The Earl's Daughter (The Viscount's Son Trilogy Book 2)

by Aderyn Wood

  “I can feel the sun,” I croak. “It is close.”

  Michael grimaces, his eyes turning back to the road and he accelerates. The car winds around tight hairpin bends. The road is rough, and old, barely maintained. Going much faster isn’t an option, but time is beating us. My head throbs now. The sun is coming. We head east and the hilly horizon in front of us is a pale dusky pink. Weakness, fatigue and sickness gnaw at me.

  “There’s the castle.” Michael’s voice is loud and his tension slams over me like a crashing wave. “We’re almost there.”

  I focus ahead. The outline of a vast building becomes visible in the distance. A castle, just as the monk had described. The car speeds faster as the sky grows lighter and soon we pull up on the circular drive right in front of the castle gates.

  “This is it!” Michael shouts as he gets out and slams the car door. “Hello?” His yell is desperate. “Hello!”

  No response.

  I open the car door with dwindling strength and stand, taking small steps to the iron gates to peer through. The castle is built from the local rock, no doubt a relic from the Holy Wars, though which one I don’t know. It is well restored and maintained. The old Emma would have enjoyed exploring it and learning more of its history, but the new Emma is desperate only for darkness, or death. Perhaps I will be forced to face the sun and it will all come to a blissful end.

  “Hello!” Michael grabs the iron gates and throws his body back and forth in an attempt to rattle them but they stand strong, refusing to give even an inch, as silent as the mountains beyond.

  “Michael,” I whisper, stumbling. The light is too bright, and dawn is now here. My weakness is consuming, but there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Panic rises as I scan the environment. The ground is hard rock. There are only wind-beaten trees surrounding the castle. Waves crash nearby. Perhaps this is my end. Soon the sun will rise and when it does my skin will burn. It already prickles with heat.

  “Hello! Please, Amynta! It is us; the monk said he would tell you to expect us. Please, it is nearly sunrise.” Michael glances desperately at the horizon.

  “Michael,” I whisper again. “It is all right. Just hold me.” I’m scared. In this frightening moment my humanity consumes me, and I need to be close to another person.

  “No, she must be here somewhere. Hello!”

  A noise comes from behind. Michael hears it too and we both turn to face the low growl of two motorcycles speeding toward us on the road.

  My knees give way and I fall to the ground, my stomach swirls, and my skin burns.

  “Emma!” Michael runs to me and throws an arm around me but retracts when his hand touches the heat of my arm.

  “Leave,” I whisper, as the riders, in black leathers and helmets, bring the motorcycles to a loud stop in front of us.

  “Amynta?” Michael’s voice cracks with uncertainty.

  “Step aside,” one rider says, a female voice, and a net flings over me and burns my skin. Flames, blue and yellow catch and my skin burns. I scream with agony and anger. The fire makes my eyes blur and I fall flat on the ground. Then some heavy cloth shrouds me and darkness engulfs me fully. Sweet, safe, cool darkness.

  Chapter 27

  Excerpt from Emma’s blog – Fourth Post, Third translation from Nathaniel Chartley’s Diary

  The gypsies had arrived midsummer, and with them their colour and fare. It was a peaceful time – but peace bodes ill for a soldier. I grew bored of training squires and polishing armour. I was captain then. A position that befitted the bastard status granted me when my father lay with a scullery maid, almost thirty winters past.

  My fellow soldiers were also bored with the scant entertainments of a peaceful kingdom. We arranged to visit the gypsy’s fayre that evening, to see what sport may be had.

  That was when I saw her. That was when everything changed.

  We had our fill of ale, and my friends dispersed, each following their own desires. I noticed a pavilion, somewhat removed from the rest of the fayre. The canvas was painted a dark red and the symbols and pentagrams I had observed on the carriage the day prior, I now witnessed on the surface of the tent. A foreign fragrance filled the air; a spicy rose scent lingered and drew me to the entrance. I heard a voice entreat me – a feminine tone like none I had heard before. I drew the curtain and entered.

