Kindred: Kingpin (The Kindred Series Book 1)

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  “There was once an ancient and kind prince who fell in love with a beautiful enchantress,” Josaphine Morrigan begins to read to the little girl laying on her lap. The little girl – Tara Morrigan – is curled around her so tightly that Josaphine can barely move. A little hand rests atop the prominent bulge that is Josaphine’s heavily pregnant womb. Tara looks at her with wide and inquisitive eyes, waiting for her to continue, “He pledged his love for her and they were wedded soon after. Jealous of their bond, an evil demoness,” Josaphine’s voice dips low, menacing and she sees Tara’s eyes light with excitement, “tried to seduce the man. When her attempts failed, she pierced his heart with an enchanted dagger, causing him to die a slow and painful death,” here Tara gasps – as she always does every time Josaphine reads her the story, “Wanting to ease the pain of her love, the enchantress used an ancient magic to share some of his pain, so that he may pass peacefully. The magic was not without a price – and she took upon herself a matching scar to that of his wound upon her own body. Now, each person has a scar upon their body – called a Mark, identical to that of their supposed Kindred, their one true love.”

  “Just like mommy’s mark,” Tara reaches her hand to where Josaphine’s mark sits atop her wrist, “And daddy’s.”

  “Yes, baby,” Josaphine chuckles, “Just like ours.”

  “Will I find my Kindred one day?” Tara asks and she stumbles on the word ‘kindred’.

  “Of course,” Josaphine bends her head to place a soft kiss atop the little girl’s head, “And he’ll love you very much. Almost as much as mommy loves you.”

  “Love you, too, mommy,” Tara smiles, a big yawn overtaking her. She burrows into Josaphine’s side, already half asleep.

  CHAPTER ONE

  As she nears the media office building, Tara spots a small hunched figure leaning near the large double-set doors. As she approaches, the figure pushes off of the wall and turns to her. Tara slows, warily eyeing the pair of sunken but pretty blue eyes that seek her out. The figure – a woman – rushes to her, head dipped low and eyes wary.

  “Are you Ms. Morrigan, the reporter?” the woman asks in a hushed murmur, barely audible.

  “Um, yes,” Tara replies warily, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, “How can I help you?”

  The woman is hesitant at first; Tara sees the conflicted expression apparent as the woman contemplates whether or not she can trust the reporter. Tara’s seen that expression before, in many of the contacts she’s acquired over the years, so she gives the woman a reassuring smile, “It’s our duty to protect our sources,” she tells her, “I promise to do my best to keep you safe but I can only do so if you tell me what’s wrong.”

  Something in what Tara says must persuade the woman because she heaves a relieved sigh, “I think my boss might be smuggling drugs.”

  And that’s how she finds herself standing outside of club Tempest at 10pm that Friday night, following a tipoff about an underground drug dealership. The club sits on a busy street uptown, lined with other upper-class nightlife activities that she tries to pay little attention to. It’s still early in terms of club operating hours but the line to get into the building stretches out along the street, almost three blocks long. People of all ages wait to get in – the only thing in common is the way everyone is dressed.

  Expensive cocktail dresses and designer clothes hang off of the people who wait to get in and Tara spots a few familiar faces from the front pages of their local gossip columns. Westbrook City is known for their high class citizens, their celebrities, heiresses and tycoons. She isn’t surprised at the type of people who seem to frequent Tempest, nor is she surprised that it may be a possible drug peddling front.

  “Tell me again, how Rossin managed to get us onto the list?” Eric, her photographer and fellow reporter, asks as they near the front of the line. He runs a nervous hand through his black locks, messing up the style Tara had spent almost twenty minutes trying to perfect.

  “She wouldn’t say,” Tara shrugs, eyeing him in the tight-fitting black suit that he dons, a stark contrast to the same pair of jeans and plaid shirts she’s used to seeing him in, “Frankly, I don’t want to know.”

  Eric turns to roll his eyes at her comment, only for them to widen comically when he sees where her eyes rest, “Were you staring at my ass?”

  “I didn’t even know you had an ass until tonight,” Tara defends in a high tone, cheeks heating up with embarrassment as she looks away. With his long face and dark eyes, coupled with the messy ‘I’ve-just-had-sex’ hairstyle and his tight suit, she begrudgingly acknowledges the attraction she feels to him in that moment.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” he smirks, waggling his eyebrows playfully and Tara swats his shoulder.

  “We’re here to work,” she reminds him with a roll of her eyes.

  By the time they reach the front of the line, Tara’s been jostled aside and had her foot stepped on by too-drunk people at least six times. She glares at the floor with thinly veiled irritation as Eric gives the bouncer their names and the tall, burly man steps aside to let them in.

  “I don’t know why I agree to these stories,” she sighs as Eric holds the door open for her.

