Haunting Savannah: 8 Dark and Seductive Tales

by Lia Davis

  She forced herself to move out of her hiding place. Her legs trembling, she followed them into the tunnel.

  Unfortunately, the tunnel was well lit, and the only way to hide would be to press herself against the wall next to a wooden beam. She licked her lips and crept down the stone tunnel. ´Twas damp and cold–obviously this led toward the Savannah River.

  As she followed, she turned down the lanterns to hide in the darkness and hoped they didn’t turn around. Up ahead, she could see a group of men waiting, and she remained in the darkness, crouching next to a wooden beam.

  “Hopper.” Her stepfather panted. “Bring your lads down to carry this one.”

  Two of the men raced over and carried the passed out man’s legs. Hopper was tall and lanky. He had a scarf tied round his head and held a glittering sword in his hand.

  When they reached him, he tilted his head. “Take the bloke on board the ship.” He tossed both her stepfather and the captain a small bag that Rosalind assumed was filled with coins. “You two got bigger problems.”

  “What? Why?” her stepfather asked.

  “You were followed.”

  The blood emptied from her face. Both Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster whirled, pistols drawn. Rosalind grabbed her gown and lifted it, then fled down the now darkened corridor. Her only hope was to reach the crowded tavern.

  “Stop, or I’ll shoot,” her stepfather yelled.

  She didn’t stop. A pistol discharged, the shot barely missing her. Ignoring the stays confining her lungs, she ran faster than she ever had. Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster were not in good shape, but working at the tavern every night had given her stamina. She reached the cellar then climbed the stairs two at time. She tripped over her gown and fell on one knee.

  “Rosalind, you bitch!” her stepfather called.

  Pain wrangled her, but Rosalind got up and hurried up the stairs. She threw open the door, then slammed it shut, buying herself a little time.

  But not quite enough.

  The door banged open. Tears blurring her eyes, she half-limped, half-ran into the tavern with both men closing the distance behind. She reached inside her pocket and clasped her father’s watch, drawing on his courage.

  She reached the crowded tavern, but a steely hand grabbed her arm. She was crowded against the wall with both men blocking any escape.

  “You nosey, wench,” her stepfather hissed.

  “Leave me alone,” Rosalind said, grasping for air. She wished Mr. MacFie would step out of the shadows again and save her.

  Captain Foster narrowed his eyes. “You know our little secret.”

  “You can’t kill me here,” she said.

  “No, we can’t.” Her stepfather released her. “Not yet. If you want to live, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”

  “No, you can’t be doing this. ´Tis wrong.”

  “You’re to be my wife and will be silent,” the captain whispered.

  “No, I have a better idea,” her stepfather said. “How much money do you think Hopper would pay to have a nosey wench service his men?”

  Fear festered in Rosalind’s belly. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Ah, but I can. Your mother leaves in a fortnight, and that’s when Hopper will sail. And you’ll be on that ship.”

  “Doyle, you promised I could have her.”

  “There are other wenches, Foster.” He yanked her hair and hissed into her ear, “If you breathe one word of what you have seen. I’ll personally slit your throat.”

  She couldn’t breathe. Her stepfather would watch her like a hawk. She was about to go from one hell to another. All hope of escape died.

  Chapter 4

  Phearson hustled inside the tavern, pouring drinks and wiping the bar down. With the crowded bodies crammed together, the room was hot. Sweat trickled down his temples, and he didn’t have a moment to take a deep breath. He wanted to step outside to breathe some fresh sea air. His only bright moment was the tavern wench–Rosalind. She worked as hard as he did, but she’d been quiet all night, and he could barely get her to say two words, besides ordering drinks.

  Rosalind put down her tray. “Two more pints, please.”

  Her low voice sounded defeated, and she wiped a stray curl off her sleek forehead.

  Phearson grabbed two tankards and filled them with mead. “You sound uncommonly down tonight, lassie. Where’s my smile? I havena seen it all night.”

  “Stolen.” She didn’t offer any explanation, but she cast a wary look at his new boss, Esmond Doyle, who’d been keeping a close eye on her all night. When he approached the bar with two wealthy looking men, she grabbed the tankards and put them on her tray and hurried off to a table.

