Patricia A. Rasey

Tonight, the noise of the partygoers was more of an annoyance.

Picking up a pebble, he tossed it into the surf, damn tempted to follow its path and swim until the ocean claimed him. However, Bobby had never been a coward and he wasn’t about to become one now. Facing life head-on had always been more his style. Vampirism hadn’t changed that. He was a survivor, and damn his fucked up DNA, he wasn’t about to give up now.

The full moon white-crested the waves crashing along the sand and washing over his feet. The wind tousled his hair and kicked up the surf, mimicking the turmoil roiling inside him. Taking a deep breath of the fresh ocean water, he rolled his neck and hoped to alleviate the tension.

No such luck.

It had been a mistake coming here.

Bobby had never been one to run from anything. Yet here he stood, an entire continent away from his MC brothers who had embraced him—the Sons of Sangue. Hell, he should’ve given them the chance to teach him the ropes.


Christ, it had seemed worse than a death sentence.

His new life was in direct opposition to the one he had left in the past. He had been a pastor, for crying out loud. Not once had he lost his faith in God, though his belief in the goodness of mankind had certainly wavered, his reason for leaving the ministry. Being part of the Devils MC had only solidified his view on the human race. Too many who had labeled themselves Christian became damn liars and hypocrites the minute they passed through the church doors and shed their Sunday clothes like the skin of a snake.

Maybe that’s why he had been drawn to the MC life.

No pretenses, no false illusions.

They dealt their own form of swift justice for sins committed against the club.

Leaving the Devils had been imminent, though. Bobby wasn’t sure why he had stayed with the ragtag bunch of criminals as long as he had, other than it being the closest thing he had ever had to a family. The sense of belonging swallowed up the loneliness that came hand-in-hand with being passed around the foster care system.

All that had changed in the fraction of the time it took for a finger to pull the trigger.

The carnage and bloodshed from the night in the cafe teased his memories as he looked across the black horizon. Everything had happened swiftly. Anton Balan crossed the parking lot of the restaurant, his appearance menacing and scary as fuck. Long white fangs extended beyond his full lips. Black pupils swelled and consumed his eyes. Anton had easily taken out both men guarding the door, dropping them dead where they stood.

Blood splattered the glass.

Fear, like he had never known, had gripped his gut and rooted him to the floor. Bobby had stared at the carnage in disbelief, praying to wake up from the nightmare unraveling before him.

Lord, he had been responsible for kidnapping Anton’s girlfriend and luring him to the cafe. Sure it had been on the order of the Devils’ president, though he doubted at the moment it would make a lick of difference to the monster before him.

Anton had yanked open the steel and glass doors with ease, taking out the scrawny biker named Spike with little effort. The biker dropped to the floor. Turning his attention to the club P, Tank had taken Anton by surprise, getting a lucky shot off and hitting the vampire in the gut. Bobby had sprung into action and tackled Tank before he could get a second shot off, taking a bullet to his own neck as a result. The last thing he recalled before blackness consumed him was Anton’s fangs sinking into Tank’s neck. He awoke some time later at the Sons of Sangue clubhouse, being informed he was now the very thing that had walked into the cafe and taken out every life in the place with ease.

What the fuck?

He hadn’t asked for immortality, yet here he stood. A freak of nature. At least, he wasn’t expected to prey on victims, to feed on the blood of the innocent. The Sons of Sangue had provided their own food bank in the way of the donor society, those that knew about the vampires and willingly offered up an artery. The donors wore a small vial of vampire blood around their neck, signifying they were a part of the secret society and thus food for those who sported fangs.

Bobby shook his head, feeling as if he stepped into some sort of twilight zone.

A sound caught his notice and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. A woman’s voice … a plea? Bobby peered down the beach, his newly gained night vision easily cutting through the darkness. The sand yawned before him, dark and deserted. He had almost convinced himself he had imagined the sound when a scream rent the air.

Springing into action, Bobby took off down the beach, sand kicking up behind him as his vampire speed ate up the distance. His nostrils flared, detecting the scent of fear. Slowing his pace, he looked between the houses, bushes, and fences when he heard another sound, this one muffled as if someone now held a hand over the woman’s lips. Bobby’s adrenaline elevated and his eyes heated. He needed to keep his emotions in check or risk his vampire DNA taking over.

The scent of human blood hung heavy in the damp night air, heightening his senses. Shit! His fangs punched through his gums. The muscles in his face grew taut over the changing bone structure. Too late. The tang of the spilled plasma had awakened the monster.