The Vampires' Last Lover (Dying of the Dark Vampires Book 1)

by Aiden James

  The self centered part of me yearned for a quieter, more reserved existence. Now I had become a proper English gentleman. There were millions in cash and investments placed in bank accounts throughout the world. If I desired, I could become a gentleman at leisure - indulging in anything my heart desired.

  With great haste I penned a letter to Albert. I suggested we meet at The Old Bell Tavern on Fleet Street, a popular watering hole for newsmen to gather and gleam information. London was already ablaze with speculation. Each unsolved murder had printing presses running overtime and Albert was in the thick of it, holding a prestigious post at The Times.

  I instructed Bert, my trusted footman, to deliver the letter forthwith. If I was going to assist in the capture of this heinous killer, time was of the essence. Though I had plenty, his victims did not. I preferred to keep myself busy, a distraction from the thoughts that constantly plagued me as I periodically found myself in reflection. The morning had hardly begun, when much to my delight Marianne paid an unexpected visit flinging the door wide open before Edward could do his formal introduction.

  “My darling, good morning and what a fine day it is!” she loudly exclaimed.

  “What do I owe for this unexpected visit?” Although slightly taken aback, it was a joy to see her. Nothing about the stunningly beautiful and vivacious twenty three year old actress surprised me.

  “I had a hard night, three curtain calls and a divine party after at the director’s home in Chelsea. But I awoke early and had to come and see you. Have you heard the news?”

  “It depends on what news you are referring to. Every day brings news.”

  “Emmanuel, my love, are you in a cocoon? It’s Jack, he’s still at large and there are fears he will strike again!”’

  “That I know, I received a telegram this morning from Alfred. It appears Scotland Yard is at a loss of what to do next.”

  “Well then, what are you planning to do, my darling? Surely you must know everything?”

  Marianne knew about my indigenous past, as did a select few. Against my better judgment, I shared one night of unbridled passion with her and, fearing it would cause damage to both our reputations, convinced her it was best to remain just friends.

  She possessed the most marvelous eyes, likened to two pools of a light blue ocean, with skin of porcelain. Her cheekbone structure divine and she always wore the latest designs from Paris, setting her apart in style. Gender roles are clearly defined in this Victorian Era, women in particular are expected to marry at the earliest opportunity and portray a weak inferior persona. Marianne did not fit that category, a dramatic actress with the spirit of an unbroken horse. One of only a handful of successful west-end performers and the daughter of a Sussex School Master, she had reached the ranks of the popular, becoming the toast of London society and a trusted confidant.

  “I wish I could have been with you in those biblical times,” she remarked, running a middle finger seductively across my top lip. I could feel my manhood rising, but like a gentleman, I fought the urge.

  “Stop that. You know we have an agreement not to become romantically inclined.”

  “A girl can try. At least give her credit for that.”

  “I only want to savor the memory of an extraordinary night. Let’s not spoil it,” said I, doing my best to stay in control. Hundreds of years taught me well. For example: how to restrain myself when in close proximity to an irresistible woman, such as Marianne Ashmore who, was truly delightful. I loved her fiery temperament and scandalous talk of joining the ever-growing band of women campaigning for the right to vote. Her company was forcing me to digress from my plan to journey to Albert. With matters to attend to; Marianne had to leave.

  “My dear, sweet, handsome man, it appears I have called on you at the wrong moment. But then I must go to sleep, being up all night and an early breakfast has begun to take its toll.”

  After a brief, unexpected kiss on the cheek, she was away, leaving me free to take the carriage to Fleet Street and Albert while I put her luscious body out of my mind.

  For now, London suited me. It held infinite fascinations and opportunities to expand my fortune even further. Previous success in countless ventures left me confident enough to be involved in the rapid growth of an import business. Blessed with abilities far greater than any ordinary mortal, whose life span was guaranteed to expire within an expected time frame, I had notched up eighteen hundred years of experience. Frequently, during sleepless nights, I thought about how much I would be worth by the year 2150 if my Midas touch continued. Forever needing to think ahead, in what was becoming an increasingly materialistic world, I took no chances in missing out on lucrative business opportunities at every turn. I was Judas, after all.

