Sophie Morgan (Book 2): Death in the Family

by Treharne, Helen

  "Ach, but a good cow never died on dirty grass,” he nodded knowingly. I wore my best bemused face. "It won't kill us to leave it," he said, adding cheekily, "I can think of a few other things we could do instead."

  So could I, but the sight of the congealed gloop in front of me turned my extended stomach. "C'mon, let's get this in the sink, and what's left in the bin. Much as this was lovely, the sight of leftover sweet and sour sauce is not my idea of fun first thing in the morning."

  "Aye," he said, starting to scrape the remnants from my plate on to his, "I won't argue with that."

  While Mickey scraped the contents of the plates into the bin, I set about running the hot tap and squirting a hefty amount of washing up detergent in the sink. As the stainless steel basin filled, I scrunched up the foil delivery containers and threw them into the rubbish bin. A stray noodle flew off and landed on Mickey's hand as I squeezed passed him. He raised it to his mouth and slurped the noodle off.

  I winced but laughed nevertheless. “That is bloody disgusting."

  "Yeah, good though. We should definitely get food from there again when I'm next over."

  "Next time?"

  Mickey put his hands round my waist, hoisting me in the air and pulling me in till our lips met. He tasted sweet, sour and hot - MSG goodness lingering on his tongue as it gently danced around mine. The sound of running water about to pour over the lip of the sink brought me back to reality, just long enough to reach over and turn off the tap. The dishes could wait; yep, I could definitely think of better things to do with the rest of the evening.

  Julie rubbed a crumbled stock cube, salt, pepper and a smidgen of cinnamon into the lump of brisket. She was rigorous with the meat massage, releasing all her pent up worries and frustrations over the Irishman she had never met. She finished the preparations with a firm smack of what she imagined to be the back of Mickey's head. That'll teach you, she thought to herself. She had a glug of the Shiraz she'd opened earlier in the evening, composed herself and then smiled at the wall - everything is fine Julie, everything is fine.

  After wrapping the joint tightly in foil and leaving to marinate in the roasting tray on the counter, she returned to the lounge. The new kitchen had not been an extravagance, it had been in dire need of refreshing, but the money she had spent, was offset by the lack of refurbishment she had completed elsewhere. Since her parents had died, she had painted the entire house in a palette of muted colours, laid laminate in the lounge and re-carpeted the rest of the house. Again, this was all due, but she could have gone much further with her refurbishment. The furniture had remained the same as it was when she grew up in the house, excepting a new bed for her. Changes had mostly come in the form of additions, a coffee table here, a bookcase there - the things which she had purchased for her own home when she and Sophie had eventually moved out on their own. To overhaul the house when her parents were still in it would have been rude, particularly as she had returned there to care for them in their later years.

  Although there were a mere eighteen years between her and her daughter, the gap with her parents had been bigger - after all, they had been married and done everything by the book. What that also meant was that much of the furniture was dated, but she enjoyed it anyhow. Of course, her parents also came from a generation that saved hard for better quality, things which would last a lifetime and not be disposed of at the drop of a hat. Redecorating and refurbishing was done when needed, not because the colour scheme did not match a new purchase. Julie respected that and it was an ethic she had tried to instil in her daughter. There are more important things in life than having the latest thing, she would tell her, it's important to respect the past and earn what you have. She had done that, right down to the luxurious and well-maintained oxblood chesterfield that she now sank into in the fire warmed lounge. It had been her father's favourite resting place in the whole house - even the shed came second.

  For the first time in years, she thought of Kasper, really thought of him. She didn't wonder about how her life would have been different, didn’t think about the challenges of raising a child alone, what that might have been like for her daughter. Nor did she regret that she had not pursued a romantic life with much vigour since; that she did not have other children although she was certainly still young enough. Many women had children in their forties. These were ideas that often floated through her mind. No, this time she truly thought about Kasper. She rarely thought of him per se, but now she did.

