Threshold of Destiny (The Mysterium Secret Book 1)

by Linn Chapel

  At least Peter was traveling with them. He’d given Tressa his promise to smooth over any of their lingering qualms about Holt.

  Tressa straightened from her task and stared off across the garden, thinking about Peter’s troubled state. When he had phoned her from London last night to let her know about the delay, she’d heard the same flatness in his voice that had been there for weeks. It was too bad he was still feeling so downcast.

  Snip... snip... snip. She clipped a few half-open buds with her garden shears and added them to her basket.

  His low mood came as no surprise. When Dr. Hayes had returned from California to learn how badly he’d been deceived by his managers, he’d been crushed with disillusionment. He’d been delaying his retirement for the sake of his work with Peter, but with the Operation in shambles, he’d no longer had the heart to go on. In the last few weeks, Peter and Dr. Hayes had been dismantling Operation Metamorphosis in the States.

  Luke had been busy back in the States, too, following up on his hunches with some on-the-spot investigations. Tressa knew that he’d been able to locate the apartment complex where Margot had drugged her vampire patients. To everyone’s relief, the rooms had been vacant. And both Ted and Margot had vanished from the area.

  As for the two altered vampires Margot had been training, Luke had been able to dig up some facts about them before he’d even left England last spring. One had perished as a traffic fatality on a highway near Bath, and the other had been found dead of a drug overdose. Each had been in possession of an uncommon pharmaceutical, but fortunately no one had realized that the individuals in question were part-human, part-vampire.

  They had repelled Tressa when she had first spotted their silhouettes in the center of the Devil’s Dance, but now she felt a sense of regret for the way things had turned out.

  It was no wonder that Peter had decided all the risks and careful planning and high-tech surveillance hadn’t really amounted to much. A couple of successes and a whole lot of trouble, was the way he had summed up his efforts on behalf of his brainchild, Operation Metamorphosis.

  Tressa sympathized with him over the disappointing outcome, but in the recent weeks, she’d been too preoccupied with a whirl of wedding plans to suffer the same let-down as Peter. She was glad that Luke would soon be arriving at Langley with more of the wedding guests.

  Luke would be the one to cheer up Peter, for he’d confided to Tressa that he wasn’t so sure the story was over with the demise of Operation M.

  The Operation failed for two reasons, Luke had told her in his most recent phone call. One was that the willingness of each vampire was never taken into account. The second was that the Operation itself was too organized. Organizations aren’t geared to the real needs of humans – or to anyone becoming human.

  Instead of an organization that’s top-heavy with managers who might be tempted to hatch their own agendas, we could try a network model with no headquarters. Tressa, you have nursing experience, so you could draw blood when it’s needed. Peter’s always meeting more people than the rest of us. He could be a scout. Albert would make a good counselor. Holt, too, if he’s willing. As for myself, I could handle the details of starting a new life – jobs, money, ID, and all that.

  Tressa smiled now, remembering how surprised she’d been when Luke had included himself in the effort.

  We’d avoid the pitfalls of an organization and we’d be reaching out to vampires who are willing and eager to undergo the transition. But our network would be small. We’d be working with vampires very slowly, one by one.

  Such an effort would be slow, painfully slow. But Tressa wondered if some of the vampires who underwent the transition might lend their aid in turn. Such a network might grow in surprising ways.

  She cast another nervous glance at the lane, but it was still empty. Drawing in a deep breath, she willed herself to feel more relaxed and serene.

  Only birdsong and the humming of the honeybees could be heard as she clipped a few more roses. But then the sound of an engine penetrated through the trees. It wasn’t very loud, but amid the soft sounds of nature it struck Tressa’s ears like a clarion call.

  She quickly picked up her basket of roses and carried it to the garden gate, where she spotted a hired van approaching through the trees. The vehicle came to a stop in front of the cottage and her parents emerged, followed by Peter and her three younger siblings.

  After a flurry of excited greetings, Tressa brought the talking, laughing group down the lane to Cup Cottage. She ushered everyone into the living room and made them comfortable before she entered the kitchen to put the roses in a bucket of water and make a large pot of tea.

