Vampire - Child of Destiny (Vampire Series Book 2) (11 page)

I was expecting at any time during our journey, to feel the touch of Robert’s hands on my back.  Although I did hear for the first few miles of our journey his high-pitched, terrifying screams of rage, vibrate through the air.

I rode through the night, stealing a fresh horse when the one I rode tired.  I never stopped for very long, always afraid that Robert would swoop in and strike me down.  Rose slept for the whole of the journey, her little body snuggled into mine, her small hand gripping tightly at my breast.

We arrived at the white cliffs just as the sun lit the day. And it was a beautiful but crisp, cold, and frosty English morning.  Wearily I climbed aboard the ship and handed Rose to the wet nurse I had hired in preparation for her care.  I needed to rest, and to feel the warmth of sweet, salty blood, lovingly coat my throat, and in doing so, it would restore my strength and power.

Beckoning one of the rough looking sailors towards me, I drank from him, and felt his masculine power, warm my cold and tired body.  My eyes closed, and I felt the soft arms of sleep start to engulf me.  It was at that moment, as I drifted on the outskirts of sleep, that the thought returned, and my eyes flew open.

I had puzzled, as I rode like a demon through the night, as to why Robert did not kill us.  He could have quite easily, I was in no doubt about that, but why had he not done so?  I tried to find the answer, but it would not come at first, but as the night wore on, and as I constantly looked over my shoulder, the answer came to me.

Robert's punishment was to ensure that I never found peace.  My sanity would always be tested, by the constant need to look over my shoulder, the constant need to run, and the constant thought that one day he would take all I held dear, take it away from me and destroy it.  He knew that I would live with the knowledge that my son hated me, and one day, be it in five or five hundred years, he would find me, and with Robert’s help, he would avenge Matilda's death.

I closed my eyes, but as I drifted into a restless sleep, I knew that I had won the battle, but I had not won the war, and my fight had only just begun.

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The first two chapters of book three,
Vampire – The Quest for Truth,
follows
.

Coming soon…

Echoes of Kin
, (book two in the Mary Howard Supernatural Mysteries Series).  Dec 2014

Secrets in the Sand,
(book four in the Vampire series).  2015

Sins Forgotten,
(book five in the Vampire series).  2015

The Betrayers Kiss,
(book six in the Vampire series).  2015

Book three in the,
Mary Howard Supernatural Mysteries Series
.  Dec 2015

<<<<>>>>

Vampire – The Quest for Truth

Gwen

Present Day

Chapter One

Today I browsed through the second journal of my memoirs, and I realised something that I should have realised a long time ago—I am a hypocrite!  I look at my own words floating in front of my eyes and I read about how I've murdered, plundered, and pillaged, and then I cringe at how I justify my actions.  I am no better than Robert or Louis; in fact, I can now see that I am actually probably worse.  You see, at least they admit and accept what they are, which is something that I've never been able to do.

I pretend that I am so good, and that I would rather die than live in the sadistic world that is the life of a vampire.  However, this is obviously so untrue, because if it were true, well then, surely I would have done the world a favour and killed myself a long time ago?

Of course, I see now that I will never take my own life.  I lie to myself and find excuses for why I must continue, why I must live, but I've failed to see, up until now that is, that I choose to live simply because I want to.

I have therefore made a vow.  I will never again feel sorry for my actions, and I will accept the person that I am.  After all, I have no other choice, because I now know with all certainty that I will live forever, and for once instead of feeling remorse, I will feel liberated—I can finally be the woman that I was always meant to be.

I also realise that I have tried to be a better person, and just because I have failed on countless occasions, it doesn't mean that I am any worse for my failures; it just shows me that I was in fact once human, and failing is a trait that seems somewhat hard to shake.  Yes I have killed, but then that is the nature of the beast.  I am a vampire and I have lived this way for the majority of my life, and although I do try and fight against it, I am now, and always will be very much a killer.

In some ways I regret that I have spent so many years wallowing in self-pity.  Those years, I now know, could have been spent in more worthwhile pursuits, but

instead, being the person that I am—I have wasted them.  I shudder to think how many discoveries I could have made if I had not lived my life shrouded by guilt.  I look back with true regret, at the lost years that I wasted.  Years that could have been used in pursuit of my quest.  Ah, but I am getting ahead of myself.  The quest comes later—much later.

Instead my story continues with that of my beautiful granddaughter, Rose.  Of the life we made together and the happiness we shared.  I cannot tell you how much I would love to go back to the first day I held her in my arms, albeit with Robert breathing down my neck.  It was a magical day, for it was the day I regained my family.  Of course, I had known by then that I had lost my son to Robert.  Henry, I knew, was intent on fulfilling the prophecy that Robert had foretold to me when he gave me the choice of living or dying on that fateful day so many years ago.  However, when I looked into Rose's eyes, and saw my own staring back at me, I knew that I was part of her future, and she was mine.  I killed Matilda in order to establish our future together and in doing so made Robert, and my son Henry, my enemies for all time. 

Not a day goes by when I do not miss Rose and her beauty, and grace.  She was like an angel to my devil, and the soothing water that heals the burn.  Everything in my life became Rose, and the day we stepped off that weather-worn ship onto the French shore, and I held her fragile beauty in my arms, was the first day of my new life.  The life we shared, a time that was so tantalisingly short, but so overwhelmingly perfect.