  It was a peculiar feeling, one long forgotten - the spontaneous swelling in her heart as her mind conjured up his smell, his smile, his face. To her, he would always be that sweet, sweet boy. She would never have to see him over the dining table and realise that he had become bloated, bald, or old. To him, wherever he was, she would be the vibrant young girl who had swept into his life and changed it forever - a wonderful memory, made perfect because of its brevity. Perhaps this was the best thing all round - the memory of pure love. The swelling became a tight fist, her body giving in to the grip of rejection and of anger. Her life had turned out well, she liked her life, and she didn't want to resent him. He had given her a wonderful child and the experience of true love - even if it hadn't been true on his side. On a good day, she told herself that his leaving her had been a good thing. For all she knew they could have ended up living in poverty in some tiny apartment in Copenhagen, or they'd have come back to Bethesda and he'd have hated it and resented her. But then she remembered his face and rational thought left her. She wiped a tear away and told herself that her eyes were tired.

  Julie put down the glass of wine on the coffee table and picked up the intricately carved box atop it. It had been buried under linens on the shelf of her bedroom closet. Her father had carved it for her as a gift many years earlier, back when she was ripe with pregnancy and her heart beat to sustain two lives. It was beautiful, made of oak with two small brass hinges and a catch at the front to secure it. He had told her it was a keepsake box in which to store all the precious memories which she would create.

  At eighteen, she had filled it with memories that were not precious, but sad and soaked in tears and regret. It held letters - six in all. They were the letters she had written to Kasper on her daughter's birthdays, starting with the day of her birth. She had never posted them; she had nowhere to send them to. His parents had no idea where he had gone to. But just in case, she had written him a letter on each of Sophie's early birthdays to tell him how she was and how their daughter was progressing. By the time Sophie turned five, Julie had grown up immensely, and so had her daughter. Sophie never seemed perturbed by the absence of her father and nor did she question it. Julie decided to let go and stop writing.

  The landscape had now shifted. Sophie was a woman; she had grown up and found a man. Julie wasn't sure if she read the letters because she needed to remember what love was like, so she could better relate to what her daughter, or if it was just to remind herself. After all, if her Sophie could entertain the thought of a relationship, why shouldn't she? Perhaps she shouldn't have had the third glass of wine. She felt heady. Her hands, smelling of the faint odour of cinnamon, took out the bundle of letters secured with a fine pink ribbon which had been threaded through one of Sophie's baby blankets. Her writing, now an efficient scrawl, had once been round and bold, full of life. The language was dramatic, sometimes hopeful, increasingly sombre and resentful, but always bursting with love.

  Julie Morgan read each letter carefully and wept. Before retiring to bed, she ensured that every last word was consumed by the slow burning fire in the grate. That night, she would let the fire smoulder till it died.

  "What the feck?" It was Mickey, screeching in my ear.

  "What! Eh? What?"

  "Jesus, you scared the crap out of me, what was that about? Are you okay?"

  I honestly didn't know. My hair was stuck to my face with sweat and I couldn't figure out if I was hot or cold. I must have had a nightmare. I knew I'd had them since I was a kid, bad ones,
because my mum always told me. I was used to sleeping alone; I didn't always know when I had them - mostly because I never remembered them. Night terrors can be like that. They'd got worse since Antwerp, I knew that. They didn't happen every night, but I knew sometimes they did because I woke up more tired than usual.

  My heavy breathing steadied and my body temperature normalised. Mickey's wide eyes stared down at me. He was kneeling next to me on the bed, naked, his skin white from the moonlight glowing in, almost iridescent. He often joked about how pale he was, but I'd never particularly noticed before.

  "It's alright Cullen," I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  "Not funny,” he snorted. “I thought someone was trying to bloody kill you or something. Jesus, I think I'm deaf in my right ear now."

  "Sorry, I guess I had a nightmare."

  I pushed my damp, sweaty hair from my brow and smiled apologetically at him.

