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The Count of Wolf Blood Castle

Page 9

by Laurelle Lewis

I have found great comfort in these walls, as I have led a sinful life until I handed over my life and soul to the order of which is good and noble.

  Here the parchment was weathered, and the ink used had smudged due to water damage. Dashiell read the little plaque on the front of the glass case it was enclosed in, which stated that the parchment was part of the only surviving book written by the monk Claudius.

  Dashiell called the female attendant over, ‘Do you, do you have more of these? The parchments—or the book? Do you have the book in the possession of the museum?’

  ‘Yes.’ The lady smiled nervously. ‘The book is over there, in that glass case—a few of the parchments fell out, so that’s why they are in special preservation on their own, but they aren’t of much interest, they mainly just talk of the journey of the monks. The most interesting information is actually in the book-but that’s under lock and key.’

  Dashiell groaned, ‘I must read that book! It is imperative! Can you please take it out of the case so I can examine it?’

  The lady’s face contorted in a strange expression. ‘Count Dashiell, I, I can’t do that. You might be a patron of this museum, but this exhibition is curated by the National Historical Society of Talir Faye—I don’t think they would take kindly to me or you or anyone messing around with historical artefacts.’

  Dashiell suddenly lashed out and hit one of the glass cases with his fists. The lady screamed and Dashiell realised what he’d done. ‘Lucky that’s strong glass,’ the elderly gentlemen warned him, coming to the aid of the female attendant. ‘I think it’s time you left, Mr. Baertschi.’

  Dashiell hung his shoulders. ‘Sure.’ He sighed. ‘I, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m just deeply frustrated…I…’

  ‘It’s alright,’ the lady assured him. She could see the pain in his face and realised he needed kindness. ‘Just look at whatever you’d like, but I cannot access everything- not even for you.’

  Dashiell nodded. He knew he’d do whatever it took to get that book. At least he had an answer. He now knew who Claudius was, but still he had no idea how he was connected to his uncle and the curse. He felt deep in his spirit, that this was the beginning of what was going to be a very long journey.

  Dashiell’s gut feeling told him that this Claudius person must have been of some importance for him to be his uncle’s last utterance in this world. If he was that important, then surely, he would be the tenth monk in the paintings. Yet, he was enigmatic enough to escape the shrewd mind of Eduard Baertschi…but why?

  Above all- what did this have to do with his family’s curse? Inside he ached for freedom, but there seemed to be no release from this torment he endured.

  Chapter Fourteen: Creature of the Night

  When Dashiell had arrived back at the castle, he had not been keen to tell Annika that he had discovered who Claudius was, but he knew he had too. She had been an amazing ally, sitting up night after night with him in his study, trying to find out more information. No matter how many books they read though, nothing was ever written about Claudius.

  ‘We need to go further,’ Annika said one night. ‘We need to look outside these walls-visit libraries, archives-get out there and talk to the people.’

  Dashiell laughed; her passion was attractive—she was attractive. ‘Sure.’ He smiled. ‘In the morning.’

  She hit him gently on the head with the book. ‘Oh Dash,’ she cooed. ‘You’re too comfortable-that’s your problem! You’ve hidden away behind these walls for so long- you’ve forgotten there’s a whole big world out there- and I, for one, want to explore it. It could be a real adventure,’ she said and winked. He knew she was right, but there was also a whole lot of danger out there too, especially with the Von Croys lurking around.

  ***

  Dashiell had retired to his study for the night. He intended on having a bath tonight and relaxing. He had taken off his pendant so he could soak in the bath and laid it upon a small nightstand.

  Dashiell picked up an old book that had been left on the table; he began to read—he had to keep looking. The book had been handwritten by a monk back in the days of King Curtis and Queen Miranda. The book was hundreds of years old, but still in immaculate condition. Eduard had always taken meticulous care of his books, and Dashiell could definitely appreciate his fussiness now. Dashiell groaned—if only it had been written by Claudius! Although, as a child, he had been scorned many times by his uncle for drawing in and ripping pages from his collection of antique books.

