New Title 3

by H. T. Night

  Suddenly, an incredibly sharp stabbing pain erupted inside my abdomen, and my own anatomy expertise told me it came from the ovary on my left side. The pain was excruciating—the worst thing I had ever encountered in my life up until then. No doubt, an ovum had been forced from dormancy down into my uterus. My ecstasy abruptly cut short, I felt the explosion of Peter’s orgasm, just as the world around me began to go black.

  One of the last things I recalled was Chanson’s voice calling to me from somewhere above, urging me to drink. An acrid taste that was metallic filled my mouth as liquid poured into my open throat. I almost choked and coughed up some of it. At the same time, I began to feel a surge of strength lift the weakness and discomfort I had felt since the incredible pain erupted in my ovary.

  While losing consciousness, cheers of joy erupted around me. The experiment was a success. Garvan and Armando congratulated Peter and I heard Nora tell Chanson that my color was good and that I’d be ‘fine in no time’. Hearing these things as my awareness faded gave me a sense of satisfaction. At least there was hope of better days ahead. Maybe things would work out for all of us.

  But the last thing I heard before everything went blank was Gustav’s panicked shouts, followed by an escalating murmur from the group. Something about the castle gates being stormed and an invasion on the main floor. Vampires. Bad ones with a single mission.

  To find and kill me.

  Chapter 22

  So there you have it. My story…or at least the beginning of what promises to be an interesting adventure. Oh, yes, there are a few details I need to wrap up before I close, dear reader. Starting with the events following Relance de sang, the sacred ceremony of the vampires.

  Obviously I have survived, at least so far. Ralu’s army did sack the castle, and sadly from what I understand, there were casualties on both sides, including nearly half of Racco’s staff of innocent human beings. But before Ralu and his minions could find me, I was whisked to a ‘safe house’ in nearby Perpignan. A temporary stay until one of Racco’s private jets was ready for boarding.

  I missed out on all of the craziness, and didn’t awake until almost noon today, roughly eight hours after I passed out. One of Racco’s assistants, a young teenager named Maria, was the one to check on me. A pretty brunette, I can only hope he hasn’t tried to bed this one, and from what I could tell from her thoughts he hasn’t yet. Yes, a side effect from my experience is that I can somehow read a person’s unspoken musings. Not complete voyeurism like the vampires possess, but I can hear partial sentences. It’s kind of weird, really, since I’ve come to understand in the past ten hours since I awoke that most of us never say everything we think. It’s a hodge-podge of random observations and urges that we somehow streamline into what we verbalize. I doubt we’re even aware of this process most of the time.

  But to wake up and suddenly have immediate awareness of the endless stream of words within somebody else’s head can be extremely disturbing. At least it was for me today. And to consider it’s just the opposite experience from when I blacked out, where an incredible calm and peaceful sea of blackness surrounded me.

  Surely you’re wondering about my physical condition. I mean, am I pregnant yet? And what about the incredible discomfort that racked my insides when the very first ovum of my life coursed down my left ovary and into my womb?

  I can tell you that both of these questions were among the last thoughts I considered before everything went blank. My fading awareness of my pain and surroundings was the only reason I didn’t scream to high heaven. It hurt like a mo-fo, and I hope to God I’m never subjected to anything like it again!

  Once Maria showed up at my bedside, in addition to the sudden assault from her worried thoughts for my welfare, I was surprised to find my body’s pain had vanished. Completely. And it surprised me that I felt really good physically. I startled the poor girl when I jumped up and started getting dressed in the change of clothes she brought for me. The modest bedroom in the much smaller estate gave me pause to consider something really had happened earlier this morning, and it wasn’t just a bad dream.

  Maria’s thoughts began to overwhelm me, and when I realized in horror that the mental confusion bombarding my mind came from her head, I excused myself from her presence and ran into the adjacent bathroom. Thankfully she understood English when I told her I’d be right back. Most of what came from her silent musings was in French.

  While washing my face in the sink I began to recall the draining of my blood by Chanson. I pulled my hair back to take a look at my neck. Not surprised the wounds had already healed, the teardrops on my neck were slightly swollen still, providing further confirmation of what had happened to me in the hours just before dawn. More mental images from the event began to flood my awareness, and I could taste the blood being poured down my throat once more.

  And then incredible nausea came over me, forcing me to my knees as I retched for damn near twenty minutes.

  Can morning sickness occur this quickly, or was my churning stomach from reliving the feeding of my blood back to me, as a mixture of human and vampire plasma?

  I did get that answer…but not just yet.

  Once I had dressed, Maria led me to the northern wing of the estate, where Mercel waited. I had mixed feelings at seeing him without Racco around, but he assured me I’d see him again before long at our new location. Still, he wouldn’t divulge where that would be.

  “I know this is not what you want to hear, Mademoiselle Ybarra, but I have my orders to follow,” he explained, his expression pained despite a caring smile. “Ask me anything other than that, and if I know the answer, I will tell you.”

