Heart of the Vampire

by Guida, ML

  Heart of the Vampire

  ML Guida

  Buffalo Mountain Press

  Copyright © 2019 by ML Guida

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Excerpt of Mate of the Vampire

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Also by ML Guida

  Foreword

  Hello readers!

  Heart of the Vampire was formerly known as A Pirate’s Agony.

  It’s loosely based on Annie Palmer, the White Witch of Rose Hall in Jamaica.

  Annie Palmer was born in Haiti and practiced black magic. She married John Palmer. The rumor was that she killed not only John, but two other husbands.

  She tortured the slaves at Rose Hall and even took some of them as lovers. Eventually, the slaves revolted and murdered Annie.

  This book does contain violence and does not hide the brutality of slavery, but Amadi is captured by a woman similar to Annie Palmer. However, don’t worry. He does get his happily ever after.

  Chapter 1

  London, January 1671

  Violet Perdue’s stepfather dragged her by the arm upstairs to their flat. His fingers dug into her tender flesh.

  She twisted and kicked at his shins. “What is the matter with you? I have to go to work. One of us has to work.”

  He shoved her inside and locked the door behind him. He panted hard. His rum breath huffed into her face.

  Violet gagged. She slammed her fist down onto his wrist. “Unhand me, you ogre.”

  His eyes went wild. “They’re after me!” His voice was suspicious.

  Was he hearing things again? “No one is after you.” She didn’t have time for him. She was supposed to be at the bakery working, not playing nanny to Art’s delusion.

  “They’re after me, Lucy. You’ve got to lie and tell ’em I’m not here.”

  Violet’s heart ricocheted against her chest. Blood thundered between her temples. Oh, no. He’d called her Lucy, her mother’s name. She had to convince him she was Violet. Bad things happened when he thought she was Lucy.

  She cleared her throat. “Art, I’m not Lucy.”

  Her throat tightened, and she swallowed back the hollowness of not having her mother around. She missed her. The world was lonelier, colder, sadder without her.

  “What the hell are you talkin’ about? You’re my wife.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m Violet. Remember?”

  He shoved her hard, and she slammed into the wall. Sweet Jesus, he was dipping into madness, a madness that could send her back to the hospital.

  “Art, I’m not Lucy. I’m Violet.” Her mother had told her to remain calm when Art took a turn for the worse. That’s what she’d called it—a turn for the worse. More like a turn into hell.

  “No, you’re not. You can lie. Violet can’t lie.” He spat on the ground. “Your daughter has gotten me into trouble one too many times.” He paced in front of the door. There’d be no way she could escape.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  Her mother had said to repeat his name and her name until he came to his senses. But if his eyes narrowed, he licked his lips, and he spoke his words backward, her mother sent Violet out of the flat. Fast.

  She’d said Art was too dangerous to be around her little girl. Violet didn’t know what Mother did, but when she returned, Art would be back to normal.

  But Mother was gone. ’Twas only her. Alone with a man who could kill her.

  “Art, I need you to calm down and listen to me. Look at me.” She fingered a strand of her hair. “I’m Violet. See, I have red hair. Mother had black hair.”

  He bunched his eyebrows, and confusion flashed into those crazy eyes. For a moment, his eyebrows relaxed. He shook his head, as if to knock out the madness.

  When he stopped, her hope died. The madness had won.

  He raised his fist and a look she hadn’t seen before came over his face. A look that froze her blood.

  “Don’t lie to me. I don’t have time to argue with you. Er’yeht retfa em.”

  Violet’s heart raced around her rib cage, and her insides shook like an out of control rocking chair. Sweet Mother of Joseph. He was talking gibberish—saying his words backward.

  She was in trouble, real trouble.

  She edged to the kitchen to keep distance between them. She could control him when he was acting like a leering pig, like when he invited her to his bed. But she couldn’t control him when he acted like a rabid warthog. She grabbed the skillet off the stove. If he as much as tried to kiss her cheek, she’d hit him in the head.

  Sleeping in front of the hearth was safer, especially with the skillet in her hand.

  But now he was in control—murdering control. What had her mother done to calm him? She never told Violet the secret.

  Art charged. She raised the skillet over her head, ready to swing.

  But he brushed past her. “I need a weapon. A gun.”

  She gripped the skillet tight. “We don’t have any guns.”

  He snapped his fingers and licked his lips, then ripped open the pantry door. “Erehw did ouy edih eht snug?”

  Her heart battered against her ribs, making her breathe fast and hard. His words were backward again. And he was accusing her. If he didn’t like her answers, he’d hurt her.

  “Art, we don’t have any guns. No one’s after you. You’re safe.”

  He ran to the kitchen window and peeked out as if he feared devils would jump in and drag him to Bethlem. He’d been locked in the hospital several times after attacking Violet for not lying to the creditors. When he was like this, he’d forget she couldn’t lie. He’d beaten her so badly she couldn’t work. Tiny chills rolled over her tightened skin. She edged close to the door, ready to run if he lunged.

