I can’t say that I disagreed as much as I was grateful to them for all they did I still did think them odd. Humans that enjoyed being fed on stirred up some of my worst memories. I often wondered how I had survived all that I had lived through.
We would ride in carriages to the docks. Anat who was the most quiet looked happy. She held Ramet’s arm and nodded to me, as if to say ‘I’m past my worry’.
CHAPTER 56
At last the day came. I hugged Gascoyne and tried not to be emotional, but I failed which only made him laugh.
“No time for that! We go to begin anew.”
We boarded along with human passengers. I wondered what they’d have thought of us, or did I wonder?
Everything looked so much bigger than I had imagined. The ship, the decks—everything. As hard as we tried for there not to be, there was a certain amount of tension we all felt. Raphael encouraged us to know how far we had come. That was true and it helped. As did Gascoyne’s words.
We were shown to our staterooms, they were well appointed, beautifully furnished with beds and sofas and writing tables. I imagined Boland’s accommodation was more simple which probably annoyed him.
Raphael said the ship was only on her second Atlantic crossing. He had been told that by the Surronts. He also said on the maiden voyage the ship gained remarkable speed and docked in New York four days ahead of schedule—quite unheard of.
We went our separate ways then to retire to our staterooms. We would meet when it was dark. There were coverings for the portholes, some new invention called shades, I was told. Raphael showed us. “You just pull it down and it keeps any light out.” Then he advised if we felt safer in a cupboard it was our choice.
I never minded cupboards, myself.
As for our feeds, he had already told us that we might feed on our human friends whenever we liked. “Although,” he smiled, “it is a good idea to give them notice, so they might be prepared. And really, we must also cater to them and feed exactly how they like. It isn’t every vampire that has their own blood supply after all.”
That implied a great deal but we were dependent on them. Not they on us. We were merely a thrill to them whereas they were essential to our existence.
We slept, well Gascoyne and I did, and when we woke we made love. Love once again, not lust. We spoke of the dreams we had, the expectations. I asked my love if it was right to have any at all.
He said it was. “We suffer enough we will have rewards, modest though they may be. And why should we not? Fate made us what we are.”
Indeed yes, I thought.
****
We had much to be grateful for. Our courage didn’t fail us nor did our monstrousness betray us. Still, there were challenges and going to the dining room was one of them. Gascoyne repeated what Raphael had said that we’d have to look as though we were eating.
“Of course there are foods to eat,” he said. “Soups would be best, bread is okay. And wine is fine as well. Remember that we will have what to eat later when we leave...”
Yes, our handy human friends.
We were discussing them when someone pounded on the door. It was Ramet. He told us Anat had locked herself in her stateroom. “It was the first thing she did,” he said.
I said whatever I could to sound encouraging but Ramet looked awful, his skin looked waxy and his eyes dull.
Both Gascoyne and I spoke to him. That was after trying to coax Anat out or to at least open the door. But she would not.
We could not break the door down. “It will only make things worse,” Ramet said.
I asked him to dine with us, but he would not. “I will wait in case she needs me.”
We left him there although I didn’t wish to. The others, including our human food bank had already gone to the dining room. When I saw they were seated at the Captain’s table I was apprehensive. What questions would he ask? What would he think if we didn’t eat much?
The Captain greeted us warmly. He asked us about our staterooms.
Raphael was his most effusive. “We are extremely pleased and when I can, the very instant I can, I shall write the shipping company about your kindness and the excellent accommodation.”
The captain looked delighted. Clever Raphael.
He looked as though he liked all our company vampires and humans alike. He complimented all of us, his eyes lingering on the sisters.
The dining room was opulent, carpeted and furnished in rich crimson and gold. The columns were gilt edged. I thought it would not have looked out of place in the French court.
The other passengers eyed us carefully but not suspiciously. They looked quite impressed with us as we sauntered by.
The food was as lavish as the décor. There were massive courses, and many of them—which I tried not to look at.
The Captain chided me. “Your manager, Mr. Raphael has explained your strict dietary regime,” he said. “You must be careful.” He then mentioned some plays our manager had told him about. Saying how the parts called for even slimmer performers.
“However, should you require any snacks in between meal times, just ask and your wish will be granted.”
I didn’t dare look at Gascoyne. Instead I thanked the captain for his courtesy.
****
I could have been so happy and hopeful if I wasn’t worried about Anat and Ramet as I was. Even Raphael and the other vampires were beginning to look worried. When neither of them showed up, they looked as though they understood. A look passed between Raphael and Gascoyne. Whereupon Raphael said he understood two in our party were indisposed. The captain immediately offered something for seasickness.
The Surronts looked concerned and Martine started to chat about her stateroom I think to distract us. Her husband was engaged in conversation with Raphael, something about how large cities had amazing transportation systems.
Boland looked to be eating for all of us. Normally he’d never have been seated with his lady and master. But what was protocol to people like the Surronts? As Mrs. Surront always said, rules were made to be broken.
After as much dinner chat as I could stand, I told Gascoyne I needed to go and he left with me.
Ramet greeted us. He said everything was fine. “I have seen the princess and she is resting. She will be able to have something later.”