  Doyle clapped one of the men on the back. “MacFie, give this man our finest rum. Mr. Matthews just brought me some valuable information.” He winked at him. “The Pious Twelve will be grateful.”

  Phearson jerked his head up. The old man had mentioned the Pious Twelve, and Phearson suspected they were a righteous clan that vowed to cleanse the world of evil. They’d be the type of men who, when faced with a real vampire, would turn yellow and flee.

  Matthews puffed out his chest. “Thank you.”

  Doyle put down a bag of coins that caught Phearson’s eye. The coins would be enough for him to secure lodging instead of sleeping in the street again, but he’d vowed to try to make an honest wage.

  Doyle bowed slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have other business to attend.”

  The other man raised his glass. “To the Pious Twelve.”

  Doyle smiled as if he were just hailed king. Was he one of the Twelve?

  Phearson kept pouring the men drinks and listened to their loose tongues. The Pious Twelve were indeed vampire killers–or more like executioners of anyone who didn’t meet their perception of what constituted a god fearing member of society. Phearson doubted there were vampires in Savannah unless Zuto had traveled through time and poisoned the river. No, more likely, they were poor souls that the Pious Twelve wanted to eradicate from this town like vermin.

  The evening wore on, and Matthews and his friend––who Phearson learned was Vincent DiSanti––were one of the last customers to stumble out of the tavern. Phearson finished wiping down the counter, waiting to get paid. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm. Doyle walked over and placed two coins on the counter without a glance.

  Phearson stared at the miserly coins with his hands on his hips. He’d slaved the entire night, and all he’d earned were two Spanish coins that wouldn’t even pay for a night’s lodging. He’d made more money pickpocketing.

  Rosalind put away some glasses and glanced at the coins. She sighed. “I am sorry, Mr. MacFie.” She slid three coins over to his. “Here.”

  His pride was plucked. “The name’s Phearson.” He gently touched her hand. “I dona need yer charity.”

  “´Tis not charity. I know what ´tis like to be a slave.” She wiped the glistening shine off her forehead, drawing his attention to her mask. “Mr. Doyle delights in ruining our dreams.”

  He gave her a small smile. “Has he broken many of yours?”

  “Too many to count.”

  He frowned. “If he hurts you so much, why do you continue to work here?”

  “I don’t have a choice. He’s my stepfather and makes me earn my keep.” She bit her lower lip. “I don’t know why I just told you that.” She nervously looked over to where her stepfather waited by the door. “I have to leave.”

  Doyle motioned with his cane. “Time to close up, Mr. MacFie.”

  Rosalind skirted around him, her face pale. Phearson put down the glass he’d been drying, then followed her. Doyle locked the door, then forcibly grabbed her arm and escorted to her to a nearby carriage.

  Phearson leaned against the doorway, watching them disappear into the night. Theirs was a strange relationship. Doyle treated his stepdaughter as if she was a servant–a mistreated servant. Anger brewed inside him. Too many times, he’d
been beaten and kicked by his uppers until he became a vampire. As a vampire, he’d been able to taunt and even kill those who would have ridiculed him.

  He opened his fist to look at his miserly pay, then shoved it back into his pocket. So much for an honest day’s work.

  Phearson had learned more from those drunken fools about Savannah than anyone else. Apparently, there was a cemetery called Colonial in the heart of town and where many of the wealthier citizens were buried. It would be an excellent place for a highway man to hide.

  He turned around to see Matthews and DiSanti stumbling down the dark street ahead of him. He smiled. They would be easy prey for a vampire.

  He leisurely followed them, remaining in the shadows. Street lamps flickered and gave off an eerie glow, casting shadows onto the warehouses stored with cotton and other goods. They were talking and laughing so loud they’d wake the undead. He chuckled. He was the undead.

  Ahead of them was a green park with thick oak trees and Spanish moss dripping down their branches. A cool breeze brushed over the Savannah River, but it failed to dim the hot air. Fog rolled into the park, but with his vampire eyes, he could see a statue in the middle of the square. The men weaved down a path that went into the park as if they had no care in the world. He wasn’t the only predator out tonight.