  Well, he couldn’t answer my next question as to ‘when’ Racco would be coming to this new secret hideout—which I correctly assumed would be another castle. And he must have learned the ability to cloak his thoughts, as I picked up nothing from him. Almost like the vampires’ empty mental slates I would encounter later on, this evening. I guess just warm-blooded humans transmit readable thoughts.

  Other details Mercel did know and could tell me were these: we would be boarding the plane around 3:00 p.m., and joining us would be more than a hundred vampires, still asleep in their coffins. This was as much for my continued protection as companionship, he advised. An additional cargo plane would also be making the trip, carrying most of the heavier caskets and other treasured items already packed by Gustav’s servants.

  From what I gathered, the selected vampires included my friends among them, which lightened my heart after I received the disappointing news that Peter had already been forced to return to America. There was so much left unresolved, and I so wanted to speak with him to gauge where our relationship stood after last night. Can it be salvaged? I seriously doubt it, based on what I know of Peter and his sheltered upbringing. What he participated in this morning would likely haunt him for years to come, and I assume this is the reason he was not allowed to stay and speak with me before his trans-Atlantic flight.

  So unfortunately, this will remain something I will have to resolve at a later time. Perhaps when I’m allowed to visit my family in Virginia, I can hook up with him then to gain closure on the past and redefine our future. After all, he is the father of the child already growing inside me.

  My baby girl.

  This brings us to the present moment, nearly 10:00 p.m. We are speeding through India’s airspace toward the Himalayas, aboard Racco’s newest Leer jet. There was some debate about choosing a castle in Hungary, but it turned out Ralu has already seized the property. Gustav advised Chanson that this particular castle used to belong to our adversary before it was lost to the warriors of the Ottoman Empire long ago. Racco had since reclaimed and restored it to its highest glory almost two hundred years ago, but Ralu has always considered it his rightful abode. Now he has it back.

  I know nothing of the estate we’re heading to, but after experiencing the prior wealth of my vampire protectors and their alchemist sponsor, I assume it will be
grand. Perhaps a palace of some sort, in a Chinese/Indian sort of way?

  At least I’ll have something completely new to write about next time. Perhaps I’ll also have details concerning the birth of my little girl, which should take place six to seven months from now. Apparently, based on centuries past, this is the normal gestation for these children. And they are nearly always females. There hasn’t been a male born with our birthmark in more than a thousand years.

  The only thing I’m waiting on now is to make sure the fetus doesn’t abort. If that happens, we will have to try this again, and the chances of success get slimmer with each attempt. The next seven days are critical. So says Chanson, who also volunteered to edit the final version of the manuscript you hold in your hands, dear reader. Needless to say, having to endure another Relance de sang could be very bad for all of us, human and vampire alike.

  Hopefully by the time you read this the fetus will survive, and I’ll be nearing the end of the journey—my pregnancy. I can hardly wait to introduce the world to the latest blood princess. And I have a name already—one suggested by Gustav a few hours ago that has quickly grown on me. I like this name, but can’t share it. Not yet.

  Now, I have one last surprise to share before I bring this chronicle to a close. My vampire friends wanted to add one last element to ensure I didn’t get too bored or lonely in our new home. So they brought someone else along. Someone I never believed I’d ever see again in this world. Someone who’s brilliant smile and big green eyes could rival many a vampire’s shimmering countenance while alive.

  This person entered the passenger cabin less than half an hour ago, dressed in a stunning coral Valentino cocktail dress and is sitting across from me, pressing me to finish.

  Tyreen.

  Tyreen the vampire—or I should say beautiful vampire. Still gorgeous and voluptuous, and already at home with ‘elitist’ vampire fashion!

  I have only one worry with her. Since she’s new to the undead world, where the nubile vamps are always hungry, how will she handle her bloodlust?

  And the way she’s looking at me now…

  Wish me luck.

  To be continued in:

