Reggie accompanied Connor out into the courtyard to where the carriage waited.
He echoed Lavinia’s words. “Where will you go?”
Connor felt relief that the truth needed no explanation. He could not stay, and he would probably never see any of the Cranham family again. Connor laid a hand on Reggie’s shoulder and smiled. Turning away, he climbed into the carriage and waved goodbye as Reggie’s lonely figure faded into the distance.
Where will I go?
~~~THE END~~~
I share now, a BONUS short story, part of the ice-berg of hidden backstory that lives inside every author’s brain…
Julian and Connor began a ninety-three-year friendship here, in 1918.
Doctor Connor Sanderson was called before the Undead Council,
and the rest, as they say, is history.
Connor Sanderson Meets Principal Julian
The Death of Jack the Ripper
The City of London: 1918
Connor held his tongue when Malachi materialized in front of him in the morgue at the hospital. The tracing paper tight mask of his mentor’s face and the fish-scale sheen glistening in his eyes had lost their horror. Connor was now well acquainted with his two-thousand-year old companion.
As he had on the day their paths first crossed, Malachi raised a hand and crooked a bony finger that begged Connor to follow.
Connor immediately turned on his heel and left the cold basement, passing silently up the glittering quartz treads of the staircase. He moved briskly along the white ceramic-tiled hallways, but was careful not to exceed the limits of human sight. If he became a blur, it frightened the nurses. In a deserted hallway, he got to push his speed up and disappear through the door which led to the students’ quarters. Entering his own rooms, he peeled his white doctor’s coat quickly from solid shoulders, stripped off his white shirt, and redressed in black and charcoal-gray garb.
Though he considered blending into shadow a challenge when he was six-feet and three-inches tall, he had yet to realize that concealing the mesmerizing edifice of hard muscle covering his powerful frame was impossible. And the raven-black sweep of hair that held sapphire fragments trapped in each glossy strand would always be arresting. He wheeled around, bowled back out of the door, and, minutes later, was standing on the sidewalk outside the hospital.
Malachi appeared soundlessly at his side. Connor was not surprised when his mentor’s arrival more closely resembled a drive by shooting. He barely broke stride as his bony finger poked Connor in the shoulder and he took off along the dark sidewalk.
He watched Malachi dash beneath the lamp-posts lining the route, his putty colored scalp glistening with cobweb strands of hair. He should wear a hat. But then Connor realized he was the only creature who could see the weaving figure.
It took barely ten minutes for the pair of vampires to skim through the moonlit streets, heading north from the hospital through Hyde and Regents Parks, until they finally came to a halt before the impressive arched entrance to the gatehouse of Highgate Cemetery. The glowering presence of tall, blackened leaded-glass windows scarred the ethereal beauty of the pale-gray granite turrets. Connor could almost conjure a ghostly face pressed up close to the panes. It is no wonder humans find graveyards at night the place of nightmares.
He sliced a steely-gray glance across at Malachi’s hawkish features, and found him staring back. With a sharp nod, Malachi surged forward, pushed the gates open, and vanished inside. Connor followed, moving wordlessly in concert with Malachi’s meandering flight as they negotiated the maze of mausoleums and gravestones.
At the rear boundary of the East cemetery, Malachi dug his fingers into a seam in the wall, and a low grating noise rumbled through Connor’s head as an eight feet tall slab of stone slid smoothly aside. Stepping over the threshold, Malachi sank downward out of view, and Connor discovered that, rather than a hole through the wall, a flight of roughly hewn steps descended into inky depths.
Connor’s shadow swelled to fill the space as he tracked Malachi’s path. The slick greasy surface of the moss-covered rocks underfoot and the thick damp air settled over his features like a smothering mask, but they barely registered as he set off at a hair-raising speed.
Malachi moved ahead down steep slopes which took them beneath the sewer system of London. Connor curiously trailed his fingertips over glacier smooth walls glistening with a flowing river of moisture. Only the dripping of rain water trickling through fissures in the rocks broke the silence. And, they whipped along the potholed surface where the decades of running water had eroded the bedrock of the maze of manmade passageways.
