“Yes, it is,” Miranda said gazing out the window again. He was starting her thinking. Tugging on her heartstrings and making her want to confide.
“There’s more.”
“More?”
“More to the dream.”
She turned to see his response. He seemed genuinely interested to hear more. If he hadn’t, she would have ended things there. She didn’t like opening up to people that didn’t respect her feelings. She had a hard time with trust and yet here she was, talking to him about things that she would have fought to keep secret. She wondered why she was still talking. She realized it was because he wasn’t pushing to know. He was letting her set her own boundaries. That implied respect.
“Yes, it’s all jumbled, but basically I was riding a horse.”
Stroker raised a brow and lifted his hand off the armrest.
“Doesn’t sound too upsetting.”
“Yes, well, that’s because I haven’t gotten to the good part. I was in a cemetery, jumping over graves. Fancy that! There was a huge storm threatening, but there I was. I came to the last one. It was my … my father’s grave. For some reason, the horse refused to jump at the last moment. I was thrown off of him … into the air. I thought I would land on the grave, but while I was falling, I discovered the grave was open. I fell right into it – onto my father who grabbed me from behind and kept me pinned down. I heard someone above – on the outside. He was shoveling dirt onto my face.”
There was no change of expression on Stroker’s face, except for his eyes. Miranda couldn’t tell what it was about them that looked different, but they seemed colder. In the silence that followed her last words, she realized it wasn’t Stroker that had changed – she was just seeing him differently – through a new perspective. She had changed the dynamics of the relationship by revealing her personal thoughts to a stranger. It meant she couldn’t be sure how her words would be handled. She hoped he didn’t say something stupid. If he did, it would mean she was wrong to open up to him and that he was just another superficial asshole. She’d met so many. It was why it was so hard for her to trust.
Stroker shook his head as if brushing off cobwebs.
“I am truly sorry about that. I really was listening. It’s just that what you said reminded me of an old legend.”
Miranda breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t been wrong. And one look at his face told her that she had been right in her evaluation – his face hadn’t morphed into some hard, cold monster. It was still a face that evinced trustworthiness. She felt silly for going through unneeded consternation. She’d make sure she wouldn’t go through a series of baseless misgivings again.
Miranda leaned towards him, putting her elbow on the armrest between them and placing her chin on top of her hand. She was curious to find out more about what he had said.
“A legend? What sort of legend?”
“About vampires.”
The word startled Miranda. She withdrew back into her seat. She was a bundle of raw nerves after the talk with Reginald. She was doing everything to forget what he said and here was this man she’d just met using that word. She was flustered, but determined not to let him notice. She clasped her hands in her lap as he continued.
“Horses will refuse to jump over the grave of a vampire. It’s how they used to tell if a newly-buried corpse was human or cursed. If the horse refused to jump, they would open the grave, and pound a stake into the heart to make sure the corpse stayed dead.”
Miranda blinked her eyes several times. She wasn’t sure what context to give to what he just said. Maybe she had been wrong to tell him about the dream, but for entirely different reasons than she had first assigned. The legend was too close for comfort. In the dream, her father’s grave was open. Did that mean he was being dug up? Or that he hadn’t been buried? It had to mean that they were digging him up. And since he had grabbed her, it meant he was still alive. And if he were still alive …
She felt like she was back in Weatherly Manor, and Reginald was telling her more ghost stories. She was scared and chilled to her marrow even contemplating her father could be a vampire. She remained calm and took deep, even breaths. He didn’t say it to scare her – he’d only told it as an interesting aside. The legend and the dream were similar. Miranda could well see how he would have been reminded of the curious old tale. He had no way of knowing she was spooked by the subject of ghosts, goblins, and vampires. He had just innocently related a dark tale.
“Really?” was all she could muster.
“I know this doesn’t have anything to do with your dream. It’s a silly, old legend that I came across. It just popped into my head. I hope I didn’t alarm you.”
“Alarm me? With such a charming tale?”
Stroker shrugged his shoulders.
“Whichever way you chose to react would not have surprised me. People love to believe they’re civilized, but too often underneath beats the heart of ignorant, superstitious peasants.”
Miranda didn’t want to admit it, but what he said was all too true. People could be vicious. Starting rumors, tearing others down. If given the chance, they’d probably love to drive a stake through someone’s heart.
“You have a point.”
