Holiday Loves
Page 38
“Hey,” I said, “I’m looking for my friend?”
“That’s his friend?” He nodded toward the door.
Anaïs hesitated.
He glowered at Anaïs. “What’s he doing here?”
“Marcus, he doesn’t remember,” Anaïs whispered.
My focus was on the door behind which Feebs had disappeared and I hated myself for letting her wander off alone.
Marcus was scrutinizing me.
I considered going for the handle. If Feebs was indeed inside that room I needed to find her.
“In there.” Marcus pointed to another room, a few doors down. “Now.”
Anaïs flinched.
“Do not for one minute consider this is a discussion,” he said to her.
“Feebs!” I called out.
Marcus grabbed my arm with an ironclad grip, forcing me along the corridor and then shoved open a door revealing a dusky room. He threw me in.
I skidded forward and fell in a heap in the center.
Shackles hung from the far wall and there was an antique mahogany table strewn with what looked like an equal number of accoutrements to induce torture and pleasure. This was the dungeon from my dreams.
I swallowed hard to ease my dry throat, as though trying to suck the memories out of the ether.
“Does this stir anything?” Marcus said, looming in the doorway.
Pain shot through my shoulder, the soreness of his grip lingering. There was a bitter taste in my mouth, and I knew it was fear.
I rose to my feet, readying to defend myself. “What’s this about?”
Marcus was dangerously close. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
I rubbed my shoulder to make a point. “How do you know me?”
He stepped even closer, seemingly amused. “Zach, you were never like this.”
“Like what?” I exhaled deeply, unable to hide my need for more air.
“Look at you. Acting like a schoolgirl.” He beamed a smile and flashed sharp incisors before they disappeared again beneath full lips.
“Where’s my friend?” I asked.
“With Orpheus.”
“Who?”
“Take a moment to compose yourself.”
“Who are you?” I sucked in my breath.
Marcus strolled over to the far mahogany table and picked up a box of matches. He took his time, lighting several of the scarlet candles resting in brass sconces around the dungeon.
The pathway to the doorway was open, the door ajar.
“Don’t even think about it,” Marcus said, touching a dancing flame against a wick.
I bolted for the only exit and the door shut in my face.
A strong hand grabbed me from behind, dragging me backward and I was slammed against the wall, my arms violently stretched out either side of me.
Full of terror, I realized my wrists were secured tightly inside metal cuffs. Marcus had shackled me to the wall.
“What the fuck is going on?” I yelled, my head reeling.
“I did warn you.” He stepped back.
Marcus remained quite still; the only movement came from the flickering candle flames and the shadows they were throwing.
“Get me out of these,” I said.
He reached over and wrapped his fingers around the handcuff’s chain. “Preventing your escape wasn’t the usual reason you’d find yourself in these.” He gave a suggestive tug.
I regretted drinking the vodka.
“It probably helped calm your nerves,” he said.
My head jolted up.
“The booze,” he clarified, “you were just regretting drinking it.”
“But I didn’t say—” I shook my head, trying to focus back on the moment and concentrate on saying the right thing to get me out of these cuffs and out of here. “How do you move so fast?”
There came a sense that somewhere, at some other time, he had been part of my life. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever have forgotten such a charismatic presence. The way he lowered his chin and held my gaze, seemingly comfortable with the silence.
“How do I know you?” I asked at last.
“We were once . . . friends.”
It was hard to work out if it was the room or him causing me to feel so lightheaded. I feared my drink had been drugged.
“No one touched your drink,” he said. “It was straight Vodka.”
Are you reading my mind?
“Perhaps,” Marcus answered my thought.
I swallowed hard.
“Are you ready now,” he said, “for the answers you seek?”
“Yes.”
“That circle on your left forearm,” he began, “the brand we failed to conceal, is the mark of a Gothica.”
“A what?”
“A Gothica is a servant of the undead.” He moved closer and though his words were quietly spoken, they were resolute. “You were once a Gothica.”
Whatever a Gothica was, it couldn’t be good.
“A Vampire’s servant,” Marcus said, his eyes full of intensity. “One who commits their life to serve, in exchange for immortality. If they’re deemed worthy.” Marcus was close enough to touch. “You were my Gothica, Zach.”
“Yours?” This unsteady feeling reached my legs, but I stood firm, readying for what was to follow.
“Listen to your heart, you know what I’m saying is true.” He looked upon me with affection, as though remembering conversations we’d shared or perhaps recalling moments that had once passed between us. His expression became solemn. “A few months ago you confessed to me you’d decided not to proceed with the Gothica’s pathway.”
“I wanted out?”
“You remember?”
“I don’t know . . .” Memories were filtering in like faint instances of time, daring to mesh together but making no sense.
“After five years of service a Gothica gets to realize their dream of becoming a Vampire,” Marcus continued. “For those who change their mind—which trust me is rare—they get their memory wiped. Money is deposited into an overseas account in their name and then transferred into another account of their . . . your choosing.”
