“Ever since Viktor—” She pressed her lips. “It has become Father's one goal that I should marry... Me, marry! Imagine that!”
I rubbed my neck as I tried to envision such a picture. “Mrs. Alisa Price,” I mused. “A wealthy woman no doubt, living in a large estate... with lots and lots of Fatty children. I think not.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
She moved closer to the bed and kneeled before me, her warm hands reaching for mine.
“When you were ill, you said something…” She paused, pondering her next words. “I don’t suppose you would remember, but you spoke of the goddess, of Diana, and the vow she made…”
“I—I don’t remember…” But of course, I did.
A smile of demure rose from her lips as her gaze drifted downwards, but her hands held me fast.
“I promise you one thing, Ivan,” she said with a resolute voice, her shimmering eyes locked with my expectant gaze. “As long as there’s a spark of wit in my brain, I shall never marry. And you and I may be devoted to each other for the rest of our lives if you would have it so.”
My lips moved but no words came through. A ray of happiness broke into my soul’s festering obscurity when I heard her promise. Had I had any intentions of living, I would have agreed to it, and I would have said it had not a thousand words built up in my throat and hindered my tongue from speaking. A simple nod would have to be enough.
Another shy smile of hers told me she understood. And the minute she removed her hands from mine I finally breathed once more.
“I take it you have already refused him, then?” I said, thinking every second how stupid I was for asking such a question.
Amused, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Have you not heard my refusal? Father scolded me before the entire service!”
“Oh, that,” I said. “I did hear it, quite clearly.”
How was it that I had immersed myself in Alisa's world? A few hours ago, I cared for nothing and no one. But now that I thought about it, it was the exact opposite. All I cared for was me and my pain. Steering my attention away from my own troubles seemed to bring ease to my spirit.
“Any other news?” I asked, eager to put my theory to the test.
“Let me think...” She sat on the bed, near the footboard. Alisa let her hair down and began braiding it. “Oh, yes. Last night, before serving dinner, Cook fainted.”
“She fainted?”
Alisa nodded and finished her long braid which she tied up with a blue ribbon, cobalt blue, as her gown's fabric. The color matched her eyes.
“Cook was about to serve dinner—remember that porridge? The one she used to make for us when we were taken ill as children?”
I nodded. How could I forget that horrible porridge? Its foulness remained legendary in our household.
“I believe she fed me that for the pure spite of it for years...” I mused.
“I know.” Alisa hinted a devilish smile. “I might have had a hand in that... sorry, Ivan.”
My eyes widened as I learned of her long-kept secret. But my reproach would have to wait as I was interested to hear the rest of Cook's story.
“So, she was about to serve dinner and...?”
“Well, that was it. She never made it to the table... Fell flat on the ground before leaving the kitchen.”
“Then what happened?” I leaned forward.
“Mother lost her wits!” She waved her hands in the air describing Mother's furious outburst. “She was sure Cook had the plague!”
The Plague. Now, this aroused my interest.
“And did she...?” I asked. Perhaps the answer to my misery had arrived.
Death, my old friend. You have come to take me with you.
“She did not. It was food poisoning. Mother discovered she had hidden a large chunk of cheese in the kitchen, for her private pleasure... Cook's gone now.”
I leaned even closer to her, my hands landed on the mattress. “Gone as in... dead?”
Alisa drew close to my face as if she were about to make a great revelation. “Gone as in... Mother threw her out onto the street.”
“Ah.” How disappointing. So, I guess I will not meet my end in the arms of the Black Death... But who knew? The plague was striking all across England, it could still make it to this little town.
Then it hit me. Why had I not thought of it before?
The strategic seclusion which once promised to put out the light of my life did little to expose me to the many perils of my time. If I truly wanted my torment to end, I had to do something about it. I had to leave this room and step into the world with open arms, willing to receive whatever curse this town had to offer as my much-deserved punishment.
Here I come Mother Nature, choose wisely this time!
Without uttering another word, I stood up, gathered my hair into a low ponytail and walked out of the room, leaving my beloved sister astounded.
As I moved downstairs, I realized the transformation our home had suffered in the last weeks. The rooms seemed dead. And by this, I mean they remained exactly as I remembered them, only dimmer. The old parlor kept its green velvet-lined seats arranged before the lighted chimney. A soft gray veil covered every piece of furniture. It was as if a layer of dust had touched every surface, but of course, the house was clean. This was different.
It was the stillness of life.
Nevertheless, I followed my plan. I would open the front door and deliver my body to the pits of unholy living. Tainted as I already was, I saw no reason to keep a sinless lifestyle–not that morals had ever stopped me before from the occasional mischief.
My disheveled appearance caused me little concern. I am who I am. I wrapped my hand around the door's handle, not knowing where my steps would lead me; but before I opened it, something caught my eye.
It was a presence I knew. There, in the parlor. A pressing sense of hurry pushed me to abandon the house, but I had to see him. It could no longer be averted. I released the door handle from my grip.
A deep breath before taking that first step scarcely helped to ease my mind.
