The Viscount's Son (The Viscount's Son Trilogy Book 1) Page 4

  Em.

  Twelfth Translation

  I walked the King’s road that leads out of my village. Dawn fast approached and a great hunger arose within me.

  I staggered to a farmhouse. A milkmaid walked toward me, her hand clutching a pail. The cows panicked and moved away, no doubt sensing the monster that lurked too close. The girl tried in vain to control them. I eyed her in the darkness, the way a wolf spies its prey. She was plump, white, innocent. When she saw me her eyes widened in fear and it thrilled me. I wanted her to scream. I reached for her and she ran. The thrill of the chase exhilarated me.

  I had her in a few quick paces. My speed and strength were superior. She struggled in my arms, but I held her still and marvelled at the gleam of her milky white throat in the moonlight. I can still remember her scent of butter, youth and sweetness.

  My vision blurred, then sharpened, and all at once I could see the red hue of blood, pulsing beneath her translucent skin. My face contorted, involuntarily, and in a blink my teeth had transformed to razor incisors that grazed my tongue. My hand caressed her throat and I noticed the blue veins of my wrist against the white of my own skin. I was changing somehow, but I took it in with a mere casual interest. I was subject to a more instinctual, primal urge – hunger.

  The girl struggled again and her pulse quickened, her heartbeat thrummed in my ear. I could resist no longer. My lips curled back and I sank my teeth into her warm flesh and tasted the salty sweetness of my first bite. The forbidden fruit of our age. I was now permanently cast from the Garden of Eden to live a life of death. Trapped in darkness for eternity.

  Chapter 14

  Guilt

  Friday 25th October

  When I started this blog the intention was to simply translate and discuss the diary, but it has turned into so much more. You, my anonymous readers, are the ones to whom I can reveal all my secrets.

  I have fallen in love with Nate. It's more than the thrill ride it once was. If love is all-consuming, as many say it is, then I am completely absorbed.

  It's only been three weeks since I first met him, but I feel as though I've known him all my life. I trust him. Last night, we strolled along the river. It was beautiful – the gold and rust colour of the autumn leaves reflecting on the water of the riverbank. We walked arm in arm, my smile broadening with every step. Love is the best feeling!

  I told him about this blog. He said he looked forward to reading it. Are you reading it now, Nate?

  My heart is pounding in my chest as I write. The only one who truly knows the author of this blog is also my lover.

  The diary is almost translated in full. I haven't decided if I will continue this blog once it's done.

  We are meeting again tomorrow night. You can tell me what you think then, Nate.

  Love,

  Emma.

  Thirteenth Translation

  The monster within was brutal and restless in those first few months. I could not remain in the village; I had left too many victims in my wake. With every – feed, I travelled further south, until gradually I arrived here, in London.

  After every kill – in every town and village – I looked for her. The gypsy from whom I inherited this affliction. But as yet, she has remained unseen.

  What I would say to her, do to her, when I see her again – I do not know. But the desire overwhelms me. We must reunite. There are questions that demand answers.

  I seemed to have acquired powers of the mind. Last night I persuaded a noble woman to come back with me to the basement. She came easily, trustingly. I fed on her, of course.

  Upon my arrival, I took up residence in the basement of an inn. The inn-keep refused me at first, but I looked him in the eye and beguiled him easily. My room is nestled deep within the ground, and shields me from the fire of the sun. Near the high ceiling, are two small windows, beyond them grows a rose garden and every night I take comfort in its perfume.

  I have acquired other powers too. At times, when I concentrate, I hear the private thoughts of a person's mind, if they are close. It comes to me in a series of images and disjointed phrases. My strength and speed continue to grow. I have jumped to the roof of a house, and scaled stone walls just as a lizard does. With each new victim, it seems I discover some new power.

  Am I the devil? My morality is weak. My sense of right and wrong, good and evil, is no longer as clear as it once was. But when I am sated, when the blood rush has worn off, that is when morality returns and overwhelms me.

  Chapter 15

  A ship in the night

  Sunday 3rd November

  We didn’t speak of this blog, but I know he has read it.

  Last night we lit candles and he burned some incense. It was delightful and the only way I could think to describe the scent was ‘spiced rose’. He smiled and arched his eyebrows a little when I told him this. I knew that we both understood the reference.

  I'm always under a spell with Nate. But, this time, in the height of our passion, he took my neck in his hands and kissed. I felt a sharp pressure and an ecstasy awoke within me as the hot thread of my own blood worked its way down my chest. He had it all over his mouth too. His eyes usually so dark seemed reddish in the candlelight, like rubies, and more desirous than ever.

  In our passion the love bite didn’t hurt a bit, rather it added to the lustful sensation that overcomes me whenever he is around.

  I know I shouldn’t be accepting this. But I feel sure we will do it again. Our lovemaking has gone to another level and I think it will be impossible to turn back now. We are both aware of this blog, but neither of us mention it when we are together. I know he is inflamed by the sensuality that I put into the translations and inspired by the gypsy woman. I am equally enthralled and the ride I am on now seems more dangerous and even more enticing than before. Where will it end?

