Shadow Phantoms

by H. P. Mallory

  I carried each wooden barrel upon my back, filled it from the gurgling fountain that appeared as a small geyser from within a crevice of the rock floor, and bore the incredible weight as I made my return to Ermolai’s post. All the while, a scrawny and young female Veit followed me, doing little to stifle her boredom as she yawned repeatedly.

  “How many o’ ye be within this outpost?” I asked her as I hauled the third barrel upon me back.

  “Mind your business, slave,” she responded and then tapped me none-to-gently with the barbed end of a narrowed stick.

  I hauled the barrel in silence back to the post, but when we had turned to face our fourth trek to the fountain, I spoke again. “What is yer name?”

  “Aaliyah,” she answered and yawned again.

  “Are ye a lowly guard or do ye enjoy accolades?”

  “You ask too many questions,” she said and glared at me. I hoisted the empty barrel from my back and dropped it to the stone floor before I took a deep breath and carried it into the pool of cold water. It was not enough for me to fill the barrel with the clean water of the pool, but Aaliyah insisted I fill the barrel with the water from the spouting fountain. I was convinced this was merely to further complicate my task. I filled the barrel and hoisted it back upon me as I struggled with the weight and forced myself from the pool. My kilt was drenched and the wool was itchy upon my naked legs.

  “I am no lowly guard,” Aaliyah said as she walked beside me. I could not summon the strength to speak, so I allowed her to continue. “I’ll have you know I am being groomed as Ermolai’s replacement.”

  “Ermolai’s replacement?”

  She nodded. “She seeks to take control of a new outpost in Jezzerin and I will soon be controlling this one.”

  We reached the outpost and I dropped the barrel from my shoulders onto the floor. Aaliyah yanked upon my chains but I could not take another step until I breathed in deeply. She jerked my irons a second time.

  “You will wear our prisoner to death if you do not adequately rest him,” Ermolai snapped, from where she appeared beside Aaliyah. Ermolai was a head taller than her protégé and near ten years older, were I to guess. She stroked Aaliyah’s hair as the two of them stared at me with unabashed admiration.

  “He is strong as Mullion,” Aaliyah said. “I did not want to baby him.”

  “You are not babying him,” Ermolai insisted as she smiled at the younger woman before sidestepping her and approaching me. “Are you tired, slave?”

  “Aye,” I answered, still struggling to catch my breath.

  “And how many barrels have you remaining?” she pressed.

  I glanced behind myself and noticed three more. Last I checked, there had been two. “Three,” I responded.

  “Then you shall not rest long,” Ermolai said, a lilt to her tone. Then she faced the younger woman. “When he is finished, send him to my bedchamber.”

  Aaliyah glared at her. “I had fancied him for myself.”

  Ermolai glared back. “Get used to disappointment.”

  Aaliyah said nothing, but her anger was not diffused. Instead, she simply nodded and then turned her glare to me.

  ###

  It was perhaps an hour later that I had finished my duties and had also finished rutting Ermolai. To say I was exhausted was an understatement. Ermolai had been demanding and I had fucked her until I could no longer stand. Waiting in the wings had been her two male attendants—Adrik and Brunor. Both seemed quite put-out that I was fucking their mistress and she seemed intent on adding to their discomfort as she hurled insults to them both about their manhoods.

  She appeared to quite enjoy mine.

  When I was returned to my cell, I was quite relieved and hoped I would have a moment to rest. As I said, I was thoroughly exhausted. But it seemed such would not be the case. For when I was thrust into my prison by Brunor, I found the other prisoners to be in quite the uproar as they yelled from where they all stood at the rear of the cell.

  “Let her have it!” one of them called.

  “Teach her a lesson!”

  I pushed my way through the four or five men until I could see what all the ruckus was about. A man lay atop a small woman, where he was trying to force her hands to the side so he could kiss her, mayhap? It was hard to tell what his goal was but he never came close enough to her face because she punched him once and then raked her nails across his face when her punch failed to discourage him.

  I found it curious that none of them, within this cage, were restrained by chains.

  “Bitch!” he railed at her when he checked his face and his fingers came away covered in blood.

  He pulled his arm back, clearly ready to lay her out cold, but I grabbed his fist and yanked him up and away from her. The men around me made a collective ‘boo!’ but I paid them little heed. Instead, I pushed the pecker away from the small, blond woman and inserted myself between the two of them.

  “Lay another feckin’ hand on her an’ you’ll have to answer to me,” I ground out.

  “An’ who the fuck are you?” the man, who was the largest of the bunch of prisoners, but was still no match for me, demanded.

  “Nae matter,” I responded.

  The man sized me up, just as the others did the same and after another moment or two, he backed away, clearly realizing I could take him. I could take all of them, even in my exhausted state.

  “Aye,” I said with a nod of emphasis. I could not stomach violence against a woman or children. “This woman is oonder me protection from here on out. If any o’ ye touch her, ‘tis as good as if ye were touchin’ me.” I glared at each and every one of them, in turn. “Suffice to say, I dinnae like bein’ touched by nae man.”