  He was about to attack when a man raced out of the darkness and grabbed DiSanti. He opened his mouth to reveal a mouth full of vampire teeth. So, there were vampires in Savannah!

  DiSanti screamed, and Matthews, the coward, turned and ran, but he smashed into a tree and fell onto his back.

  Phearson heard the clopping of horses. A dagger flew out of the darkness and hit the vampire square in the back before he could bite DiSanti. The vampire released DiSanti and slid down his body onto his knees.

  Men appeared out of the fog wearing white robes with a red cross stitched on the front and back. Their hoods covered their faces. One of the men rose ahead of the others. “Holy salt water–´tis poison to you ungodly creatures.”

  Phearson sucked in his breath at the cold voice. He knew him. ´Twas Esmond Doyle, his new boss.

  The vampire fell onto his hands and knees. “I wasn’t going to kill him, I swear. My name’s Harry Pierce. I’m a man–not a monster. Why do you hunt us?” He panted. “We do not kill our victims. We…only…want…to survive.”

  Vampires that didn’t kill their victims? Phearson wondered if the vampires were somehow related to the crew of the Soaring Phoenix. Their captain, Kane O’Brien, had taught them how to feed without killing, not something allowed on Palmer’s ship.

  Doyle slid off his horse and held a sword in his hand.

  “No, please,” Pierce pleaded. “I have a wife and child.”

  “Not anymore,” Doyle said, colder than the devil himself. He lifted the sword high and sliced the vampire’s head off with one swing.

  Phearson moved closer to Pierce’s headless body while the rest of the men climbed off their horses. With vampire speed, he relieved Pierce of his bag of coins and hid in the shadows as two of the Pious Twelve approached Pierce.

  “What should we do with the carcass?” one of the them asked as he kicked the corpse. “I don’t think we should bury him here where good folk will gather tomorrow.”

  Doyle tilted his head. “Dump his body in the river. Let the alligators feast on his remains.”

  Phearson disappeared into the night as fear settled into his heart. He’d learned two things tonight. There were indeed vampires in Savannah and the Pious Twelve were not fools, but deadly vampire killers.

  He had to be careful, damn careful, but anger surged through him.

  Chapter 5

  Phearson hid in the dark as the two men grunted while they dragged Pierce’s carcass down the cobblestone street toward the Savannah River.

  “This is the sixth one this week,” one of them said.

  “Savannah will be cleared of the vermin and safe for god-fearing folk.”

  “Pierce’s wife will now be more amenable to me.”

  “DiSanti, you have a fiancée.”

  “Who is as ugly as a horse’s ass. If it weren’t for her money, I wouldn’t even consider it. Besides, any woman who offers herself to a vampire is a whore.”

  Blinding fury surged through Phearson’s veins. He wanted Rosalind–if she became his sweetheart that didn’t make her a whore or fair game. He narrowed his eyes. Disanti would regret those words.

  The other scoffed. “If you would curb your gambling–”

  “Don’t lecture me. You’re no better than I am.”

  “Except I am not forcing myself on a lady.”

  “If she were a lady, she’d not have been married to a vampire. She’s a whore, soon to be my whore.”

  Both men chuckled.

  Enough! He would not allow another woman, especially Rosalind, to fall victim to DiSanti. Palmer was like DiSanti and sickened Phearson with how he treated female captives, especially the undine Angelica. The thought of Rosalind enduring DiSanti’s unwelcome advances unleashed his possessiveness. DiSanti would soon meet Lucifer in hell.

  Pierce hadn’t been vicious and reminded him of the vampires on board the Soaring Phoenix. Unlike him and his crew, they didn’t kill their victims. Palmer thought this was a weakness and declared anyone who left a victim alive would lose his head.

  Phearson had followed Palmer’s order. He was quite attached to his head.

  He followed the men down to the river and waited for them to dump the head and the body.

  The fools had picked the wrong vampire. The men congratulated themselves and got back onto their horses. Phearson had sized them up and had decided the two smaller, hooded men would be easier prey.

