Vampire Romance_Book 1

by P. L. Kurup

  “Don’t show them how afraid you are,” one of them said.

  “Never,” he answered.

  Samuel climbed the narrow flight of stairs, staying strong for his wife. The trek down the final corridor was the most difficult of his life, yet he never wavered. When he reached the first cell, which was empty, the door swung open. The phenomenon intrigued him so he stopped and peered into the chamber.

  “Samuel, what’s the matter?” asked Alexandra. “Samuel...”

  Alexandra was pulled into the cell by an unseen force, and the door slammed shut. Samuel rammed against the barrier, but it failed to reopen.

  “Let her go. I don’t want her to be harmed,” he hollered.

  Whoever snatched Alexandra failed to listen. Images of his wife’s dress flitted passed him while her blonde hair was tossed about. He shook the cell bars, desperate to tear them down.

  “Alexandra, hold on. I’m coming for you.”

  The last thing he heard was his wife’s spine-tingling scream, followed by a chilling silence. He looked into the jail, and saw her standing in the middle, staring at him.

  “You’re all right,” Samuel said.

  She shuffled forward and took hold of his hand.

  “I love you so much,” she whispered.

  After which she tumbled to the floor and expelled her dying breath. Samuel saw blood pour from her neck and kicked open the door. He picked her up off the ground to find her lifeless and limp. Tears streamed down his face as he stroked her beautiful, sun-kissed hair.

  “What has he done to you? I told him not to hurt you.” He wept.

  Those around him watched with sullen faces. Batiste pushed his way to the front and giggled at his loss.

  “I suspect your suffering will be short-lived,” Batiste commented. “We haven’t got all day. There’s a schedule to be maintained.”

  Samuel gave Alexandra a tender kiss on the lips and laid her down on the cold floor. As he stood up and left the cell, he no longer felt weak. He had never felt healthier or stronger in his life. He didn’t bother scanning the place as he walked through, because Lucas was no longer there.

  The mammoth prison door opened, and a heavy-footed Samuel lumbered outside and shielded himself from the sun. He was herded into a waiting cart along with half the prisoners and driven through the streets of Paris. Four captives threw up, and Frederick wailed at the prospect of his impending death. Samuel listened to the crowds cry out for his blood without a flicker of emotion.

  Minutes later, the cart stopped by the scaffold steps. Samuel was at the front of the cart and therefore the last to jump down from it. He watched his fellow prisoners fall under the blade as he moved forward, drawing closer to his own demise. The executioner disposed of his victims with meticulous precision until, finally, it was Samuel’s turn.

  “Move along,” said the guard.

  Samuel looked as pale as snow, and his eyes were pitch black.

  “I said, move along,” the guard yelled again.

  Samuel climbed the scaffold steps to find the executioner waiting for him.

  “I promise it will only sting a moment,” the executioner jested.

  Samuel observed the blood dripping from the blade’s edge and the puddles of gore all over the wooden platform, and in that moment, he became gripped by an insatiable thirst. It was more powerful than anything he had experienced, and he knew it must be quenched. He gazed at the thousands who came to watch him die, but he was no longer afraid of death. Something other than fear had overtaken him. He gaped at the executioner, hearing the blood course through his veins.

  “What are you waiting for? Lie down on the board,” the executioner said.

  Samuel grabbed the man’s neck and dug his teeth into his throat. Blood flowed from the wound, satisfying his thirst unlike any other liquid, and he succumbed to the absolute ecstasy that came with it. Once the executioner perished, Samuel tossed him away and looked to the crowd. The ones in front backed away with horrified faces.

  xxx

  Batiste watched Samuel from a mile away. Believing something was wrong, he charged into the crowd. He pushed passed row upon row of people and didn’t stop even though his arms ached. After ten minutes of thrusting reluctant Parisians aside, Batiste halted to catch his breath.

