All Hallows Eve ~ Can A Flicker of Flame Ignite Love?

 

The night of All Hallows Eve approaches here in the UK, and our thoughts turn to the one night above all others when the veil between the world we know and that of the spirits is at its thinnest. This is the night when the threshold can be crossed and preternatural beings live again...

This excerpt comes from the novella, Candle of Life, part of the anthology featured on this blog. During the violent days of the English Civil War, Sabrina is a healer from a long line of wise women. She treads a narrow path in order not to be condemned as a witch.

One day, she crosses that taken by a monster and is doomed thereafter to a life against humanity... or is she?

Candle Of Life

Sabrina jerked off the straw pallet, the scream in her mind dying on her lips. She was back in the filthy tavern room, the images only memory. Shivers racked her sweat-soaked body. As she clutched the threadbare grey blanket to her, the air in the chamber seemed to move yet again and the shadows merged together. A figure materialized slowly, cautiously, from the swirling darkness in the corner of the attic chamber. It was a man – a very tall man, for he was forced to bow his head to avoid hitting the low, sloping roof.

She was too weak to scream again, but a parched, scratchy mewl grated the foetid air between them. Somehow she managed to wriggle up the prickly pallet and cower against the rough plaster wall, flakes of limewash descending unnoticed into her sweat-darkened ash-blonde hair. It was as far from him as she could get. How had he found her? Had he brought her here? Myriad questions, fearful and anguished, teemed through her mind at once.

Her fingers clutched the blanket so hard it ripped beneath her skeletal grip, the white knobbles of her knuckles gleaming like polished ivory through her dry, parchment skin.

“What do you want with me? What have you done?” she wailed. Her voice was almost lost amidst the gales buffeting the mean inn, coming wild and unfettered from the angry ocean which crashed over and over against the quay beneath the tiny window. Her throat was raw, burning each time she inhaled, the smoky air of the dreadful room catching and scraping the tender lining of her gullet.

“Be not afraid.” The man held out one hand, palm down, in a gesture intended to ease and walked forward into the pitiful light thrown by the guttering tallow candle. Sabrina noticed a plain gold ring on his middle finger. He was a big man, broad of shoulder as well as tall. His hair was jet black, reaching in thick waves past his collar; his face starkly handsome although marred with a jagged scar high on his left cheek which reached almost to the corner of his mouth. His eyes, obsidian against his swarthy skin, watched her with a gentleness she did not expect to find. Nestling in the folds of creamy lace at his throat was a large ruby, while his clothes denoted him a gentleman of substance, if not a nobleman. He wore a wine-red wool doublet, slashed at the sleeves to reveal a fine white linen shirt, and matching breeches. A pair of close-fitting leather boots encased his lower legs and feet, whilst on the back of a plain folding chair before the meagre fire reposed a heavy black cloak and hat. His voice was deep and soothing… and he was not the man she had first believed him to be.

“You’re not…” she croaked. “I thought… Why am I here? Who art thou? H-how can I be alive? He—” She broke off, closing her eyes against the flood of terrifying memories.

The stranger took the hand which had lifted from the bed and was agitatedly clawing the air. Holding it gently between both of his own, he lowered himself slowly to a rickety three-legged stool beside the bed. His clasp was cool and pleasant against her overheated skin; strangely, it eased her fear rather than increasing it. His thumb moved in tiny circles over the base of her palm.

“What I have to tell thee is going to appear the stuff of nightmares. Thou wilt think me a madman and my words inconceivable, nevertheless I beg thee to hear me out, for what I speak is the truth.”

“Where am I?” she demanded, irritated that she could manage no more than a squeak. “Are we under siege? That sound I hear, like the roar of thunder, it cannot be the ocean. This whole room shakes with it.”

“We are in a tavern by the coast. That roar is indeed the tide beating against the quay. We are right above it, which is why it seems so loud. I must apologize for the foulness of the accommodation, but it was important we should not be questioned – or disturbed.”

“I am sick. Will I infect anybody in this place?”

He shook his head, a sad smile twisting his generous mouth. Close to, hidden in his neat moustache, she could see the creases which denoted it was a mouth accustomed to smiling.

“What ails thee is not a sickness as you know it. Thy medicines and potions cannot cure it. Soon you will feel pain such as you have never known; an agony that will tear at thy insides as a hawk will tear its prey. There is only one way to prevent it.”

“You are frightening me. Am I going to die from this heinous affliction?”

“No.” He sighed as though the world were balanced upon his head, crushing him. “You have already died.”

Sabrina’s eyes all but started from her head. Clutching the blanket to her febrile and wasted body as if it could protect her from this deluded stranger, she tried to edge further away from him. Shaking her head, she attempted to remove her hand from his grasp.

