by Drew VanDyke
Finished with his chore, Con shifted into a thick charcoal vapor that whirled and swirled, a splash of paisley against a painted fabric sky. The dark slipstream of the vampire’s passing slashed toward the lights of the twinkling city below.
The town of Knightsbridge had lain blanketed in a supernatural muffling for decades. Churches on every corner and the piety of the faithful meant that incarnations of the Goddess in the town were usually limited to manifestations of the Blessed Mother, and other practitioners, such as the witches who met regularly at the White Rabbit for lunch, had struggled, inhibited by the disapproving spiritual atmosphere.
This lack of an embodied imagination regarding the Divine Feminine meant that Knightsbridge had been uninviting to most supernatural types until recently, when a new generation of its children, raised on social media, told stories of its idyllic allure, putting the Knightsbridge Canyon area on the popular map once more.
Too quickly, the once-forgotten coventry became inundated with wealthy transplants from the chilly Bay Area or congested Los Angeles, seeking the perfect California combination of climate, natural beauty and upscale cuisine. With them came jobs and the people to fill them, and naturally, not everyone was mundane.
For the vampire community, all of this meant the place was finally worth appointing a master, and Con was the first.
Survey complete, his misty foot touched down at the base of the canyon and he strode onto the safety of his own estate, his form solidified into an alabaster idol of chiseled flesh, his lean musculature ashen, drawn and tight with the absence of fat.
Must feed. His innards growled at him, the result of the exertions of repeated shifting and the enchantments he’d performed.
The more sated a vampire was, the more color he retained and the better he could pass for a mundane human. When his well of blood ran dry, he took on a chalky appearance and could be mistaken for a marble statue.
He disappeared into the Victorian gothic structure of the old wooden rectory, his abode nestled in the velvet woods past Knightsbridge Commons, and left a parted group of fireflies bobbing to light the remnants of his presence as he prepared for the day.
Con opened his double-wide stainless steel refrigerator door, grabbed himself a plastic blood bag and sucked it down, wrinkling his nose against the unpleasant cold. He put up with it for the sake of his thirst, as a mundane might have drunk yesterday’s stale coffee to clear his head. It didn’t take long for his reflection to take on the pink glow of humanity.
Next stop was his expansive, well equipped bathroom, and he reveled in the modern convenience of indoor plumbing as hot water washed the remains of his nocturnal prowling down the drain.
Once finished, he called for those intimates on duty tonight – even thralls needed days off, after all – and took and gave pleasure, feeding on their warm vitae as a gourmand might sup at a fine table.
Later, at his dressing table, he glanced in the mirror at himself and chuckled at the old superstition about vampires. There was magic in the world, but usually it was practical, sensible, and it conformed, more or less, to the constraints of physics. When it didn’t, the cost to the user was normally quite high.
Clothing himself in the conservatively tailored garments of a successful businessman, he ran his hands across the soft-as-butter fabric of his white silk shirt, brushed navy trousers and mustard-colored waistcoat, smoothing away the wrinkles and adding a bronze pocket watch and chain to tie up the look.
He wasn’t a tall man, but he had a presence about him borne of confidence in his power and authority. Clear spectacles and a coat of silver at his temples and brow made him appear to be in his mid-forties, with salt and pepper hair, a cross between Dr. Strange and Doctor Who.
Once he’d brushed his teeth – one couldn’t be too careful with them, after all – they shone with a whiteness even greater than his fair skin, and he practiced his smile in the mirror, making sure to call up an internal emotional reality that reached his eyes. It was an actor’s trick, an illusion that served him as he looked forward to bringing this land to heel.
It also served his continued dalliance with Margaret Stenfield, a widower and mother of two, grandmother of one. He stopped by his bedroom where she lay, still asleep, and kissed her forehead. She stirred, but didn’t wake. His code, his sense of noblesse oblige and responsibility for his vassals that substituted for morality in his unbeating heart, was fulfilled by the good he was doing for her.
It didn’t hurt that his paramour was mother to the lupine girl’s lycanthrope lover, which allowed him to keep an eye on those two through the relationship. As with everything Con did, pragmatism figured prominently.
Thus far, his accomplishments this first year had made him content, if not entirely happy. Resolving to continue his improvements until everything fell into place, he made his way to the garage and the sleek silver Mercedes with tinted windows.
The people of Knightsbridge demanded he look the part, and unknowingly became sheep to his shepherd. Herding sheep. Funny. He smiled at the image and drove across town to his place of business, The Grand Illusion Magic and Curio Emporium, arriving before the sun crested the horizon.
Inside, he greeted Edward, his day manager, and allowed the man to fill him in on the significant events of yesterday: who came in, what they bought, what they might be interested in acquiring. The shop provided Con a cover for his evident wealth and status, and its uniqueness and selection of antiques ensured that most of the upper crust of Knightsbridge – the people who mattered, anyway – visited from time to time. This was one way he kept his finger on the pulse of the mundanes, and picked up tidbits about more important matters.
As he had been a competent stage magician in his former life, the shop also allowed him to keep in touch with that part of himself. He’d been performing monthly shows at the university, open to the public, to stay in practice and to provide a further entry into society.
Flipping the door sign to OPEN, Constantine Shelby took a deep, unnecessary but contented breath, and prepared for his usual short morning’s presence before returning to his abode to sleep away the greater part of the day.
Oh, and why am I telling you all this stuff about Con Shelby? Heck, I’m a writer. It’s what I do, taking notes and interviews and recollections and trying to fit them into a coherent whole for your enjoyment…because real life never makes as much sense as a good story.
And what’s life without a good story, anyway?
The End of the excerpt from BloodMoon, Supernatural Siblings Series Book 3.
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BOOKS BY DREW AND DAVID VANDYKE
Supernatural Siblings Series
SwitchBack - Book 1
MoonFall - Book 2
BloodMoon - Book 3
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Acknowledgments from Drew
For Dave: Damn, we wrote a good book! Thanks for all your love, hard work and support.
For Beth: Thanks for extending your kind heart and hospitality to the little brother and for everything you do behind the scenes. You are my template for the perfect partner in life and literature.
For Judy Jordan: My friend and biggest fan - thanks for waiting.
For Heather Gabriel: Many thanks as always for your beta work.
For Robert Zylstra: Whose last words to me were “When you comin’ back to Knightsbridge?” You made my life richer for your presence; rest in peace and know you are remembered.
For Paula Rettig: Whose haunting strains of You’ll Never Walk Alone live on in my soul and whose light still shines in the mystic falls of K
nightsbridge Canyon.
And as always, for Leslie, Phaedra, Bryson and Spanky. Without you, there just wouldn’t be a story.