  Soon she was bearing a tray into the living room that was loaded with the scones and biscuits she had baked earlier that day, along with a teapot and cups. As she entered the room, the golden light of late afternoon shone through the windows, casting a warm and gentle glow over the members of her family.

  She set the tea tray down on a small table near her father, who was lounging in a chair near the hearth. As she poured him a cup of tea, she kept a nervous eye on him, unsure of how he’d act today. He was at his ease, examining the old furnishings and the heavy beams overhead, but one could never be sure of how Quinlan Newman would act on any day.

  Tressa poured another cup of tea for her mother, who was seated nearby on the sofa. She smiled up at Tressa as she accepted the cup, looking radiantly happy about the approaching wedding. Her dark hair had gained a few more hints of silver since the last time Tressa had seen her, but she had lost none of her focused energy. It was the same energy that coursed through Peter, who was very like her, despite his fair hair.

  And yet, Mae Newman was something of an anomaly within her own family. Being the only full-blooded human, she was less vulnerable to the risks of demonic attention that plagued the rest of them, especially their father. And she had no inborn psychic talent of her own. But as their father had often quipped, “She doesn’t need one.”

  Tressa poured another cup of tea for her younger sister, Brianna. She was seated next to their mother on the sofa and as she accepted the cup, Tressa noticed that Bree resembled their dark-haired mother even more strongly now that she had turned sixteen, if one didn’t count that odd, elusive cast to her features. Tressa could still remember their mother telling all the children when they were very young that they been kissed by a fairy when they were born, and that had made them look just a little bit different.

  Tressa offered tea next to her youngest pair of brothers, but they declined in favor of the scones and biscuits. She noticed that Patrick had shot up in height since the last time she’d seen him. Now that he was thirteen, he was even taller than Tressa. Ten-year-old Nicholas was still small and slight, but his appetite was just as large as his brother’s. She shook her head at the tottering mounds of scones and biscuits on their plates.

  Peter sat nearby, talking with their father and laughing every now and then in a subdued way. He wasn’t interested in the refreshment tray, for once, but Tressa offered him a cup of tea anyway. He accepted it listlessly.

  Just then, an engine sounded outside Cup Cottage. Quickly crossing to one of the windows, Tressa spotted a rental car coming to a stop just past the gate with Luke at the wheel.

  Smiling, she went to open the front door. Outside, Brother Brendan had emerged from the car and was just opening the garden gate. Behind him followed his friend from Ireland, Fr. Vincent, who’d agreed to celebrate the wedding vows on the morrow. As they made their way to the door, their long gray habits brushed up against the lavender and geraniums that bloomed in abundance along the garden path. Behind them came Albert and Luke, and with glad cries the new arrivals greeted Tressa and entered the cottage.

  In the excitement of the reunion, everyone started talking at once, but it wasn’t long before Luke’s eyes came to rest on Peter with a look of concern. Tressa knew that he’d be outlining his network idea for Peter as soon as the opportunity arose.

>   The sound of another engine could be heard outside the cottage. Tressa retraced her steps to the front door and found that Wesley Pendleton was coming up the garden path, carrying several large paper totes bearing the names of London shops. She realized that it was the first time she had ever seen him in the daylight.

  “Wesley!” she cried, giving him a welcoming hug. When she stepped back, she noticed that the rings under his eyes no longer seemed so dark, for the pallor of his skin was gone and his coloring was more normal now.

  Tressa ushered him inside, and as she was making introductions all around, Wesley’s bright eyes lingered on her father and Brother Brendan. No doubt he was eager for a chance to speak to them privately and ask them questions about their Mysterium nature.

  Dressed in his old-fashioned way, with a dapper waistcoat and tweed jacket, Wesley looked very human, if a little eccentric. Her younger siblings were staring solemnly at him, nonetheless. They’d been only dimly aware of Peter’s activities with Operation M until now, Tressa knew. Wesley Pendleton was the first subject they had ever met in person. And very soon they’d be meeting another subject.