  The Scarlet Birthright

  (coming summer 2011)

  ~~~~~~~~~

  Also available at your favorite ebookseller:

  The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

  A Spinoza Novella

  by

  J.R. Rain

  (read on for a sample)

  Chapter One

  Her name was Gladys Melbourne and she was crying.

  We were sitting together in my office, with the door closed. Outside, the street sounds came through my partially open window. A particularly loud Harley rumbled by so loudly that the fillings in my teeth nearly rattled out.

  Gladys ignored the Harley. She was looking away and wiping tears from her high cheekbones.

  Women crying in my presence wasn’t something new to me, and so I calmly waited it out. Meanwhile, my natural shyness to people in general prevented me from saying the soothing words she no doubt needed to hear.

  I waited. She buried her face in both hands. I looked at the ceiling and sat back in the chair, and silently wished I could find it within me to say something, anything.

  She continued crying.

  Outside, a street person yelled something. I thought I recognized the voice. I knew most of the street people. When I’m feeling generous, especially when work is steady, I usually gave abundantly to the local homeless.

  A bird squawked outside my window. I was sure it was a crow, although it could have been a raven. I wasn’t sure which was which, although both struck upon some primal fear within me. Perhaps in a past life I had my eyes pecked out by such a bird. A black, soulless, pitiless bird.

  Gladys’s shoulders quaked. A tissue appeared in her hands. She used it to dab her eyes. She looked up at me and I promptly looked away.

  Her breathing was harsh and ragged. She was still not ready to speak.

  On my desk was a closed laptop, a clear plastic cup of half-finished iced coffee, a pen, my car keys and my cell phone. Next to the laptop was a picture of my dead wife and son. As I looked at them, I smelled again their burning flesh. I would never, ever forget the smell, or the image of their blackened bodies. I kept the pictures up on my desk to remind myself that they were so much more than blackened lumps of charred flesh.

  But it never worked. Always, I saw them burning, burning.

  I closed my eyes. The smoke stung them all over again.

  As I rubbed my eyes, I finally remembered the forgotten dream I had had just this morning, the haunting memory of which had been plaguing me all morning. And so now the memory of it came blazing back into my consciousness, awakened by the woman’s heartbreak and the psychosomatic scent of burning flesh....

  I was in a forest with my son, holding his hand. Massive tree trunks punctuated the earth, rising up like magnified hair follicles. A sticky mist lay over the forest and the sound of falling water was nearby. We were heading to the falling water. I sensed our great need for water. For hydration. No, I sensed it for my son’s benefit. He needed the water. Desperately. And now I was recklessly crashing through the forest like a bear drunk on fermented elderberries, dangerously towing my son behind me. I looked down at him but his sweet, angelic face was blank, his lips parched and dry and white. The forest opened into a clearing and there before us was a beautiful waterfall, cascading down through the mist as if falling from heaven itself. And when I looked down again, I saw that I was holding my son’s dead and blackened hand. The water crashed idyllically just a few feet away. I held his scorched hand and sat in the high grass and wept.

  The woman in front of me was breathing normally again. When I came back from the forest, when my wet vision cleared again, I saw that she was watching me curiously. I tried to smile, but smiling never came easy to me.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I need help.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry for crying.”

  She needed encouragement. She needed to know it was okay to cry in my presence, that everything would be okay. I said nothing. I was never very good at small talk. I was never very good at much, and sometimes nothing was okay. Sometimes things crashed around you, and they kept on crashing for years to come.

  “My granddaughter ran away,” she said. “Step granddaughter.”

  I sat back. I thought the woman was going to cry again, but she held it together. Thank God. Instead, she gazed at me steadily, her wet eyes unwavering.

  She went on, “I was told you specialize in finding the missing. Missing children, in particular.”

  I did find them. And sometimes I found them dead. But I did not tell her that. With a runaway, there was still hope.

  “When did your granddaughter run away?” I asked quietly, taking out a notepad and a pen from my top drawer.

  “A week ago. Six days ago, to be exact.”

  “Who told you I could help you?”

  “Detective Hammer. He said it wouldn’t hurt to see you. That you had a knack for this sort of thing.”

  I did. When it came to finding missing children, one needed to be dogged and relentless. No stone left unturned. Having good instincts helped, too. But the funny thing about instincts was that one never knew when they would kick in. That’s where the dogged and relentless part came in.

  “How old is your granddaughter?” I asked. Always use the present. Never, ever refer to a child in the past tense.

  “Sixteen or seventeen. I’m not really sure. Her birthday is next month.”

  My son’s birthday would have been next month, too, but I didn’t say anything about that. There was enough heartache in this room without bringing that up. He would have been thirteen. Instead, he died when he was nine.

  At the thought of my son’s birthday, my breath caught, and I was briefly back in the forest, sitting in the short grass, holding his charred hand
as the nearby water bubbled with life.

  Presently, a small breeze made its way through the open window behind me. Los Angeles smelled of exhaust and oil and burned rubber.

  “Has she run away before?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you have a photo of her?”

  “Yes.”

  She reached into an oversized purse and pulled out a manila file. “At Detective Hammer’s suggestion, I put together a package for you. Everything about her is in here, pictures, friends, her likes and dislikes, favorite places to hang out, anything and everything I could think of. There’s even a list of her favorite books. All vampire books.”

  I took the proffered file, flipped through it. I got to the list of vampire books. She seemed to prefer one author in particular.

  “Thanks,” I said. “This will help a lot.”

  Gladys nodded. “I have some more information that might help you, Mr. Spinoza.”

  I waited.

  “Her parents were killed three years ago. She’s lived with us off and on ever since.”

  She waited, as if expecting a reply. None came. She went on awkwardly. “Yes, well, there’s something else you should know about her. Something that worries me a great deal.”

  I waited some more, although I did nod encouragingly.

  She went on, “Veronica is a little...different.”

  “Different how?”

  I was imagining a slower child. Perhaps one with autism. Some sort of disability. Gladys was looking increasingly uncomfortable. She took in some air and leveled her stare at me.

  “She sort of lives in her own fantasy world, Mr. Spinoza.”