As Vital as Blood
Book 1 in the Victorian Vampires Series
Copyright © 2017 Amanda DeWees
Synopsis: In this novella of about 120 pages, Miss Michael Cargrave travels to a castle in the Carpathian Mountains in 1881 and finds herself falling in love with a mysterious baron who may be a dangerous vampire.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Preorder Book 2
Also by Amanda DeWees: With This Curse
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Amanda DeWees
Copyright Notice
Prologue
She was marked for death, but she did not yet know it.
Her gait was leisurely as she sauntered down the forest path. Moonlight filtered through the treetops and shone brightly on her yellow hair and green dress, but even without a moon the predator would have been able to track her with no difficulty. The living heat of her was like an aura; it glowed and shimmered in the watcher’s sight, shining out as brightly as the moon itself. To a human it would have been invisible, but the creature that watched and followed the girl was not human…and had not been for decades.
It moved silently in her wake, sending the forest creatures scrambling for safety. They sensed the thing and knew it was unnatural, dangerous. Their instincts were better than the human girl’s. She paused, frowning at the sudden rustling, scanning the path behind her for signs of danger. But the thing that followed crouched in the shadows.
If she had been a little older and wiser she might have looked more carefully. Then she might have seen the glint of moonlight on eyes, a shadow more solid than the others. Might have taken the time to become aware of the sudden silence in the woods, the absence of activity from owls and bats and scurrying things, all the signs that would have shown her she was the only creature heedless enough to remain there.
If only she had been that wise, wise enough to be wary, she might have escaped. The thing that stalked her could be generous when its hunger was not too great. Sometimes its vanity was tickled by humans who understood what was pursuing them and made a desperate bid for survival.
Not this girl. No older than seventeen, she radiated not only the vitality of youth but also its innocence—and arrogance. Tossing her head as if to defy the warnings all around her, she turned and continued down the path, secure in her illusory sense of safety. She did not yet know she was mortal.
She would learn it tonight.
Chapter I
The road through the Carpathian Mountains was old and rutted, and the carriage jounced unpleasantly. It was difficult to remain dignified while being bounced about like a potato in a sack, but Miss Michael Cargrave did her best. Sitting up straight, she kept her eyes on the view from the window, steep banks of evergreens whose jagged peaks were etched in the light of the moon.
“Fine night for traveling, this,” observed her companion. “Though if I may say so, you aren’t the kind of company I would have expected in this part of the world. A pleasant surprise, I don’t mind telling you.”
She acknowledged his words with no more than a slight nod. She had hoped that her mourning costume would discourage the man from speaking to her, as it had so often discouraged strangers on this journey. But she had had to put the black veil back from her face, for even the enormous moon did not cast enough light to illuminate the carriage interior through that impediment, and perhaps the sight of her face had encouraged the man to become friendly.
Not too friendly, she hoped. A woman traveling alone had to be extremely cautious. She had been fortunate so far—or else the combination of her black clothes and sober demeanor had done their work of discouraging familiarity from those she encountered. That, and the chair she had learned through experience to jam under the handle of the door to her room at each inn where she had stayed.
But this man was not discouraged, clearly. A short but substantial fellow in a checked suit and bowler hat, with red cheeks and a handlebar moustache, he too seemed as if he was out of his element. He ought to be in a pub, toeing the brass rail while trying to drink beer without getting foam on his moustache. That, at least, was the idea she had of pubs from the illustrations in books and on sheet music.
“Your first time in this part of the world?” he asked now.
“Yes,” she said grudgingly. It was probably wiser not to risk offending him by remaining silent, since the two of them were alone in this carriage for however long it took to reach the place where she was to be met.
He nodded. “I thought as much. Do you have family in these parts, or did your doctor prescribe a change of scene to ease the melancholy of losing a loved one?”
“Neither,” she said, and when his expectant expression did not change, she added, “I have work here, or at least the prospect of it.”
“You don’t say! You surprise me, Miss…”
In for a penny…“Cargrave. And you are Mr. Rich.”
He regarded her with as much pleased surprise as if she had performed a conjuring trick. “And how do you know that?”
She permitted herself a smile. “When the carriage was ready and I wished to be on my way, the landlady at the inn kept telling me that I must wait for Mr. Rich. I could hear her husband pounding on your door, shouting for you to waken so that we could depart before nightfall.”
“But alas, you were thwarted by the soundness of my sleep.” He placed a gloved hand on his breast and half bowed where he sat. “I do apologize for having inconvenienced so lovely a lady. Fortunately by the time I woke the moon was high enough to light our way satisfactorily.”
“Indeed,” she said, hoping she was not blushing at the compliment, for she was unaccustomed to them. She found her thoughts returning to the curious scene at the village inn. The landlord and his wife had grown more agitated as the day drew toward evening, insisting that the journey should not be undertaken at night. When Michael had pointed out that the distance was short and she was expected, the two of them had broken into a language she could not understand. The landlady even seemed to be weeping by the time Michael and her newly awakened traveling companion had boarded the coach.
