Legends of Havenwood Falls 2

by Belinda Boring

  I gasped for air, my chest struggling to drag in enough oxygen to compensate for the violence. My stomach screamed from my muscles being roughly contracted.

  It took everything I had to stand, staggering slightly as the world began to spin. Unable to take my eyes away from the body, I suddenly realized that I’d lingered too long.

  With the alley open at both ends, a channel between two streets, it was only a matter of time before someone else would seek to use it. I had to flee. I couldn’t be found here . . . not like this.

  I’d made it a mere two steps before a hysterical shriek pierced the air.

  Panic blasted through me as the scream evolved into guttural sobbing, revealing two strangers. One of the women threw herself to the ground and scooped Primrose up into her arms, pinning the now stiff body to her chest. Tears cascaded down her wrinkled cheeks.

  Words flew out of the older woman’s mouth in short spurts of some foreign language, one that sounded familiar. She wore a haunted expression, her hands frantically searching over the person I assumed was someone she knew and loved.

  She was feeling for the fatal wound.

  I stood transfixed, held tightly by the women’s grief. Chivalry screamed for me to go comfort her, but even I knew how badly this appeared. Her loved one was dead and there I stood—smeared with her blood.

  The other woman, much younger in appearance, maybe a sister or cousin, finally reached the spot of despair and flung her arms around the rocking figure. She added her sobs to the melee, and something within me jolted.

  I shouldn’t be watching this. This was too private, too intimate, and it wasn’t for me to witness.

  My traitorous foot crunched on discarded litter as I took a step away. The movement caused the air to suddenly silence as two pairs of tear-filled eyes snapped on me.

  Anguished.

  Wretched.

  Furious.

  Frozen by the honesty I couldn’t ignore, I willed myself to move, to break contact with the piercing gazes that scrutinized me. It wasn’t difficult to read the judgment filling their faces. They took everything in—my appearance, the blood, what I assumed was my guilt-stricken expression.

  The younger woman gasped as she made the sign of the cross, her hands trembling with strong emotion. Even though she was at a distance, the word mulo reached my ears.

  Death.

  That word. I knew it. It meant death.

  Pieces clicked together as my brief lover’s face flashed through my mind. Primrose had been my escort for the evening. I would’ve recognized her heritage, had I not been so fixated on bedding her.

  Guilt. Waves of guilt pulsed through my veins as memories finally surfaced.

  The spell that held me broke, and without thinking, I stepped forward, moving toward the women with my hands outstretched in a sign of submission. There was no denying my sense of survival begged me to run, but honor compelled me to stay. There were explanations to be made, questions to be answered, and somewhere amongst the emotions churning thickly in the air, I hoped to uncover some of my own.

  Evidence be damned. I couldn’t have done this. My lust ran toward the flesh and losing myself between a pair of willingly spread legs. It wasn’t in death, murder, and violence.

  It was with these thoughts that my confidence slowly strengthened. Romani people were often present on my family’s estate when I was growing up. I’d spent many a childhood summer running and playing with the children of different traveling families, so dealing with the two women wouldn’t pose too difficult a problem.

  “Hello.” My voice croaked from being unused.

  Angry stares answered. Neither woman spoke, which caused me to stop mid-step.

  Perhaps I’d underestimated the situation. How could this be resolved if they refused to acknowledge me?

  I did the only thing I knew to do—I tilted my head forward in a respectful bow. We English prided ourselves on having impeccable manners.

  With a scratchy throat and my mouth feeling as though I was trying to swallow fireplace ash, I tried again. For a brief second, I wished I had a tankard of mead, anything that would help so I could make this speech and leave.

  I took in a deep breath, and thankfully my voice didn’t hold the weakness from before. I sounded strong, diplomatic, trustworthy even.

  “My name is Marcus. Lord Marcus St. James of Smithersby Field . . .”

  A cold tone interrupted my friendly introduction.

  “We know who you are.” It was the older woman, the grandmother, if I’d judged correctly, who spoke. She then punctuated her statement with a sharp noise as she spat on the ground angrily.

  “We know exactly who you are. Chor.”

  My brow crinkled as I hurriedly tried to translate the foreign word. Something tugged at a distant memory. I was sure I’d heard it before, but the stress of the evening was causing me to draw an annoying blank.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what that word means,” I mumbled in response.

  Again, the woman interrupted.

  “CHOR.” The word rang out with a blistering force as her finger shot out, pointing straight at me. Accusation and hatred exploded across her face.

  There was no withstanding the vehemence of her verbal attack. Stuttering, struggling to find a way to placate her, all I could do was stand there—speechless. For the life of me, I had no idea what she was saying.

  “She’s calling you a thief,” the grief-stricken voice of the younger female revealed. She must’ve been a few years older than Primrose.

  “I assure you, I am no thief. Allow me to say again . . . my name is Marcus St. James. Believe me, there’s an explanation for this. This is not what it seems.”

  “It matters not what your name is. It’s your actions that label you a thief. You stand there covered in the blood of our beloved, hoping to slip away into the night after stealing the life of sweet Primrose. You are a thief, a black-hearted stealer of innocence.”

