Vampire Bite (English Werewolves Book 1)

by M. D. Bowden

  Alfie is still pretty pissed off about Casper’s involvement in my escape – although he is pleased I’m alive, obviously, he’s not pleased that it was Casper, not him, that saved me. And not pleased at all that Casper escaped. He insists this isn’t the end – that I’ll see Casper again. That none of this is over.

  As for the bird that escaped the fight at the end – Alfie said it was the oldest vampire any of them had come across. The most powerful. He’d heard rumours that animal transformations were possible for bloodsuckers, but had never seen any proof. The pack reckons he was the leader, and that he’s probably already setting up a new coven.

  There have been no more deaths since the battle. The city is still on high alert, and I’ve never heard it so quiet. It will take some time for people to regain their confidence I suppose, when they have no idea that the culprits have been destroyed. Or most of them anyway.

  I wonder where the leader is now. Where Casper is. Could they be together? Or did Casper betray him by leaving and killing one of their own? Casper might be running for his life.

  For a time the pack will be in mourning, but they won’t stop keeping an ear out for more suspicious murders. If another vampire coven is being set up they want to get there as early as possible to prevent more killings. That means they will have to move. I’m not sure where that leaves me and Alfie.

  Tomorrow night it is the full moon. Alfie says there is no way I can go out and camp with him this time – not when the leader of the coven has escaped. He has become much more worried for my safety after all that has happened, and he has lost so much of his confidence and lightheartedness.

  This afternoon we are going to go out for a picnic. The weather is gorgeous, freezing of course, but the sky is a lovely blue, and Alfie has said our picnic will be extra special to make up for the fact I can’t watch him get all wolfy.

  This has been such a crazy journey for me; I’ve barely begun to process all that has happened. Vampire attacks, losing a friend, meeting werewolves…. Everything has changed in my life and I don’t know where it will lead me next, and I have so much to think about. For now I’m going to enjoy this lull in activity, spend some quality time with Alfie and see if I can help him feel whole again, and wait to see what happens next….

  From the Author:

  Thank you for reading Vampire Bite… I hope very much that you have enjoyed it! If you have please consider leaving a review on Amazon as it will help increase the visibility of my book so others are more likely to discover it. Getting reviews is great for self-published authors such as myself – it’s fantastic to hear your opinion, and good reviews inspire me to get on with writing my next book!

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  Keep turning for a sample of my book Gateway to Faerie…

  Gateway to Faerie

  Chapter 1: Skries

  I felt so alive this morning when I woke up, now I feel awful. My head is pounding and my muscles aching after a hard training session with my father.

  He’s at work now and I am left alone to study, but it’s tricky with this stupid headache. I wish it would leave me alone so I could concentrate.

  I stare down at my textbook, not taking in the words in front of me. It’s a history volume, exam’s next week. I really must focus. I get the general topic, but it’s the details I’m fuzzy on, the bits that matter when it comes to the test.

  The ridiculous thing is, this is what I should be good at—my dad has explained it to me enough times. The thing is, I switch off as soon as he starts talking about history.

  He is a history professor, well, more of a researcher really, although he does give the occasional lecture. It’s probably that which puts me off, the serious tone he adopts as soon as he starts talking about his favourite subject, the faraway look in his eye.

  He says that this stuff I’m learning is a load of crap anyway, that the real reason the planet is now so empty, so lacking in crowds and communities, is far darker.

  Far scarier.

  It’s not in the history books because if people knew the truth they wouldn’t be able to go about their day to day lives, they would just be too freaked out, and what is left of society would crumble.

  That stuff is easier to remember, because it’s real. Learning history that I know is fake does not come naturally to me.

  I shift my bum, trying to get more comfortable on the granite rock I’m perched on, and stretch my back, before refocusing on the book on my lap.

  The book is made of bleached white paper which is still crisp and smells fresh. It’s one of the newest ones I own.

  My father says it’s important that I learn this stuff so I can get a decent job, like him, and that I never tell anybody what he’s told me.

  I don’t know what would happen if I did.

  What I do know though, is that if I don’t pass my exams, if I can’t get a job, the government won’t help me. I will have to look after myself.

  That’s why I’m out here sitting on this uncomfortable stone. I am hoping some kind of animal will approach the bait; freshly cut carrot I grew in our garden. I’ve laid it out in a secluded corner that’s protected by rocks and ferns, and in my direct line of sight.

  I’m hoping to catch a rabbit, as they’re my favourite. Then I can kill it and we will have meat for dinner.

  My dad has taught me well, and I hunt frequently, so at least if I don’t get a job I will be able to survive, I will be able to eat, and stand up for myself in a fight.

  Unfortunately nothing is approaching the bait yet, so I return my attention to my book, rubbing my temples as I do.

  I force myself to read the words on the open page . . .

  ~

  ‘In the year 2046 the government of England refused to play a part in the war that was rapidly consuming the European nations, having spread from the Middle East. The leading party, Labour, thought that if it abstained from action it would not be a target.

