The Eternity Road (The Eternity Road Trilogy, Book 1)

by Lana Melyan

  Craig slowly walked back.

  “I think I broke her heart,” she said in a guilty voice.

  “What did you do, Hanna?”

  Hanna took a deep breath.

  “She asked me about Eleanor.”

  Craig froze, and it looked like he’d stopped breathing. Ruben was stunned, too.

  “She saw you in her dream. You called her Eleanor,” continued Hanna. “I told her Eleanor was your girlfriend, that she’d died. And Amanda was sorry for you, for both of us. And then she asked why in the dream you called her Eleanor.” Hanna paused.

  “What did you say?” asked Craig, and his voice wasn’t angry or irritated anymore, it was soft.

  “I said it was because her eyes look like Eleanor’s. Then she looked at the bracelet, and her expression changed.”

  Craig smiled sadly.

  “She thinks I gave it to her because she looks like Eleanor.”

  “Craig, I’m so sorry. Her question confused me, and when she looked at me . . . God, those eyes . . .”

  “I know. That’s why I avoided them all these years.”

  “I handled it all this time, but I think you’re right, I’m too excited, I need to pull myself together.” Hanna sighed. “I need to get back and drive her home.”

  “No,” said Craig, “Ruben can do it. I want you to take a nice bath, eat something, and watch some comedy. You’ve been under a lot of pressure. Take some time out.”

  “You should rest.” Ruben nodded approvingly.

  “I’ll happily oblige. I couldn’t look into her eyes right now.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Craig, looking at the sheets of papers in his hand, “we’ll get that heart back.”

  15

  YEAR 1841

  It was late evening when Fray, Samson, and Gabriella stepped off the train at the wet and cloudy New Castle railway station. Several people had gone missing in this small town of three-hundred residents. The witch, Helma, summoned them after two dead bodies were found with bite marks on their necks.

  The moment Fray stepped onto the platform, illuminated by the poor yellow light of the lanterns, he saw her. He couldn’t be mistaken. It was her—the woman he’d sought for seven years. She was passing by only fifteen feet away, and he, without knowing it, was already moving in the same direction.

  “Fray, where are you going?” he heard Gabriella’s voice.

  He looked at her. “I’m . . .” he started. But he didn’t have time to make up a reason; he was afraid to lose the woman from his view. “I need to do something,” he said, glancing after the woman.

  “There’s no time for that,” said Samson, eyeing the subject of Fray’s attention. “We’re here on business.”

  “I’ll meet you at Helma’s house,” said Fray edgily.

  The woman was moving in the opposite way of the small crowd of newly arrived passengers. When her silhouette disappeared behind the corner of the station building, he decided not to risk losing her. He flashed forward and caught up with her in a split second.

  The sudden, short gust of wind didn’t pass unnoticed. The woman stopped. When she turned around, her face didn’t express fear or surprise, it remained impassive. But as she appraised Fray from head to toe, it changed.

  “Who are you?” she asked, interest in her voice. “You’re not from around here.”

  “What gave me away?” Fray smirked.

  “You’re dressed too well for this place.”

  “Then you’re not from around here, either.”

  Fray’s eyes moved from the small elegant top hat sitting on her gathered black hair, down to her velvet overcoat.

  “Were you following me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? What do you want?”

  “What can a man want from such a beautiful woman?” he said, looking into her cold blue eyes framed by black lines of long eyelashes.

  “Oh, that,” she said in casual voice. Then she raised her black arched eyebrow. “Why not? There’s something different about you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I can sense it. You look firm. You emanate power, and I like a strong man.”

  Oh, I can sense you, too, thought Fray.

  “I’m staying outside of the town,” she said. “It’s not too far. You can come with me.”

  “And you’re not afraid? I am, after all, just a stranger.”

  “What are you going to do? Bite me?” she laughed.

  “Oh no, I don’t bite.” I do other things, he thought. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fray Wald.” He bowed slightly.

