Grave Burden

by P. Anastasia

  He went silent.

  “Brian?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just really looking forward to meeting you in person and, hopefully working with you. Thank you. Thank you so much, Kathera. Yes, I’ll be there for sure, tomorrow, 1 p.m. sharp.”

  “No need to apologize. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, let me just say that your name, Brian Azure, is a great fit for this industry. It’s distinct. I like it.”

  “Thanks. I’m glad you think so.” I could hear a smile in his voice.

  “See you tomorrow. Have a good night, Brian.” I ended the call.

  I went back to the email he’d sent me and swiped through the different scans of his drawings. His werewolf was impeccable, and I could easily see it being something one of my clients might request, had they seen it. He’d drawn several urban mash-ups, too. Superhero-esque characters with thick lineart and dramatic poses. There were also a few skulls mixed in that were better than some I’d seen at full-scale shops downtown.

  Looking through his fresh, unique work—clearly inspired by my own—made me think more about my aspirations.

  It had been a very long time since I had sat down and drawn something truly new and different. Something that came from my heart and not my nightmares. Something that had a life of its own.

  It had been a very long time since I was truly inspired.

  Since I had become a vampire, fewer things inspired me. It was as if the world had been cloaked in a transparent mist, giving everything a dull overcast.

  Thinking back, the tattoo that launched my career was of a dragon—a tribal dragon I’d designed for Derek. It was my original idea, but heavily inspired by Derek’s work. It had shaped me into the artist I am today, even though my own style eventually took over and I started to create very different things later on.

  I went to my art room and retrieved my sketchpad, a pen, and a pencil from my desk. Maybe I could rekindle some of that feeling by starting something new.

  “Matthaya?” I called to him from the living room.

  He was in the bedroom reading, trying to get his mind off the craziness of this week and the doctor’s visit.

  “Yes?” He entered the room and glanced at my sketchpad.

  I looked him in the eye for a few moments, taking in the majestic, captivating green I had very much fallen in love with.

  “I’d like to try something new,” I said, clasping my sketchpad close to my chest. “Would you… help me?”

  “With your art?” He tilted his head.

  “Yes. I have an idea and… I need a model.” I tried to smile optimistically.

  “And you want that to be me?”

  “Well...” I looked him over briefly, trying to piece together my request in a way that would not make him uncomfortable. I must have lingered on the thought too strongly, as he sensed it.

  “My wings?” he asked, a tremor of discomfort flushing through his mind. “Why would you wish to draw me like that? My wings are what make me the awful thing that I am. They—”

  “Make you what you are, but they don’t make you a monster,” I corrected him. “Your wings are beautiful, and they have protected me several times already. They are majestic and special.”

  I felt disgust and shame roiling through his thoughts over the wings he had grown to loathe. In his eyes, they solidified the fact that he was a creature of the night—a vampire in all usual definitions of the word, and beyond.

  But to me, they symbolized hope and change—evolution and moving forward.

  “They make you unique, and I admire them.”

  “You… do?” Matthaya lifted his head and a barely noticeable grin tugged the edge of his lips.

  “Yes.”

  He stared at me for several moments, contemplating whether or not to comply.

  Before I could offer reassurance or pose the question differently, he unbuttoned his coat and slid it down off his arms. He draped it gingerly over the back of the sofa and then began to unbutton his dress shirt.

  After the last button came undone, he slipped the shirt off and set it near his coat. I put my sketchpad down and approached him. He tensed up slightly, at first; he had always been uncomfortable with the visible scars of his past.

  I lifted a hand to trace the top of his shoulder and gently stroke a line down his arm, smiling at him in admiration and appreciation. I circled him briefly, taking in the details of the large jagged scars streaking his back and coiling over his shoulder blades and around his ribcage, toward his chest. The scars were tragic reminders of the pain he’d endured for his love of Kathryn—and the terrible thrashing dealt by her vengeful father. The lines of his wings were cleverly hidden beneath those scars, the bones sunken flush against his skin and into the shallow but specialized indentations in his ribcage.

  The webbing of his wings melded perfectly with the pale skin of his back, and the only tells of their existence were the small curved claws comfortably hidden and barely visible at the base of his neck, below his hairline.

  There was a cracking sound. The two sharp hooked claws behind his neck lifted up and then the segmented arm bones of the wings began to rise, stretching and unfolding from his back and straight behind him several feet.

  The skin of the wings was flaccid, at first, crinkled and rubbery. Within seconds, blood from his body flushed into the veins, making the skin stretch until it was taut and smooth like leather.

  The wings pulled in until they were only part-way open and Matthaya asked, “Will this do?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I replied.

  I felt a sense of calm come over him now, as if he had finally allowed my feelings of fascination and appreciation to quiet his discomforts and doubts.