  “Because you’re good at your job and dangerously curious about everything,” he replies in a deadpan voice, eyes darting around the interior of the room suspiciously.

  She enters the club, glancing around as she takes in the scene. The entire room is tinted in a deep red hue, dimmed and complemented by the black furniture lining the inside. It’s loud, a sensual beat pulsing throughout the room and Tara vaguely feels as though she’s stepped onto the set of an expensive porn film. A bar sits at the far left of the room with a dance floor separating it from the raised booths on the right. People are everywhere – on the dance floor, seated at the bar, pushing between them.

  “So the source said one of the dancers would be able to give us some information,” Tara half yells into Eric’s ear, “Her stage name is Angel.”

  “Let’s wait a bit before we go snooping,” he tells her, spotting a bouncer eyeing them from the other end of the room. Eric tugs on her hand until they’re seated at the bar.

  The bartender is dressed lavishly in a sleek black designer suit and bow tie. His hair is shaggy but artfully styled so that it hangs over his eyes. He’s also the most attractive person that Tara has ever seen, with small, defined features, thick eyebrows and smoldering eyes that look lined with kohl.

  “What can I get you guys?” he asks them in a deep, thick voice that reminds her of chocolate.

  “Just two sodas,” Eric tells him before he goes back to scouting the club.

  People are very drunk and very horny as they rub against one another on the dance floor. It’s not her usual scene and she feels the loud base thumping through the speakers giving her a headache. There’s no proper stage but little platforms are situated all around the club. On them are woman in various states of undress. She suspects that Angel is in one of them.

  Eric chats up the bartender, pretending to be a rich heir out on the town with his foreign lover. Tara plays the part, batting her lashes and wrapping her hands around Eric whenever she can. She’s slightly baffled that the barten
der buys into the story so easily. She supposes her dark skin and the easy way she falls into her hometown dialect play their part in fooling him and she tries not to be offended by it.

  After an hour or so, she pulls Eric’s face towards her, lips heatedly brushing against his as she runs her hands up his back. Eric pulls away with a gasp, shooting the bartender a question about a secluded spot and the man grins at them before motioning towards the back of the room where Tara sees a hallway leading to the back of the club.

  They make their way through the dense dance floor and she feels hands grope all over her body, bile rising in her throat as someone’s hand passes over her legs. It’s the most unpleasant situation she’s ever been in but she powers through until they make it to the hallway.

  The passage is long, lined with many doors on either side and quieter, so that the music becomes background noise. She grimaces when she hears an exaggerated moan coming from one of the rooms.

  “Oh, wow,” Eric mutters, cheeks reddening profusely, “It’s one of those clubs.”

  “One illegal activity at a time,” she quips as they make it through the hallway.

  Eventually, she finds the dancers’ dressing rooms, where she assumes Angel will be. They knock a few times, until finally a pretty Asian girl with long dark hair quickly ushers them inside.

  “I know why you’re here,” she tells them, “Someone did say there would be reporters snooping around.”

  “How could you tell?” Tara asks in surprise and the girl laughs.

  “You two might dress like one of them but you stick out like a sore thumb,” she says, “I’m Angel, but you can call me Sola.”

  “Tara,” the reporter says with a smile, “All we want to do is help,” she continues in a soft voice, eyes attempting to convey her sincerity.

  “Did Nona send you?” Sola asks completely ignoring her words, and when Tara does nothing to indicate yes or no, the woman sighs and runs a hand through her hair, “Nona means well but she’s a bit of a drama queen. She probably thought she saw something she shouldn’t have and now she’s trying to save the day but, really, she’s just over-exaggerating.”

  Tara’s experienced enough to know that the guarded look in Sola’s eyes – disguised as nonchalance – means that she won’t get anything worthwhile from the woman without angering her. She decides not to push the dancer so instead she changes tactics, “It’s just that a source said something about the pay rate for the dancers here and they brought up a few issues about consent and working hours. I can help, you know,” she urges, “And your names would be left out of anything that’s published. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions regarding that?”

  Eric doesn’t react to the change in topic, simply let’s Tara ask her questions as he eyes Sola’s expressions.

  Tara asks Sola about every insignificant thing that will get the dancer to loosen up and trust her. She asks about dance routines, practices, wages, work hours, business ethics – grasping at any topic to get the dancer to loosen her lips. It works somewhat but Sola is experienced, has probably dealt with pesky reporters before so Tara’s questions and her attempts at conversation are nowhere near enough to get her the information that she seeks.

  After almost an hour of pretending to interview the dancer, Tara and Eric finally stand to leave, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Sola,” Tara holds out her hand for the dancer to shake, “I’ve learnt a lot about the exotic dance scene,” and her words are sincere, her curiosity mildly sated by what she’s learnt today.