  “I’m Joanne. Joanne Murray.” She turned around and went to a coach waiting for her.

  Fray walked behind her on the dirty road, wet from the drizzling rain, a content smile on his face.

  All that mattered to the family was the mission, but Fray didn’t care anymore. He was tired of all the rules and obligations. They had this great power, and they could do so much more with it. They could create armies of immortals and subjugate towns and countries, build their own kingdoms instead of hiding who they really were from the world. But all they did was kill the monsters. When Fray shared his thoughts with Samson, Samson called them reckless and violent.

  Fray knew there was nobody in the castle who would support his desire; which was why he spent a lot of time away from them. He wanted to have his own people who’d understand and support his ideas, who would be loyal to him. He’d been traveling, trying to find them among the mortals. He listened to their conversations, socialized with them and watched their actions, hoping that when he found someone, he’d convince Samson to turn the man for him.

  And once, Fray brought a man to the castle. He’d found him in Texas. After taking down a werewolf, Fray was having a drink in a smoky saloon soaked with the smell of whiskey. At the table next to his, he heard three men talking about supernatural creatures. One of them was assuring the others that he had seen a vampire in Virginia. What surprised Fray the most—the others weren’t laughing at him.

  Fray approached their table, sat at the vacant chair, and said, “I just killed a werewolf.”

  They welcomed him, and they drank and talked until one of the men, hammering his fist into his chest, swore that he would become a vampire in a heartbeat just to end his boring life. He wished he could be immortal and powerful.

  Another man wrinkled his nose and said, “But they drink blood.”

  “Good,” answered the first. “I’ll suck out the blood from everybody in my village.”

  The next day Fray met the man to make sure what he’d said the previous evening wasn’t just drunken chatter. To check his nerves and get his attention, Fray took him to the place where he left the werewolf and showed him the body and a few traces of claws on the trees. The man didn’t move a muscle. Even though what he now saw was a naked human, covered in blood, he absolutely believed Fray.

  They spent a month together, drinking, playing cards, having fun with women. To see the man in action Fray provoked a fight, and after came to the conclusion that he had found what he was looking for.

  One day he explained to the man who he was. To prove it, Fray showed him a few tricks. He told the man about his plans and made him the offer to become like him, to become his companion. Fray knew that if the man meant what he’d said the first night at the saloon, there was a possibility the transformation would take longer than two days and Samson would stop it. But he didn’t care. He had to try.

  Fray told Samson the man was his friend. He made up a story about how the man helped him kill werewolves and almost got killed himself. But he couldn’t fool Samson. When the man was still transitioning on the fourth day, Samson approached Fray saying he couldn’t wait any longer, that Fray probably didn’t know the man as well as he thought. Then he pulled out his dagger and stuck it in the man’s chest.

  Fray’s fists clenched and the gust of rage burned him, making his blood boil.

  “Oh, I knew him,” he snarled ferociously. “He was good, he was better than all of yo
u, and he could have been my friend. But you killed him because you didn’t like him, because he was different, because it was I who chose him.”

  “I did what I had to do,” said Samson.

  “This was the first time I asked you to turn somebody for me, and you killed him.”

  “You think that it’s easy?” said Samson with anger. “He wasn’t good, and I can’t give that kind of power to someone who I can’t trust.”

  “It’s not him you don’t trust, it’s me. I don’t trust you either. I’m a First One, too. I don’t know what’s on those golden pages, but I’m sure they have something for me.”

  “The Golden pages are meant only for the Keeper of the Book, and I’ve told you as much as I can.”

  “Fine. You keep your secrets, and I’ll keep mine.”

  Fray had been sleeping with vampire women for a couple of centuries now, and it was one of his biggest secrets. He didn’t care what the family would say if they found out. He would’ve left them long ago, but he still needed Samson. He was the only one who knew the contents of the golden pages, the only one who could turn people.

