Blood Kings

BLOOD KINGS BLOOD KINGS – BOOK ONE Shade Owens www.shadeowens.com Edited by Nikki Buschwww.nikkibuschediting.com © Copyright 2023 Shade Owens, Published by Red Raven Publishing All rights reserved. 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 critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Disclaimer This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Warning: This book contains violence, swearing, a brief suicide scene (not shown), abuse, addiction, and death. Chapter 1 “This ain’t stinkin’ right,” the older man said. He shivered in the cell next to me, bending his knees against his chest to keep warm. Across from him sat a prisoner with a shaved head, a dark goatee, and hundreds of tattoos covering his light brown skin from head to toe. The kind of guy you didn’t want to cross unless you wanted to end up floating in a river. “The hell do you know, old cabron?” He spoke with a Hispanic accent, his R’s rolling off the tip of his tongue. He played with his pudgy fingers, opening and closing his fist as if vividly imagining smashing the old man in the mouth for voicing how he felt. Either that, or he used to wear rings and got into the habit of playing with them. In the cell next to him sat a young guy who hadn’t said a word since we’d left prison. He kept his head down. In the dim light of the ship’s lower deck, his dark brown skin looked black. He looked around my age, and I couldn’t tell if he was staying silent because he was afraid, or if he was the type to snap without warning. “I’d rather be free on an island than stuck in a cell twenty-three hours a day,” the tattooed man said. Although part of me agreed with him, being banished to an island meant I’d never have the chance to fight my conviction, which wasn’t fair because I didn’t do the crime; I never murdered anyone. The memory flashed vividly in my mind: a gun in my trembling hand, my enemy on his knees in front of me, blood dripping from his nose. I’d wanted to pull that trigger, but I couldn’t. I shook these thoughts away, not wanting to relive that horrible day. The old man suddenly let out a high-pitched laugh and started pacing in his plexiglass cell. Pointing at the tattooed man, he said, “Then you’re crazy. You hear me? Crazy!” His last word came out loud. He slapped his palms on the plexiglass—a loud smacking sound—and stared at the tattooed man with wild, gray eyes. He went on to giggle, before bashing his own head against his cell wall. The other prisoner wasn’t having it. He stood up, his heavy chain clanking on the floor as he took a few heavy steps toward his clear cell wall. He puffed his chest through his orange jumpsuit and gave the old man a death stare that I knew was more than a stare. It was a threat—a look that promised to turn into physical action the second he had the chance. “Sit down!” came a guard’s voice. His voice was so authoritative that the man sat down reluctantly, all the while scowling at his gray-haired enemy. Everyone remained quiet after that, aside from the angry inmate muttering things like, “cabron” and “stupid old man.” The hours passed as the ship swayed gently. At one point, a guard brought us a meal that might have been confused for a pile of feces if I hadn’t spent two weeks in prison before this. It was cold and smelled sour, but it was edible. I swallowed the mush, reminding myself that food didn’t have to taste good to keep me alive. After my meal, I leaned my head against the back metal wall, feeling sick to my stomach. None of this felt real. This wasn’t my life, was it? I stared at my veiny hands, their circulation partially cut off thanks to the metal cuffs around my wrists. I wiggled my fingers to see if maybe I could find a flaw in my reality: something off… like a missing finger or a freckle that didn’t belong. But these were my hands. They were real and very much fastened to the leather belt around my waist. I lay down on the cool metal bench at the back of my cell and closed my eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness. When the ship’s engine stopped rumbling—a faint sound I barely heard over the air circulation—I sat upright. Then came the sound of a loud, ominous horn. I searched the ceiling, trying to determine where the sound was coming from, when a guard snapped, “Up!” Repositioning his black ballcap, he walked with broad shoulders as if trying to make himself look bigger than he was. He was also the kind of guard who deepened his voice to appear more macho. It didn’t work. If anything, it made him look like a jackass. How much time had passed, anyway? A day? Two? “Up!” the guard repeated, his voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. Blinking hard to rid the fuzz from my eyesight, I sat upright and stood. “Hands,” the guard barked. The old man was the first one to move to the slot of his plexiglass cage. He stuck his wrists out as far as he could despite the leather belt and chain around his waist. The guard stuck a key in the cuffs, unlocked them, and removed them. “Turn around,” he ordered. “Wrists.” The gray-haired man did