“No, no, you speak words of the devil! I am seeing things which are not here. Go away, foul servant of Satan. Allow me to die in peace!”

He leaned forward and grabbed her wrists. She inhaled sharply and caught the scent of him – cloves, wine and something less easy to discern, a sweet odour akin to that of fresh rabbit meat after skinning. She realized she could also smell boiled cabbage, fish and ale as strongly as if she were in the room in which they had been consumed. The steady beats of a dozen hearts thumped inside her brain and she heard someone nearby grunting in his sleep.

In alarm, she tried to pull away from the handsome stranger, but while his grip tightened, it was gently done. She could not break free, but he was not hurting her. His eyes bored into hers, holding her gaze captive. After a moment, her panic lessened.

“My brother attacked thee and drank thy blood,” he said deliberately. “He left you for dead. I was searching for him and came upon you in your hut in the forest. I had no choice. I had to make you one of us, or leave you to die.”

“One of us?” Her voice was a husk of sound, barely even a whisper.

He looked away, his expression troubled, his jaw set. “My brother and I… are vampires. I had to bring you across to the dark side or you would be dead now.”

She stared at him in horror. “Vampire? You made me a vampire? I thought such things were stories, made up by the priests to frighten the little ones. You’ve turned me into a monster! You should have let me die!”

Her voice cracking with emotion and strain, she snatched her hands free and threw herself across the narrow bed. A spasm of excruciating agony clutched at her entrails at the same moment and she tumbled, writhing, on to the filthy floor. The stranger rushed to her side and gathering her up, laid her gently back on the bed.

“Let me ease your pain,” he said. “You need to feed.”

Clenching her jaw, she shook her head. “No. I cannot.”

Another burst of pain sliced through her abdomen. She felt as though she were being eaten alive from within. Tortured sounds not unlike those she had once heard coming from a castle dungeon issued from her mouth to fill the tiny chamber. Unknowingly, she gripped the man’s forearm, digging her nails into his flesh even through the layers of doublet and shirt. He hissed, the sibilance shockingly loud in her new sensitized condition, but did not withdraw.

“It will only get worse. You cannot deny what you are.”

“Finish it. Finish me,” she cried. “I am a healer. I cannot take life.” Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks and blotted the flour-coloured bodice of her muslin shift with dull, red-tinged spots. She eyed them with a dread bordering on hysteria. She could feel it welling up inside her with the same force the tide had amassed outside. As if he knew, the stranger stroked his thumb across her cheek, wiping the wetness away and somehow reducing her trepidation.

“You do not have to. You may feed from me until you have control. If you are careful how you do so, you may in time use your blood to heal,” he told her.

She switched her fascinated gaze from the unnerving evidence which revealed the truth of what she had become and locked it with his.

“Who are you?”

“Later.” Never taking his ebony eyes from hers, he lifted his other arm and bit into his wrist. Rich, crimson nectar flowed from the two neat punctures he had made and Sabrina’s nostrils quivered. The warm, sweet smell made the savoury aroma of the tastiest rabbit and onion stew a forgotten memory. Her mouth watered and she licked her lips. Although vaguely disgusted with herself, she took hold of the offered wrist and fastened her mouth over the wound. The sweet coppery flavour was the most glorious she had ever experienced, better even than the almond sweetmeats she had once tasted at a fair, and she drank greedily.

The stranger, whose name she still did not know, stroked her damp hair back from her brow.

“Sip gently,” he murmured. “My brother’s poisoned blood has made you like this, made you weak. If you drink too freely it will have the same effect as if you had imbibed a whole flagon of the best French wine. You must take only a small quantity at a time for a few days.”

Having overcome her revulsion, she was inclined to feast and take no notice of him. The hunger demanded that she do so, yet equally something in his quiet tone commanded her compliance, even though he had neither insisted nor removed his arm from her grasp. Slowly and reluctantly, a few moments later she lifted her head in response to his whispered:

“Enough.”

An uncharacteristic giggle bubbled to her lips as she licked away all traces of the honeyed ambrosia of his vein. She did feel oddly light-headed. The scuttling crabs came to a standstill and the fever abated… but then, as swiftly, great shudders racked her slender frame, shaking her so violently she feared she would die of a palsy.

“Help me!” she groaned. “What is wrong? You said your blood would heal me! Did you lie? Do you get some depraved joy from killing me this way?”

She clutched both hands to her stomach and bent forward as more pain washed over her. Screwing up her face, she clamped her teeth together to keep from either biting herself with her fangs or disturbing the whole inn with her screams. Warmth bloomed along the right side of her body as the straw rustled and the rope springs squeaked and dipped. The movement of the bed sent her sideways into a heavy wall of muscle.

