Souls Collide: Book 1 of The Soul Wars

by J. D. Blackrose

  “What am I?”

  “A vampire. A fledgling so your powers are minimal, but I will teach you to be strong.”

  “I can’t eat food.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “You can. It is not an enjoyable experience, but you can get by at a dinner party. You will require blood on a daily basis for a while.”

  “I don’t want to do this!”

  “I’m afraid you have no choice.”

  “Where will I get blood?”

  “Why, scullery maid number three, of course. She will be yours, since you seem to like her taste. And because this will be a nightly thing for you, I’ll add her sister, whose name I also don’t recall. We’ll just call her scullery maid number two.”

  “Who’s number one?”

  “Their mother. She’s mine.”

  “What about their father?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You don’t know the names of your own daughters?”

  “Should I?”

  “I would think so.”

  “Well, I don’t. When you learn them, you can share that information with me. And since I am to be your teacher and your father, you can call me Luc.”

  “You are in your thirties, far younger than I am. How are you to be my father?”

  The Baron guffawed. “I am over two hundred years old, certainly old enough to be your father. I am your father in this new life, and you will treat me with the respect due your sire, who also happens to hold your life in his hands. Besides, you have changed, too, my son.” He gestured to a looking glass on the wall.

  “It’s a lie that vampires cannot see their reflection. I’m not sure where that tall tale came from, but it has stuck and is quite useful. Those who believe that nonsense will dismiss you as completely human simply because you can be seen in a mirror! Isn’t that delightful?”

  Gaspard swallowed and collected his courage to look in the glass. His once stringy black hair was now thick and luxurious, and he had a white stripe that ran from his temple down the hair’s full length. His face, once angular from starvation, was now aristocratic, and his wide blue eyes were more intense, with a shock of dark eyelashes framing each eye. His skin was paler than before but smooth, showing little signs of age or the scars from the burning embers so familiar to cooks. The thought brought him to look at his hands, once mangled from knife cuts and scalds, now unblemished. He wondered what else might have changed and looked down at his trousers.

  The Baron chuckled. “Afraid the changes are cosmetic, boy. Nothing has, uh, grown or thickened, ‘fraid to say.”

  “But, does it…ah…work?” Gaspard asked, unable to blush but very embarrassed.

  “Yes, my son. It does work and quite well. You will find your libido to be as when you were young.”

  “You said that the maids are your daughters. We can have children?”

  “Vampires, with a bit of proper and uncomfortable ceremony, can sire children the natural way. I fought quite hard to have those girls, and several boys you will find working about. I needed stock that could never be taken away, married off, traded, or sold.”

  “You had children to ensure a blood supply?”

  “Why yes, it gets difficult to govern if villagers keep disappearing. I have bought children, too, letting them grow to mid-teens and then using them for sustenance.”

  “You have a herd.”

  The Baron tilted his head as if thinking hard. “I guess I have. Humans have sheep and chickens. We all need a food supply.”

  “But those are animals, not thinking, feeling people!”

  “I fail to see the difference, and after a while, you will fail to see the difference, too. Humans get addicted to the bite. It is a wondrous feeling on their end, sometimes quite sexual, other times a feeling of total completeness, a type of overwhelming fulfillment. Our bite fills the empty places in their hearts. It is a blessing for them, really.”

  “You said the ceremony is uncomfortable?”

  “An understatement my boy, and it involves consorting with witches, something you should avoid at any cost. Black-hearted things.”

  “But I should like to have another child.”

  “Once you are at full strength, you can sire a vampire if you so desire. Having children of your body has a high cost, one which I have paid. I did it, but I don’t recommend it.”

  Baron Rochon refused to discuss this again, and Gaspard lost interest in the subject. Mortal life seemed fleeting after a while, a speck of time in his long existence.

  Luc Rochon taught him the nighttime duties of running a barony with a sizeable vampire population, a world hidden from those who walked the day. Gaspard learned about vampire politics and how to tell a burgeoning master vampire from ones that would always be subservient. He himself continued to grow in power and was soon able to influence vampires older than he.

  Henri became his brother, and they shared as many moments during the evening as possible, until Henri had to retire and Gaspard had to work. The elder Baron simply left one day, with no forwarding address, and Gaspard never saw him again. They buried an empty casket and mourned his passing with the villagers, and eventually thoughts of Luc fled from the town’s mind and memory.

  Now, as he came out of his reverie, Gaspard struggled to remember the names of the scullery maids who were once so important to him. Did he have the equivalent of scullery maids now? What were their names? He made a mental note to find out.

  He nodded to the butler. “Fetch Marc, please.”

  “Very well.”

  Gaspard paced as he waited for his assistant. His sense of the house was always accurate, and he could feel that it was unsettled. Something was wrong, and he couldn’t tell what it was. There was an uneasiness in the air that he couldn’t place.

  A well-muscled man with long brown hair and the pale skin of a vampire knocked on the door.

  “Good evening, Gaspard,” said Marc. “Are you ready to go over your appointments?”

