A Billion Secrets: Vampire Romance Novel

by Angela Foxxe

  He was a tall, dark haired man with an aquiline nose, a slightly pointed chin, and a sturdy jawline that suited his rectangular face. He wore a casual blue suit and sensible brogues. She couldn’t help but stare at him for a moment. He was, in a word, striking.

  Isla wanted to kick herself. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen any attractive men. Maybe it was his pleasant smelling aftershave, maybe it was his suit, which fit him perfectly, not too snug and not too lose. Maybe it was his nose, it was a nice looking nose – well, what the hell was she thinking about? She quietly walked away, hoping he didn’t see her gawk at him like a high schooler would at a popular and handsome football player.

  He didn’t look like a museum enthusiast by the looks of it… but who was she to judge? Some people had said she didn’t look like she belonged to a museum, she looked like she was a better fit for a graphics company, or some quirky, hipster café could work too. People always judged. Maybe that was why she kept a few close friends, and all were in America. She actually missed them, but she probably wouldn’t admit that until after her first month in England.

  The young man was busy perusing through the displays as she took one last glance at him. She shook her head and continued to walk away, determined to finish at least a quarter of today’s restoration project by the end of the day. That was for a single pot, a supposed cooking vessel that still had remnants of food in it. She had hoped that 3D restoration would help as well. No one could restore anything without at least some 3D reconstruction, even if it was just some Neolithic cooking vessel for pancakes.

  The last of her footsteps faded away into silence, and the gentleman wearing the suit looked up from a glass encased ballock dagger, made in 1825. It was an intricate dagger with a bronze hilt and a well preserved gilded blade, a blade he would have been glad to avoid. He could almost still smell the blood that touched the blade, or maybe it was just a product of his imagination and his nightmares. He tended to have those lurking around when he slept, and it was something he wasn’t too happy to have.

  *

  She saw the same visitor two days later, at about the same time and in the same Victorian exhibition room. The weather was as gloomy as Wednesday afternoon had been. He was wearing a different suit this time, the color of grey, with a dark grey shirt and black oxfords. He also had an umbrella in tow, neatly wrapped about and he held onto the handle like it was a cane.

  Was he a cripple or something? She had just started her afternoon break and was on her way to the Egyptian display, when she saw him silently walk for the Victorian display room. She stopped in her tracks and saw him take a seat on a wooden bench, one of the two in the room. He was looking at the fashion from that century, a mourning dress on the left and a gentleman’s everyday outfit on the right. Perhaps he was metrosexual. Or maybe he was gay and was in need of some inspiration for his next project.

  What the hell was she thinking? Her mind wandered so often these days, especially when she knew it was nearing her parents’ death anniversary. Who celebrated death anniversaries, anyway? Mexicans? She didn’t want to. It was a terrible, terrible time – when she came out of it alive, and her parents came inside body bags. The day her parents died was the day she usually skipped school or work. She would spend an hour in front of their graves and then retreat home to sleep the whole day. It had become a habit and she didn’t want to break from that habit, even if her parents were buried a continent away.

  The found herself walking for the room, treading ever so quietly.

  “Do you work here?” he suddenly asked, breaking the silence.

  She held her breath in. He was talking to her, wasn’t he? She swallowed some saliva, just as he spun around and she nearly choked. She didn’t quite expect to be talking to him face to face. She took another step forward, and nodded.

  “Yes, I’m on an internship, actually.”

  “As what?” He cocked his head sideways, and she found it surprisingly adorable from someone who looked standoffish.

  “Art preservation – er, conservation. Almost the same thing,” she said, faintly smelling his aftershave again.

  He nodded.

  She took another step, closer to him, and he suddenly stood up. She felt tiny compared to him. He must’ve been past six feet tall as opposed to her five feet and two inches. He gave a quick smile, it was almost too quick to catch, except she was staring at him intently.

  “Do you like the Victorian Era?” she found herself asking.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re always here.”

  “I didn’t know I had a stalker.”

  “Well, twice.”

  “Do you always keep track of your museum guests?”

  “Not really. It’s just I was here the other day and I saw you, and now you’re here again.”

  “So that’s what art conservationists do?” he said with a faint grin. “Follow visitors around to see if they’ve been tampering with displays?”

  “No,” she said, her face reddening. She was glad the lights didn’t make this all too obvious. “It’s just part of my job to notice things.”

  “To answer your question, Victorian times do interest me,” he replied.

  There was something quite soothing about his voice, and his accent had a distinct pronunciation to it, making him sound aristocratic, like he didn’t belong to this generation. Maybe he had been one of those posh uni boys.

  “Are you a historian by chance?” her interest piqued.

  “Unfortunately, no. But I have a fondness for history. It’s good to know why things are the way they are now.”

  There was a firmness in his voice that made her want to agree with anything he said. She found herself nodding slowly. “I kind of feel the same way.”

  “Are you American?” he asked her.

  Is it that obvious? My accent gave me away, she thought wryly. “My dad was from here and he met my Puerto Rican-American mom here.”

  “Curious,” he said.

  “What is?” she looked at him strangely.

