Oliver Crum and the Blood Seekers

  Oliver Crum and the Blood Seekers

  Oliver Crum Book Three

  Chris Cooper

  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

  Enjoy the Book?

  About the Author

  Oliver Crum and the Blood Seekers

  Published by Dreadful Media

  The characters in this work are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Copyright © 2019 Chris Cooper

  All rights reserved.

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  Chapter One

  Fluffy white flakes drifted from the overcast sky in large clumps. Izzy and Oliver stood on the front porch while Pan ran through the yard, trying to catch the icy treats in his tiny corgi maw. Whenever he caught one, he would chomp victoriously, only to realize moments later it had mysteriously vanished.

  “First snow of the season,” Izzy said, taking a deep breath. “You can smell it in the air.”

  “I think that’s the sauerkraut you’re smelling.” Oliver crinkled his nose. “Who makes sauerkraut for Thanksgiving, anyway?”

  Izzy put her hands on her hips. “First of all, we agreed to refer to the holiday as A Day of Remembrance for our Exploited Native American Brothers and Sisters. And I grew up eating sauerkraut every year. It’s a German thing.”

  “Can we at least come up with an abbreviated name? ADRENABS, maybe? Sounds nice and pagan.”

  Izzy sniffed the air again. “No time. The pie’s burning.” She turned and rushed inside.

  Oliver took one last deep breath of the chilly winter air. A cold front had come roaring in early on this Thanksgiving Day, cutting fall several weeks short and covering Christchurch with a thin layer of bright snow.

  A blast of warm air hit Oliver as he stepped through their front door. The oven had raised the temperature on the first floor by several degrees as dishes went in and out for the better part of the day. As he let Pan in behind him, the snow clinging to the pup’s fur quickly melted, leaving droplets on the floor as he scurried to the kitchen.

  Asher was sitting on the sofa, head buried in a paperback.

  “Didn’t you smell the pie burning?” Oliver asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” Asher replied, eyes darting up from his book. “Just got to the part where he battles the windmills, and I have a feeling it will not end well.” He set the book on the coffee table and stood.

  “I thought you were peeling potatoes,” Oliver said.

  “Already peeled the whole bag. Aren’t other people bringing potatoes too?” He smirked. “We’ll have enough to feed Christchurch ten times over.”

  “Has no one ever explained the power of leftovers to you? They’re what Thanksgiving is all about.” Oliver smiled while whispering “Thanksgiving” so that Izzy wouldn’t hear. He unzipped his coat and hung it on a hook next to the door.

  “Saved it,” Izzy said, returning triumphantly from the kitchen with Pan on her heels.

  Nekko, Oliver’s butterscotch tabby, waddled in behind them, carrying a jumbo marshmallow in her mouth.

  Oliver pointed. “Someone doesn’t want to wait for dinner. Might want to take that from her.”

  Izzy turned and sighed. “At least she’s not sticking her nose in the casserole dishes like last year. Let her have the marshmallow.”

  “She is a marshmallow,” Asher added, “with tiny little legs.”

  “You’re going to give her a complex,” Izzy replied as she bent down and struggled to pick the tabby up.

  After a few heaves, she gave up on lifting the cat, and Nekko took the opportunity to sneak under the sofa to consume her stolen treat in private. Pan stuck his nose under there but knew better than to follow.

  They headed to the kitchen to cover the last of the casserole dishes and pie tins for transport to the town hall.

  “You do this every year?” Asher asked, looking at the plethora of food scattered around the room.

  “Well, this is the first year we’re all getting together at the town hall, but eating until you can’t see straight is something Americans like to celebrate all year round. Today’s the only holiday dedicated to it, though,” Oliver replied as he pulled a length of aluminum foil free from the roll.

  “Let’s not forget the important tradition of spending time with all your least favorite family members and arguing about politics,” Izzy said. “Speaking of, how’s your mom?” She grinned.

  “Be nice. I talked to her yesterday, and she’s decided to spend the holiday on a Caribbean cruise. She told me she was taking my advice and trying to see more of the world. I’m sure she’ll spend most of her time reading on the deck, but at least she’s trying.”

  “That’s spontaneous of her,” she replied.

  More than a month had passed since his mom, Bev, had stood in the living room, brandishing a kitchen knife. Oliver could still hear the guilt in her voice when they spoke of the incident over the phone although he held nothing against her. The Siren’s song had been too strong for anyone to resist, including Anna. Still, he was happy the events had brought them closer together.

  Although his relationship with Bev came packed with years of baggage, it had vastly improved of late. Ruby, on the other hand, had become a ghost since he last saw her in The Parlor’s courtyard, standing next to the makeshift grave of her lost love. She’d promised to check in, but they’d heard nothing from her for the last month. He could tell the radio silence bothered Asher although the man refused to talk about it.

