Bloodwood: The Chronicles of Max Mayhem

Bloodwood: The Chronicles of Max Mayhem

by John Rykken
Bloodwood: The Chronicles of Max Mayhem

Bloodwood: The Chronicles of Max Mayhem

by John Rykken

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Overview

When skateboarding, fifteen-year-old Max Mayhem learns that his neighbor, Peter, is a vampire whose girlfriend has gone missing, Maxs dreams for a normal life are turned upside down. Before he knows it, he and his best friend, Lydia, are sucked into a daring hunt for Peters missing girlfrienda hunt that leads them to a suspiciously empty town in northern Canada, where Max guesses things are not what they seem. As the sun sets over the ice-blue mountains and the town falls into shadow, cries echo through the woods and Max realizes its too late. Now the missing girl is the last thing on his and Lydias minds, and it will take all their cunning to survive until sunrise.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781462006557
Publisher: iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date: 06/27/2011
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 264
File size: 545 KB
Age Range: 13 - 17 Years

About the Author

John Rykken was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. He spent time studying in Germany in his early twenties before returning to the States and receiving a degree in political science from Portland State University. Since then he has worked various odd jobs, including long stints in the insurance and health care industries. He has freckles, plays chess and guitar, and has been an avid reader since a young age. He likes the wind in the trees, the city, and black coffee. He first realized how much he loved books, language and the written word in a high school English class. Bloodwood is his first published work.

Read an Excerpt

Bloodwood

The Chronicles of Max Mayhem
By John Rykken

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2011 John Rykken
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4620-0657-1


Chapter One

The December Letters

Portland, Oregon, three months later

The study at the back of the Mayhems' creaky old house on Knott Street was everything a study should be. It was one of those rooms you had to step down into. And it was a mess. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, crammed with books, manuscripts and rolled-up maps, covering every conceivable subject and place you could think of. The windows at the back looked out on the overgrown hydrangeas and the mossy oak tree in the side-yard. There was a coat-rack with a lot of pegs, hung with Dr. Walter Mayhem's tweed and corduroy coats. A coffee table sat in the middle and at the back was a cluttered desk and a high-backed leather chair. In one corner stood the wood stove. In another, the big, golden globe of the world hung in a dusty wood frame.

Max Mayhem turned the light on and went in. In the past few months he had grown at least an inch, maybe two. He was fifteen years old, thin, gangly and now six feet tall. He had dark-gray eyes and sandy-brown hair that used to be past his ears, but during the summer he had chopped it short. Now he molded it with gel. His friend and fellow skateboarder, Joe, had called him a sellout. But Max did not care, he liked the new look.

It was a Saturday afternoon and, except for Max, the house was empty. His cheeks were red from the freezing-cold run he had just finished and sweat ran down his face. It was a bitter winter day outside: crisp blue sky, ice in the sidewalk cracks and ice crusted in patches on the grass.

Max blew into his numb hands, went to the desk and withdrew a pen and a few sheets of letter paper. Man, it was cold. Didn't his dad ever turn the heat on in this house? Max tossed a bundle of newspapers and some kindling in the wood stove, lit it and warmed his hands for a minute before returning to the desk.

He had just put pen to paper when a glint from the picture frames on the mantle made him look up. He quickly looked back down. His hand was steady but he could not write. The pictures were right there, staring at him. He could feel the eyes of the woman in the picture, smiling, piercing him. Max tried to keep his gaze averted. Why did his dad insist on keeping those things around? Why didn't he put them in a drawer, someplace safe, somewhere where they didn't hurt?

Max looked up again and this time he did not turn away. He stared at his mother's face, the usual sinking feeling in his stomach. She had passed away when he was two. She was tall and pretty and looked a lot like Max: sandy-brown hair, gray eyes dancing with a smile. He barely remembered her. He remembered warmth and soft arms and laughter, but otherwise, nothing. Then why could he not stand looking at the photos?

Max stood up and lightly knocked one of the frames with his knuckles.

"Hey, mom."

She smiled silently at him.

He gathered his writing materials and moved to the kitchen. An empty bottle of wine stood on the counter and a leftover plate of cheese cubes with toothpicks lay in the sink. Miss Black must have come over again the night before. She had been around a lot lately. Max often heard her and Dr. Mayhem laughing late into the night.

