“You would still be friends with me after what I have done?”
“Forgiveness and understanding are both terrible character flaws of mine,” he said with a shadow of a smile on his lips.
“So, you forgive me?”
“You did what you did out of love, did you not?”
“I did.”
“Then yes,” he placed his hand over hers. “I forgive you.”
“What am I going to do?”
He took a deep breath and wrapped his fingers over hers. “I am afraid that is not a question for me to answer. While I would be more than willing to hunt down the scamp who made you feel this way and demand that he takes you to the altar...I am of the opinion that this would make no one happy.”
Emily dabbed her eyes with his kerchief. “No, no I am afraid it wouldn't.”
“Well, maybe I can be of service.”
Emily and Hudson jumped at the sound of Owen's voice. For a moment she was sure that she was imagining things.
“Mister Harding.” Hudson surged to his feet. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“Well, I am Miss Crawford's appointed escort to this nonsense.” He waved one flippant hand in the general direction of the party. “It would be improper if I weren't here, wouldn't it?”
Emily adjusted her seat on the piano bench, turning her back to Owen. “As if you have ever cared one fig for propriety.”
“That is...true enough. However, in the weeks since you have left your rather impressive mark on my cheek, I realized that I do care more than a few figs for you.”
“I should leave,” Hudson said.
“No, no not yet,” Owen said. “I owe you an apology as well and I am sure that if I don't say it now, I won’t.”
Emily and Hudson shared a glance.
“Alright,” Hudson stood up.
“I have been a terrible brute, and while I have many reasons for such, I have come to realize that they are excuses. I have admitted to Emily, and now to you Lord Hudson, that my father was a rather despicable creature, and while I will not go into details I have come to believe that I never felt worthy of friendship, nor of love because of it...”
If Emily didn't know any better, she would have believed that Owen's voice broke. He cleared his throat and went on.
“I have acted a terrible fool, and I would like to know what I can do to fix that.”
“You know, Emily, I'm not entirely sure that this is Owen at all.”
Emily stood up and gently pushed passed Hudson. Her hand went to Owen's cheek and he tilted his face until she could stare into those beautiful eyes, and their starburst color.
“Oh it is,” she whispered. “It certainly is.”
“Am I forgiven?”
Lord Hudson took a very deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I will leave it to the lady to decide.”
Emily ran her thumb across the dip in Owen's chin. “There will be a great deal for you to make up for. You can start, of course, by agreeing to marry me.”
“Are you proposing to me?”
“I am,” she smiled as his lips dipped towards hers. '
“That is most unladylike,” he whispered. “I approve.”
THE END
Another bonus story is on the next page.
Bonus Story 13 of 44
Immortal Souls
Description
Paris France, 1905. A young woman falls victim to the disease known as love. After the death of her brother, August is thrown cruelly into the evil world around her, left to fend for herself as she prepares to face the remainder of her life alone. It is only at the mercy of France's most respected lord that she is brought under the care of her late brothers friend.
With madness befalling her, she spends her days exposed to the merciless questions of her brother's passing. On the verge of losing her mind completely, August’s only saviour is a mysterious raven-haired lord who pulls the drowning woman from out of her deepening madness and into a world that she had never believed existed.
Never having been in love, the young woman falls victim to the mysterious noble, only to find herself entwined on a path that not even a sane man would tread. The lines between the worlds of mortal and immortal become blurred. The love of the immortal is a dangerous thing.
*****
August Delacroix walked the streets of Paris alone. Finally, she had left the glory of the wealthy streets behind her. She now wandered wherever her feet carried her. It had been so long, so painfully long since she had laid eyes upon her home. It had been well over a century ago. Her heart shattered. August was lost in her misery when she suddenly found herself walking a dimly lit street that harbored houses of the old nineteenth-century fashion. Her senses picked up a scent that she had not witnessed in many years. It smelled of a mixture of old pine needles and lavender.
As August drew closer, she could not believe her eyes. Somehow, after all this time, August’s feet had brought her back to the old estate where she had resided as a mortal child, along with her father and her brother, The Rue Chavern. She stopped sharply and looked up at the abandoned building. Most of the estates on the street were also boarded up and lonely. She fondly remembered the days when the old street had been thriving. So many memories in that place.
August knew that she shouldn’t enter the one place that had caused her so much turmoil in her mortal years, but a strength within herself told August that she had to face that which harmed her. She may be immortal, eternal, but she too could feel anguish just as mortals felt it.
Using her senses, she found the back entrance to the Rue Chavern, boarded and untouched. The place had been abandoned for years. The wood that covered the windows was old and weathered, falling apart from age. August tore off the long board that held the back entrance shut and threw it into the jungle garden. It fell into the grass with a hiss. She entered the big house with her heart racing and her fear prominent.
August didn’t know what she was expecting revisiting her childhood home. Coming back here couldn’t turn back time, or could it? She wasn’t sure why she was still grieving for a life that was lost to her over two hundred years ago. She didn’t know if she was grieving; she didn’t know what it was that she felt.
As soon as August entered, she felt the old dusty room reach out its arms to embrace her in a welcoming gesture. It was strange that she felt so comforted stepping inside a place of death, but it was rather fitting. Everything remained as it had been on the last night that she had been mortal.
