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

by Chad T. Douglas

Molly closed her eyes as the carriage rolled on, fiddling with her ring in an attempt to distract herself from her thoughts. Just two days earlier, Uncle Samuel had died, and she had been too late to see him. If she had arrived sooner, might she have saved him?

  The carriage came to a sudden halt, and the driver came around to assist her, taking her hand as she exited. She stared up at the opera house, debating whether to enter. Like the hands of an ill-behaved child the wind batted at her dress. The opera house was colossal and radiated a celebratory aura, as the sounds of the orchestra warming up spilled out into the snow. The crowd flocked inside, fleeing the bitter chill. Shivering from the cold, Molly hurried in with the crowd. Once inside she wandered aimlessly. There was a seat for her on the first balcony between a well-dressed gentleman and an extraordinarily round woman in grand attire. The gentleman looked curiously at Molly from the corner of his eye before returning to the program in his hands. Molly waited impatiently, keeping her eyes forward on the stage.

  The spectre lowered his pistol. The barrel exhaled its last breath of smoke, and he hid it once more within his coat, smiling wickedly. He approached the destroyed heap of clothes lying in the snow, strewn about and twisted from the hail of bullets. “It’s a shame, Mr. Crowe,” he said with a sneer, eyeing the heap. Turning around, the spectre stopped immediately, his deathly pale countenance expressing a confused terror.

  All seven of his accomplices lay motionless in the snow, guns in hand. The viscous moonlight that dripped through the clouds illuminated their forms. They were marked by deep sword strikes that sizzled and hissed, burning them continuously until their remains vanished in dark clouds of smoke. “It truly is a shame, Mikael,” Tom’s voice spat through the flurries.

  The startled vampire spun around, staring into his own reflection six inches away, cast by the blade of a shining silver sword. A blood stone, set in the hilt, stared him straight in the face. Behind the blade hovered a pair of yellow eyes. Mikael screamed as his heart was pierced and Thomas’s blade drank his life away like a hungry leech on the pulse of his soul.

  Molly applauded as the curtain for the first act closed, beginning the intermission. She stood suddenly, making her way to the bottom floor. For some reason she felt uneasy, her stomach twisting. She headed outside, hoping her coach would still be there. The sleeping driver sat in Molly’s coach, which was parked only a few paces from the opera house doors. The horses reacted to her sudden appearance, shaking off the snow collecting in their manes.

  The driver awoke with a snort. “Miss? Over already?”

  “No, but there is somewhere else I need to be. Do you know the whereabouts of Samuel Bishop’s shop?” she asked quickly.

  The man squinted through the storm. “I believe so. What business do you have there, Miss? Don’t you know that place has been robbed?”

  “I’m quite aware. I just need you to take me there for a moment. I won’t be long.”

  He shrugged. “If you say so. I’ve been hired for the whole night.”

  Royal soldiers arrived in London harbor, puzzled about what had startled half the district moments earlier. A man’s winter cape, a shattered lamp post and several dark patches in the snow were all there was to be found. There were no footprints. The stains in the snow appeared to be soot or ash, but nothing had been damaged by fire.

  Tom sighed heavily, collapsing into a large armchair by the fireplace in his suite. He tossed his books and other purchased items on the freshly cleaned sheets of his bed, and Ozias silently picked them up and put them in their place. Seeing Tom’s clothes hanging in tatters on his nearly nude body, Ozias covered him with a light blanket and walked out of the room as though nothing extraordinary had happened. It wasn’t unusual for the master of the house to come home late after what he always told Ozias had been a “fight”. Ozias, of course, was no fool, and werewolf or not, Charles Walsh paid his help well. Charlotte, knowing Molly was in good hands with the driver she had arranged to transport the young woman, went home shortly after Ozias had left for the night, confident that Molly would soon be home from the opera.

  Molly stood outside her Uncle’s old shop as the carriage driver waited patiently on the other side of the road. The door swung loose on its hinges as she gingerly made her way in. A lamp post outside offered a bit of illumination within the deserted building. Molly stifled her tears as she entered the mess left in the shop. Crying would do her no good now, and she knew it, but it was difficult to hold back the tears. Various tools and jewels were strewn across the floors, tables were upturned, and papers were littered everywhere. Unmistakable markings caught her eye in the walls and tables—claw marks set in the wood. She knew those markings. What could they have been looking for so desperately to take the life of an innocent old man?

