Bitter Fruits
By Sarah Daltry
Bitter Fruits
By Sarah Daltry
Copyright 2013 Sarah Daltry
All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Visit Sarah online at www.sarahdaltry.com
Printed/Published in the United States of America
SDE Press, LLC
June 25, 2013
Also by Sarah Daltry
Novellas
The Quiver of a Kiss
More than a Job
Story Collections
First Timers Volume 1
First Timers Volume 2
Smells Like Team Spirit Volume 1
Standalone Short Stories
Touch of Venus
Into the Woods
Anniversary Surprise
Library Services
Coming September 2013
Forget Me Not
Acknowledgments
Writing this has been an act of faith. There were many nights when I didn’t think it would happen and it’s important to thank those who made sure that it did.
There are so many people to thank, from editors to bloggers, from promotional teams to betas. I could make this a very long list, but they all know who they are and they know I am grateful. Without tireless support from them all, this book would still be trying to take shape. Without reviews and promos, you would never know it exists. We all need to remember that there is a massive team behind each novel. In short, I’d like to give a shout out to P&L Editing, Book Enthusiast Promotions, The Book Chick with Kick, Braxton Cole and the rest of my amazing Street Team, and Release Day Diva.
However, the greatest thanks goes to you, the reader. Without you, a story is nothing but words on a page (or screen). Without you, the characters are nothing but ideas, names with no place to go. Without you, we do not exist. So, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for reading this and for taking the journey. I hope I have repaid you in kind.
“I judge but by the fruits
—and they are bitter—
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine.”
- George Gordon, Lord Byron
Prologue
1963
Oxford, England
Because the cemetery is empty, the fact that an attractive man just dug himself out of his own grave goes unnoticed. Allen silently thanks the gravediggers for their hasty and shoddy work and praises the mild weather; the last time involved a lot of chipping away at ice and it was incredibly annoying. He preferred the days when his body was either stuck in a tomb or just tossed somewhere to rot. It really made the cleanup easier. He brushes dirt from his suit - a poorly tailored and extremely cheap suit. There are bigger reasons to hate my brother, but a bad suit is just carelessness, he thinks.
The city is sleeping, although a few windows glow with light; in some, the mind-numbing illumination of television sets reaches out into the streets. A pair of late night stragglers makes their way past him, but they clearly stayed in the pubs too long. Allen with his discount suit and muddy hair warrants no notice. He walks, unhurried, enjoying the fresh air. Ten months is a long time to spend stuck in one’s grave; he truly hates these longer deaths. There was that one time in France after the Revolution - what was it? 11 years? Unbearable. By the time he reaches the campus, he has regained his bearings. The path forks and he considers. His brother can wait; after all, a couple more hours in prison for murder are certainly fair. Allen shakes his head. If he were capable of remorse, I would just leave him there. Unfortunately, the rules dictate that he must release him. If Allen remembers correctly from the last time, however, the prisons are getting more elaborate, making it harder to go undetected. This all used to be so much simpler, before modern policing and laws.
No, he tells himself, his brother can wait. First, he must find her. He runs over the explanation in his head; he should have told her before his brother came for him. It would have been compassionate to prepare her for him arriving at her doorstep in the middle of the night after being brutally murdered less than a year before. He was angry, though, right before he was killed; he can’t remember why exactly - something about her and her foolishness. The longer the wait for revival, the slower his memories come back. Right now, he can think only of her promises. She loved him; that surely will be enough.
When he reaches the building where she used to live, the “To Let” sign in the lower left window - her flat - brings the enormity of ten months crashing down over him. Was she heartbroken? Did she leave because of him? If only he had told her… Allen stands, helpless, on the steps to the building when a short, stocky woman comes around the wall and stares at him. She’s had much to drink, but she recognizes him immediately. The neighbor, he recalls. She had a lot of cats. Ms. Haverford.
“But you’re-” She stops midsentence, because he can’t be dead. He’s standing in front of her. But the trial, the blood, the newspaper stories… all of these things rush through her head before she opens her mouth to scream.
He acts fast, cutting off the sound before it begins and placing his hand on her forehead. Great. So much for a forwarding address. A faint light spills from his hand and encircles the woman; she goes limp in his arms and he lays her down at his feet, on the steps to the building. When she wakes, she will remember nothing of him, of this moment. She was probably already on track for a massive hangover anyway and won’t notice much out of the ordinary.
Allen looks at the unconscious woman and struggles to justify what he does next. Morality soon gives way to necessity, though, and he digs through her purse for her keys. There must be something left behind, some remnant of her and her life with him. Reaching the flat where he used to spend most of his evenings, he looks around. The university is not in session and it looks like there are not many tenants now. He takes a deep breath and then knocks down the door. He has the powers of obfuscation and silence, but in the morning, someone is still going to notice a door lying in the hallway. Oh well. I’ll be long gone by then.