The downstairs was completely overrun with cobwebs that disguised the small square dining room table that had once graced the kitchen. In the distance, she could hear the faint noises of rats. It smelled old, the Rue Chavern, and it felt so very old. It smelled of musk and dust. A pleasant smell, she thought. To her, it smelled of home.
Looming in the far corner stood the shadow of the old winding staircase that led up to the bedroom. Ever so slowly August approached it. Her eyes were fixed on the stairs as if she could not look away. She knew what she was doing to herself by even being in the vicinity, but there was no turning back for her now. Carefully, August ascended the staircase, its old, withered fragility creaking beneath her heavy boots. She reached out to caress the hand rail that was laden with thick dust and cobwebs. The dust and cobwebs clung to her hair and face as she went higher and higher, her heart threatening to burst from out of her chest.
Then August saw the bed as she reached the top. A silent rage suddenly consumed her as she stood motionless, staring at the bed where he and August had lain together so many times. She wanted to tear it apart, wanted to destroy and then burn it before burning the rest of the place to the ground. But she knew that she didn’t have the strength to part with such a memory. She loved this house as if she was still mortal. She would always love it. Always.
August approached the bed carefully. It was beautiful, made from dark oak wood of the finest nineteenth-century fashion. It was what would be called an antique if mortals managed
to get their hands on it. She wouldn’t allow that, though. This bed was too precious a gift from her mortal lover than the cursed dark gift that he had bestowed upon me a year later. Everything was still intact. The lace curtains hung at the bedside, partly drawn in a bow-like fashion just the way he liked it. The bed itself was a mess; the blankets disturbed.
It all flooded back to August then, the night of her creation. He had made her in that bed. A shiver shot through August, cold and painful. With a shaking hand, she reached out to touch the lace, her fingers gently caressing the soft fabric. Then she turned mournfully to the bedside table and her heart sank.
August just couldn’t believe it. She wondered if it was even possible for it to still be here after so many centuries had passed? But there it lay on the dusty table, next to a wax candle that had burned to its hilt. Her old journal. Her mortal journal. She wasn’t sure how she had forgotten such a precious gift in her mortal years. But there it lay in all its splendor, closed and beckoning her to read the contents that she had long ago forgotten.
For a long time, August stood staring down at the little book, debating on what she should do. She was of two minds: one to walk away and leave it in the old abandoned house waiting to be discovered by mortal historians who loved nothing more than to collect artifacts, or to take it with her to London and read it in her new home. August’s curiosity was too strong to wait that long. She had six more hours before dawn. She had left Kyle to his own devices, and now she was finally alone.
She did what she had to do, and sat down upon her old dusty dresser chair and opened the journal that lay before her.
Paris, 1891: We have finally made it to Paris, Everard and I. With Madam Latrine's blessing, we have finally been released from the Plantation and set free. We are no longer trapped in a place of cold and constant darkness, but now living in a place that is beautiful and thriving, full of life. Never could I be happier than I am now; and to be here with him only makes my dream of freedom ever more a reality; one that I have not quite grasped yet.
Everard is quiet, yet I can see in his eyes that he is happy to be finally free. He is standing on the balcony of our quaint little apartment, gazing out at the lights of Paris below us, arms outstretched upon the railings, his hair blowing in the warm, gentle night air. God knows how long he has dreamed of this moment, and now he is living out that dream. I am happy for him, so happy. I am in love with him deeply. My friend, my lover, my soul mate. He deserves to be happy; he deserves to be free.
As August’s eyes read over the words of her first entry upon her and Everard’s arrival in Paris, she could see their apartment come to life as if she was back in those times. A dreadful sadness had consumed her then, and she found myself mourning for the past, mourning for the life that she had lost here. As she read the words, she could see now how in love she had been with Everard. August was obsessed with him; he possessed her like a spirit possessed a young child. He was the be-all and end-all for her.
Silently, August rose to her feet carefully picking up her journal as lightly as she could. She walked out to the old balcony where Everard had once stood. She leaned her arms over the railings and continued to read.
Paris, 1891: Everard has gotten a job at a local art gallery in central Paris. Everard has always loved the arts. He is now working on a new painting as I write. He brushes his hand so gracefully across the canvas; he truly is fascinating to watch. Below me, the streets of Paris have come alive. I can see men and women walking to the local theatres, dressed in all their finery to see the finest production of the evening. Everard insisted that I should go see a production tonight, but I refused. It would not seem right to witness a play without him beside me.
Now that I am with child, I am finding it difficult to enjoy the things that I once so loved. Instead, I find myself merely sitting here at my dresser writing down my thoughts while I sit with my free hand perched upon the round swell of my belly, counting down the days until our child is born.
I am very near now, the midwife says. I have another two months before Everard and I get to see our beautiful son or daughter. We truly will be a happy family then. All the hardships that he has endured! I hope our child will give him back the happiness that he lost so long ago.
He was overjoyed by the news of my being with child. When I had revealed the news to him, he looked at me with his blue eyes, face emotionless, before sweeping me up in his arms and kissing me so tenderly that his love almost burned my skin.