  The war spread quicker than anyone could have imagined, governments losing control as chemical agents started to be employed as the weapon of choice by multiple countries.

  Nobody knew who was in control anymore, or who the enemy was.

  Paranoia spread, and it wasn’t long before France started to suspect that England was collecting their own supply of noxious nerve agents, and grew fearful that they would be the target, as France had recently destroyed the cities of Spain and Germany with nuclear weapons.’

  ~

  I glance up at the bait, and around at my surroundings—water trickling around mossy boulders and flowing softly over the stream-bed, and the lush summer leaves overhead, gently moving in the wind.

  Any excuse for a break.

  No sign of life yet so I refocus on the book in front of me.

  ~

  ‘England had not been accumulating weapons, but that did not stop France.

  In 2046 France fought Scandinavia, defending itself against the repeated attacks it had suffered. After months of small invasions, they had still not won, so once again they deployed more nuclear weapons.

  After France had taken down the countries surrounding it on land, it turned its full attention to England and targeted London with a powerful nuclear bomb.

  Survivors from neighbouring counties fled, but many were suffering the effects of radiation sickness, and millions of people died. Those who didn’t die fought each other for food, and anarchy spread through the country.

  No-more attacks came from the government in France, who were themselves destroyed in an attack originating in Asia.

  However, the damage was already done. The majority of the English governing party had been killed, and imports had stopped due to the fighting that was still rife in China and America.

  Countless people died in a struggle to gather food as a famine took hold, and many died of starvation.’

  ~

  I squeeze my eyes
shut and rub my temples again, and look back towards the slices of carrot. I stare at them, only half seeing what’s before me, as I think about what I’ve read, and why I find it so hard to remember it all.

  It’s the dates, I think. Dates that are so long ago, and countries I’ve never been to.

  I’ve never been anywhere beyond where I travel on my own two feet, and occasional trips by train to the city of Exeter, where my father works, where he is now. It’s one of the few remaining cities in England.

  That’s as far as I’ve ever been, and it only took about twenty minutes to get there.

  No-one goes abroad anymore, how would they? More to the point—why would they? Europe is in ruins. There are no-longer beautiful cities with outstanding architecture. They are all gone, ransacked and deserted.

  Of course, some people do still live there, but they are said to be savage and murderous.

  No-one could afford to go further afield, and anyway, no-one even knows much about America or any other continents these days. I certainly don’t. I read somewhere that a long time ago people used to travel to other countries all the time, but that world has ceased to exist.

  Everybody still feels the after effects of the war, still lives in the world that was left behind. It just wasn’t the war in my book. Far from it.

  It was the war against Faerie.

  The faeries that came from another world, another dimension.

  Dad says that there is some truth in the made up history, in the sequence of events, the countries that fell first. Only they didn’t fall to nuclear war, they fell as faerie after faerie came through the gate that had opened to their dimension, like a portal that had got jammed wide-open, and no-body could shut it.

  The world was overcome, one country at a time, as these faeries trashed houses and killed the people within. They torched cities, possessed people, controlled them, exchanged babies for changelings, and made people do bad things.

  Dad says that these things did happen on the dates in my book, but they are still meaningless to me—this all happened over two hundred years ago! And anyway, what does it matter if I remember some stupid dates or not, or know which countries fell first? It won’t make things any better now.

  Dad says that the gate got closed in the end, somehow. That’s what he’s researching, well, one of the things. He found some ancient papers at the university that describe the faerie invasion, and dad is trying to find out how it ended, in case it ever happens again.

  He thinks we need to be prepared.

  That’s why he trains me so hard, why he’s always pushing me to do better. If it happens again he doesn’t want me to suffer the same death that millions before me succumbed to. He wants me to live.

  In fact, he’s been talking about it more and more recently, pushing me harder than ever. It’s almost as though he believes something bad is going to happen soon.

  My eyes snap into focus as the ferns, near the bait I set, move apart. A soft grey rabbit pushes his nose through and approaches the carrots.

  I stay stock still as he looks up to check that it is safe, before lowering his mouth and starting to nibble on the food.

  I slowly slide the gun out of its belt and point it at the chewing ball of cuteness, then fire. A net launches from the barrel and wraps itself around the creature.

  I jump to my feet, letting the gun fall to the ground, and pounce on the wriggling rabbit before it breaks free. I draw back a corner of the net and, taking a deep breath, stick a hand in fast, getting a firm hold around its belly to stop it squirming free.

  Its fur is soft beneath my hands. I feel a moment of regret and I hesitate, inadvertently allowing the rabbit another attempt to escape. I grip it tightly again, take a short pause, take another deep breath, quickly reach for its neck, and snap.

  I cringe.

  I hate doing that, but I know I have to if I’m going to have meat for dinner.

  I pick up the net and fold it carefully into the correct position for using again, then get down onto my knees next to the gun and insert the net back into the barrel. I slip the gun into my belt for safekeeping.

