The Cursed by Blood Saga

by Marianne Morea

  Carlos chuckled. “Okay, Little Mother, there’s no need for that. Melissa is actually a very sweet girl, and Julian likes her very much. She’s part of our family now, same as you…” He hesitated for a moment, not wanting to sound reproachful, but he knew he had to set things straight or Rosa would make Melissa’s life miserable. “I hope she will be treated with the same respect you have always shown members of our household and that you and everyone else will do what you can to make her feel welcome. Comprendes?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll make sure of it,” she said with a nod, but the set of her mouth told him she wasn’t happy about it.

  “What’s bothering you so much about this, Rosa? Is there something else?”

  She hesitated a moment. “I…I don’t want to make trouble, Señor Salazar, but I have to tell you I saw this same Melissa with Mr. Eric a few weeks ago, and now she’s with Mr. Julian. I had never seen her before, and I thought it was nice that Mr. Eric finally found...someone,” she hesitated again. “I don’t want any fighting between my boys, señor, and nothing starts trouble between brothers like a woman.”

  A smile twitched at the corner of Carlos’s mouth. “Ahh. I see,” he said, trying to keep a straight face, not wanting to insult her. “Melissa only joined our family a short while ago and she has been staying at the country house. Eric was simply showing her the house here in town. I agree he should have introduced her to you properly, but you know Eric and how complicated he can be. I assure you she’s not playing one brother against the other, so don’t worry. She only has eyes for Julian, on that you have my word.”

  Rosa opened and closed her mouth a few times before she sniffed again, stuffing the cloth back in her pocket. “I understand and I’m sorry if I overstepped my boundaries, but you know how I feel about all of you,” she said, making her way back to the door. Her eyes had been downcast and when she looked up they were wet.

  Carlos felt his heart clench. In her own meddlesome way, she truly loved them all. “Not at all, Rosa, and you know how I appreciate the way you worry over us.”

  She straightened her shoulders and nodded, pulling herself up to her full height—all four feet, ten inches. “You are my family,” she whispered. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”

  He chuckled quietly to himself as she left, closing the door behind her. Carlos knew the older woman was just following her maternal instincts, but he had to laugh. Who in their right mind felt maternal to a bunch of vampires? Rosa was one of a kind and they loved her for it.

  He sighed and finished his drink before heading upstairs. It would be a while before he sought sleep.

  Carlos walked into his room, and even without the noise from the staff’s morning routine, he knew the sun had risen. Rosa had drawn the heavy blackout curtains in his bedroom closed.

  Carlos stripped and walked into his bathroom and turned on the shower. He stood under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over his body. He closed his eyes and let the warmth soak through and tried to relax. But his mind kept wandering back to Trina.

  Everything about her down to the sound of her voice drifted through his head—her scent, the way she laughed, and the fire that flashed at times in her eyes. The water from the shower flowed over his body as images of her flowed through his mind.

  Memories of her lush curves taunted him—how her soft skin felt under his fingers, and the taste of her mouth. His body jerked in response and he felt himself grow hard.

  He could still feel her body, how his hands had roamed over her hips and waist to her soft, full breast. He could still feel how it swelled and peaked under his caress.

  He groaned and wrapped his hand around his shaft. Electric currents began to shiver down his spine and into his groin once again and he moved his hand in time with their pulse.

  He leaned his forehead against the tile, the water pounding on his back as he jerked and exploded in his own hand. He turned and leaned his back against the wall, the water hitting his hard stomach and his sated but still sensitive member.

  He stood there for a while, his head pounding even as his blood cooled. How long had it been since he had needed to self-satisfy? Centuries. So why now? He had any number of willing partners at his fingertips, eager ones who would be at his door in a matter of moments so he could satisfy both his body and his thirst. So what was wrong with him?

  Isabel…Trina. There had to be a connection, or perhaps it was simply an eerie coincidence? Carlos shook his head. He didn’t believe in coincidence. Things happened for a reason.

