A Vampire's Dominion

by Vanessa Fewings

  Though I still couldn’t breathe.

  Gathering the courage to stand again, my throat constricting, I peered over at the crashing waves battering the rocky shoreline. I spun round and glared at nothing, unable to confront the sheer drop.

  My fear of heights was getting worse.

  * * * *

  No matter how much I shifted my position upon the chapel altar, I couldn’t get comfortable, though the view of the frescoed ceiling was quite something.

  Despite the fact that Alex still refused to talk to me, it felt good to be back at the Mount. I almost believed my own delusion that it was here I’d find clarity, the faint promise of calmness within the storm.

  Having not seen Alex since last night, I decided it was best he came to me when he was ready.

  Moonlight backlit the stained-glass windows, softly illuminating an otherwise dark chamber, almost subduing the layers of dust dulling every surface. Copious cobwebs were tangled here and there, testifying to the neglect and willfully reflecting a certain state of mind.

  A tickling on the back of my right hand alerted me to the small black spider crawling there, heading fast toward my wrist. I brushed it off, giving the creature a second chance.

  The darkest lies were clinging to me, threatening there was no way back.

  I turned my head toward the center isle of the long line of pews.

  Sebastian was standing there. “There’s a young man dragging a coffin across the foyer,” he said, his expression incredulous. “Friend of yours, is he?”

  I sat upright and slid off the altar.

  “Has someone died?” he asked.

  I was about to throw in not yet but stopped myself.

  “This place is huge.” Sebastian came closer. “You’re probably wondering how I found you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told me, remember?”

  “Wasn’t that specific,” I said.

  “Process of elimination.”

  “Sebastian, what do you want?”

  “To thank you.” He gave a weak smile. “For saving my life.” He took in the chapel. “I fell asleep and didn’t get to—”

  “You didn’t need to come here.”

  He ran a fingertip over the edge of the nearest pew and examined the dust. “Why didn’t you say goodbye?”

  “Don’t take it personally.”

  “Was it something I did?”

  “No,” I said with a convincing shake of my head.

  “Can I ask you about that night?”

  “What about it, Seb?”

  He grinned but it was the uneasy kind.

  I went to say something, anything that would deflect his question and felt relief when Alex appeared in the doorway.

  “Sebastian, meet Alex, my brother,” I said.

  “Half brother,” said Alex.

  Sebastian stepped forward to shake Alex’s hand, but Alex ignored him.

  “Same father?” Sebastian dropped his arm to his side.

  “Not that kind of half,” Alex redirected.

  “That coffin?” Sebastian began to ask.

  “Halloween,” I said.

  Sebastian’s brow furrowed. “Bit early.”

  “It’s a gift.” Alex turned back to me. “For William.”

  Sebastian started laughing though soon stopped, realizing no one else was. “Right then, it’s been great meeting you . . . both.” His expression became strained as though wanting to continue, but the awkwardness threw him.

  “You can’t leave,” Alex said.

  “What my brother’s trying to say . . .” I glared at Alex. “Would you like to stay the night?”

  “I should go.” Sebastian quick-footed it through the foyer toward the front door.

  “The tide’s in.” I followed him. “Use the rowboat.”

  Alex caught up. “We don’t have a boat.” He smiled but it fell away quickly. “Anymore.”

  I reached for the doorknob.

  “I chopped it up for firewood,” Alex added, “with an axe.”

  I opened the door and stepped out, scrutinizing the harbor. “Seriously, where’s the boat?”

  “Wouldn’t recommend swimming at this time of night,” Alex offered. “Tide’s deadly.”

  Sebastian suddenly saw the funny side and started chuckling. Alex scratched his head and eventually broke into a laugh.

  “Is this your way of making me not feel guilty about staying?” Sebastian asked.

  “Absolutely.” Alex raised an eyebrow.

  I guided Sebastian off toward the kitchen.

  As soon as we were out of his sight, Sebastian said, “That brother of yours has quite the sense of humor.”

  I wondered how Sebastian would react when he realized there was no food in the house.

  He opened yet another kitchen cupboard and peered inside, then reached for the small teacup. I filled the kettle with tap water and then rested it on the counter top, studying the plug.

  Sebastian took it from me and plugged it into the power socket and flicked it on. “You’re not here to serve me,” he said.

  I sat down on one of the six bar stools that encircled the central marble counter top.

  “Do you like to cook?” Sebastian asked, looking around.

  Having spent no time in here, I too found myself fascinated with the red stove, the dark green pots and pans hanging from the brass crook above the central isle and the other modern appliances installed to represent normality.

  “You probably have a chef,” Sebastian said, though it wasn’t a question. “Cornwall has, what, twenty castles?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Has your family always lived here?”

  “Yes.” I went to answer that I’d been born here, but that truth was now skewered.

  He opened the tin filled with teabags, removed two and dropped them into the teacup. “No mug?”

  “Um, no.”

  His attention fell on Renoir’s self-portrait hanging on the far wall and then his gaze slid over to the silver wine goblet resting on the corner oak table.

  “A gift to Anne Boleyn.” I gestured to it. “On her wedding night, from her mother.”