  The sight before me was exquisite. There were many candles burning brightly and I couldn’t help but marvel at the expense of it. Oil burners and incense like those in church lined the interior and a heady scent filled my mind. My eyes adjusted to the light and I saw before me a plethora of treasures. There were gold and silver statues of cats and dogs and many other beasts; some of them had human bodies. Intricate tapestries hung along the sides, and there were woollen rugs on the floor littered with embroidered cushions and pillows.

  In the centre of the pavilion was a bed, canopied by a red velvet curtain. My eyes drew quickly to it and the creature that inhabited it as she spoke to me, “Come; don’t be afraid.”

  I pause now, considering this memory, for fear is the precise emotion I should have felt. Rather, I was – aroused. She was, as I say, like no other. Long limbs, bronzed and slender, were exposed between the folds of a sheer, red dress. She wore a corset, the lace tied in a fragile knot at the curve of her breast, a knot so easily unravelled. A red vial on a thin thread hung around her neck, and rested seductively between her breasts…

  Michael paced. He’d been taken to the library, escorted there by one of Amynta’s servants.

  Amynta.

  She’d thrown the silver netting over Emma that scorched her face like a hot wire. Then the man, a veritable giant, had wrapped her in black cloth and together they’d picked Emma up. The iron gates had opened and the small procession marched into the castle’s entrance where Amynta barked orders and the giant hoisted Emma on to his shoulder, and with swift strides, took her down the hall.

  Michael tried to follow, but Amynta thrust her arm out. “Not you.” Before she lifted her helmet and released a rush of deep red hair. Michael was taken aback, just for an instant, by her youthfulness and her striking features. Her ruddy brown eyes seemed to pierce his very soul. “Follow, Hanna,” she’d said with a lift of her chin.

  Hanna, Amynta’s elderly servant, had come out of the shadows and smiled up at him.

  “I will meet you soon.” Then Amynta turned and followed the giant’s path.

  “What are you doing with Emma?” Michael had yelled after her, but his question echoed in the vast hall and remained unanswered.

  Now he waited in the library, alone. The heavy oak door remained locked, and there was no way out. The windows were old thick glass through which sunbeams shone. A fire crackled in the large fireplace and Michael found himself warming his hands, before reclining in the soft chair, and watching the flames. His eyelids grew heavy. He stood, shaking his head and berating himself for being so weak when Emma was clearly suffering.

  Finally, the door opened and Amynta walked in. Her hair had been tied into a long tail that now swished as she walked. She still wore her bike leathers, her movements confident and precise as she strode toward him.

  Hanna followed her in and shut the door behind them. “Please, sit,” Amynta said, gesturing toward the chair.

  Michael ignored her and remained standing. “What have you done to Emma?”

  “I will tell you. But please take a seat, Mr D’Angelo. I will not be shouted at in my own home.”

  Michael grimaced but sat down.

  “That’s better.” She turned to Hanna. “Please ask Dmitri to prepare a breakfast platter for me and our guest.”

  Hanna left them.

  Amynta turned to the fire, placing a log on it. Red sparks flew up.

  “What have you done with Emma?” Michael kept his voice quiet this time, but his fury made it shake.

  She sat on the chair opposite, and her hair lit up like the sparks from the fire in the beam of sunshine that penetrated the libr
ary. Her reddish-brown eyes narrowed on his.

  Michael’s fingers tingled ever so slightly. There was something unusual about her. Something supernatural.

  When she spoke, a strange mix of accents melded together. “She is safe below, in the old dungeons. The sun will not reach her down there and she will not be a threat to anyone in my house. We are all safe from her.”

  “She’s not as dangerous as you might think.”

  Amynta tilted her head. “The monk informed me that you have been bewitched by her, and I see now that it is true. You do know vampires have that power, don’t you?”

  Michael nodded. But he’d been perfectly safe with Emma. “She hasn’t touched me.”