“Hush, sweet dove, hush.” The man’s arms came around her even as his voice offered reassurance. “All will be well, I promise you. My blood is fighting the poison in your veins introduced by my brother’s bite. That is why you must not take too much.”

His palm lightly caressed her brow and continued down the side of her face to brush a tendril of her long dirty hair out of her eye and behind her ear. Part of her was deeply shocked that she could permit such an intimacy with a man she did not know – with any man. The only man ever to be this close to her had been her father, a kind, intelligent man whom she had loved dearly. Yet it felt so right to be in this stranger’s arms that she pushed from her mind all awareness of her state of undress and the fear of what was happening to her. For the first time since her mother had died, she felt safe and not alone. Whatever the future might hold, she would take this moment of tenderness and pray that he did indeed speak the truth and all would be well.

His hand continued to gently caress her locks; long, sweeping strokes which seemed to smooth away the terror, the grief and the torment. He whispered to her, his voice deep and melodic, the words in a language she did not understand. She smothered a yawn with her hand and closed her eyes…

***

Sir Jasper Mortimer gazed down at the pale blonde head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder and breathed a silent sigh of relief. She slept at last. His vampire powers were strong and he could have compelled her, but he had not wished to do so. It was enough that he had touched her thoughts to calm her and ease the pain of the conversion. It was more than enough that he had been forced to convert her in the first place. Unbidden, his mind filled with the pictures of when he had first seen her.

He had been following his brother for some weeks, altering memories, calming the hysteria caused by the cur’s ungovernable bloodlust and endeavouring to prevent the mass revolt and destruction Ralph, no doubt, had planned. Word had reached Jasper, via a network of souls loyal to the King, that his brother was headed into the Royalist strongholds of the west between Worcester, Nottingham and the Welsh Marches. He had almost caught up with him at the manor of Beckford and it was there, close on Ralph’s heels, that he had found the woman in his arms.

He had heard her screams from several miles away, having continued on in the direction of Shrewsbury, surmising that to be his brother’s likely route. By the time he had located the tiny dwelling in the vast oak forest, Ralph was once more long gone and his victim, her throat ripped, bleeding her last drops of precious lifeblood on to the crimson spattered plank floor. Red had also patterned the rough cabin walls and soaked into a russet and tan coloured rug made of strips of rag, upon which the girl had fallen.

Thinking her already dead, Jasper had cursed and turned himself to mist in order to follow more easily the man he hated above all others, but then, as he paused above the inert body, gazing with sorrow upon the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he had heard the faintest throb of her heart. Returning at once to human form, his fangs lengthening simultaneously, he had not hesitated. Gently he had taken a mere drop or two of the sweetest nectar he had ever tasted, then tearing his wrist, had dribbled his own blood into her mouth… He had then carried her with the supernatural speed of his kind to this foul alehouse, the farthest he could safely take her.

He switched his black perusal from her pallid countenance to the tiny square casement in the outer wall. The wind had lessened and the noise of the ocean with it. The tide did not withdraw completely here, but the water level did fall. Beyond the coarse, filthy glass, the sky was purple streaked with grey, whilst iridescent bands of pale blue on the horizon heralded the coming of dawn. He did not need to see it; the tingling over his skin was warning enough. Sabrina – he had heard her name in her thoughts – would sleep the Dark Sleep of the newly converted now until night fell. Then he would know if he had saved her, or if he would be forced to kill her. A heavy sigh parted his lips. It would be one more iniquity to lay at the feet of his evil sibling, he thought, if Ralph, not content with murdering their father and making Jasper Vampyre, should be the cause of such a terrible circumstance. For, as he considered the sleeping maid, Jasper had a strong presentiment that he had already fallen in love with her. If she did not survive the conversion, he made himself an oath he would spend the rest of eternity hunting his brother down, thence to end his existence in the most excruciating manner possible.

Easing himself carefully out from beneath her, he collected his thick cloak from the chair by the dying fire, with a wave of his hand rekindled the embers into a blaze of red and gold flames and crossed to the window. With a grimace he covered the glassed aperture, checked the door was locked and having, for good measure, barred it with a solid chest, returned to the bed. He removed his doublet, folded it and placed it on the stool, then pulled off his boots, setting them neatly on the floor beside it. Sliding back in beside Sabrina, he drew her once more into his arms and pulling the blanket, which smelled unpleasantly of stale bodily fluids, over both of them, prepared to accept his own unholy slumber.

