A Guardian's Touch

by Stein Willard

  †

  Outside in a dark alley behind the hospital, Tahlia took on her human form and, using preternatural speed, rushed to the meeting place. Once inside the safe house, she came to a stop and waited for a few seconds for Juan to appear. He was her bodyguard, and she knew he had followed her to the safe house to ensure her safety. Once he appeared beside her, she smiled faintly.

  “You are becoming slow, Juan. I had expected you to keep up with me.” Tahlia had personally turned Juan from a mere servant into a well-honed killing machine.

  Juan merely smiled back at her and together they walked through the luxurious interior of the house and entered the big boardroom. Three men and a woman sat around the table. With a brief nod, Tahlia took her seat at the head of the table. Once the men retook their seats, she looked around the table. Her eyes lingered on Pierre Lafayette. A leather thong held his long blonde hair at the nape of his neck and his blue eyes twinkled brightly at her. It had been almost four hundred years since she had seen a genuine smile light up Pierre’s handsome features. He had lost his mate, Genevieve, when a group of human slayers attacked their castle and left her to die in an inferno. Pierre had never been the same.

  And then there was Jonas Beydrenoff. He was every bit as handsome as Pierre, but whereas Pierre was blond, Jonas’ features were dark and brooding. Jonas was a serious man and deadly on the battlefield. Because of his dark sensual look, women pursued him, but for Jonas nothing was more important than his duty as a Royal to his race. Until recently, he was spending a lot of time in the company of a certain consortium executive. Tahlia nodded at Jonas, and then took in the other two people at the table.

  Michael Jensen was the head of the Consortium of Human Vampire Slayers. His great grandfather, Arthur Jensen, was amongst the founding fathers of the Consortium. Short and bald, he was an unassuming man. Every morning, dressed in a conservative suit, he kissed his wife goodbye and dropped his two daughters at school before coming to the Melton Hotel where supposedly he worked as a financial director. No one would believe the vast multi-billion dollar empire the man ran. He was the spoke on which so many other local, regional, and international branches rotated . Yet, he managed to fool everyone with his calm, soft-spoken bookish exterior. Tahlia nodded at the man and received a curt nod in return.

  Her black eyes lit on the person with him. This was by no doubt one of the consortium most gifted members. Joan Arcadia was a beautiful blonde whom Tahlia, judging by the intimate looks that she had seen them exchange when they thought no one was looking, suspected was Jonas’ love interest. Joan also was the head of the paranormal research department at the Consortium. Tahlia recalled Joan’s journey from what she was to who she is now…

  Born in a small Midwestern town and the daughter of the local preacher, Joan shared her father’s belief that evil transcended the mere realm of the spiritual and walked amongst them wreaking havoc on mankind. Driven by a keen urge to know more, a teenaged Joan become a frequent visitor to the local library where she poured over volumes of texts on the supernatural. Legends such as Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula became dog-eared testimonies of her infatuation with the occult, specifically the undead. One night, while on an outing with her friends, she stumbled upon a deranged man in an alley behind the bar she and her student buddies were visiting. Upon seeing the man, her friends quickly made for the safe confines of the bar. She stayed. Back then, she didn’t know why. The man’s shifting gaze had studied the shadows behind him, before it fell on her. Dragging his shivering body over to her, he had looked at her with a vacant stare.

  “Are you one of them?” His hand was nervously rubbing his neck. “You came for me didn’t you?”

  Somewhat chilled by the man’s intense stare, she took a step back. The man was still advancing.

  “Look, sir, you must have me confused with someone else. I just came out here to smoke.”

  “Why do you lie?” Spittle flew out of his mouth as his eyes darkened even further. “You and your kind have been after me ever since I saw you kill that girl.”

  Convinced that the man was indeed mentally challenged, Joan turned away from him, intent on joining her friends. A startled yelp escaped her lips, when the man’s heavy hand landed on her shoulder. When she turned, the man was staring deep into her eyes with a sad look of resignation.

  “Please…” he begged. “Please stop toying with me. You’re here to kill me…to drink my blood. Just do it then. Make me forget what I’ve witnessed. Please, don’t leave me like this…vampire.”

