The Watcher: A Vampire Paranormal Romance (The Age of Vampyre Book 1)
Page 1
Contents
- The Watcher -
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
- The Watcher -
Age of Vampyre - Bk I
A Novel
by
Sophia North
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- To my Knight in Shining Armour -
Audeo
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales and organisations is entirely coincidental.
The Watcher
Copyright © 2019 by Sophia North
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Property of Sophia North
September 2019
Cover designed by Giusy:
https://www.premadebookcoversmarket.com/
Prologue
London
June 2018
"As always, I'd like to thank everyone who rang in tonight. Without your willingness to share what are at times very personal stories, InsideOut would not be possible. This is Dr. Simone Radcliffe signing off... "
WITH A DISTINCT ‘click’, the dial on the vintage Marconi radio switched itself off.
Seated in an imposing oxblood leather chair, Dante waited for the waves of his preternatural senses to subside. Every instinct he possessed ached for release, and normally the soothing voice of Simone Radcliffe provided him with relief.
But not tonight.
No, tonight something altogether different had happened. Tonight he'd detected the possibility that Simone needed him.
It was, of course, an irrational thought. He'd never even met the woman.
And yet, Dante felt quite certain he'd heard a slight change in her voice during the final call. How could he define it...a slight rise in pitch... a hint of panic?
Whatever it was, the good doctor was clearly in need of some attention.
It was...most intriguing.
The dong of the grandfather clock stirred Dante from his thoughts. His time to ‘Watch’ had come.
His mission: to serve and protect the innocent. No easy task in a time of such danger. The world was on the brink of transformation and no one seemed to give a shit about it but him.
Emerging from his lair onto the London streets, Dante stared up at the sky, as a warm spring breeze tousled his deep chestnut hair. But rather than caressing his handsome cheek, the gentle wisps hit hard angular bone devoid of any human softness.
The mortal world had a name for him. He was Vampyre. A legendary creature from the pages of a book.
How quaint.
As with so many things, the human race completely misunderstood the truth about the world that surrounded them. There were, however, exceptions. And Dante was about to take a massive gamble on his sultry-toned radio therapist being one of them.
Tomorrow, his heart whispered.
Yes, tomorrow it would all change.
After weeks of agonising over whether or not to take the risk, Dante finally instructed his Private Secretary to make him an appointment at Simone's upscale Mayfair clinic.
The thought of seeing her in the flesh excited him no end, even though to do so bordered on the insane. Vampyre-human relations were strictly forbidden in his world. But then, rules are always asking to be broken.
Rounding a corner near the Palace of Westminster, his Watcher instincts screamed danger. Slowing his speed, Dante merged into the shadows of a tree-lined street in the heart of St. James. All thoughts of his alluring therapist drifted away as he scanned the deserted boulevard. Something wasn't quite right. The atmosphere teemed with the unholy scent of a Ripper, a rogue vampyre who hunted humans for their blood.
Opening up his senses, he searched for the energy signature responsible but found nothing.
Most strange. The freshness of the imprint usually indicated his target was near. And yet, he detected no trace whatsoever.
Dante moved stealthily as he stalked the streets of his 'patch' with a feeling of unease. Every time he located his foe, the bastard would disappear again.
By the time three a.m. rolled round, Dante decided to regroup in a quiet all-night pub on the edge of Soho. This constant cat and mouse game he played with his illusive foe had taken a toll on his senses and he needed a drink.
Nursing a pint in a dimly lit corner, Dante tried to silence his overactive mind. Troubled by an increasing lack of control over his vampyric nature, he could not help but think of his lost love, Zara. Without her he felt incomplete. It was like her death had somehow made him weaker.
The past year had been the most challenging he'd ever experienced. There was Zara's murder, his father's disappearance and an ever-growing number of viciously mutilated humans. Misfortune piled upon misfortune.
Dante could no longer deny something sinister pervaded the vampyre world. His father had tried to warn him...to accept the evidence that pointed in only one direction. That the Haan Prophecy was real, and if left unchallenged, would lead to catastrophic events for vampyres...and humans.
Problem was, Dante was not a firm prophecy believer. Although of late, it had to be said, he'd begun to reevaluate his position.
Tomorrow, his heart whispered again.
The thump from a bottle of bourbon being placed heavily on the table jolted him from his musings. Looking up from his pint, Dante found the barman standing silently beside him.
Puzzled by his appearance, Dante sat back in his chair. "You choose an odd time to become familiar, old man," he growled through clenched teeth.
Silence.
Annoyed, he dismissed the proprietor with a wave of his hand. "Begone, Silas! Our 'no conversation' policy has suited us for decades. Tonight is not the time to change our rules of engagement."
