“No, Angie.” Jena let out a weary sigh. “I can’t let you do that. Besides, you cannot kill him. You heard what the angels said. I’m the only one that can destroy the creature.”
Angie rolled her eyes and continued to argue, “I’m helping, and that’s final. So don’t try to change my mind. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Jena looked at Angie in total frustration. “Let’s agree to sleep on it.” She shut her eyes for a second, then opened them and yawned. “We can talk about it tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay,” Angie groaned as she got to her feet. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
As Angie started for the door, Jena stood up and said, “Ang, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Jena, you know you can ask me anything. We’ve always been an open book.”
“What was it like? I mean, how did it feel to shift into a wolf?”
“It was the best thing I’ve ever experienced, aside from the wonderful and multiple orgasms Bull gave me.” Memories of that night made Angie bite on her bottom lip. “I feel like a teenager all over again. It’s like I’ve been reborn.”
Jena smiled at her. “That sounds wonderful.” She briefly closed her eyes, envisioning the image of her own transformation. The creature she had shifted into was hideous and terrifying. It was definitely not a wonderful experience. More like a nightmare.
Then Jena looked her friend square in the eyes and asked, “What did your Breedline wolf look like?”
“Well, you’ve seen those Twilight movies, right?”
When Jena nodded, Angie said, “The Breedline wolves are bigger.”
Jena’s eyes rounded. “No way,” she spouted. “They’re like the size of horses.”
“Yeah,” Angie replied. “That’s why we have to keep our species from the human world. Can you imagine the hysteria we would cause if we were to show ourselves?”
“I’m sure it would,” Jena said, and then she added, “I wish I shifted into a beautiful Breedline wolf.” Tears suddenly came to her eyes. “The thing...” She hesitated for a second and released a heavy sigh. “I change into... it’s the most terrifying thing imaginable, Angie. I have seen myself as the creature.” She shook her head. “It’s just awful.”
Angie placed her hand on Jena’s shoulder and lightly squeezed. “It’s going to be okay, Jena. I don’t care what you look like. I will always see you as my best friend. Nothing will ever change that.”
Jena wiped her eyes with her hand. “Thanks, Ang.”
“Can I ask you something?” Angie said, narrowing her eyes.
Jena nodded. “Of course.”
“What does he look like? And I’m talking about his human form.”
“He’s beautiful,” Jena simply said. “He has an eighteenth-century Gothic aura about him: long dark hair, beautiful complexion, and his lips...” Then Jena laughed a little. “It’s funny. His features are similar to the actor that portrayed Vlad the Impaler in that movie, Dracula Untold.” Then she let out a long sigh. “Go figure?”
“Are you talking about Luke Evans?”
When Jena nodded, Angie lifted her brows. “Damn, girl. I can see why he has you so spellbound.”
Jena smirked. “Now you know why it’s so hard to reject him. He has such a strong hold on me. Anyway,” she went on, “let’s turn in for the night. I’m exhausted.”
Before Angie walked out, she turned to Jena and said, “Remember, you hold all the power, Jena. And I think the creature knows it. Keep that in mind.”
Jena nodded and said, “I think it’s great about you and Bull.” She smiled a little. “I’m happy for you, Ang.”
“Thanks, Jena. I’ll see you in the morning.”
As soon the door closed, Jena headed straight for the bathroom and propped herself wearily against the sink. Angie’s words echoed over, and over in her head.
You hold all the power, Jena.
Angie had sounded so sure of her, but Jena doubted herself, and her strength.
“What a nightmare,” she whispered, looking into the mirror at her own reflection.
Still shaken by all the previous events, one thing in particular weighed heavily on her mind. She had to do the unthinkable. She had to kill him.
Jena’s heart twisted in agony just thinking about it. Could I actually go through with it? she silently said to herself. If so, how?
Suddenly, the light above the mirror flicked once, and then went out. A shiver went through her, bringing her thoughts back to focus.
