Darkness In The Flames (55 page)

Sidney sighed and realized the night was ended. A new day was dawning.

One that seemed rife with possibilities—but still contained one unanswered question.

Where was Thérèse?

*~*~*~*

Another man, far away from the shores of the Solent, was wondering the same thing. It was a question that was never far from his thoughts—never had been since he’d encountered her in Europe at that lovely estate with the musical name.
Rogaška
.

Just the sound of the word evoked memories of heat and passion and desire beyond comprehension. He’d given his soul to her that night, willingly surrendering to the lusts she aroused in him, fucking her for what had seemed like hours on end.

Only to be granted a taste of her body then deserted, left to survive as best he might. Left with little in the way of humanity and even less in the way of tolerance for mortal pursuits. Women held his interest for a night at most, men offered different pleasures but were equally transitory. His vast holdings bored him. His estate purred along, needing only the occasional signature or two. Getting drunk wasn’t an option.

These days, or nights, only one thing could arouse his interest—a good game of cards.

He’d forced himself to accept the truth. Thérèse had stolen so much from him. His seed, his blood, his heartbeat and his mortality. And through some obscure twist of fate, she’d taken something else too.

His heart
.

TO BE CONTINUED

My Lady Vampire Anthology

Book Three - ROWAN

Author’s Note

My references to the atrocities committed against alleged witches in the Middle Ages are based on extensive—and very disturbing—research. There are records of many terrible crimes, based on ignorance and superstition—and not always toward women. Men were also accused of the Black Arts and suffered the same fate, although their role is a lesser one than that of their female counterparts who comprised about eighty percent of the accused victims.

Contrary to popular belief, prisoners found guilty of witchcraft were seldom burned at the stake. The usual punishment was hanging, followed by burning of the
corpse
. It was assumed this would ultimately destroy the evil that had allegedly possessed the “witch” before her death. According to the latest estimates, there were over a hundred thousand trials of “witches” and since many ended in executions, the numbers are staggering. Between 1450 and 1750 somewhere around sixty thousand witches were put to death in Europe. The last recorded witchcraft trial in England was in 1712—barely three hundred years ago.

Although we may consider ourselves civilized today, the business of witch-hunting
still
continues. Several African countries actively pursue “witches”, and executions are still resulting from such charges. As recently as 1999 a wave of hysteria swept Tanzania, causing the deaths of hundreds accused of witchcraft.

Whatever the social, economic or religious causes for these superstitions, it appears that man will always find a good reason to explore his savage nature and wreak havoc on others. Until something drastic occurs to alter our perceptions, such violence sadly remains part of humankind.

Prologue

Present-day England

Somewhere on the coast of Hampshire…

“You know, Gran, that’s one butt-ugly thing for an old lady to have hanging in her living room.”

“Who are you calling
old
, girl?”

Casey grinned. “Sorry. Slip of the tongue.” She stared at the massive sword mounted on a simple wood frame. “But still…”

Her grandmother pulled a blanket around her knees and tugged a little more yarn out of the bag beside her. “Show some respect. That sword goes back in our family for uncounted generations.”

Casey snorted. “Right. Some ancestor probably dug it up from a pile of muck in his back garden. Doesn’t look as if they cleaned it too well afterward, either.”

There was a murky patch of something embedded in the metal of the sword, dark and rusty, covering about nine or ten inches of the thing, staining the point and a portion of the blade. Casey shrugged, sending her red hair flying around her shoulders. “Different decorating tastes, I suppose.”

Her grandmother looked up from her knitting. “Doesn’t it make you think of knights or jousts? Handsome men on big horses claiming their brides from ancient castles?”

“Nope.” She turned away. “Makes me think of scouring pads and a good cleaner.”

“You’ve got no romance in your soul.”

“Hah.” Casey chuckled as she settled down next to her grandmother and poured another cup of tea for herself. “I have romance. Plenty of it.”

“I’m not talking about
that
kind of romance.” The needles clicked against each other. “I’m talking about the kind that chills your soul and then stops your heart for a minute or two before it starts up again—
differently
.” She stopped knitting for a moment. “The kind where people would die for each other, or kill for each other, to be together. The kind…” She wrinkled her nose. “Oh hell, if I have to explain it…”

“You mean you and Grandpa…” Casey paused.

“Damn no, not us. We just had your plain old ordinary romance. A good one, mind you, no question. But not
that
type of passion.”

Casey snuggled in to the corner of the couch. “So tell me.”

“You won’t believe a word of it. And I’m not sure it’s right for your young ears.”

Casey rolled her eyes. “Good lord, Gran. I’m almost twenty-three. I’m
not
, no matter what Mum says, a virgin. It’s hard to shock me. Remember I’m going to med school next year. When you’re pre-med or taking any courses along those lines it’s hard after a while to be shocked by
anything
, come to think of it.”

The old woman gazed at Casey over the rim of her glasses, a speculative look that surprised Casey a little. She wasn’t used to such a sharply acute stare from her grandmother. There must be something
more
to this tale than a simple family history.

“Go on, Gran. Tell me? I’m here for a few days to relax and spend time with my dearest grandma. It’s the perfect time for you to share the benefit of your years. Pass along those tales that have been handed down from generation to generation. Give me the chance to tell
my
grandkids someday.”

Gran lifted an eyebrow. “You’re going to be a doctor. You’ll have forgotten all about it by the time you have your own kids.”

“Gonna make me drag it out of you, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

“You’re a silver-haired demon.” Casey laughed. “Sent to torment me. Good thing I love you to bits.”

