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

by Chad T. Douglas

  One day near the end of their stay, Molly and Thomas went out into the city together. Thomas talked about the many places he had been, pointing them out all along the way. Molly had never known there was such an extensive world of magic and monsters, existing right under her nose in London’s back streets and basements. But Thomas made it sound as though if one did so much as pull up a loose stone in the street, a vampire or two would spring out.

  Listening to Thomas was one of Molly’s favorite ways to pass the time on land. He had never been so talkative while out at sea. In fact, he was a generally more amiable person on solid ground, and this made Molly wish never to leave London. Life, she thought, walking next to Thomas, is so simple and comfortable here.

  Tom was nowhere to be found the following day. When Molly had come downstairs, Ozias was busily cooking breakfast. Charlotte had gone to fetch some flour and sugar in the market; it was always best to buy it as soon as ships arrived in port. Molly, not wanting to bother anyone (or be bothered), stepped out the back door, the chill from outside making her shiver and wrap her arms tightly across her chest. She closed the door behind her and, crossing her arms again, walked around to the small garden, taking a seat on one of its stone benches.

  A swift shadow passed overhead, and then landed heavily on the roof. It seemed to have leapt from the neighboring building. Molly looked up suddenly, startled by the movement.

  “Hello?” she called out.

  Muffled groans and complaints could be heard above. “Leg. I can’t keep this … bandage … agh!”

  “W-who’s up there?” Molly demanded of the presence.

  The voice was broken by canine snarls. “Need breakfast … Ozias had better … ow!” The roof door opened and shut loudly.

  Molly shook her head, exasperated. She muttered to herself, slightly amused. “Stubborn man.” She’d figured out that it must be Thomas.

  Small scraps of clothing drifted down into the garden. A shirt collar, one pant leg (and belt), shoe strings. Molly turned pink upon realizing Tom was running about mostly nude. Ozias’s voice called from within. “Breakfast, Miss Bishop!”

  “I’ll be right there!” She called back, avoiding a ragged bit of shirt, which caught the branch of a tree just out of range of her hair.

  Charlotte arrived soon after, large sacks of flour in her arms. She knocked on the door, almost toppling the big bags. Molly came to her rescue, opening the door for her. “Let me help you with that, Charlotte.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bishop.”

  Molly lifted one sack and followed Charlotte toward the kitchen just as Tom wandered carelessly, and quite nakedly, downstairs.

  “Ozias, honestly, at this rate my wardrobe will be …” Thomas came striding down the stairs without having looked up.

  Molly dropped her sack on her foot. She stared at Thomas, then the bag on the floor, then Thomas again, her eyes pinned open as they panned left, right, left, right—following the rhythmic swing of his rather prominently displayed indiscretion like a pendulum on a grandfather clock.

  Thomas, looking up and spying Molly in the doorway, turned his bare tail and ran back up the steps like a cat over hot coals.

  Molly’s cheeks alight and burning the color of rose gold, blinked, cut her eyes down to the floor and scrambled to stop the flour rupturing from the burst sack. Ozias entered the room a bit too late and was altogether oblivious. “Breakfast!” he announced, smiling and crinkling the skin around his jovial old eyes, “Today’s special addition is kielbasa!”

  Molly flushed again, swallowed, handed Ozias the bag of flour and fled upstairs to her bedroom.

  Tom soon returned downstairs wearing a whole pair of pants, confident of his quick escape. He bade a good morning to everyone and finished his breakfast hastily.

  Molly reappeared some time after him, quietly arriving at the table and pardoning herself for being late.

  “Ah, there you are! We’re leaving this afternoon,” he announced happily.

  Molly stirred honey into her tea and nodded, trying to catch up on breakfast before Ozias began to clear plates.

  “Charlotte is packing your things right now,” he said, avoiding eye contact and looking at his plate. Clearing his throat, he turned to his groundskeeper. “Ozias, I realize I told you it would be a week longer, but I’ve left you and Charlotte each more than an extra week’s pay to compensate.”