  “Need some help with those?” Asher asked Izzy as she struggled to lift a bowl containing an entire bag’s worth of mashed spuds.

  “You think I’m weak, don’t you?” she asked. “I’ll have you know I may be old and have arthritis, tennis elbow, and carpal tunnel, but I can lift a bowl—”

  She gripped the sides of the dish and tugged, trying to lift it off the counter. After several failed attempts, she nodded for Asher to take it.

  “Not a word,” she said.

  Pan lay underfoot, diligently waiting for dropped scraps.

  “Anybody home?” Anna shouted from the front door.

  “In here,” Izzy replied.

  Anna stood at the kitchen doorway, a pie dish cradled in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “I see you three have been busy. It’s roasting in here.”

  She set the pie plate and wine on the table and took off her coat. “Thought I’d stop by and see if you needed any help. Dad dropped me off on his way to the hall. He sends his regards and wishes you all a happy Thanks—” She looked at Izzy.

  “Day of Remembrance for our Exploited Native American Brothers and Sisters. It’s really not that difficult,” Izzy replied.

  “Right… that. Anyway, Dad says hello.”

  “How is he?” Izzy
asked. “Still fighting with the council over next year’s budget?”

  “He doesn’t like to talk about his mayoral duties when I’m around, but the Elders are giving him a hell of a time. Every time I see him, he’s grown more gray hair. Think he’s even considering retiring from the political life. He told me to let him know if you have any openings at the bakery.” She smirked.

  “Ha! Could you imagine?” Izzy asked.

  After wrapping the rest of the dishes, they loaded the station wagon and piled in for the short drive to the town hall.

  Cars lined the edges of the square where Izzy pulled the car onto the main road next to the market. She found a vacant spot near the town hall, and several Christchurch townsfolk emerged from the building to help unload.

  “Martin, good to see you,” Oliver said, opening the trunk.

  “You too. And Happy Thanksgiving!” Martin replied. He pulled a few pies from the baking racks stacked in the back.

  One Elder held the door open as they rushed inside to escape the cold, the sidewalk salt crunching under their feet.

  The town hall had been completely decked out for the holiday. Round tables draped with fabric tablecloths replaced the normal rows of wooden folding chairs, and cornucopia centerpieces sat on each table, overflowing with decorative gourds. Autumn wreaths hung along the walls, interspersed between filigreed orange-and-yellow banners.

  Oliver spotted Madeline, the Elder leader, across the room as she waved them over to a vacant serving table.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said as they approached.

  “You too,” Izzy said, refusing to say the name of the holiday aloud.

  “You can set all the desserts on this table, and I’ll get started opening the wine. Oliver, could you give Martin a hand with the coolers next to the front door?” Madeline asked.

  “Will do,” Oliver replied although Madeline had already turned her attention to another table.

  Martin patted Oliver on the back. “So how’s it been?” he asked, pointing him toward the front of the hall.

  “Oh, pretty good,” Oliver replied. “Find any exciting antiques for the shop lately?”

  Martin ignored the question, but once they were out of Madeline’s earshot, he leaned close. “Haven’t seen anything strange—you know—at the edge of the woods, have you? Haven’t seen any of them?”

  “Not a lot of action down that way,” he replied. “Seems like Briarwood’s keeping to itself. I still see a bit of smoke now and then but no people. It’s hard to see through the trees, though. I can just see tops of buildings.”

  Oliver bent down to grab a handle on a cooler, but Martin stopped him short.

  “I know this may sound odd, and Madeline would kill me for even asking, but if you ever think of going back there, I’d be happy to join. You could be my guide.”

  “Martin, if I go back, you’ll be the first to know, but I can’t see that happening soon.”

  “I know, I know,” Martin replied. “But just imagine the living history! If they really haven’t been outside the woods for centuries, think of what we could learn. If word ever got out, we’d have people coming in from all over the world to study the place.”

  “That’s if the people in Briarwood don’t try to kill us first. The less attention Briarwood gets, the better.”

  “Forgive me. It’s just not often—ever—that a history fanatic has the opportunity to see history firsthand.”

  Martin lifted the other end of the cooler, and they carried it to one of the serving tables.

  Since the Briarwood dome had broken, little more than a month prior, Martin had been overly eager to see the once-hidden town up close. Fortunately, the rest of Christchurch treated Briarwood as they had treated most other unsavory realities—with metaphorical earplugs.

  Oliver hadn’t been honest with Martin, though. Although the Briarwood residents were mostly keeping to themselves, on one occasion, he had seen a figure at the edge of the woods. He’d tried to convince himself the sighting was a figment of his imagination, but Gideon’s lumbering form was hard to mistake for an old tree stump. While tending to the bees one day, Oliver had seen the man standing just on the other side of the crumbled briars.

