Threshold of Destiny (The Mysterium Secret Book 1)

by Linn Chapel

  The morning sun had risen higher, revealing more of the scene. Now she could make out the figure of a man standing just behind Cecelia. It had to be the young Roman she had been engaged to marry, Tressa thought. And behind the pair stood a third figure, an angry Roman soldier with a heavy sword, ready to strike.

  Tressa shivered, for she knew the way St. Cecelia’s story had ended; how her betrothed, freshly converted to Cecelia’s faith, had been killed first, and how Cecelia had been imprisoned and then beheaded for being a member of that suspicious new sect, the followers of a Christ.

  Unsettled, Tressa ran a hand over her forehead. She’d had such good intentions when she’d trained for her mission. And once she had met Holt, she had only wanted to help him, but nothing had been as simple as she had expected. Had she set something into motion that would only spin more and more wildly out of control until it ended in Holt’s death? And maybe hers, as well?

  She took a deep breath and tried to put such fears out of her mind. It was time to return to her apartment and change into her uniform before she left for the hospital. Rising from the pew, she left the hushed sanctuary of the church.

  Outside, the wind had grown so blustery that it swept her hair into her eyes. Brushing it away, she suddenly caught sight of Peter. He was striding toward her, waving an arm to gain her attention.

  They met at the street corner. “Tressa, I’ve been trying to find you. I just went to your apartment but you weren’t there.” Peter’s eyes were ringed with fatigue.

  “I stopped by St. Cecelia’s this morning,” she explained. “Where have you been, Peter? I’ve been trying to reach you by phone but you haven’t answered!”

  Peter shot a glance at a group of nearby pedestrians. “Let’s find a place to talk,” he said. He led the way to a café.

  Inside, they placed an order at the counter and then seated themselves at a small table. Peter leaned over to speak in a low voice. “I couldn’t call you last night because I was too busy. Those men were operatives, just as we thought. I trailed them for two hours, until they went home. Then I retraced the route this morning, looking for clues, but I didn’t find any.”

  The clerk at the counter called out their order and Peter rose from the table. He returned quickly with a tray of coffee and croissants.

  Tressa leaned forward over the table. “You followed them for two hours!” she exclaimed in an undertone. “Didn’t Holt try to mesmerize them?”

  “No. He appeared for an instant, and then he ran away.”

  Tressa felt a tremor of unease pass through her. It didn’t seem like Holt to bungle his own plan. He was so sure of himself, so experienced. Maybe he had decided to draw the two operatives away from her apartment, instead.

  But why hadn’t he returned? she wondered. He had known how anxiously she had been waiting for him.

  Peter went on. “They trailed Holt all over the city, but in the end, they lost him. I overheard them calling it a night, and then they switched off their communicators. I wanted to confront them last night, but I didn’t. I decided to let them go on thinking that I’m in the dark.”

  Tressa sipped her coffee in a daze. Across from her, Peter tore pieces from a croissant and swallowed them with a preoccupied frown. “Did you ever find out where Holt lives?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, but wherever he is now, he’s sleeping,” she said, adding a brief account of her meeting with Brother Brendan.

  The look of tension on Peter’s face lightened for a moment. His eyes glinted. “Was Brendan upset to find you alone in the Unseen World?”

  “Yes, he was just as grumpy about it as you would expect.” Tressa felt her mouth curve in a half-smile as she took a sip of her coffee. “At least we know that Holt’s not drugged.”

  Peter drained the rest of his own coffee. His brow furrowed in thought. “Holt told me that he was leaving the country for his work. What did he mean by that, Tressa?”

  Tressa tried not to let her unhappiness about Holt’s upcoming journey show on her face as she told her brother about Holt’s work with old texts and his need to live in London for several months. “Peter, is there any way to track his progress in London? Follow-up surveillance is part of protocol, after all.”