Well, that was his dad's business.

He sat at the table and began writing the letter.

Dear Lydia, he started. He frowned at it, crossed it out and started again.

Hi, Lydia!

Worse. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. After three more sheets, a few mild curses and a sore thumb, Max sat back, reading his work.

December 5th

Lydia,

Hey, how are you? How did your soccer season end? Okay?

I am fine. I don' t know if you heard, but I joined the track team this winter. We're just practicing. Competitions don' t start until spring. Joe and Eugene keep making fun of me, but I think I'm getting too tall for skateboarding. I can' t balance anymore.

Classes are good. Dad's still making me take Latin, but I don' t mind it too much. Miss Black's been around a lot. I like her, of course. We both know she's cool. It's just strange seeing them, you know, together or whatever.

So, I was wondering, do you maybe want to see a movie or something sometime? You don' t have to if you're too busy. It's just been awhile since we've talked. Well, I hope you're good.

Max

Max frowned at it and shrugged. It sure wasn't Shakespeare, but it worked. He stuffed the letter in an envelope and carefully wrote "Lydia" across the front. Then he set it aside and rifled through the cupboards until he found a box of mac-and-cheese, which he cooked on the stove, adding cut-up hot dogs. He ate from the pot off the burner and washed it down with chocolate milk. After that he went to his room on the third floor—a converted attic with slanted ceilings—made a few moves in his on-line chess games, showered and got dressed in a pair of clean jeans, his green beanie and warmest fleece. Back down in the kitchen, he grabbed his scuffed skateboard and Lydia's letter.

It was dark and frosty-cold outside. Christmas lights on the neighboring houses glowed in the chilly air. Dr. Mayhem's old, white Volkswagen van was still missing from the driveway. Then Max remembered that his dad, a history professor, had a meeting with the Xenopus Society that evening.

Max pursed his lips and tossed his board on the ground. His breath clouded as he boarded down Knott Street, the letter tucked safely in his back pocket. He liked the stinging air and the sound of the wheels rolling over the concrete. He was warm by the time he came to the hill on Thirty-Third. He flipped his board under his arm, walked up the hill and boarded the rest of the way to Lydia's place.

Lydia lived in a nice, white house with a trim, green lawn. Her dad, Jack, had put Christmas lights up. The upstairs lights were off but Max saw a few yellow windows near the back.

He rang the doorbell, fingering the letter in his pocket. Somehow it had gotten damp on the ride over. Max did not hear anything inside. He waited a minute and then rang the doorbell again. Still nothing. He waffled, eyeing the mail slot, the envelope in his hands. Maybe he should just leave it and go. That would be easy. Where had he gotten this idea, anyway? Why didn't he just write her an e-mail or send her a text message? Why hadn't he just called her? Because he'd gotten some weird notion that a letter was somehow romantic. Now the idea seemed dumb, immature.

He had just put the letter back in his pocket and turned around when he heard footsteps in the hall. Max looked at the door. A lively green eye flashed in the peephole and the door opened.

"Max!"

"Lydia, hey, how's it going?"

Max felt his ears go warm. Lydia smiled and it carried up to her eyes. She had a nose ring and a bunch of small, silver loop earrings in her ears. Her raven-black hair was tied back in a ponytail and she wore soccer shorts and an old T-shirt that had St. Anne's written on the front.

"What are you doing here? I haven't talked to you in forever. How are you doing?" Lydia gave him a hug. "Do you want to come in?"

"I—" Max had his hand hidden behind his back. His voice did not seem to be working.

Lydia frowned, bemused. "You alright, Max? You swallow something?"

"No, no, I'm fine," said Max, finding his voice. "I just, it's good to see you."

"Well, you too, dummy. Why don't you call more often?"

"Oh, you know, just busy. A lot of homework."

"Tell me about it. I'm taking a bunch of advanced placement classes. Chemistry, Anatomy, Physiology. But I love it. I think I figured out what I'm going to do in college."

"Oh yeah?"

"Doctor. I want to be able to help people."

"That's great, Lydia. You'd be really good at that." Max knew his smile was too big. This was perfect though. He would just give her the letter and be on his way. He reached his hand around.