Instead of granting Dante his space, Silas chuckled to himself. "My, my, you seem so lost, Watcher Polidori...so weak. Does losing your human whore still make you weep?"
Dante's eyes narrowed. Whoever this was, it was most cer
tainly not Silas the barkeep.
Moving like a marionette on a string, the barman dipped his head to look down. His eyes suddenly rolled back to reveal only the whites of them. It was fucking creepy, but dealing with freaky shit was Dante's specialty.
"I did you a favour by ridding her from your path but where is my thanks?" Silas continued in a mocking voice. "Rather than rising to the occasion, you lower yourself to the rank of Watcher in a futile attempt to protect those who are your inferior. You try my patience with your attachment to humans, Dante Polidori. But soon, ah yes, soon that will be dealt with."
"What trickery is this? I did not think you so cowardly as to hide behind another's face," Dante challenged, convinced the man was possessed by the foe who eluded him. Vampyre possession of a human was a long abandoned practice, but Dante's father had made it part of his son’s education. The old ways have their purposes, he'd often say - and Alessio Polidori did not want Dante to be unaware of them.
Whoever this Ripper vamp was, he had to be powerful to pull off this sort of shit.
"Interesting observation,” the possessed barman replied. “You believing I am the coward. But it is not I who sits here, drowning my pathetic sorrows. Drink up, my friend and lose your poetic heart in this bottle of bourbon I’ve brought for you. You make it so easy for me to take what I want...when I want it."
Dante moved at an imperceptible speed to pin the barman against a wall.
Clearly pleased by his reaction to the taunt, a distorted grin spread across the old man's face. "Ah, ah, ah! Remember, it is an innocent old man you strangle."
"I will destroy you," Dante snarled.
"You think? Catch me if you can, Watcher Polidori."
The old man went limp.
Enraged by the retreat, Dante clenched his eyes shut and opened up his preternatural senses. Street scenes flashed through his mind's eye as he pushed himself to the max in search of the fiend.
Crisscrossing the cobbled streets and laneways of Old London Town, Dante zeroed in on the energy signature within moments. The sick fuck was cruising through the West End but clever enough to keep himself hidden in the shadows.
Snapping his eyes open, Dante eased Silas into a chair. He'd return later to deal with any potential fallout but right now he needed to catch himself a Ripper.
Racing through the winding streets, he honed in on his prey.
The energy signature had made its way to Seven Dials, where it appeared to be tarrying.
About twenty yards ahead, in the shadow of the column marking where the roads converged, Dante saw a vampyre kneeling over a young woman. Without a second thought, he attacked.
The other vampyre didn't stand a chance. Within seconds, Dante had him slammed against the concrete, his big hands wrapped around the assailant's throat.
"Daa….Daaante….sto...oppp…." the vampyre choked.
Dante loosened his grip. Something wasn't right. As his senses returned, he looked more closely at the creature who's throat he'd been squeezing. It was Vlad. He released his hold immediately.
"Fuck, mate!" Vlad spat. "When did you learn that pinning trick? I thought I knew all your moves."
"Sorry, brother," Dante muttered, standing back. "I thought you were...you know...the bad guy and I just...reacted. How's your throat?" he asked, wanting to change the subject. The 'moves' Vlad admired had come purely from instinct, not any sort of training.
"I'll live," he rasped, rubbing his neck. Eyeing his friend suspiciously, Vlad had been noticing Dante's tendency to overreact lately, but wisely kept his mouth shut. His friend had a lot of shit on his plate and he didn't want to add to it.
Kneeling beside Vlad, Dante inspected the latest Ripper statistic. "Once again we fail. This fucking Ripper is the worst I've seen in over a century."
Peering at the young woman's body, Dante felt guilty, responsible even. Whoever this vamp was, he wanted Dante's attention. And by fuck, he now had it. In spades.
"How did you end up on my patch?" he asked, forcing his attention back to Vlad.
"I caught the energy imprint of our elusive Ripper and I’ve been following him for the past hour."
"An hour!" Dante cut in. Vlad's trapping skills were almost as good as his - it was hard to believe the Ripper could evade them both.
"I'm not sure if he was letting me follow him or he just couldn't be bothered to cover his tracks…"
"You must have got a good look at him then."
Vlad shook his head. "Never managed to get close enough. And for awhile I lost track of the bastard. When I picked up his imprint again, it led me here - to her," he explained with a nod in the direction of the dead woman.
"You didn't manage to see him at all?" Dante asked irritably, desperate to catch a break.