“The old woman said it was dangerous out on the roads after sunset,” she remembered now. “She said a girl went missing last night.”
“Probably eloped with a suitor,” her companion said easily. “She had little enough to look forward to from life in that squalid little village, that’s certain. Or it could have been a wolf, of course. When they get hungry enough, they grow bold.” When she stared at him in horror, he added comfortingly, “Fortunately in a coach you have nothing to fear from that quarter.”
Unless the wolves attacked the horses, but Mr. Rich was probably more concerned with reassuring her than with accuracy. “The landlady was so determined that I should take her rosary. She seemed to think it would protect me, but I don’t see that it would have any effect against wolves.”
“True—unless the wolf in question is a vampire in disguise.”
“A vampire?” So that was why they had all been so distressed about her traveling after dark. “Is that what they all believe took the girl?”
“I guarantee it, my dear Miss Cargrave. It’s a pity you couldn’t have eased their minds by accepting the landlady’s gift.” Then he gave
a chuckle. “But no doubt you’re good solid Church of England stock and don’t hold with such popery.”
“Not exactly. Let’s just say it wouldn’t be of any use to me.”
Mr. Rich settled back more comfortably in his seat, propping one spat-clad ankle on the opposite knee. He was so clearly harmless that she had begun to relax. “You’ll find there’s a great deal of superstition in this part of the world,” he told her as if imparting a great insight. “One can’t blame the poor ignorant devils, of course, with as much warfare and bloodshed as they’ve seen over the centuries.”
She was glad to seize the opportunity to turn the conversation into a different channel. “You must be well acquainted with this area, then,” she said. “Do you have property here?”
He laced his fingers together across his waistcoat and smiled. “Business connections. My employer has his fingers in a great many pies—steel, coal, railways, banks—and from time to time he sends me to visit some of our more distant partners to reinforce our bond, you might say. Letters and telegrams only go so far. Sometimes the personal touch is required.” Before she could respond, he asked, “And what job of work is it that brings a gently reared Englishwoman out to the Carpathian Mountains? I confess I am quite devoured by curiosity.”
She had hoped he would not probe further. Every time she was forced to examine her plan it grew more flimsy and farfetched in her eyes. “My father was a scholar and an antiquarian bookseller,” she said. “He trained me to follow in his footsteps.” She hoped the man would let the matter rest there.
But he didn’t. “Who is it that hired you?” he asked.
How could she admit that she had not in fact been hired and could not say with certainty that she worked for anyone?
“I am on my way to Vasile, Baron Dalca’s residence,” she said, conscious of deliberately misleading him.
His eyebrows rose. “Indeed!”
“Do you know him?” Perhaps he could tell her whether the rash venture that had brought her all this way was likely to succeed or fail.
“No, but my employer deals with him from time to time.” He seemed to consider. “I know I’ve heard that his library is a fine one, if that kind of thing interests you, and I assume it does.”
“But what is he like?”
“You’ve not met him yourself, then?”
“We’ve only corresponded.” Even that much was stretching the truth to the breaking point, and to hide her nervousness she asked, “What else do you know about the baron?”
The coach hit a particularly nasty rut and jounced so hard that a scraping sound overhead suggested that the luggage on top of the coach was shifting. She hoped her trunk was safe, but just in case, she had kept her father’s battered old leather satchel, with the most precious and important items, inside the coach with her.
“Let me see,” Mr. Rich mused, not at all discomposed by the violence of their progress. “If memory serves, he’s said to be a quiet sort. Moody. I believe his wife died some years ago, so perhaps that’s the reason.”
“Oh.” She had hoped very much that he had a wife living, that she would not be venturing into a masculine realm without any chaperone—or ally. “And children?”
“He told you precious little about himself in his letters, it would seem!” When she did not respond, he said, “None living at the castle, or so I’ve heard. Evidently he likes his solitude.”
That made her uneasy—but then, there was nothing about this scheme that filled her with confidence. He could be a very pleasant gentleman and the ideal employer, she told herself. It had been easier to believe back in England in the safety of her home.
But I had no choice. With a pang she remembered Rosamond’s face and how even when her younger sister was red-eyed and red-nosed from crying she was still the most beautiful girl Michael had ever seen. Someone as lovely as Rosamond, and as sweet and gentle, could surely find a husband and avoid penury if she could only have a London season. But their father had died deep in debt, a fact that had come as a shock to Michael. Their means had always been modest, even painfully so, but now they were forced to sell the house and furnishings to pay off their father’s debts. After that they could barely scrape together enough money to afford Rosamond an appropriate wardrobe and the other expenses of a season in society. It meant selling their only remaining legacy from their father: his library.
