BLOODLINES -- Blood War Trilogy: Book I

by Dylan J. Morgan

  Her family looked at her with contempt.

  Bowers took a deep, rattling breath, and opened the envelope. He took out a document, about four pages long: Granddad’s will. He tipped the envelope and let four smaller envelopes slide onto the desk. He turned the will to its correct orientation and adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose. He looked over the edge of the document, studying the expectation on their faces before clearing his throat.

  “This is the last will and testament of me, Trevor Wyatt, of Wyatt House, Wellington, which I make this twenty-third day of December, nineteen ninety-four. I hereby revoke all former wills and testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will.”

  Tamara could sense the urgency in her family, willing the old man to stop laboring over the legal jargon at the head of the document and get to the contents that really mattered. She shook her head in disbelief. They saw this event as nothing more than a sideshow, a chore needing to be carried out after the passing of an old man before they continued with their uncaring lives, changed through inherited wealth and security. A smile found its way to the corner of her mouth. She hoped they wouldn’t receive a penny for their selfish neglect and she would depart the villa the wealthiest of them all.

  The old man hesitated and took a sip of water. Tamara heard an audible sigh of frustration.

  Bowers placed the glass carefully upon the desk.

  “I appoint Reginald Bowers of Bowers and Waterman to be the executor and trustee of this, my will, and hereinafter Mr. Reginald Bowers will be referred to as my trustee.”

  Bowers coughed again and for a moment Tamara thought he was about to launch into another fit. He controlled it and swallowed heavily.

  “I give, devise and bequeath the whole of my estate at Wyatt House, Wellington, including the ground upon which it resides and the contents of all rooms to my son-in-law, Roy Wyatt, unto him for his own use and benefit absolutely.”

  Bowers searched the four envelopes, found the one he wanted, and handed it across the desk to Tamara’s dad. It bulged at its base, and Tamara knew it didn’t contain a letter. Her stomach tightened. A grin pulled at her father’s cheeks. He opened the envelope as if he were a small boy once more excited to be unwrapping the first present on Christmas morning. He pulled out keys for the large house on a beachfront near New Zealand’s capital. The man’s smile told her everything. At least his wife looked away, face hidden in a handkerchief although Tamara doubted her tears of grief were real. Tamara wondered if Bowers could see the lady’s smile.

  “In addition,” Bowers croaked, “I give, devise and bequeath the whole of my estate at Wyatt Villa, Otago, including the ground upon which it resides and the contents of all rooms, to my youngest granddaughter, Alison Wyatt, unto her for her own use and benefit absolutely.”

  Alison’s boyfriend, Dale Vernon, couldn’t restrain his whoop of delight. It shocked Tamara how her younger sister, who didn’t even own a property in the country, ended up with such a superb villa under the watchful gaze of New Zealand’s Southern Alps. How could a girl with no education, with no desire to do anything in life other than mate, become the sole owner of the glorious property? Dale Vernon benefiting from her grandfather’s death made it doubly worse. Alison tried to play down her delight, controlling Dale in his celebrations, but Tammy could see happiness scratching at the surface. Jealousy stroked Tamara’s emotions. The thought of the two of them in the house, under-maintaining it, defiling it, pressed into her mind. She tried to suppress the anger because it wouldn’t do her any good. She rationalized it had been Granddad’s choice, his decision on who got what, and if he felt Alison deserved the property more than her—and Dad more deserving of the main estate—then maybe Granddad had made the right choice. Something gnawed at her subconscious, telling her the choice he’d made had been the wrong one.

  Bowers handed Alison an envelope containing keys to the property.

  Jealousy pulled harder.

  “Further to this,” Bowers said, and as a collective everybody seemed to hold their breath. “I give, devise and bequeath the solitary car in my possession which is located in the garage at Wyatt Villa, Otago, to my eldest granddaughter, Rebecca Wyatt, unto her for her own use and benefit absolutely.”