Jena looked away from the mirror and turned to the bathroom door. The dark seemed to swallow her whole. What? It didn’t make any sense. She was sure she had left the door open. Her heart began to pound, filling her ears with panic. She leaned back against the porcelain sink and tried desperately to get a grip on reality.
Maybe I forgot that I closed it. Pull yourself together, girl, and just go check the light switch.
As Jena blindly made her way to the door, the illumination shining underneath barely gave her enough light to see by. She ran her hand along the wall, searching aimlessly for the light switch. Somehow, it had mysteriously switched off. But how? When she flipped it on, nothing happened. Determined to stay calm, she reached for the door and tried the knob. It wouldn’t turn. She pulled at the door, but it did no good. Has someone locked me inside?
In spite of the situation, Jena tried to remain calm. Think, Jena, she thought, trying to reason with herself. There has to be a good explanation. The door must be stuck. It doesn’t lock from the outside.
Out of nowhere, a blast of prickly, cold air washed over her. Then, a voice came to her, like a gentle whisper.
“Jena...”
She stiffened at the sound of the voice. Although it had a familiar southern drawl, Jena realized it was not him.
She built up the courage and called out, “Who’s there?”
There was no answer, only silence.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Jena listened through the stillness. All of a sudden, the creak of the floorboards made her flinch. It was coming from the other side of the door. It sounded like footsteps.
She should be terrified, especially after finding herself locked in a dark room. Sure, she felt a little shaken and bewildered. But not terrified.
Instead, a rush of excitement kicked in with such force that she felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. As she inhaled a deep breath, she caught the scent of a man’s cologne that enveloped her senses. It was a wonderfully manly scent of sandalwood, citrus, and something with its own unique essence. Then, to her surprise, something slid underneath the door.
As Jena looked down, she noticed a book. She could tell that it was unique although she only had the light from the small space below the door. The leather binding on the book appeared brittle and cracked with age.
She stood over it for several more moments, hesitating to pick it up. Slowly, she knelt down to get a closer look. As she peered down at the tattered ledger that was covered in dust, she chewed at her bottom lip, wondering who had left it, and why? Obviously, whoever it was had gone now. For some reason, Jena sensed that the book had something to do with him.
With a trembling hand, she reached for it. At the very moment she took it in her grasp, the lights suddenly came on, and the door made a noise as it slightly inched open.
Jena ignored the fact that she’d been stuck in a pitch-black room, so dark she could barely see her hand in front of her face, and made herself comfortable on the floor. She found herself completely enchanted by this peculiar book.
The gold, engraved letters on the outside were hard to make out, but it appeared to be someone’s name. It was a journal, or some sort of logbook, she finally realized.
Smoothing her hand over the front, Jena wiped away most of the dust until she was able to read the name. It apparently belonged to a Nicolas J. Ratcliff.
Carefully, she opened it. The regal handwriting inside seemed to be written with a quill, and some of the ink was a litt
le faded. Whoever this Nicolas was, he couldn’t possibly still be alive, going by the date at the top of the page. The first official record of events dated back in 1819. Then she wondered. Who had been this Nicolas Ratcliff, and what had become of him? What secrets did the journal hold? Jena felt as though she was strangely drawn to it and found she couldn’t go to bed until her curiosity was put to rest. Maybe this Mr. Ratcliff had some kind of connection to the man that held her spellbound... to the creature she had to destroy.
Desperate for answers, Jena began to read.
September 26, 1819—I must confess that I have never written down a single word in this journal, but today I find myself in a state of uncertainty. For my moral conscience will not allow me to keep silent any longer. It soothes me to express myself here, if only on paper. It is like professing to one’s self his darkest secrets and forbidden desires.
I, Nicolas Jacob Ratcliff, regret what I must declare. I write this so that perhaps my damned soul will someday regain redemption. This is the record of what I have chosen, and the repercussions of my sins.