  Now, he understood why. Eduard had been searching for a long time for an answer. The seventh page had been marked; Dashiell read the passage:

  ‘One that is pure and humble,

  Hath recorded the truth,

  His message though hidden,

  Doth canvassed far,

  To bring a peace to his dying heart.’

  That’s part of the lullaby Eduard used to sing to Theo and me! He was shocked. The words were just sloppily written in the corner of a random page. With no context or explanation. Those words must mean something-but what?

  Perhaps it was a riddle, or a clue? Dashiell wondered if perhaps Uncle Eduard had been clutching at straws, he threw the book away in frustration. A twinge of guilt jolted through him as he saw the book hit the wall. He knew his uncle would be sorely disappointed in him.

  Dashiell climbed out of the bath, soaking wet, and still covered in soap, he got dressed in a hurry. He needed to pick the book up before it got damaged.

  He placed it back on the table. He looked around his study, his sanctuary, his prison. He went over to his bar and poured himself another drink, he was already half-drunk as he slumped into his chair, watching the flames of the fire as they danced, almost taunting him. He threw in a hand of pixie dust and said a magic word that would make the flames dance and transform into memories of long ago. He checked the name on the bag.

  ‘Happy memories,’ he sighed. He needed a happy memory right now. The pictures that began to form were of the days he had shared with his brother, of them playing together...

  When he and his brother had been younger, they had always watched each other’s back. Staring into the flames, Dashiell could see, like a vision before him, the memories of yesteryear. As he and his brother played in the gardens, they would hide the gardener’s rake from him. They would sit behind the apple orchards and laugh as he scratched his head and mumbled to himself, wondering where it had gone. Then they would torment the maids by unpegging clothes from the line when they weren’t looking.

  But all those years he had watched over his brother, it had not been enough. When his brother had needed him the most he had not been there. Dashiell shuddered as he imagined what must have taken place on that awful night. The howl of the wolves as they closed in on Theo and… Dashiell sat up, not wanting to imagine any further.

  He was so restless tonight and couldn’t work out why. He decided he needed to get some fresh air. He grabbed his black coat and decided to take a walk around the grounds. Outside the wind was howling and the evening air was cold upon his face, but he didn’t mind. It made him feel alive, instead of the stale castle air, that was always hot and smelt of smoke from the fireplaces.

  He made his way along the snow-covered path, wrapping his jacket around him tightly. He felt so alone in the world, as the statues lining the path glared at him with empty, soulless eyes, just like the paintings in the castle. So many times, he had made his way down the path to The Forbidden Garden, and he had never felt more alone tonight than ever. He realised he wanted someone by his side, he wanted love, just like everyone else! At twenty-one, he was still unknown to a woman, and he longed for the touch of love, he longed to let go of his inhibitions, and feel a woman against him. To hold her sweet body in his embrace, let go and fall into the sweet nothingness of passion.

  He knew though that it could mean death to a woman if he invited her into his life, so he had chosen to stay alone. At his darkest moments, he had thought of visiting some of the houses of ill reput
e in the village, where a man could get what he wanted for a few oopas.

  But he knew it would be an empty experience. He wanted love, and he had waited this long, perhaps he would be waiting forever. Ever since that day with Annika, he had not been able to stop thinking about her. He was angry and agitated with himself for allowing her to influence him. He knew if he truly was unselfish, he’d send her away, to protect her, but he was no saint, and he wanted her to stay.

  He couldn’t help but notice her shape, her hips, her laugh, he had let himself imagine for a moment what it would be like to kiss her, to run his lips over her neck, to touch her bare skin…

  But then he had become enraged that no woman would ever love him if she knew what he really was. He knew Annika knew the rumours, but it was all hearsay; it was all ridiculous rumours to her, but yet, it had not been mentioned and she had not asked. He could not lie to her, look her in the eye and tell her, so he left it, hoping and praying she would not leave the castle—and him.

  Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, letting the freezing winter air envelope his lungs. A strange feeling began to overtake him. That night, there was a full moon. Dashiell tried to avoid the moonlight whenever he could, but with his mind a cavalcade of thoughts, worry and regret, he had completely forgotten about the moon! It was now dark, and that glowing orb that controlled his life—tortured him!—shone brightly directly overhead. Looking up, as the moon and all its mysterious influence penetrated his soul, he realised his mistake.

  In the moonlight, Dashiell felt his blood pulse through his veins. He knew what was coming.

  ‘Damn it!’ he spat, realising he’d left the pendant in his study as he desperately clawed for it around his neck. The spell of the moon had once again come over him, and as much as he hated it, he knew it was inevitable. He felt wild, out of control. He let the beast take over. His limbs began to stretch, as he grew taller, he could hear his clothes ripping to shreds. He hated the agony of transforming, as his body changed and warped into something unholy. His nails grew longer, his eyes glazing over, as he faded from conscious thought, into a natural killer. The desire for blood burned in his being, as he felt the familiar cravings settling into place. Within minutes he was no longer the dashing count of Wolf Blood Castle, but a wild and savage creature. A Werewolf! Dashiell took off into the night, where his brutal form belonged.

  Part Two

  Chapter Fifteen: No Mercy for the Competition

  Prince Bastien Von Croy was a God in his own mind. The heir to the throne was a cocky twenty-year-old. His dirty, blonde hair and blue eyes cast him as an angelic vision. His nature though, was not so angelic. His temper was like a torrent in the water; never relenting, and as cruel as the cold depths of the icy falls of Nothangria.

  His good looks and the privilege he was born into all added to his already inflated ego. He could get maids to lie to his father about his whereabouts with a wink or flash of his perfect smile to receive preferential treatment wherever he went. Bastien was used to getting what he wanted, he had learnt well from his cruel and callous parents, and tonight was no exception.

  Bastien and his army had travelled through the night, out of Thraxia and into the village of Callibria. Dark shadows lurked amongst the pine trees and snow. There was an icy chill in the air that pulsed through, not only the crevices of the trees, but the vapid souls that belonged to the shadows.

  The tortured limbs of spindly, neglected trees swayed in the wind, the limbs tossing chaotically, frenzied and wild. The scene illuminated by the bluish pallor of the moon which penetrated the world below, its sorrow unknown to the small army that ravished unbridled evil upon the local town when it took their fancy.

  Villagers always locked their doors on nights such as these, little did they know that it made no difference. For the Baertschi family were not the only werewolves around. While the Dashiell and Theodore had been cursed and loathed what they would become when the moon was full, the Von Croy Family embraced what they were, and used it to gain ultimate power.

  The Von Croys were Alpha Werewolves, and so could control when they transformed. They could change into those vile creatures even during the day, and they knew what they were doing during every minute of transformation. The royal family had known for centuries of its affliction, and great lengths had been taken to keep their secret. Many innocent souls had been sent to the dungeons of Thraxian kings for the things they had seen and described.

  Unlike the Baertschi’s, who needed their precious pendant to control themselves and their admirable consciences, Bastien didn’t need the pendant for that reason. His reasons were far more self-serving, in the grand scheme of things.

  Bastien had gone on wild hunts in the night to create his army of werewolves, and they knew better than to betray their prince; he had created them and so too could destroy them. He had sat in the bushes, waiting, his limbs tense, poised for action. Then when an unsuspecting villager had stumbled past—normally intoxicated—he had leapt on them, sinking his yellowing fangs in their soft flesh. As blood oozed to the ground, screams echoed throughout the forest. Then he had given them a special elixir he had obtained from the witch of the woods that would give his victims the same power to control their transformation as he could.

  Tonight, his army of fierce creatures basked in the moonlight, their sharp, canine teeth glistening as they howled with praise for their victory. They had conquered their enemy (Theodore Baertschi) only several full moons earlier, and they were one step closer to gaining what their dark hearts desired.

