Ghosts of Memories: A Vampire Memories Novel

by Barb Hendee

  At home in Cliffbracken—an aging manor near the coast of Wales—Julian Ashton was determined not to be idle while he waited for Eleisha to locate another elder.

  He’d hired some “help” through an agency in Cardiff. So now three women had been working for the past month to clean the neglected place from top to bottom, and a full-time contractor had been engaged for interior repairs.

  Julian promised himself that he would not feed on any of them no matter how hungry he became. Recently, the reputation for “disappearing servants” under his charge had become so well-known that few people would agree to work here anymore. But he’d managed to find a few satisfactory workers—desperate for employment—and he vowed not to give in to temptation again.

  After checking on some recent repairs to the floor in the dining hall, he walked down the darkened passage to his study, his favorite room. The fire he’d built earlier burned in the hearth, making the aged chairs and couches look almost new in the soft yellow light. A pile of maps and newspapers completely covered a round table in the center of the room. He leaned down to examine several of them.

  He was a large man with a bone structure that almost made him look heavy. His dark hair hung at uneven angles around a solid chin, and he pushed it back away from his face.

  His nights had taken on a kind of routine while he waited for Eleisha to find a new lead. He normally woke, built a fire, went to the stables, took his horse out for a long ride, and then came back here to do research of his own. But once again, Wade and Eleisha seemed to be taking so long find someone new to track that he’d continued attempting to take matters into his own hands, just to see what he could find, and perhaps throw a hint in their path. He’d begun subscribing to even more international newspapers.

  Tonight he was still deciding where to begin when the air beside him shimmered and a teenage girl appeared: his spy, Mary Jordane.

  In addition to being transparent, the most striking things about her were her spiky magenta hair and shiny silver nose stud. She was thin, with a hint of budding breasts, wearing a purple T-shirt, a black mesh overshirt, torn jeans, and Dr. Martens boots.

  But at the sight of her, he tensed, on guard at the hatred glowing from her eyes.

  Once, Mary had seemed to enjoy working for him, spying for him, bringing him tidbits of information, but that time was gone.

  In his last confrontation with Eleisha and her team, Julian had been forced to behead his own vampire servant, Jasper—in order to cause a distraction. While Julian had known that Mary harbored some ridiculous affection for Jasper…he’d had no idea that her attachment bordered on madness. Afterward, she’d gone into open revolt, refusing to serve Julian in anything until he’d finally made a new deal with her.

  He’d been forced to promise that if she assisted him with following Eleisha to track down one more elder, he’d send her over to the “other side,” where she might be able to reconnect with Jasper’s spirit.

  In his mind, every instinct he possessed screamed that this situation was wrong. One such as him did not make deals with servants.

  A servant either obeyed or suffered.

  But in Mary’s case, as she had no body, there was nothing he could do to her…and he needed her. He was blind without her.

  Two centuries past, Julian’s kind had been far more numerous, and they’d existed by four laws. The most sacred of these laws was “No vampire shall kill to feed.” They’d retained their secrecy through telepathy, feeding on mortals, altering a memory, and then leaving the victim alive. New vampires required training from their makers to awaken and hone psychic abilities, but Julian’s telepathy had never surfaced. He lived by his own laws, and so the elders began quietly turning against him. His own maker, Angelo, had tried to hide this news from him, but Julian had known. He’d heard the rumblings and he acted first, beheading every vampire who lived by the laws, including Angelo—who would have turned against him sooner or later.

  He’d left a small crop of younger vampires, untrained vampires like Eleisha and Philip, alone. They were not telepathic, did not know the laws, and were no threat to him.

  Then, with no warning, Eleisha suddenly developed fierce psychic abilities and began actively looking for any vampires who might have escaped Julian’s net and remained in hiding.

  She’d found several vampires who didn’t overly concern him, such as Rose de Spenser, an uneducated creature who knew nothing of her own kind, or the feral Maxim, who seemed capable of communicating only with beasts. But she’d located several others whom he’d deemed necessary to intercept and behead. Now he was simply waiting for her to find more elders, to lure more of them out…and to lead him right to them.

  Keeping his expression still, he looked Mary in the eye. “Yes?”

  She was quiet for a minute, but she didn’t look away. “I think Wade may be onto something. He sent Seamus up to Seattle.”

  “Seattle?” That surprised him. Too much had already happened in the Seattle area. If another vampire had been hiding up there, surely Eleisha or Wade would have found out long ago. “Are you sure you heard right?”

  She frowned. “Yeah, I heard it clear enough. Maxim lured in some stray dog, and Seamus was busy downstairs trying to make a new friend, so I didn’t need to worry about him sensing me. I drifted halfway through Wade’s office wall and listened to everything they said.”

  He knew she wasn’t finished, so he didn’t speak. Even while hating him, Mary never could resist showing off her ability to glean information.

  “The target’s not from Seattle. He’s up visiting from the South…Louisiana, Georgia, places like that. He’s some kind of psychic that talks to the dead, named Christian Lefevre.” She paused. “That mean anything to you?”

  “No.”