I tucked in my shirt and straightened its laced collar. Fortunately, I wore my black closed-knee suit and I wouldn't seem such a scoundrel to him. And still, I knew my appearance was beneath Father's standards. He would not like it at all. But never mind that, I was already standing on the parlor's threshold.
The scent of burning wood penetrated my nostrils violently as I stepped inside. The crackling sounds of the hearth gave me little comfort, my heart grew unsteady. I could not quite see him. The chair faced the chimney full front, but he knew I stood there, behind him. In silence, I expected him to call me near; however, he did not.
He remained in that chair, unmoved by my presence.
I dared to take a couple of steps further and finally caught a glimpse of his profile. Father's eyes pierced that chimney as if he was reading an inscription beyond its flames.
Would I venture into speaking without his permission? Would he slap my face again if I did?
Nothing could be worse than his silence. His lack of acknowledgment of my presence made me feel like a ghost, like an unwanted specter in my own home.
After taking a few more steps, I knelt by his side.
“Father... I am sorry.” I am sorry I did not kill the red fox. I am sorry I did nothing to help my brother crawl out of those freezing waters. I am sorry I had the wit to set free from my cloak and surge out of the lake... I am sorry I lived, and Viktor died.
He did not move.
I felt the warmth of tears gathering in my eyes. My mouth went dry. I could not weep, not in front of my father.
An invisible hand pressed my throat as I spoke.
“I know nothing can ever bring him back. But believe me when I tell you, I would take his place in the grave if I could... I would give you back your son.”
“If only you could... but you cannot,” he said in a low inexpressive voice.
His answer paralyzed my
breath.
Viktor meant the world to him. He carried the family's good name; the eldest son, the heir. At twenty years of age, his precious perfect child had turned into a strong and astute man. No more than a year ago, Viktor had taken part in Father's business and excelled at its management. It came naturally to him... Indeed, Father had high hopes for him.
And me? I was nothing; a feeble boy of sixteen who cared nothing for Father's business. All I truly wanted was to enjoy every minute of my life because the clock was ticking. I had already deceived Death on many an occasion and I knew it would not wait forever.
I was the son who laughed in the face of peril, the one who gave little care for the future, who spent days dreaming of traveling far beyond the gates of our home and never looking back.
I was the lesser son.
“How right you are, Father. I can never give you back your son,” I mused. “I can only endeavor to become a better son for you, knowing full well I will never live up to Viktor's standards.”
Father turned and glanced at my face for the first time. His watering reddened eyes held back the tears as he pierced me with the contempt of his gaze. He pursed his lips, containing who knows how many words. He gripped the chair's arm tight before speaking.
“You are no son of mine,” he said. “Now leave, boy. Let me be!”
I opened my eyes.
It was all a bad dream, a horrible nightmare.
My brother lived. Somehow, they had rescued him; they had pulled him out of the lake and he had survived. And my parents bore me no ill will, a simple reprimand had sufficed and everything had returned as it was once.
All is well in the world.
The rhythmic warmth of her breath landed on my neck.
Where am I?
My head was throbbing with pain.
The stench of dirty rags and the foulness in the air brought me to my senses. I turned and saw her face, delicate and gentle. A touch of rouge tinged her plump lips and her long mane of blond hair scarcely concealed her large dreamy eyes.
I had seen her many times. She was the butcher's daughter, a young and fair girl of seventeen. Apparently, I had lain with her early in the afternoon. I must have been drunk because I remembered very little of our encounter... Too bad.
It was pitch-dark and my head was about to explode. I rose from the bed and gathered my clothes from the cold floor. I dressed with haste and took one last look at her exquisite bare body before leaving the room.
As I strode along the dirt road that led to my home, the harshness of reality seeped into my brain.
All is not well. The nightmare is real. Viktor did die, and I am to blame for it.
I pushed the door open and entered the house.
In the parlor, Mother was sitting by the hearth, knitting wool. Father sat in the chair opposite hers, reading his paper. They heard the heavy door close behind me but did not acknowledge my presence. I climbed up the stairs wondering how long would my parents' punishment last. It seemed it would never end.
I stopped before entering my room.
The wooden floorboards creaked behind me. The noise came from the room across mine, Alisa's bedroom. I turned and caught a glimpse of her cobalt eyes peering through the door's crevice; they widened as she noticed me staring back and then disappeared.
I locked the bedroom door behind me.
The day Viktor died, my parents died with him. They became soulless creatures whose lives were governed by inertia. They cared about nothing—I will rephrase that: they cared nothing about me. I soon became a phantom that haunted their house, ate their food and slept in their rooms. The day my father disowned me was the last day we ever spoke.
“It could have been worse,” I said to myself. “They could have thrown me on the street as Mother did with Cook.” She hid their precious cheese, but I killed their precious son. It could have been much worse.
No matter what I did—good or bad—my parents remained detached, distanced from me. I became invisible to their eyes the moment I dared to survive and Viktor perished in that lake.
But becoming a ghost came as a blessing.
Ghosts have no conscience, have they?