  He drew on his vampire powers and transformed into a bat. Bones and muscles constricted and shrunk. It was as easy as changing clothes. He was three times the size and as strong as an eagle. His wings spread out two feet on each side, and his talons were as sharp as daggers. He flew after them and knocked one off his horse.

  DiSanti screamed.

  His partner turned around. “DiSanti, what––”

  But he didn’t get a chance to answer. Phearson slammed into him, and he fell head over heels over the back of his horse. They both stumbled to their feet while their horses whinnied and ran off.

  They fumbled to pull out their pistols, but Phearson was faster than a human. He soared back down and tore their flesh. They both grabbed their wrists and howled with pain.

  “’Tis a vampire!” Their eyes wide, they both cried out.

  He attacked DiSanti and dug his talons into his shoulder. He loathed men who preyed on innocent women. On board the Fiery Damsel, he’d never raped or brutalized a woman. He might be a pirate, but he did have some honor.

  DiSanti slapped at his body, but ’twas useless. Phearson sunk his fangs into the man’s thick neck and sucked his warm blood.

  “Matthews, help me!” DiSanti yelled as he pushed on Phearson’s body.

  “I have blessed salt water, you devil.” Matthews’s voice shook.

  Phearson released DiSanti, who dropped to his knees. He changed back into a man just as Matthews rushed him. Phearson easily stepped out of his way.

  Matthews tripped over DiSanti, and they tumbled into a giant mess of cloaks, arms, and limbs.

  Phearson waited patiently for them to untangle themselves.

  Matthews helped DiSanti stand. He glared as his friend leaned against him. Matthews’s cloak had fallen off his head to reveal a young man of twenty. “Who are you? And how dare you attack us? Do you know who we are?”

  “Aye, I do. Two righteous fools who killed an innocent man.”

  “He was a vampire!”

  Hate dripped from Matthews’s quaking voice.

  Phearson narrowed his eyes. “He was. But he told you he left his victims alive.”

  DiSanti looked up as blood gushed down his shirt. “’Twas a lie.” He was gasping for breath and would die soon. But Phearson didn’t
pity him. Unlike Pierce, he deserved to die.

  “Ye obviously dona know much about vampires, do ye?” Phearson approached them, enjoying the fear in their eyes.

  Matthews dragged DiSanti, looking around wildly for help. “Leave us alone. Or…or we will hunt you down.”

  Phearson laughed. “I dona think so. Yer all alone and not so brave when yer facin’ a powerful vampire.”

  DiSanti clasped his hand over his neck, and stared at his blood. “You said vampires don’t kill their victims.”

  “I said Pierce and his kind dona kill their victims. I never said that was true with me. Now, I’ll give you a choice. One of ye will die; the other will live. The choice is yers.”

  Matthews threw DiSanti at Phearson, then turned and ran like a yellow-bellied codfish.

  “No!” DiSanti looked back at Matthews in utter shock.

  Phearson wasn’t surprised that Matthews would sacrifice DiSanti to save his own worthless hide.

  Phearson finished draining DiSanti, ignoring his pitiful pleas, just like he had with Pierce. Blood flowed through Phearson’s veins, increasing his power, and his fury.

  Matthews screamed and ran down the street, trying to open locked warehouse doors. Phearson dropped DiSanti’s lifeless body. Rosalind was safe from him, but what about the others? He rushed after Matthews. He grabbed his arm.

  “Please don’t kill me.”

  Phearson shook him. “Then take me to Pierce’s home.”

  “What? Why?”

  Phearson opened his mouth to reveal his fangs.

  Matthews turned his head. “Please, please. I’ll take you.”

  Phearson forced Matthews to retrieve DiSanti’s overstuffed coin purse, then Roger led him down the twisted cobbled streets to a small house. They hid in the shadows. The light shone inside, and a young blond woman paced back and forth. She held a baby in her arms.

  He shoved Matthews. “Who is she?”’

  Matthews banged into a tree. “Pierce’s wife. She’s not a vampire. We let her and the child live.”