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  Blood Sworn

  The Newport House: Book Three

  Lauryn Evans

  BLOOD SWORN

  Copyright © 2020 by Lauryn Evans

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art: Coverinked Creative Book Cover Design

  For Ryan and Rachel:

  Thanks for being the best friends I could ask for, and for your belief in me.

  To find yourself, think for yourself.

  Socrates

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Blood Siege Excerpt

  About the Author

  Also by Lauryn Evans

  Prologue

  Everything was falling into place. It was better than he’d ever dreamed.

  It had been thousands of years since he fell. Thousands of years spent meticulously planning, of planting the seeds needed for what was to come.

  Man’s downfall. That was what he waited for so patiently. What had been thousands of years in the making. There was still so much work to do. By no means was his task complete.

  Still, his goal was so close, he could practically taste its sweetness.

  The cool wind ruffled the feathers on his wings, chilling him to the bone as he watched over his only creation—the vampire race. Scattered throughout the earth, his clever children laid low, tucked away from mankind’s eye. The first witches were the offspring of his legion and mortal women, but the vampires were all his own.

  They were his greatest accomplishment. That is until he finally succeeded.

  Over the years, humans had killed many of his children, but that was what he wanted. He wanted to drive man to kill, to poison his soul. What better way to do so than convince man that anything different from him was evil?

  First, he gave humans an enemy. Then he taught them to forge weapons of steel, the kind necessary for war. They’d built on the knowledge, of course. Now, they built war machines, firearms and atomic weaponry of their own.

  The student had become the master. It was everything he’d hoped for.

  Azazel’s sharp yellow eyes gleamed. His legion of fallen angels, the Watchers, knew their orders and obedient as ever, had already set out to fulfill them.

  He’d waited more than a thousand years for this moment. Soon, mankind would fall. And they would cause their undoing. All he had to do now was watch and enjoy.

  He reveled in the satisfaction.

  Azazel unfurled his massive ebony wings, stretching them out until they reached their full span. Leaping from his perch, he shot down, diving through the rolling clouds, where city lights came into view.

  Lelahel was near.

  She was so close, he could feel the power radiating from her. It faintly sang to him, sounding like music to his ears. He soared over cities and towns. The wind rustled his feathers as he followed the trace of Lelahel’s angelic core, her divine essence. He was so close to finally finding her, after all of this time estranged.

  Azazel could use Lelahel at his side. United, mankind would crumble beneath them. He hoped this crusade ended with the two of them, the way it began. But he knew Lelahel would require some convincing, especially now that she wasn’t her true self. In her current state, she didn’t know him. She didn’t remember all the battles they’d fought together side by side, the conversations they’d shared, or their time spent in heaven.

  Still, despite all that, he knew Lelahel—better than anyone. He was confident he could convince her.

  After all, they fell from heaven together.

  While the Creator sentenced him to spend the rest of his immortal life as a dishonored angel, Lelahel had lived countless mortal lives, each with no memory of the ones that came before. Her angelic core hopped from one body to the next, leaving at the time of death and arriving during conception. Each time, she was born into a bloodline descended from fallen angels. With diluted angel blood pumping through their veins, they were the only vessels strong enough to contain her.

  As the bright city lights darkened into small towns, Lelahel’s power signature grew stronger, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. She was close, very close now, within a five-mile radius. He found himself in Tiverton, a small town in Rhode Island by the Massachusetts border. Perching himself in a tree by a modest house, his yellow eyes sliced through the closest window. There was a slender youthful woman inside, with eyes of modest amber, who gently braided her brown hair while sitting on the edge of the bed.

  Azazel’s eyes widened in surprise, and he was taken aback by the woman’s eyes. Lelahel’s mortal form was no longer mortal, but immortal—a vampire. How fitting it was that she became one of his children during her time on earth. Perhaps convincing her to join his cause would be easier than he thought.

  But something told him if any part of Lelahel stayed, it would be her fierce loyalty. He would have to break her, using what she cared about to bend her to his will and gain her allegiance. His eyes narrowed. It was an added trouble, but a worthwhile one. One he knew she would never forget.

  And never forgive him for.

  Azazel was used to making sacrifices. In the end, she would see that he’d done this all for them. Even if their redemption meant she spent an eternity hating him, it would be worth it.

  It would all be worth it.

  It had been at least a thousand years since he’d last seen her. At the time, her soul lived within the body of a blonde Lightblood witch, known by the name Aurora.

  Since then, he’d spent a thousand years searching the four corners of the earth to find her. But he’d had no success. She’d hidden herself well.

  He had the chance once, but he let her slip through his fingers.

  He would not fail again.

  After all this time searching, Azazel had finally found her. That, he reasoned, was cause for celebration. One minor victory, but the war was far from over. Once Lelahel was by his side again, the days of man ruling the earth would be over.

  And the heavens would rue the very day they exiled him.