He had taken a big risk, billeting them in a public hostelry, but he had had little choice. Sabrina had been too weak to be transported far, even by preternatural methods, and he had needed to get her as far from his brother’s likely vicinity as possible. If Ralph even suspected Jasper’s involvement before Sabrina had recovered, then her very soul would be at risk. Having taken almost all her blood, Ralph would be able to turn her into the very monster she feared she had become, simply by controlling her thoughts. Jasper needed time to teach her how to defend herself.

Unaccustomed emotion flooded his being and lodged in the back of his throat. Without quite understanding the compulsion he felt, he lifted her lifeless hand and brought it to his lips, placing a kiss in the centre of her still-moist palm.

 “I know not why this has happened now, with you, when I have known many a maid in my lifetime,” he whispered, “but I swear to you I shall use all my power to keep you from harm.”

Praying to a God he was not sure existed and whom he no longer believed in, he held their entwined fingers against his chest. Please, God, if you hear me, let this have worked.

No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the expressed permission of the author.

© Heather King

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The Purrfect House Guest?

 

The next snippet of a story from Vampires Don't Drink Coffee and Other Stories, in celebration of Hallowe'en 2021, tells the tale of Melissa, who suddenly finds herself homeless and then the beneficiary of a house in the country in her aunt's Will. As we pick up the story, she has just arrived.

The Monster Within

A cup of tea, she thought briskly. Everything always looked better over a cup of tea. As she went into the kitchen she noticed a door going down to a cellar or basement, but found it locked and the key missing. Shrugging, she located the kettle, filled it and switched it on, then fetched in her meagre luggage. Having put away her provisions, she made herself a cheese sandwich.

The sky grew darker and darker, forcing her to put the light on. The air seethed with menace, the clouds a deep purple edged with violet shading into black. The wind whistled down the flue of the kitchen range and moaned under the eaves. Bouncing on its hinges, the solid wooden door into the walled garden swung open, then crashed shut again. Melissa forced herself to take slow, deep breaths.

A low rumble reverberated across the heavens, soon followed by a jagged flash of lightning. Rain came on its heels, slashing diagonally from the livid firmament, a strange yellow light issuing from beneath the black thunder-heads. There was a sharp crack and the kitchen light went out. With recent events so fresh in her mind, Melissa shrieked and dived under the wide pine table, her heart jumping towards her mouth. Cliché or not, lightning had been known to strike twice...

She wrapped her arms around her head, the chunky sleeves of her thick brown cardigan helping to give the illusion of safety as she lowered her face towards her folded legs and curled herself into a tight ball. The elements roared and crashed outside the house, a primal game of Quidditch between the forces of heaven and earth. Electricity sizzled and snaked across the angry sky; the wind howled through the crone-fingered branches of the plum tree outside the back door and the fierce downpour gouged furrows in the pinkish grey gravel of the yard.

How long she huddled there, trying to ignore the raging thunderstorm, she could not be sure, but gradually she realized it was quieter overhead. She braved a look out of the window, a tall casement painted white with four panes of glass, and saw from the greying light that due to the storm, dusk had fallen early. Also, unsurprisingly, this being the middle of September, the temperature had dropped several degrees, despite the residual warmth from the oil-fired stove. The drum solo outside was still going on, but with slightly less intensity, indicating that the electrical orchestra was slowly moving away.

Easing her cramped limbs, Melissa crawled out from under the table, pulling her fingers through her long, caramel-coloured locks.

“Good evening.”

She jumped at the unexpected greeting, fetched herself a vicious bang on the head and squealed loudly.

“Ow! Damn it!”

A candle flared to life and the owner of the rich, velvety voice stepped forward into its gentle light.

“Who the hell are you?!” she demanded. Still on her knees, she cradled her sore head in one hand, too concerned with her hurt at that moment to have time for fear.

“You must be Melissa,” he said. “I am Giorgio.”

“What!”

“You received your aunt’s letter from the solicitor, did you not?”

Melissa nodded, her startled wits struggling to cope with the reality of a tall, dark haired and sinfully handsome man instead of the feline she had imagined.

“Oh my...” she breathed, “you’re not a cat, you’re a toy boy!”

Lips twitching, Giorgio slid a wry glance down his muscular torso. “Hardly a boy,” he remarked without a trace of self-consciousness.

Melissa’s cheeks flamed. She had not meant him to hear. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s just I thought... I assumed... quite wrongly, obviously... that my aunt... must’ve acquired a cat... or something...” Her voice faded in embarrassment, her eyes unable to meet his, with their lurking enjoyment of her discomfiture, yet at the same time drawn to his magnificently toned body.