  There were half-hidden smiles all round. Rebecca, who had hitched a lift with Dad in the hope it would be a one-way favor, would now get to cruise home to Dunedin in the power and luxury of the Mercedes. She scooped the car keys from the envelope eagerly.

  Envy surged hard in Tamara with the force of a crashing wave, pushing anger in its wake. As the emotion rose in her, something else—subtle like a flame burning beneath her skin—picked at her nerve-endings. She squirmed in the leather seat and fought to contain herself. Someone made a comment, words surrounding her name, but she hadn’t heard what they’d said. Blood pounded in her ears and blocked her family’s words.

  Bowers cleared his throat and the commotion died down.

  “Finally, I give, devise and bequeath the painted chest, a family heirloom, located at the foot of my wardrobe at Wyatt Villa, Otago, to my remaining granddaughter, Tamara Wyatt, unto her for her own use and benefit absolutely.”

  Subtle laughter battered her ears but it was contained, as if whoever found it amusing realized such an outward show of ridicule would not be welcomed in the presence of a lawyer. The inheritance she secretly yearned for had gone to them, and she’d been left with a small box in Granddad’s wardrobe. She hadn’t realized how much not getting anything of value in the will would affect her. Before the reading she would have sworn none of Granddad’s material possessions meant anything to her and all she wanted was to have the old man back, breathing, laughing, telling stories. The awareness of inheriting nothing at all smacked her like a well-aimed fist. She sat clouded with bewilderment and looked past the smug grin of Dale Vernon, past the sniggering glare of Alison and Rebecca—able to make out the unashamed mocking on her stepmother’s face—and stared at the granite peaks capped in snow.

  She caught the envelope in her lap as Bowers tossed it to her.

  Tamara opened it. A key lay inside, small and silver with a rounded barrel and a decorative heart sculptured on its end. It looked tiny. Dale’s triumphant voice seemed to be a pitch higher than everyone else’s; Rebecca talked about the car and Alison about the view from her villa; Dad and his wife were already making plans to redecorate the estate in Wellington.

  “The remainder of my monetary fortune,” Bowers continued, “will remain under the guidance of the trustee.”

  The old man’s voice sounded weaker than before, almost hidden beneath murmurs of excitement emanating from her family. Tamara’s jaw ached as she clenched her teeth; it made her head float. Vertebrae in her neck popped under the effort. Bowers put the will face down on his briefcase, cleared his throat once more, and linked his fingers.

  “Now,” he said. “As Mr. Wyatt’s trustee, I would like to ask; are there any questions?”

  Tamara raised her hand. She couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Yeah me, I have a question. Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “I can assure you Miss Wyatt, this is no laughing matter.”

  “So let me get this straight. I devote the last four or five months to nursing Granddad through his many tumors: quitting work, my boyfriend, even my social life, and all he leaves me is the key to a handcrafted treasure chest? Whereas little Miss I-ain’t-looking-after-him-he’s-old-and-is-gonna-die-soon-anyway, over there; she gets the keys to the fucking villa!”

  ‘Little Miss’ jangled the keys noisily in her hand to aggravate the situation. She wore a patronizing, big-cheesy grin.

  Tamara looked at Alison who clutched the keys as if they were in fact a rare cut-glass diamond pulled from the depths of the earth. She didn’t attempt to hide her condescending smile, in contrast to the veil of grief she had drawn over her face yesterday at the gra
veside. Beside Alison, Dad laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing in a gentle comfort.

  Anger grew, because of Granddad. Tamara realized she had sacrificed a lot for the old man and yet had received nothing for her troubles. Her fingernails—cut short while caring for the old man—dug into her palms as she clenched her fists.

  Anger came in venom-coated words. “It’ll be snowing up here in the winter Al, and the last I knew you couldn’t ski. Just what do you plan on doing up here?”

  Alison raised her head. Dark hair hung like lacework over her face but didn’t hide the glint in her eye.