  1

  A loud knock wrenched Renata Courtenay’s nose from her book. Her amber eyes darted up from the yellowed pages, toward the front door. The book was the only thing of her late father’s she’d managed to save from the mansion in Newport during the fire. And even though Renata had read Alexander’s copy of Charles Dickens’ famous novel at least a thousand times already, she still hated being interrupted.

  Miss Havisham and Estella would just have to wait a moment.

  Renata plopped Great Expectations down onto the coffee table with a sigh. She stood up from the couch to greet whoever waited outside, anxiously wondering who it could be.

  Jackson Crowe, her retired vampire hunter boyfriend, bounded down the stairs as soon as the knock sounded, running his hands through his thick black locks.

  It seemed like both of them expected some kind of trouble to follow, given all that had happened during the past year. The House members endured a multitude of the Order of the Seven Blades’ attacks, Nightblood witches, and even the risen dead.

  Renata was fairly sure they’d seen it all.

  “You’re not expecting a client today, are you?” Jackson asked as he trailed behind
her, his shoulders tense.

  After the Newport mansion burned down about three months ago, the House members moved to their new home in Tiverton, Rhode Island, where they’d lived ever since. Since the move, they could not host the lavish parties that used to be their source of blood and income. To compensate for the loss of revenue, Renata and the other House members started an event planning business to pay for utilities and other twenty-first century necessities—keeping the House afloat.

  “No,” Renata reached for the door handle, bracing herself. “This is just as much a surprise to me as it is to you.”

  The Mistress of the Newport House didn’t quite care for surprises. No matter how exciting they were.

  Renata opened the door, eager to see who waited outside. Clarissa Bancroft, leader of the Lightblood witch coven, stood in front of the open door with a grim look on her face and her arms tightly crossed.

  “Hello, Clarissa. What a pleasant surprise,” Renata said coolly, careful not to betray her apprehension. She didn’t know why the witch was here. But, ever the good hostess, she welcomed Clarissa in with a smile, gesturing towards the kitchen. “Please, come in.”

  The Lightblood witch murmured a quick “Thank you” as she ducked inside the cozy Cape Cod style home.

  Catching Clarissa’s dire look, a wave of unease rippled through Renata. Her magic stirred. “Is there something wrong?”

  She internally scolded herself. Clarissa was there, at her doorstep, of all places.

  Of course there’s something wrong.

  The last time Clarissa knocked at her door, Renata made it very clear she wasn’t interested in joining the coven. What other matters could have brought her there?

  Whatever had been keeping Clarissa together suddenly fell apart. “The ancestors,” she choked out, putting her face in her hands. “There’s something wrong.”

  Renata furrowed her brow, turning her head toward Clarissa. “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t feel them, Renata.” Clarissa’s frustration morphed into desperation as she clenched her hands into fists. “It’s like they’re gone.”

  Renata didn’t need to look in a mirror to know how pale she’d gotten.

  Aurora’s magic, her magic, had been feeling off lately, as if it knew something wasn’t right. She’d brushed it off, thinking it was nothing.

  Until now.

  Since the Nightblood witches re-forged her split soul about two months ago, she’d been learning her magic’s tendencies. It was its own entity. Even though it was a part of her, it sensed things on its own, separate from her thoughts and feelings. Renata had a feeling that other witches’ magic didn’t have a mind of its own the way hers did, and that was merely one aspect of her newfound power.

  Magic was surely taking some getting used to.

  When the witches repaired her soul, Renata learned that she was Aurora Courtenay in a past life. Since then, some of Aurora’s memories had resurfaced. Renata didn’t know much about the witch ancestors, but Aurora’s memories showed her their importance to the coven’s survival. When a witch died, their coven consecrated their body, restoring the natural balance by returning borrowed energy. Aurora never had the chance to join her ancestors—a split soul couldn’t be consecrated. Her magic had been passed onto Renata instead, freed once the two halves of her soul were reunited.

  The ancestors themselves were the source of the living witches’ power. Without the connection to them, the coven would be weak. Clarissa’s own magic must have been compromised if she was truly as desperate as she seemed.

  “What do you need me for?”

  Renata dreaded the answer as soon as she asked the question.

  “We need to perform a ritual to speak with the ancestors. If we can forge a connection to the spirit realm, they should be able to tell us what’s wrong. But,” Clarissa stretched out the word, “at the moment, we’re not strong enough to do it on our own.”

  Renata was silent for a moment, considering her options. Clarissa already extended an invitation for Renata to join the coven, and she’d denied. Even if she helped Clarissa now, she had no interest in joining. Whatever mess the Lightbloods got themselves into, she wanted no bigger part in it.

  “I’ll help you.” Renata said firmly, “But that doesn’t mean I’m joining your coven.”

  “Of course,” Clarissa shot out, relief bleeding through her voice. “Thank you, Renata.”