He was wearing a black sweatshirt and black jeans, emphasizing his narrow hips and broad shoulders. Melissa suddenly felt breathless. She and Ian had never been intimate; she had wanted to wait for her wedding night and he – as events had so tacitly proven – was almost pathologically shy of commitment. Not only had he not supported her in her time of need, he had almost always managed to wriggle out of family gatherings and had never invited her to spend the night at his flat, although he had slept on her sofa often enough. In spite of this, however, she had no doubts as to the meaning of the heat pooling in her loins. For the first time in her life she felt an overwhelming physical attraction to a man.

As if he was aware of the effect he was having on her, Giorgio smiled with feline satisfaction and raised her hand to his lips.

“I bid you welcome, Miss Andrews,” he said with old-fashioned courtesy.

Aroused from her trance, Melissa snatched her hand away and jumped to her feet, resisting the urge to rub her tingling skin on her jeans.

“So who are you, the butler, the gardener or – or a conman on the take?” she asked tartly, taking refuge in indignation.

Giorgio’s grey eyes took on a stormy hue, but his voice was deceptively calm when he replied:

“I am, you might say, a permanent house-guest.”

“And how did you talk my aunt into that one? Hypnosis, or good old-fashioned blackmail?!”

Melissa knew she was being rude, but could not help herself. What other explanation could there be? Her aunt had been eighty-three, not averse to the occasional game of Bridge with her friends, but mostly happy to potter in her garden, doze over a book and generally live out her days in quiet seclusion. She had died naturally on that bench – or had she? Melissa looked at the man in sudden alarm.

He rounded the table with the easy tread of a panther; before she could move, he was in front of her, his hands grasping her shoulders. She knew a stab of fear even as she raised her chin in an effort to quell the electricity which surged through her at his touch. She met his smouldering gaze squarely, but could not prevent a nervous swallow. Power exuded from him; a power she was scared to admit, even to herself, that she found intriguing.

***

Giorgio’s mind registered in passing that the girl was so slender, she was almost undernourished. Her shoulders were thin; her beautiful face, lifted so defiantly to his scrutiny, fine-boned and doll-like. He took her chin between finger and thumb, well aware that she was trembling – and why. The pulse of her blood called to him; the scents of her soap and shampoo, the food she had eaten and the essence that was purely Melissa bombarded his senses. He had been aware of her presence from the moment she had arrived, but had not been prepared for the way his blood thrummed with desire the instant he made contact with her body. It would be so easy, he thought, to bend her to his will, to taste her sweetness, but she was innocent and afraid. He would not take advantage, even though the beast within him demanded otherwise. He squeezed her chin.

“Did your mother not teach you to be polite to guests?” he asked, deliberately making his voice calm and compelling. His eyes held hers when she would have looked away, full of remorse.

“I – I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m not normally rude. But... my aunt... was elderly, and you... you’re...”

Giorgio raised an eyebrow. “I?”

You’re gorgeous! Her thought was as clear to him as if she had spoken it aloud, but he carefully maintained a neutral expression as she stammered a response.

“You’re young... my aunt lived alone... I jumped to conclusions. I don’t know what came over me. Sorry.”

“I am older than you think, Melissa,” he said softly. He smiled, but it was laced with irony.

Born in Italy, the son of a poor farmer, he had been discontented and resentful. Tilling the stony soil, working from dawn to dusk for barely enough to live on had not suited his adventurous soul. He had wanted more from life. He had wanted to see the world. One day, after a fight with his brother, he had sought solace in a tavern, where he met a beautiful stranger. She flattered him, enthralled him with a pair of tantalizing dark blue eyes and then, with the kiss of death, damned him for eternity. He was twenty-five.

He drifted the world for centuries, able to see all those faraway places of which he had dreamed, but discovering, as the years went by, that he was more fettered than he had ever been as a mortal. Forced to exist on the fringes of humanity, feared and hunted; exiled from his family, he was compelled to endure, for decade after decade, a solitary lifestyle which was empty, lonely and meaningless. He was on the edge of madness when, following an abortive attempt to end his suffering in the rays of the new sun, Melissa’s Aunt Melody discovered him in her father’s churchyard.

For seventy-three years Melody had protected his existence, culminating in the purchase of this remote house after she inherited her father’s estate. Then when she had become ill, she had discussed with Giorgio the advisability of telling her niece the true nature of that existence, and after much deliberation, had decided it was best he judge for himself when the moment was right to do so. He had no doubts that now was not that time.

He brushed his thumb across Melissa’s lower lip. “We should be friends for your aunt’s sake, do you not agree?”