  “Please, let me continue.” I took another step forward. “I didn’t do this. I didn’t kill her. I’m not quite sure what happened. One moment we were becoming . . . acquainted, and then she was dead.”

  The moment it passed through my lips, I knew how dubious and feeble my explanation sounded. Even the most uneducated of commoners could poke a hole through it with enough certainty to convict and then hang me.

  “What do you mean acquainted?” The question thundered brashly in the alley.

  My face flushed, and I tried loosening the tightness of my shirt collar, only to find blood flaking away when I pulled my fingers back. The small pieces fluttered to the ground, some snagging the thigh of my trousers. Repulsed, I jerked violently as I tried to brush them away.

  Some would say it was a compelling act of guilt—the killer unable to face the truths of his sins.

  Everywhere I looked, I saw blood. Her blood. In some places it was so thick, it caused my clothing to stick and dry to my skin.

  I gagged again, quickly covering my mouth. This wasn’t a moment to show weakness, but there was no helping it. With each passing breath, my hope of escaping this nightmare grew dimmer.

  “What do you mean acquainted?” the woman repeated. “Do you mean to stand there and say that not only did you murder my sister, but you also corrupted her with your debauched and vile ways?” Her gaze narrowed on me as if she’d already judged and condemned me.

  Images from earlier returned to invade my mind.

  Primrose squirming against me, her hand rubbing hard against my erection. Based on her nymph-like response, she’d definitely been corrupted, but not by me.

  If there was even an inkling of possibility that they’d believe me, I would tell that to her family. I would give them a quick education on how very unvirtuous their precious Primrose was.

  The older woman drew herself up slowly, finally coming to a stand. She’d been quietly rocking back and forth with the deceased as she watched the interaction between her kinswoman and me. She was small, as women
went, the years beginning to hunch her over with a stoop. I would’ve sworn that as she stood there, vengeance blazing in her eyes, she grew in stature—rivaling my own height.

  “Chor!” she accused. As she stepped around the body she’d lovingly been holding, an energy began to fill the space around them. Somewhere in the distance, I heard dogs howling as thunder shook the air. Something was stirring, and it felt as though its focal point was solely on me.

  The words were coming thick and fast as the woman launched into a rhythmic speech that was occasionally broken up by her quick gasps for breath. She droned on and on for what seemed like a lifetime.

  I was able to pick out the occasional word, but what I heard next chilled me to the core.

  Bibaxt. Bad luck.

  Marime. Outcast.

  Naswalemos. Sickness.

  Strazhno. Danger.

  Amria. Curse.

  That word hit me the hardest. She was cursing me, and as I propelled myself forward to stop her, a pain like nothing I had ever experienced drove me abruptly to my knees with a demonic roar of agony.

  Fire blazed through my veins, heating then boiling my blood until I was positive my insides were liquefying. Sweat dripped from every pore as my body trembled with vicious convulsions that threatened to render me insane.

  Now writhing on the floor, words failed me.

  All I could see—feel—was excruciating pain.

  Deep within my chest a humming began, the sensation causing my heart to beat erratically. All I wanted to do was beg for death as I felt something inside me explode. Whether from mercy or approaching unconsciousness, the pain began to fade as everything dulled. My vision darkened.

  I wept with relief. As I curled up into a ball so I could welcome oblivion like a long-lost friend, a single word reached out and branded my soul.

  Shilmulo.

  A small shard of alarm pierced me the moment I recognized it, but I was without hope, the world finally crashing around me.

  Shilmulo.

  Vampire.

  Chapter 2

  10 Years Later

  “Enter.”

  Annoyance flickered through me at the interruption. A new lead about the band of gypsies who’d cursed me to this blasted existence had surfaced, but instead of leaving to pursue it, I was stuck here, collecting a debt.

  With heightened senses, I could hear her lurking outside the door as if trying to will her feet to move. This lack of spine was something I wouldn’t tolerate once she became mine to do with as I pleased. Cowardice was an ugly trait—especially for a woman of her breeding.

  Pity it hadn’t stopped her father from being a squandering fool who believed I would show mercy and forgive his mismanagement of funds.

  Hesitation seemed to still delay her in obeying my command, and my annoyance was quickly evolving into impatient anger. I had a reputation for crushing those who thought they could keep me waiting.

  She wasn’t the one controlling this meeting. She was merely property exchanging ownership—from the keeping of her father to mine.

  “I won’t ask again,” I called out, knowing full well she heard me. My voice was one no one could ignore without paying the price for it.

  There was a microscopic part of me that was impressed her hesitancy was because of fear and not because she was inherently rebellious. She knew who I was.

  I was the fearsome Marcus St. James.

  A monster.

  Cruelty personified.

  And unfortunately for her, her newly betrothed.

  Her heart picked up its pace, that telltale sign she’d finally made the decision to act. She may be terrified of me, but she had a deep, abiding love for her father, and it was that devotion that turned the door knob.

  Perhaps she still doubted that her father meant to force her to marry me. We hadn’t officially met, although I’d sensed her hiding in the shadows when I’d attended her father’s request that I become his financial benefactor. Her family was facing utter destitution, and he had approached me out of desperation.

