The Last Keeper
Authors: Michelle Birbeck
First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2012
Copyright ©
Michelle Birbeck
, 2012
The right of
Michelle Birbeck
to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia)
PO Box 447 Cherrybrook NSW 2126
(USA)
PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-078-1
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-079-8
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image by:
© Francois De Beer | Dreamstime.com
Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/
mbirbeck
Michelle is 28 and has been writing and reading her whole life. Her earliest memory of books was when she was five and decided to try and teach her fish how to read, by putting her Beatrix Potter books
in
the fish tank with them. Since then her love of books has grown, and now she is writing her own, and looking forward to seeing them on her shelves, though they won’t be going anywhere near the fish tank. When she’s not writing, she’s out and about on her motorbike, or sat with her head in a book.
To James, I wish you could have seen this.
Huge thanks to all the wonderful people who have helped me through writing this, including Bec, Cait, Alice, Shay, and all the staff at TWCS. And to Bunny, first name Plot, for all the whispering.
London, 1940
London had changed a lot over the last hundred or so years. Once it had been little more than an overgrown playground for the rich and snooty society of the time. Well, perhaps it hadn’t changed
that
much.
As I stood on London Bridge, looking out across the city, I noticed that life seemed to go on as normally as it could in these times. The sun had set and the people were retiring for the night. They drew their blackout shades and bedded down to another night of waiting. Waiting for news of loved ones sent to war. Waiting for news that the war was over.
Silence surrounded me, making me feel as though I was standing in a gallery admiring a painting. Just like patrons of a gallery, I too was an observer, watching as the world passed me by. There were times when I simply glanced at the picture, gaining a general idea of what was happening before moving to the next one. And there were times when I saw everything. Every minute detail that the painting had to offer came alive before my eyes, but only if I took the time to look.
It came alive before me now in the form of a vampire skulking down the road. The dark colour tinting his aura stood out clearly in the darkening streets, marking him for what he was. I’d seen the face before, standing tall by the side of the London Seat of Power, one of the vampires’ ruling bodies.
Ducking my head, I intended to walk straight past him, heading home before more creatures began prowling the night for something tasty to kill. He spotted my quickened pace and thought I was on the menu. I wasn’t, but I also wasn’t in the mood for a confrontation, not when I was so close to the London Seat. Following my instincts was bad enough—I’d spent hours staring at a map before being drawn here—but now they’d forced me into the heart of a raging war and the home of the one Seat I couldn’t abide. The last thing I wanted to do was show up on their radar.
The first thing one of their lackeys would do would be to attack me. If they survived, they’d go running straight to their masters, all too eager to give up information about where I was. If they found me, they would try to kill me, or worse, have me followed home and target my family.
Avoidance was better. I wasn’t supposed to kill them all.
Still, I could do what I did best and plant a few ideas in his mind before he passed me by.
No sooner had I reached for his mind, intending to influence him into a change of direction, than I made the mistake of glancing up. Closer than I thought; he was staring right at me, eyes wide with recognition. My emerald irises and flame-like red hair were too much of a calling card not to be looked at twice. My appearance was well known among the lackeys.
I shuddered to think of how many humans had been killed in the pursuit of the vampires’ famed Angel of Death. Or how many more would fall because they were fated to appear too similar to me.
“Hey, I know you.”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
“Well, well, well,” he drawled, slowing to a casual saunter. “Too much knowledge on your face to not be who I think you are.”
Working in his mind as fast as I was able, I clung to a fraction of hope that he’d change his mind.
I took one step past him; one more and I’d escape.
His pale hand shot out, gripping my arm. “No. I’ve seen you before.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Imagine what I’ll get for bringing the body of Azrael to our king.”
I sighed. It was time to live up to my name.
Part of me enjoyed it, especially after everything the vampires had done, to my race, to me—to my sister.
“If I am who you think I am”—I pried his hand from my arm—“then what makes you think you’d win?”
“Finding your mate makes you sloppy.”