Where are we going? Connor asked, writing the thoughts inside his head and waiting for Malachi to read them.
“You will see.” Malachi’s crystal clear words were less than a whisper.
Connor grinned into the darkness. Eight years and counting, and he still found the supernatural senses of being a vampire fascinating. Malachi was still an enigma. He had been a priest in ancient Egypt, and a clairvoyant. But, Connor would never know how much of his mentor’s talent in reading Connor’s mind was because he had drank from Malachi’s sliced vein as his human form was dying.
-Better my thoughts than my twin’s- Malachi laughed gently, reminding Connor that all his thoughts were there to be plundered, although the older vampire did show restraint. At least, that is how it appears, but how would I know for sure. As the years passed, Connor’s awareness of the spectrum of vampire consciousness became more acute. He usually sensed Malachi tiptoeing through his mind before his mentor spoke.
You’re right. I wouldn’t want Numu inside my mind, not even for an instant. Connor grinned in the darkness, knowingMalachi would feel the laughter lighting up the synapses in his brain.
He almost barreled into the stationery scrawny figure when Malachi stopped dead – although a full-scale collision would have hurt Connor more. He had found that bony elbows and knees forged in steel should be respected.
“What?” Connor studied Malachi’s grim mask.
“There are worse things than Numu’s mind.” Malachi spoke aloud this time too, before turning and whipping away again.
“And that’s it?” Connor’s trailing hand gouged a trough into the wall as frustration bit deep.
Malachi’s laughter rippled through the dead air. “Patience, Doctor Connor. Principal Julian has summoned you. You are very young, not yet reached your first decade of immortal years, so it is an honor. The rest will become clear in time.”
Mention of Principal Julian shocked Connor into movement, as though Malachi held a leash and yanked it tight.
Just when the stagnant, iron-oxide tainted atmosphere in the tunnel coated Connor’s tongue and rippled a sneer across his face, the space suddenly opened out into a huge underground cavern. An imposing stone altar dominated the far end of a rectangular chamber. Darkness hung overhead like coal dust. The flames of the candles, cemented to the alter by the spiny embrace of dried wax, could not reach the high ceiling.
Three ghostly-pale ovals which appeared to hang in midair resolved into the faces of the council jurors as each one turned in Connor’s direction. Their rigidly set bodies rested in the stiff embrace of throne-like seats carved from the darkest oak, and even when Connor and Malachi approached, they did not stir.
“This is the one.” Malachi’s voice shattered the silence, and, as though they were jolted from a trance, the three vampires assessed Connor with watchful eyes.
Connor could almost feel their intent inspection crawling over his skin. He was drawn to the commanding tilt to the strong jaw of the blond vampire seated center stage. In silence, his penetrating ice-green regard raked over Connor’s tight features.
The burn in his throat, urging Connor to cough, became harder to resist with each passing second, but Malachi had told him countless times, you wait; you do not speak until spoken to. He suspected that applied to any noise, at all.
Finally, fabric rustled, and the principal o
f the undead council was ready to speak.
“My name is Principal Julian.” He lifted a hand to indicate his fellow jurors. “Juror Raymond.”
The vampire with hair the color of wet sand and eyes the pale blue of limpid pools inclined his head slowly.
“And Juror Marius.”
The dark glowering features did not move, and the hard stare in the glittering black eyes flickered for the briefest second.
Principal Julian folded his perfect complexion into a smile, stroking long pale fingers over his square jaw as he said quietly, “Play nice, Marius. I’m sure Doctor Connor will earn your respect, in time.”
Marius raised a black-winged brow over his hooded gaze and said slowly, “We shall see.”
A sense that their bark would be worse than their bite seeped into Connor’s mind. Would it be like looking behind the curtain to discover the Wizard of Oz was merely a man. He studied the jury, stood quietly at ease, and waited.
“Malachi has brought you before us by my request,” said Principal Julian. “He says that you are a surgeon.”
