A Vampire's Reckoning Read online

  The Stone Masters Vampire Series

  A Vampire's Reckoning

  BOOK II

  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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  Dedication

  For Elizabeth

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Stone Masters Vampire Series

  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

  The Stone Masters Vampire Series

  A Vampire's Rise (Book I)

  A Vampire's Reckoning (Book II)

  A Vampire's Dominion (Book III)

  Prologue

  Jadeon

  THE POWERFUL, DISTURBING images—portraits of memories, a lingering resonance drawing together, fragments of consciousness—at times, I find myself reliving those fateful moments, surrendering to the consuming, agonizing details of June of the year of our Lord 1805.

  I falter in the chill of the night, in the fractured stillness within the great pillars of Stonehenge. Exhausted from my journey, caught up in terror, the darkness engulfs me. But I will not flee, for the promise I have made, I cannot break—my life for that of another. I fear mortality. My apprehension intensifies.

  The wait is over.

  It is time to wake up.

  I want to lead you to safety, distract you, and destroy the clues that lure you into my world. It’s too late for that now. This shakes me to the core. It’s impossible to turn back the clock, but I still crave peace, still want to gauge this feeling. Reassuringly, my expression does little to reflect such. In fact, all that my presence conveys is the demeanor of a twenty-five year old Englishman, and it easily disguises the enigma of my ageless, chiseled features.

  Within those dark Wiltshire woods, hidden from view, I leaned my frame against the trunk of a large tree and stared, memorizing each groove and fissure of Stonehenge.

  Scattered thoughts; a multitude of ways to begin.

  Unable to stay still for long, I started pacing. Sunrise was only an hour away. A waning moon provided meager light. My gaze darted nervously. These murders had been committed to gain my attention, and it was working.

  By my own hand my involvement was set, the consequence of my actions drawing me in. I watched the police exploring the area near the dead girl, positioned face up on the sacrificial stone. Though not foreign to death, I hoped I wouldn’t throw up on my tailored Savile Row suit. The mud on my shoes bothered me and the drizzling rain didn’t help.

  Once apprentice to The Keeper of the Stones, such was the catalyst for all my nightmares. This was not how I envisioned my life unfolding. But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s just that these were the darkest of days. Sharing it with you provides some comfort.

  I should not start here.

  My aim is to earn your trust, so that you gain insight and are able to comprehend the unfeasible. It’s important that this is documented. How ironic that I now reveal what I once strived to keep hidden. Time has proven that it is safer for you to have this knowledge, so that you can prepare.

  You want proof. I shall provide it, if you give me an open mind. After all, you have come this far. Therefore, I scribe this for you, in the sanctity of my study, here in St. Michael’s Mount in Marazion.

  Travel back with me.

  The smoke and mirrors of my youth now seem such a brief moment in a long and unordinary life that passed with timeless ease. Those were the years when I knew only innocence. Cornwall, my birthplace, was renowned for its pleasant bays with their golden sands and bleak, sprawling moors.

  Heritage made me the lord of a great castle that had been in my family for generations. This immense and towering mansion, grandly structured upon a small island east of Penzance, rests steadfast—as if a part of the very circular island it was built upon. The only access is by foot at low tide, or boat when the sea is in. Once, as a boy, I got caught when the tide turned. It never happened again.

  Within these ancient walls, I grew up and took living in such a place for granted. Not so much now. The grand castle had once been a monastery owned by British Royalty during the Reformation, only to be sold again by Queen Elizabeth I to my ancestor, the Earl of Salisbury. The famous ancient vision of the Archangel Michael on the island had even inspired the occasional zealous religious pilgrim. Nevertheless, my father had been reluctant to encourage such an invasion, even one as passive as Christian visitors. He used large hunting dogs to keep the unrelenting observers away and the staff in.

  In my mind, I wander the corridors, settling in the Great Hall with its low beams, arched windows, and stone walls, bestowing gothic sconces and ancient relics—typical of an affluent and powerful family of its time. Great tapestries hang fast on the walls—priceless paintings positioned this way and that in order to catch or avoid light. Exquisite Roman rugs strewn over the cold stone floors, and candles light the rooms, casting unfamiliar shadows over everything. During fierce winters, the cold is unrelenting, hence the thick walls and grand hearths within.

  The castle’s history is as varied as its many rooms—a regal ballroom, which has entertained kings; an armory, which held the weapons used for their battles; lavish bedrooms fitted for visiting dignitaries, a large kitchen, and modest servants’ quarters. The rooms facing south overlook the terrace and provide a good view of the gardens below. The castle’s imposing towers, once used by loyal c
astle guards as sentries, look out over the ocean.