  Once they had finished with the coolers, Martin leaned close once more. “Good to see you, Oliver, and think about my suggestion,” he said with a wink before stepping over to Madeline. “Need help with anything else, love?”

  “A glass of red wine,” she replied. “And save me a seat. I’ll be over in just a minute.”

  Martin watched her with adoring eyes as she crossed the room to the mayor, who was in the middle of an epic story and at the center of attention of a group of men. He gestured wildly as the others in the circle let out deep belly laughs.

  After waiting a moment or two for a story break that never came, Madeline tapped the mayor on his shoulder and pointed at her watch.

  He excused himself from the group and took the podium at the front of the stage then tapped the microphone until the talk died down to a low hum.

  “If everyone would please take their seats, I’ll make it quick, so we all can enjoy the delicious spread.” He gestured toward the serving tables, loaded down with dishes of all shapes and sizes.

  Oliver sat with Izzy, Anna, and Asher at a table near the center of the room.

  “I’d like to start by thanking everyone for joining us today and for bringing their best dishes to share. Also, a special thanks to the Elders for organizing such a fantastic event.”

  The crowd applauded, and Madeline blushed, giving a dismissive wave to the audience.

  “When the suggestion of a town Thanksgiving crossed my desk, I have to admit that I was skeptical at first. But considering the eventful year we’ve had, what better way to celebrate today than by giving thanks together? So please… eat, drink, and if you end up a little too merry, make sure someone else is driving you home.”

  The crowd chuckled as the mayor raised his glass. “To Christchurch,” he said.

  “Here, here!” a few men in the crowd shouted as everyone lifted their glasses high.

  Although the townspeople were usually prim and proper, all bets were off when the crowd descended upon the food. Oliver was standing in front of Asher in line, watching his expression as he shuffled toward the row of impressive turkeys sitting glazed and glistening on a serving table. Another table had been entirely dedicated to various forms of spuds.

  Oliver returned to his seat after scooping a piece of Izzy’s apple pie onto his plate. Fortunately for the town, Izzy had spared them from the tofurkey she’d made the previous year.

  Asher sat down with a heaping plate of food so heavy that the table wobbled a bit when he set it down.

  “First time at a buffet?” Oliver asked him.

  “I couldn’t stop myself.”

  The feast began, and after fifteen minutes of voracious eating and drinking, most of the townsfolk filled themselves to capacity and leaned back in their chairs.

  “I’m going to die,” Asher said.

  “Mission accomplished,” Izzy replied, winking and tipping her toothpick in his direction.

  “Mission accomplished only once you’ve had dessert,” Anna added.

  Asher’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t.”

  “Dessert is an obligatory part of the holiday,” Oliver said.

  After another hour of socializing, the townsfolk trickled from the hall into the chilly winter air and back to their houses. Luckily, all were insulated by bellies full of Thanksgiving food.

  Izzy’s tires whirred on the icy road as she drove back to the house. After everyone shuffled inside, Oliver made the mistake of heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. As he stood there, overwhelmed by the amount of dishes that still needed washing, Izzy approached from behind.

  “They’ll still be here tomorrow,” she said.

  “Looks like the snow is really coming down now.” Anna stood next to the living-room window. “Didn’t know it was su
pposed to be this heavy.”

  Oliver peered out the kitchen window. Although the snow had started with sporadic flakes, it was coming down much more quickly and had already accumulated to nearly an inch.

  Izzy emerged from the hallway closet in a heavy winter coat. “Let’s go out back. Nothing like a fresh snowfall.”

  Oliver bundled up and headed out to the back porch. Pan squeezed through the door as soon as it opened wide enough and took a running leap off the porch steps into the snow. He dragged his nose through the white fluff as he ran, trying to collect as much snow in his mouth as possible and forming an icy wizard’s beard.

  Izzy had wrapped the beehives in black plastic, leaving enough room for the bees to come and go but preventing cold drafts from seeping through the hives. The rigid forms looked like miniature monoliths poking through the snow.

  Oliver looked out into the woods across the field. The Briarwood townsfolk had been trained to avoid the briars for so long that he doubted anyone would attempt to cross. In the few weeks since the Siren’s attack on the town, he’d planned to venture to the woods, to see what had become of the secret community, but memories of his last visit overpowered his curiosity.

  A snowball hit Oliver square in the cheek, sending a cold chill down his chest as bits of ice trickled into his shirt.

  “What was that for?” He spun around.

  Izzy stood giggling. “First snowball of the season! Had just enough to scrape one together—although still a bit too powdery, in my opinion.”

  As Izzy did a victory dance with Pan prancing around her feet, Oliver tried to cobble together another snowball but had little luck, and the awkward clump broke up in the air before reaching its intended target.