Ghosts of Memories: A Vampire Memories Novel

by Barb Hendee

  “Inside his mind?” Christian asked, incredulous. “No. I’m not going in there. Not for you. Not for anything.”

  “Then you leave me no choice.”

  Staring at Angelo, Christian suddenly wondered how this man had learned so many “details” about him, but then he knew: Bernadette. They were probably in close contact, and she’d told him anything he wanted to know.

  Christian was trapped. For some reason he could not explain, he did not want to be included in Angelo’s book.

  Slowly, he sank to his knees. Feeling a dread he’d known before, he pushed his thoughts into Philip’s.

  Even after Christian returned to England, it took him nearly a year to recover from the madness and blood he’d seen in that feral vampire’s mind. But he did recover and tried to go on with his life.

  The thing was…he was growing weary of being the perfect escort, the perfect host to draw entertaining company to lonely women. But he liked good living too much and didn’t know how to else to achieve it.

  Worse, Demetrio did not write often anymore, and the feeling of darkness looming over Christian did not go away.

  Then in 1826, he was living on the west coast of Denmark with an aging heiress when the last letter arrived.

  My friend,

  I don’t know how to tell you this, so I will simply write it out.

  Angelo is dead. His first son, John McCrugger, is dead.

  Your sweet Bernadette is dead.

  Several others of us, whom you have never met, are now dead.

  I have been hiding some events from you, but in recent years, many of us began to counsel Angelo to destroy his second son, Julian, and third son, Philip…but most pointedly, Julian, who shows no sign of developing his telepathy and will never be able to follow the first law. Our quiet counsel soon turned into a demand and then finally into threats of taking this matter upon ourselves. We fear Julian learned of our plans. He must have believed Angelo would eventually side with us.

  Julian’s presence cannot be felt, and he is coming from the darkness to take our heads. I do not know how he is finding us with such ease and haste.

  But you must leave Europe as soon as possible. Take a ship to America and flee until this madness is over. Let me know when you arrive. Please do this for me. Your friendship and kindness to me have meant a great deal.

  With my love,

  Demetrio

  Christian stared at the letter. Less than an hour later, he booked passage on a ship heading south toward France.

  He crossed France on land and made it to Florence as fast as he could, going straight through to the villa. His own sense of loyalty, of protection, surprised him, but he was not leaving Demetrio to some murdering son of Angelo’s.

  When he reached the villa, however, it was quiet, and he went in the back door, climbing the steps and going through the dining room to the terrace. The feeling of darkness was pressing all around him now, and he walked slowly toward the terrace upon seeing Cristina’s dress and Demetrio’s suit on the floor. Small piles of blowing dust filled and surrounded the clothes, and Christian sank to his knees. They were already gone. Dead long before he’d reached this place.

  But his sorrow lasted only a few moments, and then some of Demetrio’s last words passed through his mind.

  Julian’s presence cannot be felt, and he is coming from the darkness to take our heads. I do not know how he is finding us with such ease and haste.

  Christian stood up. He had a fairly good idea of how Julian was finding everyone, and this house was listed in Angelo’s book.

  Christian ran.

  He fled across Italy and France. Then he crossed the channel and moved up the west coast of England in order to book passage on a ship sailing to Boston. He knew that the elite of Europe normally sailed out of England, as Liverpool now offered several lines providing “comfortable” travel for those who could afford it. He had enough money with him for the ticket and probably for the price of a week in a decent hotel when he got to Boston…but after that, he had no idea what he was going to do. He knew no one in America, had no connections and no one to introduce him into society.

  Sitting in the silence of his cabin that first night, he was afraid.

  He never forgot the first time he saw Ivory Daniels.

  For one thing…she was breaking into someone else’s cabin. Not that theft was so unusual, but she was so young and fresh, wearing a flowing white gown, with her blond hair piled up on her head. She looked like an angel.

  It was his second night on board, and he was heading down a passageway. He’d just started to turn a corner when he saw her and stopped.

  Something about the tight stance of her body made him pause, and he pulled back slightly. Then she took a thin tool from her bag, glanced around furtively, and picked the lock.

  She hadn’t spotted him.

  He waited a few moments and then made his way quietly to the cracked door. Peeking inside, he saw her rummaging through a travel chest, careful not to disturb much. She was reading letters and looking at photos, but she wasn’t stealing anything.

  More than curious now, he reached out to read her surface thoughts.

  There must be more than this here. Were in the hell is that hired investigator’s report? I’ll have to cancel the séance tonight if I can’t find more.

  She was looking for a hired investigator’s report? Christian knew a little of these men, who undertook the sordid business of spying for other people. Of course he’d never met one, but he’d heard the stories.

  Suddenly the girl stopped as she reached the bottom of a suitcase, and she pulled out a large envelope. Christian could feel the relief in her mind as she read For Madame Aurelie Dupuis on the outside. After glancing toward the door, she pulled out the contents and began reading an account by one of these paid spies who had been following Madame Dupuis’ husband.

  Inside the girl’s thoughts, Christian picked up that her own name was Ivory Daniels, and she was intent upon learning everything she could inside this cabin in a matter of minutes.