  Now in the twenty-first century, the posts stand empty. Very often, I like to go up there to breathe in the fresh sea air and admire the view. On occasion, when inspired, I even take my paints and a fresh canvas to capture the dramatic Southern nightscapes. My artistic nature is a good contrast to my athletic pursuits. I am a worthy fencing opponent.

  I have traveled, yes, but this is home, where I feel most comfortable; yet still I am unable to shake off the eerie calm of the place. Visitors seldom come here, though when they do, they are excited to take a tour and explore the rare artifacts that have withstood the test of time.

  Human nature is appealing when presented in its purest form, but I seem to move in circles that reflect the darkest of realms. By following this venture of self-discovery, I unveiled a supernatural truth. Indulge me again and allow me to wander back, for perhaps soon all I will have will be the memories of my beloved castle.

  The library and reading rooms are favorites of mine. Alex, my younger brother of two years, and I received our many and varied lessons within these very tenements, presented by the finest of teachers. We were lectured in the arts, sciences, languages, music, and mastered horsemanship and hunting. My father ensured that we became proficient swordsmen, rounding out our education. Renaissance at its best.

  When our lessons were over we spent our time playing, tirelessly investigating each room; but we stayed clear of the servants’ quarters for fear of being smacked around the head by the moody cook. We became familiar with the castle’s lower chambers, even venturing into its cold, gloomy cellars, bravely exploring the dungeons where criminals had once been held before being condemned and escorted away to suffer their fate. Only rusting shackles are left to convey what horrors these rooms have witnessed. As boys, our imaginations ran wild, though our play never matched the reality of what happened down there.

  Although we had the run of the castle, there was but one room to which our father had banned our entrance. We did of course try to turn the huge brass handle of the large imposing door, but alas, it remained locked, its secrets kept hidden within. All we could do was wonder what lay inside such a chamber, until inevitably we became distracted. My fascination with that room was to be my undoing. My present irrevocably dissolves into my past.

  Chapter 1

  Jadeon

  Circa 1789

  “IT’S DOWN TO US, ALEX,” I warned my younger brother. “We must save the castle. Pirates are scaling the wall. We fight for honor.”

  At the age of ten years, I often gained great delight in teasing Alex. I held the telescope up to my eye, and from my bedroom window viewed the still waters spreading out beyond the castle. It was late evening, and I watched my younger brother beside me pull on his dress shirt, readying for dinner.

  “Jadeon!” He tugged at the telescope. “Let me see.”

  “Pirates.”

  Alex grabbed the telescope. He too scanned the horizon, and on seeing nothing but a calm sea, agreed with me.

  We both ran out of the room carrying our wooden swords with us, down the dark corridors, past the armory, and out under the stone archway onto the large granite steps leading to the grassy lawn. We made our way down to the rocky reef below, hidden behind the castle walls. The sea crashed against the rocks. The moon reflected off its mutable surface. Here, at the water’s edge, we fought with our swords swaying this way and that, taking on the imaginary pirates one by one, using our weapons masterfully.

  Each blissful memory blended into innocent days interfused with one another as we shared willingly in everything. I was similar to our father, with his dark complexion and deep brown eyes, tall in stature for one so young, and in temperament intensely serious and passionate. My brother, with his short blond curls and cherubic appearance, had inherited our mother’s fairness of skin and her crystal blue eyes. His nature was similar too, quiet and thoughtful, yet spontaneous and vibrant. He looked up to me and relied upon my guidance in all things. Perhaps this dependence was exaggerated because of our father’s interminable distance toward us.

  Lord William Artimas, our father and master of the castle, always seemed otherwise detained or distracted. He would disappear for weeks at a time on important state affairs, only to return to the castle disquieted and just as aloof. Very often, I would wait by his study on his return, hoping to catch a moment of his time, only to be shooed away by Arthur, his personal secretary. Father would frequently pass us along the corridors without a second glance, his mind so focused on serious matters.

  Lord Artimas was an intimidating presence. At six-foot-three, he held an imperious demeanor—a dark and thoughtful face often frowning with the worries of running the large estate and the people who lived there. Despite this, he was a loving father when he had the time, and his attentions, though brief, were of an encouraging nature. He would always appear delighted when we were presented to him on evenings when his commitments would allow, and he reveled in each new skill we had mastered.