For years, I did as I pleased. I wandered away from home whenever I wanted. I gambled and got drunk almost daily at Father's expense. I had my way with many young women and broke many hearts as I searched for oblivion between their lustful arms and sensuous kisses. But in the end—when the wine was expelled from my body, when the game was finished, win or lose, and once I had released my passion into the heavenly body of my latest conquest—I was left with uneasiness. A dark void was eating my entrails in a slow, painful feast that appeared to have no end... but the worst of it all was the voice.
The voice became my personal torment, its loud words echoing in my brain, compelling me to look into my mind's eye and witness, again and again, the horrid scenes pertaining to the death of my brother.
The wretched voice fed on my despair. And if that were not enough, it terminated any shred of happiness I dared to achieve as it resounded in my skull.
You killed your brother, Ivan. You are a killer.
Nothing could silence that voice—nothing but wine. That precious red liquid saved me more than once from this particular hell of mine.
I blew out the candle on my bedside table. Shadows engulfed the room. And in the darkness, it came.
“Welcome back, tormenting voice.”
4
The Roads to Pleasure and Perdition
Dawn's first rays tinged the sky when I walked out of the establishment. No sooner had the signs of my drunkenness started to wear off than I had already taken hold of another bottle of wine.
Numbed beyond my senses, that is how I wanted to stay—and how I had managed to stay in the last eight years.
Bristol opened its eyes to a new day. The first squawking of seagulls reminded me how close I was to the quay.
“Ivan...,” she said, and her voice was pristine as the chiming of a silver bell. By the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of her sensuous body leaned against the door's jamb, “you forgot something...”
I smiled and turned. “Did I?” I said. “And what would that be, dearest Brigitte?”
What more could she want?
With sluggish steps, I moved closer to her and yielded my body's weight against the door frame as well. My eyes lingered on her wavy auburn hair and rosy cheeks, pale freckles and pink lips.
A pair of lovers, we seemed. A lady and his betrothed, meeting at the break of day, exchanging furtive glances and saying their farewells, unwilling to part from each other's arms... However dearly I cared for this image, it could not be further from the truth. She was no more a lady than I was a nobleman. Reality seeped through the veil of illusion; she was a French courtesan of London's Rosemary Lane and I was no more than a paying consumer of her service.
I had paid in full before spending the night with her. What could I possibly owe her?
“Well...?” I whispered.
She pressed something into my hand. It was round and metallic, and as soon as I figured what she had done, I shook my head.
“No, no, no...” I mused.
Two gold coins. The two guineas I had given her the night before.
“Have I done something to displease you?” I had to ask. Why else would she return the money to me?
Brigitte's green eyes shimmered for an instant and half a smile drew on her face.
“You’re much mistaken,” she said. “This is too much, Ivan.”
“You are worth every shilling, my dear...” I mused as I slid the money back into her hand.
“Well, in that case,” she opened her lace-gloved hand and took a coin, “you get one guinea too...” Brigitte winked.
As much as I could, I contained the sudden impulse of laughter that assaulted me. I only refrained from it because she might have taken offense, and misjudge my blissful reaction for that of scorn.
I took the money and slipped it int
o my pocket. A wave of warmth rushed to my face, and I laughed under my breath. All in all, I found myself flattered by someone whose professional experience outshined mine.
“God!” I said as I stepped away from the tavern's entrance. “I love Bristol!” I waved my hands in the air, without ever losing sight of the wine.
Brigitte's laughter, crisp and natural, resonated as my steps led me away from the house that had seen more of me in the last few days than my own home.
The vanity of her praise gave me a reason to smile. But as I smiled, the ephemeral quality of my happiness soon became transparent.
Dearest Brigitte, you were right to give me half the earnings, for you and I are equals... Both of us carry more sins on our own than one man alone could bear.
A few feet away from reaching the harbor, I poured the last drops of wine down my throat. Its bitter taste filled my mouth and left it dry.
People gathered on the wharf in unhurried crowds as they prepared for the day's activities. Sailors and merchants readied their vessels before engaging in their journeys; along the quay's main road, men pulled wheel carts packed with dozens of barrels, and children played by the shoreline amongst old wooden crates and the remnants of a long-forgotten boat.
A pair of youths caught my eye as I wandered off the dock. Brothers, by the looks of it.
The eldest boy unhinged an old boat's carcass from the muddy ground and pushed it into the shore.
“Hurry, Danny!” he said as he waved his hand high in the air. “Get in!”
The younger boy, Danny, must have been six or seven years old. His brother's command caused him enough hesitation to hold his steps before reaching the boat; but at last, he obeyed and hopped into the small floating vessel. He got a good launch into the river from his brother and within seconds, the boat drifted farther from the shoreline.
Far away from them, I followed their games.
“Hide the treasure, Danny!” the boy screamed as he dipped his feet into the water and tossed him a small velvet pouch. “Hurry!”
Written in Blood: A New Adult Vampire Romance Novella, Part One. (The Unnatural Brethren Book 1) Page 4