The needles resumed their clacking over the sound of an airplane as it took off from a distant airport and Casey smiled a little at the familiar sound. England was lovely at this time of year, green and soft, welcoming—just like her grandmother’s house. She was glad she’d come down here for a portion of her vacation. She felt at home in a comfortable sort of way and never more so when sitting like this—beside her grandmother—tucked into the ritual of afternoon tea, yummy cookies or
biscuits
as her Gran persisted in calling them—and listening to tales of the past.

They talked on the phone every week or so, but being here in person? This was very special.

“So this sword. It’s a broadsword, isn’t it? I saw something like it in the movies.” She encouraged the old woman to begin the story.

“At least you got that part right.” Gran sighed and folded her needles at last, wrapping the yarn around their tips and sticking them into a ball of wool. At some point a colorful scarf would emerge, probably then to be sent posthaste to Casey’s dorm and make her roommates green with envy.

Gran did fabulous knitting, no doubt about it.

“Soooo…” Casey urged her on. “It was carried by a forefather of ours. Into battle, maybe, where he did wonderful brave deeds and rescued the fair maiden from an evil baron who was holding her hostage, trying to have his wicked way with her. Oh, in a massive castle on a hilltop. Probably surrounded by…um…
Orcs
?”

“This isn’t
The Lord of the Rings
, darling.” Gran sniffed contemptuously. “This is much,
much
more.”

“Oh.” Casey put on a dramatic expression of disappointment. “No handsome elves or kings?”

“’Fraid not. Of course there were handsome
men
, quite a few of them, as I recall the tales. Our family is proud of its good-looking ancestors.”

“You’ve mentioned that a time or two.” Casey snickered.

“If you go into the second drawer down—there in the table next to you—you’ll find something. Go look.”

Casey delved into the small end table, opening the drawer and blinking at the small, framed painting she found within. Sensing it was an antique, she carefully withdrew it and rested it on her knee, turning on the lamp next to her so she could get a better look.

“They’re family.” Gran knitted on.

Two people stared somberly back at Casey, faces serene and expressionless in that typical way of portraits. A man, handsome and masculine, dark hair pulled correctly back but shining where the artist had caught tiny flickers of light amidst the waves.

It was the woman next to him who really jumped from the small canvas. Her rich red hair fell free, unusual for a portrait of that time, cascading down past her shoulders. It glowed against the deep emerald green gown she wore which was caught high up under the breasts. Casey recognized the style. “God, this is brilliant, Gran. Too
Jane Austen
for words. What a handsome couple. Who were they?”

“I told you. Your ancestors, luv.”

“
Really
?” Casey continued to stare at the couple.

“It’s the only portrait we have of them. They lived hereabouts in the early 1800s—in what used to be a big place a bit farther down the coast. Sadly it took a direct hit in 1940 or so from a German bomber. Nothing left these days but a few ruins. Real shame that was.”

“I’ll bet.” She paused. “Anybody killed?”

“No, the place had been empty for years. After those two left—” Gran nodded at the painting, “it stayed empty for a while, then other folks moved in. Folks from another branch of the family. It sort of slid into disrepair by the turn of the century. There were all kinds of stories about it being haunted and the like, so people tended to stay away. You know how these legends get started.”

Casey looked up. “Haunted?”

“No truth in it. The hauntings were long over by then.”

“Ah. So there
were
hauntings, though?”

“At one point, so they say.” Gran looked speculative. “I’m not sure how true it all is. But you’ve got her hair, that’s for sure.”

Casey glanced at the woman again. “Yeah. I do, I guess. Who is she? Or who was she?”

“They, my dear, are your great-great and so on something-or-others. Adrian and Katherine Chesswell.”

Casey blinked. “Really?
Chesswells
? Wow.”

“And if what they say is correct, Adrian’s father would be very proud to think you’re going into the medical profession.” Gran smiled.

“He was a doctor too?”

“Not exactly. He was a scientist. Some of his papers are still on file at the Royal Academy, I think. In London someplace. They
never
throw stuff out. You can probably find them on that fancy laptop computer of yours. Not much left private these days.”

Casey chuckled. It was true. There were still records from the twelfth century or thereabouts, stacked in precious piles of dust somewhere deep in the recesses of ancient London buildings.

“But it didn’t begin with them.” Gran looked across the room to the wall that held the broadsword. “It began with another red-haired woman.”

Casey listened as the light faded outside, enclosing the two of them in a world of their own. Now perhaps she would hear the full story.

“It began with the woman whose blood still stains that sword.”

The words sent a chill up Casey’s spine and she followed her grandmother’s gaze to the darkness on the blade. “That’s
blood
?”

“Yes, my dear.
Hers
.” Grandmother Chesswell took a deep breath and began her tale.

“Her name was
Thérèse
…”

Chapter One

A gentlemen’s gaming club

London, 1817

Marcus Camberley gazed across the green baize of the card table at his opponent. This faro game had been going on for hours, fortunes moving backward and forward across the cards spread out before the players.

Now there were just two left—himself and Rowan Selkirk.

“Your bet, I believe?” Marcus drawled the words into the quiet, never looking away from the beautiful young man on the other side of the deck. Marcus held the “bank” and waited patiently for the other to decide which of the cards he’d select to play.

Selkirk’s pile of banknotes was substantial and Marcus suddenly
knew
he was going to play it all on this turn.

Unusually dark eyes lifted to his as his pale hand pushed the entire pile onto the ace of spades. It was a major gamble, a challenge to the Fates and to Marcus’ own fortune. The latter was not a problem. Marcus had enough wealth accumulated to cover all his expenses, no matter whether he won or lost.