When the Surronts appeared, Mr. Surront went in to give the princess her sustenance. Ramet waited outside with us. Although we asked him to join us, he preferred to stand guard as it were for his princess.
Soon we were all busy feeding. The sisters and Sophia quite liked to feed on both the Surronts although Mr. Surront they said was much more responsive. I had an idea what that meant. Boland liked as many vampires to feed on him as possible.
As for Raphael, he fed on Martine, and I on Andrew. The truth of the matter was I was too worried and I had stopped feeding. Gascoyne warned me that I was looking pale. I agreed to feed and he was pleased.
When we left we found Ramet looking worried. “Although she fed, she is looking bad. Her mood is awful ... no vampire can last if they don’t wish to go on!”
Ramet hurried away. I think he didn’t wish me to see him cry. I rushed out to find him staring over the rail watching the moonlight playing upon that great inky sea. I feared he would jump over.
He saw me and began to argue about having the right to do as he liked to himself. But then in between arguing and shaking his head, he stopped speaking and cried out. As I turned to see why he shouted, I understood. Anat was coming toward us. She was crying and pleading with Ramet to forgive her.
Some conversations don’t need translating. They embraced as I walked away—that was not a moment to be shared I knew.
Theirs was still a tragic relationship—one that would last as long as they did. Their fate was to love and have that love obstructed in the cruelest way possible.
****
I don’t know what the passengers made of Anat but she proved to be very popular. We did speak quite a lot
during the rest of the voyage and I felt by the time we landed I had gained a most lovely and unusual friend.
It is funny but she is like Ramet in so many ways. Perhaps that is because of their shared roots and culture. She has promised to tell me her story and I look forward to hearing it. I have never known a more beautiful or mysterious creature, one I am glad to call friend.
As our ship draws near New York, our thoughts become filled with our expectations.
I know when we land we will all of us be on deck, sunny or not—covered from head to toe though we may be. I know we will wish to see the new world.
I wonder what awaits us. I suppose all creatures undead and not wonder such things.
Now, I have come to the end of my story. You will agree I had much ground to cover, many tales to tell. My head is full of memories of those I knew and lost—of kindness and friendships and also of fear and hate. I recall things I did that I regret—horrible things. I am no blushing flower, nor can I deny great violence I have done.
I wonder if I would repeat my mistakes again. I should think I would for I cannot change what I am nor can I change the past and my reactions to much that happened. We can only learn from our mistakes. I wonder if I will. I wonder if I can.
If I say I feel joyful it is not a lie, but perhaps I must qualify it by saying I am as content as one of my kind can be. My love is with me and my friends too. And if I wonder what sort of luck we will have, I find it sobering to think that whatever may happen is dictated by fate and cannot be denied. Where we rose from and where we are bound who can say.
Whether we are living or undead, for it is fate that has the last word.
Justine Bodeau, May, 1914.
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Rowena
By
Eden Elsworth
One
Rowena pulled up outside the 1930’s detached house and looked across at it thoughtfully. This could turn out to be yet another total waste of her time. The house itself couldn’t be more ordinary: pebble-dashed walls had been painted white at some point in the last few years, and the arched brick entrance to the front door had been filled in with UPVC doors to make a tiny lobby. In the front garden was the predictable hydrangea flowering its heart out. Part of the front garden had been converted into off-road parking, and a Renault Clio graced it. The place screamed ordinary.
As a paranormal investigator, Rowena was used to crank calls from deluded idiots who were convinced they were being haunted. Usually, the ‘haunting’ turned out to be nothing more than mice or birds in the attic, or sometimes elaborate hoaxes staged by people desperate for any kind of fame. More than once, Rowena had been hounded by the journalists from the local newspaper as they tried to get the inside scoop on one of those hoaxes. She refused to contribute to the client’s need for notoriety and always turned down interviews, no matter how persuasive a journalist tried to be.
But, just occasionally, the haunting turned out to be genuine.
Because of those very rare real ghosts, Rowena tried to keep an open mind about each new job until she’d had a chance to make a preliminary sweep of the site. She did her best not to make assumptions about the personality of the individual who called her, giving everyone, as much as she was able, the benefit of the doubt. Some people were impossible not to pre-judge though; they screamed attention seekers. Those were the jobs Rowena turned down. She just had no intention of pandering to idiocy.
However, she had learned over the years that there was a lot more to the world than most people even dreamed existed; creatures who lived their lives right alongside unsuspecting humans, so the weird and wacky wasn’t in short supply. Vampires, werewolves, all sorts of myths really existed after a fashion. Witches worked on supermarket tills by day and performed moonlit rites by night; vampires stalked demons under cover of darkness, protecting their food source; werewolves found jobs that let them roam the countryside during the full moon. The world was a fount of the peculiar for someone who could see what Rowena did.
Getting out of the two-seat Smart car, she hitched her bag onto her shoulder, adjusted her suit jacket at the back and smoothed down her black trousers. She tried to present a professional image, knowing psychics were generally perceived as being hippy nutcases. Her only outward sign of not being your average professional was her unnaturally scarlet hair.