“That is true.”
“You were turned in 1910. Tell me about yourself... how have you passed your immortal years?” Julian sat back and adopted a relaxed pose.
Connor considered his words carefully. “I was twenty-four years old. I’m a surgeon and I returned to London three months ago. I spent the war in France, in the trenches, operating on injured soldiers in the mobile army surgical hospital.”
“Operating? You can cut into their flesh... and not feed?” Juror Raymond’s tone was skeptical, and the half grin didn’t reach his eyes.
“It took greater effort at first. Not breathing and locking the air inside my lungs helped. But yes, I can do that.”
Without taking his eyes from Connor, Julian said, “You have done well, Malachi.”
Malachi grinned widely.
Julian leaned forward and laid his palms on the cold stone table. “Doctor Connor, we are in a state of emergency. The status quo of vampire secrecy is under threat. Do you remember Jack the Ripper?”
“I was only a two-year-old child, but yes, I heard the stories. He murdered half a dozen prostitutes back in 1888.”
“Well, let’s just say, he is back.”
Light dawned in Connor’s eyes, and he resisted the knee jerk reaction of looking at Malachi. “I seem to remember hearing that he’s a vampire.”
Julian gave a bark of laughter. “Malachi told you with good reason. You really don’t want to become like Jack. Of course, we do not know for certain his real name is Jack, but it is the name he earned thirty years ago. He is back, and the Metropolitan Police are talking about Copycat Jack.”
“Why are you telling me this?” asked Connor, and this time, he did shoot a glance at Malachi’s frozen profile.
“Why indeed.” The principal took a deep breath. “Although we have a vampire placed in the police service as a night constable, and he provides information on where Jack prefers to hunt, sadly, he does not have the skills to solve our problem.”
“Skills?”
“Come now, do I have to spell it out?” Julian indicated Connor’s tall, muscular physique and said, “You are a formidable vampire, Doctor Connor, and you have the expertise to terminate Jack, and cover your tracks... our tracks. The humans must not discover he is a vampire.”
Malachi’s tone was persuasive. “Jack’s killing rate is accelerating. He’s in a feeding frenzy and neglecting grave-sleep. As each night passes, his brain becomes more dehydrated and it has shredded his sanity. He can no longer be ignored. This time he has killed fifteen women in three months, although the newspapers have only reported the deaths of the eleven who were prostitutes, those he left lying in the back-street alleys of London.”
Julian watched Connor closely, waiting until Malachi finished speaking.
“Usually, we would haul Jack up in front of the council, but he is beyond reason. He leaves us no choice. We know where he will be... and you will stop him.”
It was not a request. The atmosphere was deathly still while the three jurors waited.
Connor inclined his head. “How will I know him?”
“Malachi will put his picture into your mind. And it has to be tonight.” Julian glanced at his watch. “You have one hour... and a trap to bait.”
Connor’s hackles rose as the meaning sank in. Feeding and sacrificing were not the same thing, but, as regret settled over Principal Julian’s resolute expression, Connor realized they did not have the luxury of morals. Knowing this powerful blonde vampire shared his distaste of offering up a human life lit a fire of curiosity inside him.
“Very well,” he murmured.
Julian nodded slowly, and as though the assembled vampires shared one mind, the three Jurors rose instantly from their seats and flowed across the floor. They melted into the darkest corner at the rear of the cavern, and disappeared.
Connor fixed his eyes on the spot, but couldn’t see them.
“The clock is ticking,” Malachi said quietly, touching Connor’s shoulder. In seconds, both vampires turned on their heels and left.
<><><>
So, thought Connor, summing up his current situation with bitter irony, it is 1918, the war has just ended, the men are back, the women are grateful, and Jack is insane. A recipe for disaster, Jack the Ripper is vampire Jack, and he has lost it again. Turning the words over in his mind could not make the next act he had to play out any more palatable.