  But still…Julian walked over to the end table by his chair and picked up a large old volume titled The Makers and Their Children. Julian’s own maker had written this book, and it was a detailed account of every vampire in existence as of 1825. Julian knew it by heart, and this was how he’d managed to hunt them all down so efficiently. But there was no vampire in the book named Christian Lefevre.

  Still, it didn’t matter. Any surviving elder might have changed his name.

  “What caught Wade’s attention?” he asked.

  Mary shrugged. “According to the story, the guy just sounds too psychic, and he calls himself a spiritualist, which Wade says is an old word. And some of this guy’s clients have been weak and dizzy after a séance.” She paused again, tilting her head to one side. “Oh, and his named seemed to…”

  “Seemed to what?”

  “It freaked Philip out. I mean, he’s always pale, but he just went white. You should have seen him.”

  Julian stiffened. The term “spiritualist” had given him a jolt, but this news about Philip was something else. The man’s name had meant something to Philip?

  “What do you want me to do?” Mary asked. “Go to Seattle and see what I can sense on my own?”

  He pondered the possibilities. “No,” he said finally. “Just go back to the church and keep an eye on Wade and Eleisha. If there’s a vampire in Seattle, Seamus will find him. Once he reports, come back to me.”

  The hatred in her eyes glowed again. “And if this Christian is an elder and I help you kill him, you’ll keep your promise, right? You’ll send me to the gray plane to find Jasper.”

  “Of course.”

  Her transparent cheekbones tightened. “You’d better. Remember the promise I made if you’re lying.”

  How he wanted to strike her, to see her bleeding on the floor. She’d sworn to give Philip and Eleisha his location if he didn’t abide by their deal. Of course he had no intention of letting her go—not yet. But he’d cross that bridge when he reached it. So far, he’d been able to manipulate her into doing his bidding. He’d just have to think of something else to keep her serving him.

  “Go,” he said.

  The air shimmered and Mary vanished from si
ght.

  Once she was gone, he was embarrassed by his own sense of relief.

  After Wade sent Seamus up to Seattle, Eleisha went downstairs to see if Rose needed any help with Mr. Boo, but it seemed that although Rose wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of a tattered pit bull, she was quite capable of caring for one.

  The dog was resting on a pile of old blankets in a little nook on the floor between the wall and the couch—with a bowl of water beside him. He looked different now than he had in the churchyard, almost like he belonged here.

  Rose was sitting on the couch reading a Sherlock Holmes novel.

  “I’m sorry we just sent him inside,” Eleisha said immediately. “I know we should have asked you first.”

  “It’s all right,” Rose said, and her tone suggested it really was all right. “We certainly have enough room here, and Seamus…well, he seemed so pleased.”

  A voice spoke behind Eleisha. “Seamus likes Mr. Boo. Knew he would.”

  She turned to see Maxim, and then Philip, coming in from the stairwell. Maxim made a beeline for Mr. Boo, but Philip turned without a word and headed down the hallway to the bedroom he shared with Eleisha.

  She watched him go, feeling helpless. Something was very wrong, and he’d never been skilled at communication. She knew she’d have to draw it out of him. Rose was watching her, but Rose understood—she always understood.

  “Go on,” Rose said. “Maxim and I are fine here.”

  Maxim was already sitting cross-legged beside the dog, and Eleisha assumed they were engaged in some form of mental communication. She wished she understood that a little better. Maxim was such a blank wall to her sometimes. But right now, she was more worried about Philip.

  Nodding gratefully to Rose, she turned and headed down the hallway, pushing the bedroom door open and peeking inside.

  He was standing by the window, looking out into the dark churchyard. Although Eleisha had deeply loved several people in her existence, she’d never loved anyone the way she loved him.

  And she’d never been in love before.

  Tonight he wore his usual black jeans and black T-shirt. Once, he’d worn nothing but expensive designer clothes. But over the past year, he’d seemed to care less and less about designers and price tags.

  She thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen—or anyone had ever seen, for that matter. Most of the time, she didn’t care what he looked like. His appearance was just part of his gift, something to fool mortals. But when she was with him, she didn’t feel alone, and after so many years on this Earth, that counted for more than she could express.

  Of course he had faults—more than most people. He was vain and self-centered, and he’d once been a savage killer. But he had an appetite for life that she lacked, and when he touched her, she forgot about everything else.

  He didn’t turn from the window as she stepped inside and closed the door.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, knowing the words sounded lame even as they left her mouth.

  He didn’t seem to notice that it was a stupid question. “No…I don’t know.”

  She moved closer. “Philip,” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”

  His face was ivory in the moonlight shining through the window, but his frustration and his pain were clear. The sight made her stomach tighten. She wanted to help him.

  “That name,” he whispered. “It means something, but I don’t know what. I can almost see it…I can almost remember, but then it slips away.”

  She blinked and touched his arm. “Do you mean something from before you were turned?”

  One of the four laws stated that no vampire should ever make another vampire within a span of less than a hundred years. The physical and mental energy it required was so extreme that breaking this law could produce flawed results. Philip was the third vampire his maker had created in a span of about twenty years. As a result, he had come out…wrong, with no memory at all of his mortal life. His early nights as an undead had been ugly—and he’d been feral. He had few memories of that time period either.