“That’s why all that money’s in my account? But I only just got it today.”
“Despite the fact you only served me for three years,” he said. “I waived the rule. Gave you the money anyway.”
“I didn’t think it was mine.”
“It was supposed to arrive with the story of an inheritance from a distant relative.”
“I never got that message.”
“The bank’s incompetence. Not ours.”
“I want to go now.”
“I don’t think you realize the extent of the problem.”
“I’ll never mention this place, you have my word.”
His sharp incisors glistened. “You’ve been missed.”
With just a slight turn of my head I studied the brickwork, stunned that I recognized the intricate patterns made by the dripping wax, sensing I’d once lit those blood red candles myself.
“I must remember to thank Vladimir,” Marcus said.
I broke his gaze.
“The Russian tattooist who sent you here,” Marcus said, flatly.
“What are you going to do to him?”
“Nothing. He did what he was instructed to do. You don’t think you’re the first Gothica to come back, do you?”
Perspiration trickled from my brow, tickling my face as it snaked its way down to my jaw line. I stretched awkwardly, wiping the side of my head against my upper right arm.
“When we met you were a first year student at UCL,” Marcus said softly, “studying the history of art.” He made a sweeping gesture. “You just turned up here one day. The next thing I knew Orpheus had deemed you perfect to become my Gothica. He knows me so well.”
“How did I get here?”
“You were visiting the National Gallery. You caught sight of Orpheus viewing one of his paintings. One look from him was all it took.”
“I followed him here?” I turned my head away, scrambling to piece together the fractured memories. “Doesn’t sound like me.”
“It was indeed risky.”
“I stayed?” The words sounded braver than they felt.
“You discovered you were amongst living history.” His irises brightened. “And you came to realize you could continue your studies here in a more authentic fashion.”
“What made me want to go back to my old life?”
“You’re the best person to answer that.”
“I want to remember.”
“The National Gallery,” Marcus’s voice faded.
His irises dazzled beneath heavy eyelids and as he blinked something passed between us . . .
Soft lighting flattering Rembrandt’s portrait of Belshazzar’s Feast.
The tall, dashing, well-dressed gentleman standing just a few feet back from the portrait, lingering there and seemingly captivated by the baroque masterpiece.
He didn’t seem to notice me, a twenty-something eager art student sitting quietly just a few feet behind.
I’d turned the page, having ceased sketching Belshazzar, the King of Babylon, and was now drawing this man, frantically trying to capture the aristocrat of Mediterranean descent. I was bewitched by the way he held his shoulders broad and confident, penning as fast as possible, fearing this moment might end and he’d predictably amble off to continue with his perusal of the Old Masters.
Slowly, elegantly, as though feeling my gaze upon his back, he turned . . .
“Orpheus?” I whispered his name and felt the weight of his stare.
My arms ached and I twisted my wrists within the shackles to ease their soreness. The brick felt cold against my back.
Marcus gave me a look that conveyed what I feared. “Although it’s an unexpected pleasure to see you,” he said, “your visit comes with certain consequences.”
“What will happen to my friend?” I whispered, fearing the answer.
Marcus looked away.
“You killed her?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Please let me go.”
“I don’t think you realize the gravity of this situation.”
“Wipe my memory again,” I said, choking on my words.
“It’s not possible.”
I was breathing too fast and it was causing my head to spin.
“Slow it down.” He pressed his hand against my chest. “Take a deep breath.”
It wasn’t working.
“Your return was never meant to happen,” he said.
“If I give myself over, will you let the girl go?”
“It’s not up to me.”
I bit my lip to stop its tremble. “Forgive me.”
“Of course.”
“What happens now?”
“That’s not my decision.”
The click was sudden and hard and blood rushed into my hands as my knees hit the ground.
I was alone.
Wiping my sweat spotted brow with the back of my sleeve, I was unsure whether to be relieved or not.
But Marcus had left the door open.
Was he was letting me go?
As I staggered to my feet, something deep inside tugged at me, making me want to stay, and I questioned my clashing thoughts, each vying for dominance. The small hairs prickled on my forearms and the rush of excitement felt intoxicating . . .
As my resistance weakened, my thoughts drifted back to Feebs. There was no doubt all manner of luxuries would be bestowed upon her; the darkest of pleasures, a sensuous gateway to the inevitability of surrendering.
My initial desire to save her was transmuting into a fragile belief that maybe, just maybe, she’d find sanctuary here like I once had.
Shaking off this confusion, I braved one last glance at those shackles I’d been held in, now lying open and abandoned, then turned my attention to those gothic sconces with their still-flickering candles and lastly, that antique mahogany table.
Slowly, the door opened fully, casting shadows into the room.
Silhouetted there, was the figure of a tall man, and though I couldn’t see his face I felt his presence as he silently scrutinized me.
Orpheus was inside the room, standing with a regal air just a few feet away and it startled me that I hadn’t seen him walk the distance.