  “On. I ees meht.” He stood taller, then jumped back from the window. He shoved her into the wall then ran into the bedroom.

  “Who are you seeing?” Mother of mercy. He was getting worse, much worse. She needed to get out of here before he hurt her again.

  Hoping he’d stay in the bedroom, she clutched her shawl tight and crept toward the front door. Still holding the skillet in case he sneaked up behind her, she reached for the doorknob.

  Someone pounded on the door hard.

  Violet jumped back and put her hand to her throat as if to keep her tumbling stomach from leaping out of her open mouth.

  The doorknob rattled. “Denham? Open up. We know you’re in there, you worthless cur.”

  Someone had been chasing Art. Mother of God. ’Twas Thomas Wilkson.

  Damn it! Art had gambled money, money they didn’t have—her money. Couldn’t Thomas see Art was sick? No. He wouldn’t care. He wanted his money. Now.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  The rotted oak door wouldn’t hold. ’Twas a matter of deep breaths before Violet would be fighting for her life, fighting for her sick stepfather not to have his face carved
out like a gourd.

  She held the skillet up over her head.

  “You’ll be sorry if I have to come in there, ye gamblin’, thievin, whorin’ bastard. Pay up, or I’ll gut you like a squealing pig. ”

  The voice struck fear in Violet’s heart.

  Her throat seized. She’d seen Thomas mark men, for not paying their gambling debts. He’d slice their faces into a slow and painful, bloody mess.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  The door buckled as if an angry bull charged it. Wood splintered. One good shove, and it would give way.

  Her stomach twisted into a butterfly knot, ready to fly away. She touched her cheek, not wanting to be scarred, to be wrongly punished, to be a freak. She thought about grabbing a knife, but all the damn knifes were dull while Thomas’s would be sharp. Deadly sharp.

  Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

  She faced the door. Her heart beat as hard and loud as the wild thumps. She’d never killed anyone before, but she was ready to fight, ready to battle, ready to kill.

  “Fine,” a gruff voice said. “One.”

  Whomp.

  More wood splintered.

  Sweat trickled into Violet’s eyes.

  “Two.”

  She raised the skillet over her shoulder and clamped her jaw tight. Stay focused. Stay calm.

  Whomp.

  The door cracked.

  “Three.”

  The door busted open.

  Violet screamed.

  Two men barged into the flat.

  She tightened her grip on the skillet. It would be like swatting a wooden spoon at two snarling wolves. But at least the skillet was a weapon.

  Thomas flashed his gaze over her. “Put that down. We want your father. We’re not here to hurt you.” He scanned the flat. “Unless you lie.”

  Malice glittered in his eyes. Her throat tightened, and fear blurred her vision. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

  Harvey took a step toward her. “Now, tell us where the crazy bastard is.” His voice was too squeaky for a man his size. He might talk like a creaky floorboard, but with one hand, he could break a man’s neck.

  Disgust swirled in her gut. She found her voice. Her father wasn’t crazy. “Art Denham is not my father. He’s my stepfather.”

  Thomas walked into the tiny kitchen and opened the kitchen pantry. “We saw him dart in here. I’m not going to ask again.” His voice was low, too low.

  The hair on the back of Violet’s neck turned stiff. He could do violence, had done violence. A frying skillet was not going to keep him from slicing her face.

  “He’s not here,” she blurted.

  The dreaded burning sensation immediately stained her left cheek.

  Thomas’s brows muddied. “What’s wrong with your face?”

  “Nothing.” The itchiness spread down her throat.

  Thomas stalked her.

  She backed into the wall, wishing she could dart out of the flat. But they blocked her escaped. She was trapped. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Thomas folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “He’s not worth protectin’.”

  The understatement of White Chapel. She tilted her chin. “I’m not lying.” The stinging intensified on her cheek and throat. Damn it! She wanted to itch it, but she couldn’t lower the skillet.

  “I swear…,” she said. “He’s not…” She groaned. Hot welts spread down her arms. Fiery red blotches broke out on her hands.

  Thomas laughed and shook his head. “You’re a bonny lass. Is this worthless bum worth all this pain? He’d hand you over to a debtor’s prison before you could say Hail to the King.”

  Harvey’s eyes widened. “Blimey, you’re turning into a red-skinned doll.”

  Before she knew what was happening, Thomas seized her arm. She slammed the skillet into his arm. He growled and knocked the skillet out of her hand. He shook her. Her teeth rattled.

  “Listen wench.” He whipped out his blade. “You lie to me, and I promise you’ll scream in agony.”

  Violet tried to speak, but she only squeaked. Her wide eyes followed Thomas’ knife. Her heart banged harder and harder. Blood soared through her veins. She wished she’d pass out. Let them find Art. She didn’t care.

  He gestured at Harvey. “Search the place.”

  A crash in the bedroom brought smiles to the two men. Thomas tilted his head. “Get him.”

  Harvey marched down the hallway. What the hell was Art doing?

  “On, yevarh,” her stepfather said. “Enola em evael.”

  “What’s he babbling about?” Thomas shook her.

