The Lore Series (Box Set): All 3 Books In One Volume

by Chad T. Douglas

  In recent years the clans of London have become sparse, far outnumbered by vampire cults. The clans were not as easily assimilated to urban, civilized society, and many simply chose to live in the north, where their rurally adept traditions and methods were best suited. Before long, the cult population flourished, and the clan population shrank to a handful of individuals. English citizens were not disturbed, for the vampires were a quiet addition to London’s culture, and, unlike their monstrous ancestors, politely abstained from slaughtering and feeding upon the citizenry. They were out of sight and far from mind. They attracted livestock merchants to the city in droves. The demand for a reliable and consistent supply of warm blood was so great, it became easier to sell to vampires than to sell to meat markets.

  The reader may take issue with this telling of history, and argue, “But vampires feed on the blood of man!” There is undeniable truth in this, and there is some truth yet to be explained. Ancient tribes of vampires fed on human blood exclusively, yes. But that was in a time when subsistence farming kept man from growing thin and impoverishing his body and his pockets. When man was still an animal, in the sense that he was strong and wild, his blood was rich and full of vitality. Time, however, changed man and his body. These times are times of poverty and thinning, and thus man has become thin, his blood no longer savory and as nutritious as it had been in his ancestors. He is still healthy, yes, but his body is far displaced from the original design. He has a city body. A business body. His blood is ink and oil, no longer pure virility and vitality, ferocity and fire.

  Still, as I have suggested, not all modern vampire societies have taken this course, and the more ancient cults, who hold themselves in higher regard than mortal kind, frequently and viciously prey upon small villages all across Europe. Some even quietly settle into larger cities and employ cleverly disguised hunting grounds. With that in mind, I discourage the reader from venturing into any brothels in Old Orleans or any bordellos in Venice…

  I refer to vampires as experiencing a rather mysterious state of existence—a condition referred to as “anecrosis.” The body is self-sufficient and without age, but the blood beneath is ephemeral and requires replacement. Blood is not taken for sustenance in such a way that you or I would eat bread. Rather, the vampire must obtain new blood using a specially adapted, hollow and pointed set of teeth that lie hidden over top of their human teeth, in order to maintain the body. The teeth are similar to the retractable fangs of a poisonous viper, in that they appear only when forced to extend by muscle contraction.

  The vampire’s body differs from the werewolf’s in other ways as well. The vampire’s skin is exceedingly elastic upon transformation. They can will their skin to stretch and form working wings in order to take flight. People say the wings look like rigid black curtains when spread open. Their skin is also adapted to blend in against very dark colors, making them formidable creatures of the night. Like werewolves, the vampire “curse” is an infectious entity. It is spread to a human body through a bite, causing the infected to develop vampire qualities and abilities if they are not killed by the rapid infection, as nearly two of every three are.

  Vampires, like the werewolves, experience a physical immortality, and exactly like the werewolves, they experience it at a cost. It is my belief that their appetite is far greater than that of humans because their bodies so frequently demand the resource with which to maintain the body, and that resource—blood—is their one and only resource. Their bodies are volatile in the direct light of the day when they are transformed. Perhaps the supernatural upkeep of the inner body sacrifices the invulnerability of the bare external flesh. This is a matter of great debate among my colleagues and me.

  Vampires are often described as “the damned” in traditional folklore and religious texts. Damned because they, in truth, own no blood of their own? Because they cannot claim permanent ownership of life in its precious flowing form? Or damned because, like the werewolf, their greatest strength is an open aperture into their subtopic mortality? One of my colleagues once asked me, “Are these that we call monsters not eerie reflections of our own selves?”