She nodded. He had deliberately mesmerized her with his touch, but only enough to keep her calm. He leaned in towards her. At once he saw in her eyes that she was wondering if he was going to kiss her; she was clearly not sure whether she wanted him to.

“You are safe with me, bella, just as your aunt was,” he said quietly, straightening again. “We were friends, nothing more. I am not what you fear.” Little do you know, it is far worse, he thought with a wry twist of his lips.

No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the expressed permission of the author.

© Heather King

Amazon UK  Amazon US

An Otherworldly Duel

 

Sebastian

He knew he was about to die. Sebastian surveyed the vast forest clearing, using his preternatural sight to pierce the thick darkness which surrounded him. The ranks of oak, birch and sycamore trees stood close together beyond the stumps and blackened grass of the forester’s work-area, bastions against the forces of evil – except that was a fallacy, he knew. The forces he stood against would crush them without a thought.

His breath caught in his throat. He prayed that Jeannie was safe, that his strategy had worked. Fear coursed through his veins for her. His woman. His love. His life. Without her he would be as nothing and he might as well walk into the sun and let it destroy him. He would do it willingly if it would save her.

His thoughts turned inwards, drifting back to three days before. He had taken Jeannie out to dinner to celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday. Being a vampire, he could not eat, of course, but he had used his powers to give that illusion to those frequenting the intimate Italian restaurant, so that Jeannie could enjoy the occasion. He remembered her eyes twinkling with collusive merriment as he sipped a glass of red wine. Raising the glass, he had silently saluted both her intelligence and her beauty.

Tall and slender, she yet always seemed diminutive from his own six-feet-four-inch frame. She had worn a silky sheath dress in jade green which caressed her gym-toned curves in a way he had envied. From its perch in an empty wine bottle, the candlelight had flickered over the warm red tablecloth, turning her skin almost translucent and her hair into a river of chocolate satin. The smell of her favourite perfume, Elle, had teased him, tempting him to whisk her home to his mansion, there to indulge his every fantasy, but this night was for her. He had given her a beautiful, delicately-wrought antique necklace of gold clusters set with emeralds and her coffee-coloured eyes had turned caramel with pleasure.

He had toyed with asking her to marry him. They had been together for eighteen months, yet it seemed only yesterday that she had run from him in terror, after she had realized what he was, that vampires did exist. He smiled to himself. She had been so brave. She had been unable to deny their attraction any more than he had. Not in five hundred years had he met anyone who could make him feel as she did. She did not allow him to take himself too seriously. She was lightness and laughter to his sombre darkness; she was strength and vitality. She brought warmth and happiness to his cold, dreary existence, whilst the passion they shared in bed he had never known with any other woman in all his centuries upon the Earth.

Her birthday would have been the ideal time to ask her, but he had held back the words, shy of declaring himself. He knew that some day she wanted children, the one thing he could not give her. As a vampire, he was infertile. Yes, they could adopt, but how to explain his strange lifestyle? How to explain why he never aged, while Jeannie did? For Jeannie was mortal and deserved a normal life, growing old with a man who loved her. Sebastian’s fangs pricked his lip at the thought of his Jeannie with another man.

The taste of blood brought him back to the present. Jeannie could never have a normal life. What was he thinking? She was human, yes, but she had otherworldly powers. She came from a long line of powerful healers, dating back to the beginning of time. She could reach deep within herself, harness such feelings as love, strength, hope and self-worth, and pour them out via touch or thought, wherever their essence was needed.

As a child, her touch had healed minor injury; through her teenage years, she had developed emotional and spiritual healing. At the advent of her quarter century, as was the way of her family, her powers had matured, increasing ten-fold. She could now draw on the forces of nature to save life, yet the stronger the energy she used, the more it took from her and the more vulnerable she could be afterwards. She was unable to kill, even to protect herself, and the more she used her abilities to thwart evil in its many forms, the easier she would be to find… for now she wasn’t only desirable for her bubbly personality and stunning looks, she was sought by the demons of the underworld to vanquish death.

She was well aware of her destiny, for she had told Sebastian her history. Her mother had died fighting demons when Jeannie was twelve, and her sister Theresa was currently hard at work with other psychically talented people in a secret government programme. Their father was a sensitive, highly intelligent man, but the healing gifts were passed from mother to daughter and to his chagrin, he could do no more for Jeannie than any other loving sire. With a vague unease her only warning mechanism to alert her to danger, she had few defences until she was able to hone her skills. Sebastian never let it show, but the knowledge terrified him. What if something happened to her while he was under the influence of the Dark Sleep – held in stasis until the sun went down – and therefore unable to protect her?