  Lady Anna Beth Artimas, our doting mother, always seemed without a worry and kept busy with the day-to-day pleasures of the castle, entertaining their friends and visitors. Our mother liked to ensure her sons received an education fit for the lords we would one day become, and a spontaneous visit to our classroom was not unusual. She often pulled us enthusiastically outside to view the blossoming of a new flower or the arrival of a grand ship within view of the castle, only to send us back into the classroom again to continue with our studies.

  Lady Artimas’s closest ally was Sara De Mercy, the wife of Father Edward De Mercy of the Parish Marazion. The two had grown close as friends while their husbands were engrossed in business, and they could be seen whispering or laughing in corners of the castle, taking a turn around the great hall during banquets, or sitting together at the grand castle dinners. They had found solace in each other’s company, and their temperaments suited one another.

  The De Mercys had two daughters—a newborn and Catherine, who was a year younger than me. Catherine looked forward to her weekly visits to the castle and enjoyed the short but adventurous boat trip out to the island. She was often placed beside us at gatherings. She was the image of her mother, possessing her large grey eyes, fair skin, and blond curls cascading down her back.

  To us, she appeared angelic, and while at times we were apprehensive she would disturb our robustious play, she was always a worthy advocate. Catherine, not content with running away as a frightened damsel from deadly, make-believe dragons, soon took up her own wooden sword—one of my discarded toys—and fought the imagined serpents as well, much to our delight.

  She often took her meals and even her lessons with us. Although this turn of events was most unusual and potentially scandalous, it neither deterred nor prevented the three of us from spending such time together, as our mothers had encouraged. Soon, we were inseparable when Catherine visited the island.

  * * * *

  By the age of ten, I had developed a deep affection for Catherine, and we rarely played with wooden swords now, but she was often in my presence. Her gentle temperament brought me out of my shell, and it was she who introduced me to astronomy. She would point up at the stars and test my knowledge of the formations. During the long winter nights, we found rooms within the castle in which to hide, and in the summer, we stole out to the water’s edge where we would chat well into the morning . . . all so very innocent.

  My parents could never figure out why I slept so much during the day.

  On a night so similar to the others, I lay under my bed covers and strained to keep my eyes open. I had again arranged to meet Catherine, whose family had enjoyed a late-night dinner as guests of my parents and were staying in the east wing. When the appointed hour arrived, I dressed as quietly as possible, glancing occasionally at my brother who slept soundly beside me. Alex, despite having his own bedroom, often preferred to sleep in my bed, where he found comfort from his fear of the dark. I had grown used to his need and
didn’t mind at all.

  The floorboards creaked, as if cursing my footing. I reached for Alex’s still-burning candle from the small rosewood table before heading out to the south terrace. I tiptoed through the shadows, hugging the walls, and made my way down the sweeping staircase into the main hallway toward the exit.

  Screams echoed.

  I stopped.

  They came from a corridor that led away from the foyer. I followed the sobs, proceeding cautiously down the dark, intimidating corridor positioned to the right of the main stairwell. To my horror, a gust of wind blew out the flame from my candle, and for a moment I was thrown into complete blackness.

  I hoped Catherine would wait.

  My eyes adjusted to the shadowy darkness—again, those female cries—and despite my overwhelming dread, I could not turn back. The noises resonated from the castle’s dungeons.

  I held my candle in front of me, as though by some miracle it would relight, and fumbled my way down the stairs with my left hand on the cold stone wall, using the torchlight that reflected from the lower chambers. I heard a scuffle from inside the very room my father had strictly forbidden me ever to enter. I considered waking him up but was drawn to the door.

  Crouching down, I peered through the keyhole. Numerous candles lit the chamber, allowing a fair view of the men who moved purposefully within. Muffled voices now rhythmically chanted, and over them came a woman’s voice.

  My hands trembled and I willed them to stop.

  I peeked again. A shrill almost knocked me back. Something very bad was happening. A girl begged for mercy. I considered saving her from the monsters that tortured her. Father would know what to do.

  I was going in.

  I will save you.

  A key turned in the lock.

  Those inside were coming out.

  I sprinted toward the large wooden trunk that was against the far wall, horrified to see Alex had followed me down. Quickly, I shoved him behind the trunk and covered his mouth. Although furious with Alex, the events of the moment took precedence. Together, we watched in fear, startled to see five masked men withdraw from the dark chamber, all dressed in black, their long capes billowing. Forcefully, four of the men dragged a young woman, her disheveled raven hair falling over her face, her eyes blindfolded. She was dressed in a man’s clothes.