  Geoffrey Mylus,

  April 20, 1833

  ~~~

  Without any trouble, Tom’s ship sailed north through the Atlantic and into the British Isles, where it cruised into the Thames. The crew made good time, and the ship had landed on a cold, snowy night in December. Tom arrived at Molly’s cabin as the ship slowed to a stop in port. Molly was diligently reviewing the charts she had learned over the past month onboard. Working sleepily by lantern light, she yawned and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she looked over the charts and wrote some final notes.

  “A long month, but we’ve arrived,” announced Tom cheerfully as he entered her cabin. “You’ll enjoy London, even if it’s a bit frozen over. No small, uncomfortable inns here. Only the finest. I’ve arranged us accommodations in a more suitable residence. All you’ll need are the clothes you’ve brought and anything you’d like to hold your interest during our stay.”

  Molly smiled, familiar with the comforts of London. “It’ll be strange being close to home again. It’s been so long, though. I’m sure much has changed in England since I left.”

  “Shall we?” Tom opened the door for her. “I’ll fetch a lantern,” he said, taking one off the desk as she grabbed her bag.

  “One moment,” she said, taking a caraco from her bag and putting it on over her bodice. The short jacket would give her a bit more warmth. She exchanged her slippers for a small pair of boots Tom had found for her weeks earlier. Trying not to waste time, she tugged her skirt low enough to conceal the awkward masculine boots beneath.

  The bitter cold air nipped at Molly’s cheeks as the two made their way down the gangway. The snow flew hard in the streets, and deep drifts collected around every corner lamppost. Tom, dressed in a heavy grey coat and wool-lined cap, led Molly by one hand through the streets of London. Buildings were awake with bright light, and carriages slogged silently through the white powdered streets. The city was pleasant yet bitterly chilled by the winter weather. Tall buildings lined every street. The city was far more grandiose than anything Molly had become accustomed to in the Caribbean. Here it felt like civilization was being perfected and maintained like a fine working clock. It was certainly one of man’s proudest dwelling places, by sheer size and character alone.

  Tom stopped on the stoop of a large house in one of the wealthier districts of the city. It was a large brick home, well-kept, showing no sign of life or residence.

  Molly gazed up at the house curiously. “Thomas? There’s no one here.”

  “Well no, not until recently,” he remarked, taking a ring of keys from his pocket. “I sent a letter home a few months before I met you, so the house would be ready upon my return.” He unlocked three large iron locks on the door, each different and very elaborate, then spoke something inaudible as he rested his hand to the right of the door knocker. A latch on the inside of the door shifted, and a collection of bright snaking lights scattered away from the place where Tom’s hand rested, vanishing into the seams of the doorway. “Ah, very nice, very nice to be back,” he commented, lighting various lamps in the rooms of the first floor and beckoning Molly in. She walked behind him, looking around with much curiosity. The furniture was large and new, the floors were clean, paintings hung from the walls, and a fireplace begged to be lit.

  “This is a lovely home, Mr. Crowe.”

  “Thank you,” Tom replied, preparing a fire. “Just needs to be warmed a bit. Oh, pardon my manners! This way.” He beckoned her to follow and climbed the main stairs by lantern light. The iron staircase spiraled tightly upward and deposited them in a hallway leading to three doors on the right and another on the left. “The master suite is on the left,” Tom said, gesturing, “and all the doors on the right also lead to bedrooms. Choose whichever suits you most comfortably. Each has its own bath and wardrobe, as well as trunks for whatever items you ha
ve to store. One has large library bookshelves, another, a balcony and patio above a small garden and the third, a staircase to the roof and modest observatory.”

  Molly beamed in astonishment. “They all sound lovely. I suppose the room leading to the observatory will do just fine.”

  A smile appeared on Tom’s face. “My favorite.” He led her to the end of the hallway, unlocking all doors along the way. “Here you are, then.” Opening the bedroom door, he allowed her to enter first as he lit the room. Silently he checked the contents of the wardrobe. “This room has its own fireplace.”