  Before I could start drawing, I had to analyze the structure carefully. I had seen them several times in the past, but he’d never really allowed me to understand how they worked—the astonishing mechanics and anatomy which allowed him to keep them secret for so many centuries.

  The main arm bone of each wing had been segmented in three distinct places, which allowed the end of the wing to fold inward, onto itself, not unlike a compact umbrella.

  I touched the skin of his back just below his shoulder blades, at the starting joint, and traced my fingers down his skin. There was a subtle indentation in his back where his ribs had become slightly concave in order to allow the wings to settle flush near his spine.

  The gray flesh with pink undertones was velvety, with a texture close to the rest of his skin, but firmer and more durable. He stretched his wings out to the sides and the joints moved smoothly, like a dancer’s arms, gliding with perfect fluidity and control, capable of a surprising amount of motion and coordination.

  I stood before him, facing him again. He brought one wing around, with great precision, and used the hooked claw at the top of the joint to swipe my bangs to the side of my brow. It was a gentle, deft movement that mirrored the sweep of a finger.

  His other wing curled forward and cupped me from behind, putting gentle pressure on my back to coax me closer, pulling me in to what I could only describe as an angelic embrace.

  He grasped onto my hands and tipped his face to press his forehead to mine. I closed my eyes.

  “Thank you for accepting me as I am,” he said. Our noses touched.

  He released me, and his wings withdrew slowly, folding close to his back, the claws resting at the base of his scalp.

  I reached for my sketchbook and took a seat on the couch while Matthaya retrieved a nearby bar stool and sat down in front of me. It was a tight fit in our living room, but his wings could open to a comfortable distance.

  The pencil kissed the paper and I began making gentle strokes to put down the basic outline of the shape. I reinforced the lines of his bones with firm pressure, and then carefully added the sharp claw to crown each wing. The exact placements of the joints were tricky to portray, but with some determination (and several adjustments) I captured their
nuances with some justice. After the main shapes were down, I lined them with thick, black ink.

  A smile began to grow upon my lips and joy within my heart, as I gazed upon him in all his beauty.

  As a vampire, much of my creative fire had turned to embers. Still, a glow sparked to life in me when I looked at him—a radiant cinder pulsating with life from beneath the ashes.

  My husband may have been the son of a great man who left behind a fierce, but mysterious, legacy in an effort to help the Irish break free of British rule. Although his father lost the fight in the end, his fearless spirit lived on in my husband—a man with the strength of an entire cavalry and the lifeblood of centuries flowing through his veins. If ever there were one, he was a true representation of that Dragon Clan—forged by the ages and compelled to bring two peoples together.

  Matthaya faced his future with grace, authority, and the white-hot fire of courage in his blood. That fire ignited the fuse that would revive my creative spirit and resurrect my calling.

  Inspired and unafraid, Restless Ink flowed through my veins once more.

  A Note From The Author

  It is my belief that earnest fiction is derived from truth; therefore, I do my best to present some new or interesting knowledge to my readers. With every novel written, I learn more about my characters and I grow as a person.

  The amalgam that is Matthaya’s past is forged from many historical facts. When I wrote the original Dark Diary, I knew even then that he had befriended a young duke in the 19th century, and that the duke had died of pneumonia at a young age. When I began my research on the subject for Grave Burden, Prince Eddy’s story resonated with me, and I absolutely knew he was the duke in question.

  Readers often ask how I create and shape my characters, but I believe my characters shape me. Their life journeys take me to places I have never been, driving me as an artist. In the case of this novel, it was both with great pleasure and a heavy heart that I learned the captivating story of a forgotten prince.

  The Duke of Clarence and Avondale, Prince Albert Victor Christian Edward of Wales—Eddy—lived a fleeting life, thwart with obstacles. Since he had been born prematurely and had difficulties in school, it was theorized that Prince Eddy suffered a learning disorder, or ongoing illness, along with possible complications from absence seizures (brief, sudden lapses of consciousness, or “zoning out”). These afflictions made life for the young prince difficult and put a strain on his family and the public, igniting a series of rumors on behalf of the media in an effort to push him further from the throne.

  He enrolled in Trinity College, Cambridge, where he did not thrive as his family had hoped, and was also sent on numerous tours of India, Scotland, and various countries in the British Empire. In an effort to “toughen up” the future king, he was instated into the Prince of Wale’s Own cavalry, where he was promoted to captain.

  None of these endeavors seemed to alter his nature, and after his romance with Princess Hélène was shot down by numerous high-ranking individuals, Eddy fell into a deep depressive state, even threatening to denounce the throne.

  Though I could not find proof of the correlation, there is scientific evidence that people can, in fact, suffer and die from a broken heart—a condition known as takotsubo cardiomyopathy, in which the heart balloons into a Japanese pot-like shape. It generally lasts a few weeks but can cause severe problems, or death, in those of an already compromised health.