Miranda let the conversation die right there. She couldn’t keep up the pretense of not being scared any longer and certainly didn’t want to learn any more about ancient barbaric customs. She appreciated him sharing the story with her, but it hadn’t helped. It was why he could be a friend, but nothing more. For while someone should speak whatever was on their mind, Miranda wanted someone who could read her mind. Further, they needed to be able to switch their psychic ability on and off so as to not read into areas that were off-limits. Stroker was too earthy for that sort of sensitivity.
Stroker watched her a moment longer and then turned his attention to flagging down the airline attendant. He ordered a drink while Miranda retreated back into the safety of her book. She hoped the fairy tale would bring warm thoughts and wash out what she’d just heard. She wanted to be carried away by burning passions and tales of love and lust.
They flew over the ocean in silence. Stroker might not be able to sort out sensitivities, but he respected boundaries. Miranda would give him that. She continued to read, but her mind kept returning to that nightmare. She knew it was an outgrowth and distortion of recent events, but it was still bothering her. She angrily shut the book, closing and stuffing it into her purse. She’d never be able to concentrate – her mind was too actively engaged in exploring ghastly topics. She glanced at her watch. The flight wouldn’t last much longer. The worst was over and all would be fine once her feet hit terra firma. She would just need a diversion to tide her over until she was freed from the steel cage. She withdrew a notepad and pen and began sketching the design she’d seen on the grave. She wasn’t a skilled artist, but could do a decent job rendering an accurate copy. It seemed familiar. Where had she seen it before? She sat appraising the finished work, unaware she’d attracted the attention of her traveling companion in the next seat.
“Do you mind?”
Stroker’s hand was poised in the air waiting for her answer.
“No, not at all.”
She handed him her pad. He studied it for a long while. Miranda was curious as to why he found her rendering so fascinating.
“Is it my style that’s perplexing?”
“Oh, sorry,” Stroker said retaining control of her pad. “Do you mind my asking what prompted you to draw this?”
Miranda didn’t feel like giving a full explanation, but was curious about why he was asking. From the way he was staring at the drawing, she had the impression that it meant something to him.
“It was in my dream. It was etched into a gravestone.”
Stroker’s eyebrows shot up, temporarily lining his forehead. Miranda wanted to find out why.
“Do you know what it is?”
“As a matter-of-fact I do. It’s a coat-of-arms of a very old French family,”
he answered, handing the sketch back to Miranda. He turned his attention back to his laptop. It was her turn to intrude.
”Really? How strange that I’d have a dream about it. I must have seen it at some point. Probably stuck in my memory all this time.”
“Yes, well, what’s the phrase that’s so popular nowadays? ‘There are no coincidences?’ ” he leaned towards her. “Well, there are and this is one of them.”
His eyebrows knitted together as he returned to typing furiously. She only had a few more minutes left with him to find out what he knew. She tapped him on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, but there was another part to my question.”
With a sigh of resignation, he closed the top on his computer.
“I suppose you’re not going to let me get any work done.”
“Do you mind?”
“No, not at all. What do you wish to know?”
“Anything you can tell me about that crest before we arrive. If it stuck in my mind, it must be important.”
He crossed his leg and placed a strong hand on his ankle.
“Very well, to start with I’m doing research on the old royal families of Europe. The meanings of their coats-of-arms. I thought it would be timely as tracing family roots and finding out about heritage is gaining an enormous popularity.”
“Yes, it is and the research does sound interesting. Does the crest belong to one of the families you’re investigating?”
He rubbed his hand across his face and pushed back a lock of hair that spilled forward on his forehead.
“Yes and no. The family’s history is murky. Tied up to the category of the Lost Tribe of Israel or The Amber Room.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they were there one minute and gone the next.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re sure they existed?”
“Yes, very sure. Their name is mentioned in the memoirs of several members of the Court of Versailles. The memoirs were of titled people who wouldn’t have engaged in practical jokes. I did more research and found that members of this family were frequent guests at the palace. Moreover, they were huge favorites of the king. They had this illustrious, favored lifestyle – extremely privileged, but then … their lineage just dies out. Not a mention … not a trace of what happened.”
“There was the Revolution. If they were friends of the king, they may have been persecuted and killed. Or the ensuing chaos may have just caused them to scatter and keep a low profile.”
“Perhaps and those are the types of theories that I’ve entertained.”
“You don’t seem to be very convinced.”
“I am not,” Stroker turned narrowing his eyes. The color had changed. No longer were they the gray of the ocean’s waters. They had been forged into hard metal. “I think it’s more that they want us to think that.”