  Before Thomas killed him, Mikael McGreary was the patriarch of the Black Coat Society of London. He and several other men had come to capture, not kill, Thomas at the request of Thomas’s brother, Harlan, who coveted a seat with the Black Coat Society. Mikael did not quite follow Harlan’s instructions because he hated werewolves, pure and simple. A prideful vampire, Mikael had planned to return to Harlan with a clever story about how Thomas had struggled and had to be put down. His plan was perfect, except for the fact that he hadn’t counted on the most important factor: Thomas.

  The Black Coats had put Harlan through hellish rites of passage when he came to them as a young boy, wishing to be inducted as a vampire. He’d rejected his werewolf curse and his brother, but especially his father, John, for abandoning Harlan when he was bitten and turned into one of the creatures he so hated for tearing his family apart. Harlan believed to truly rid himself of the werewolf curse, he must find Thomas, an object of his hatred …and he meant to do just that. Unlike Thomas, Harlan was ambitious in the dangerous sense of the word. However, he did share Thomas’s keen interest in magic. He, too, obsessively sought after his father’s old rings. Two days previously the pleas of old, frail Samuel Bishop were not enough to dissuade the young Black Coat from his selfish wrath when he came storming into the little gem shop looking for the ring Thomas had yet to find.

  Samuel Bishop never dealt in the magical trade directly, and to my knowledge he was hiding nothing when the robbers attacked him that night so long ago. Many jewelers closed their businesses during those times. They were afraid either ill-meaning werewolves or greedy vampires would raid them, take their gems (and possibly their blood) or that the authorities would have them tried as suspected magesmiths—many of them wrongly convicted. Magic was a risky enterprise, and only those who knew the trade best stayed the course and crafted magical artifacts. It was a dangerous business, but a profitable one. Who wouldn’t pay a fortune for magic?