  It was the last word he uttered, that made her skin break out in cold sweat. Vampire? Is it true? Can it be true? Are Bram Stoker’s creatures really walking amongst us? Intrigued, she stepped closer to the man. Before she could question him, a big black truck swung into the alley throwing its bright lights on them. Joan couldn’t make out the men who filed out of the vehicle, and with quiet determination, walked over to where she stood. Two burly men then clasped their hands on the deranged man’s arms and half-carried him to the truck.

  “Wait! Where are you taking him? Who are you?” she screamed.

  The man closest to her abruptly turned to face her. His eyes studied her closely, before he looked beyond her into the dark shadows of the alley. With an almost imperceptible nod, he turned back to his men and nodded at them. Unnerved, by the man’s strange behavior, she had turned around and scanned the solid darkness of the alley behind her. There was nothing. The man suddenly grabbed her, dragged her to the truck, and unceremoniously stuffed her inside the back.

  So began the life of Joan Arcadia. She now holds a doctoral degree in paranormal science, is a walking reference to almost all the past and present vampire events, and is, and has been, a great asset to the Consortium in their fight of ridding the world of renegades.

  †

  “Drake is in the United States.”

  Jonas’ words grabbed Tahlia’s attention immediately, drawing her back to the present.

  “I sensed his presence earlier this evening.” Jonas’ midnight black eyes, so like Tahlia’s, held a look of pure contempt.

  Tahlia knew his hatred stemmed from the fact that Drake betrayed them. The man spent many centuries as a trusted ally tracking down rogue vampires with them only to turn against them. For bringing their noble legacy into disrepute, Drake became the most hunted rogue vampire in history. Whereas other rogues had turned because of power and greed, Drake did the unforgivable—he diluted the bloodline by creating a new and inferior race.

  “We believe that the birth of your mate might have lured him out of hiding.”

  At hearing these words, Tahlia’s black eyes hardened. That was exactly what she didn’t want to happen. Jemima was the reason she had held onto life for so long. She had survived too many centuries and stayed incorruptible, because of her. Every century Tahlia had waited patiently for her birth, shared every single second of her mortal life loving her and then, when age robbed her body of the power to continue, lovingly tended to her until she drew her last breath.

  Tahlia’s eternal hope had always been that her mate would reincarnate again. Drake knew exactly how much that sliver of hope meant to her. It kept Tahlia sane and her dark side in the deepest recess of her body. If what Jonas said were true, then Drake’s plan was to turn Jemima into a vampire and destroy her forever, never again able to reincarnate. If that happened, Tahlia would cease to exist.

  Drake had been part of Tahlia's personal army of hunters. On many occasions in past lives, she had trusted him enough to allow him to be her lover’s bodyguard. Only when she’d sensed a disturbing change in him did she remove him from his guard duties and take them on personally. If she hadn’t sensed the dark stain growing inside of Drake, in time he could have succeeded in his plan to destroy her. That was his ultimate plan, he craved the power of the Royal Clan Vampires. He wanted to be a god—a creator.

  “I’m afraid Jonas is right, Tahlia,” said Michael. He had been working together with the Vampire Council for
the past ten years. “This time Drake plans to hit you were it hurts the most.”

  The walls of the boardroom suddenly undulated. Tahlia, trying to keep herself from exploding by drawing on the empty pockets of air in the room, looked at the other vampires in the room. They had been privy to such a moment in Tahlia’s life before…

  From 1337 to 1455, Tahlia, Pierre, and Jonas fought as mercenaries alongside the English against the French in the Hundred Years’ War. Two royal houses fought for the throne of France—the House of Valois on the French side and the House of Anjou on the British side. After a grueling battle two days earlier, they set up camp a few kilometers from the enemy’s line and took a well-deserved break before the next battle. Sentries were stationed around the camp, but later it was discovered that all the guards had been bribed to desert their posts. Tahlia and her lover, Armelia, were in their tent in the woods making love, when the enemy staged a surprise attack. An enemy’s arrow struck the beautiful blonde in the heart, killing her instantly. She was only twenty.