  He also picked up that Madame Dupuis’ husband was recently dead and his body was being transported for burial. His name was Jerome Dupuis, and he was an American—of French heritage—and he’d made a fortune trading cotton and tobacco.

  Christian wanted to know more, a good deal more.

  But laughter and footsteps sounded down the passage, and frustrated, he decided to turn around and head back for the open deck. His mind was racing, and he knew he’d just witnessed something important. He just wasn’t sure what yet.

  The first-class passengers were outside, sitting at tables, having afternoon tea, and Christian approached a servant carrying a tray.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “Could you please point out Madame Dupuis?”

  “Of course, sir. That is her sitting near the rail.”

  Christian passed the man a coin and approached a woman about forty-five years old, wearing a striped silk gown and wide-brimmed hat. He went into charming mode with a bow.

  “Madame, forgive my intrusion. Let me offer condolences to you in this sad time. I know we’ve not been introduced, but I am a colleague of Mademoiselle Ivory Daniels, and she has asked me to join her at the small…gathering tonight. I may be of assistance to her. But I wished to ask your permission first. Would you allow me to attend and take part?”

  Her mind was an open book, and he saw she’d been given use of a dining cabin for a séance that evening. But more important, she was taken aback by the handsome man asking permission to join in. She found his face and eyes and hair startling, and she fought to keep her expression still.

  In spite of this, he wasn’t taking any chances and flashed into her mind, Tell him yes. He will be a great help.

  “Of course you may join us, Monsieur…?” She trailed off.

  He smiled. “Christian Lefevre, at your service.”

  When he walked into the dining cabin that night, four people were already inside, and Ivory
turned to look at him in surprise.

  She was beautiful in her white gown, and there were glass lanterns glowing everywhere, flickering their light upon the walls. Before Ivory could say anything, Madame Dupuis stepped between them.

  “Ah, Monsieur Lefevre, you are here.” She turned to Ivory. “I am so glad you included your friend this evening. I already feel he will be a help to you.”

  Christian had to give Ivory credit for a decent confidence trickster. Her face didn’t flicker as she rapidly assessed the situation. He flashed an emotional impulse. Do nothing. Play along or you’ll ruin this.

  She smiled. “Yes, of course. Shall we sit down?”

  But he could feel her mind churning, anxious, wondering what was going on. She spoke French fluently, but her accent was strange—not British, but close. Then he realized it was American. He’d heard similar accents before.

  A round table had been set up with chairs around it, and Christian sat down beside Ivory. He surface-read a few thoughts around the room and quickly sized up the other two people as Madame Dupuis’ sister, Marguerite, and Marguerite’s husband, François.

  Christian absolutely could not wait to see what happened next.

  “Everyone please join hands,” Ivory said, though she was still nervous about Christian’s presence and wondering about the wisdom of continuing. But she didn’t want to quit, and then Christian picked up that she was being paid five hundred American dollars for this little show. No wonder she hadn’t bothered stealing anything from Madame Dupuis’ cabin. Why risk being arrested when you could be paid?

  Both his interest and his excitement began to grow.

  Ivory closed her eyes.

  “Jerome Dupuis,” she said, her strange accent sounding almost lyrical now. “Please hear me. Come to me. Speak to me.”

  She stopped talking and made a gently musical humming noise for a few moments. Then she sucked in a breath and opened her eyes. “I can see him. He is standing behind you, madame.”

  Madame Dupuis gasped. “Where?”

  “Only I can see him, but he is a most impressive man, tall, with a Roman nose and thick hair. He’s wearing a dark brown coat with a white cravat tied around his neck.” She squinted, ever so slightly. “I see a small silver arrow pinned to his lapel.”

  Madame Dupuis began weeping. “Yes, I gave it to him the first year we were married. He wore it often.”

  The moment was a revelation to Christian. He could have done this without ever going inside the woman’s cabin, but for Ivory to be this convincing astonished him. She’d looked at one photo of the man and had now proved to his wife that she could see him standing across the room.

  Without waiting any longer, Christian reached inside Madame Dupuis’ mind and saw the whole sordid story. She had accompanied Jerome on a business trip to England. But he’d begun spending long hours away from her and she had no idea of his whereabouts. Eventually, she began to fear he was having an affair, and she’d hired someone to follow him.

  One night, Jerome had spotted the man following him and, with no idea who he was, had become frightened. In a moment of rushed distraction, he had stepped out in front of a speeding carriage and been killed. The investigator had not been able to prove an affair one way or another yet, and now Madame Dupuis was racked with guilt that if her husband was innocent, she had caused his death for no reason.

  Apparently, she’d told Ivory none of this, and Ivory had simply offered to contact him on the other side. But clearly, Ivory had been able to learn bits and pieces of the story…enough to look for the report.

  Although Christian could surface-read several minds at once, for a deeper read, he needed to focus, so he shifted into Ivory’s mind. She’d read the full report and knew the findings were inconclusive, but now she had to assuage Madame Dupuis’ guilt over the possibility that her husband had died an innocent man and somehow still allow the woman to save face and leave with her dignity.