  He finished rinsing off and got out of the shower. He put on a soft terry robe and towel dried his hair while his mind turned over possibilities. He propped pillows up against his headboard and sat down with the remote, hoping a bit of mindless channel surfing would lull his mind and relax him.

  He turned on the television and started flipping through channels. He flipped to A&E only to find Cary Grant starring in Arsenic and Old Lace. “Great,” he muttered as he turned it off, tossing the remote to the side.

  He put his hands behind his head and leaned back against the polished wood. Isabel. It had been nearly a century since he had given her more than a passing thought. Irritated, he took a deep breath and exhaled. Memories of Isabel were painful, conjuring images best left forgotten—images of home and family and of how it all ended. He leaned over and pulled opened the drawer to his nightstand. Inside he took out a black velvet box and ran his fingers over the soft fabric, lifting the lid. Inside was piece of yellowed lace. Unwrapping it gently, he stared at the tiny image preserved within, and bid the memories come.

  Chapter Five

  Valencia, Spain

  November 1737

  The fire in the hearth burned low, its embers a flickering glow against the advancing dark. Esteban Salazar bent to stoke the flame, adding more logs and kindling until a new blaze sparked, filling the room with warmth and light. He stood up and turned toward his son as he brushed his hands against his soft black britches, the lines in his face etched deep with worry.

  “This time it’s too dangerous, Carlos,” he warned. “I forbid you to go.”

  Carlos glanced up at his father. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I’m going nonetheless,” he answered as he continued to pack.

  “If you won’t think of your own safety, then by God, think of the rest of us. You must know of the sanctions against us because of your affiliations. Your mother and sister are no longer received, and now merchants whisper behind our backs. Our own servants are only too eager to stir the gossip.”

  Carlos just looked at his father as he crossed the room gathering his simple belongings. There would be no trappings of wealth on this journey.

  “Pedro De la Cruz has rescinded his offer of marriage to your sister.”

  Carlos stopped. “Why? Surely it can’t be because of me?” he asked incredulously.

  “His reasons are innocuous, but we can’t help but wonder. Your mother has taken to her bed, sickened over all of this,” Esteban said, catching his son’s eyes. “Carlos,” he continued hesitantly, “you do realize you are already under suspicion, and that this time there is far more risk than ever before. For Christ’s sake, boy, the whole family is being watched.”

  Carlos sighed. “Father, the whole of Europe sees us as intolerant barbarians. Surely, you must know that. The king’s ministers may try to paint a rosy picture, but you know as well as I that their secret tribunals carry out the Inquisitor’s work much in the same manner as they did more than two hundred years ago. Even the Holy See of Rome has abandoned us. It’s wrong. It’s become a witch-hunt.”

  “I agree with you, but it’s become too dangerous to even think about openly voicing any opposition,” Esteban said.

  Carlos gestured his arms in vain. “I never meant for this to hurt you or our family. Nevertheless, what would you have me do? In the past, I’ve risked my life to help complete strangers, but now that it’s someone I care about, you ask me not to? Antonio da Silva has bee
n my friend since we were boys, since we met at school when he first came from Brazil. How can I in all good conscience not help him escape? Would you rather I leave him to the Inquisitor’s guards?”

  “Of course I don’t want that, my son, but there has to be some other way.”

  “What you really mean is some other person.”

  “That accusation is not fair. Others of your group do not have as much to lose, or family that can be caught in the crossfire—and what of Isabel? Do you suppose she’s happy that you care nothing about the risks you take, that you chance throwing your life away so easily? Her life? Do you suppose her family is happy with your actions? Your betrothal contract is precarious right now, Carlos, or don’t you care?”

  “Isabel understands, Father. I only wish you could as well.”

  Esteban shook his head. This was a difficult situation. He was proud of his son, of his bravery and righteous fire, but this was tantamount to suicide. The Inquisitor General and his minions showed no quarter in their tribunals, and God help anyone, Jew or Catholic, consigned to an auto de fe. It was a death sentence.