  Peter’s eyes were regretful. “None of the operatives can be trusted anymore. I could do it myself, but if I went out of my way to track a subject all the way to England, there’d be too many questions. He’ll have to navigate the symptoms on his own.”

  “Can I tell him anything before he leaves? Just a hint?”

  Peter shook his head adamantly. “It’s too soon. If he learns about Operation M while he’s feverish, there’s no telling what might happen.”

  Tressa looked down at her croissant, which was still untouched. The faint stirrings of appetite she had felt earlier were gone.

  “Tressa, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Holt.” Peter leaned forward and spoke in a low but accusing voice. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when he showed up at my studio. You shouldn’t be spending time with him! Did he try to mesmerize you again after the first night? Did he take more of your blood?”

  With her elbows on the table, Tressa hid her face in her hands. “Don’t ask me these questions, Peter!”

  “I’ve already warned you, Tressa. Drugged or not, he’s dangerous.”

  She didn’t speak.

  “How old is he, anyway?” Peter asked.

  “He was turned about two hundred years ago.” She lifted her hands from her face and gave Peter a cautious look. “He was born in the west of England, in the country. He used to write poetry. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew some of the poets you read about in English classes, like Shelley and Keats.”

  “He must have seen some action over the years,” Peter said wryly. “He didn’t learn to fight by dipping a quill into a pot of ink. But Tressa, can’t you see what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been planning to turn you, all along.”

  The suggestion stunned her. She had never noticed a hint of such a plan in Holt’s manner around her.

  “Neither you or I can be turned, Peter!” she reminded her brother.

  “He doesn’t know that. Mark my words, he’s planning an attempt right now.”

  “No!”

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I think he’s been planning to seal your fate ever since he met you. But Holt must not care very much about you, Tressa, because he has to know that you’d be destroyed in the end.”

  Tressa shook her head, not wanting to hear the awful details. “Don’t spell it out for me, Peter! I already know what would happen.”

  Peter lectured her anyway, driving home the facts she had learned from the Handbook. In a voice so low that none of the other customers could hear, he reminded her that vampires were territorial, they were aggressive, they were prone to distrust and rivalry. Individuals who attempted to live together always eliminated each other before long, with fire or wooden stakes.

  “Maybe his plans include disappearing and going somewhere far away as soon as living with you gets too tricky. But he’s no fool. He must know you’d never survive by yourself in the night world of the other vampires.”

  “Holt’s not like that. He’d never hatch a plan to turn me into a vampire – only to let me die. You don’t know him, Peter!”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes, I-”

  “Tressa, you were supposed to stay neutral. Get rid of any feelings you have for him. Holt’s not for you.”

  Her breath caught in her chest. Somehow, she forced herself to laugh. “I know that! I’m only helping him, Peter.”

  Peter lifted an eyebrow and nodded sagely. “You’re just helping someone who looks like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he could play the leading man in some blockbuster movie,” Peter replied. “And that’s just the way he looks. Then there’s the way he talks.”

  “Oh!” she sputte
red, feeling hot. “And what way is that?”

  “Like some character straight out of the pages of history. You know how much you like history, Tressa. But he’s not for you. He’s old, and he’s probably bitter, too.”

  “No, not bitter. He can be moody, but not bitter.”

  “Tressa, stay away from him,” Peter gritted firmly. “Holt’s over two hundred years old. He’s got a past, a dark past. And he’s been preying on humans ever since he was turned! And even if none of that were true, he’s too strong-willed for you. Just look at the way things have gone so far – he’s had his way and done whatever he wanted with you. Soft, Tressa, that’s what you are. You’re like the foam on top of your coffee.” Peter swept a fluffy dollop of her steamed milk onto his finger and blew hard. The dollop flew off and landed in a quivering blob on the table in front of her.

  She pressed her lips together and glared at him. “I’m not a weakling, Peter.”

  “I never said you’re weak. I said you’re soft. You’d only be hurt by someone like him – badly hurt.” Peter leaned forward over the table to get his point across even more insistently. “He’s not for you.”