  Prince Bastien had led his army into the country on a mission of great importance; he had come in search of an ancient relic—an ancient manuscript unearthed in a recent archaeological dig. A book that had once belonged to Claudius the ‘mad monk’ –or so he was called—and it held secrets that the Von Croys would kill to have.

  The book had been on display in the museum of Callibria for the past two weeks, for those who had deep pockets, or an unhealthy obsession with history. For the general public though, the exhibition would be opening tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp, the hordes of ill-educated and gawking public would come to gaze upon a piece of their collective history in some hope that they may leave feeling more privileged or educated. Bastien scoffed at the idea because the book was useless to everyone that would gaze upon it. No better off were the studious, but ignorant scholars who would dribble and salivate over the ancient text. Written in a code that no one could decipher—it had been deliberately written this way to keep the secrets from prying eyes.

  Bastien had an advantage. His family had hidden bank vaults full of ancient relics and he believed he had found part of the key to deciphering the ancient text. His family had been searching for answers about Claudius and the mysterious pendent and its origins for a very long time.

  His army had already managed to steal a sacred pendant from the Baertschi’s, and it was locked away safely in his family vault as far as he knew. The Von Croys had been avid collectors of ancient manuscripts on magic and traditions both for historical value and occult purposes. The book contained something the Von Croys had been after since Bastien’s father was young.

  Tonight, he would steal the book from the museum, and he would let no one get in his way. As leader of the pack, Bastien spoke in a gruff, but commanding voice. Bastien stood upon a large rock, the full moon glowing down upon his magnificent form. His body, covered in grey fur, was head and shoulders above his army, and his long snout and jaw filled with decaying fangs cast a terrifying shadow.

  ‘Tonight, we take back what is rightfully mine!’

  His army of savage beasts bayed at the moon in compliance, sending a chill down the spine of the villagers in nearby houses. The army of werewolves knew never to rest on their previous defeats, as there was much work to be done, and serious consequences, for those who let down or betrayed the Von Croy Kingdom.

  The creatures listened to their leader Bastien; a prince by daylight, by moonlight an unholy creatur
e of the night. His army would stop at nothing to make sure the objectives of the Von Croy Kingdom were fulfilled.

  ***

  Now that school was over, Briette was becoming rather bored with her life. While many of her counterparts were applying for university or looking for employment, she had been undertaking formal training in the ways of a future princess and awaiting a proposal from the prince. She would not wait around and have her title taken away from her. But for tonight, she was busy preparing for a party her parents were holding in her honour, to celebrant her finishing school.

  The Baumgartner family was one of the wealthiest in all of Talir Faye, of course beside the Von Croy family. Lord and Lady Baumgartner had only been able to conceive one child; a girl who had been spoilt rotten almost before she was even born.

  She knew she was doted on from a young age, and it was then that she had started to wield the power in the Baumgartner family house. She could wrap her parents around her little finger and bring the servants to tears with one little pout of her lip. And now, that she was growing into a beautiful young woman; she had perfected her craft to an art form.

  The Baumgartner family home was a magnificent sight to see, a three-story mansion set in the woodlands and forests of Thraxia, it was looked down upon by the Von Croy Castle.

  Briette’s room was covered in pink and white striped wallpaper, with antique furniture stained in rich, red tones. Her canopy bed was covered with delicate pink curtains and fluffy cushions. Her collection of antique, porcelain dolls stood proudly in her cabinet. Her room was an eclectic mix of adult party gowns and expensive perfume, and her dolls and other childhood things that still lingered on from days gone by; days of innocence and carefree imaginings.

  Briette preened herself in the mirror. She was a petite girl of no more than nineteen; her long, raven-coloured hair with flecks of blue was draped around her face in big, thick curls. She was almost ready for the party. Iris, her maid pulled the strings on her corset to achieve her tiny, little waist she was so proud of. ‘Miss, Briette,’ Iris moaned time after time. ‘Nobody wears these organ-damaging, baby killing contraptions anymore.’

 

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