The flat is empty save for a dirty glass on the counter and one box pushed against the wall by the window. He crouches and opens the box; all of his things that couldn’t be donated, the material and personal possessions that linked him to this life and this world, are stuck in the cardboard square. I’ve been reduced to one small box. That says much about mortal lives. He rummages and, at the bottom, finds what he’s looking for; she bought the journal for him one afternoon when they took a trip into London and shopped the markets. If she left a clue, any sign… His last entry, a few nights before his death, chronicles his love for her and his dread of what was coming. It also reminds him of why he was so angry and the rage begins to boil under the surface as if the last ten months never happened.
Just as he had hoped, under the entry, she wrote her own. As he reads it, though, hope turns quickly to despair.
If I had known, if I had realized what my actions meant, I never-
I’m so sorry, Allen. I loved you. When I met him at the pub, he seemed charming, sweet, considerate. I didn’t k
now he was your brother and I definitely didn’t know what was to come. It was one night. One foolish and stupid night and now…
Is it my fault? Did I do this to you? You said we could overcome it, but then, I was alone. I can’t live with the guilt. Tomorrow, I go to see him in the prison and tell him my secret. And then? The river looks stunning in the moonlight and I will let it carry me to you.
He closes the journal and leaves the flat, varied emotions swirling inside of him but all buried under the now overwhelming rage. Nothing in the box matters anymore and he doesn’t care who finds it or what happens to it. Placing the keys back into Ms. Haverford’s purse, he returns to the high street and continues on foot to the prison. Out of obligation, he will free his brother. However, things will change this time. This cycle is going to end once and for all.
1.
It is a perfect night to dance with demons. The campus is empty and the fading street lamps illuminate nothing but blowing leaves. The air’s chilly when I go to the window and it only takes one small gust of wind to convince me to close it. It’s already taken me hours to dress for this party; stupid wind isn’t going to mess up my hair now. The window closed, I apply lipstick and take one last look in the mirror. The red velvet gown shows off my curves and the word voluptuous comes to mind. It’s not one I would generally associate with myself, but it gives me confidence. This new version of me wouldn’t need to hide behind the phony sarcasm my friends know and tolerate. Cleavage rises from the top of the dress, my white breasts teased by black lace.
“I am in love with this corset,” I tell my roommate.
“Yeah. Who knew you had tits?” Scarlet teases.
My dark hair cascades around my face in loose curls and my eyes are lined in thick black; the dark makeup makes me look like the kind of girl with a lot of secrets. Definitely the right look for tonight.
“You did well,” I compliment her.
“I told you that you had it in you. You just needed a push.”
She joins me in the mirror. Everyone knows how gorgeous Scarlet is but, for once, I don’t fade when she stands next to me. It’s tough being her roommate, although she is a decent person under all that beauty. It’s a shame; I wanted to hate her when we met. I still think it’s unfair she got the looks and the personality, but there isn’t much I can do about it. Well, other than stew in envy, of course. Her auburn hair is piled up on her head and her gown is a deep, silky blue. I helped lace her corset earlier and it was not easy to contain the curves. Scarlet’s ruby red lips are pouty but there is a smile waiting to be teased from them. She reaches around my face with both hands, placing a stunning jeweled mask over my eyes. It’s one of those classic masks that looks like something from the Renaissance.
“Damn. I am simply smoldering,” I say.
“Shut up, bitch,” Scarlet laughs and puts on her own mask, blue and silver in the same fashion as mine. When we’re both done, she licks her lips, revealing sharp fangs. I consider letting her bite me and then smile to myself; I am getting carried away by illusion. Time to rationalize. We are not courtesans in a 19th century brothel; we are merely dressed that way.
“Those are sexy,” I tell Scarlet, referring to her fangs. She’s been hunting everywhere for a decent pair, although I hadn’t realized there were levels of fang quality. I got mine at Wal-Mart for two dollars before I learned this important factoid.
“I know. They weren’t cheap either. But one does not mess around for something this big. Oh, and just wait until you see the guys,” she gushes.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror. Maybe tonight will be fun after all. When Scarlet invited me to the ball, I thought she was kidding. Turns out there is quite the vampire fantasy group on campus. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, since there is a group for everything on campus. If twenty young adults can get together every Thursday to discuss classic versus new Dr. Who, why wouldn’t another twenty decide to throw a vampire masquerade? Plus, it’s almost Halloween. It seems like a silly way to spend an evening, I suppose, but frat parties are growing redundant and the city’s bars are all the same. Besides, there is something inherent in every girl that makes putting on a gown and dressing up swoon worthy. I’m no different. My jeans and t-shirts are forgotten as I reach up a hand to brush the ribbons holding my mask over my eyes. Slipping my fangs into place, I follow Scarlet out into the night.