On the way home from Alberto’s, he had sensed a demonic presence. It was a minor being – a foot soldier, a scout – and he had easily disposed of it, but where there was one, many more would follow, and with Jeannie in their claws, the souls of Hades would be reborn, overrunning the world with evil.

Sebastian shuddered and pulled the collar up on his black leather jacket. A monster he might be, but he had never been evil. He had always maintained a sense of right and wrong. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, sweeping the trees again. They were bare of foliage, their stark black branches spreading across the dark purple sky, rustling eerily as though a thousand voices were whispering. Dying bracken hugged the forest floor, filling the mild February night with the damp stench of rotting vegetation.

He forced himself to concentrate. He must not allow his thoughts to distract him. There was too much at stake, although Jeannie should be safe enough for now. She was hidden in his basement, in his lair, lying fully clothed and insensible on his bed. He had mesmerized her and put a guard on her mind. If he closed his eyes, her image ‒ small, defenceless, innocent ‒ was imprinted there; as well as the memory of her tearful refusal when he had first suggested the scheme.

“What if something happens to you?” she had sobbed, clutching a slender-stemmed wineglass so hard he feared it would snap. They were in his large granite and steel kitchen, and she was stacking the dishwasher. He might not need such things, but he liked Jeannie to have all the conveniences of modern life.

“Nothing is going to happen to me.” He rescued the endangered glass. “Have you forgotten I am immortal?”

“You can still be destroyed!” she spat miserably, turning her back.

Ignoring her resistance, he gently wrapped his arms about her waist and nuzzled her shoulder. “It will take more than one scrawny demon to destroy me, beloved,” he consoled.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She twisted to face him. Her eyes were glistening and her nose was a soft shade of pink. Something shattered inside him.

“Nothing will keep me from you, Jeannie. You trust me, don’t you?”

She did not answer. “Demons are supernatural, too, Sebastian. If ‒‏ if anything did go wrong, what would become of me?”

“In that unlikely event,” he stated arrogantly, hoping to sting her into retort, “you will awaken as if from a normal, natural sleep.”

It had taken a day or two, but her trust in him – her love for him – had allowed him to overcome her doubts. She had finally consented and earlier he had masked her vital signs so they would not be evident to any seeking her. He hoped it was enough. It had to be. He would not contemplate losing her. Mine! The word pounded in his head in rhythm with the beat of his heart – a heart that until Jeannie had entered his existence had forgotten how to beat.

A tiny sound, no more than the scurry of a mouse in the undergrowth, snapped his head up. He broadened his senses, sent them forth into the night, searching… An instant later a tree on the edge of the clearing burst into flames. Sebastian took an involuntary step backwards – and a tree behind him also combusted. Still he could not feel the demon’s presence. This one was more powerful than the one he had destroyed, to be able to cloak itself so thoroughly. Another tree ignited, then another. Sebastian waited. The heat swallowed the cool evening air and became a living thing itself, shimmering, intense, hungry for more. The vampire swallowed. He had the gift – or curse – of eternal life, but as Jeannie had protested, he could be destroyed. Fire could destroy him.

No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the expressed permission of the author.

© Heather King

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Preternatural Love for Hallowe'en

 

Vampires are mythical beings and therefore can be whatever the author wishes. My alter ego, Vandalia Black, writes stories about vampires who are lonely and honourable, sensual and beautiful, and in search of their eternal loves. To celebrate Hallowe'en, here is a short story from Vampires Don't Drink Coffee and Other Stories.

Watcher By The Bridge

THE MURKY GREEN waters of the river rippled around the pillars which supported the ancient stone bridge, hinting at hidden secrets in the darkness of its depths. Mist cloaked the trees and bushes of one bank in ethereal finery and blurred the brooding shape of the old mill opposite. The girl on the bridge shivered. Such stories it could tell, she thought ‒ and hers would be just one more of them. A lone tear trickled down her cheek; she ignored it, leaving it to pursue its course without hindrance. This was no time to be sad. Her decision was made and she craved the peace it would bring.

Following the accident which had burned one side of her face, the doctors, therapists and other well-meaning folk she had not been able to avoid had all said the same. She would grow accustomed; it was amazing what cosmetic surgery could do nowadays; it was the inside of a person that mattered. She did not care what they believed. Her life was gone; her career as a photographic model, as a human, was gone; her boyfriend was gone. She was a freak, shunning the daylight like some monster. She experienced a rush of sympathy for the Phantom of the Opera ‒ she knew just how he had felt.