  Gaspard’s back was turned, so the vampire assistant kept on speaking. “You have a meeting with the visiting coalition from the Northeast Region. There are also several younger vampires that we’ve taken in to care for, and three are finding it hard to control their thirsts. Two sanguineers aren’t enough, so I’m assigning three to each, and…”

  “Three should be enough. If they need more, they will have to be staked. They will never gain control. The Northeast Region is your thing. You represent me. I have no interest in meeting with that little potato of a vampire. He simpers like a sycophant in the old courts. But this is not what I want to discuss.”

  “What then?”

  “What I want to talk about is the disquiet I sense in the house.”

  Marc cleared his throat. “We’ve had some accidents with the reconstruction of the guest house and gazebo during the day. The architect and workmen are spooked.”

  Gaspard turned to stare at his assistant. “What do you mean, accidents? What did Marie say happened?”

  “When Marie and I did our nightly handoff, the main topic of our discussion was that no matter what the workmen did, the gazebo wouldn’t stand. They called in the architect, but he found no problems in the plan or the construction. They would build it, turn around to get more supplies, and the pieces would fall.”

  “Let me see the report.”

  Marc handed Gaspard a folder that contained the update from the day staff to the night staff. Marie and Marc worked together much as he had with Henri.

  The note was written in Marie’s precise handwriting.

  At eleven o’clock in the morning, and then again at three and four, the supportive struts on the new gazebo collapsed. Contractors and architect are baffled by the continuing failure of the wood to hold. Despite careful review, they cannot determine why the construction continues to fall. They are bringing in wood with a steel core to see if that will solve the problem.

  Gaspard read the note three times.

  “Why do you think this b
uilding problem is what I am sensing?”

  “I’m not sure, but it is the only thing I can pinpoint.”

  Gaspard shifted topics. “Did you know that Madame Beauchamp came to see me this evening?”

  “I heard. What’s she like?”

  “Honorable, proud, stubborn.”

  “I take it she didn’t accept your latest offer?” Marc asked.

  “No, she did not. She tossed it aside, literally.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “For now, wait. I need Lisette.”

  As if she heard, Lisette slipped into the room. She wore long, silver negligee, and her auburn hair was styled in an up-do so he would have clear access to her neck. She was his special sanguineer, a volunteer blood donor who was taken care of financially for her service. He had also paid for her law degree.

  Without being asked, Marc bowed out of the room. Lisette smiled at Gaspard from the corner where she reclined against the wall. The slit of her negligee went all the way to mid-thigh revealing gorgeous tanned legs. Her toes were painted a deep red, and her green eyes teased him from afar.

  “Well, my love, what is your need?” she said.

  “Come here, Lisette.”

  “Hummmm,” she purred. “What if I don’t want to?”

  Gaspard smiled. “You want to.”

  Lisette slid along the wall another few feet. “Make me.”

  Before she knew it, before any mortal could see, he was in front of her. He stroked her face and then pulled her close. Just the smell of him was enough to arouse her. She licked his neck showing him what she wanted. He licked hers, and she trembled in response. He stroked his hands down her back, grabbing her hips and pushing them toward his arousal, which he released with one tug. He slowly, oh, so slowly, lifted her silk nightgown, pleased to learn she was naked beneath it. He lifted her by the hips and held her against his body. Her head dropped back and her eyelids fluttered. She dampened with an intense, animal need and thrust forward to make him move faster. He slipped into her in one stroke, biting at the same time. The flow of blood pulsated with the flow of their lovemaking, and for a moment, she saw the world from his eyes, and he from hers.

  She saw the room in Technicolor, her skin so detailed she could see each of her own eyelashes and thought I am beautiful. He saw with dulled human eyes, but experienced her orgasm, an unexpected, delicious joy. Until that moment, he hadn’t understood how breathtaking the experience was for his partner, the release of the body, the high of the bite, a soaring of spirit. In that moment, that exact moment, he finally glimpsed the full power of the addiction.

  3

  Kara stood outside the door, hand raised mid-knock. She’d been with Gaspard’s household for a few months, assigned to Gaspard to provide protection, security upgrades, and training for security personnel.

  She’d intended to update Gaspard on some of the protective measures she’d put in place, from the additional outside cameras to the hiring of extra guards, and the krav maga lessons she’d instituted. She’d procured new equipment, focusing on knives, swords, and for the larger men, the Viking axe, a particular favorite of hers. While guns were great for some things, the fool-proof way to kill a vampire was to behead it. Sharp, honed edges did that best, and she rubbed her hands together with glee at the thought. Oh, and she’d better tell him about the flame throwers. Fire was effective, too, and so much fun to use.

  The thought of all those weapons and the hard training to follow made her giddy. Battle is what she lived for. She’d been almost happy as she approached Gaspard’s office. Now she was disgusted.

  The sounds from within the office were unmistakable, and while she was no prude, she was repulsed by the sheer exhibitionism, the renunciation of privacy, and the flaunting of their sexuality. The man was sex on two feet with fangs, but he’d never hear her say it. She specialized in icy stares, and that was all he was going to get.

  She strode away, heading for the training room she’d established next to the new security headquarters. Four people were inside practicing with bo staffs, another weapon she insisted they learn how to use. She stepped inside the training room and watched the two men and two women spar.