  Jackson opened the door for her, sensing their business was settled.

  “I’ll contact you with information regarding the ritual,” Clarissa told her, stepping outside into the night.

  Renata nodded, a fake smile plastered on her face. “Take care.”

  Jackson waited until Clarissa got into her car before turning to Renata. “This can’t mean anything good.”

  “No, it can’t.” Renata placed her fingers on her temples, hoping to lessen her stress.

  Part of her wondered if she made the right choice. Yes, she worried that helping the Lightblood coven would drag her House through their problems—or worse, put her House members in danger—but part of her couldn’t deny Clarissa’s plea for help. As a leader, Renata completely understood where Clarissa was coming from. If their roles were reversed, she’d have been eternally grateful for Clarissa’s aid.

  Still, Renata couldn’t shake the dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. What made her feel even worse, was that her gut feeling was usually right about everything.

  “How charming,” Mariel Ricci teased, auburn curls bouncing as she slowly descended the staircase. “You actually do have friends, Renata.” She pursed her lips. “Well, other than us, of course.”

  Renata raised her hands in surrender. “If that’s what you want to call her.”

  Not that Renata held anything against the witch, but she wasn’t exactly sure she’d consider her a friend. She didn’t know where she stood when it came to Clarissa Bancroft, and that made her nervous.

  “Oh.” Mariel’s joking manner fell. “Well then, who was it?”

  “None other than Clarissa Bancroft,” Jackson chimed in, a bit on edge.

  Renata shot him a grateful look.

  Mariel’s carefree attitude quickly morphed into concern, her resolute tone betraying her. “What on earth do the witches want with us?”

  Mariel had been through a lot. Not that Renata knew the whole story, but the way Mariel’s body went rigid at the thought of witches seeking her Mistress... It was enough to show the depths of her fear.

  But they’d all seen what a coven of witches would do for their ancestors. The Nightblood witches attempted to bring down the veil between this world and the next for theirs.

  “They want my help with a simple ritual,” Renata said, not wanting to let on much. “It’s nothing important,” she assured her, hoping to ease some of Mariel’s anxiety.

  Mariel nodded pensively as Renata’s words sunk in, before the redheaded vampire trailed upstairs, dragging her finger along the railing.

  “Look at you,” Jackson said. “You always protect everyone.”

  “Of course I do,” Renata laughed. “It is my job, you know.”

  Jackson’s big brown eyes found hers, his thumb gently stroking her chin. “Sometimes, I wish you’d let someone protect you.”

  Renata opened her mouth to respond, the words lingering on her tongue.

  A whooshing sound by the door tore her gaze from Jackson. She knelt down to pick up the culprit, surprised to find a small, folded piece of notebook paper on the floor in front of her.

  “What’s that?”

  Renata was so focused on what she assumed was a note, that she barely heard Jackson’s light footsteps trailing behind her.

  Sometimes she forgot that he’d been trained to kill people like her. That, at one point, he used to hunt vampires. Even though he’d abandoned that life a long time ago, some of his old habits still lingered—stealth being one of them.

  Renata unfolded the paper, shaking away the thoug
ht. “A note,” she said, peering at the words scribbled inside. “The details Clarissa promised.”

  Jackson apprehensively slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Ren, are you sure about this?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Renata assured him, knowing how much he worried about her. “It’ll be fine.”

  He conceded with a sigh and crossed his arms, knowing he would lose that battle. “When are you meeting her?”

  “Tomorrow,” Renata read from the note. “Tomorrow at midnight.”

  2

  The navy pickup truck let out a low grumble as Renata pulled into the small driveway at the address Clarissa instructed in her note. With a yawn, she hopped out of the vehicle, hoping she’d get this over with soon. At the moment, she really wished vampires were nocturnal, like they were in the movies. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so sleepy.

  Renata knew the GPS system had taken her somewhere near the outskirts of Providence, but she wasn’t too familiar with the area. Even though she wasn’t sure where she was, she made her way up to the compact house, lightly knocking on the front door.

  Renata heard the movement from inside the house before the front door opened, and she made a vain attempt to fix her messy, shoulder length, chocolate-brown hair. An unfamiliar woman, who Renata assumed was a witch, answered with a polite smile before making room for her to go inside.

  She shot out a somewhat quiet, “Thank you,” as she ducked inside the house where, as expected, nine witches prepared for the ritual.

  The house was neat inside, with some furniture. There was a small wooden table and chairs and a couch. There were shelves along the far wall, lined with old leather-bound books, with fraying yellowed pages. Sheets of paper stuck out in between the books, probably being used to mark certain pages. On the other wall, there were wooden cabinets, filled to the brim with white candles, both used and new, and multicolored crystals. There were jars with strange liquids and powders inside them, on top of more sheets of paper with writing scribbled on them. Potted plants were placed around the room, each a distinct type of herb—probably used for rituals, no doubt.