  “Why couldn’t Antonio leave well enough alone? He’s a lawyer, and a good one. Did he have to add satirist to his name as well? His comedies aren’t so funny now that a warrant has been posted for his arrest,” Esteban added sadly. “Was being lauded at the Carnivale de Cadiz worth the price? He threw away his immunity as a member of the Conversos the minute he put pen to paper.”

  “I can’t answer for him, Father. All I can do is try and help.”

  His father sighed and turned away. He stood looking at the fire, his shoulders hunched as if they carried the weight of the world.

  Carlos laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Do you honestly think I made this decision on a whim, that I could be so cavalier? I know the risks involved, but it was you who taught me to stand up for what is right so I could respect myself as a man. It’s true it would be easier for me to stay, to just look the other way. But then how could I look at myself in the mirror every day?”

  “I understand, I do, and I respect your decision. However, I am the head of this house and responsible for everyone in it. I must warn you, Carlos, as God as my witness, if this plan fails I will not let you ruin this family. I will disown you.”

  His father’s voice cracked as he spoke, but Carlos could see the determination in his father’s eyes. As much as it would pain him to do so, his words were no idle threat.

  Their eyes met, but his steely reserve couldn’t disguise the hurt behind them. He knew from this moment there was no turning back. He was at a crossroads and had to make a choice.

  ***

  Carlos rode for a little more than a week. The journey was long and hard and the roads dangerous, testing his mettle at every turn. The constant threat of highwaymen and thieves made sleep somewhat easier said than done, and the heavy November rain made the roads nearly impassable. By the week’s end, every step jarred his insides, his thighs burning with the effort of gripping the horse’s flanks. It was as if nature itself was telling him to turn back. He stopped whenever exhaustion threatened, but otherwise kept moving.

  The monotonous sound of the horse’s pace and the loneliness of the road soon set his mind to wandering. The faces of his loved ones haunted him. The grim set of his father’s mouth and his mother’s tears were the last images he held of his family. His sister hadn’t even come down to say goodbye, and the note his younger brother Pedro had sent from the university didn’t exactly wish him Godspeed.

  With a heavy heart, he made his goodbyes. For the first time doubt shadowed his mind with a sense of foreboding that it would be for the last time. But with each passing mile, it was Isabel’s face that haunted him most.

  “May God keep you safe and guide you back to my arms,” she choked through her tears.

  When he gently pulled away to take his leave, her hand caught his, and with sad eyes, she pressed her lace handkerchief into his palm. “So you won’t forget what awaits your return.”

  Inside the finely starched linen was a tiny portrait. Carlos remembered the feel of the tiny brushstrokes beneath his fingers. The artist had captured Isabel’s likeness perfectly, down to the soft dimples in her cheeks.

  Moved by the simple gesture, Carlos kissed her deeply, surprised at how fervently she responded. Isabel was usually a shy slip of a girl. “I will keep it always,” he murmured.

  When he finally mounted his horse, their eyes met one last time. Isabel kissed her fingertips then touched the locket that lay at her breast. Inside were two other miniatures—one mirroring the image she had just given him, and the other his own likeness—two lovers forever joined in gold filigree. “As will I,” she whispered, watching him ride away.

  He rode now, his brow furrowed with memories. “My father is right,” he mumbled to his horse as much as to himself. “I must be insane.” The memory of Isabel’s lips and the taste of her kiss left his groin thickening and he groaned, spurring his horse into a gallop. He rode stiffly for a while, trying to keep his thoughts on the task at hand. The Spanish port of Cadiz and his purpose for this journey were not far off.

  ***

  Cadiz was renowned, known as the Costa de la Luz, the coast of light. The peninsula it rested on was beautiful, with sandy, sun-drenched beaches and swaying palms. It was an ancient city, comprised of narrow, winding alleys connecting a network of small plazas. Its busy harbor was a place where anything and anyone could be had—for a price.

