Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 8
Page 18
“Father—” Gorka wheedled.
“Silence!” Grigor roared, the pain in his voice unmistakeable. “I need to think.”
Wizard Shadowmender nodded at Penelope who stepped forward with a wad of printouts. “We took it upon ourselves to discuss our findings with our opposite numbers in The Vampire Nation. They have had Gorka under surveillance for some time regarding his dubious undertakings, including—and of most interest to us—selling off Thaddeus’s Paris house and impersonating his brother in business dealings.”
“Father?” Gorka tried once more. “I can explain.”
“Will you shut up!” Grigor trumpeted.
Penelope held up another sheet of paper. “Gorka and his brother had a little spat on the evening before Thaddeus was killed. There were numerous witnesses to this including Sabien Laurent and his son Melchior. Both of them have offered to testify in open court to the truth of this statement.”
Wizard Shadowmender nodded. “Indeed, Melchior himself has admitted that on numerous occasions, Gorka spoke of stepping into his brother’s shoes, of finding some way to inveigle his way to the top of the tree, ready to take your place when the sun rises for the final time on your dark reign in Transylvania. As it will.”
Grigor seemed to crumple into himself. He stood in the middle of a circle of witches, all with their wands trained on him, and realised the game had ended. Whether he believed I was innocent or not, it was clear that his son had betrayed him in a variety of ways.
When he spoke again, his voice was so quiet I had to strain to hear him. His bitterness was apparent. “I would rather my kingdom was handed over to a pox-ridden peasant than my treacherous son.”
“But Father—” Gorka reached for the prince. Grigor’s rage could no longer be contained. He lashed out with his right arm, catching Gorka under the chin and knocking him backwards. He tumbled into the waiting arms of the other vampires.
Gorka flailed, grabbing at cloaks, fighting to remain upright.
“Please!” he begged.
Grigor flung his arms up in fury and the inn seemed to rock with the force of his sudden fury. “Traitor! he screamed. “Destroy him!” As one, we witches raced forward to stop the butchery, but Gorka’s terrified shrieks rent through the dark night for only a moment and were then abruptly silenced as the vampires fell upon him, tearing him to shreds.
“You’ve been polishing that spot for ten minutes.”
I looked up to see Charity staring at me quizzically. I dropped my duster, but quickly grabbed it again and moved a foot to my right. The wood of the bar shone in the firelight. The mirrors sparkled so brightly they almost dazzled. She was right. My mind was elsewhere.
“I thought you’d appreciate a cuppa.” She sidled over to me to place a mug of tea in front of me. “When are you planning to reopen the inn?”
It had been well over a week since the vampires had disappeared back to Transylvania. Ambassador Rubenscarfe had been recalled to London but had yet to return from Transylvania. Wizard Shadowmender had received an official apology from his counterpart in The Vampire Nation who had also reprimanded the Transylvanian Vampiri. Everyone had begun to return to normal.
Everyone except me, that is.
I couldn’t shake the fear that had gripped me from the moment Sabien had turned up on my doorstep.
Every time I closed my eyes at night I could hear Gorka’s final scream. My dreams were full of images of sheer drops and narrow ledges. I’d wake sweating and shaking and then be scared to try for sleep once more. I’d lost weight because I couldn’t eat. I had bags under my eyes. I felt hyper all of the time and I just needed to be busy. Busy, busy, busy. Every part of the inn had been cleaned and polished. I’d even tried my hand at redecorating parts of it, and as everyone knows, I’m really not that good at such things.
The Ghostly Clean-Up Crew, who would have happily redecorated the whole inn had I asked them to, were never summonsed. I wanted to be alone, unharried, but within ear shot of the normal sounds of the inn such as Zephaniah’s gramophone, Mr Hoo’s hunting calls and contented twittering, the washing machine on its endless cycles, Monsieur Emietter’s tuneless singing in the kitchen, the banging of the old boiler in the back room, or even the Devonshire Fellows rehearsing in the attic.
My friends had tried to re-engage me with the normality of my wonky life. Finbarr. Millicent. Charity. Gwyn—they all tried and failed. Florence, in desperation, had downed tools on her book, attempting to gee me up with all my favourite cakes, but even coffee and pecan had failed to kickstart my appetite.
Charity had called George, and he—bless his heart—had driven over from Exeter and tried to talk to me, but I kept them both at arm’s length. They were such special friends, but I found I couldn’t relate to them and didn’t want to share all I’d been through. Was this how Gwyn had felt? Is this why she never spoke about her time at Castle Iadului?