  “This is perfect. Thank you, Captain. Or, is it ‘Mr. Crowe’ on solid land?” she asked with a coy grin.

  “Charles Walsh, actually,” he corrected her, “In London, anyway. How else could I buy such a house? No one would sell this building to a man like Thomas Crowe.”

  “You have other aliases?”

  “You didn’t notice we weren’t questioned upon anchoring in the harbor?”

  Molly chewed her lip and thought to herself. “That was a bit odd.”

  “London is one of the few havens I have left, Miss,” he said with a laugh. “Here you may rest easy.”

  “Thank you then, Mr. Walsh,” she said, playing along.

  “Well, for the night I suppose I will let you sleep. Tomorrow I have arranged a full day for you while I do my errands. I will elaborate more in the morning after breakfast. I set a fire in the hearth downstairs so the house should be cozy in a matter of minutes, and if you get too cold, call for me and I will light the one in your room as well. I believe you will find the bed very agreeable, for it’s been scarcely used at all. I have only tea in the kitchen now, but before you retire for the night you may have as much as you please. I brought it here myself a year ago after visiting India. Very rare here in the Isles, very flavorful, though. The kitchen is adequate. I’m sure finding cups and other things will be no trouble. Do you need anything else?”

  Molly was flattered by his generosity but shook her head with a polite smile. “No, thank you. You’ve done so much already.”

  “If you do need anything, please wake me without hesitation, yeah?” he offered kindly. “I’ll be in the bedroom at the top of the staircase on the left. I’ll leave you a lantern so you don’t have to wander through the dark.” Tom set it on the large oak trunk in front of Molly’s bed. “Well then, tea?”

  “I suppose.”

  Thomas led Molly back downstairs to the kitchen. Once lit, the kitchen appeared much larger. As Molly expected, there was ample space for cooking, many pots and kettles, utensils and cups. Under normal circumstances, it was the kind of home she’d have dreamed of living in when she had arrived in the colonies years before. Molly felt as though she were beginning to relive the life that had been denied her so long ago.

  There were also two iron ovens and many cabinets. Tom retrieved tea from a chest-high cabinet at the far end of the kitchen and a small tea cup with elaborate Ming Dynasty decorations around the edges.

  “I’ve set some water in a kettle over the stove. It will be ready in a moment, I believe. Well, miss, I shall return to my room. Wake me if you need anything at any time. I shall see you not long after sunrise.”

  “Goodnight. I thank you again.”

  “It is no burden at all.”

  Molly’s eyes followed him for a moment before she returned to the kettle on the stove. She prepared herself a cup of tea and walked over to a nearby window, peering outside at the frosted grounds. She felt at ease within the warm home, especially in Thomas’s company.

  Soon after finishing her tea, Molly went upstairs to her own room. She closed her pistols in the drawer by her bed, examining their pearls before shutting them away. Midnight passed, and snow continued to sweep over London.

  Tom had set his only luggage—the locked chest—next to his bed, falling asleep easily. Outside, the city was quiet, sleeping like a sedated giant beneath a blanket of ice.

  Tom slept continually through the night and awakened only when he heard a knock at the front door. Sleepily he walked downstairs to answer it. Standing outside the door was a thin, dignified old gentleman with a greyed mustache and beard to match his equally grey features and hair. He smiled cordially at Tom from behind small, circular bifocals. Brushing off snow from his large black overcoat, the man tipped his hat in a businesslike manner and extended a hand to shake Tom’s.

  “Hello, Mr. Walsh.”

  “Ah, good morning, Ozias.”

  “Not too late to begin breakfast, I hope?” Ozias said as he picked up a large leather bag in each hand and walked inside.

  “Just in time, actually. How are you? Come in.”

  Ozias’s voice was aged but strong and clear. “I have no complaints. My eyesight’s a spot off, though. No longer good for the hunt! You’ve been away for two years, Mr. Walsh. Did you have any difficulty trying to return? I should think the terrible weather may have kept you away. It’s been bitterly cold these last two winters.”

  “Oh, no trouble, just travelled here and there,” Tom replied, sounding very convincing.