  The women stood opposite one another, as did the men. The male-female pair with their back to her attacked first. The woman adopted a horse stance, raised the bo over her head, brought it down and across the inside of her body, aiming for her opponent’s ribs.

  The man, taller than she, took a different route. He lifted the staff in both hands, one palm up, the other palm down. He lifted his right leg to his knee, held the bo stick above his shoulder and lunged forward intending to deliver a powerful front strike. The other man jumped back into a cat stance, widened his hands on the bo, and raised it to block the attack.

  Kara watched the next few minutes, observing the intricate swirls and twists the opponents used.

  “Stop!” Kara ordered.

  Kara pointed to the man who had lunged into a deep front stance. “You’re getting your overhead front strike mixed up with your front thrust. You only lunge that deeply for a thrust. For a strike, you can’t step as far, which is why you lost power. Also, your bo starts parallel to the ground over your shoulder not angled backward,” she said, gesturing for him to demonstrate that he understood. The man corrected his starting stance, and Kara gave a nod of approval.

  “Now you,” she said, turning to the woman. “Your overhead rib strike was executed well. Good job.”

  The woman grinned and shoved an elbow into her colleague’s side.

  “But after that, you guys all got twirly. These are bo sticks, not lightsabers, and they are for battle, not choreography. The twirls and circles are pretty, but they waste time. Focus your efforts on learning the basics and being able to block hard and fast.”

  The man said, “Are you saying we can’t have fun?” He gave her a wink.

  Kara closed her eyes, said a prayer to Odin to protect her from fools, and stepped deep into his personal space. “I am teaching you to be lethal. You want to be in a movie, go elsewhere.” She stepped even closer. The man blinked, leaning his torso backwards, his workout sweat switching to fear sweat.

  Kara hissed the last part. “Do. You. Under. Stand?”

  All four nodded.

  Kara stepped away, relaxed her shoulders, pointed to the staff, and asked, “How do they feel?”

  The woman who had been in the defensive position clapped her hands together. “They are so light! Flexible but strong. What are they made of?”

  Kara replied, feeling a little smug. “Oak hard wood over teak. The oak makes them sturdy; the teak makes them light.”

  “I like the two tapered ends,” added the woman with a wicked grin. “Much better for shoving through a vampire’s chest.”

  “That’s why they are made of wood, no foam or metal.”

  The fourth person, a man about six feet tall, ventured a question. “But there is metal. What are these for?” he asked, pointing to two small metal divots, one on each end of the staff.

  Kara really smiled now. “My special surprise. Let me show you.”

  Kara was also six feet tall, so she borrowed the man’s staff. She nodded to the smaller woman, who held up her staff in a protective stance.

  Kara whirled her bo stick in a lightning fast foot sweep and followed with a thrust to the woman’s chest. The woman backpedaled, off balance and stumbling, trying to bring her stick up in a high parry, but it was clear that in real battle, she would be dead.

  That fact was punctuated when they all looked at the tip of the staff a few inches from the woman’s heart and saw the hidden blade Kara had loosed as she attacked. The tip of the blade was only millimeters away from piercing the woman’s body. Kara repressed the button, and the dagger slid back inside its sheath, within the tip of the bo staff.

  “Oooohhh,” breathed the woman. “I likeee. Handy-dandy for vamps.”

  “Exactly. Practice with them as much as possible. We don’t
want anyone slicing their own necks.”

  She exited considering the word handy-dandy. She liked it. She’d have to remember that one. Modern English was such an interesting language.

  4

  Adelaide tossed and turned, battling the primordial soup of age and worry. Visitors from the Historical Society were coming to see the house today, and she worried that they might back out of the deal. She hadn’t been forthcoming about the state of disrepair.

  She felt the ghosts on her skin and hoped there weren’t any sensitives in the visiting party. She spoke aloud. “I’m trying to do what is best for all of us. Please behave!”

  Precisely at eleven o’clock, two representatives from the Historical Society appeared on her doorstep.

  “Hello, and welcome to the Beauchamp mansion. I am pleased to have you,” Adelaide said as she accompanied them into the sitting room.

  The man of the pair, a portly fellow named Beaumont Landry sported an anachronistic handlebar mustache. He gestured in what he must have thought to be a magnanimous manner and announced, in his most important voice, “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this home. So many deals brokered in these rooms. This was once a place of power.” He belched as he lowered himself onto the antique red velvet love chair.

  Adelaide held her tongue, but thought, this is still a place of power, you fat bastard. Apparently, the resident ghosts agreed. She could feel their animosity deep in her bones, their cold fury sinking into her soul as they gathered in the sitting room, lowering the temperature by several degrees.

  Beaumont’s companion, a tall thin woman, shivered and drew her wrap tighter. She introduced herself as Harriet Alva and inclined her head toward Adelaide as she said, “Mrs. Beauchamp, we thank you for having us. This historic house must be preserved.”

  That made Adelaide smile. “I agree, Miss Alva. It is what my husband would have wanted. May I ask, with your last name, are you related to the celebrated Alvas from Spain who settled here in 1769?”