It all started in the summer of 1817, the day my brother, Ashton Christopher Ratcliff, met his beloved, Isabella Rose Westfield. That day forever changed his life and mine.
I couldn’t blame Ash for falling deeply in love with her. Isabella’s beauty was breathtaking and somehow hypnotizing. Even in a crowd, her presence was compelling. Isabella radiated an aura of purity and innocence that was intoxicating. The way she moved, the way she talked, the way she smelled, it all created a powerful temptation.
In spite of the fact that she was taller than most of the young girls her age, she carried herself with elegance and grace. Her long, thick hair tumbled past her shoulders in curls that she always kept pulled back in a stylish arrangement. Her pale blue irises were the color of the ocean, a trait inherited from her father along with her honey-blonde hair.
Isabella turned the heads of nearly all the eligible bachelors in New Orleans. Many of them were reputable and young, around Ash’s age. I, too, found myself captivated by her beauty, but it didn’t take long for Isabella to become fascinated by my brother’s witty and charismatic charm. She had a way of looking at Ash with those amazing sapphire eyes, leaving him to believe he was the only one for her, and nothing could stand between them.
Ash was taller than my father and I, and more broad-shouldered, with sinewy musculature that lent well to the current fashion of snug tailoring in breeches and coats. Although we were three years apart, we had very similarities in our features. We both had ink-black hair like our mother. Ash kept his tied at the nape with a simple leather strap, and I used the finest silk money could buy. His dark eyes were sharp, piercing with a drive for success and fulfillment. I had my father’s amethyst eyes. Not only did Ash inherit our family’s good looks, he was also brilliant. In his early twenties, he had already established a career in our father’s cotton business. Ash was a respectable and honorable man, whom I dearly admired. He had a gentle soul, integrity, and a kind heart, all the attributes I wished I had. Wealth had no value to him. What profits he did gain he gave mostly to the church and to those in need. Where I indulged in wealth and materialistic things, Ash lived a modest lifestyle. Although he had many good qualities, his devotion to the Catholic Church was what won Isabella’s heart.
Our family lived a lavish and rich lifestyle, but still, we were decent people. Unlike Ash, however, we were not as faithful to the church and we took value in the almighty dollar. I suppose no one is without imperfections. No matter our good intentions and sincerity, we all have sinful ways.
At the beginning of the courtship, my mother became suspicious of Isabella’s true intentions, worried she was marrying my brother for the family’s fortune. She felt Ash was choosing far beneath himself and disagreed with the mismatch. To speak truthfully, Isabella was more than worthy of my brother. Ash considered himself the one marrying down. Although she did not come from money, Isabella’s family was highly respected in the community. Her father ministered a small, reserved congregation in Louisiana, and her mother dedicated her spare time as a missionary. When they met Ash, they treated him, along with myself, like part of their family.
My brother ignored our mother’s distaste and courted Isabella for nearly three summers before he asked her father for her hand in marriage. At the tender age of sixteen, it was imperative that the courtship remained supervised. Isabella’s father forbade her to marry until she reached an appropriate age.
Seemingly odd, I was the one that her father chose as their chaperon. Of course, I agreed. I would do anything for my brother. Granted that we were opposite when it came to our lifestyle, Ash and I were considerably close. I accompanied them to every party, and to every social function. At times, on summer evenings, I stayed a fair distance while they took leisure walks in the park and picnicked by the river. Perhaps a stolen kiss or two, Ash honored her father’s wishes and behaved like a true gentleman. Even though it took time away from my personal life, I didn’t mind. I enjoyed seeing Ash so full of life and lucky in love. Besides, I grew a fondness for Isabella. It seemed she adored my brother and treated me as though I was part of her family already. There was no doubt in my mind that Izzy, a pet name my brother chose for Isabella, would someday agree to be his wife. If anyone deserved happiness, it was those two.
To this day, I can still remember how excited Ash became as Isabella’s eighteenth birthday drew near. Alas, his beloved Isabella would soon become his blushing bride. Unfortunately, the happiest day of his life turned for the worst.