  It would seem, even in death, Eddy simply cannot rest. In 1962, long after his failed love affair with Princess Hélène and decades after his death, allegations that he was Jack the Ripper were initially brought up in print.

  To support these ideas, writers made spiteful claims that the prince’s early demise had been plotted or even faked in an effort to remove him from succession. All of this couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  Eddy was stationed at Balmoral Castle, Scotland, at the time of the Whitechapel district, London, murders in 1888. Still, the outlandish rumors persisted in the media and several novels, even making it into films such as Murder by Decree (1971) and The Ripper (1997), to name only a few. These depictions blatantly ignore the fact that Prince Eddy was nowhere near Whitechapel during the murders, in an effort to capitalize on the life of a man who could not defend his reputation.

  Prince Eddy’s life and likeness was later spun into other fictional worlds in titles such as Elseworlds by DC Comics, multiple Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and even portrayed as a vampire in Michael Romkey’s I, Vampire.

  It is my hope that Matthaya’s story has allowed you a less fantastical glimpse into the life of the tragic prince Eddy and his heart-breaking tale of forbidden love.

  To view an astonishing, intricate memorial for the prince, commissioned by his family, I recommend you search the internet for his tomb designed by Alfred Gilbert. Although not completed until the early 1900s, the art and sculpture are breathtaking.

  The following pages feature memorial engravings extracted from original 1892 printings from my personal library. I acquired the original carte de visite (CDV, French: visiting card) albumen photograph of Prince Eddy (also shown), but the date of creation is not precisely known. It is my estimation that it was taken between 1880-1890, as Prince Eddy seems to have a more youthful appearance than in later depictions. CDVs were small, business-card like photographs (usually 2.125” x 3.5” plus a slightly larger mounting frame) patented in Paris by photographer André Adolphe Eugène Disdéri in 1854. Since they could be replicated in larger quantities, they were often collected and traded. By 1870, they were commonly supplanted by cabinet cards, which were larger, mounted albumen prints.

  If you’re unfamiliar with albumen and the process used to make photographs with it, I highly suggest looking up videos online. Coating a sheet of paper with a concoction of salt and egg whites, and then later adding silver nitrate allowed early photographers to capture and preserve glimpses of our past. It is my hope that you enjoyed this peek!

  CDV enlarged to show detail

  The Last Portrait Of The Late Duke Of Clarence By

  Professor H. Herkomer Is Presented With This Number.

  January 23, 1892

  Office: 190, STRAND

  The Illustrated London News, Jan. 23, 1892. – 108

  The late Duke of Clarence as an officer of the 10th Hussars

  Thank you so much for reading Grave Burden. Please be so kind as to leave a review. It can be brief, but please know that every review matters and it helps prospective readers find this book. Many years of hard work and love have gone into each of my stories and I do hope you found some small escape within this tale. Thank you, again, and happy reading! Stay radiant!

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  More from P. Anastasia:

  Exile of the Sky God

  A mythical journey of self-discovery

  “A shimmering heroic romance... An effortlessly grand fantasy that should ensnare young and older fans alike.”

  — Kirkus Reviews.

  A clever adaptation of the lore behind one of the most powerful gods in ancient Egypt.

  Fates Aflame & Fates Awoken

  Adventure that will lift your spirits and romance to warm your heart

  Magical journeys await you in this clean epic sci-fi fantasy. With newfound powers at hand and a dragon by her side, Lt. Hawksford, star student of a prestigious military academy, must face trial by fire.

  Dark Diary

  A historical love story with supernatural undertones

  When a 17th-century vampire meets a modern tattoo artist tormented by visions of her own death, their dark pasts unite them. More human than vampire, this unique, sophisticated romance d
etails the accounts of two old souls burdened by tragedy.

  Fluorescence: The Complete Tetralogy

  An infectious saga read across the world

  Alice was a normal teenager until a dying race of aliens chose her to preserve their bioluminescent DNA. Fluorescence evolves from quiet beginnings into a gripping tale exploring the real-life dangers faced while harboring a volatile secret.

  The series includes:

  Book 1: Fire Starter

  Book 2: Contagious

  Book 3: Fallout

  Book 4: Lost Souls

  P. Anastasia’s fresh take on storytelling resonates with darkness, charm, and passion—the embodiment of her unique writing style.

  Ensnared by the craft in childhood, she attempted her first book at age eleven. While working toward her college degree, she wrote news and editorial columns for two campus newspapers. After graduating with a degree in communications and spending a year studying abroad in Kofu, Japan, she followed her heart to her publishing aspirations. She currently resides in the beautiful, green state of Kentucky with her husband and her ever-inspiring fur-babies. On the side, she serves as a professional voice talent for radio, television, and audio books.

  P. Anastasia is the author of nine novels: Exile of the Sky God, the Fluorescence series, Fates Aflame, Fates Awoken, and Dark Diary.