  Ozias nodded. “No trouble, sir. How were the sausages?”

  “Delicious,” piped Molly.

  “Where do you plan to go, Mr. Walsh?” Charlotte interrupted, entering the dining room. She’d overhead the announcement.

  “Barcelona,” Tom answered, smiling as though he’d woken from the best night of sleep he’d ever had.

  “Barcelona, sir? Whatever for?” asked Ozias.

  Carefully, Tom looked up from his breakfast, not at Ozias, but momentarily toward Molly, expecting some sort of reaction. “A trade,” he said plainly.

  Ozias laughed, picking up his tea. “As usual, I see.”

  “You must be quite the busy man, Mr. Walsh. Only a four months’ rest and you’re off again!” Charlotte exclaimed.

  “Quite.”

  “Well it was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Bishop.” Ozias nodded politely to her. “I’m sorry you two must be off so soon.”

  “As am I,” Molly replied softly. “Thank you both so much.”

  Tom rose from his seat and excused himself. Frowning into her tea cup, Molly felt hesitant about leaving London, although she longed to see her father in Spain.

  “Thomas?” she called after him.

  “Yes?” he called back.

  “May I bring a few books from your library along?”

  “Certainly! May I collect them for you?”

  “That would be wonderful, thank you. You know which ones I’ve been reading, right? They’ll be marked,” she added as an afterthought.

  “Should be no trouble!” His energetic footsteps vanished up the main stair.

  In the library bedroom, Tom found a hefty stack of Molly’s recent reading already neatly arranged and brimming with little decorative page markers Charlotte had found for her in town. The fireplace had been left alight and so before he gathered up he went to the hearth and dispelled the enchantment keeping it aglow. One of his glass and ruby candles was missing from the desk by the fireplace. Momentarily perplexed, he let it be; Ozias would likely recover it while cleaning. Thomas didn’t take time to carefully check, but all Molly’s books were accounted for. She had exhausted many of his books on magic and had recently taken a great interest in philosophers, writers he hadn’t read much of, himself—Plato, Homer, Sun Tzu, Kant, Herder, Descartes, Vatsyayana…

  Across the hall, in her bedroom, Molly tidied up. Charlotte had already packed most of her things for her, but Molly had returned to her room to gather a few extra personal effects she’d gradually taken ownership of over the winter and early spring months, such as a handy glass and ruby candle that helped her keep warm.

  Within the half hour Tom had reappeared downstairs with two large pieces of luggage in addition to all the belongings with which he and Molly had arrived. Pausing in front of the door, he waited for Molly to speak with Charlotte for one last time before their departure.

  “I plan to return within the year. I won’t be away as long as I was last time if the sea carries me favorably,” Tom told both Ozias and Charlotte.

  “Good to hear, sir,” Ozias responded.

  Charlotte opened the door for the pair. “Godspeed, Mr. Walsh, Miss Bishop.”

  Smiling at them both, Molly went to meet Tom at the front door. About her shoulder was her small bag full of light clothes and accessories, and in her arms, her favorite tomes.

  Thomas led her to an awaiting coach and placed the luggage in the back compartment. “Driver!”

  The driver spurred the horses at Tom’s order, and the coach made its way to the port of London. A cold April rain was falling.

  Molly’s express
ion was unreadable during the entire ride. This stirred something in Tom. He touched a finger to his forehead, feeling a small pain, unable to recall the night before and wondering if he’d injured himself. Looking out the window, he dropped his hand again. He didn’t completely recall having transformed the previous night and wondered where his curse had taken him in his sleep, that is, until the carriage passed a butcher’s shop where, outside, the owner was complaining loudly to two authorities who, shrugging their shoulders, looked upon his wrecked shop. Tom sank low into his seat and turned up his collar. The markets outside were mostly empty, for not many braved the rain that day. The coach came to a slow stop in the port. Tom got out and gathered the luggage, Molly exiting the coach behind him and walking on ahead. Solemnly, she looked at the Scotch Bonnet, waiting by the docks.