  Tammy clicked straight away. “Ah, I see. Fucking Dale’s brains out, then.”

  “I can see you’re upset about this, Miss Wyatt,” Bowers said. “But I’m afraid we have to honor the conditions in your grandfather’s will.”

  “Great. That’s just great. I mean, it’s not as if I can get away from it all after giving up my own life for our Granddad, and drive somewhere to relax, because sister number one has the privilege of owning the car.” She shot a questioning look at her eldest sister. “What am I supposed to do with a little metal chest, while you’re driving around with the fucking top down?”

  Obviously annoyed, Bowers still held an air of professionalism. “I would appreciate it if you refrained from using such language, Miss Wyatt. This is a distressing enough time for us all without having to contend with your outbursts.”

  “I don’t see too many tears, do you?”

  “People grieve in their own way, Miss. Wyatt.”

  Her snorted laugh contained no humor. “No shit.”

  “Please, Miss. Wyatt. I have security on the premises, just outside the front door. If you indulge in one more outburst like that, I shall have no option but to have you removed from the grounds.”

  Bowers shuffled papers to make his point, and then told them Granddad had wanted them to have tea and cakes in the drawing room.

  Tammy looked down. She switched off. After everything she’d done all she gotten was a metal chest hidden at the bottom of his closet in the corner obscured by shoes, while her sisters got the flashy car and the villa, and her father the large house. Tamara had nothing now. Behind on mortgage repayments, she had already received unkind letters from the lenders; her job—held open for a month—had gone, probably to some student with half her talent and for half the money; her boyfriend had gone too and wasn’t coming back—working at a bar in Sydney, the last she heard. No money, no home, with the things that could have compensated her inherited by them.

  Why Granddad? Why couldn’t you look after me like I did for you?

  Hearing the shuffling of chair legs on carpeting, Tamara looked up. Her family stood, intending to go through to the other room and dine heartily on food offered by a dead man.

  “We’re off to the drawing room if you would care to join us, Miss Wyatt,” Bowers said.

  “No thanks.” She looked about the room, at the so-called bereaved and their smug faces. She tried to control her anger. It wasn’t Bowers’ fault either, but she couldn’t commemorate Granddad’s life with people who didn’t believe it worth celebrating. “I’d have more fun in a hospital having my bowels removed.”

  Leaving the study, she made sure the door slammed as it closed. Cursing Granddad, she walked down the hall and climbed the stairs. She’d get her treasure chest so kindly left for her in the will, and throw the damn thing into the Pacific.

  She began crying when she reached the first floor landing.

  In the master bedroom beneath a pile of forgotten, worn-out shoes, Tamara found the chest. About three foot square, hand-painted red and green and covered in floral decorations, it was lightweight in her hands. She shook it and air rattled inside. Empty. Tamara snorted disapproval.

  She sat back on her heels and let the tears come. At first she thought the tears were for her own sense of injustice, but as visions of Granddad floated into her mind she knew grief for the old man’s passing had overtaken her again. She couldn’t hate him, even if she tried. What had he done in life to deserve a family so heartless? Why had he been chosen by God to leave the world riddled with a callous disease? Her tears found no answers.

  When they’d stopped she wiped her nose across her sleeve, ignoring the mucus trail left behind. She stood and walked to the window, its view revealing the stretch of green lawn to the rear of the house extending to fields separating the garden from the mountain range beyond. Fresh rain clouds gathered against white peaks. She remembered the summers she spent at the villa, on the lawn below with a patterned rug spread on the grass and a healthy picnic adorning the patchwork. She remembered playing with her sisters, Rebecca and Alison, running with liberation over the expansive land, chasing butterflies and playing catch; their parents—her real mother—laughing with them. Granddad was always there; sitting in his chair, wearing a silly hat and trousers that resembled a golfer’s, telling funny anecdotes and stories of years gone by. She always sat at his feet when they ate and he took the food she didn’t want. They were devoted, like friends. She felt closer to him than to her own father. In fact, Tammy felt sure the old man had been closer to her than to anyone else.

