The Stone Masters Vampire Series
A Vampire's Rise
BOOK I
Vanessa Fewings
Copyright 2013. Vanessa Fewings
The Stone Masters Vampire Series
A Vampire's Rise (Book I)
A Vampire's Reckoning (Book II)
A Vampire's Dominion (Book III)
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For Kim
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
About the Author
Prologue
Opium.
The perfume wafts. I breathe it in . . .
Intoxicating.
This is the closest scent to her that I can find. With care, I place the bottle down, dropping the delicate stopper back into position, pushing it aside. An inner tide sweeps me up as nostalgia saturates my senses.
Deep in thought, I recapture her, bewitched, lost to reason, hoping that this impassioned fever breaks, dissipating these emotions. Freedom from such has eluded me thus far. Of course I’ve taken lovers since, but they’ve come and gone like seasons, unworthy of memory.
The darkest hour draws near.
And I find myself predictably alone in my London residence. Comfortably ensconced in my shadowy sanctum, I rather enjoy my own company. I’m assured solitude.
Despite the minimal décor, the room is homey, with time-honored furniture that captures the classic style. Leaning against the arched window frame, I trace the tumbling leaves. A howling wind blindly forges on, weaving its way amongst the lamp-lit streets. Taking in the dramatic nightscape, it’s easy to become entranced by the grey city skyline. Little evidence is left of its former silhouette.
Rain batters the window. I’ve left it ajar in hope of airing this neglected room, and some drops find their way through, settling below the ledge, pooling on the stone floor. Turning away, I take a seat at the oak writing desk, resting in the high-backed chair. An all too precious moment taken to reminisce, inspired by thoughts of missives once written here, others received, the waxed seal crumbling as the envelope was ripped open and the letter read.
And read again.
Elm beams run along a low ceiling, holding the warmth. An open fire crackles in the hearth, casting out the occasional spark. The wooden mantelpiece is engraved with a fleur-de-lis. Scratches surrounding the design reveal someone took a dislike to the decorative symbol. The carved iris, though blemished, remains recognizable, suggesting that the culprit became bored and moved on. The carpenter’s choice of mahogany saved the design.
There are symbols like this throughout, hidden motifs incorporated into every room, their purpose lost in time. Another secret of this mansion that I’m privy to, a clandestine doorway behind a contemporary painting hanging on the far wall, a discreet exit should one be needed, another of many intrigues, its past is as rich as its thickly lined, black velvet drapes.
I sip from the crystal glass of red and savor the taste. The candlewick burns, but I don’t require it. The stillness would be eerie if it weren’t for my refined senses, an evolved heightened awareness enabling the detection of the smallest movement or the slightest sound—a supernatural advantage.
I long gave up sleeping by night. These dark hours, I now own.
When your heartbeat ceases, it’s fatal, though for my kind it’s just the beginning, an endless pathway strewn with the remarkable. Myth unravels as we, the immortals, linger in the underworld and, when the mood takes us, integrate with the living. I don’t consider myself the walking dead, for I’m very much alive.
The fresh breeze clears my mind and my thoughts wander back over centuries to the year 1745. I’m lying naked on a rug before a fireplace, entwined with my lover. We’re savoring what is left of dusk, sensual delights beyond imagination. She’d captivated me long ago and I’d become obsessed with her. Over time, I’ve come to appreciate the words she’d spoken that winter night as I caressed her soft skin and kissed her.
“Orpheus, why do you refuse to talk about the past?” she asked.
“Some memories, I choose to forget.” I sighed.
“The pain fades.”
“What if I don’t want it to?”
She shifted in my arms. “So you hold onto the pain and forget the cause?”
I pushed her away. “Whatever it takes.”
“To survive eternity?” she whispered.
“To exist.”
She dressed and withdrew, leaving me to consider our conversation. Finding no benefit in sentimentality, I ignored her.
Her face is fading.
My beloved had changed everything, the woman who’d saved me time and time again, patiently guiding.
Now I understand. It’s time to write it down. For her, I’ll document all that I know, everything that I remember. If I capture those moments, she’ll come back to me. I’ll feel her near, hear her voice, and sense her touch.
I refuse to let her go.
With a glance at the crimson glass, I’m reminded that it wasn’t always this way, though history is invariably distorted, skewed prose, old-fashioned perspectives deteriorating in unread books.
I, however, am a walking historian.
Once, I desired death but feared to drink from its cup.
Such reticence has since waned.