  Tahlia was inconsolable by the loss. It took all of Pierre’s and Jonas’ supernatural powers in addition to strong spells to restrain Tahlia. While her fellow warriors were pushing back the enemy, Tahlia quietly took her lover’s body to a burial place deep in the woods. Upon her return, she purposefully walked past everyone and straight into the enemy camp.

  The scene that greeted their eyes when they went in search of her a few hours later was one of complete carnage. Thousands of bodies were scattered around the camp. They found Tahlia standing in the middle of the camp, covered in blood, her blood-stained fangs exposed, and streaks of bloody tears running down her cheeks.

  The memory brought to mind the very perilous century that ensued for their enemies. It took the reincarnation of her lover ninety years later to restore Tahlia’s serenity. Now, they might again have a repeat of that fateful night. But, the times had changed, and it would be near impossible to explain a carnage of that magnitude to the police.

  “Tahlia…” Pierre said.

  Tahlia slowly lifted her head to look at Pierre.

  “We will not let anything happen to the baby. We know how important she is to you.”

  Tahlia took a deep breath and gradually started to relax. When she looked at the others, she found Michael and the other woman on their feet, their guns pointed at her.

  Tahlia blinked a few times, and a look of deep sorrow shadowed her eyes. She could see the fear in Joan’s face. “Please, Michael, Joan, accept my apology. Please be seated. I promise never to give you reason to fear for your well-being while in my presence.” Her voice was so soft that the mortals in the room had to strain to hear her. Once everyone sat, Tahlia continued. “I apologize again.” She folded her arms. “Do we know Drake’s location? His presence here is a direct challenge to me, and I accept.” Tahlia’s black eyes were icy cold and she refrained from looking at the humans, lest she again make them uncomfortable.

  Jonas cleared his throat. “I suspect that he is hiding somewhere in an underground chamber. Shall we send out a search party?”

  “I suggest we try to track down some of Drake’s followers. They just might lead us to his lair.” Joan looked straight into Tahlia’s eyes. “In the meantime, I will be honored if you would allow me to keep an eye over the baby.”

  Tahlia’s eyes softened. “Jemima. Her name is Jemima. Thank you for the offer, Joan. It would be unethical for me to remove you from action, so I will not allow you to babysit. I will have to find a way to keep her safe without arousing Drake’s interest.” Tahlia sat back in her chair letting her eyes rest on the gleaming surface of the boardroom table. Drake finally had come out of hiding to orchestrate the perfect coup d’état. A slight shiver of anticipation coursed through her body. She was ready for him.

  Chapter Three

  Twenty Two Years Later…

  The hand that held the brush shook slightly, and Jemima quickly pushed the brush into the pocket of her paint-splattered overalls before the tremors gave her away. No matter how hard she tried not to, her vivid blue eyes kept returning to the sight of the beautifully curved behind of the woman who was bent over flipping through a stack of paintings placed against the wall of her studio.

  Martina Lawler was a gallery owner and a renowned art critic. You couldn’t get more posh than she. Artists fell over their feet to get her to acknowledge their work. Thus, her presence in Jemima’s studio was a great honor, indeed. Jemima was pleasantly surprised when Martina called her the day before and asked to see more of her work. A socialite friend of Martina’s had bought one of her paintings at the last exhibition Jemima had held in Australia.

  Jemima had her father to thank for her success. At twenty two, she had made quite a name for herself as an artist. Her paintings adorned the walls of many A-list celebrities and the offices of powerful business executives. She was indeed doing well for herself.

  From a very young age, she knew what she wanted to do when she grew up, and she was extremely lucky to have had such a supporting parent. James was an amazing father and a great friend. He also didn’t believe much in nannies. Raised by his homemaker mother, he made sure to spend as much time with his daughter as his writing career allowed. Because he spent the bulk of his time in his study, James first moved a playpen into his study so he could be closer to Jemima. He told her once that having her cooing and gurgling in the background had inspired some of his greatest works to date.