Parting with the books that had been her father’s passion had brought grief nearly as sharp as what she felt at losing her father himself. Many of the titles were so rare that she knew she would never find them again in any library or bookshop. She had saved only a few of the less valuable volumes, but even so the sum that the remainder had brought was dwindling quickly. Rosamond must become engaged—and her future husband must belong to a family wealthy and generous enough to provide her spinster older sister with a place to live and an income. Otherwise, Michael would be adrift.
Unless her plan worked. A daring, desperate plan it was, to be sure, born when she found the baron’s letter among her father’s papers.
Her companion was regarding her intently, and she realized she had been silent for quite some time. Fortunately, the coach slowed, and she heard the coachman shout to the horses to halt them. There came the sounds of an approaching carriage.
“This must be where we part,” said Mr. Rich. Taking up his overcoat and a carpet bag, he tipped his hat to her. “Good luck to you,” he said, as the coachman opened the door.
“Thank you. And to you.”
Mr. Rich gave her a little wave as he alighted. Judging from the noise from the roof of the carriage, his luggage was soon transferred, and shortly thereafter the coach was in motion again.
It was only a quarter of an hour more before it slowed and stopped again, and as her coachman took her trunk down she alighted to see the coach from the baron approaching. Her coachman saw it too, and tipped his hat hurriedly to her before springing back into the seat and setting off before she could even give him a gratuity. Perhaps he, too, had wolves on his mind and wished to be on his way as swiftly as possible to minimize the danger.
The baron’s coach drew up before her. In the light of the moon she saw that in the driver’s seat was one of the largest men she had ever encountered. He was dressed in the tunic and baggy breeches she had seen on so many other men in this part of the world, and a bushy beard fell to his chest. He did not make any motion to descend but merely stared at her.
“Cargrave,” he said in a deep, heavily accented voice that made the name an accusation.
She had expected this kind of reception and had prepared by memorizing a few phrases, although she wasn’t certain which language to use. In the newly minted Kingdom of Romania, formed earlier in this very year of 1881, she knew that numerous languages were spoken, including Turkish, German, Hungarian, and local dialects. The count, to judge by his letter, was fluent in English. But his servants might not be.
She tried Romanian. “Vă rog să mă duceţi la baronul.” According to her phrase book, that meant “Please conduct me to the baron.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Nu,” he said.
She did not need her phrase book to translate that.
“I am the guest that the baron is expecting,” she insisted.
“Not Cargrave.”
She unfastened her leather satchel and produced the letter in which the baron had finalized the details of her journey. She held it up to the coachman, hoping he would recognize the baron’s handwriting, and pointing to the name in the letter.
“Michael Cargrave,” she said, and then pointed to herself. “Michael Cargrave.”
The coachman began to expostulate, but when he saw that she did not understand he fell silent. He looked from her to her trunk to the moonlit wilderness that surrounded them, and evidently concluded that the decision to accept or reject her was one best placed in other hands.
With a sigh he descended, scooped up her trunk as if it were no heavier than a market baske
t, and hoisted it onto the top of the coach. He lashed it down quickly, then he gestured to the door. “In,” he ordered.
She could not help but wonder if this was a safe course after all. But with nothing but night and wilderness around her, she had no choice.
The coachman gave a harsh command to the horses, and they set off for the baron’s castle. Soon the road became more twisting, and when she made the mistake of looking out the window on her right she saw that the ground fell away into a chasm whose depth she could only guess at. From the other window she saw a sheer wall of rock rising into the night sky. The road must have been cut into the very face of a mountain, and with every sway of the carriage she felt her heart rise up into her mouth in dread that they would slip off the narrow road and plummet down into nothingness.
When the road smoothed out and she guessed that they had crossed the mountain pass, she felt a new kind of queasy nervousness at the knowledge that her destination was near. Sitting forward on the edge of the seat, she scanned the scenery for some reassuring sight like a well-lighted cluster of buildings. But she had no reason to think that the baron lived near anyone else. The little village she had left behind was probably the most populous place she would see for some time.
Sometimes she regretted that she was not a praying woman, because this felt like a time to pray. Please let the baron be kind and upstanding. Please let him give me the position.
But that was foolish. Her father, even in the last, worst extremity of his final illness, saw no point in prayers—not for life, nor for merciful release, nor even for the welfare of the daughters he would leave behind. “Use your intellect, Michael,” he had told her in a voice grown whispery and weak. “Be wise, my daughter.” And for his sake as well as her own and Rosamond’s, she had tried.
At this moment, though, as the coach wheels suddenly crunched over gravel and the vehicle slowed and drew to a stop before a doorway filled with wavering lantern light, she wondered if she had been wise at all. Maybe, after all, she had been reckless—fatally so.
As Vital as Blood (Victorian Vampires Book 1) Page 1