I just noticed the candle’s gone dark, leaving a wisp of curling smoke. I’m too easily distracted and drawn into the drama of the past as I remember the defining moment, the event that changed everything . . .
Chapter 1
Spain 1471
OUT OF THE DARKNESS, I saw it.
More alarming, it saw me, too. Even at the age of nine, I knew well enough to remain still.
The bull would be attracted to movement.
I sucked in air, trying to fill my lungs, yet no breath remained. Orange flames flickered from the few fire torches positioned around the empty arena.
He trotted toward me and then broke into a gallop. The ground shook and time slowed, forcing a dreamy sense of reality. Hoofs skidded to a stop, spraying up a cloud of dust. Sweat evaporated off his hide and a pungent aroma reached my nostrils.
Our eyes locked.
I bit down on my lip, fists clenched, fingernails digging into my palms, though I barely felt them.
He snorted, sniffed, and tilted sharp, devilish horns. My heart pounded, racing ever faster, and my hands shook as I rose to my full height and pulled my shirt over my head, hating those vulnerable seconds, careful to minimize my movements.
He pawed the dirt.
“Control with composure.” My brother’s words spoken to me long ago, conveying his poise as a seasoned bullfighter.
The bull flicked his tail and snarled. I judged which horn he favored, indicating the direction he’d go.
He thundered toward me, his hoofs rhythmically striking the ground, and I raised my make-shift cape. It brushed over his horns as he galloped past, and swerved left, snorting stale breath that left a putrid taste buried deep in the back of my throat. Lumbering, he turned to face me again, inclining his enormous head. My dry tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth and I tried to gulp my fear. Taking short breaths, unable to remember my last, I suppressed a whimper.
Large nostrils sniffed the air again. I steadied my hands and flicked the garment as he lurched under my left arm, spraying up soil.
I backed up.
Head down, he followed.
My back struck the arena wall, betraying my escape, trapping me between it and him. His stare met mine and went on through. In a state of dread, those terrifying seconds seemed more like hours as they took my breath with them. I struggled to recall which saint could be rallied.
The ground vibrated, bringing with it a sea of black as a billowing dust cloud arose. I threw my shirt over his head and then dived to the right of him. The material blinded him and he plunged into the stone, horns scraping and grinding. He bellowed and shook his head.
I leaped to my feet and bolted along and over the enclosure, landing on the gravel, scraping my hands and knees. Still tasting the dirt he’d sprayed up, I turned awkwardly and peered back. The bull’s eyes bulged, his tail hung low between his legs as he trotted, searching. I sighed, almost forgetting my stinging, bloodied knees.
Whack!
Thrown forward by the crack that struck my head, pain exploded in my skull. Through a bleary stare, I lay looking up at three men, their shadowy figures looming over me, handkerchiefs pulled up to obscure their faces. The tallest of the three tapped his fingers against his thigh. In his other hand, he grasped a wooden cudgel.
After the third strike, I blacked out.
Chapter 2
THE FAINT SCENT OF ROSES.
Blackness.
I awoke to sobs and realized they were mine. I squinted in the darkness at the four dirty grey walls of a small room. An aching head hindered my ability to focus. Moonlight seeped in beneath the door.
Hands bound in front of me, tied with coarse rope, I rolled onto my side and used my elbow to prop myself up to better see. Shirtless, the cold caught up.
Not just any room.
Resting firmly in the center lay an intricately carved, white marble sarcophagus. Afraid to move, I hoped my heart would stay in my chest and not beat its way out. I struggled to pull up my legs and then realized that my ankles had been bound together and tied to the iron leg of a corner bench. Struggling to free myself, the rope chafed my wrists. Despite the burning, I continued tugging, almost freeing one hand.
I had no idea how I’d come to be in here.
Or how long.
Less than a year ago, my friends had dared me to enter a tomb much like this one, but I couldn’t even look inside, fearful of their stories of rotting corpses stacked high, the stench so bad that it would choke me. Their tales had convinced me I’d made the right decision. Now, laying just inches away from such a tomb, I wondered how many corpses lay within. Even though I couldn’t see them, I knew they were in there. My sobs pushed away the silence.
Make it go away.
Engravings along the sides portrayed ancient Roman battles. Years had worn away some of the dramatic images, but not all. With my struggles came the tearing of my flesh. I gnawed at the rope, frustrated that nothing gave. I fell back and stared up at the ceiling. Then back at the tomb.