  “Nothing. It’s just an expression. Your accent isn’t too Americanized, though. Not like those shows I’ve seen. Hollywood girls partying or feuding over some guy.”

  “A valley girl accent?” She snorted. “Nah, I’m a mix of accents. You get that from bi-nationality l parents.”

  “So you can speak fluent Spanish?”

  She nodded. “Spanish, English and a smattering of Italian.”

  He smiled at her, the first genuine smile she had seen today. “Really? I’ve been trying to learn Spanish.”

  “No Italian, though?”

  “I’m pretty conversational in Italian and French,” he replied. “English is a different story.”

  She found herself laughing, a silly laugh that sounded like a cross between a high school giggle and a chortle. She preferred the giggle than the chortle, at least that made her sound cute… what the hell was she thinking? She was on a break!

  “I - I have to get going,” she abruptly said after her laughing stint, “duty calls.” She felt she looked too giddy and interested with the gentleman.

  “Of course. These artifacts just might disappear from your watch,” he said, “have a pleasant day, Miss-?”

  “Isla, Isla Morgan.” Why would she give her complete name to a total stranger just because he was good looking and that five o’clock shadow made him look really macho…

  He nodded. “I’m Gabriel Ramsey.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gabriel Ramsey walked away from the display at a quarter to six in the evening. It was a balmy night, but he didn’t think about the fine weather much. His thoughts were on the display and the person that came with it, Isla Morgan.

  He had done his best to act nonchalant, but if he had a normal heartbeat, it would have raced beyond comprehension. Her deep-set eyes were a startling grey against her heart shaped face, a face he had known so well. Her shoulder length, dark brown hair had a messy style to it, or maybe she forgot to comb i
t. She had the same slender and petite frame, and thin, pianist-like fingers that seemed to look nervous.

  She was exactly like her, exactly like Lily. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Was it good fortune? Some sign that he had a chance to redeem himself again? His thoughts drifted to Lily.

  Who could forget Lily Ashworth? He knew he wouldn’t, not after a hundred and twenty-two years. She was the most perfectly imperfect soul he had ever met. He still had a photo of her, a black and white photo he kept close. Even without the photo, he still remembered every freckle and mole like it was yesterday.

  Perhaps, Isla was a happenstance, a mind boggling one at that. It was too good to be true, wasn’t it? That he should see a person who looked just like Lily in the 21st century. He found himself taking out a pocket watch, and on the opposite side of it was her face. He slowly walked down the street, staring at her face and then remembering Isla’s.

  That smile was there on Isla’s face, too. That shy, yet knowing smile. He shook his head, knowing he was letting his emotions get the best of him. He was too seasoned for things like this to happen. He hadn’t noticed her during his previous visits. She must’ve been new.

  His car was waiting for him by the curb, a sleek, silver, chauffeured Rolls Royce Phantom he had casually bought a few weeks ago. He got in the car and told the driver to head for home.

  Home meant his most recent one, a lovely hundred and ten-year-old Regency styled home near Highgate cemetery. He had meticulously asked and even helped the architects and interior decorators to preserve the home as best as they could, and they had delivered. At least that was worth the £4 million he had paid them for. He lived with no one, and he preferred it that way. His household help came in at seven every morning, and only his trusted butler, James, lived with him in a separate wing.

  He didn’t do much work. Years of living had made him a fabulously wealthy; he owned hectares and hectares of real estate and had ties to one of the oldest banks in Europe. So he spent his days gallivanting about, jet setting from country to country, but he didn’t date anyone. It was nothing personal against women. He just couldn’t really be as intimate as he was before. Dating casually was alright, if he didn’t have certain secrets he had wanted to keep for an eternity or maybe a thousand years give or take.

  The drive home was slow, and he enjoyed seeing the city light up. These were the marvels that 1880 had missed. Back then, he had to wait for gas lamps, helmed by gentlemen whose sole duty was to light up London in those dreary fogs.

  He reached home and was greeted by James at the front door. All the lights in the house were lit up, making the house look more modern than it should have been. Gabriel didn’t mind though, it meant he was like any other normal businessman who enjoyed wasting electricity.

  “How was your day, sir?”

  “It was pleasant. Any news?”

  “None, sir.”

  He nodded as he walked up the grand staircase that spiraled all the way to the second floor. And that was that. James didn’t bother asking him if he wanted dinner. He rarely ate dinner anyway, unless he felt like treating himself to a rare steak.

  The manse had seven bedrooms, all of which were empty. It was a quiet he actually liked, a respite from the hustle and bustle of pretending to be normal. He didn’t need to feed today, but he felt rather restless. Perhaps it was because he had seen someone who looked exactly like Lily. He grew curious about this Isla Morgan. She was a breath of fresh air to his otherwise mundane life.

  Their conversation earlier wasn’t that amusing and he had done that purposefully. People fell for his charms, men or women. Animals were fearful of him. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t fully human, and his scent confused them. Even adders slithered away from him, whenever he visited his estates. He walked for his study, his favorite part of the house.

  There was no fire on the hearth. The room was richly decorated with dark furniture, heavy tapestries and an antique chandelier that had candles. It was the only place in the house without electricity and he wanted it that way. It reminded him of days gone by. So when he had heard there was a Victorian exhibit set up at the British Museum, he naturally went for it.