More footsteps sounded in the house.

"Hey, Lyds, who is it?" said a voice.

Max's smile faltered.

"Oh, sorry, Dan's here." Lydia rolled her eyes. "We're kind of, you know."

For a moment Max was not sure he had heard her correctly. Dan? The footsteps became louder and a blond boy in a golf polo came into the hall. Max's smile froze and fell from his face. A sick black feeling slid into his chest.

The sick feeling grew larger as Dan rubbed Lydia on the shoulder.

"'Sup," said Dan, unsmiling.

The letter in Max's pocket was suddenly heavy.

"What's up." Max nodded imperceptibly.

Dan looked at him as though Max was amusing and raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled and tried to put an arm around Lydia. "Come on, we're missing the movie. You gonna watch with us, dude?"

Lydia shrugged Dan's arm off and stepped out of the house. "Go pause it."

"Well, hurry up." Dan walked back into the house.

Lydia frowned. "Max, what's wrong? Is everything alright?"

"Everything's great." Max knew his voice sounded off, too flat.

"Is your dad okay?"

"He's great. Meeting with the Xenopus Society."

"Oh, yeah, that's where my parents are too," said Lydia. "What are you doing here, anyway? Did you have something for me? You put your hand back there like you did."

"No, I don't have anything." Max could barely think, was having trouble looking at her. "I was just riding by. Thought I'd say hi. Anyway, I have to go."

"Go? Max, you just got here."

"Yeah, weird, huh?"

"What's going on with you, Max?" "I have to leave. Sorry. I have a ... thing. Joe's waiting. We're going to a movie."

Lydia looked bewildered.

Max threw his skateboard on the ground. The next second he was tearing down the walkway. He recklessly hopped the curb. Lydia shouted something behind him but he did not look back. He put his foot to the ground, again and again, spurring himself faster. The air clawed at him and there was a fierce pounding in his ears. He made it down the block and then out of her neighborhood, unable to think, wanting only to move, to get away. He soared down the hill on Thirty-Third, going dangerously fast, ignoring the cars that honked and blared past. His green beanie flew off but he did not stop for it. At the bottom of the hill he did not slow down. He pushed himself faster. He flew past Knott Street and kept going, no idea where he was headed.

On the corner ahead was the big, glowing, yellow and red sign for the Shell station. On a whim Max cruised into the parking lot, jumped off, kick-flipped his board into the air, caught it and pushed hard through the glass doors into the convenience mart.

He may have marched in too fast, pushed the door too hard, because the bald, mustachioed Arab man behind the counter gave Max the dirty eye.

Max slid a pack of cinnamon gum onto the counter. "I need a lighter."

The clerk looked at him suspiciously. "You're going to smoke."

"What?"

"You're not eighteen. I'm not selling you a lighter."

"That's ridiculous. Give me the lighter. It's a dollar. Here."

"No."

Max glared at him.

The Arab man folded his arms and shook his head. For a minute they locked eyes. "A dollar nine for the gum."

"Keep the gum," Max hissed. He pushed it across the counter so that it fell on the floor.

"Hey!"

Max had already burst out the door. He felt a momentary surge of guilt. But he was too angry, too messed up to dwell on that. He would apologize later.

Lydia, watching a movie with some guy in a golf polo named Dan? And they were kind of, you know? Max shook his head, his fist closing around the letter, crumpling it in his pocket. The sick thing in his chest was almost unbearable. In a corner of the lot a middle- aged business man stood next to his navy-blue Volvo, smoking.

"Excuse me. Do you have a lighter?"

The man looked at Max strangely. "Sorry. Matches. I just used the last one."

Max knew he was sweaty and breathless, talking too fast. He must have looked desperate. He tossed his board down and got on, moving again. He went towards Grant Park, going as hard as he could. His ears and cheeks were numb, his hands red. He made it to the park and tore along the sidewalk next to the grass and the maple trees. He was moving too fast, not paying attention, the wheels grinding on the pavement. He did not see the jogger in the neon jogging-vest, blinking red lights on his shoes.

The jogger ran down the path from the park, looking at his stopwatch. He had added five seconds to his time: have to run harder tomorrow. As he ran onto the sidewalk he glimpsed a tall kid on a skateboard, barreling towards him.