  As she grew older, he bought her a small water paint set to keep her entertained. Jemima remembered her father fawning over paint-splattered papers and even framing them to hang in his study. Slowly she graduated to oil paint and a small easel when she was in her preteens. Later as a teenager, she still liked to come to her father’s study, set up her easel and canvas, and paint while James was bent over his typewriter. Spending so much time together increased their bond.

  Jemima attended the prestigious Academy of Art and Design in New York, and, soon after graduating, her father had a home studio built for her as a ploy to keep her close. Broke and not wanting to borrow money from her father, she had graciously accepted her father’s gift, promising herself she would work hard to become a success. She wanted to make her father proud.

  For over a year and a half, she’d slaved away in her studio until she was satisfied she had pieces worthy enough to hang on the walls of her first exhibition. Her hard work paid off, and she sold twelve of the twenty pieces she had shown. Overnight she became a household name. Three sold-out exhibitions in two years made her well known in the art sphere with several gallery owners in the States and Europe approaching her to make appointments to see her work or book her for exhibitions at their galleries.

  †

  Martina Lawler sniffing around, however, was a real achievement.

  The woman straightened and turned. “I like what I see, Jemima. When can we talk business?” She walked over to where Jemima stood and placed a well-manicured hand on the younger woman’s arm. “Can we perhaps meet tonight at my place for dinner and afterwards we can talk?”

 

  The voice echoed through her mind, and Jemima frowned in irritation. Please, not now! She didn’t want to deal with the voice especially not with Martina there.

  For the first time, Jemima heard a hint of annoyance in the usually smooth, husky voice that had spoken to her since she was six. The voice belonged to some woman her father called Tahlia. All she knew was that Tahlia and her father were very good friends. Personally she abhorred the voice because it reminded her of how much of a freak she was—a telepath. What a bloody fancy name for a freak. Human beings were not supposed to have abilities like that. Life was not an X-Men comic where every second ‘human’ was a mutant.

  Her father had the same abilities as she, but he was a writer; even if his books delved into the realm of the paranormal, people didn’t mind because they thought he just possessed a ve
ry active imagination. Her father wasn’t even aware that she could ‘hear’ him and Tahlia talk to each other or that she’d known every Christmas and birthday what to expect in the cheerful wrapping paper under the tree or on the table next to her birthday cake. They discussed everything, and—unbeknownst to them—she always was there, listening quietly.

  Tahlia began talking to her at a very young age, and Jemima had worked hard to ignore the soft comforting voice that came to her in the dead of the night when she’d had a nightmare or the voice that sang to her in a strange language. Jemima had always felt Tahlia’s presence around her. For as long as she could remember, the feeling of someone watching over her stayed with her. As she grew older and began to go out with her friends, the presence began to follow her everywhere. At first, it freaked her out, but as time passed, she became used to the constant powerfully protective presence. But, as she grew older, her suspicions about Tahlia and her motives began to grow, too. Neither her father nor she had ever met Tahlia, and, strangely enough, Tahlia never asked them for anything in return. That was what made Jemima distrustful of the woman, or the ghost, or whatever she was. Everyone has a price, and Jemima was sure that one day when Tahlia decided to cash in her chips, both her father and she would not be able to raise the payment.

  “Jemi, are you okay?” Martina asked.

  Jemima saw the frown and quickly smiled back at Martina as she pushed her disturbing thoughts to the background. “I’m fine. Sorry, I just drifted off for a while there.”

  Even though she hated to admit it, Tahlia was right. Jemima loved her father dearly, and it would hurt him if she’d miss their annual birthday chess game. She looked at Martina and smiled sadly. As much as she wanted to accept the woman’s offer, her father came first. She slowly traced Martina’s curvaceous form with her eyes and grimaced inwardly. She’d read between the lines and she knew what Martina was offering. Maybe they’d even skip dinner. Martina, known for her bi-sexual antics, was one of the top vote getters as the hottest lesbian crushes of the year by a leading lesbian magazine for two years in a row. Jemima could understand why. The woman simply oozed sex from her sultry voice and piercing eyes to the fluid sensual way in which she moved.