She took her work seriously, approached the jobs with an open mind, and documented everything, first on a voice-recorder, later transferring her recordings to written statements of fact. Each job was finished up with a printed report that detailed all her findings. One copy went to the client, the other she kept in her office, also known as the spare bedroom in her flat.
She checked the recorder was in her backpack, glanced at the equipment boxed up on the passenger seat of the car, and walked up the short drive to ring the doorbell. Glancing around a little, she ticked off all the things she noted in her mental list labelled ‘normal’. The more the ‘normal’ list got checked off, the more inclined she was to think there might be something genuine about a job.
As she stood there, waiting for the door to be answered, she felt a sliver of ice stroke down her spine, like an icicle being traced on her skin, an indicator this was the real deal. It always happened at the genuine hauntings. She dismissed the feeling immediately. Any preconceptions had to be ignored in order to maintain a professional detachment.
The door was opened by a young woman, a little younger than Rowena’s age of twenty eight. The woman looked tired, drawn, but not unhappy. The dark bags under her eyes told a tale of sleepless nights, but they clearly weren’t getting to her too much.
“Miss Tranter?” Rowena asked and the woman nodded. “Rowena Engle.”
The hand Rowena held out was taken in a small delicate one, accompanied by a little smile of welcome. Miss Tranter was one of those ‘china doll’ people, the ones who looked like they needed someone strong to protect them, but usually turned out to have a great deal of resilience.
“Call me Hannah,” Miss Tranter invited and opened the door fully. “Would you like some tea?” she added as Rowena stepped over the threshold. The ice slid down her back again, but this time it was followed by a soothing warmth. She’d felt that before too, just once or twice. It was usually a sign of a benign or protective soul. Though she didn’t know what gave it off this time, she’d consigned it to the box labelled ‘good’ in her mind, trusting her instinct that it wouldn’t harm anyone. Curiosity abounded over the source this time.
“Tea would be lovely,” Rowena replied with a smile and trailed Hannah to her large kitchen.
The room was pleasant, welcoming and bright. A pine table occupied the centre of the floor, mismatched chairs painted in primary colours stood on three sides, a worn old Windsor at the head. This room couldn’t be any homier if it tried. It wasn’t hard to imagine a large family gathering here for lively meals.
“Take a seat,” Hannah said and went to fill the kettle.
Going to the Windsor, Rowena pulled it out.
“Not there,” Hannah told her quickly.
Sensing there was a lot held in those two words, Rowena moved to another chair and waited quietly for Hannah to join her.
The young woman sat opposite and glanced at the chair she wanted kept empty, her gaze lingering on it, as if she saw more than Rowena.
Tuning in her unusual sense, Rowena looked again.
In the chair, his fingers steepled, elbows on the arms, sat a man in his fifties. Grey hair, thin on top, was cropped close around the sides and back of his head. His build was thick; robust muscle going slack with age. His blue eyes were fixed on Hannah and the expression in them was full of love. Whoever this man was, he had to be the source of the warmth Rowena had picked up.
Studying him for a moment, Rowena examined the look in his blue eyes carefully, taking a guess that he was related to Hannah; there was a slight similarity in the make-up of their facial features, but it had to be
searched for. He wasn’t malevolent, not in the least, but there was something puzzling going on with him. He also didn’t feel quite right for a spirit from beyond the Veil, as if he was too alive, even though he was clearly dead.
“Who are you?” Rowena asked him.
He turned his face to study her, his head tipped to one side. He looked like a typical working man of around fifty years ago, something Rowena had seen more than once. A shop steward type maybe: principled and possibly a little hard; the kind of man you knew would never favour one side over another until he had examined every angle of an argument.
“Tranter,” he answered. “Bob Tranter.”
“Who are you to Hannah?”
“Great-grandfather,” he answered.
“Do you mean her any harm?”
“Of course not. I’m here to protect her from him.”
The emphasis on that one word sent the ice along Rowena’s spine again. “Who?” she asked.
“The father.”
Hannah squeaked in fear at the words. Her eyes darted around as if seeking something, and her hands trembled.
“Who is the father?” Rowena asked with a frown.
“We don’t know who he is,” Hannah replied.
Rowena took out her voice recorder and set it running. “Tell me everything that’s happened. Start at the beginning. Try to remember every detail. The more you can tell me the better. Don’t worry if things seem insignificant.”
Hannah lifted her mug of tea and took a careful sip of the hot liquid. “I got engaged just over two months ago. My fiancé, David, asked me to marry him and I said yes. We’ve been together for nearly four years.
“That night, after Dave went home, was the first time the father showed up. He was in my bedroom when I went to bed. I thought he was an intruder and tried to run away, but I couldn’t get the door open. He’d locked it somehow. He told me I’d never leave here.”
“When did your great-grandfather appear?”
“At the same time. He pushed the father back to . . . wherever it was he came from. He’s been here ever since.” Hannah reached out her hand to touch her passed-on ancestor, but her hand went straight through his. Rowena suspected that the longer Bob stayed this side of the Veil, the more solid he would become.
Voracious Vixens, 13 Novels of Sexy Horror and Hot Paranormal Romance Page 151