****
The party is being held off campus in an old church. A local diocese still owns the building, although no one uses it. It is minimally maintained - creepy and abandoned enough to serve our purposes here tonight without being a death trap of rotten wood and sinkholes. A chill brushes against me and I pull the black velvet cloak I borrowed from Scarlet tight against my body. It’s a strange sight, the massive stone edifice looming over the evening. Something seems sacrilegious about it all, although I am not a practicing anything. Sounds of laughter reach the overgrown grounds through stained glass windows and Scarlet runs to the stone steps. I move forward, tentatively, suddenly afraid that this was a bad idea. Some animal howls in the nearby woods and I trip up the steps, choosing the false danger of a party over the very real danger of being mauled by something. It isn’t a graceful entrance, but fortunately, no one seems to notice.
Inside the church, candles are burning and the heady smell of incense mingles with their scent. I can’t place it - sandalwood and citrus, perhaps. I scan the room. It’s as if I have been transported into a wonderland out of a novel. Everyone is dressed in beautiful gowns and luxurious evening wear; the men spin the women through the room in a waltz. I keep an eye out for Mr. Darcy, but alas, he seems to be absent tonight. There are a few pews still in place and couples explore one another on the velvet seats. Organ music drowns out words and other sounds, but there is an energy to the party, a feeling of hedonism. Someone put a lot of work into making this realistic and I can’t help but admire the effort. In the far corner is a buffet table, draped in gold and purple silks and covered in silver plates of food - fruits and meat mostly. There is also a line of goblets full of a thick red wine. The logical part of my brain tries to jump in, wondering how any church allowed us to have this party here. Fantasy outweighs reason, though, and I move into the party, already on sensory overload. Scarlet has disappeared and I am lost in a new world.
“You are stunning,” a deep voice says over my shoulder.
I don’t know how he managed to get behind me without my hearing him; when I spin around, his face is inches from mine, emerald eyes peering through a mask more wolf than human. I draw in a breath. Even with the mask, I am attracted to him. My body reacts to his closeness in a way I’ve never experienced; usually, the guys who approach me do not look like this and I definitely don’t respond the same way. There is something else as well, something beyond the physical. I immediately feel as if I am meant to know him.
“Do you always sneak up on unsuspecting girls?” I ask.
He grins, revealing perfect fangs, even better than Scarlet’s. Light stubble trims his face and his hair frames the dark mask. I can’t help but let my eyes travel over his loose white shirt, revealing a bit of his pale, yet toned chest. My eyes continue down to his tight black pants. He watches me check him out and laughs softly.
“Do you like what you see?”
I blush, surprised I was bold enough to stare clearly at his crotch. His pants leave little to the imagination and my eyes peek again at the outline of him. Impressive, I think.
“You know I would be happy to oblige you,” he purrs and pulls me against him. “There are plenty of quiet nooks in an old church like this.”
His hands move along my back, slowly unlacing the ribbons that line the back of my gown. I gasp and pull away, half out of surprise, half out of fear. I’m not sure if it is fear of him or of what I am thinking of doing. Either way, I back up.
I don’t know what to say to him. His eyes are teasing, but he simply runs his tongue along his fangs and leads me to the food and wine. He hand
s me a dark silver goblet and I drink, afraid to speak or motion in any way that he will take as further invitation. The sweet, thick liquid spills down my throat. I can’t place the taste, but it is familiar and intoxicating. I drain the goblet, the last drop still fresh on my lips when he speaks again.
“Stag’s blood,” he says.
I drop the goblet and almost vomit. Gross. He laughs. “It’s the name of the drink. Not from real stags, of course. Red wine, cherry juice, and Chambord.”
As he picks up the goblet, I feel foolish. As if they would serve blood! This entire experience is so surreal that I almost forgot it was a fantasy party. For a moment, especially when staring at this handsome stranger, I believed I was a princess in a land inundated with vampires and monsters. The man returns the goblet to the table and pushes a loose strand of my hair behind my ear. I shudder involuntarily as his fingers graze my face. He is more beautiful than any man I have ever met - and he is talking to me. I don’t know how that happened, but I am not complaining.
“It is known to have aphrodisiac properties. Hence the stag allusion,” he says.
“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I try to lighten up, to feel more human, more real, more present. I’m overwhelmed; my dress is tight and I feel dazed from the alcohol, incense, music, and the closeness of this man.
“I’m trying to get you a lot of things. Is it working?”
“I don’t even know your name,” I protest. “Yet you expect me to sneak off to a hidden nook and allow you to remove my gown.” Playing along is fun; I like the idea of pretending, of forgetting my own life and leaving myself behind. I also like the idea of spending the evening like this, despite not knowing a thing about him.
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