  The men backed away, as if to say they wanted no part of my meaty fists. When they had backed far enough away, I turned to face the woman, to inquire after her injuries. I could only hope I had arrived in time…

  She looked up at me and the first thing that struck me were her soulful blue eyes that were as large as saucers in her small face. Her blond hair was drawn back at the nape of her neck in a long braid, but pieces had escaped and they stuck to her face from sweat and dirt. Even so, her beauty was obvious.

  “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice as I reached out a hand to her and she took it. I pulled her to her feet.

  “Are you hurt, lass?” I asked.

  She looked down at herself, assessing her body with a quick once-over, but then she looked back up at me and shook her head. She swallowed hard when she met my gaze again. She was dressed in animal leathers, some of which were long worn. Her body was thin and muscular, powerful. She had been a survivor in this squalid place for some time—if her athletic build and worn clothing were any indication.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “Thanks to you.”

  “Nae one will lay another finger on ye, if I have anythin’ to do with it,” I insisted.

  She smiled up at me and revealed plump and pink lips, perfect teeth. No wonder the men had wanted her. She was quite beautiful, even with the grime and grit of her person. The Veits, who had thrown the woman in with the other prisoners, had known the fate to which they were subjecting her—rape. Such just showed their level of compassion or lack thereof.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Morse,” I answered.

  “Morse, it’s a pleasure to meet you and thank you, again.” Then she took a breath. “My name… is Jolie.”

  ~

  To Be Continued in:

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  ONE

  SINJIN

  It was late afternoon when I arrived in Salem, Massachusetts, the sun was low enough in the sky that it did not trouble me as I strolled from my taxi to the lobby of the little hotel that overlooked the harbor. It was ‘cozy�
��, to use the polite euphemism.

  “Good evening, sir,” said the beaming girl on reception, whose face looked to have been varnished into a permanent smile. “Welcome to the Harbor View.”

  “Thank you,” I replied politely. “I have a room booked.”

  “Can I ask the name, sir?”

  “Sinclair. Sinjin Sinclair.” It might have been more prudent to travel under an alias, but I have never liked to do so. I am proud of my name and when people meet Sinjin Sinclair, I like them to know they have just met Sinjin Sinclair.

  “Let me just check that for you, sir.” The girl turned to the computer. “Is that a British accent?”

  “Yes. English.”

  “I love the English accent!”

  “Yours is very pretty too.”

  The girl blushed. She could not have been more than nineteen; so much left to see, so much life left to live. Alas, I would leave her alone. She was blonde and, as such, did not resemble my tempest.

  “Here we are. You’re in the Captain’s Room.”

  “Was the Admiral’s not available?”

  The girl giggled. “It’s just a name, sir. Would you like me to get someone to carry your bag?”

  “I can manage, thank you.”

  “It was a silly question to ask… you can obviously… manage.” She flicked a doe-eyed look at me and I realized I was being flirted with.

  This was not unusual. Obviously. A man with my exceptional looks must expect to be the object of girlish fancy. The age of the girl did make me think though—I was more than thirty times her age! My goodness! That was quite a shocker!

  The girl showed me to my accommodations and I gave her a ten dollar tip. She, meanwhile, chatted away about this and that. Her voice quite reminded me of a jolly songbird.

  “Have you been to the States before?” she turned to look at me as she asked.

  “Oh, yes, many times.”

  “I guessed you were a world traveler. You’ve just got that look, you know? Have you been to Salem before?”

  “I have.”

  “You must like it here to come back.”

  I shrugged. “This town of witches has grown on me to some degree. I must confess I did not enjoy my first trip here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  I chuckled. “Not your fault, my dear. You were not even a twinkle in your great-great-great grandfather’s eye.”

  The girl giggled again. She thought I was joking. “You must be older than you look.”

  “That would be fair to say, yes.”

  “I’m older than I look too.”

  I smiled. “I doubt it.” She opened her mouth to convince me she was of age but I interrupted. “I believe you have a restaurant on the premises? From what hours is dinner served?”

  “The dining room’s open now, sir.” The girl switched back to professional, parroting words she probably said every day of her life. “It closes at eleven.”

  “And a bar?”

  “Open till midnight.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  She beamed, went to the door, then turned back. “If you need anything, I’m downstairs all night.”

  “All night?”

  “Someone’s got to be. Though it does get lonely.” She was quite… direct. These Americans—they were going to be the death of me! Or the undeath, I suppose.

  “Thank you,” I repeated, ending the conversation.

  The girl appeared a little embarrassed and hurried out. It was not her fault; it was the curse I bore of being ridiculously handsome and overtly sexually desirable in the eyes of all women and quite a number of men, though it did have its compensations. Or, at least, it used to.

  It was strange to think about. Two hundred years ago I would have drained that girl dry. A hundred years ago I would have drunk her blood, but allowed her to live. Twenty years ago I would have taken her to my bed, but probably not bitten her. And now? Now she was just a hotel receptionist. How a man can change with time.

  If she had looked like Bryn then perhaps things would have gone differently, but there was nothing of my tempest in the bubbly girl. Truth be told, there was never enough of Bryn in any woman I met.