  “It’s not as illegal as people would like to think it is,” Sola laughs as she grasps Tara’s hand in a warm grip and her voice sounds so light and good that Tara has a genuine desire to help this person even if Sola doesn’t want her to. She knows something else is going on, can feel it in her gut.

  “Go out through the back,” Sola advices them when they turn to leave.

  “What?” Tara asks with scrunched brows, “Why?”

  “Just trust me,” Sola tells her and something in her eyes makes the reporter want to listen to her, “Also,” she shrugs off the coat she’s wearing and hands it to Tara, “Wear this. It’s really cold out,” Sola does a good job of looking nonchalant but Tara sees her eyes flit down – just for a second – to her Mark.

  “I couldn’t,” Tara replies with a confused chuckle as she hands it back, uneasiness causing her heartbeat to jump.

  “Please,” Sola stresses and her voice sounds so distressed and desperate that the reporter takes the jacket with shaky hands. Something in Tara’s gut tells her that there’s an underlying meaning to Sola’s actions.

  She jumps when Eric scoffs next to her, “This is ridiculous,” he sighs, grabbing her hand and tugging her through the hallway and into the main section of the club again, against Sola’s protests. Tara barely manages to slip into the jacket as they go.

  She feels a strange, unnerving tingle on her spine, like she’s being watched but as she looks around the club, she sees no one paying her any close attention. The Mark on her collarbone thrums but she chalks it up to the base thumping throughout the room and quickly dismisses the feeling. They make it back out the club and to the parking lot without delay.

  “We got nothing,” Eric huffs out angrily once they’re in his car and on the way home.

  “We got her to trust me,” Tara shrugs optimistically, “That’s worth something.”

  “You’re not planning on going back, are you?” Eric asks warily, but he already knows the answer.

  “I can’t stand by and do nothing,” is her curt reply, “Something’s obviously wrong, I just know it.”

  “You can’t help every person that comes to you with a story, Tara,” Eric chastises, “This seems like a bit much, even for you.”

  “I’ll be careful,” she tells him and Eric’s known her for long enough to know that the look in her eyes means he won’t be able to dissuade her from pursuing the story.

  “I might not be able to come with you,” he warns, “We do have jobs to do.”

  “I won’t ask you to,” she shrugs, “Tonight was enough.”

  He parks his car out in front of a small, white building, turning to look at her with worried eyes, “And I can’t talk you out of this?”

  “Nope,” Tara tells him with a cheeky grin, “Thanks for the ride. Drive safe,” she gives him one last smile before climbing out of the car and walking up to the entrance of the small apartment complex.

  She scrounges in her bag for the gate remote, acutely aware of how silent everything is in comparison to the club they were at. It’s eerie but she takes comfort in the headlights of Eric’s car illuminating the area around her. Eventually, Tara finds her keys and scrambles through the gates, waving as Eric drives off. Her apartment is on the third – and last – floor of the apartment complex and the elevators still haven’t been fixed so she pulls off her heels and begins to tiptoe up the staircase.

  She hears the noise of a television programme coming from the second floor apartment underneath hers where an old lady – Mrs. Turner – lives alone, and makes a mental note to bring the older woman some of her grandmother’s roti when she has a chance. She has tubs of it sitting in her freezer, courtesy of her always worried grandmother who thinks that Tara doesn’t feed herself enough.

  When she finally reaches the third floor, Tara breathes lightly as she tries to find her house keys. She rummages around her bag for a moment, attempting and failing to find them from touch alone. She sighs, turning towards the balcony where the garden light hangs off of the second floor roof. It’s barely visible but she knows that if she stands at the edge, holding her bag at certain angle, that she’ll be able to just make out the contents in her bag. She finds it after only a moment of searching, spotting the keys wedged into the bag’s interior. Tara pulls them out victoriously, grinning as she holds them out in front of her. The grin falls off of her face when she looks past the keys and out onto the road.

  She sees a sleek black van parked ju
st outside the gate, too expensive and horribly out of place in her tiny little lower-class neighbourhood. The lights are off and the windows tinted too darkly so that she isn’t able to make out who’s in the car. She sees no number plate – the first sign that something is wrong – and lowers her keys with a trembling hand.

  For a moment, Tara just stares at the car, contemplating what to do. She can feel her heart beating erratically in her chest, fear constricting her throat and making it difficult to breathe. She lets herself be scared all of a moment, before she’s pulling out her phone, searching for a specific name.

  “Officer Min speaking, how can I help?”

  “Hey, Soran, It’s Tara,” she speaks into the phone, “Sorry to bother you at such a late hour.”

  “Hey, Tara,” Soran’s voice dips into a casual tone, “What’s up?”

  “There’s a suspicious car outside my apartment complex,” Tara chuckles nervously, “I’m not sure what to do.”