  I wipe the thin layer of perspiration from my forehead and take yet another deep breath to steady myself. I did it. My father and I will have rabbit for dinner.

  It would be even better if we had two.

  I decide to leave the carrot in place, and try for a second bunny, but first I need to put the dead one somewhere cool so it doesn’t go off in the heat.

  I rustle in my pack for my cool bag, finding it folded at the bottom beneath my other book and supplies. I pull it out and shake it open, before gently placing the body of the rabbit inside.

  I pick up my history book and slide it into my pack, along-side a maths one, and squeeze the cool bag back in too, before strapping the bag closed and shrugging it onto my back.

  I glance down at the carrot, hoping I don’t miss an opportunity to catch one while I’m gone, then I head off further from home.

  I’m walking in the direction of a cave where I have set an old metal box for the express purpose of storing any animals I catch. It’s not far away, ten minutes down-stream, set back in an enormous rock, and surrounded by boulders, trees and ferns.

  The path stays close to the stream as I go. It is rocky so I keep glancing down to make sure I don’t trip.

  As I walk I think back to my earlier training.

  My dad shakes me awake, “Fayth—time for action!” he compels me.

  Ugh, how does he have this much enthusiasm, so early in the morning?

  As my senses kick in I smell potatoes frying on the stove, and my stomach grumbles. This is enough to make me open my eyes, just as my father starts to shake my arm a second time.

  I see his face before mine, in shadow in the early morning light, his mouth crinkling into a genuine smile, and deep chocolate coloured eyes radiating warmth.

  He leaves the room and I hear him return to his cooking, as I push myself to my elbows and stifle a yawn.

  This happens every other weekday. My dad wakes me ridiculously early so we can eat breakfast together, and then train, all before he leaves for work and I set out for school.

  That was until recently anyway. As I’m approaching my final exams, and I don’t have to go to any-more classes, I am left to revise at home.

  After the exams I won’t have to ever return to the school again. I grin. The joy this brings me releases a surge of energy, enough to finally motivate me to clamber from beneath the covers, quickly wash and dress, then jog down the stairs—reaching the kitchen just as my father is placing my eggs and potatoes on a plate.

  There is already a glass of cool milk beside it, so I give my father a one armed hug as he dishes up his own food, before sliding onto a stool and tucking into mine.

  It is warm and deliciously fresh, the eggs are from our own chickens, the potatoes dug up yesterday from the garden.

  We exchanged surplus eggs for milk with Ewan Ford, a friend of dad’s. The only thing we had to buy for this meal was the cooking oil.

  As I finish my food I look up to my dad. He hasn’t even sat down, but is leaning back against the counter, tucking in as he stands, watching me with a thoughtful frown.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He swallows his food and takes a drink of milk before answering. “Just thinking about your future—what you are going to do after your exams . . .”

  My feelings darken. It’s all very well being happy I will no-longer have to go to school, with its practically totalitarian regime of work, silence and punishment, but that doesn’t mean that whatever I do next will be any easier. That I will even find anything to do.

  I shrug, assuming he’s not expecting an answer, and glug back the last of my milk.

  “What shall we start with this morning?” I ask, deflecting his thoughts.

  He looks away, out of the window to the street, and watches as a neighbour empties vegetable cuttings onto a compost heap, to the side of her house.


  “Let’s go to the bottom of the garden and practice shooting, then we can do circuits,” he finally responds.

  I wonder at his mood, he seems troubled, but maybe he’s still thinking of my future, so I decide not to broach the subject.

  I simply say, “OK,” and rise from my stool to show I am ready.

  It’s not long until I’m standing next to my father, a shot gun held firmly in my grip as I focus on a target he has set.

  He is always challenging me, setting targets that are smaller or further away. He’s even set up a rope, dangling from a high branch off one of our trees, to swing targets off. That is the hardest challenge I face. But today he’s chosen precision as my skill to develop and I am focusing on an old ball that he has balanced on a post.

  I am far enough away from it that I have to use every ounce of concentration I possess.

  When I am ready, I squeeze the trigger. The force of the bullet leaving the gun makes my arms shake.

  I rub my wrist with my free hand and look to the target. It is still there.

  I missed.

  I return to the present when I recognise I am close to the cave.

  I turn from my path and follow a thin stream, stepping in the shallow water as there is no-where else to tread, and ducking so as not to hit my head on the tree branches that obscure the cave from sight when on the main path.

  I originally found the cave in winter, when the trees had shed their leaves, removing their protective embrace.

  I look up as the barely there stream turns into a trickle, falling over the mouth of the cave.

  I sidestep the water and duck into the cool darkness beyond, fumbling at the catch to the metal box. When it is open I retrieve the rabbit from my pack and place it inside, where it will be safe until I come back for it later, when the day has started to lose its heat.

  I trace my footsteps back to my seat near the carrot. I sigh, relieved. It looks like it has gone untouched.