He will be the perfect father; of that I have no doubt. We are truly blessed.
August’s pale, slender fingers flicked through her old tattered journal until she finally reached the entry which she had almost inscribed upon her mind. With her hands shaking, she hesitated to look down at the tragic words that were displayed upon the brown-stained parchment pages. August suddenly became a child all over again; one who was afraid to face up to her past. August had to read it one last time, perhaps after all the years of ignoring its existence, she might just find an answer to what she was looking for. But then, she wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for.
Paris, 1891: Why have you left us like this? Have I displeased you? Insulted you? Tested your patience? Why have you left me to a lonely fate here in our Rue Chavern? Are you punishing me for some unforeseen crime?
You have been away from me for so many nights that I am beginning to fear for the worst. Do you know what torment I am going through, knowing that you are out there somewhere? Alone.
Are you dead? Are you alive? I feel numb, broken, and now our child is moving inside of me, making its presence known.
I cannot live like this knowing that I have wronged you. We were supposed to be a family, the three of us, remember? Yet you have left us to a fate that has cast us out of your life completely. Why? Have you suddenly had a change of heart? Do you no longer want us in your life? Have you left because I am with child?
All I did for you, my love, I did out of love. You are my beloved, my one true love and no matter how much hurt and pain you lavish upon me now with your disappearance, I will still pray that you will return to me, to us, when you see fit. I will wait for you, day and night. My eyes will search Paris for you and will only be contented until they see you again.
I love you, Everard, I always will, yet I hate you so for this!
Beneath was the final entry of my mortal years. What it contained frightened me.
Paris, 1891: Something is moving in the corner of the room. I can sense it. I can feel it watching. I no longer know if I am merely overtired or if I truly see it! I can no longer distinguish fantasy from reality. I fear I am losing my mind. I have not slept for many a night, and now all I see is darkness and hear an evil voice whispering my name over and over from the shadows.
I can hear it now. It's beckoning me to it! The strange thing is I am not afraid! Why should I fear death if it has come for me? I am ready. Let it come.
Oh, beloved, I will be with you soon! Death is calling me. Calling us.
Droplets of blood stained the parchment a horrid brown color. August felt sick by just looking at it. She knew all too well where that blood had come from. Not long after she had written her final journal and had clambered into bed, she was taken. The memory was so vivid, so intense that in her preternatural mind it replayed itself repeatedly.
August walked back into the room in darkness. Mournfully she stood in the center of the room, unsure of what do with herself. The words of her final entry consumed her mind. Why should I fear death if it has come for me? I am ready. Let it come.
August wondered and thought. Had she truly lost her mind? Was that what drew him to take her? Or was it simply out of love that he brought her over? Either way, she was longing for death. She wanted it, craved it, needed it. Such a tragic truth to behold when at that time, there had been life growing inside of her.
Eternity had hardened August’s cold heart, yet at the first memory of her mortal life, that heart melted out of her into a pool of r
ed at her feet. Suddenly she felt the urge to flee this place, but resisted it. She had one more thing to do.
*****
Placing the journal back onto the old dresser, August left it open on the last page that she had read. No one would find it; of that she was certain. Leaving her past behind, she walked swiftly down the winding staircase and out to the back garden without a second glance. Her heart was racing now as she let her feet carry her to the one place that she had not been strong enough to visit until that moment. August followed the overgrown path as if it was only yesterday that she had been there. In her mind, it still looked and felt as if she was safely home.
Slipping silently through the overhanging ivy and fern trees that brushed against her face, August continued walking down the old stone path that was now completely submerged with wet leaves the color of autumn. When she broke through the clearing of trees, it was as if she had walked back into my past. Everything remained unchanged. In the far corner stood the little tomb that had been built especially for the child who had never lived, encased with overhanging ivy and lavender flowers blooming all over the great stone tomb of her child.
Before August could get control over her emotions, the tears spilled from her eyes, staining her marble-white cheeks crimson. She sobbed. Long, drawn-out cries of anguish and despair as she stood beside her child’s grave, staring at the nameless one whose body did not even reside inside of the cold tomb. There was no body. The child had emptied out of her in a red flush the moment Everard gave August the vampire’s kiss.
Oh, my child. August’s mind whispered painfully. Her pain greatly expanded as she took next to her child’s empty grave. You had a chance to live, and I stole that chance from you. I let myself be defiled by your father, but you see he was not himself, he was not human. What human feeds off the blood of their loved ones?
August found myself searching desperately for an excuse for why she let her baby die. She blamed him, but she knew deep down that it was not Everard’s fault. He was confused, new to the blood. He didn’t understand what he was doing. All he knew was the excruciating thirst that consumes all of them when first born to darkness. August had been enthralled, yet frightened. Upon seeing Everard return to her, all August felt was happiness until she saw his face. She let him take her. August wanted to die and she felt who better than to take her life than her beloved? She was selfish, so selfish! Not once did she consider the pain that their child would endure. She often wondered if their child suffered as it died. She often wondered if it knew how sorry she was for not being strong enough to save it.
THE HEALING HEART Page 43