  She poured Wesley a cup of tea, which he accepted with a gracious little speech. It was a good thing he had arrived before Holt, she thought. Wesley was so quaint and well-mannered despite the centuries he had lived as a vampire that he had to be easing any remaining qualms that had been troubling her mother and father.

  Where was Holt, anyway? she wondered. Knowing him, he had probably holed himself up somewhere out of earshot to avoid the recent bustle of repairmen and wedding planners.

  Wesley was chattering happily as he unpacked his paper tote bags. “I’ve brought a few things to celebrate the wedding,” he said, setting out several bottles of wine on a low table. Next came a box stuffed with tissue, and out of it emerged a dozen wineglasses, all in different designs. “Antiques, my dear,” he said, glancing up at Tressa. “I hope you don’t mind the mismatched set.”

  Tressa smiled. “Of course not. They’re beautiful,” she said with appreciation as she lifted one of the glasses to admire it.

  “I’m afraid the next gift is rather self-serving.” Wesley lifted out a large white bakery box. “This is a custom wedding cake made from a very old family recipe. I haven’t tasted such a cake – any cake at all, in fact – in quite some time.”

  Tressa lifted the lid of the box and peered inside at the ample cake that was studded with dried fruits and dusted with sugar. Bending down she took a whiff. “It looks and smells delicious, Wesley!”

  Last to be brought forth was a brown paper-wrapped bundle. “I’ve brought something for Holt, but I’m not sure whether he will like my gift. I’m not sure at all.” Wesley looked up at Tressa and added, “Where is he, my dear?”

  “That’s just what I was wondering,” said Tressa with a sigh. “I’ll have to search around the estate for him. He’s been trying to find some peace and quiet to write.”

  Besides working on several new poems, Holt had been looking over the written transcripts she’d made with his encouragement. It had been simpler than she’d thought to meet with some of the oldest inhabitants of the region and to make a few audio recordings of their stories and anecdotes. With time, she hoped to make more recordings and then publish all of the transcriptions in a collection.

  “He’s writing! This must be your doing, Tressa!” exclaimed Wesley. “I’ve been urging him to write again for decades,” he confided to the rest of the gathering. “It seems that Tressa has managed not only to steal his heart, but to tame his temperamental nature.”

  Tressa laughed at that. “Oh, he’s still trouble. Believe me.”

  The moment she had said that, she wished she hadn’t. Uneasily, she glanced at her parents and her younger siblings. Wesley’s impeccable manners might have eased some of their fears about former vampires, but the wry comments both she and Wesley had made about Holt could have raised a few new questions.

  Tressa noticed the brief, calculating look that appeared in her father’s unusual blue eyes, but it soon disappeared. She turned and was on the verge of leaving the cottage in search of Holt when her sister leaned forward on the sofa.

  “It must be so romantic, Tressa,” said Bree, with glowing eyes. “Holt must write you the most beautiful verses.”

  Their mother had heard Bree’s question and was waiting for Tressa’s response with an expectant smile.

  “He hasn’t written me any romantic poems,” Tressa told them with a rueful smile. She had teased Holt about that in May, but he’d only laughed off the notion, saying he’d never subject her to such a horror as a love-poem in the traditional, gushing style.

  Holt had painted a very flattering portrait of her in his poem about Providence, of course, but the whole theme of that work would take some time to explain, more time than she had now.

  “But I’m sure that Holt must speak to you in such a romantic way,” persisted her sister. Her mother seemed just as eager to hear Tressa’s confidences.

  Tressa thought back to all the times Holt had called her foolish or idiotic. “He doesn’t use a lot of romantic words,” she said, smiling. She added, flushing a bit, “He has a way of letting me know how he feels, in spite of that.”

  Her mother and sister must be searching for the trappings of a fairy-tale romance. But if they had been expecting a pleasant, even-tempered Prince Charming who wrote flowery love-poems, they’d suffer a bit of a shock when they finally met Holt, for he was too moody and opiniated to be any such thing.