  Catching up to her, Tom hauled the bags onboard, placing them in their respective cabins. The crew had been preparing the sails and rigging since early morning, their beards and eyebrows collecting rain. Bart scrutinized every detail of the operation. He wanted to make sure his last voyage across the sea was one the young Captain Crowe would talk about when Bart was long gone.

  “I prepared a fire in your cabins, so if you’ll wait a minute or two they should be fit for sleeping again,” Bart explained to Tom and Molly.

  “Ozias wrapped the rest of the breakfast in a cloth, and I placed it on your desk,” Tom told Molly, “Your bags have been stowed under your bed, and I placed the books on top of it. I told Charlotte to keep the opera dress safe with her until you return. No sense in risking it on the sea. I found a safe chest to keep your pistols locked in.” He whispered its location to her and added: “The key is in a boot next to your bed, behind the door.”

  “Thank you.” she replied quietly.

  He opened her cabin door for her. “Best stay in here, Miss, the weather is only going to get worse.”

  The crew raised the sails within the hour. The anchor creaked as it was hauled up with slow, persistent force. Bart unfastened all the dock tethers from their cleats and took the helm as Tom arrived on deck.

  “Barcelona!” Tom shouted to Bart and the crew.

  “Barcelonaaaa!” Bart repeated.

  Molly closed her cabin door, the excited cries of the crew ringing in her ears. Feeling weak, she lay down beneath the covers on her bed. Though the fire burned hot, she continued to shiver, but it was not because of the cold. Molly wrapped the covers tightly around herself.

  The crew scampered about the main deck, climbing the rigging and unfastening the sail and yard locks. The precipitation did not discourage the men as they scurried about high in the sails with simian agility.

  “Full speed! The weather’s biting at our backsides, boys!” Tom called out to the men.

  “Barcelona, eh Tom?” Bart inquired of him.

  Tom looked on, unresponsive.

  “A long detour, yeah?”

  Tom still provided no answer.

  “They found you, didn’t they?”

  The rain continued until late that evening. The spring chill, however, lingered until the following morning and would continue into the next week, even out at sea. Tom performed his daily routine, and the crew bustled about tirelessly, keeping up with their captain’s persistent orders. Around midday Tom entered Molly’s cabin.

  “Barcelona will take us a month.” He sat by the bed and, after a while, spoke again. “How are you, Miss Bishop?”

  Molly was turned away from him, still wrapped in the covers, and replied hoarsley. “I could be better.”

  “Sick? Bart gathered medicines before launch.”

  “It’s not just that,” Molly said, sighing.

  “Too cold in your cabin? I can bring wood.”

  “No, no.” She turned around, sitting up slowly with a soft groan, and looked down at her hands. “I want to apologize.”

  Tom’s head snapped to attention. “Apologize?”

  “Yes. There was nothing you could have done for my uncle. And I don’t blame you for his death. I want you to know that. I was just scared and confused. It was wrong of me to accuse you, and I’m sorry for it. So much that’s happened is new and frightening to me. I feel that the world I’ve lived in for so long is now a stranger. All these people and things that existed in stories and out of sight …” Molly looked away from Tom’s uneasy expression.

  “I don’t mean to place you in harm’s way.”

  “There’s just so much I still don’t know,” Molly said forlornly.

  “I know.”

  Molly covered her mouth as a sudden spurt of coughs erupted from her lungs.

  “I knew you were ill. I’ll get you some medicine.” Tom moved to stand, but Molly grabbed his hand before he managed to get up, and gazed up into his eyes.

  “Miss, I really ought to find you something.” he protested softly.

  “Thank you, Thomas.” She took his hand in hers.

  “I won’t put you in danger again,” he promised. “I’ll take you to your father, and then you’ll be out of harm’s way. Please rest.”

  Molly slept lightly, her dreams strange and scrambled. Her coughing had finally settled as the medicine Tom returned with took its effect, but she shivered as the fire in her cabin slowly dimmed. She stirred, waking suddenly. She wasn’t sure if it was night or day due to the dark clouds that covered the sky. She shivered as she went to place more logs on the fire in her cabin. She walked over to the desk and took a seat, her blanket still around her shoulders, and gazed out the window. Windows were comforting things, she realized—portals to an alternative world, when one’s environment became stale and dark.