  He turned to see a figure leap into the crowd from the scaffold. His heart thumped, knowing his life was in danger. He pushed through the crowd again, except this time, the crowd refused to let him pass.

  “What are you doing? Let me through,” he yelled. No one obliged. “I said, let me through.”

  Yet again, all he got back were stares of indifference. Batiste turned with trembling lips – three seconds was all it took for Samuel to reach him and plunge his teeth into his neck. Batiste barely put up a fight, and his life faded away just like Samuel’s had the night before. Only, Samuel didn’t stop before death. He continued until every drop of blood was expunged from the general’s body. In less than a minute, General Batiste was no more, his corpse hurled to the ground.

  The crowd dared not confront the stranger and formed a path for him to escape. Samuel stood among them, noticing the terror in their eyes, then dashed down the road and vanished from sight.

  Chapter 7

  Samuel raced through the crowd, leaving General Batiste’s corpse where it fell. His clothes and face were drenched in blood, making him a disturbing sight. Though he fled the scene, he continued to relish the taste of blood lingering in his mouth, and a satisfied grin played on his lips.

  In the middle of his blissful state, he heard the thoughts of those around him. He sensed the seething hate they had for the aristocrat, and how they craved the destruction of every marquis, duchess, count, and prince. He knew what their innermost desires were and raised a disappointed brow at their confessions. What astonished him most was that he gained an intimate knowledge of everything that happened in a person’s life, from the time they took their first breath to the second he passed by them. For example, the woman on his right was born in the servants’ quarters at Versailles, and worked for the king until the day he was arrested. The strapping man on his left had been pale and sickly as a child.

  The fifteen deep crowd full of stinking peasants made his eyes water and he longed to be back among the rosebushes at the chateau. But he continued down the path they created for him, and as he reached the end, he saw the crowd descend into a frenzy of applause.

  “The slaughter has resumed,” he mumbled, clenching his fists.

  He could do nothing to stop the massacre, and he hated himself for having survived. He kept running for what seemed like an eternity and travelled through quaint streets scattered with rubbish. His heightened senses made the stench unbearable, and he stuck his nose in the air to counter the smell.

  The bloody theatre meant no one was home, so he could roam about without being seen. In another bout of good fortune, dark clouds blocked out the sun, casting a gloomy shadow over the city. The bleak environment invigorated him, and his arms and legs moved with ease. He looked skyward every now and then, hoping that the woeful atmosphere would stay.

  Strolling through yet another neighbourhood, he saw an old woman watching him from the window of her house. The lady shrieked on seeing his blood-soaked clothes and shunted her chair away from the window. Samuel scrunched his shirt between his fingers, grimacing at what he’d done.

  “I am no better than any of these people,” he said.

  xxx

  By mid-afternoon, he’d covered a good portion of the city. The thrill of surviving made him waltz onto another street teeming with disorderly crowds. Samuel’s brow wrinkled as he spotted a hat shop and a butchers he’d seen en route to the scaffold, and a little girl perched on her father’s shoulders. The innocuous signs caused the hairs on the nape of his neck to bristle. He soon gathered he was round the corner from the ‘Lea Prison.’ At first, he cursed his luck, but a second later, he rushed to the prison’s lower window, and gaped into his former cell.
To his relief, the room was empty.

  The prison doors flew open and a horse-drawn cart trundled out with a dozen men, women, and children cramped inside. Their faces were full of terror, and he stepped forward to free them, but he went no further. Liberating them was impossible.

  Of all the people he saw in the cart, it was a young woman who resembled Alexandra that bothered him the most. Like his beloved, the girl had long, flowing locks, and the same sparkling, hazel eyes. He reached out and gently gripped her hand.

  “Have courage,” he shouted.

  A guard shoved him into a puddle, inducing cackles from the crowd. Samuel stood up and watched the cart disappear into the horizon, the sight of the innocent young woman vanishing forever. The laughter faded as quickly as it began. He spun round and noticed the crowd viewing him with stunned faces. Reading their minds, he worked out that his bloodstained clothes worried them. The more they thought about the stain’s origin, the more convinced they became something unspeakable had occurred.