  Tressa did her best to avoid Peter’s eyes after that. Soon they finished their coffee and left the shop to make their way together down the street, talking very little, until they reached the spot where Peter had parked his car outside her apartment building.

  Before he drove away to his day job at the high school, Peter made her agree to travel with him to Boston as soon as a trip could be arranged. Luke had some hunches about the Operation, he explained, and if those hunches were right, then the three of them were in more trouble than Tressa could imagine.

  Alone, Tressa climbed the front steps to the entrance of her building. She felt more worried than ever, for Luke’s hunches were so often right.

  All that afternoon, Tressa’s busy round of duties at the hospital kept her from dwelling on her fears. But when her shift ended, her worries returned to haunt her, stronger than ever.

  When she arrived back home, she cast a searching glance around the living room, hoping to find that Holt had returned. But the room was empty.

  Her phone rang, and she answered it quickly, thinking the caller would be Peter with some news. But it was only a friend from the hospital who wanted to chat. Preoccupied with her worries, Tressa couldn’t keep her mind on the call and before long, she made an excuse and hung up.

  After picking at some leftovers for dinner, she curled up on the sofa and tried to read, but her thoughts wouldn’t settle. Was Holt awake, yet? Was he resting at his place, too feverish to leave? Where was his place, anyway?

  She might be able to find out, if only she had the courage to take matters into her own hands. Steadying herself with a deep breath, she set aside the book she had been trying to read and found her car keys.

  Before long, she was driving down the main thoroughfare of the riverfront district. Turning onto a side street, she parked behind the courtyard where she and Holt had sat and sipped wine together. Stepping out onto the curb, she eyed the tall hedge that enclosed the courtyard. From within came the murmur of voices as patrons dined at the small tables.

  For a long time, Tressa stood eyeing the dark gap in the hedge where Stix had emerged from the courtyard. But as the night wore on, fewer and fewer pedestrians passed down the side street and Tressa knew that she’d have to give up and leave before she was completely alone.

  Disappointed, she had just taken the first step back to her car when a voice spoke up from behind.

  “All by yourself, pretty girl?”

  Tressa whirled around to find that Stix was leaning against the brick wall of a building, his wiry arms crossed over his chest. Trying to control the revulsion she felt, she sent a swift glance up and down the street. When she spotted a pedestrian turning the corner, she knew it would be safe to remain. Stix would never attack her with a witness nearby.

  “Where’s Holt?” he purred.

  Tressa struggled to keep her voice steady. “That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  Stix stood up from the wall and slipped closer. “You came here looking for me?”

  “Yes. I wanted to find out if you know where Holt lives.”

  “Come with me, and I’ll show you,” His eyes darted across the street to gauge the progress of the pedestrian.

  Suddenly, Tressa felt a cloud of numbing power surge up around her thoughts. She pushed it away. “Just tell me.”

  Stix smiled darkly. “He’s not there, anyway.”

  Tressa drew in a swift breath. “How can you tell?”

  “It’s easy, when you know what to look for.” Stix ran his eyes over Tressa. “He’s gone and left you alone, pretty girl.”

  Stix sauntered even closer. Tressa dragged her eyes away from him long enough to see that the pedestrian had passed out of sight and the street was empty. She was alone with Stix.

  With a gasp, she brought out her keys and ran the last few steps to her car. Stix was instantly behind her. He grasped her wrist with cold, strong fingers before she could unlock the door.

  Just then, footsteps sounded on the pavement as another pedestrian rounded the corner on their side of the street. A hiss of frustration sounded close to Tressa’s ear, and then the manacle of fingers was removed from her wrist.

  Shaking with the intensity of her relief, Tressa unlocked her car door and clambered into the driver’s seat.

  Above her on the curb, Stix murmured, “Go home, pretty girl. Go home and wait for me there.”