  Fray had a lot of fun with women. He tried them all: young and old, smart and stupid, girls from the village and noble rich ladies, from different nations and different cultures. Most annoying were the young ones, who cried and fainted a lot. The old ones were too tenacious and cursed Fray for leaving them. Best of all were the middle-age married women. Most of them were like a bottle of vintage wine; their men never understood the value, and they waited for someone who would appreciate the taste. They gave Fray all their passion and didn’t ask for anything in return.

  But one day Fray realized that weak mortal women didn’t attract him anymore. They were too breakable, and he always had to control his strength. He needed someone new, stronger, somebody with whom he wouldn’t have to hold back.

  That’s when the idea to try a vampire crossed his mind. Of course, he could ask Samson to turn someone for him, but he had never met somebody with whom he wanted to spend eternity. Unlike Samson, he had never met the love of his life. Even if he did, the kind of women he liked would never fit Samson’s rules. If only he could turn people himself. It would change everything.

  He still remembered his first time, his first young vampire woman, and the distinction, the satisfaction. He found her at the graveyard. She was feeding, but he didn’t intervene, didn’t stop her. The night was dark, but Hunters, the same as vampires, had perfect sight. Standing at a good distance, he could appreciate her long, flowing hair, her shapely legs showing out from under the drawn up hemline of her gown. When she was done and dragging her victim toward the tomb, Fray showed himself.

  “Do you need help with that?”

  She dropped the body and looked back, startled. But perhaps the fact that Fray was alone encouraged her. She smiled.

  “Look at this gorgeous man. You look delicious.”

  “I’m glad you like me.”

  Fray approached her, looked into her black eyes, at her pale face. He put one hand on his dagger, grabbed her waist with the other, and pressed her to his chest.

  “Mmm, you are strong,” she said.

  She slowly bowed and pressed her mouth to his neck. Fray raised up his head and closed his eyes, enjoying the touch of her cold lips.

  “You should be careful. I might bite you,” she whispered into his ear.

  “You can try,” he whispered back, pressing her to him harder.

  She moaned. He knew that it wasn’t from pleasure, but pain. In that moment, as a result of her defensive reaction, her fangs pierced Fray’s neck. He threw her away. She flew back, hit a tall gravestone, and fell down, hissing. Fray chuckled.

  The woman looked at him in astonishment, wiping her lips with her sleeve like something burned them.

  “What are you? You’re strong, but you’re not a vampire. Are you a werewolf?”

  “How long had you been a vampire?” Fray asked.

  “Twelve years,” she said, standing up.

  She was too young and had probably never heard about Hunters. And she didn’t need to; it would scare her, make everything complicated.

  “I’m human, but very strong. You don’t have to be afraid.” He walked to her. “I just want to have fun.” He grabbed her, lifting her up slightly and pressing her to the gravestone behind her. “You’re very attractive.” He leaned into her tightly, and his hand moved down her hip.

  “Mmm,” she moaned, closing her eyes, but then suddenly she hit him in the chest with both hands.

  Fray bounced back and bumped into another, much lower gravestone and almost fell over it. He laughed.

  “Oh yes. This is going to be interesting.”

  “You promise?” she said, standing with her hands on her waist and wiggling her hips.

  Fray dashed to her, threw her on the grass, and sank his lips into her breasts.

  It was a long and crazy night, full of new and powerful sensations. Fray woke up in the tomb, where she dragged him before daybreak. He walked out and stopped, looking around. Fray never was romantic, but even he couldn’t ignore the beauty surrounding him.

  It was the middle of October. Hardy, wild chestnut trees were just turning yellow. But maples stretching along the paths already covered the green grass with orange and red leafs. He noticed a short tree with deep purple foliage and looked at the grave beneath it. A sculpture of a raven was attached to its small headstone. Fray didn’t understand why someone would put a raven on a gravestone, but he liked it.