Dried scarlet petals were scattered nearby, a few strewn upon the marble coffin lid, fallen from a bouquet, seemingly abandoned in the corner. Mourners had long forgotten this place.
Numbness in my limbs thwarted my movements, and my lips were so dry that they stung when I grimaced. The ground felt rough against my bare back.
The walls closed in.
An awful thought struck me that I might die alone in here. My body would be discovered by the visitors who’d eventually come back to pay their respects, maybe in a week, maybe in a year.
I needed to get out.
I had a faint recollection of scrambling down the rough vines that straddled our house and sneaking out to the amphitheater—an awful feeling that I’d done the unthinkable, and broken the golden rule of bullfighting. The bulls received minimal human interaction, never experiencing a man on foot before entering the arena. To do so would mean they’d know to charge the matador instead of his cape.
But I’d done just that, barely surviving and leaving behind a bull dangerously conditioned. With Fiesta Brava scheduled for that night, set to begin in a few hours, the bull would now be deadly to anyone who approached. And my brother, a seasoned matador, was expected to fight. The fire torches had been lit by someone on purpose, perhaps the very same man who’d worked the bull so hard that a vapor had risen off his hide.
Cobwebs weaved along the sides of the sarcophagus and dangled. Fear of the spiders that had spun them caused near panic. I heard a sound from outside, branches crunching underfoot, and I took a deep breath ready to call out for help.
I froze.
Something was moving in here as well, and though I didn’t like the idea of a rodent scurrying around inside the sarcophagus, it was easily preferable to the notion that I’d awoken the dead. My face itched and I reached up, slightly thwarted by the restraints, and scratched my chin. Something had caked on my face and it crumbled beneath my touch. Dried blood wedged under my fingernails.
I had to get out.
A gust of warmth blew as the door creaked open and a man-shaped silhouette appeared in the entryway. He burst in and stomped toward me, as though expecting to find me. Beads of sweat spotted his brow.
My words came out but had no meaning. I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid of his menacing scowl.
Quiet.
His foot tapped my thigh.
I peeked at the gnarly club poised above me, trying to make out the features of the stranger who clutched it. His thick black eyebrows almost met, and the cleft in his chin was barely obscured by his morning shadow. He wore a sinister glare that declared he was ready to strike at any moment. I feared this was my punishment for the bullfight that I’d unwittingly stepped into, a dance with death that should never have happened. I wanted to explain that I had no idea the bull would be in there.
His knuckles whitened as he raised the weapon high.
The lid of the coffin scraped open. I couldn’t bear to look. H
e could use that cudgel on the thing. Something heavy landed on my thigh. He’d dropped the club. Peeking through one blurry eye, I saw a young woman standing by the tomb, and felt an inner quickening, a strange tingling in my chest. My gasp echoed off the walls and found its way back to me.
She wore a long, white gown made from the finest linen. Her porcelain complexion was flawless, her features exquisite, and she sauntered as though floating as she approached. Straight raven hair fell over her shoulders and flowed down her back. Gold trinkets on her wrists jangled. Her startling turquoise gaze darted between the man and me.
I shifted. “Don’t hurt me.”
His foot struck my mouth and I winced in pain.
The deepest sigh, or something like one.
I opened my eyes.
He’d gone.
I stared out through the open doorway and saw no sign of him. Just the woman sliding the tomb lid closed. Several dry rose petals fluttered to the ground, one of them resting on the abandoned cudgel.
She knelt close and traced my bruises with her cold fingers. “It’s over now,” she said.
“Who are you?”
“Suna.”
I glanced at the tomb. “I have to get home.”
“You can’t.” She untied me.
I ran my fingers through my sticky, matted hair and shivered with the thought that it might be blood. I scrambled to my feet.
Her fingers wrapped around my forearm and tugged me back. “It’s not safe.”
Alarmed, I considered her warning, and turned toward the doorway.
She gazed out at the twilight. My footing gave and she caught me. I pulled away and bolted out, met by the welcome warmth of freedom, and glanced up at the stark white cross atop the steeple of the nearby church, heartened by the familiar landmark that would guide me home. I glanced back and saw Suna vanish amongst the shadows.
Out of sight of the mausoleum, I urinated a dark yellow stream against a sorry looking hedge, then, in spite of my aching limbs, I scampered through the graveyard, following the few village lights that guided me into town and, just beyond that, the bullring.
On my arrival, I lingered at the arena edge.
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