  A light drizzle was building, accompanied by a chilled wind in the air, as my carriage drove through the busy London streets for the rendezvous with Albert. The familiar cries of street sellers, accomplished at hawking their wares door to door echoed, ‘Buy my carrots, juicy carrots.’ ‘Fresh flowers for the lady of the house.’ Their shouts loud and clear, with the clip clop of horses hooves on the damp, slippery cobbles.

  By the time I arrived at The Old Bell Tavern it had begun to rain in earnest, England’s weather bemusing at the best of times. Its perpetual rain and fog, which descended on London in the winter, was abominable.

  Albert was waiting for me, eager and thirsty.

  “Well, old chap, I was going to order you a fine ale. Or maybe you’d prefer something stronger?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

  “A good ale accompanied by a tender beef steak with potatoes will do nicely.”

  I knew I would be paying for lunch. Albert’s meager wages did not allow for luxuries, or extras. Occasionally, due to my generous nature, I would make a donation.

  “Would it be okay to make it two steaks?” he asked in a tentative tone of voice.

  “Of course, it’s fine, old chap.”

  “Will you be happy to pay for the ale?”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “There is a delicious apple and blackberry pie served here, a grand dessert.”

  “Albert, my good man, everything is on me. I thought I’d mention that now before you ask for anything else after dessert, like a brandy.”

  He was, after all his idiosyncrasies, a damn good fellow. I did find his small moustache to be slightly ugly, not suiting his wiry features or close set eyes. For some reason his clothes never seemed to fit, appearing to be slightly oversized, and, annoyingly, his shoes were always in need of a good polish. Appearances aside, he was an astute young man with a nose for news and an eye for the ladies. At the age of twenty eight, he had reached the status of a main news reporter. It was quite an achievement in Fleet Street for someone so young.

  The Ripper case gave newsmen enough fodder to keep going for months. But Albert was never satisfied, hungering for more information, not caring how it came his way as he nosed around. He had the makings of an ideal policeman if he decided to give up putting pen to paper.

  I, too, considered myself to be skilled in detection, but was I truly capable of catching such a slippery devil? Having endured many challenges throughout the centuries far worse than this, I was not prepared to give up, if only I could get my mind to focus.

  “This Jack character is giving Scotland Yard a run for its money. He’s devious and tricky. Emmanuel, you must take your surveillance talk and do something with it, in the thick of it, the streets of Whitechapel,” said Albert.

  “I can only do what I’m capable of, my dear friend. Surely you must know, even Judas is not invincible.”

  “But you have a distinct advantage over the rest of us. If you have the misfortune to be harmed you are healed in a matter of minutes.”

  “Not quite, if I have the misfortune to suffer an extreme attack it can be fatal. I am not indestructible, and I wager you would enjoy it immensely if I were to be the sacrificial lamb for the greatest scoop of your career.”

  “I don
’t wish you dead silly man, only triumphant. I doubt you would shout it to the world, being said with honesty, you would do your best, lambs discounted!”

  If I were to fail, would Albert hold me responsible? I had the impression he underestimated Jack, a force to be reckoned with, as a simple catch once identified.

  “He’s deadly. We must never underestimate him. That includes you,” I warned in no uncertain terms.

  I often wondered if Albert actually believed I was immortal. I inadvertently confessed one night when full of ale and bravado. Alcohol put me in a drunken state very quickly if I consumed more than I should have. I surmised it was to do with my immortal status. Albert, on the other hand, was a bottomless pit. For every ale I drank, he drank double and twice as quickly. But we reached a mutual understanding. He was never sure if I was really Judas drifting through the centuries and I, in turn, tolerated his heavy drinking and ever increasing opportunistic ways to get me to pay for his vices.

  “I will speak with Roderick. It would be better not to go alone, if I can get his mind off the fog and cold.”