  “She doesn’t have to touch you to manipulate you. But she will want to touch you very soon, it is only a matter of time, and when she does, she may kill you. Her hunger for your blood will be more powerful than her hunger for any other. She has been grooming you and she has grown attracted to your scent.”

  Michael swallowed. “How do you know this?”

  She took a deep breath. “Vampires are all I know. My life has been dedicated to their destruction.”

  A streak of ice caressed Michael’s spine. “And will you destroy Emma?”

  “I will not allow her to survive. One day I will send her to the light. She is a vampire, Mr D’Angelo. She is dangerous.”

  “Brother Gerold told me that you seek more dangerous vampires. The Gypsy woman.”

  She lowered her chin. “That is true. You see, I’ve known about Emma for some time. Ever since the media frenzy about her blog. Stupid woman. Airing such information in public. Vampires do not like their secrets outed. Any humans who know too much are generally dealt with swiftly, by one vampire or another.”

  Michael frowned. “How many vampires are there?”

  “Not many now. Not since I’ve been hunting them.”

  “And how long has that been?”

  Amynta smiled. “Longer than what you might think.”

  “You call yourself a slayer?”

  She pursed her lips, looking to the ceiling. “I do like that name; it has a ring to it.”

  “Brother Gerold said there’s been other names attributed to those such as you.” He swallowed. “Sangui Sicarii, for example.”

  Amynta snapped her gaze to him, squinting. “The monk told you that? Or you found it elsewhere?”

  Michael chewed his lip, to avoid a grin, and shrugged. Wouldn’t you like to know.

  Amynta straightened her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter what you call me; they’re just words. It’s the actions that matter.”

  Michael took a deep breath. Talking with Amynta was just as frustrating as his conversations with the monk, and Michael didn’t have the patience or the energy for it. “So what of the blog?” he asked, wiping his eyes beneath his glasses.

  “It was refreshing in that I learnt something.”

  “You mean Egypt?”

  “Yes, I’d considered Egypt before. But I’d passed it over. Egypt has become something of a cliché in terms of all things vampire.”

  “And the gypsy woman? You think she is important?”

  “She is everything.”

  “You sound like you know her.”

  “Yes, I’ve met her.”

  “What! When?”

  Amynta’s eyes burned with hostility. “All you need know is she is the one I seek above all others.”

  “And you think Emma will help to lead you to her.”

  “Your vampire will come with us to Egypt. There she will be used to draw Asha out.”

  “Asha?”

  “That is her name, the Gypsy woman.”

  Hanna had shown Michael to his room after breakfast, a generous suite with views of forested hills to the southwest. An old bed with a soft mattress and clean linen tempted him too much to resist, and after a warm shower, he slept more soundly than he had since leaving home. By early afternoon, he was wide-awake and blinking at his surroundings. The room was plush, decorated with velvet curtains, mahogany dressers and a writing desk. A fire burned in the fireplace.

  He pulled back the covers and got out of bed. His clothes hung on the clotheshorse by the fire. They had been washed and were still slightly damp. A robe was suspended on a hook at the back of the door and he took it begrudgingly and put it on.

  There was a knock at the door. “Yes?”

  Hanna entered. She wore a red scarf on her head and a kind smile. She put a tray with a teapot, milk jug, and cup on the table by his fire. She smiled again before nodding and leaving the room, shutting the door behind her. Michael strode over and tested the door handle. It wasn’t locked.

  He frowned. His every need, his every comfort was being met. Amynta was lulling him into a false sense of security.

  Michael poured the tea and sat by the fire. He suddenly thought of Georgette as he sipped. She would be worried. He’d sent her an email in Brindisi before they’d caught the ferry, but that was two nights ago.

  He stood and strode to his coat on the clothes horse, but then remembered he’d left his tablet and phone in the car. He inspected his coat’s inner pocket – the stake and cross were gone. Sighing he turned and saw his phone and tablet sitting on his bedside table, but the stake and the cross were not with them. He tapped his phone, it was fully charged, no signal. He glanced at the time – two p.m.