Rose was taught to write in a journal.  Her journal was considered part of her education, and was an everyday occurrence required by her tutor, Pierre.  At the time I thought it was a ridiculous waste of time, but I changed my mind the day I found this beautiful part of her.  I still read it, and sometimes I can imagine her; sitting in front of me, busily writing down all of her precious thoughts and secrets.  Thoughts and secrets, which I now know word by word, and treasure beyond anything that I own.

In the following pages Rose will tell her story in her own words, because although this is my story, my beautiful girl’s life was so entangled in my own.  Of course, with the knowledge of years I look back and realise that I could have changed her future if I had paid more attention.

Alas, hindsight is a wondrous thing, and is a burden that serves as a lesson for us to learn from.  Do we always learn from it?  I'm not so sure, and I believe that given the same set of circumstances I would have probably done the same things again. 

Ah, but I so wish that I had acted differently.  However, wishes are dreams, and dreams are a luxury that I know from experience rarely come to fruition.  Nevertheless, one thing I know with certainty:  'To look to the future, we must always look to the past.'  If only I had known that back then!  Alas, I cannot change any of the past, but I can share it with you in the hope that you benefit from my folly and in doing so, hopefully, you will not make the same mistakes that I made.  So, for now at least, I put down my pen, and leave you to read the story of Rose......

Rose’s Journal

Summer of 1574

Chapter Two

I have been ordered to write about my life in this journal by my tutor, Pierre.  How strange it is, that thoughts flow through my mind all of the time, but when asked to write them down, I cannot think of one thing to write about.  After sitting for a long time in front of my blank page, I told Pierre of my dilemma.  He barked out a laugh, and replied, “But, mademoiselle, there you have your beginning, write that you know not what to write about...you will see that once you start, you will find it difficult to stop!"

I shook my head in bewilderment.  Sometimes Pierre talked in riddles.

"I cannot see why I must write in a stupid journal anyway..." I stated petulantly. 

"Aww...But one day you will, mademoiselle...One day when you are old, you will wish to read about your youth...the excitement of being young.  Oui.... then you will thank Pierre..."

"Bah...that is silly..." I whined, "I do nothing exciting for me to write about...I believe I shall be very bored if I read it when I am old!" I snapped.

"Ah..."  Pierre laughed again.  "Nevertheless, you shall write, mademoiselle...no more arguments, oui..."

It was obvious from the way he placed his hands on his hips and tapped his foot with ill-concealed irritation that I was not going to win the battle.  So I tried to smile nicely, and once more looked at the blank pages of the journal.  Of course, although it pains me to say it, Pierre was correct, and once I started to write—I found it difficult to stop. 

My name is Rose Le Cadeau and I live in a large chateau, in a remote stretch of countryside several miles from the town of Bordeaux.  I choose to introduce myself because after thinking about the reasons for writing in this journal, I was struck by the fact that in years to come my thoughts might be read by a stranger, and I have concluded that they would wish to know who they are reading about.  After all, I would wish to know, and would find it very frustrating to read about someone without a name.

I will be fourteen on All Hallows Eve.  Maman tells me this is a day that people fear evil spirits in England—the place of my birth.  However, in France, it is a day to remember the spirits of departed loved ones, and it is this meaning that I prefer.  I am surrounded by people that I love and who love me in return, but I love none like Maman.  She says that our surname means 'the gift', and to her that is what I am.  She always laughs gaily when I state that she is also my gift from God, but sometimes it seems that her laughter is false and I sense that sadness is hidden somewhere in the depths of her giggles.

Her sadness, I believe, is due to the death of my father.  We moved to France when I was just a very small baby.  I have heard the story so many times, but still I love to hear it. 

The tragic tale of how my father's enemy, the cruel and demonic Lord Robert Vanike, arrived at our former home one freezing cold night in November.  The men bitterly quarrelled over the ownership of land that bordered both of their estates. The quarrel turned very violent, and the evil and despised Lord Vanike, who was by this time in a blistering rage, murdered my father by stabbing him through the heart.

I cannot recall how many times I have imagined the terrible bloody scene of my father dying, or how many times I have cried at the thought of him being murdered by such a cruel and heartless man, but the feeling of loss never fades.  Nor does the overwhelming feeling of love and gratitude for my beautiful Maman; because although she was alone and at the mercy of the evil lord, she found the courage to escape and lead us both to safety.  Maman travelled all through the night on horseback with me, just a small babe in arms, tied to her slight frame.  She rode, for many tortuous miles, non-stop until we wearily reached Dover.  From Dover we boarded a waiting ship, and thus we travelled to France, and onward to Bordeaux where we took up residence in my father’s chateau.

I cannot deny that I love the Chateau Cadeau—it is the only home I have ever known.  However, I sometimes wish that we could visit England, how I would love to explore our old home, but Maman says that it is unsafe for us to do so.  She says that the evil Lord Vanike will capture us and hold us under guard, and so we have no choice but to remain in France.  However, I cannot pretend that I do not daydream of the day I shall return to the country of my birth, or the day I shall avenge my father’s death.  I, of course, must keep my dream to myself.  Maman would be very angry if I even mentioned to her that I have future hopes of returning to England.  And I believe that she would even resort to keeping me under lock and key if she was to discover my intentions of one day returning.