  “I was hoping that we’d avoid Roderick Cooley,” he replied with a grimace. Albert did not take to him upon introduction; his first impression one of horror. I understand why the sight of Roderick wearing hand crafted dark glasses to disguise his strange eyes is unnerving.

  Albert is often cocky and arrogant. Roderick will not suffer fools gladly, making his opinion known. The tension recently lessened between them and it looks as if they found a degree of tolerance. I have yet to see what happens when both are full of ale.

  Roderick joined me in London on my insistence and persuasion. I encouraged him away from his fine Virginian plantation where he had been since 1663 to oblige me in my new ventures. There was a time when we were neighbors until a wealthy land holder made an offer on my property I could not refuse. I returned to Europe soon after to see many changes. Tea and coffee had become popular and the women even more beautiful than I remembered.

  Roderick was a dark Irish horse, and, under an assumed name, had signed the Declaration of Independence. He was also an instigator in the bill to move the nation’s capital from Philadelphia to Washington, DC. A keen property investor, he purchased a townhouse in the new capital and, like me, acquired a sophisticated and elegant apartment in the new Manhattan. Although I traveled the world and spent most of my time in London, I also took passage back to America on occasion. It was an irony while on a visit; news reached me there was more money to be made right in the hub of London. Imports. How could I turn down such a marvelous opportunity?

  It was a twist of fate the recent spate of murders in London’s Whitechapel and the name alone, Jack the Ripper, coincided in need for something else. I told myself it was possible for me to undertake a search for the suspect. But, I could not run the business alone and needed someone trustworthy to assist. Only after many pleading telegrams did Roderick reluctantly agree to leave his home for the shortest time and take the journey to England. With his keen eye for business, I quickly made him a partner in the vain hope it would distract him from his frustration and I did so enjoy the company of my closest companion. Roderick found it troublesome to settle, he preferred the less formal ways of Virginia, which bended easier with his relaxed Irish ways. Unlike London, his strange, sometimes frightening appearance was largely ignored in a new world of countless immigrants.

  His almost seven foot height intimidated most, including Albert, who refused to admit it and, was not weakened even by the sight of his cane. Forever the cynical joker, he decided to feign a leg injury taking too long to heal. The severity of his shuffle depending on whose company he found himself in, he played it beautifully and, fooling everyone.

  In the meantime, I followed the Ripper case closely, devouring every newspaper I could lay my hands on, staying in close contact with Albert.

  But it was proving very complicated as I had become far too ensconced in my business and social activities. Roderick thought me a snob, an upper class over-indulged so called English gentleman. I stood for everything he despised; his protest was to complain constantly about the weather and the formalities of the Victorian stiff upper class, and to speak Gaelic at every inappropriate moment.

  I reminded him constantly that my friends and associates were unimpressed and, due to their lack of understanding, did not take kindly to his using the language. Roderick’s response was to ignore me and continue to use it regardless.

  Albert put aside his distaste for Roderick to urge me, once and for all, not be so distracted by women and revelry. I was to be serious in my quest to take on the Leather Man.

  “All your stories of battles drawn and won, surely a lone figure like him will be easy pickings. That is, if you are the fighter you claim to be,” he said. Often mindful of Albert’s uncertainty, never sure if he thought me insane or just plain deluded, I reassured him of my intentions.

  It was time to take my leave as he had become slightly intoxicated and annoying, his belly full of steak and a head full of ale. Like so many of London’s newspaper men, his lifestyle consisted of a walk between his office and the closest Inn. The excuse? He would pick up on the idle chatter circulating. Somewhere in there could be a snippet of news that turned into a story or two.

  Jack the Ripper. The Whitechapel murderer began his killing spree early in April of this year and picked the perfect location. London’s east-end had become swollen with the impoverished. Living conditions were abominable. With my own eyes, I had seen rats in the gutters where raw sewage ran with velocity. In less than fifty years, the entire area had disintegrated, crime was rife, robbery being most commonplace, with roughly distilled gin consumed like water. The deprivation brought an alarming increase in prostitution and the current murders only added to the area being labeled as ‘riddled with vice and danger.’ Few outsiders ventured there. There were rumors circulating that men of high social standing and, members of royalty, did slip unobtrusively in and out of Whitechapel for a quick rendezvous with a woman of dubious means. For me, prostitutes were to be avoided at all costs, but my sympathies were with the victims, who did not deserve to be killed in such a brutal fashion.