  The first day he saw the exhibit, it was as if he had transported himself back in time. He found himself sitting down at a bench, staring at the clothing encased in glass before him. Just like old times, huh? He didn’t have those kinds of clothes anymore and was surprised to see that there were still a few in mint condition, like Lily had worn those herself only yesterday.

  Again, Lily.

  Was it so terribly sentimental of him to still keep a photo of her, even if she had been dead for more than a century? He walked over to a table with a decanter of whiskey and poured himself a glass, a full glass. He knew he was restless because he had seen another Lily. How could there be another Lily?

  He took a seat on a plush chair, his eyes staring blankly at the rows of well-arranged hardbound books across the room. In his mind, he could hear her voice, her laughter. She spoke to him earlier, only with a lesser American accent… he was getting way ahead of himself. Isla Morgan was no Lily. But the coincidence couldn’t be ignored.

  Lily was the most beautiful person he had ever seen, both inside and out. The day he met her was when time stopped for him. If only he had met her a few years before he had been turned, he would have been more than willing to turn old and grey, just as long as it was with her…

  It was a cold day and people were rushing about, preparing for an evening of merriment. It was a weekday, after all. He could smell the excitement in the air, their hormones. There was to be an opera at the Crystal Palace. The composer was young and already celebrated, and he enjoyed this man’s pieces like any other normal Londoner. He had just purchased a stock of opium for his personal recreational use. He felt he would be needing it after the opera, and he knew he would be overwhelmed by every artery that had blood rushing into it.

  At that moment, as he walked down the street, a woman came out of a dress shop, laughing gaily with her companion, most probably her chaperone. He stopped in place, seeing the loveliest grey eyes he had ever seen, like the silvery moon on a hazy and cold night.

  Her long hair had been tied up in a bun, with tendrils of hair framing her heart-shaped face. She was dressed in a deep blue walking suit, with lace trimmed at the hemline and sleeves. She also had a darker frock coat on and a mini top-hat. It was the smile that made him stop though, and not the outfit. There was a dimple, a tiny one, tucked away at the edge of her lower lip.

  She was staring at him inquisitively, her grey eyes dug deep into his, like he had something on his face. Were the reds of his irises showing? He had hoped it wouldn’t. He did have his fill of nutrition just a fortnight ago…

  He did what any gentleman had to do and he tipped his hat off to greet her a pleasant day, knowing he would see her again, soon…

  He saw her at the opera house again, of course, dressed in her finery, like everyone else. Except, she stood out. And it was clear people were curious, ogling as subtly as they could.

  “…come back from France, of course,” one woman whispered excitedly, “never thought Lord Ashworth would summon for her just as soon as she finished school.”

  “She’s a lovely thing, isn’t she?” a bejeweled woman with a high collar commented.

  “Indeed.”

  “She isn’t betrothed now, is she?” a young man nervously asked a colleague as he checked his cummerbund.

  So she was Lord Ashworth’s daughter. The eccentric viscount was known for fencing and croquet tournaments with eccentric awards for whoever won. The man was essentially nicknamed the “Mad Hatter of Ashworth Hall”. His daughter, however, seemed normal. The viscount had sons, all of whom died serving the military, and it was gossip fodder that these sons of his died violently.

  He wasn’t able to approach her that night, but he was luckily invited to a ball where she was present. This time, he had to be bold. He asked Lady Clive to introduce him to
her and it was the best decision he had made since he had been turned two years prior. He would never forget how innocent everything was, how naïve she was, but her kindness and genuineness radiated. It touched the coldest parts of his soul, a part he had never thought would feel warmth again.

  But, that was a hundred and twenty-five years ago. More than a century had gone by, a century of living alone, more than a century of losing his entire family. They hadn’t been turned, only he had been, and another undesirable he had not seen since Lily had died.

  He wondered if fate was giving him a chance with this young woman called Isla. Wishful thinking, wasn’t it? No one could correct the past. One could only work hard not to repeat it, and one could only take care of the present. He had been careless before, it wouldn’t happen again. He found himself wanting to know more about Isla Morgan.

  What in god’s blazes was he thinking? That meant getting too close to a human, emotionally. It was a connection he disliked. James was a different story; James knew about him from the day he had been hired. It wasn’t the case with his peers and employees. Everyone just knew him as the boss, and that was it. There was barely any backstory to his young life, he had no family – so they made things up. He didn’t mind, of course. At least the gossip made him seem human.

  He felt the room had begun to close in on him, even his kind had anxiety attacks. That was what the opium was for, years ago, to calm him down. Painkillers like those were strictly regulated now, something he disliked about the modern times. There were too many rules and regulations, even if Victorian etiquette did the same thing with their behavior too.

  With this feeling surfacing, he deemed it was good to take a walk in the cemetery, just a mile away from his current residence. Of course it would be closed, and of course he wouldn’t care. He could just scoot over the wall whenever he wanted to. Superstition was an excellent thing these days, so many still wanted to believe in it, and the apparitions at Highgate were plentiful; according to ghost hunters.