I could finally understand her absolute loathing of vampires now.
The one time I tried to broach the subject with her I choked at the last moment, unable to articulate my thoughts. She’d regarded me through troubled eyes, a sympathetic half-smile playing at the corner of her mouth, then nodded once and turned away.
We left it at that.
It made me sad.
I haunted the corridors, straightening pictures, dusting the skirting boards, chasing giant house spiders into dark corners or under the floorboards, but feeling disengaged and remembering how in those long terrible moments at the castle I had longed for Whittle Inn. Now that I was home, why couldn’t it soothe my troubled soul?
I pretended I didn’t see the concerned looks or hear the hushed murmurings. Millicent suggested I had some kind of post-traumatic-stress disorder, but I dismissed this—unkindly—as just another of her ridiculous ramblings.
So now I tried to force myself into the present. Charity was right. I should reopen the inn. It would give me something besides myself to focus on.
“Let’s make some phone calls,” I said. “Tell everyone we’ll reopen.”
But Charity had gone, and the mug of tea in front of me was stone cold. I’d been staring into space for ages.
Someone drifted past the window to my right. Ned. Pushing his wheelbarrow around the side. The light was poor, thanks to the low clouds and thick sea mist that had drifted inland. It would be growing dark soon.
Speckled Wood called to me and for the first time since I’d returned home, and despite my stupor, I heard it. It would be good to get outside and taste the salt in the mist and breathe deeply of the chilly air. I chucked my duster under the bar, grabbed my outside robe and a scarf, and bundled up.
Mr Hoo soared overhead as I tramped along the path to the wood. The canopy rose suddenly out of the mist, the deciduous trees’ branches appearing increasingly spindly. One good storm and all the leaves would fall for the year.
Depending on the way the wind blew, that would keep Ned busy in the grounds for months.
I trailed my fingers along the trunks of the trees I passed, stopping occasionally to press my ear to the thick damp moss that grew up some of the trunks, listening to the heart of the forest. Strong sturdy beats. Healthy sounds. We’d come a long way since the marsh malaise in the early part of the summer.
Normally a stroll through the forest would lift my spirits with every step, but today I felt lost and disconnected. Maybe—the goddess forbid—it would always be this way now. Perhaps no-one would ever understand what I’d been through. Except Grandmama.
Or Silvan…
As I approached the clearing in the centre of Speckled Wood, I imagined I was seeing things. A tall figure, clad head to toe in black. Black boots and trousers, black cloak pulled up over his head. Black hair, dark, dark eyes. But not the dead black eyes of a vampire. Far from it. These eyes sparkled with life and laughter, despite the now yellowing bruising around both them and his cheekbones, and the stitches across the bridge of his nose.
He tried not to smile when he
saw me, but he couldn’t help himself.
My heart lurched at the sight of him. I tried to rush towards him, but the strength ebbed from my knees. I slipped towards the ground and suddenly he was there, kneeling with me, his strong arms around me, pulling me to him.
“I think you’ve fallen for me, Alfhild,” he whispered into my hair, always ready with a joke, making fun of my sudden weakness, this one a combination of sleep deprivation, lack of sustenance and too much emotion. I tried to laugh, I really did, but instead I burst into tears. I pressed my face into his robes to stifle my howling anguish. Nevertheless the whole forest bore witness. He rocked me gently, stroking my back and smoothing my hair, allowing me the space to shake and sob.
“What is it?” he asked eventually, when most of the tempest seemed to have passed. “Can you tell me?”
I shook my head, sniffing hard. “It’s just… I… was so SCARED!”
Silvan squeezed me tighter. “Of course you were. Any sensible person would have been.”
“I could have got us killed,” I wailed.
“But you didn’t.” Silvan’s voice was calm and quiet, and low in my ear. “You looked at the situation. You found a solution. You might have left me there, but you didn’t. You were scared but you saw what needed doing and you did it anyway.”
“I was weak,” I sniffled.
“No.” We swayed together as he added, “You’re the bravest person I know. You’re a fantastic witch and a wonderful woman.”
He drew away and held me at arms’ length, forcing me to look at him. “You’re my woman. The only one I want to be with.”
My bottom lip quivered, tears still spilling down my cheeks.
There was no hint of mischief now, and no doubting the sincerity in his eyes. “I love you, Alfie.”