  Turning from the window, he looked down at her. “I don’t know, and I need to know. Seamus will come back soon, and he’ll tell Wade that he’s found a vampire. I’m sure of it. Then Wade will want to start packing, and you’ll want to start to packing, and I need to know who we’re chasing…. I need to remember before I take you and Wade anywhere near Seattle.”

  That’s what he was worried about? Something was tugging at his buried memories, and he wanted to know what she and Wade would be walking into?

  She hesitated before offering, “Do you want me to read your earliest memories? Try to find the right one?”

  All three of them—she, Wade, and Philip—had the ability to read memories telepathically, but their skill levels were different. Philip had more control over his own when someone was reading him. But Eleisha had a natural ability to take people deep inside a memory and get them lost, to make them show her much more than they’d ever intended, including images of things they’d forgotten themselves.

  Philip winced at her questions. This was delicate ground. He cared what Eleisha thought of him to an almost pathological degree. Apparently, he’d hated what he’d been like…looked like…behaved like in the early nights of his undead existence, and he kept those memories locked away inside a mental box, never to be seen.

  “Maybe Wade could look?” she suggested.

  “No!”

  His voice was ragged again, and she touched his arm. “Philip,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter what you were like back then. I know you now.” She let that sink in. “If you have memories of this Christian Lefevre, that means he’s an elder. Let me in. Let me look.”

  His expression crumpled, and she’d never seen him so openly unsettled. Normally, most of his deeper emotions stayed on the inside of his face.

  She took his hand and led him to the bed, sinking down. “I swear…I swear that nothing I see will change how I look at you now. But if I try this, you can’t fight me. You have to let all your defenses down.”

  His arms were shaking as he sank down beside her, reached out, and took her other hand. Carefully, she let her thoughts flow into his mind, tangling with his until she hit a wall.

  “Let me in,” she repeated.

  The wall dropped.

  HARFLEUR MANOR, FRANCE, 1819

  Philip was screaming while somebody held him down. He was naked. His chest and face were covered in blood.

  His entire body bucked, and he tried snapping at the hand pinning his left shoulder.

  “Julian!” someone shouted. “Get his other arm.”

  Two incredibly strong hands came down on his right shoulder and arm as he bucked again wildly, trying to throw his captors off.

  “How did he get out in the first place, Angelo?” a deep voice demanded from his right. “You said you’d keep him locked up. Look at the state of him! Can you imagine the mess he’s left behind? You’re going to bring some local constable down on our heads.”

  “Quiet!” ordered the voice from his left. “You are not helping.” One hand lifted from Philip’s shoulder, and it began to stroke his cheek. The movement calmed him, and he didn’t try to bite it again. “It’s all right, my son,” the voice whispered. “You’re home.”

  Philip was lying on a stone slab. His vision cleared, and he looked up to a see a face…a face he knew, haggard, with deep lines of strain marring a white forehead. Shifting his gaze, he also saw a thick-boned man with dark hair and angry dark eyes.

  Angelo and Julian.

  Philip tried to remember who they were. He knew that Angelo was often kind to him, but he didn’t know how to respond. He sometimes understood their words, but he couldn’t form words himself. He didn’t know how.

  He knew only that he wanted blood, more and more blood. It tasted good in his mouth. It fed him strength.

  Angelo’s hand continued to stroke his face. “I’m going to find you some help, my son. I sw
ear I will help you.”

  The image vanished, and Eleisha felt Philip fighting her, trying to rechannel the memory to shift it away and hide something. She knew if she spoke, she’d probably just break the connection. Instead, she held on and drove deeper, forcing her way through the layers upon layers in his mind.

  Without warning, she broke through.

  HARFLEUR FOREST, FRANCE, 1819

  Philip was on his back again, but this time, he was dressed…or at least wearing pants. He was in a forest, with trees and the moon above him, and someone was sitting on his chest, holding him down. He snarled and spit, trying to pitch his captor off.

  He wanted more blood.

  “Shhhhhhhh,” a familiar voice said, and a hand stroked his cheek. “Be still now.”

  “Jesus Christ,” another voice said from a few feet away. “This is madness, Angelo. Do you see this woman? He’s torn her head off. You have to put him down.”

  Philip did not know the voice, and from where he lay, he turned his head. A slender young man with wavy steel gray hair was standing over a bleeding lump of what had once been a woman.

  “No!” Angelo answered.

  It was Angelo sitting on Philip’s chest.

  “This is wrong,” said the young man with gray hair, moving closer. “And you know it. You’ve broken the third law, and this is the price. Is this why you lured me out here? To stop this slaughter? If so, we’re too late. He’s a danger to our secrecy, Angelo. Either you put him down or I will.”

  Angelo sat straight, but he didn’t get off Philip’s chest. “I will not, and neither will you. You owe me, Christian.”

  Both men fell silent, and Philip turned his head farther, looking eagerly at the lump, wondering if there was more blood left inside it.

  “I make the demands here,” Angelo said. “Or you will become a new chapter in my book…and I have many details to include.”

  “You swore you’d leave me out,” Christian answered.

  “And in return, you swore to do me a service when I asked. I am asking now.”