  I now come to the final translation of the diary. I’m not convinced Nathaniel meant for this to be his last entry, it certainly doesn’t read that way. But, with this last translation, his words do come to an end.

  Nathaniel. Nate is short for Nathaniel. Sometimes when we are making love, I shut my eyes and imagine Nathaniel ...

  I think I will blog again to tell you more about this modern-day Nathaniel. It’s not over yet.

  Em.

  Final Translation.

  The summer has now returned to its height and I grow restless. My routine of feeding, sleeping and grieving becomes tedious. I want answers to the many questions that flood my mind each evening when I awake from darkness. I must find her.

  I have made the arrangements.

  In my short time here I have – hunted only nobles. They offer more than blood and I have collected quite the assortment of pretty, fat purses. I leave tonight by ship to France. The gypsies will not return this summer. I am sure of it. I will make my way east and find her. In finding her, will I find peace?

  That is what I pray for. But are my prayers still heard?

  Chapter 16

  A terrible feeling

  Saturday 9th November

  I think it's time the ride came to an end.

  I awoke this morning to a blistering wound on my neck and when I inspected closely there were two red punctures festering on my skin. Surely this is coincidence. I am so very weak and tired. My face in the mirror resembles a white sheet. It seems as though I write my own version of the viscount son’s diary. What is happening to me?

  Nate called. He wants to see me tonight. I didn’t answer the phone, letting it go to voicemail instead. I can’t see him. I need to rest. I need to return to my normal life. I need to go shopping with Amelie, and joke with Jack, and argue with Philippe about schedules at work.

  But I have the most terrible feeling that I will see him tonight. And if that happens, what else will come?

  Chapter 17

  Dear Reader

  Sunday 10th November

  Dear Reader,

  She has gone. It was done last night and I think, reader, you know wha
t this means.

  The return of my diary and the delights offered by this sensuous young woman provided me with a distraction from the long nights of tedium I have come to endure.

  I came across her quite by accident. I was in Spain at the time, and had just acquired my first iPad. Technology really is a wonder. If only you twenty-first century citizens truly knew how much the world has changed.

  Sitting in a bar in Barcelona, I recall reading the latest post on one of the blogs I follow. Feeling curious, I clicked on the 'next blog' link and Emma’s blog appeared before me. I recognised it at once – my diary. Her translations were incredibly accurate.

  Within a week I had returned here to Paris.

  I first came here after leaving England in 1531, when I took up residence in a humble apartment (centuries later, it became an Indian restaurant). I must have forgotten all about the diary then. It’s not surprising; I had much to learn. I’ve been all over the globe since. Every inch of Earth has been traversed by my footsteps. I have learned much, but still I have questions.

  Finding her was easy. Her company – a breath of sweet air. Emma filled the darkness with some short pleasure. I sit at her writing desk, in her apartment, now. The whole room speaks of Emma. Such an innocent yet intelligent woman. She lived in the past – I can see that. Novels line the wall, stories from another era. Jane Austen and the Brontes, in particular. Good fun – the early 19th. So outwardly proper, but scratch the surface … Yes, I enjoyed that era.

  One book on her shelf catches my eye. Perhaps she should have studied it a little more than the others. I remember Stoker well; he knew what the darkness could wreak.

  Emma’s words, within this blog, have given me a fire that I've not experienced in ages. She reminded me of my original quest – to find the gypsy. Did I ever find her? No. That elusive pursuit died at least three centuries ago.

  I had quite forgotten about her, my maker, and now I intend to resume that old quest. To find her. The Gypsy. Only she has the answers to my questions.

  I will go to Egypt. That old realm holds the key. Emma revealed that much to me and I am grateful for it. Perhaps she will join me, when, or if she wakes. Not everyone inflicted does awake. This much I have learned.

  So reader, I shall leave it to you to decide the veracity of this journal. Whether you believe or not is no concern of mine. Indeed, you would do better to simply click off the page and go on with your dreary life. For knowledge of this is dangerous, as Emma would now attest.

  Nathaniel Chartley (Nate)

  A Viscount’s son

  To be continued.

  * * *

  Want to know what happened to Emma? Read on!

  Thanks so much for reading The Viscount’s Son. If you have a spare five minutes, it would be wonderful if you could leave a quick review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Reviews help me to spread the word about my books.

  If you’re interested in finding out what happens next in this series, I’ve included the first three chapters from the sequel The Earl’s Daughter in the pages that follow. Or you can purchase The Earl’s Daughter now.

  Happy reading!

  Aderyn.

  The Earl’s Daughter

  Chapter One

  Email from Lady Susan Farleigh - Monday 10th November

  Dear Mr D’Angelo,

  Thank you for agreeing to meet. I have convinced my father that you may be able to help us. It has now been a year since Emma’s disappearance.

  This Saturday would be convenient. Shall we say 10:30? Anyone in town will give you directions to Farleigh House.

  Best, Susan.

