Also by Vanessa Fewings
Enthrall Sessions
Enthrall (Book 1)
Enthrall Her (Book 2)
Enthrall Him (Book 3)
Cameron's Control (Book 4)
Cameron's Contract (Book 5)
Richard's Reign (Book 6)
Enthrall Secrets (Book 7)
Enthrall Climax (Book 8)
The Complete Trilogy
Enthrall Sessions
The Stone Masters Vampire Series
Mortal Veil
Watch for more at Vanessa Fewings’s site.
Mortal Veil
A Stone Masters Short Story
V.M.K. Fewings
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Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
About the Author
I’D SWIFTLY COME to the conclusion that the only way to cure this tedium was to hurl my body on a samurai sword.
Yes, being impaled would be less painful than this.
“What’s the issue again?” The bank teller flipped over my debit card and punched the numbers onto her keyboard and viewed the computer screen.
Peering through the bulletproof plexiglass, I kept my gaze fixed on the brown eyes of the twenty-something teller, straining to ignore her low cut (and far too shiny) gold chemise blouse.
“I was just outside,” I said, “withdrawing twenty pounds from the ATM, but my receipt has the wrong balance on my account.”
She narrowed her stare. “It says here you have five hundred thousand, three hundred and fifty pounds and twenty-four pence.” She didn’t even twitch. “Minus the twenty pounds you just withdrew.”
“Half a million pounds?” I said, amused.
“Just over, yes.”
I glanced at the queue of customers to my right, all waiting for their turn to speak with the male teller one row over, hoping they’d not overheard. I leaned closer to the glass. “I should only have three hundred and fifty pounds. Where did the five hundred thousand come from?”
Her frown deepened. “The money was deposited into your account yesterday.” She clicked away, deftly working the mouse. “Transferred from a Swiss bank account.”
“I don’t know anyone with a Swiss account.”
“Well, someone apparently knows you.”
I rubbed my right temple. “Look, this is obviously an error on the bank’s side. I’m not angry. I’m just doing the right thing and reporting it.” I gave a confident smile. “This is not a complaint, more of an FYI.”
“Our system doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Well, the fact that I have half a million pounds in my account . . .” My voice was raised, and I flinched realizing it. “I need to speak with a manager.”
“Of course.” She typed away and then said, “How’s Monday at ten?”
“Can’t I speak with him now?”
“Ms. Lee’s appointments are fully booked, I’m afraid.”
“Can you make a note I came in? That I alerted you to the fact that there’s money in my account that isn’t mine?”
“You can fill out a form.” She rifled through a stack of papers to her right.
My fingernails dug into my scalp. “I have a class in twenty minutes. I’m a student at UCL. If I don’t leave now—”
“Shall I make that appointment?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” Feeling decidedly guilty for something I hadn’t done, I tried to stroll out of the bank without drawing any more attention.
I unlocked my bicycle chain and hopped on, dodging the early morning commuter traffic back toward Gower Street, reassuring myself it was a clerical error that would soon be resolved.
Once inside the lecture hall, I found it hard to concentrate on Professor Ballad’s presentation. Slide after slide flashed on the screen before the class and yet I couldn’t say what they’d been of. Ballad’s keen stare settled on me and was so unnerving that it forced me to refocus onto what he was actually saying about Samuel H. Kress’s rendition of Raphael.
The hairs prickled on the back of my neck, and I turned slightly to see a pretty brunette six rows back staring right at me. I soon realized she was probably staring at me because I’d turned to look, so I shot round to face the front, cursing my awkwardness and returning my focus back on Ballad.
A new slide appeared and an enormous self-portrait of painter Antony Van Dyck lit up the far wall.
“What is historically relevant about this artist?” Ballad asked, peering at each of us and waiting patiently for a response.
I raised my hand.
He peered over his metal-rimmed spectacles. “Please proceed, Mr. Harris.”
I shuffled in my seat. “Van Dyck’s work was quite possibly responsible for dwindling Rembrandt’s popularity.”
“Go on.” Ballad gestured.
“The mid-sixteen hundreds saw a desire for brighter palates?” My answer sounded more like a question.
“How fickle the public’s mind can be,” Ballad added. “Just as it happens today, one is fashionable one moment and out of favor the next.”
“Perhaps the brighter images reflected people’s hope for a brighter future?” I said. “So the public turned away from his work not necessarily through a shift in their taste but for a genuine desire for change.”
Ballad gave a nod toward the back of the class. With a quick glance, following where his attention had fallen, I recognized the pretty brunette. Her hand was up.