  No, he was more of a dark prince, she thought. There could be no doubt that he was utterly loyal to his lady and his lands, and ready to fight anything that threatened either of them, but he wasn’t smooth and charming. He had too many sharp edges for that.

  The sounds of a scuffle interrupted Tressa’s musings and she turned to see Patrick and Nicholas crowding and shoving each other as they craned to see something outside one of the windows.

  “Who’s that?” Patrick asked.

  Peter joined them at the window. “That’s the fellow who’s going to be your new brother-in-law,” he said. “Just wait until you get to know him,” he chuckled. “He’ll teach you all about knives and guns. Swords, too!”

  “Really?” The pitch of Patrick’s voice spiked upward. Nicholas jostled him to gain a better view.

  Their enthusiasm only made Tressa shake her head. Her brothers had never had to fear the death of someone they loved, or bandage up any bloody wounds, she thought with some irritation. At least the bullet that had struck Holt in May had only left a graze on his arm. The long but shallow wound had bled copiously for a while and then it had healed over.

  With eager steps, Bree crossed the room to the window. “So, that’s Holt! Peter told me that he was good-looking, but he’s more than that, Tressa. He’s gorgeous,” she said with rapturous sigh. “But I wonder why he’s frowning? Something must have put him in a bad mood.”

  A bad mood? Tressa could only hope that Holt would notice the vehicles parked just beyond the front gate. Anxiously, she crossed the room to the window.

  Outside, Holt was striding down the lane toward the cottage at a fast pace. He was clearly brooding over some grievance, for he looked even edgier and more volatile than he had all week.

  And now that Tressa gazed at him afresh, seeing him as her parents and siblings might view him, she noticed that there was something about him that seemed different, even though the transition was all over and he was human again.

  The difference didn’t seem to come from his clothes, for he was wearing a snowy white shirt today, along with a pair of dark blue jeans. He should have seemed reassuringly normal, but he didn’t. Maybe it was his coal-black hair, or maybe it was the hint of added strength and agility that showed in his movements, but there was a certain air about Holt that made him seem uncannily resourceful and a bit dangerous, even now.

  Tressa’s eyes widened as she watched his progress, for he was glaring downward at the lane and
didn’t notice the presence of the two vehicles parked in the shade of a hedgerow. Before he had reached the garden gate, he took a sharp turn and entered Cup Cottage through the rear door, as was his habit.

  A moment later, Tressa could hear him in the kitchen, calling for her in a tone of intense irritation. She excused herself quickly and dashed into the kitchen.

  “Tressa! Given another hour of these infernal disruptions and I shall be completely mad!”

  “Holt,” she said quickly, striving to cut him off.

  “First it was the repairmen with their electric tools,” he continued, his dark eyes pinning her. “Then it was the landscaper with his gas-powered tiller.”

  She tried to break in again. “Holt!”

  “Then came the delivery truck with the chapel benches – and then that woman,” he sputtered, and Tressa knew he could only be referring to the interior decorator who’d been making so many requests of him. “She came again with even more fittings for the Great Hall! I had been trying to write in the library, but as soon as I had finished speaking to her, I was accosted by the florist, the caterer, a seamstress, and a representative of the local historical society.” As he paused for breath, he speared his fingers into his black hair and frowned heavily.

  “Holt,” she began again, desperate to give him the news that her family had arrived and could surely hear his outburst from the next room.

  But Holt was too agitated to listen. “I tried valiantly to use the desk at Windy Top this morning, but as you know, the thatchers returned to make more repairs.”

  Windy Top was meant to be a quiet retreat with books, writing materials and a desk for Holt. They had thought that the repairs to its roof had been completed, but they’d been wrong.

  If Tressa hadn’t been so worried about their audience in the other room, she would have laughed with Holt over his jittery state. Her own bridal nerves had been getting worse all week, and now that the eve of their wedding had arrived, it was clear that Holt was feeling uncommonly nervous as well, for he was more distracted by noise and interruptions than ever.