  “What did you do?” hissed a terrified man.

  “I did nothing,” Samuel replied.

  “Stop him. He killed the general,” screamed the head of a regiment of twelve mounted guards.

  Samuel dashed from the prison and headed north. He didn’t bother looking back as that would stifle his pace. On and on he ran through unknown streets until his escape was thwarted by the raging River Seine. The only solution was to cross the river, but the canal’s turbulent waters meant death. Pebbles dancing on the embankment and the subtle boom of galloping horses implied they were getting closer. Samuel looked in all directions and laid eyes on Notre Dame Cathedral on the far side of the river. It was a place certain to offer him refuge. He lowered his gaze to the tumultuous waters and winced.

  As a human, he had been petrified of water and never learnt to swim. As a vampire, the fear remained. He stepped onto the water’s surface – and his feet dangled five centimetres above the river, suspending him in midair. Seeing the chaotic stream below made him chortle.

  “This is impossible,” he exclaimed.

  There was no time to dawdle so he shifted his right leg, then his left, and plodded through air to reach the riverbed on the opposite side. He waded across the muddy bank, slipping as he went, and approached the church boundary.

  “Thank heaven,” he gasped.

  Samuel raised his foot to enter the cathedral courtyard. However, no part of him would penetrate the border. He tried again to cross the threshold. Like before, his efforts were pointless, and he remained outside church territory. The guards forced their horses across the majestic river and would reach him in seconds. Samuel tried to enter the churchyard a third time by lunging at it, but he tumbled on the footpath beyond the cathedral. The guards approached Samuel and caged him with their horses.

  “General Batiste was my friend. A kind and noble man who was taken before his time,” the head guard said. Samuel stifled a laugh. “You cannot escape. So why don’t you come with us?”

  Samuel looked at the brown and white chargers. As the beasts’ black eyes met his, the once confident steeds let out anguished brays and staggered back. The guards tried their best to control the animals, but one by one, the horses turned, and bolted back across the river. Once more, Samuel was free. He looked at the church and saw a group of worshipers huddled together. Their stern faces telling him they saw the horses flee.

  “You are not normal,” cried a woman cradling a baby.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of,” Samuel answered.

  Four males broke from the group and walked his way. There were no horses to upset this time, which meant the mob had the upper hand.

  “I wish you no harm. All I want is to leave peacefully,” Samuel said.

  “Judging by the bloodstains on your clothes, I would say peace is the furthest option from your mind,” remarked Francois, a man with reddish hair.

  Five more men joined the group and he was now outnumbered nine-to-one. He darted from them and raced through the city while the thugs gave chase. The fleeing count was spared the burden of exhaustion, aching limbs, and the need to consume water. He outran his pursuers by a good three miles, and arrived at the outskirts of town, where a dusty road stretched for miles. The scent of honeysuckle and lilies swamped him with a dreamy ambiance, reminding him of home. His delightful state was cut short by a recognizable threat which he reacted to with a grin.

  “We meet again, gentlemen,” Samuel said.

  He turned and laid eyes on the gang of brutes determined to destroy him. His forehead furrowed since the once strong men were covered with perspiration, and their chests heaved as they struggled for breath.

  “Why are you against me?” Samuel asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Are you or are you not an aristocrat?” demanded Francois.

  “I am,” Samuel replied. “I am Count d’Orleans, of the family d’Orleans, a lineage that stretches back six centuries.”

  “People like you are a scourge on this country. You are the reason my children doesn’t have food on their tables or clothes on their backs,” continued Francois.

  “You misunderstand me, monsieur. I am not a bad person,” Samuel disputed.

  “The stains on your clothes would suggest otherwise,” said Pierre, a man with the same sunken brow as Francois.