The darkness surrounded her like a blanket, the air seeming to stroke her although there was no wind. Jodie looked around her, convinced suddenly that she was being watched, but there was no-one to be seen, just the shifting and swirling of the mist as it danced with the night. She turned her attention back to the silent, moody water. The bridge, with a complete lack of local imagination, was known as Lovers Leap. A smile touched her lips at the irony. She had no lover and never would have now, but it was an appropriate place to make an end. Desolate, lonely and sad, it was all the things she had herself become... Tilting her head back, she stared up at the grey-shrouded heavens for a long moment. With a deep breath, she climbed on to the stone parapet.

“You are not a freak.”

Jodie gasped and spun around. A man walked forward out of the shadows by the mill. A long black cloak floated round his ankles, the mist making it appear as if he, too, was drifting above the ground.

“You will not find the peace you seek there, Jodie.” His voice, smooth and rich like a chocolate liqueur, melted over her, sending minuscule tingles of pleasure down her spine.

“Who are you? How do you know my name?” she demanded, finding her voice, although even to her own ears it sounded scratchy and weak and unlikely to dissuade him from interfering. “How did you know what I was thinking?” She felt like telling him to mind his own business, but that would have been unnecessarily rude, even if he was putting his nose in where it was not wanted.

The stranger shrugged. “It seemed a reasonable assumption,” he answered, ignoring her first questions. Slowly he approached, the mist apparently parting to allow his passage. Jodie blinked several times and swallowed with difficulty. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, his lean, swarthy countenance enhanced by a deliciously sensual mouth and fathomless dark eyes. He held out his hand to her.

“Come. You do not really wish to die.”

“You know nothing!” she wailed. “I have to do this.”

“No. No, you do not.” The stranger’s voice was deep, compelling. Jodie found herself gazing into his eyes; then somehow, though she did not will it, her legs were unfurling and carrying her towards him. She put her hand in his.

In that same instant, a bolt of electricity shot through her, jerking her senses to awareness. She looked from the man’s face to the bridge and back, feeling disorientated as if she had just woken from a dream.

“How—?”

“Come with me, my sweet,” he murmured in the same liquid tone. “I can help you.”

“No! I—”

“You will come to no harm.” His finger followed the curve of her damaged cheek without touching it. “I can heal you.”

Jodie snorted. “You a moonlighting plastic surgeon, then?” Her voice dripped derision.

The stranger hesitated before replying. “No. A vampire.”

Hysterical laughter bubbled to her lips. That was all she needed, an escaped lunatic!

***

Dominic Véquaud smiled wryly as he read her thoughts. Why he had revealed his darkest secret he had no idea. He only knew that from the first moment he had seen the slight figure with the pale blonde hair, several nights ago, he had felt a strange urge to help her. Until tonight she had done no more than stare into the water; he had felt her loneliness, her anguish, but had been reluctant to reveal his presence. Tonight, his cold heart had flickered with life for the first time in centuries. He could not say why, but he had to save her. Lifting his hand, he ran his knuckles lightly over her unblemished cheek. Jodie shivered, her eyes widening as he held her gaze. What lay behind those ice-blue orbs was as clear to him as Venetian crystal. She was acutely aware of his size, his power and a need for something only he could give her which she found disturbing.

He offered the merest suggestion, no more; he had no wish to coerce her. As if impelled by some other otherworldly force, she stepped nearer until her chest almost brushed his, her lips parting in an unconscious invitation. Dominic lowered his head slowly, watching her, seeking permission. His arms slid behind her, pulling her closer until he knew she could feel his desire. Although she trembled, she did not pull away. He recognized prickles of fear, overlaid with ripples of exquisite sensation which he suspected no man had made her feel before. The warm smell of her reaction, combined with soap, shampoo and coffee, bombarded him. Yet above all else swam the sweet nectar in her veins, calling to him, tempting him beyond reason.

His hunger roared to life, forcing him to look away lest she see the unholy glow in his eyes. He was a hunter, but he did not kill his prey; had not done so for a hundred years or more. Nevertheless he was glad he had already fed. This woman was affecting him like no other. He craved her body and her blood with an urgency previously unknown to him, yet equally he wanted to protect her, to keep her safe.

***

Breathlessly aware that she was courting danger, Jodie raised her chin. Some instinct was pulling her towards this man; to his touch, his kiss. As he claimed her mouth, fingers of fire burned their way to her core, filling her with a new vibrancy, a new desire for life. Dominic deepened the kiss and her insides turned to melted fudge.

“Dominic,” she sighed, not caring how she knew his name.

“You are beautiful just as you are, ma belle,” he whispered, “but if you wish it, a little of my blood will heal your scar.”

Suddenly she understood what had drawn her here. With this man alone she could be whole again; with him she could seek love’s eternal flame.

No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the expressed permission of the author.

(C) Heather King

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