  He returned to the clothes horse and picked up his coat again, this time feeling for the secret pocket near the hem at the back. The hard surface inside made him smile and he opened the pocket and withdrew the book. Good, they hadn’t found the Foliss, at least he’d had one win. Michael flung off the robe and dressed. His shirt was still somewhat damp around the collar, and the trousers were moist around the waistband, but they would have to do. Amynta had invited him to explore the castle at his leisure and he fully intended to do so. He opened the door and went into the corridor.

  The castle was huge, and he explored every crevice of it: the dining hall with its wrought iron chandelier, the vast drawing room, a gymnasium with a full set of workout equipment, and downstairs the kitchen where Hanna sat drinking her tea while reading a newspaper. The gunroom housed too many rifles to count, and other more archaic weapons – crossbows, swords, and gruesome looking items he didn’t have a name for. Some rooms were locked. But no matter where he looked, there was no clue of the dungeon or how to access it.

  Michael went back to the library. The fire still crackled and he warmed his hands. The dark nooks and crannies of the castle were cold and had made him shiver as he explored.

  Frustration bit deep, but there was nothing he could do but wait for Amynta to play her next card. The library was just as vast as the dining hall. Books lined the walls, and when he opened a couple their age made him handle them more carefully. Henri would have a field day at this place – so many books, so many ancient languages. A glass cabinet caught his eye and he strolled toward it. Within lay a book, surprisingly, written in English. The History of Fylax Castle. The cover displayed an old monochrome photograph, and Michael recognised the iron gates and the castle beyond.

  He looked to the door and held his breath as he listened for footsteps or anything else. Only the crackling of the fire interrupted the silence. He opened the glass cabinet, took out the large volume, and placed it on top of the cabinet to read. It was printed in 1951.

  The castle was first built by the Knights Hospitaller in the early thirteenth century following the siege of Jerusalem. Michael skimmed the introduction, which listed the groups and individuals who were the castle’s various owners and inhabitants throughout the eight centuries of its life. His finger traced the paragraphs and tingled at one. Michael paused, reading one sentence aloud. “Duke Giovanni II Cornaro of Venice, escaped the castle through a bolthole during the last war against the Ottoman Empire.” A few pages in a detailed account of the siege told how the Duke had made his escape through the bolthole. Michael’s hands tingled again making him raise an eye
brow. Such escapes weren’t unheard of. Would the bolthole still be accessible?

  Voices echoed in the corridor Michael fumbled with the book, quickly snapping it shut and returning it to the cabinet. He picked up another on the adjacent shelf and pretended to study it.

  The door opened and Amynta walked in. She still wore black but her hair had been plaited and it lay in a red weave over her shoulder. Her brown eyes fell on him and then on the book in his hands.

  “Found something of interest?” she asked.

  Michael returned the book to its shelf. “Just trying to while away the time. This place is very grand. I was looking for you but couldn’t find you.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I’ve been busy. Making plans.”

  “And?” Michael tried to keep the tension from his voice.

  “What do you make of my little abode here?”

  “It’s rather vast for one person.”

  She laughed. “It suits me and my line of work.”

  “And what is that exactly?” Michael asked.

  “I’ve told you already.” She lifted her plait from her shoulder. “Slaying vampires.”

  Michael frowned. “So what are these plans you speak of?”

  “I will tell you all at dinner. I should have everything in place then. In the meantime perhaps you’d like to explore the gardens?” Her eyes skimmed the glass cabinet. “We will dine at six and I will discuss plans with you then.”

  Outside was just as impressive as inside. Michael walked the manicured gardens, his fingers tingling now and then. The gardens were old, too, a patchwork of different eras. A parterre ordered the landscape close to the castle. Box hedges bordered all the various sections, one of them a prodigious kitchen garden where an elderly gentleman worked at pulling carrots.

  At the front, Michael paused near the iron gates that had greeted them at dawn. They remained locked and silent. He peered through to the drive; their car had been moved.