  I began to unpack. Though I was only here for two nights—and one probably would have been enough—I still packed like a gentleman traveler, which meant a change of clothes for every possible eventuality. The world had moved on, and it was only fools like Laucian who clung to the old ways, but I would admit to having a nostalgia for a time when a man who traveled without a smoking jacket, dinner jacket, shooting jacket, hunting jacket, tweed jacket and something appropriate for entertaining, was considered to be packing very light, indeed.

  I did not go quite that far these days, but I still brought a selection of clothes. If Bryn had been here, she would have laughed at me for bringing so many outfits, when all of them were in the same uniform black. She always found it comical that I put such care into the way in which I dressed while she wore clothes for comfort, convenience, and ease of movement, should she find herself in a fight.

  We had been an odd pair. I wondered if her dress sense had changed over the years. Had she become more Mom-ish?

  The train of thought made me maudlin and I focused on arranging my black shirts in a pleasing order in the little closet.

  ###

  The hotel was small and somewhat lacking in the amenities one might expect from a five-star establishment (much more my style), but I was content to ‘rough it’ for a few nights. The view from the window of the Captain’s Room gave onto the harbor, and I could see across to the town cemetery. It made me think of my first trip here, which I had alluded to in conversation with the young receptionist. That had been in the late seventeenth century, at the height of those events for which the town was still best known.

  There were few towns in the world whose names were such a scar to the collective psyche of all the magical races. No one said ‘Salem’ without a thought for what had happened there. The familiar narrative was that many women, who were in no way witches, had been executed by their ‘upstanding’ neighbors. Truthfully, some of them had indeed been witches, though they had been just as innocent of wrongdoing as the humans with whom they had died.

  As a vampire, I should have been able to watch dispassionately, with a degree of remove; they were not my people, after all. But to watch that inhumanity, I found deeply disturbing. Back then I was still a killer, a monster, with blood on my fangs and countless dead to my name. But I killed to eat, to survive. Those I watched killed for their own smug self-righteousness, and dared to call it justice. I did not stay in the town long back then, but I did not feed all the while I was there—a rarity for me. I was afraid that any suspicious death might be laid at the door of another innocent woman, and I did not wish such to be on my conscience. It had been curious to learn I even possessed a conscience, but Salem left its mark on all those who visited.

  The affair gave me a view of humans that has never quite left me. It taught me that a monster is something you can choose to be. And, eventually, I chose a different path.

  At eight o’clock, I went downstairs and sat in the bar to wait for my guest.

  “Can I get you anything, sir?” asked the attentive barman. “Glass of wine?”

  I held up a hand. “I do not drink… wine.”

  As a vampire, every now and then, it is quite fun to pull out the full Bela Lugosi, just to see if people pick up on it. This man did not—probably too young to remember the film.

  “I am waiting for a guest,” I explained.

  The barman gave a friendly nod and went on his way. I sat back to wait. I did not have to wait long.

  The door of the hotel opened to admit a tall man with an athletic stride and brownish hair. His tweed jacket, complete with elbow patches, screamed ‘instructor’, even if nothing else about him did. I raised a hand to attract his attention, and Stone Draper came to join me.

  “Sorry I’m late.” He flashed a devil-may-care
smile that made me wonder, not for the first time, if I had picked the right man for this assignment.

  “I trust you are more punctual for your classes,” I said.

  “Always,” Stone replied. “It’s good to see you, Sinclair. How is life on the Carpathia?”

  “The same.”

  The young man shrugged. “It’s a good life for those who enjoy that kind of thing.”

  “But not for you?” There were dichotomies about Stone I always felt the urge to probe.

  He laughed. “Don’t get me wrong; a floating paradise of sexual excess and all the blood you can drink sounds like fun. But I’d prefer to leave that until I’m older—sounds like a good retirement plan. For now there’s too much of the wanderer in me to settle down. Besides,” he gave me a cocky look that seemed full of his gypsy heritage, “turns out there’s plenty of sex about, if you know where to look.”

  “What an odd direction this conversation has taken,” I noted. “How is Emma?”

  “She’s not the top of the class, if that’s what you’re asking,” shrugged Stone. “Wouldn’t call her a natural where magic is concerned by any means, but she tries hard.”

  “Her academic record is of almost no interest to me.”

  Stone nodded, suddenly serious. “Of course. I’ve been looking out for her. So far, nothing. I’ve not seen or sensed anything like a threat.”

  I relaxed a bit. Perhaps I was worrying about nothing? All I had to go on was Laucian’s story about the Vryloka and that had been thin and full of holes. I might not have given it a second thought, had it not been for the potential threat to the girl I still regarded as my niece. With her safety at stake, I had set about finding her protection, and Stone had, at the time, seemed like the best option.

  Why? You should ask? For starters, he was a skilled magic user, which was not always the case with vampires, so he could pose as a teacher at Emma’s school of Elmington. Stone’s was gypsy magic, but that still counted. Besides this, he was physically strong and fit, which might be necessary around the Vryloka—I did not know how they might choose to attack. He also had a sort of native cunning and ingenuity, the ability to think quickly on his feet, that spoke of a man who had been looking after himself for most of his life.