A few weeks prior to Ash’s proposal, Isabella completely took the wind out of his sails, including my own. Instead of marriage, she chose another path, vowing a life of celibacy. She refused his hand in marriage to embrace her religion. Isabella decided to move to England and dedicate her life to a women’s convent.
At first, Ash didn’t believe her. He thought it was merely her nerves getting the best of her, or perhaps a lack of maturity. He begged her to sleep on it. That night, my brother and I prayed. As soon as the sun rose the next day, Ash felt certain she would come to reason and agree to be his wife. Although Isabella agreed to sleep on it, she did not change her mind. Her final decision broke my brother’s heart. Ash had offered Isabella the best of both worlds—a respectable Christian husband and the passion of a man who would do anything to earn her love—and he believed he could make her happy. How foolish he’d been.
The devastating news destroyed Ash, driving him to madness. I tried everything I could to help him, but nothing would ease his pain, not even the strong bond we shared as siblings. It wasn’t long after Isabella’s rejection that my brother isolated himself from everyone. He even refused to obtain nourishment. Ash had always been an intensely physical man, to this broken, frail, and decrepit person that I barely recognized. So overcome with grief, he soon abandoned our father’s business, and our family, his faith, and then finally life itself.
The night my brother took his own life, I begged God for mercy. I, too, wanted to die.
As Jena finished the last paragraph, she felt she could no longer continue to read any further. It was as though she could feel Nicolas’s loss like it was her own. Then she wondered what he had meant when he said his soul was damned. Her curiosity got the better of her, and she vowed to find out as soon as she awoke the next morning.
She carefully closed the journal, wondering why she felt so overwhelmed for this stranger. As Jena brought the tattered leather-bound to her chest, she held it close to her heart and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Nicolas.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The next morning, as soon as Jena opened her eyes, she couldn’t wait to read more of Nicolas’s journal. As she reached toward the nightstand and withdrew it from the dresser drawer, her heart raced with anticipation. It almost felt as though she’d known him somehow. Although his story pained her so, she found herself enchanted by this stranger’s touching memoir. She opened it up and continued to read.
September 27, 1819—I begin to fear as I write in this journal that Ash will someday find it, although I must continue to record what has become of my brother, for he is no longer human, nor am I.
Goosebumps rose on Jena’s skin. Strangely, she could see an image as it slowly revealed itself, but only in her mind. It was a man’s face. A handsome man with mesmerizing lavender eyes, the electrifying pull of them seemingly hypnotic. He oddly looked to be from another era of time, resembling a style from the eighteenth century. His regal features were both soft and masculine. He had his long, dark hair tied back with a blue silk ribbon. His flawless, pale skin appeared as though it had never seen the sun. There was a sense of heartache about him and a restless energy in his eyes that brought on an overwhelming sadness to her. It was at that moment, as this man captivated her in a way she could not understand, that she realized the journal had something to do with the age-old creature and her curse. Desperate for answers, she continued to the next paragraph.
After the death of my brother, I found myself grief-stricken and barely able to prepare the ghastly formalities and preparations for his funeral. My family had absolved themselves of such duties, leaving the burden to weigh on my shoulders. Due to Ash’s act of blasphemy, they renounced his name, and the church denied him a Christian ceremony. Left with no other choice, I had to search for a place to bury my brother. My family would not allow Ash near our family’s burial plot.
I wrote to Isabella, who had already taken to England, of my brother’s death.
As Jena turned the page, she found a letter. It was a returned letter from Nicolas, addressed to Isabella Westfield. She was curious to why Isabella sent it back to Nicolas. Maybe there was a reason and Nicolas would explain later in the journal, Jena thought as she carefully removed the letter from the envelope.
Dearest Isabella,
I hope this letter finds you well. It is of my deepest regret to bid you this dreadful news. For I wish it were anything but what has transpired.
THE IMMORTAL: A Novel of the Breedline series Page 28