  Francois strode up to Samuel and punched him in the face. Samuel’s head swayed in response, while blood oozed from his lip. Francois struck him again on the cheek, and weakened by the assault, Samuel collapsed on the ground. From then on, all nine men attacked him through kicks and punches that would render any human dead in minutes. The worst of these injuries was the stomping of his chest, which cracked four of his ribs and snapped his spine.

  Five minutes elapsed before Francois signaled the assault to cease. The men stopped their attack, and looked down at Samuel’s broken body.

  “Check that he’s dead,” Francois ordered.

  A tubby fellow with a mustache knelt down and placed his fingers on Samuel’s carotid artery, then stood up, saying, “I can’t feel a thing. He is dead.”

  Francois crouched in front of Samuel, ogling every part of his face, ending on his eyes. The left eye was so damaged that blood seeped into the socket, about to overflow.

  “We should go before someone finds us,” Pierre urged fretfully.

  Francois continued to fix on Samuel, anticipating a flicker of movement, but could see nothing to suggest he was alive.

  “He is no more. Let’s go,” Francois said, standing up.

  “We can’t leave him like this. Aren’t we going to bury him?” questioned the tubby chap.

  “He is a loathsome aristocrat who doesn’t deserve compassion. We leave him where he fell,” Francois replied.

  The group of thugs marched off, mumbling and laughing as if nothing shameless had taken place.

  A few minutes after the men disappeared, Samuel’s cut lip healed leaving no trace of injury. The bruises on his forehead, chin, arms, legs, back, and chest faded and were replaced by healthy skin. His twisted nose sprung back to its original position. The four broken ribs in his chest fused together, and his broken spine reformed. The blood collecting in his eye socket slurped back into the broken blood vessel, and the artery reattached. Last of all, the blood spatter on the road grew fainter until all that remained was the parched earth.

  Samuel blinked thrice, picked himself up off the ground, and dusted off his clothes. He was back to his handsome vampire self; skin as pale as a corpse’s, eyes an incandescent blue, and lips a dazzling ruby red. His thoughts now settled on the dusty road before him. Going down it would allow him to escape Paris, but he decided otherwise because Lucas lurked somewhere in the city. His enemy’s stench was unmistakable, and Samuel vowed to find and kill him. Therefore, he walked back to the city and all that happened there.

  Chapter 8

  Staying in Paris was a harsh punishment because the capital had grim reminders of his wife’s death. He
walked on the same road the carriage took to get to the prison, and remembered the people with him in the cart. All of them were dead now.

  Approaching the edge of the city, he saw hundreds of unassuming citizens going about their day. A breeze carried remnants of the victims’ blood his way, and Samuel’s eyes widened with desire. He continued down the road, sensing the blood scent grow stronger. Fragments of the stuff lingered in the air, and in the hair and clothes of those who went about town, making him salivate. Satisfying his cravings at the expense of others filled him with guilt, so he covered his nose to stop the aroma penetrating his nostrils. It was a silly idea as every part of his body including his skin, hair, and nails, captured the smell. Spotting a rancid puddle in the middle of the street, he knelt beside it, scooped the sludge into his hands, and smeared it all over his clothes. The reasons for this were twofold; first, to cover the bloodstains on his shirt, and second, to block out the fragrance of human blood. Soon, a new smell exuded from his body, one that resembled rotting fish and rubbish, and he swallowed to cope with the stink.

  A strong wind tossed shop signs back and forth and hurled dry leaves into the air. Jumbled in the chaos was what sounded like laughter. Samuel was in no doubt Lucas taunted him with mocking snickers, so he ran deeper into the city to find him. He reached a marketplace where merchants sold their wares and was besieged by the smell of old meat, rotting vegetables, and rancid cheese. Covering his face with his hands, he limped to the other side of the market, only to face a new set of evils stemming from the manufacture of leather. The air was so poisonous that his throat became covered in ulcers. His eyes stung so badly that he thought they would explode. Boils crisscrossed his body, the searing pain bringing him to his knees.