  My first chore would be to contact Roderick by telegram at the office, though I knew what his response would be. One of, ‘Not that dreaded Ripper fellow again, leave me out of it.’

  arrived home to a warm fire burning brightly in the drawing room. Cook waited for me with the evening menu as I had guests for dinner. A reluctant Roderick, Cyril and Eliza, Captain and Mrs. Braithwaite, and Mr. Fitzgerald, a learned gentleman who spent most of his life as a missionary in Africa. I did not invite Marianne, knowing full well she would have declined due to her theatre engagements. A shame as her company and beauty delighted everyone.

  “Master, I thought the roast venison a good choice, with duchess potatoes and red

  cabbage. But I’m all a pickle, shall I prepare onion or vegetable soup?” Cook always fussed like a mother hen about the menus, I had become accustomed.

  “I will let you decide, Cook, and I do hope we’re going to be treated to your delicious apple pie.”

  “Oh yes, master, it’s on the menu. Will that be all?”

  “That’s all, Cook,” said I, wishing I could be a trite less formal with my household. But my staff would then think me rude and, if I were to confide in them my real identity, they would also consider me quite mad. I am a charlatan, adept at changing persona to suit every occasion, lying my way through people’s lives and only confiding in those I felt could be trusted. If I were instrumental in bringing Jack to justice I would not seek notoriety, preferring to slip into obscurity with question. I did not like to draw attention to myself.

  I dallied in my new business, and it was interesting, but not enough to keep me satisfied. I craved excitement, the thrill of the hunt, the need for an edge. When the time was right, I would be making my way to America in the not too distant future, the house in Belgravia sold and my staff dismissed. I wo
uld simply turn my back and walk away, a familiar pattern to my sometimes torturous existence.

  It was to be late afternoon when Roderick finally arrived, quite flushed, with a stack of papers needing my urgent signature.

  “This invoice needs signing now.” He was short in his manner.

  The problem eluded me; his agitation clearly visible in his body language was a concern. I needed to know, so I pushed him to tell me.

  “I’m settled in Virginia and enjoy my travels to Washington. It was only on insistence from you that I endured a hellish boat journey to find myself left to push your papers around in a mundane office. Now you have the nerve to want to involve me in a wild goose chase in a part of London I can’t abide, and then take this evening, another dinner party, idle chatter with people I don’t like and your abominable ago!”

  I was truly stung by his comment, but he was, in part, correct. I had, by my own admission, been carried clean away with all manner of material gains and delights. Marianne being one distraction I found so hard to ignore.

  I made a commitment. Later in the evening when my guests had taken their leave I would sit down with Roderick and discuss the matter in hand - his troublesome feelings. In the meantime, we would eat, drink and be merry.

  It was a fine meal indeed; Cook did us proud and her apple pie- a masterpiece. But I was itching to talk with Roderick and fought the urge to dismiss my guests early, a social mishap in these circles. They lingered after dinner drinks, cigars, talk of politics, the grand opening of the new Royal Court theatre. It was of no surprise that inevitably talk turned to Jack.

  “Detective Inspector Reed has his hands full with this investigation and I read in The Times this morning that a new fellow, Donald Swanson, is heading up the investigation. If Scotland Yard fails to solve this case, no one can,” said Cyril, with a look of disdain, never one to give praise to Scotland Yard.

  “I’m positive he will be caught, he’s bound to slip up at one point. I hear they’re going house to house questioning residents in the area and there’s even talk of a vigilante group going around the streets at night.” The Captain was clearly in a different frame of mind, although he did possess very moral views that would slip out with alarming regularity. “Of course, we could argue that the streets are better off without women of that nature.”