A frisson swept over me.
He was handsomely dressed, his shoulders broad, his shocking jet-black locks crowning his dashing Spanish features; his hazel eyes locked on mine, reminding me of the day we’d first met and the reason I’d stayed.
It was hard to read him, impossible to decipher his fixed expression, blending fury with subtle amusement.
Without words, knowing all too well he could read my thoughts, I conveyed to him my reason for returning. I hid my shaking hands behind my back, ashamed that it must have seemed to him as though I’d abandoned all he’d taught me.
Gradually, Orpheus’s demeanor softened and he exuded a serenity that filled the space between us and caused my trembling hands to still. I breathed in the calmness, relinquishing, remembering this uncommon feeling of tranquility was why I’d accepted Orpheus as my mentor, and Belshazzar’s my home.
The deepest regret soaked into my bones that I’d ever left.
He took a step toward me, a step I somehow wanted him to take, knowing this moment would pale in significance of all that had gone before, illuminating what was to follow.
There was only one way to survive this.
My future beckoned, the potential of immortality that only now I understood; only now yearned for.
“Zachary,” Orpheus said, his tone reassuring, but not his gaze. “Don’t disappointment me again.”
He drew even closer, and my hand found its way to my collar.
Orpheus stopped before me, and I eased the material away, exposing my flesh, daring to believe that for me, death’s kiss marked a new beginning.
* * *
Vanessa Fewings (aka V.M.K. Fewings) is the award-winning author of The Stone Masters Vampire Series. Prior to publishing, Vanessa worked as a registered nurse, midwife, and served in the British Army at the rank of Captain. She holds a Masters Degree in Psychology. She has travelled extensively throughout the world and has lived in Germany, Hong Kong, and Cyprus. Born and raised in England, Vanessa now proudly calls herself an American and resides in California with her husband.
Vanessa Fewings is repped by management firm IPG. Visit her on Facebook.
Hook My Heart
Odette Stone
* * *
No one tells you that achieving your dreams isn’t going to be enough. Hell, I think it’s because most people never achieve everything they dream of. And when you do, your position is so envied, so coveted, you don’t dare bitch about it not being enough.
But all my dreams of being a professional hockey player had been realized. Even when that happened, I pushed to win the Stanley Cup. When that happened that is when I realized the truth.
It wasn’t enough. Not by a long shot.
The only problem is I didn’t know what else I wanted. I didn’t have a new dream. I didn’t know what to strive for.
Everyone thought I was crazy to be leaving a team that had just won the Stanley Cup, and the amount of money they had offered me to stay would make anyone sick, but I didn’t want to stay there. I didn’t know what I wanted or where I wanted to be. Which is why I decided to come home.
“You look lost in thought,” Jesse, my childhood best friend, stood beside my table, with a grin that took me back 14 years.
I stood, and we did the half back slap that men did to replace a real hug. “Good to see you, Jesse.”
“You too.”
He sat down across from me while I signaled for the waiter to bring him a beer.
“So,” he smiled at me. “Are the rumors true? Did you really accept a trade to Vancouver?”
“I’m a Wolf now. I signed the contract this morning.�
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He shook his head in amazement. “No one thought you’d end up here. Was it really your choice?”
“It was really my choice.”
He grinned again. “I can’t say I’m upset about that. It’ll be nice to have you home.”
We talked sports for a while before I turned the conversation back to Jesse. “How about you? Do you like being a cop?”
He nodded, wincing slightly. “Yeah.”
“What?”
He twisted his beer bottle around in a circle. “I just found out I got accepted to do undercover work.”
“That’s great, right? Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“In Toronto.”
I leaned back. “Oh.”
“They think I’m too well known here to successfully go undercover, so they often do trades. Someone from Toronto will do undercover here and I will go there.”
I knew exactly why he was hesitating.
“You’re worried about Kaitlin.”
His wide eyes met mine. “Yeah.”
My heart lurched. “Why?”
“Well, she took Dad’s death pretty hard but then she was coming out of her shell. She was dating and even had a boyfriend.”
I felt my eye twitch. “Oh yeah?”
“And then she had some routine surgery, and she just regressed. She wouldn’t tell me what was going on. She kind of retreated back into her shell. Her and her boyfriend called it quits. And she stopped going out.”
I could feel something heavy press against my chest. “What happened?”
“She won’t talk about it.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m worried about leaving her here by herself for 6 months.”
Our eyes met. I knew what Jesse wanted from me. I also knew it was the last thing that I should do. I’d spent the last four years avoiding her for the sake of this friendship.
“Let me help.” The words fell out of me without any resistance.
“It’d be great if you could check up on her for me. Make sure she’s doing okay. That sort of thing.”
“Jesse, you know I can do better than that.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
For the sake of this friendship, I’d be strong. I’d keep my hands off her. I’d stay away from her. But I suddenly knew what I wanted.