  * * *

  Michael created a new folder titled ‘Emma Farleigh’ and moved the message intoit, before putting the tablet into his coat pocket. He peered through the train window. Fine streaks of drizzle raced down the glass, smudged pretty stone cottages dotting the landscape. Busy streets replaced country lanes as the train drew closer to Wolston.

  Lady Susan’s email was brief. She’d been short on the phone, too. Her sister had gone missing, kidnapped probably. That was all she told him. He’d questioned her about why she wanted to hire him, surely it was a matter for the police, but she grew more reticent then, saying only that the police could not find her sister, and she had reason to believe that powers more “out of the ordinary” were at play. She refused to elaborate. Not on the phone, she’d said. That was the way of the aristocracy.

  Michael remembered a case two years ago; Lady Victoria Caraway had a ‘presence’ in her attic. She’d been more concerned about scandal than any haunting. She even told her butler that Michael was simply a tradesman. That Michael looked more like – well, a priest – than a man who dealt in pipes and effluence didn’t deter her. But the butler didn’t blink.

  The Farleighs sat even further up the chain of nobility than Lady Victoria. Susan’s father was Lord Edward Farleigh, the Earl of Wolston. They had even attended royal weddings. Two days ago, while waiting for a haircut, Michael had flipped through an old magazine and seen the pictures for himself. Lady Susan was very attractive; his eyes kept returning to her mass of dark curls and her smile. Her father seemed stern with his deep frown. There’d been no pictures of Emma.

  The train pulled in to Wolston Station and Michael strode through the drizzle to the taxi rank, pulling his coat tight. The icy air numbed his nose. He waved to the sole cab but a young lady jumped in front of him. He opened the door for her and waited in the cold, watching the taxi drive off and hoping the next one wasn’t too far away.

  You’re too nice, Michael. A familiar voice came up from a dark well of memory, and Michael pushed it right back down again. He took off his spectacles and cleaned away the drizzle with a handkerchief. Another taxi pulled up and he opened the door before it stopped; he could drop the ‘nice’ when he wanted to.

  “Good morning,” Michael said.

  The driver nodded absently as he turned down the stereo and Michael was glad. High-pitched nasal Hindi was not a musical favourite.

  “Could you take me to Farleigh House?”

  The driver’s eyes quizzed him in the mirror. “The big mansion on the hill?”

  “Ah, I think so. It’s where the earl lives.” Michael wondered if he should do a search on his phone, but the driver was fingering his GPS and in another second the taxi pulled out onto the road, cutting off a car. Michael took a sharp breath, remembering why he hated taxis.

  It took twenty minutes and two near collisions before they pulled up beside a tall stone wall. Michael paid his fare and thanked the driver who turned up his Hindi pop song. The singing faded as the taxi accelerated into the drizzle.

  Michael buttoned his coat, wishing he had worn a scarf. A large iron gate stood before him, a vast manicured garden beyond. A hedge-lined path led to the house. The cab driver had been right. It was a mansion, almost a castle. He eyed a turret in the grey skyline, and beneath it stood a small family chapel. He wondered if the Farleighs were religious. Would they know about his past?

  “Michael?”

  He jumped and glanced around, feeling a little foolish when he saw an electronic speaker near the gate.

  “Michael, it’s Susan.” She was laughing. A camera glared at him, just above the speaker; no doubt she’d seen him jump.

  Michael’s face warmed. “Ah, hello? Yes, I’m Michael D’Angelo. I’m a little late. I’m sorry. I had to wait for a taxi and—”

  “You need to push the button. I can’t hear you otherwise.” More laughing.

  Michael squinted. There was a large white button next to the speaker. “Idiot,” he whispered to himself and pushed it. “Hello?”

  “That’s it. Take the path to the right.” With a beep the gates groaned open. “I’ll meet you at the side entrance in a jiffy. It’s just past the conservatory.” She clicked off. He lifted his finger and wiped it on his coat.

  Inside the gates he took the path to the right, his shoes crunching wet pebbles. Large elms and oaks lined the pathway, a
ll naked now that autumn was nearly over. After a minute, the conservatory came into view. White wrought iron framed clear glass panels. Orchids and other exotics flowered inside. It would have been added to the house in the Victorian era, no doubt. Conservatories had been all the rage then. The chapel stood to the left of it. Michael adjusted his glasses. The little building seemed older than the rest of the house.

  Its dark stone was almost black. Menacing gargoyles with pointed teeth and ears lined the roof. His fingers tingled and Michael wondered if the chapel had something to do with why he was here, rather than the police, or a private investigator.

  He would have liked to walk over to it, just to confirm that tingling. But he was already late and a little nervous. Aristocrats made his stomach squirm. Especially the females.

  He patted down the cowlick at the back of his head. It gave him a perpetual look of‘bed-headedness’ he’d been told. She’d told him that. Judith. He frowned. It was the second time she’d popped out of his hidden memory vault that day. He pushed her back down and closed the lid, wishing he could lock the bloody thing and throw away the key.

  A large white door marked the side entrance of the house. He raised his arm, but the door flung open before his hand met wood.

  “Michael, hello. Come in out of the weather.”