He checked his watch. Half an hour had passed, during which time he and Malachi had not spoken, not out loud, in any event. Connor did, however, have Jack’s face etched into his brain. The network of alleys behind the respectable gas-lit facades of the music halls and theaters were a favored killing ground, and Connor had much left to do in barely thirty minutes.
He knew the mechanisms of the vampire brain better than most. Jack had delayed grave sleep too long this time. And when Jack had finally succumbed to it, not only had his sanity been dissolved in the blood rush, but the hungry vessels in his brain, being starved and then drenched in the sudden surge of blood, had compressed the medulla oblongata. Messages were now barely detectable above the brainstem, and the temporal lobes no longer registered a personality.
Connor waited, impatiently, outside the gates of the Whitechapel Cemetery. The living have no respect for the dead in early twentieth century London. The cemetery was a popular place for men of good standing to have sex with prostitutes, and he needed bait.
It was hard not to feel repulsed by what he had planned. But, he had a job to do, and stage one was to launch a seduction of his own. Malachi had melted into the shadows somewhere along the way, and as Connor pulled up the collar of his dress coat, and tapped the brim of his top hat further down his brow, he became a coal black statue exuding an aura of dangerous fascination.
He heard voices floating on the evening breeze; a male and female. The pair emerged through the cemetery gates. The clinking of copper pennies was accompanied by a rustling of taffeta as the man indulged in one last grope of the girl’s plump rump, slapping it hard as she yelped playfully.
“‘Ere, cut it out, cheeky blighter,” she cackled.
The male doffed his hat and turned away to the right, and Connor’s victim turned left.
He drifted along the railings, tracking her silently, willing her to notice him. He was dressed in opera attire. Ridiculous to think that prostitutes, even on alert with all the killings, are so easily disarmed. One whiff of “a toff” with a billfold of crisp white pound notes would be enough to make her lie down in the street and spread her thighs.
He had drawn the line at the opera cape Malachi had produced with a flourish.
Laughing aloud, he had said, “I might as well put a placard around my neck saying, I’m a vampire, and I bite.”
Malachi had tilted his head and said, “You may well be right.”
Looking at the girl’s bright orange hair, disconcertingly beige powdered face, and
the crimson-painted lips, Connor doubted that the cape would have been out of place, after all. Perhaps she is an actress. For a moment uncertainty surfaced. It will not do for her to be missed too soon. The looming prospect of finding another target shunted a wave of irritation through him, and then he relaxed.
His confidence returned as the girl tugged on her bodice, arranged her décolletage, and slipped her shawl from her shoulders.
Reassured that her stage was certainly the cobbled streets, and not the theater, he ambled closer. Baiting a trap of her own, then, he thought. Connor smiled invitingly as the girl’s sashaying saunter faltered and she turned to face him.
He suppressed the sneer that tugged at his lip as the scent of her unwashed, sweat-stained skin enveloped him. This was certainly not going to be pleasant... for either of them.
Predictably, Pearl was very obliging. “‘Ello, me darling. Me name’s Pearl.” She smiled, and blackened teeth spoiled the effect of an otherwise passably presentable face. The breasts were a distraction, spilling over the bodice and jiggling with every inhaled breath. Connor had not been dead that long, and he reached out a finger to stroke along the swelling flesh.
“Blimey, lover, you is colder than a witch’s tit! You need an ‘ot toddy.” She batted thin eyelashes upon which scurvy had taken its toll. “C’mere. If you want, I got ‘anover way to warm yer ‘ands, if yer git me drift.”
Taking the tart with heart to almost comic proportions... but then we are both acting. Connor sighed inside his head, arranging a tight grin on his white face, and making an effort to warm it a little when he noticed a spark of alarm light her eyes. “Well now... Pearl, was it?”
She giggled with girlish charm, and then ruined it with a consumptive cough.
“I’d be ‘appy to ‘elp, I’m sure,” she responded as Connor decided subtlety was a waste of time and flipped open his coat to indicate the button fly of his high-waisted breeches.
Death of Connor Sanderson_Prequel to Fire & Ice Series Page 20