He’d said it before, and I’d imagined it had been meaningless because it was a statement made in a moment of extreme duress. Now my sobs stuck in my throat. “I l.. l.. love you too,” I stuttered.
His head ducked towards mine, his gaze briefly raking my soul. “Of course you do,” he laughed softly and then his warm lips met mine and I cleaved to him as though I had been waiting for him my whole life.
The wind blew around us, scattering leaves from the trees like so much natural confetti, while the fear inside me dissipated like mist on a warm spring morning.
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Witching in a Winter Wonkyland: A Wonky Inn Christmas Cozy Mystery
Coughs and sneezes spread diseases!
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
Unless you’re Alfhild Daemonne that is.
This year she’s been so looking forward to the Yule time festivities, but wouldn’t you know it, the wattle-and-daub walls of her ancient wonky inn are ringing to the sound, not of sleigh bells, but of sick ghosts.
Who knew ghosts could catch the flu?
And let’s not forget there’s been a murder in Whittle Forest. Some of the locals are convinced there’s a demonic Beast on the loose, and naturally they’re pointing the finger at Alf and her guests.
Factor in a homeless reindeer, a grumpy faery who detests Christmas, along with Alf missing her beau, and there’s plenty here for lovers of Christmas murder novels with added humour.
Witching in a Winter Wonkyland is a standalone Christmas cozy mystery that complements the Wonky Inn series as a whole.
You’ll love this crazy cast of witches, wizards, faeries, ghosts and pantomime villains.
And not forgetting Mr Hoo of course.
This new Wonky Inn Christmas mystery is best served with a glass of your favourite tipple and a heart full of love.
The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1
* * *
Alfhild Daemonne has inherited an inn.
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And a dead body.
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Estranged from her witch mother, and having committed to little in her thirty years, Alf surprises herself when she decides to start a new life.
* * *
She heads deep into the English countryside intent on making a success of the once popular inn. However, discovering the murder throws her a curve ball. Especially when she suspects dark magick.
* * *
Additionally, a less than warm welcome from several locals, persuades her that a variety of folk – of both the mortal and magickal persuasions – have it in for her.
* * *
The dilapidated inn presents a huge challenge for Alf. Uncertain who to trust, she considers calling time on the venture.
* * *
Should she pack her bags and head back to London?
* * *
Don’t be daft.
* * *
Alf’s magickal powers may be as wonky as the inn, but she’s dead set on finding the murderer.
* * *
Once a witch always a witch, and this one is fighting back.
A clean and cozy witch mystery.
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Take the opportunity to immerse yourself in this fantastic new witch mystery series, from the author of the award-winning novel, Crone.
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Grab Book 1 of the Wonky Inn series, The Wonkiest Witch, on Amazon now.
The Wonkiest Witch: Wonky Inn Book 1
The Ghosts of Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 2
Weird Wedding at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 3
Fearful Fortunes and Terrible Tarot: Wonky Inn Book 4
The Mystery of the Marsh Malaise: Wonky Inn Book 5
The Mysterious Mr Wylie: Wonky Inn Book 6
The Great Witchy Cake Off: Wonky Inn Book 7
The Witch Who Killed Christmas: Wonky Inn Christmas Special
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More Wonky Wonderfulness Coming Soon
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Vengeful Vampire at Wonky Inn: Wonky Inn Book 8
* * *
Witching in a Winter Wonklyland: Wonky Inn Christmas Special
Midnight Garden: The Extra Ordinary World Novella Series Book 1
Beyond the Veil
Crone
A Concerto for the Dead and Dying
Deadly Encounters: A collection of short stories
Keepers of the Flame: A love story
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Non-Fiction
Losing my best Friend: Thoughtful support for those affected by dog bereavement or pet loss
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Find out more at on the website www.jeanniewycherley.co.uk
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twitter.com/Thecushionlady
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More Dark Fantasy from Jeannie Wycherley
* * *
Crone
A twisted tale of murder, magic and salvation.
* * *
Heather Keynes’ teenage son di
ed in a tragic car accident.
Or so she thinks.
* * *
However, deep in the countryside, an ancient evil has awoken … intent on hunting local residents.
* * *
No-one is safe.
* * *
When Heather takes a closer look at a series of coincidental deaths, she is drawn reluctantly into the company of an odd group of elderly Guardians. Who are they, and what is their connection to the Great Oak?