Free Tears of Blood (The Blood Chronicles) by Tamela Quijas Page A

background wasn’t as pristine as those select and carefully chosen senior members of The Brotherhood were. Regardless of his need, and desire to make amends for the actions of the past, he held an unforgiving monster deep inside him. The black chips, the glistening bits of iridescent obsidian, revealed the truth of his creation.
    His friend, long ago and earlier in his conception, had committed atrocities against the guiltless. Amado had spilled guiltless blood in his voracious and newly formed craving, intentionally seeking the unwilling and chaste as victims to satisfy his unquenchable yearning. Unrepentant in his hunger, untrained and vicious, and innocence hadn’t meant much as he sought to quench the thirst tearing at his body. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he questioned if Amado truly regretted the lives taken in the early years. A part of his subconscious wondered if he secretly missed the long reaching fingers of the vampires who created the sickening underworld from which even creatures of myth avoided.
    At some point during the last century, intent on seeking those worthy of possible redemption, the fellowship had sought the ex- movie star out. The group’s previous leader, a renowned judge, had drawn the tormented vampire into their fold. Regardless of the protests of his followers, Anthony Vale believed there was a redeemable quality existing in the former actor and lost soul, and he intended to convert him.
    To this day, Dominic wondered if Vale’s decision had been wise. He realized, despite their shared past, a sense of darkness lingered in the man’s ruined soul. , he hoped his thoughts weren’t apparent in the gilded shadow of his eyes, and stared at the sleek black of Amado’s hair. Shaking his unease away, he lifted his golden gaze to the books lining the shelves. He didn’t consider Vale’s choice the act of a foolish old vampire. A decade ago, Amado’s particular brand of acting and understated evilness had granted him acceptance by a mob leader intent on murdering famed romance author Genie Carter. If it hadn’t been for his expertise, Dominic suspected he’d have lost the only woman he ever loved.
    “Tell me, as narcissistic as I am, do I still look the same?”
    Unaware of Dominic’s brooding point of view, Amado lifted the heavy book. Resting the spine on an open shelf, he flipped to a page he held marked with a forefinger. Trepidation filled his tarnished eyes, and his face reflected with overwhelming curiosity. A question lingered on his tongue, but he refused the say a word aloud.
    Leaning forward, Dominic frowned. He was silent, the glossy pages glowing brightly beneath the store’s brilliant fluorescent lights. His full lower lip caught between his teeth as he skimmed the faded pictures of the film star.
    Dominic’s gaze darkened as he scanned the two pages, bursting with images of the Armand Gerino staring defiantly at the camera. The large 10 ½ x 16 ½ pages revealed numerous photos, stills taken in preparation for films once popular with the public.
    Aged and worn with time, the photos were hand-colored snapshots of the actor laughing, and signing autographs. In others, he accepted roses from an adoring fan, and posed next to a sleek and low-slung Duisenberg in 1924. A few movie posters adorned an additional page and, despite the passage of time, the long dead performer elegance remained apparent.
    Leisurely, Dominic allowed a long sigh whistle from his lips. He slid a sidelong glance at the vampire at his side.
    “What brings this on this sense of melancholy?”
    “Perhaps years of walking past mirrors, staring at nothing, but knowing I’m there.” Amado shrugged, the action entirely Latin. “I wonder if I still have the face from my youth.”
    Dominic smiled crookedly, hearing the unspoken misery lacing his words.
    “You, at least, have pictures.”
    “I forget, my friend.” Amado’s admission was reluctant but gently phrased. “I tend to think we’re of a