"Briefly in the West End when the theatre crowds were teeming. He made sure to only reveal himself when capture was fucking impossible. You know, for a moment, I thought he was one of us."
Dante gave his friend a confused look.
"A Watcher," Vlad explained. "He was confident and agile. Most humans hardly noticed him."
Fuck, this did not bode well. A Watcher gone Ripper would be one hell of a force to contend with.
The two friends stood in silence digesting the ramifications of the possibility.
"We ought to move her to Lowerton," Dante finally advised.
"I'll do it," Vlad volunteered. "If I hadn't lost him she might have lived."
Dante resisted the urge to tell his friend about his encounter in the pub. He wanted to, if only to confess it was his error in judgment, not Vlad's, that had cost the young woman her life.
But he stayed silent. Explanations would have to wait.
Tomorrow, his heart whispered once more, reminding him help may be closer than he dared hope. He suppressed the thought, unwilling to allow it to comfort him in the face of another brutal murder.
"We should tell the Council," Vlad said as he gathered the mutilated corpse in his arms.
"To hell with them," Dante muttered bitterly. "Might as well tell a brick wall, for all the good it will do."
"All the same…" Vlad tried to reason, but Dante was already walking away.
"You're a right stubborn bastard, Polidori!" he shouted.
Without turning, Dante raised a hand in a mock-wave. The last thing he wanted to think about was the Council of Elders. Tonight's failure had brought on a feeling of despair and he needed to walk it off before he ended up doing something crazy.
But he didn't have long. The sky lightened, dawn approached. And it was in that moment Dante realised ‘tomorrow’ had already begun for the human world. In a few hours he'd be in Simone's presence.
His despondent heart rose at the promise of salvation.
Chapter One
IN A MODERN glass extension behind a seemingly unremarkable Georgian townhouse, Simone stared out from her glass perch, watching the evening sky darken.
Down below, the tree-lined pathway glowed with a Dickensian beauty. Most are unaware the City of London maintains a number of original Victorian gas lamps, and this obscure park in Mayfair had been appointed as one of its preservers.
The English do so love their heritage.
Tracing the outline of a glowing haloed lamp on the window, Simone let out a deep sigh. For the hundredth time she wondered how the strange twists and turns of her life had led to such a frustrating pinnacle.
Successful beyond her wildest dreams, she was the toast of London's high psychiatry set, as well as being adored by the masses, thanks to her hit talk-radio show, InsideOut.
All in all, her day-to-day existence would be the envy of many. Yet for Simone, life had felt devoid of any meaning for quite some time now.
Following her show's unexpected overnight success, she’d been head-hunted three years ago by the exclusive clinic Gould & Associates. And if she had to pinpoint when everything had started to change, it would have to be then.
The money hadn't been the motivator for accepting thei
r offer. Her financial needs were always taken care of, albeit, by the strangest of occurrences.
No, her interest in Gould & Associates laid with the challenge of treating their exclusive clientèle. For some bizarre reason, Simone had actually believed she may be able to make a difference with that crowd. Oh, to be so naive again.
Once word of an outstanding young therapist had made the rounds, her appointments increased exponentially. But being a highly sought-after psychiatrist to the rich no longer filled her with pride. She found treating clients who used therapy as a modern day equivalent of absolving their 'sins' a more and more distasteful way to live.
If not for her work on InsideOut, she'd have lost all perspective. Yet, even its hold on her was beginning to wane.
At the sound of someone entering her office, Simone turned from the window.
"My apologies, Dr. Radcliffe. I was unaware of your arrival. Please forgive my intrusion, I only wanted to prepare your office and deliver the client's file."
Simone’s brow furrowed at her assistant's slightly panicked voice. "No need to apologise, Fiona. You are forgiven for not being aware of my every move."
The young woman flushed with obvious relief. Most therapists would have scolded her for entering into what they deemed their 'sacred ground’ without being invited.
Quickly placing a tray of refreshments on a low table and a leather-bound notebook on Simone's desk, Fiona turned to leave.
"I hope your training with Edmund is progressing well," Simone asked encouragingly in an effort to put her assistant at ease.
"Yes, I believe so, Dr. Radcliffe. Thank you for asking. Dr. Gould is most patient with me. Is there anything else you require, Dr. Radcliffe?"
The young woman's officious tone, which Edmund insisted all his junior staff adopt when addressing their 'superiors', bothered Simone more than usual. Resisting an urge to snap: enough with this constant ‘Dr.’ business, we are practically the same age, she instead ended their encounter with a brusque: “No, please inform me when my client arrives.”
Taking a seat behind her desk, Simone rested her fingers on the smoked glass surface. Glass and steel, so cold, so clinical. A fitting dais for her world.