  Upstairs, Molly listened intently at the sound of the two voices. Rays of morning light trickled onto her face as she sat by the window.

  “The house has been very well kept since I last left,” Tom said, complimenting his old friend.

  Ozias’s eyes shone. “Oh, well I visited once a month to tidy up. I wasn’t sure when you intended to return, so I came as often as the house needed. Except for the locks on the front door, I have put new locks on the doors and windows. We’ve had a terrible crime spree in your absence, Mr. Walsh. In fact, there have been many incidents just recently. Valuables have been stolen—rings, mostly. A few were from the building that was your father’s old shop, as a matter of fact. Only two nights ago some poor chap was attacked by a wild animal, too, just there in front of the house. Curious, isn’t it? To think, here in London! Wolves! The city watch must be growing idle, Mr. Walsh. I tell you, the authorities had a tighter grip on this old city a long time ago. No riffraff got away with anything. Life was predictable and civilized. Why, when I was still a young soldier, I—”

  “You don’t say?” Tom interrupted before the man could rattle on any further. He was greatly intrigued by the information concerning the robberies. “When were the shops broken into, Ozias?”

  “Oh I believe it was Tuesday, sir.”

  “Who was the fellow who died?”

  “Can’t say I remember the name, sir. Heard it from a man I met on the street.”

  “I see. What became of the man who was attacked?”

  Ozias replied quite frankly. “Dead.”

  “Shame.”

  Molly appeared quietly at the top of the stairs, looking below curiously at the newcomer as she made her way down, already dressed in her day clothes. Tom didn’t notice her presence.

  “By the way, I thank you for gathering the items I requested and putting them in the armoire upstairs. I predicted correctly the room my guest would choose. I’ll soon introduce you to the person who will be in need of those garments. She’ll be staying here with me. She’s asleep at the moment, though.”

  “I’d better cook extra for breakfast then, I suppose, yes?” Ozias seemed not at all disappointed to hear he’d have more work on his hands.

  Tom laughed. “I’d advise it. And I warn you, she eats quite a breakfast. I’ve seen it firsthand.”

  As Ozias disappeared into the kitchen carrying the bags of edibles, Tom grinned up at Molly playfully. “Good morning.”

  She saw that his face was clean and shaved, his hair was tied away behind his ears and he wore a tidy vest and jacket.

  Molly chuckled quietly. “Good morning, Mr. Walsh.” She couldn’t help but stare at him. She’d hardly recognized the gentleman in the foyer below her—the neat and handsome man who had been a ragged, devilish vagrant only days before. His cleaner, sharper appearance enhanced his already compelling lupine eyes and brow, made his face smooth and
statuesque. She felt almost under-dressed; though, unknown to Thomas she’d been up for hours already in order to allow herself to put on a special green blouse and white skirt she’d kept safe in her bag, and to undo the weeks of damage to her hair. She’d polished herself to the bone in order to allow herself to make a new impression on the captain—to show him a lady he was not accustomed to.

  Ozias could be heard rummaging through pots and pans in the kitchen nearby.

  “Sleep well?” Tom asked, walking to the base of the stair.

  “Very much so, thank you. I’m quite sure I haven’t slept that comfortably in a long while. Who was with you just now?”

  “Oh, you must meet Ozias. He is the groundskeeper here in my absence and resident cook while I’m here in London.What is it?” He noticed she was beaming and staring.

  Molly turned away, her cheeks slightly reddened. What a generally lovely situation she’d found herself in: a lavish home, a new adventure, and an intriguing young man whose secrets she desired like desserts. “You spoke of some errands you had to attend to today?”

  “Yes, I have to visit a silversmith today and inquire about an item I purchased last year and never had the chance to retrieve from him. I also need new clothes, and I have some questions for the keeper of London port records. You, Miss, I have considered thoroughly. The clothing Ozias gathered will not be adequate for everything. Earlier this morning I sent my maid to purchase something more suitable for this evening. You will be attending the opera at seven o’clock. My maid will return by four to dress you. She will also arrange a coach to and from the performance.”