  “No doubt her mum knew Anne would need a drink before bedding Henry the Eighth.” He rolled his eyes. “That marriage didn’t end well.” Sebastian took a seat on one of the stools opposite. “What’s that?” Sebastian pointed to the book on the kitchen counter.

  I slid the leather bound hardback across the marble toward him.

  “A Tale of Two Cities.” He opened the first page. “How old is this?” He glanced up, excited. “This is probably worth something.”

  “I imagine it is.”

  Sebastian peeled back the next page. “There’s an envelope.”

  “Open it.”

  He reached in and flicked through the hundred pound notes.

  “Your train ride home.” I sat up straight. “And more than enough money to get you back on your feet.”

  He froze realizing the book had been here all the time. “You knew I’d come?”

  The kettle whistled, shrilling through the quiet.

  I approached the countertop and yanked out the power cord then poured boiling water into the teacup.

  His fingertips tapped the book. “Your idea of goodbye?”

  I brought the teacup over and handed it to him. “I had no right to interfere with your life.”

  “You saved it.” He carefully placed down the delicate cup. “I need to know how you did it.” He pointed at me. “How you leaped off Big Ben and survived?”

  “Messed up didn’t I?

  “How do you mean?”

  “I left the teabags in.” I gestured. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I like it strong.” He waved me off. “We were talking about Big Ben.”

  “You were.”

  He held up the book. “You knew I’d try to find you. You even gave me clues back at the Savoy of where I could find you.”

  “Sugar?”

&
nbsp; “Please, William.”

  I sighed. “A man sees an island just off in the distance. He wonders what goes on there.”

  Sebastian was riveted.

  “Then one day,” I continued, “he decides to investigate that mysterious island. Once there, he looks back at the old island he’s just come from and realizes he can never go back.”

  “Because he sees everything from a different perspective.”

  “He’s standing on the island from where all truth can be seen and once that knowledge is known, it cannot be unknown.”

  “I’m that man?” He shuffled on his seat. “This place holds secrets you don’t want me to know?”

  “You could teach dance?” Seeing his expression made me regret saying it. “What you love is worth fighting for.”

  He pushed the book back toward me.

  “Walk away,” I said

  “It’s not me walking away.”

  “All those whom I’ve been close to have been irrevocably damaged.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You don’t want to.”

  “So you’re shutting everyone out?”

  I nudged the book back toward him. “Chapman and Hall published this in 1859. It’s a well-loved copy.”

  “It’s flawless.” Sebastian’s rested his fingers on the illustrated cover. “A first edition, and with it you’re bribing me to go away?” He tucked the envelope back inside the book. “This you can keep. As soon as the tides out, I’ll go.” He reached into his back pocket and held up a Centurion credit card. “I found this in the jeans you gave me.” He slid it across the countertop. “This belongs to Daumia Velde. Do you know him?”

  “I’ll make sure it gets back to him.” My thumb caressed the name on the titanium charge card. “Finish your tea and I’ll show you the guest room.”

  “Does it have a lock?” He offered a smile, seemingly not wanting to offend.

  “I believe so.”

  “This place is like a haunted mansion.”

  I marveled at his perspective and how close he was to suspecting that it was indeed haunted.

  But not by ghosts.

  Chapter 11

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING, I detected Sebastian was still here.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Watching from the balcony with a good view of the foyer, just left of the central staircase, I listened in on his conversation with Ingrid Jansen and Sergeant Blake. The awkward silence of initial introductions still lingering.

  Trailing my left hand down the banister, I descended the flight of stairs, and despite the tension rising in my gut, I forced a smile.

  Sebastian caught sight of me. “You have visitors.”

  Ingrid’s expression changed and she quickly turned away as though gathering her thoughts before facing me again, reflecting nothing but a stony-faced demeanor. She was dressed elegantly in classic black trousers, a white ruffled shirt and a simple leather jacket. A far cry from the sultry attire I’d last seen her in.

  She turned and my breath caught.

  “What are you doing here?” Her tone sounded controlled.

  I hesitated. “I see you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Sebastian.”

  “We met you at Belshazzar’s?” Blake asked, and he wasn’t looking well.

  After a few more seconds of awkwardness, Ingrid shook off whatever thoughts were impeding her and turned to face Sebastian. “We were talking about Alexander?” she asked.

  Sebastian inclined his head toward me as though hoping for guidance. “Haven’t seen him.”

  Ingrid caught it and said, “How about Jadeon Artimas?”

  “Who?” Sebastian asked.

  Ingrid stepped toward me. “Where is he?”

  “Jadeon’s in Italy.” It was a good enough lie.

  There was something about Blake’s pallor, the newer lines etched around his eyes reflecting an added tension that was only beginning to show.

  “Gothica?” The mind message meant solely for Blake hit its mark—

  Blake coughed and spun away from me. He locked his attention onto Sebastian. “Do you work here?”

  “No,” Sebastian answered. “Just visiting.”

  “Do you need to sit down?” I asked Blake.

  “Touch of food poisoning.” Blake glanced over at Ingrid. “I’m fine, really.”