“Yes, Ms. Rivers?” asked Ballad.
She raised her chin and offered confidently, “Van Dyck was also one of the first painters to introduce watercolor.”
“And how is that relevant?” Ballad asked.
She hesitated and her cheeks blushed.
I answered for her, saying, “Because it showed Van Dyck’s ability to adapt and not be stuck with contemporary techniques.”
“Progress.” Ballad nodded in agreement. “One’s ability to adapt is what keeps us relevant.” Ballad flicked off the slide. “That’s your homework. Write an essay reflecting how you see yourself adapting for the duration of this course.”
Groans came from the other students around me as I jotted down the subject on my notepad. The familiar hustle and bustle of students flocking out of the hall for their next class ensued.
As I rose, I had the distinct feeling of being watched again and I turned quickly, only to bump right into the pretty brunette whose question I’d answered.
She was ridiculously gorgeous, with cascading dark locks over slim shoulders; she had intense green eyes.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Thanks for bailing me out just then.”
I ripped my gaze from her lips. “No problem.” I became painfully self-aware of my awkwa
rdness, caused by her closeness. “Ballad can be really hard on students,” I added. “Didn’t want that to happen to you.”
“You’re the amnesia guy everyone’s been talking about, aren’t you?” She plopped her gigantic bag onto the desk beside her, right on top of my textbook. “I’m Feebs.”
The amnesia guy? That’s what I’d been reduced to? I was aware a select few, mainly my tutors, knew of my current condition but I was hoping she wasn’t one of them.
I eased her bag aside. “Or you could try calling me Zach. I’m much more responsive to that, Phoebe.”
“No one calls me that.”
I shoved my textbook into my satchel. “Point made, I believe.”
She repositioned her bag on her shoulder. “Where are you going now?”
“Why?” I lifted my satchel off the floor and shoved my notepad inside.
The edges of her lips curled into a smile.
“How come you know who I am?” I asked.
She lowered her chin. “Foreign students stand out. So how are you finding this lovely country of ours?”
“Just dandy.” I smiled, trying to hide the effect she was having on me.
“How long have you been in London?”
“Four years.”
“Where’s home?”
“Louisiana,” I answered.
“How are you finding our English food?”
“Nothing quite like a cucumber sandwich.”
“You guys all have perfect tans,” she said.
“Well, we have something called the sun. You guys have endless rain.”
Her expression changed.
“Though personally, I find women more attractive with porcelain complexions.”
“Good save.” She sat on the edge of my desk and her brunette locks tumbled over her shoulders. She seemed to like me studying her. “What did you think of the lecture?”
“Ballad’s passionate about sixteenth century art, so I’m transfixed by his every word.”
“You really do love art history, don’t you?”
“Well I—”
“Do you have French ancestry?”
“Don’t tell me, the hooked nose gave it away.” I threw in a smile.
“Very regal.” Feebs twisted her mouth, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Do you remember anything?”
This was the last conversation I wanted to have, and silence persisted as I searched for an answer.
“How many years can’t you remember?” she pushed.
“Three. I remember everything before that and everything after. Look, I really have to go.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but aren’t you intrigued by what you were up to during that time?”
My expression must have been incredulous.
Her attention slid to my left inner forearm. “That a raven?” She was pointing to my tattoo.
“Yeah.”
“What does it mean?”
I shrugged. “To be honest, I have no memory of getting it.” I stared at the inked rendition of the intricate black bird standing atop a fine circle.
“You mean you got it during the time—”
“I lost my memory, yes.”
Together we started toward the door and I kicked myself that we were discussing my awkward past; this should have been a different conversation. Running a couple of scenarios through my mind I turned to face her—
“Zach!” Professor Ballad’s harsh tone came from the doorway. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere?”
A wave of panic came over me that he might just reveal where that place was. With a quick nod, I headed toward him.
“I’ve seen that exact same raven before,” Feebs said, hesitating in the doorway, ignoring Ballad and keeping her gaze on me. “Let’s continue this later?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve got something you have to see,” she said.
“Um, okay.”
“The library? Seven?” She waved her insistence. “Don’t stand me up. I’ll track you down.”
My gaze stayed on her all the way down the corridor until she disappeared from sight, my mind racing with the thought of meeting her later.
“I sincerely doubt Ms. Rivers even knows where the library is,” said Ballad with a scathing look.
* * * *
DR. ELLIOT’S OFFICE reflected a kind of organized chaos, with numerous textbooks stacked high on overfull shelves and in no particular order, tilted black frames upon the walls--within them certificates confirming his status of psychotherapist--and papers strewn across his desk, all waiting to be filed away.