  “He’s mad. He’s not responsible for what he does.” She didn’t know why she was protecting Art, but all she wanted was for these two brutes to leave.

  Harvey dragged Art out of the bedroom. Art slapped Harvey’s hands as if he were a scared a little boy about to get a spanking. He deserved a spanking.

  Harvey shoved Art toward them. “Where’s the money, varmint?”

  “Yna evah tnod I,” Art said.

  “What’s he saying?” Thomas demanded.

  “He’s says we don’t have any money,” Violet said. Since she told the truth, the blotches faded on her hands.

  Thomas shoved the knife back into its sheath. “I don’t believe you.”

  “’Tis the truth. I work at the bakery. I’ll pay you what we owe. I promise.” She yammered fast, not knowing how she could fulfill this promise. Her wages barely paid for the flat, let alone gambling debts.

  Art squirmed like a rat trying to get out of a trap.

  Harvey twisted Art’s arm. “Harry says we need to bring back the money. This lout can’t pay us back.”

  Art spoke more gibberish. Violet didn’t care what he said. ’Twas his fault her life was being threatened. Why couldn’t they take him away?

  Harvey flashed his gaze over her. Her skin recoiled at his leer. Bile boiled in her gut. Sweet Mary, now she was going to be raped. Damn, Art. She hated him.

  “Shut up, Harvey.” Thomas stared at Violet then let go of her arm. “The lass doesn’t deserve such a hard life.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  “Obviously, the lass can’t tell a lie. I’ve got another idea.”

  She didn’t like the icy look in Thomas’ eyes. Ever since she’d been little, she’d been able to read people’s souls. Souls were like a flimsy gaze, and if a person lied, the pure white changed colors. Black meant the person didn’t know the difference between the truth and a lie, like Art.

  Thomas lifted her chin. His touch was surprisingly gently. He could easily snap her neck. “Art can’t bring us the money. And our boss Harry won’t wait for your bleeding coinage from the bakery. I know my quarrel isn’t with you.”

  “But—” The word escaped her pressed lips. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he wanted the money Art owed them.

  “I won’t sell you to Harvey. But I need my money.” His cold voice sent chills down her back.

  She wet her lips. “What are you going to do?”

  “Tomorrow, a ship sails for indentured servants, and you’ll be on it. I know someone who will pay a high price for your ability.”

  Her heart dropped to her toes. Not caring if Thomas hurt her, she slapped him across the face. “No! You can’t do this to me.”

  He didn’t flinch, but his syrupy smile turned her insides into creamed porridge. “Aye, I can.”

  He lifted her over his shoulders and carried her out of the flat. Her heart hammered stronger and stronger. Blood pounded in between her ears, blocking out all reason.

  Her Freedom. ’Twas being stolen.

  She twisted her body and pounded her fists on his broad back.

  Now, she knew what was worse than being beaten and raped. Tomorrow, she’d be a slave.

  Chapter 2

  Caribbean, June 1671

  Amadi hung on to the halyards to hoist the flapping sail. Angry waves crashed against the Soaring Phoenix like
battering rams. Water rushed over the deck and splashed onto his calves and boots. “Hang on, men!”

  Men groaned around him as they struggled to hold onto the rope. Amadi’s palm burned as it slipped. Rain pelted against him, stinging his skin, blurring his vision. The loud thunder, flapping sails, and howling wind blocked out the cries of the men. Fuming black clouds blocked out the stars and the waning moon. ’Twas as if Maketabori, God of the Underworld himself, had unleashed his fury.

  His captain, Kane O’Brien, gripped the wheel with his legs spread apart. Amadi’s loyalty to the man had no bounds. Because of him, he was a free man.

  “I need you to unfurl the rugged sails,” Kane yelled. “She’s trying to broach. The waves will tear her apart.”

  Amadi had to strain to hear his order. “Aye, Cap’n.”

  The cap’n tilted his head. “We’ve got to make port to ride out this storm or crash against the rocks.”

  Lightning sizzled overhead and illuminated Saint Kitt’s familiar rocky cliffs. The ship was closer than Amadi anticipated. If the cap’n could steer away from the jagged coral reef…

  He climbed the slick rigging that swung side-to-side. A halyard swung lose and slapped him in the face. He yelled and slipped. He dangled like a flopping fish. As he struggled to hang on to the rope, pain burned in his over-stretched arms. The damn rope cut and scratched his palms. Ignoring the pain, he gritted his teeth, tightened his grip, then by sheer force of will, swung his feet into the rigging. He bowed his head to shield himself and caught his breath.

  Thunder rumbled. Rain pelted harder and harder. The Phoenix sailed closer to the deadly reef that had sunk ships and claimed hundreds of sailors.

  With his last remaining strength, he crawled up the rigging until he reached the top of the swaying mast. Below, waves battered against the hull and water sloshed up on deck, threatening to pull men out to sea. The Phoenix swayed back and forth, getting closer and closer to turning onto its side. Amadi forced himself to edge across the footropes under the yard to unfurl the small, rugged, sail. Below, the cap’n struggled to hang on to the spinning wheel.