  It neared sunset as Carlos guided his horse through the dirty streets that lined the docks. Here the air was rank, despite the salt breeze off the water. It reeked of vice and menace. Finding the tavern where he was to make his inquiries, he liveried his horse and made his way there, determined now to be done with his mission and return home.

  The tavern was dark. It stank of old wine and excrement and Carlos had to press Isabel’s scented handkerchief to his nose like a pomander to keep from gagging. He found a table close to a meager fire in the back where the smell was not so bad, and sat down. He ordered a tankard of ale and some food and settled in, observing the comings and goings of the patrons while he ate.

  As the evening wore on, the atmosphere of the inn shifted. Lively tempos poured from fiddlers and mandolin players and the tavern grew crowded with nighttime revelers. Prostitutes began their nightly circuit while dockworkers and seamen settled in to drink.

  A small group of gypsies arrived and immediately set in circling the tables, dancing and selling fortunes for whatever coins the men threw. Their men folk settled themselves against the wall, while their children scurried around picking pockets and begging for food.

  From the side of the room, a young dancer spied Carlos sitting alone, an easy target. She made her way to his table, her hips swaying and undulating in ways that held every man’s attention. Her eyes were like jet, and her hair curled to her waist in the same shade of night. She laughed as she danced, her fingertips playing suggestively in the deep cleft between her breasts.

  Carlos licked his lips, a familiar heaviness settling in his groin. He had been too long without a woman, and the memory of Isabel’s kisses coupled with the gypsy’s clear invitation left him aching with need.

  A subtle nod was all it took to win her affections for the night, and uttering a silent act of contrition, Carlos reached into his pocket, the coins to seal the deal warm against his palm. Without warning, someone hoisted her onto another table, a pouch full of silver emptied at her feet. In a fit of giggles, she threw her arms around Carlos’s rival, bending and preening as she gathered her treasure.

  Carlos’s chair scraped against the rough floor in noisy protest, but he was too late. The other man’s face already reveled in her ample bosom. Irked, he sat down and drained his cup while bawdy laughter rang past him.

  An older gypsy rounded the corner of his table with a small child in tow. Warming their hands at the fire, the little one peeked out to peer at him, her dirty face half hidden in the volu
minous folds of the old woman’s dress.

  He smiled, offering her some of his bread and cheese. The child looked up, and at the old woman’s nod, took the proffered food and ate greedily.

  Pity pricked at his heart replacing his lust as he took in their forlorn state. Beckoning the old woman, he held out his hand. “Take this for yourself and the child,” he said, handing her the coins in his pocket. “To buy food and whatever else you might need.”

  In the exchange his fingers brushed her palm and a sudden jolt surged through both their hands. Carlos jerked his hand away; his fingers burning as if he’d touched hot iron. But the old woman clutched at his hand, her bony fingers digging into his with a vise grip. “You must leave this place. Cursed evil waits, lurking not in the shadows, but in plain sight. It looks for blood, and yours is what it will want if you stay.”

  Her face was a mask of fear and her eyes held a terror he had never seen before. Shaken, he pushed her away. “Be gone! I don’t believe in such superstitions.”

  The old woman gathered the child to her, her face stricken. Afraid, she turned to leave, but glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes pleading silently for him to do the same.

  Carlos let out a breath and poured himself another drink. He didn’t know how she did it, but the old woman unnerved him. However, he had no time to worry over superstitious notions. He had a task to complete.

  By midnight, the tenor of the place had deteriorated, with as much blood spilled as wine. He was about to give up for the night, when those for whom he had waited finally arrived.

  They were unmistakable. Most definitely seamen, but with a different air—not the seadogs and riffraff normally associated with life on the docks. Carlos knew them at a glance, with the captain fitting the description, down to his style of hat.

  As the men took their seats, Carlos pushed himself up from his chair and made his way toward their table. The seaman to the left of the captain took out his pistol. Cocking it, he laid it on the table close to his hand, never taking his eyes off Carlos as he approached.