  Mickey didn't reply, he just closed his eyes and breathed deeply. I didn't interrupt the ritual; I'd learned that when he normally zoned out it was because he needed to be somewhere else. Right then, I imagined he was focussing on not throttling me, for scaring the bejesus out of him, and also fighting off the memories of that night in Antwerp last autumn when he almost did see me killed. It was because of Mickey that I was even alive.

  I kneeled up on the mattress so I was facing him and wrapped my arms around him instead. I didn't tell him that it was okay because it wasn't. His brother was dead. Everything was shit. We had found each other again, but we would soon part. For all we knew, vampires still had an interest in me, for some unknown reason, and if one vampire had turned up in my kitchen, who was to say that there wasn't a whole clan that would come calling. Yep, everything was shit, but wonderfully shit because we were together.

  We had both changed since we had last met, perhaps we would change again before our next meeting. As I held him in my arms to absorb his fear and pain, I felt my own rise up. I didn't let it show. One of us needed to be strong. I hadn't lost my brother so right now it was going to be me. If recent history was anything to go by, he'd have the opportunity to save me again. Right now, all I had to do, was save him, to give him peace, and that's what I did. I gave him a piece of my heart.

  8

  "How long are we going to be there?" Rachel's contempt was neither subtle nor appropriate. Her resentment over Ferrers’ interest in Sophie Morgan was starting to wear thin. He couldn't be sure if it were jealousy of the attention he was paying to the matter of Sophie Morgan, or that she was envious of the girl's humanity. Ferrers chose to ignore the question and concentrate on the papers in front of him. Rachel huffed and vacated the room, throwing the selection of dresses she was carrying behind her. The silky black pantsuit, that he had purchased for her from Armani, slid off the leather arm of the wing-back chair on which it landed.

  Richard knocked on the already open door to his study and entered. "Have you decided?" he asked. He was referring to the dozen rental properties printed on the papers in his sire’s hand.

  "It is a shame that I don't have any property there, it would be so much easier." Hotels were fine, in fact, better than fine for dining as they provided a ready-made stream of guests, often intoxicated and whose visits were so fleeting that they rarely noticed his peculiar comings and goings. "It's rather good value for money you know."

  "Uhuh."

  Ferrers put the papers down on his desk, except one which he waved at Richard. "I think this one will do. I'm not sure how long we'll be there, but the furnishings appear to be reasonable and the accommodation an adequate size."

  "It's for a six month let,” Richard said, more question than statement.

  "Dear boy, just sort it, would you?"

  "What if it's not available now? There'll be references to take, procedures and so on."

  If Ferrers had been human, he would have rolled his eyes. "Tell them, we'll pay an extra month if they make that possible, plus the full six months' rent in cash, up front. If we choose not to stay for the duration, then they can only benefit from the arrangement." He studied the listing again. "It's not a rental company is it?"

  "No," Richard replied. "It's a private let."

  "Then I'm sure they'll be grateful for quiet tenants who pay cash."

  Richard nodded. He didn't much care where they went, or what Ferrers’ purpose was. Perhaps the whole trip would be exciting - okay well not that exciting - after all it was Wales. But it might be good for him. He was beginning to feel cooped up in the Warwickshire manor. At least the property was in Cardiff. He'd at least get to be back in a city. He was starting to feel twitchy - Rachel ran the gamut of emotions; while he loved fucking her, she was rousing feelings in him that he thought were long gone. He needed some excitement. Perhaps the change in scenery would give it to him. He wondered if the plan was to kill Sophie Morgan and, if so, whether he should consider giving it a go.

  Onan Sadik marched through the corridors of the Istanbul headquarters of Alexander Industries. He had built a successful career there over the century, initially as a human, then as a vampire once he had shown his true worth. Joining the company had been a significant gamble. If it hadn't worked out, he would most certainly be dead, or confined forever to a low-level role with no prospects and low pay. Members of his family had worked for the corporation for centuries. He knew what he was getting into and it had been worth it. He had been fifteen and on the streets when he had been picked up for food. Twenty years of feeding vampires in return for shelter, an education and eventually wealth had all paid off. He had worked his way up to Senior Vice President, a position he had held for fifteen years, dispatching his duties with an expertise and commitment with which few could compete.