  “How about some water?” I asked him.

  “No, thank you,” Blake insisted.

  Ingrid shared with him an unspoken moment and turned to face me again. “This castle belongs to Lord Artimas and his brother,” she said. “And yet neither of you can tell me where Alex is?”

  My focus shifted to Blake’s necktie.

  “Bit of a trek to get here.” Blake looked away nervously. “Do you ever get used to living on an island?” He ambled toward the suit of armor to the left of the stairway, one of the two guarding knights. “Those add a nice touch,” he said. “How old are they?”

  “Medieval.” Sebastian peered my way for confirmation and then strolled over toward Blake and added, “The average height of men back then was five foot four.” On Ingrid’s reaction he said, “Bit of a history buff.”

  “So we can see,” she said.

  Blake examined the helmet’s jaw. It fell slack and stuck, leaving the knight gaping.

  I knew just how the knight felt.

  Realizing he couldn’t fix it, Blake offered an apologetic grimace and continued to fumble.

  Ingrid’s attention fell back on me. “How are you acquainted with Jadeon Artimas?”

  I watched Sebastian take over where Blake had failed, easing closed the knight’s jaw, restoring it to his original dignified pose.

  “I’m an acquaintance,” I answered.

  “Mind if we have a look around?” she said.

  “Actually,” I said, “this is a bad time.”

  “Really?” Ingrid called over to Sebastian. “How are you acquainted with the Artimas family?”

  Sebastian turned to me for guidance. “Just popped in for a cup of tea.”

  “What was your last name again?” Blake asked him.

  “Price,” Sebastian said.

  Blake made a notation in his notepad. “And sir, your surname?” He peered up at me, pen poised.

  “Rolfe,” I told him.

  “Do you know Daumia Velde?” Blake asked us. “He also goes by the name Orpheus?”

  Sebastian went to answer and then hesitated, seemingly remembering the credit card he’d returned to me. He gave a questionable shake of his head.

  “How about you?” Blake asked me.

  “I know of him,” I said. “As I previously explained to Detective Jansen. Shall I go into detail about what we discussed at the club?”

  She waved it off. “Not necessary.”

  A squawk came from the doorway and we all turned to see the black raven hopping around on the top step, threatening to fly in.

  “Well look at that,” Sebastian said. “A guardian of the dead.”

  “Celtic belief,” I explained to Ingrid.

  “One for sorrow,” Blake said, half distracted. “The crow. You know, two for joy.”

  Sebastian’s top lip curled into a smile. “That’s the Magpie.”

  Blake frowned. “What’s the difference?”

  Sebastian glanced at me, amused. “The crow has black feathers and the magpie has black and white feathers.”

  Ingrid shook her head. “We appreciate anything you can tell us.”

  “Those two men you mentioned,” Sebastian asked, “you’re looking for them?”

  “We need to speak with them,” Ingrid explained. “Urgently.”

  “What have they done?” asked Sebastian.

  I almost cringed with the thought of Alex dragging that coffin through the foyer.

  Blake removed a folded piece of paper from his pocket and unraveled it. “We have a warrant.”

  “May I?” Sebastian held out his hand.

  “Just part of our investigation,” Ing
rid said.

  My thoughts raced with the idea of what they’d find if let loose. “May I speak with you alone?” I asked Ingrid and headed toward the other side of the foyer.

  Ingrid caught up and glanced back to make sure Blake could still see her from where he was standing.

  “You never told Blake what really happened at Belshazzar’s?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” she said.

  I leaned back against the wall. “What are you looking for exactly?”

  “Alex, my prime suspect,” she said. “What’s Jadeon doing in Italy?”

  “Touring Florence, I believe.”

  She bit her bottom lip and peeled back her sleeve revealing her brand. “If Orpheus is dead,” she ran a fingertip over it, “why give me this?”

  I nudged her out of Blake’s line of sight. “Very few people know he’s dead.”

  Her hand lingered near mine and then she withdrew it. “Back in the club you mentioned something about branding me for Orpheus.”

  “It was important to get you out of there by any means,” I replied.

  “So you lied to them?”

  “Is this a moral discussion?” I asked.

  “I detect avoidance.”

  “More like boredom.”

  She knitted her eyebrows together. “What’s to stop me from arresting you right now?”

  “For what?”

  “Obstructing justice.”

  “Merely smoke and mirrors.” I grinned off my remark.

  She blinked several times, amazed by my daring attitude.

  “Illusion is the first of all pleasures.” I turned slightly to face the painting of Voltaire. “His real name was François-Marie Arouet. He was an advocate for civil liberties as well as a writer and philosopher. He was known as Voltaire.”

  “His name’s an anagram?” she asked.

  “Very good. Arouet is the Latinized spelling of his surname.”

  Ingrid snapped back into the moment. “So, how long have you been staying here?”

  I gave silence a try.

  “Perhaps you can show me around?” she asked.

  Quiet ensued and I let it, trying to savor these last few seconds that I had left with her.

  Ingrid’s long lashes flickered, her natural pout giving away her boldness. “Was Orpheus buried?”