  The anger dissipated. She suspected it would come back anew when she saw her family—if she ever laid eyes on them again—but jealousy lingered like an unwanted itch that couldn’t be scratched away. They had no right getting what they did; they didn’t deserve to have the same name as Granddad.

  Why had he cut her out?

  Tamara walked to the small chest and picked it up: an empty case which she had no use for. Unto her for her own use and benefit absolutely. What a joke. She let the box fall against her hip and something slid within. It knocked the side of the box with a thin metallic clang. She sat on the bed, fished the key from the envelope and slipped it into the lock. Tamara eyed the box, her gaze fixed on the heart shaped decoration on the key’s tip, her thumb and forefinger obscuring its full shape. She turned the key, the noise of the lock slipping in its housing barely audible. She waited, her hand wrapped around the curved lid of the box as indecision clawed at her mind.

  Below, the soft mumble of her family enjoying Granddad’s free food drifted through the bedroom’s soft carpeting.

  She opened the box.

  The letterhead bore the business address of her grandfather. A tremble ran through her fingers as she opened the folded paper. She recognized Granddad’s handwriting, its unique scrawl reminding her of old-fashioned testaments she’d sometimes seen on history programs.

  It was dated December twenty-third, nineteen ninety-four: the same day the will had been made. Tamara read the letter.

  My dearest Tamara,

  They have received everything, all I own save for my money, and you have got nothing. How does that make you feel? Bitter? Disappointed? Maybe just a little. But I want you to focus on the feelings you had in the study when Mr. Bowers was reading the will. . . . Do you remember?

  She did remember but couldn’t comprehend how he could possibly have known how she would feel. As she thought about her anger and jealousy, it surfaced again.

  Anger is a good feeling to have but you must learn to use it wisely, my child. It is the strongest emotion but cannot be underestimated. Anger cannot be learned, it cannot be taught, it is what we have, what we are, what makes us. . . . It is dangerous and you must use it wisely.

  What on earth was Granddad talking about?

  Jealousy is a different emotion, we think more to achieve it and therefore we can control it. You can control it now, I know you can princess, but you have to use it to get what you want, what you’ve always desired. Jealousy comes when those around us have what we want, what we know should be ours and yet is given to someone else. Do you feel jealousy Tamara; do you wish to express it?

  She did.

  The rumble of their joy in the drawing room seemed to vibrate the floorboards as emotion plucked at her mind.

  Your “father” has my house. Remember the times we spent t
here, you and me, playing in its halls and gardens, learning, me watching you grow. He will not keep it like you could. He does not cherish it the way you do. How does that make you feel?

  Angry. It swarmed in her veins.

  She gripped the letter tight; her jaw clamped shut, muscles strained and thicker.

  What do you think Alison will do with the villa? What do you think she will do in my bedroom, in the bed on which you now sit? How many ways can she disgrace this property and run it down? Think about how that makes you feel, Tamara. Think about how envious you are of her to still have her boyfriend and to be able to share with him this glorious house. Think how angry it makes you to know the villa could have been yours.

  Tamara only realized she had stood when she reached the window, her eyes this time not pulled towards the majesty of the rough mountains, but instead to the words flowing across the page, driving hate and envy; urging a hunger. She wasn’t aware of how different her fingers looked. All she could think about were the words on the page, how each of his belongings would be mistreated and disregarded by those who claimed to love him but who, in reality, only coveted what he had. How did he know? Rage writhed inside her, pounding blood into her muscles, churning acid in her stomach. Jealousy strengthened its grip on her mind, replaying all the occasions she knew were in the future but were as clear as yesterday’s memories: times when they would benefit from their inherited possessions. The words in the letter made perfect sense as her inner consciousness reached out and unlocked a secret she didn’t know she had.