Miranda was startled at the comment. It was unsettling. She thought he was attempting humor, but his face and demeanor told her he was dead serious. The announcement that they were about to land interrupted their conversation. She was glad. She would have a chance to digest and chew over what he’d said without him adding more mysterium to the woodpile. She strapped on her seatbelt as Stroker closed his laptop and put it in its protective casing. As much as she wanted to dismiss his last remark and him, she realized she was fully invested in his somewhat strange opinions. She wanted more of the conversation. She pressed on.
“You think they covered their tracks? Went into hiding?”
“Interesting that you put it that way, but yes, that’s exactly what I think.”
“But why?”
“Because of the way it happened. Because privileged families don’t just die out that way – not without it being recorded – but this one did. Not a word of them before or after they became the center of this extravagant sideshow. Then there’s the matter of their castle. It’s another perplexing issue that adds validity that something odd went on.”
“Castle?”
“Yes, they owned a castle, but abandoned it. After 1765, the family never returned to it and it went unoccupied.”
“But we’ve discussed that. France was in turmoil … maybe it wasn’t safe to …”
“The castle wasn’t in France – it was in Romania.”
“Romania? But I thought you said they were French?”
“They were … are French. If any of them are still around. There’s something else about the castle. The fact that it is still tended. As if someone left a trust to take care of it, but when I try to track that down as to the nature of the trust and who’s behind it, I come to only dead ends.
Miranda was so caught up in the conversation, she was unaware they had even landed. Whether it was due to the pilot’s skill or her being absorbed in Stroker’s tale of this missing family, she didn’t know. Passengers began standing up in the aisle seat and collecting their belongings for departure.
Stroker slipped off his seatbelt. Miranda picked up her purse off the ground and stuffed in her notepad.
“Do you mind my asking this family’s name?”
Stroker turned.
“Adduné.”
With that he stood up. Miranda sat – her mind racing. She remembered where she’d seen her drawing – it was the egg! And the name – it was the name Reginald had mentioned to stay away from. She hadn’t realized the heart and blood drop were a family crest – she’d only thought it was a design. She stared at her sketch. It was so odd that she’d had that dream – that she’d sketched this out for him to recognize. The one person that would know – about Romania and the name of the family. What was it? Adduné? Stroker may have been right in repeating that there were no coincidences since Miranda could not shake the feeling that there was a greater purpose behind this. Her meeting him this way was beyond coincidence and fitted better in the category of Grand Design. She began to berate herself for almost blowing this opportunity. Why had she ended the conversation? Just because he had mentioned that stupid vampire legend? It made him interesting, not creepy. Plus the fact it hadn’t been his idea to talk to her. She had provoked the conversation by having that blasted dream to begin with. That was what prompted the talk and she somehow had read unwarranted machinations into him being concerned. He obviously had nothing to do with the incident and yet she had pushed him away and closed down and why? Because she was such a prize that every man on earth wanted her? What the hell was wrong with her? And why hold back information on the coat-of-arms? She could possibly aid him in uncovering the history of this family. Even if a forgery, it still showed that coat-of-arms. It could point to the fact that they had lost their money, but still wanted prestige. Or sold the original one and had a fake made to remind them of the grand old days. She should have trusted her first instinct that this man would be a friend and not go off half-cocked. She needed to fix the situation and salvage this – fast. There wasn’t much time.
She stood up slowly being careful to avoid being hit by Stroker’s carry-on bag that he’d just taken down from the overhead compartment.
“This one yours?”
Miranda nodded as Stroker took down her bag for her and set it down on his empty seat.
“Listen, I’m sorry I buried myself in my book. I’d like to talk to you more about this – and about what you’re doing. Here,” she said pulling out a business card from her wallet and scrawling her number on the back. “This is my business card and on the back is my personal cell phone. I’d love it if you called me. Any time. I might be able to help you.”
“Sure,” he replied placing the card in his shirt pocket.
Miranda couldn’t be certain that she’d gotten through. After all, she’d ignored him for the whole of the flight and was only now coming on strong.
“Are you staying in New York? Will I be able to find you here?”
Miranda’s heart jumped at the question. It meant he’d taken her plea to stay in touch seriously. She took he
r bag in her hand, beaming from ear-to-ear to show her enthusiasm.
“Eventually. I’ll be back here in a few days.”
“So New York is your final destination?”
“Yes, and you?
“Yes, I’ll be staying for a few weeks. Business.”
“Your book?”
Adduné (The Vampire's Game) Page 25