  That night was revolutionary for Fray, and not for its extraordinary sexual experience. Something had happened that night, something important. He, the Hunter, enjoyed the time in the company of a vampire, who he had been created to fight against, to hate, to destroy. He broke the rule. Standing in the silent graveyard, Fray smiled.

  Usually Fray killed his vampire lovers. But for Joanne Murray he had other plans. Her beauty wasn’t the only reason he decided to keep her alive. He needed her.

  Joanne Murray was a leader. She had her own team who obeyed her, and that was something Fray had always dreamed of. Vampires were powerful and immortal, too, and she could make as many of them as she wanted. Fray didn’t know if he would ever be able to convince Samson to turn someone for him, and he needed a backup plan. Maybe with vampires he wouldn’t be able to take over the world, but it would be interesting to try something new, something different.

  Joanne Murray was also smart. That’s why Fray couldn’t find her. He’d been on the right trail twice, but by the time he got there, she was gone. Living a full social life, she knew when to disappear and how to cover her tracks. Every time Samson needed somebody to hunt down a vampire, Fray was the first to go, but it was never her.

  And now, here she was, which meant that this time something had gone wrong.

  Meeting her today on the railway station was a fluke. He had to take advantage of it immediately, because tomorrow, when Samson found her, it would be too late.

  When they arrived at her manor, Fray saw a two-story house detached from other estates. As they came out of the coach, a young man opened the front door and waited for them to enter. He threw a quick glance at Fray and stepped to Ms. Murray to take her coat and hat. Fray also took off his coat and hung it on the man’s arm.

  “Where is everybody?” she asked without real interest.

  “They are out, Ma’am,” said the man.

  “Bring us wine and you can leave, too.” She turned to Fray. “How do you find this place?” she asked, moving her eyes from one side of the room to the other. “Do you like it?”

  Fray glanced at the furniture upholstered with light green fabric, at the tightly closed lustrous taffeta curtains, and then looked at the floor.

  “Hmm, nice carpet,” he said, and then looked at Ms. Murray with a smile. “Where are the owners?”

  She stared at him.

  “I am the owner. Why would you ask such a silly question?”

  “I’m lookin
g at the wall, and there are two portraits of venerably aged people—a man and a woman,” said Fray. “And yours is nowhere around. Where is it? I am sure you have one.”

  Her face brightened. “It’s in my bedroom,” she said coquettishly.

  The young man came back with two glasses of wine on a silver tray. She took one of them and handed it to Fray.

  “Thank you, Ms. Murray,” he said.

  “Please, call me Joanne.” She took the other glass. “Let’s go. I’ll show you my portrait.” She picked up one of the several candelabra standing around and led the way up the stairs.

  She put the candelabrum on the nightstand.

  “There it is,” she said, looking at the wall opposite the bed.

  In the portrait, she stood in full length and looked at Fray with her icy-cold eyes. Her black dress accentuated the paleness of her face, and her dark-red, insidiously smiling lips looked like blood on snow.

  Fray was impressed by the grandeur of the portrait, but his face and the tone of his voice didn’t change.

  “Magnificent,” he said, sipping his wine. “Who is the painter?”

  “A well-known artist from Lynchburg, but I don’t remember his name.”

  “Lynchburg? I knew a painter in Lynchburg.” Fray watched her reaction. “He died seven years ago. Poor thing was killed. Drained of blood from his neck. What a strange way to kill somebody. I was curious, how did they do that?”

  Ms. Murray’s face darkened.

  “You are a very interesting man,” she muttered.

  She put her glass beside the candelabrum and stepped to Fray, who now stood with his back to the portrait. She spun him around. Fray didn’t resist. He tossed aside his glass. It crashed against the wall, covering the small white flowers on the sky-blue wallpaper with dark red. She hit him in the chest with both hands and collapsed against his body when he fell on the bed.

  “Yes, you’re right, Joanne.” Fray smirked. “It’s time to play.”

  “You ask the wrong questions, you don’t get to play. You want to know how the painter was killed?” she whispered into his ear. “I’ll show you.”