Max was sailing. He saw a neon thing dart onto the sidewalk.

"Look out!"

The jogger threw his hands up. Max shielded his face.

They collided.

A dull, nasty smack: the jogger flew back into the grass, all four limbs splayed out. Max flipped wildly through the air, a mess of flailing hands and legs, and came down hard. His jeans tore as his knee grated across the pavement. He rolled twice and came to a stop, legs on the sidewalk, torso on the grass.

For a second Max could not breathe, could not see anything. The wind had been knocked out of him, his head spun. As his vision cleared and his breath returned he realized he was flat on his back, staring into the naked branches of a maple tree. His knee was ragged and burning, his hands skinned up.

"Hey. Hey, man, you alright?" Max forced himself to sit up, woozy.

"Why don't you watch where you're going, kid!" The jogger had already picked himself up from the grass, apparently unhurt. "Now look what you did. You cracked my watch!"

"Sorry. I didn't see you."

"That's obvious." The jogger looked like the kind of guy who spent long hours at an office, working his tail off and taking everything too seriously. Reluctantly the jogger said, "You break anything?"

"No."

"Good. Last thing I need is a lawsuit on my hands. Watch out next time, why don't you." The jogger brushed the grass from his shorts, tapped his watch with an annoyed expression and then started running again without a backward look. He crossed the street and was soon lost to sight up the block.

Max looked down. A hole had been shredded into one of his pant legs, jean fibers dangling limply. A dark stain had spread around the hole and his knee was a bloody mess. One of his hands was in rough shape too. He stood up unsteadily, grabbed his skateboard and started walking.

All the venom had gone out of him. His knee hurt, but it was nothing compared to the way he felt inside. For as long as he could remember, Lydia had been around. They had known each other since they were toddlers. Lydia's mom, Alice, had worked with Dr. Mayhem at Reedwater University for twenty years. Max could not pinpoint the exact moment he had begun thinking about Lydia as more than a friend, but it had been for awhile now. A year, maybe? That she might find a boyfriend sometime had never occurred to him.

But of course he should have thought of that.

He slowly limped back to his house on Forty-Fourth and Knott. As he passed by the house next door, a snuffling noise made him look up. His neighbor, Mrs. Collin, sat on the porch steps in a pink bathrobe and a pair of slippers. It was cold outside, way too cold to be sitting there that way.

"Mrs. Collin?"

It seemed she had not heard him.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Collin, are you alright?"

She looked up absently. She was a pale, wispy woman who looked as though a puff of wind might blow her away. She fussed the ends of her dust-colored hair. In her other hand she loosely held a piece of paper. Max thought she might have been crying.

"Oh, yes," she said. "Hello."

"Mrs. Collin, it's me, Max, your neighbor."

"Hi, Max."

Mrs. Collin had lived next door for at least ten years. She had always been friendly and polite with Max and Dr. Mayhem. Max knew that her son, Peter, had gone to Reedwater, though he had not taken any of Dr. Mayhem's classes. Peter had majored in a hard subject—math or physics or something like that. Max mostly knew him as the older kid next door who played bass guitar and took pictures with his expensive camera. Peter had left awhile ago for Canada, if Max's memory was correct. Mrs. Collin taught pre- school, received huge alimony payments from her ex-husband and had four children. The oldest three were women, all married with families of their own. Peter was the baby.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Bloodwood by John Rykken Copyright © 2011 by John Rykken. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Contents

Prologue: Black Wine....................ix
1. The December Letters....................1
2. The Wolf....................15
3. Auras....................19
4. The Ice Storm....................33
5. Peter's Tale....................44
6. The Locked Door....................57
7. The Xenopus Society....................62
8. Our Namesake....................79
9. Flight....................91
10. Nerve Center....................103
11. Into the North....................106
12. Plaza of the Tree....................116
13. A White Handkerchief....................129
14. The House on the Hill....................139
15. Overruled....................151
16. Festival of the Vampires....................165
17. Hunt the Rabbit....................181
18. Tides....................193
19. Betrayed....................202
20. Never Again....................214
21. The Last Gift....................226
22. Sunset....................240
23. Sunrise....................242
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