Having written several books on the subject of counseling, Elliot had a reputation for having a great deal of passion for his work and I’d soon discovered that despite his disheveled appearance and his tea stained ties, he had a razor sharp eye and even sharper mind.
Despite the dozens of sessions I’d had with him, it always amused me that they started this very same way, with Elliot methodically pouring tea from a chipped pot into a small teacup, resting precariously on a mismatched saucer.
“Why don’t you Brits drink out of mugs?” I crossed my legs, trying to get comfortable in the squeaky chair.
Elliot peered into the teacup.
“You’d get more tea for your buck,” I offered.
“It’s not about quantity but quality.” He looked up. “Let’s get back to the memories, you were saying—” He peered down at his notepad. “They’re not even seeping in.”
“Nope.”
My thoughts drifted back to the girl I’d just met and our imminent meeting, and I felt uneasy. These weren’t the typical nerves of a customary first date, but a sense that there was something about her.
I’ve got something you have to see, she’d said, leaving me with an eeriness I couldn’t shake, as though deep down I knew my life was about to change.
“Zach,” Elliot said, bringing me back into the room. “Have you considered another hypnosis session?”
“Doesn’t work.” I clutched the armrests.
“The good news is your MRI, CT scan and sleep study were all normal.”
“But failed to answer any of my questions.”
Elliot peered down at my open file.
“I have to make up for three years of study I lost.” I glanced past him and out of the window. “I was meant to be teaching art history at UCLA by now.”
“This girl you met earlier, what’s her name?” Elliot took another sip of tea.
“Why?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Feebs.”
Elliot nodded and his lips turned down in a frown.
“What, you know something about her?” I asked.
“I didn’t say that.”
I scratched my cheek. “I like tea too. Why don’t I get a cup?”
“Thought you preferred mugs?”
“How many more times do we need to do this?”
“As many as it takes,” he answered. “Seeing me was part of the agreement when the Board accepted you back.”
“I’m getting top marks.”
“You’re also adept at changing the subject.” He leaned forward. “The last thing you remember?”
“Waking up in the Savoy two months ago. Alone. Kidneys intact, which was nice, and the date on the London Times newspaper made me think it was a hoax. I’d lost three years.” I shook my head, hardly able to comprehend it had happened to me.
“This girl you’ve met, Feebs, how does she make you feel?” Elliot asked.
“She makes me want to remember . . .”
Outside a car alarm sounded and I felt my tension rising.
“How are those dreams?” Elliot continued.
“Disturbing.”
“The dungeons again?”
“Yes.” My eyes were elsewhere.
“Is the occurrence the same?”
“Like clockwork, every night.”
Elliot scribbled away in my file and I tried to read h
is upside-down note.
“The chamber I’m in is familiar,” I said, softly. “It feels like . . . home.”
“Tell me more.”
“It feels as though the place is not just part of my memory, but part of me.”
My mind drifted, reaching to grasp the fragmented images, recalling a stark coldness within the candlelit dungeon and sensing no fear, merely a familiarity with my surroundings.
“I know it’s frustrating,” said Elliot, “considering what you’ve been through.”
“Do you think my dreams might reflect what really happened to me?”
“Hard to say.”
“If I could just find those missing years.”
“Amnesia is one of the most difficult psychological experiences anyone can go through.”
I gave a sigh.
“Give it time,” he said.
That gloomy dungeon was my only precarious link to those lost years, and my gut was telling me that my past was ever-beckoning my return to its bewitching mystery. My fingertips caressed my tattoo through my shirt sleeve and I was once more within those dark walls of that chamber, quickened with the idea of something alluring looming in the shadows, waiting for me.
The tick of the wall clock was deafening.
* * * *
THE COLD, OLD LIBRARY, with its low ceiling and high windows, was deserted, which was how I liked it; quiet and still, the atmosphere conducive to studying and mulling through books that very often held no relation to what I was actually meant to be reading.
Though this time, instead of finding my usual place at the back, I settled at a table positioned out in the open, closer to the doorway, easier for Feebs to find me if she did indeed turn up.
I opened my book, a study of the life of painter Jan de Beer, feigning fascination with its well-worn pages.
The hushed voices of the library gave the place a reverent feel.
Anxiety hit me when I tried to reach back for those lost memories, my gut twisting with fear for what I didn’t know, and though I’d somewhat come to terms with these blank episodes of my life, the frustration of not remembering was wearing.
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