  Geoffrey Mylus,

  April 25, 1833

  ~~~

  Tom awoke in the wee hours of the morning aching all over, his skin sensitive as if it had been stretched and put through a wringer and wrapped around his flesh once more. Looking for decent clothes—any at all—in a frantic rush, he was grateful Ozias and Charlotte had left for the night. Grabbing the first garments that met his touch when he reached into his wardrobe, he threw them on and staggered downstairs, weak and dizzy, rubbing at his aches and pains and searching for any spirit or medicine strong enough to put him to sleep again quickly.

  Molly sat silently in the coach outside Thomas’s home, her gaze searching through the blackness outside the window. She wasn’t sure how long she had stayed at her uncle’s shop. Now all she wanted was to fall into bed, go to sleep and try to forget what she had seen in the shop.

  Tom, in his clumsy state, hadn’t taken two sips from a newly purchased whiskey bottle when his legs gave out and—knocking his head against the wall—he fell onto the kitchen floor, doused in the remainder of the bottle’s contents. He heard the sound of the front door being unlatched and then closed again carefully. There was a sharp pain in his forehead at the site of a sizeable cut. As he heard soft footsteps quickly climbing the stairs, he l
imped into the living room. Molly, was what his disoriented mind figured. He considered trying to get her attention, soaked in whiskey and bleeding from the forehead, but he decided against it, turning back to the kitchen. He had sat in a chair and put his head on the table.

  Molly sat up in bed, unable to sleep. She sighed hopelessly, deciding that perhaps a bit of tea would help her relax. She wrapped a robe around her shoulders and headed downstairs. As she arrived in the kitchen, Tom was stirring. His neck hurt from lying on the hard kitchen table, and he rubbed his aching head. “Well, at least it won’t be there in the morning,” he muttered. “Never does last.”

  “What never lasts?”

  He turned lazily toward the sound of Molly’s voice. “A good drink,” he replied, thinking quickly. “Good … evening? Morning? Er, how are you, Miss Bishop?”

  Gazing at Tom, who appeared quite drunk, Molly stood with arms crossed and lips pursed. Her nose crinkled slightly from the overpowering smell of alcohol.

  Tom managed a smile. “Did you enjoy the opera?” he asked, standing shakily.

  She shook her head in disdain and crossed the kitchen to place a kettle on the stove before returning to the table. “It was lovely.”

  “Wonderful!” He raised a hand to his gashed head “Agh! Did Ozias make dinner before you left?”

  “Yes. What have you done to yourself now?”

  “Just played a little too rough with some friends.”

  She examined his cut closely. “Old friends?”

  “Oh, yes. However, I don’t believe you’ll ever get a chance to meet them now. It’s a shame.” He laughed to himself at his private joke.

  Molly was not quite as amused. “Meaning?”

  “Oh, never mind them.”

  “Would it have anything to do with why you’re drenched in whiskey?” She crinkled her nose again.

  “That,” he began intently, “was an accident. But I suppose it does explain everything.”

  Molly took a cloth off the counter and dabbed gently at his cut. Tom smiled contritely at her again, speaking softly. “Thank you.”

  “You certainly have a knack for collecting injuries,” she replied, beginning to feel lighthearted.

  He held up a small cup. “Drink? I’ve already had my share,” he joked.

  “I have tea,” Molly replied, eyes narrowing.

  “I see.”

  “Vile drink! Look what it’s caused you!” she muttered darkly, retrieving the tea.

  “Yes, it’s terrible. Before tonight I had no sense of humor,” Tom rebutted.

  “Poor man.”

  Tom shook his head. “You missed my joke, I see.”

  “I’ve other things on my mind, I’m afraid.” She sighed and sat down beside him.

  “Yes, do tell me where your mind led you tonight … unless I’m mistaken, and the opera lasted until two o’clock this morning.”

  Molly hesitated, looking away guiltily.

  “Just as I guessed,” he said, and then added quickly, “But it’s all right. However, now that I know the Black Coat Society is still in operation, I must ask that you stay close to this house until we leave again.”

  “Black Coat Society?” she asked, her brow furrowing. There was that name again.

  “Afraid so.” A frown indicated his displeasure. “One of London’s local nocturnal organizations. You don’t want to draw their attention. I already have. Of course I doubt they will confront me again for a while, so I don’t intend to sail just yet. Well, I mean I didn’t, until I heard Harlan’s name spoken again tonight.”

  Molly’s tone lowered. “What of him?”

  Tom’s voice turned sour. “Harlan? He was here in London, and not two days before we arrived. Tuesday. He knew I was coming somehow.” He pointed down at Molly’s finger. “He has the other ring. It was here in London, and he beat me to it. Harlan must have gone through every gem shop in the city. The papers are filled with recent robbery incidents—the crime spree you must’ve heard of by now, yeah? Harlan left his ship in port long enough to find the ring my father sold, and then he departed, after leaving some of his fellows to deal with me.”

  Molly was appalled by the eerie similarities between the crimes and her uncle’s death. She stood suddenly, tea cup smashing to pieces on the floor. Angry tears filled her eyes, but her voice quieted as she put together the obvious. “It was he?”

  Tom watched her curiously.

  “He killed him? Harlan killed my uncle!”

  “Where? Here? When?” Tom didn’t know what she meant.