  I wasn’t ashamed to admit I had also overheard part of the discussion between them when he broke the news of the conditions. I had no real need for money or a wife, but I saw the sense in having a blood source readily available. If anything, she was at least good for that.

  “But, Father!” she’d cried, the sound of her heart breaking ringing out. “His heart is ugly . . . blackened . . . cruel. Surely, you’ve heard the town gossip? How can you ask this of me?”

  I heard the tears in her voice, but they did nothing to move me toward empathy. Let her believe I was guilty of the foul acts I was often accused of. Her opinion meant nothing.

  I could’ve been the very Devil himself, but she was a woman, and they had no say in the affairs of men.

  Catriona finally stood, shuddering, in the doorway. Her gaze scanned the room, no doubt looking for me, but I remained hidden. Let her panic. It would teach her not to keep me waiting in the future.

  “Girl, this will be the last time I repeat myself. You are to obey my every word without qualm.” My voice, harsh and filled with bitterness, drew her attention in my direction.

  Catriona closed her eyes and absently crossed herself before stepping completely into the room, closing the door behind her. She kept her eyes to the ground, losing what little bravery she’d somehow managed to muster.

  I let out an amused chuckle.

  “God won’t help you. You would be wise to abandon whatever faith you cling to. He cares not for his supposed children.” It was a lesson I was all too familiar with. A decade ago I had reached out—begged with all the sincerity my young, naïve heart could rally for His intercession and benevolence—only to find silence and betrayal.

  Judging from her expression, the room was nothing like she’d thought it would be. She no doubt expected to find opulence and extreme finery, with my entire wealth on extravagant display. Without thinking, she raised her eyes, her mouth opening in surprise as she drank in our surroundings.

  I had the room decorated for this precise reason. I loathed meeting the expectations of others. I had quickly realized the power that came from allowing others to underestimate me. It gave me the upper hand in every situation—throwing each person off their game and leaving them at my whim.

  The room was definitely beautiful and unbelievably simple in its decorations. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases flanked the room on two of the four walls, and I saw the instant she fought the urge to run to the impressive library and see what treasures were displayed. The comfortable chairs and settees were strategically placed because it was the room I most used for quiet solitude. Elegant crafted lamps placed on side tables were positioned to offer the best light.

  This room was my sanctuary. Very few had been granted entrance.

  Silently, I watched as she turned around, momentarily transfixed. Her gaze was drawn to the portrait hanging on the wall next to the door she’d just come through.

  Each brush stroke, each choice of vibrant color presented the image of a man who had no problem dominating those beneath him. The artist had been able to capture the strength of his subject, a power and authority that filled the room by the mere presence of the painting. It reflected a man who could command armies, yet held a glimmer of something else—a trace of humor and mirth in the way the eyes seemed to twinkle and the gentle lifting of the lips into a smile.

  My lips.

  My eyes.

  Or should I say, the person I should’ve been, had I not been in that damned alley all those years ago. I had been tempted to smash the portrait into pieces, to set it aflame until all that remained were ashes, but oddly enough, it comforted me. At least this way, that version of me still existed.

  Looking at the small brass placard at the base of the frame, Catriona reached out, letting out a gasp when she recognized the name.

  Marcus St. James.

  “Do you like what you see?” I teased, reminding her I was still in the room, and her focus on my portrai
t hadn’t gone unnoticed. Let her fall in love with the illusion. Let her find peace in her fate.

  My voice held a strange softness. She raised her hands slowly, rubbing the sides of her arms as though she was suddenly cold.

  “I do. It’s hard not to. This man is definitely attractive, and there’s something mesmerizing about the way he presents himself,” she uttered, unable to drag her gaze away from the image in front of her.

  “Would he be a man you could fall in love with?” My brows furrowed. Why the hell did I care what she thought?

  “I hardly think that’s an appropriate question, sir.”

  “Answer the question.” The gentleness of the moment was shattered by the ruthless command I barked out. “And don’t presume to lie to me, Catriona.” Her name rolled off my tongue with ease. “I’ve a way of always finding out the truth, and heaven help the fool who thinks they can deceive me.”

  Raised goose bumps danced across her skin, causing her to tremble slightly. Swallowing nervously, she answered. “Yes. Yes, I think this is a man I could fall in love with.”

  She let out a soft sigh, realizing that such romantic hope was folly, because the man she was to marry wasn’t the image before her but the monster behind her.

  “Will you not turn and address your betrothed . . . your beloved?” The last word was spat out with such vehemence and scorn that it caused her to jump from its force.

  She slowly turned. Her confused expression elicited another chuckle from me.

  I cleared my throat, a reminder that whatever she had fantasized about meeting her future husband had been in vain. She wasn’t here for loving gestures and thoughtful acts.

  “How do I address you, sir, if you won’t show yourself?” Try as she might, she wasn’t quite able to hide the curt frustration in her voice.

  “Are you sure you are ready to come face to face with me? Have you fortified your delicate sensibilities? You are, after all, about to meet the Beast of Smithersby Field. Are you not scared, trembling in your corset?” I all but mocked her.