  Not an easy feat.

  “He says…,” Ivory went on. “He says he forgives you for hiring the man to follow him. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Madame Dupuis sobbed once. “Yes.”

  However, by now Marguerite’s husband, François, was staring at Ivory with a more-than-wary expression on his face.

  “He says to tell you that you were right,” Ivory went on. “He had fallen from grace and been seduced by a woman who was far beneath you. He’d let himself be trapped, and he was struggling to escape from her. She threatened to tell you, and he was trying to find a way to tell you himself.” Ivory paused and drew in a sobbing breath. “He begs your forgiveness and says you were the finest thing that ever came into his life. You were right to send someone after him, and you should never blame yourself.”

  Madame Dupuis was weeping into her hands now. She turned to the empty space behind her chair. “Of course I forgive you. Please forgive me.”

  A moment later, Ivory said, “He’s gone now.”

  In the seconds that followed, the room erupted into mild chaos as Marguerite jumped to comfort her sister and Madame Dupuis kept thanking Ivory over and over.

  Christian just watched in amazement. Ivory had earned five hundred dollars for telling someone exactly what she’d needed to hear.

  There was money to be made in this, with little to no legal risk. It had been many years since he’d feared being arrested, and he had no intention of ever sinking that low again. He needed to find a dependable source of income without endangering himself.

  While no one was watching, he slipped out of the room.

  Later that night, he spotted Ivory up on the open deck, looking out over the rail at the sea. She was sipping a glass of white wine.

  He walked right up to her.

  “That was impressive,” he said. “And I’m not easily impressed.”

  She glared at him but kept her voice low. “I don’t know who the hell you are or what you were doing in there, but you’d better stay out of my way.”

  Her manner surprised him. Women never spoke to him like this. She wasn’t remotely affected by his face or his eyes. He didn’t like it.

  “Jerome wasn’t having an affair,” he said.

  She blinked, less certain now. “What?”

  “He was simply working around the clock to make new connections for tobacco sales. Their finances were not as secure as Madame believed. She will find this out shortly after landing in Boston, so it’s a good thing she paid you in advance.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  He’d read it in François’ mind.

  “It doesn’t matter. You told her what she needed to hear. That is a talent.” He smiled. “I have a few talents of my own, and I find myself…shall we say, short of funds. If you can set up another of these gatherings before the ship reaches Boston and let me take the lead, I promise you will not regret it.”

  Although her face was calm, he could read her thoughts. He was a complete stranger, and she had no interest in taking on a partner.

  But she hadn’t yet seen what he could do. She’d change her mind soon enough. He sent an impulse. Do what he wants. You can get away from him later. For now, just do what he wants.

  “All right,” she said. “But I don’t have any other fish on the hook here.”

  In that moment, he saw in her mind that she often worked ships like this one, as people traveled for all sorts of various personal reasons, and away from home, they gave in more easily to the idea of a spiritualist.

  He smiled again. “Just have Madame Dupuis tell any of her friends on board about you. You won’t have to fish. They’ll be knocking on your door.”

  The first séance in which he took the lead remained in his mind as one of his greatest triumphs—but only because of the expression on Ivory’s face afterward. He’d found it a pity that she was not a vampire like himself, as he would have preferred for her to be reading his mind, seeing what he was doing throughout the entire event. As things stood, the best he could do was to send he
r emotional impulses, which hardly compared to telepathic communication.

  But she’d found him a wonderful mystery to solve—one that looked complex on the outside but was really quite simple. Those were always his favorites.

  The ladies who hired him and Ivory were three American sisters in their midfifties, simply known in their circles as “the Bertram sisters.” The sheer size of them had put him off for a moment when he’d first been introduced—via Madame Dupuis—out on the open deck, but he’d recovered quickly and kissed all their hands. They were loud and large and dressed like peacocks, but they’d offered three hundred dollars for a séance. At first Christian had been a little disappointed with the fee, as he was hoping for more, but money was money, and from what he understood, three hundred dollars would go a long way in Boston.

  The ladies all spoke French badly and with grating accents. After living in England, he spoke fluent English and assured them their own language would be fine. They insisted he call them by their first names: Martha, Clementine, and Amelia.

  “But we don’t want to tell you too much,” Clementine said, giggling, which caused her large bosom to bounce up and down. “Not until our…gathering.”

  “No, no, my dear,” Christian assured her. “Whoever I contact for you will tell me all. But I must know to whom you wish to speak. I must know whom to call.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Martha said.

  “Our eldest sister, Charlotte, died last year,” said Clementine, “and after our time of mourning ended, we all took a trip to England to try and lift our spirits.”

  “But on this journey back,” Martha said, “something has gone mis—”

  “Martha!” Amelia cut in. “Don’t tell him more.”

  Ivory stood quietly by, just listening. But she’d been the one to earlier announce that he was taking the lead and that the ladies were in good hands.

  “Until this evening, then,” Christian said with a bow.

  As he and Ivory walked away, she whispered, “What are you going to do? You’ve got nothing.”