  “The shop he robbed and the man he killed just two days ago … it was Samuel.” She glowered darkly. “I know it was him! I know it! All the signs were in that shop!”

  “Oh, that shop. No, miss.” Tom shook his head.

  Distressed and confused, she turned on him. “What are you saying?”

  “The Black Coats are who you speak of. Harlan sent them out to that particular shop. He was involved, yes, but your uncle did not die on Tuesday night.” Tom looked away and swallowed. He felt a very uncomfortable explanation mounting.

  Molly’s voice emerged through gritted teeth. “Either way, he is responsible.”

  “That isn’t my point.”

  “Then what is?” she demanded, wiping away her tears.

  “Your uncle died early this morning. I witnessed it in person.”

  Molly stared at him, shocked.

  “He was not killed by a ‘wild animals.’ The Black Coats coerced him into their brotherhood. They’re vampires, Molly. Samuel was bitten.” Tom placed two fingers on the side of his neck. “Between that and death, I do not know which is the worst fate.”

  “Vampires? I’d ask if you were joking, but I know better by now.” Molly felt her world spinning around her. “And what do you mean you saw him? I was told he died Tuesday.” Molly struggled hopelessly to sort out the situation.

  “His human life ended Tuesday. His immortal life was ended tonight. He was already past recovery. The bite acts quickly, sometimes within one night if the afflicted lives, I’ve been told. There was no help for him, and I wish I’d arrived in London sooner.” Tom took another drink of the whiskey. His hand trembled and he almost dropped the bottle.

  A strong pang filled her chest, and Molly eyed Tom intensely. “Y-y-you … you …” she stuttered, unable to finish her sentence.

  “What is it?”

  “You said you were there! What did you do?”

  “I saved him. I’m sorry.”

  Molly shook her head in confusion at Tom’s choice of words. “He was a good man! I never got to say goodbye!”

  “I saw in his eyes the remnants of an honest man, but that man was not the one standing in the street tonight with that unnaturally young face and eyes estranged from the light,” Tom tried to explain. “I salvaged the good in him. I was at least able to do that. I stripped him of the curse, but I could not save his life, Molly.”

  Molly backed away from Tom, stumbling into a chair behind her. “You killed him?”

  Tom shook his head in frustration. “No, Harlan and the Black Coats killed him—at least, the part that mattered. Does it upset you that I brought your uncle back from the forced servitude of those monsters? Well, pardon my behavior!”

  “Were you even planning on telling me this?” Molly cried.

  She flinched as Tom left the kitchen, spilling bags of flour and bottles of liquor on the floor and slamming the door behind him. He stormed upstairs to his room. Left alone, Molly sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands. She could find no will to move, and she cried herself to sleep on the kitchen floor, her tears making sticky clumps in the fine layer of flour beneath her.

  Before its end, the Black Coat Society of London underwent a violent and rapid change in attitude and purpose. The original Black Coats, as I have said, first came to England from France because of the good relations the Beaumonte family established between Parisian cults and the Red Legion and Sons of Nyx (both English). After t
he death of Arnaud Beaumonte, the noble house of vampires fell to pieces, for there was no son beneath Arnaud to inherit the title of patriarch of the Black Coat Society. Leon Beaumonte, the inheritor, was missing. Arnaud’s brother, Rene, died under mysterious circumstances shortly after his brother’s passing, and the title of patriarch was quickly swept up by young members of the London house—many of whom succumbed to their prideful natures and encouraged fierce loyalty to the house among their peers. It did not take long for the new Black Coat Society to make enemies with several European powers. Their numbers and their influence grew, nearly to the point of diminishing the power of already long-established cults such as the Red Legion in London and the House of Roses in Paris. The Black Coats exercised their will over their territory often by seizing control of the magic trade in major European cities and settlements, but often by illegal, bloody means. At the height of their power, some of the Coats, including the serpentine Simon Deschamps, advocated feeding on human blood instead of animals. The Black Coat Society would be the first great cult to do so in centuries.

  Geoffrey Mylus,

  April 26, 1833

  ~~~

  Spring came before Molly knew it was upon her. Tom had changed his plans after his encounter with the Black Coats, deciding to stay the winter in London. Molly had spent most of the cold months indoors, passing the hours making herself new clothes with Charlotte’s help or venturing into the upstairs library and reading through one of Tom’s myriad unusual books. Her mind clung to things she learned in magic books, though the knowledge was still useless to her, and was often written in a language comprised of nonsense and symbols. Ever since learning of her father’s trade, Molly was eager to learn much more, and though Thomas tried on many occasions to explain the books to her, Molly couldn’t make sense of the magical arts.

  Tom spent most of his time in London out in the city, trading, as far as anyone knew. He would never say much about the places he went. He always returned with something for Molly; sometimes flowers, sometimes new fabrics for her and Charlotte, and very often candies and rare teas, for which Molly was most appreciative.