  Sadik had a seat at the big table with the president of the corporation, the one person with direct access to Alexander, head of the family. He had not been seen in public for centuries although all those descended from him felt his presence when they visited the country estate in Ephesus. Few were called, but those who had risen within the ranks of the family were invited to visit occasionally. It was there that this terrible business had started. His opposite number, Vice President Oskam, had admittedly been serving as a senior official and advisor to the family for much longer than Sadik, generations in fact, but that clearly did not guarantee his continued loyalty.

  Oskam had made a bid for power, framing Sadik for the theft of a number of exhibits in Alexander's extensive private collection of historic artefacts. Sadik was considerably quicker witted and influential than Oskam had given him credit for. The plot was quickly revealed and Oskam executed. Regrettably, the old fool had made inadequate arrangements for protecting the booty and the items had been stolen from his home while he was being thoroughly interrogated.

  Although regrettable, the events had shone a spotlight on Sadik, highlighting to others that he was not to be messed with. People quaked a little as he marched passed them. Eyes were averted. Subordinates appeared to work a little harder than before, even those that were vampires.

  Security opened the doors to the meeting room and he entered. "The president has been expecting you,” the broader of the two guards said.

  Adara Constantinou stood, arms folded, looking out of the glazed wall to the streets of Istanbul's business district. She was a formidable force of nature; a keen-eyed, hard-headed vampire who liked to feed on the failures of her business enemies as much as she did on young, fresh prey. She was level-headed, cool, and sharp as a knife. Her olive skin, strong limbs and dark, wavy hair, gave her the appearance of a healthy, athletic woman in her forties. Her nails were short and neat, her hazel eyes bright. The pale grey suit had a sheen that amplified her colouring and the dazzling whiteness of the shirt beneath it.

  "They seem so small," she said.

  "Yes, Adara. We were all that small once."

  "It's so easy to forget. I have been a vampire for thousands of years Onan. I have seen us murder and plunder our way through the world, and I have se
en us retreat into the shadows and build even greater wealth. We are more powerful now than we have ever been. Our reach is greater. Our wealth increases at a rate that our ancestors would find difficult to believe. Even Alexander is amazed by it."

  "How is Alexander?" Sadik asked. Although he had been to the sprawling estate many times, he had never met Alexander. Only the first few generations of surviving descendants, Adara, the president, and a handful of trusted confidants had come into contact with him. No more than twenty people, vampires specifically, had seen the ancient vampire in the last three centuries.

  Adara turned to him. "He is well. Concerned by our problem of course. I take it you have it in hand?"

  "Yes, I have made enquiries and commissioned Charles Ferrers to deal with it as you requested. We should have news soon."

  "Good, good." Adara turned to face him, relaxing her arms, resting her hands on the back of one of the leather chairs at the long meeting table. "It's been many years since I've seen Ferrers, before your time I think. He's thoroughly briefed?"

  "As much as possible. I haven't revealed the content of the manuscript." Sadik was keen to ensure the president knew he followed orders. The ability to combine initiative with taking direction without question was a skill that had facilitated his swift rise to the top at Alexander Enterprises.

  The manuscript had the potential to be a huge issue for vampire kind. Commissioned centuries ago by a Balkan cleric vampire with poor taste and no forethought as "evidence" of the existence of vampires, the corporation had bought it decades ago. The document was based on largely forgotten folklore, on stories of vampire-human hybrids, capable of detecting vampires due to their vampiric genes.

  To date, there was no evidence of a vampire ever fathering or birthing a child with a human partner. The myth, therefore, was just that. But what if it wasn't? The manuscript, a folly as Adara considered it, could always be grounded in a grain of truth. Over the centuries, Adara had observed many religions, deceptions and even business practices built on points of principle which, though largely fictitious, had at least a connection to reality somewhere in their history. Although the document might be a good forgery, that didn't mean it was entirely a fiction. Either by design or coincidence, the prophecy contained within its text might come true.