  Tressa slammed the door shut, locked it, and started the engine. As she pulled away from the curb, she saw Stix retreating into the shadows.

  She used her rearview mirror to check behind her as she drove off. The only figure to be seen on the street was the pedestrian whose presence had saved her. The middle-aged man was steadily making his way down the sidewalk when, suddenly, Stix materialized from the shadows and walked into his path. Filled with dismay, Tressa brought the car to a stop and put it into reverse.

  Backing up quickly, she reached the spot where she had last seen the pair, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  Stix must have mesmerized the man very quickly. But in the darkness, she had no way of telling where Stix had taken his victim.

  Tressa clamped her trembling lips together and drove on, trying very hard not to think about what must be happening to that pedestrian, somewhere out of sight.

  As for Stix, at least his urge to hunt for human prey would be gone. If the information in the Handbook was correct, it would be a week or more before his hunger returned.

  Maybe Stix wouldn’t try to break into her apartment tonight, after all.

  Tressa slept fitfully that night, waking often in the darkness of her bedroom, but no stray sounds from an unwanted visitor came to her ears.

  All the next day her mood remained low, but as she arrived home from the hospital just before sunset, her spirits lifted when she found a parcel in her mailbox. Spurred on by excitement, she quickly carried it upstairs.

  From force of habit she glanced about her living room as she entered, but as usual, there was no sign of Holt. Her apartment was empty.

  And it was as silent as a tomb. Not even the ticking of her old vintage clock broke the stillness, she realized with a little frown. Preoccupied as she had been with her worries, she had forgotten to wind it on schedule.

  Too excited about the package to wind the clock now, or even to change out of her uniform, she slipped off her shoes and curled up on the sofa. Opening the package, she slid out a used hardbound book with a burgundy cover. English Poets of the Romantic Era.

  Smiling, she opened it and skimmed the index. Then she quickly flipped through the volume to locate the first reference to Holt.

  Tragic Deaths

  Four of the most talented and inspired of all the poets writing during the Romantic Era died as young men, their voices prematurely silenced. In an odd and tragic quirk of history, their deaths occurred within
the space of a few short years.

  When the creative and innovative poet John Keats died in 1821 of tuberculosis after a long period of poor health, he was only 25 years old. Sadly, the development of an effective antibiotic cure for tuberculosis finally came in the 1920’s, a century too late to save him.

  Not long after the death of Keats, the celebrated poet Percy Shelley drowned in a sudden storm while sailing off the coast of Italy. It was the summer of 1822, and he was 29 years old. A poignant discovery was made when his body washed up on shore, for there was a book of poetry in his pocket: it was a volume of the last verses that had been published by his recently-deceased friend, John Keats.

  Two years later, the controversial poet Lord Byron died in the spring of 1824. The brooding author was 36 when he died in battle near the shores of the Aegean while lending his support to a force of Greek patriots.

  Another author preceded all these poets to the grave in 1820. Although his works have been largely forgotten in modern times, the poet and social critic John Holton Langley was well-known by his contemporaries. He was only 26 when he disappeared under mysterious circumstances while traveling north of London by stage. The news of his disappearance caused a sensation, for his body was never recovered. Eventually he was presumed dead, a victim of the ubiquitous highwaymen of that era.

  Tressa digested that last part briefly. She wondered if Holt himself had arranged for his own disappearance and the subsequent rumors.

  She consulted the index again and turned to the next reference, feeling a spurt of satisfaction run through her when she saw his name in the heading. Finally, she would have more answers to her many questions about Holt.

  John Holton Langley (b.1794 – d.1820)

  Langley was the author of numerous political pamphlets advocating land reform in rural England. Often embroiled in controversy, he was prompted by a wager with the poet Lord Byron to write a series of verses. These verses were subsequently published to wide acclaim. After Langley quelled a riot during a public debate on land reform, his reputation as the Fighting Pen was secured.