  Defiantly Tom squinted into the fierce gusts outside. Atop the quarterdeck it was difficult to see, and the helmsman looked uncertain, becoming uneasy with the captain watching over his shoulder. It would be impossible to determine when and if the ship should ever stray off course because, as far as human eyes could see, the evening sky was nonexistent—covered by clouds—and the ocean, by nightfall, would bring pitch-black oblivion. Bart, standing nearby, cast the sextant aside and threw his arms in the air in surrender. “Impossible! Can’t see a thing! Devilish weather!”

  Tom was too deep in thought to hear or respond to him. A decision lingered heavily on his shoulders, and he’d have to come to some sort of conclusive judgment within two months, before the ship reached Barcelona. He was glad he’d decided to take a slow route to Spain because he’d need some time to think about Molly, himself, and their respective fates.

  He moved suddenly, walking slowly toward the helm and putting a spyglass to his eye. A dark shape sat on the horizon. “Five degrees eastward.” He folded the spyglass and set it down.

  Twenty minutes passed and Tom returned from the main deck to the helm once more, scanning the dark sea for any unfamiliar forms. He focused on a single one. “Merchant,” he said with great relief, as he collapsed the spyglass. “Remain in this course and then seven degrees southward once you can’t see that ship anymore.”

  The helmsman nodded with a stern expression, the cold rain on his chin making his jaw quiver.

  After the last light faded, the crew spread extra salt across the deck so it wouldn’t freeze and retreated below to warm themselves by fires and eat dinner, which Bart had haphazardly prepared during his last routine duties of the day. Tom sat awake in deep thought in his cabin, staring into the blazing fire.

  The star charts Molly had been looking over shifted slightly with a movement of the ship. Startled, she peered out her window once more. She could not see much at all—only the eerie blackness of the sea. Noticing the emptiness of the deck, Molly took the opportunity to wander outside, knowing she wouldn’t have to worry about being in anyone’s way. She wrapped her blanket tighter around her shoulders and walked out toward the helm. The icy slush on deck stung the soles of her feet. The air was bitter cold, but Molly felt the need to momentarily escape the confines of her cabin. She could almost hear the witty chatter among the crew at dinner, an
d she smiled softly, staring out into the ocean.

  Tom, alone, picked up his silver sword, moving it from hand to hand, examining the deadly edges of the painstakingly crafted blade. As the blade turned, it reflected the firelight onto his face. On its surface he could see a reflection: a solemn, golden-eyed, sandy-furred wolf stared back, white teeth protruding from closed jaws. Tom stared back angrily. The wolf snarled silently, baring its white fangs. As Tom turned the blade, its face vanished.

  The blade Thomas had ordered forged by the smith, Fenn, was unique. I had never seen one like it. Tom told me he had known he would need it upon facing his brother, Harlan, and he knew this only because of a dream he’d had sometime before he’d found Molly Bishop in the Caribbean. In that dream he held a silver sword—crafted in the style of French cavalry sabers of the day—that held in its hilt a bloodstone.

  Bloodstones are gems that have always been connected to vitality and immortality. Bloodstones may lend great strength to a person who carries one without coming into direct contact with it, but they can also sap the life from a man in mere moments, should their alluring surface so much as brush the skin. They are discreet, immensely dense sources of life- force; they tug at vitality much like a massive body generates gravity. Things coming too close experience a stronger tug, while things keeping just enough distance can pull back. In this way, life can actually be taken from a bloodstone for the owner’s benefit.

  Not as popular as holy magic (light-producing spells), bloodstones are often used as defence against vampires. The bloodstone has a particularly deadly thirst for the near-limitless life force that exists in anecrotic tissue. The rate at which it drinks the life of a vampire is enough to turn one of them to ash in the blink of an eye.