The Mistress of Trevelyan (47 page)

“Damn.”  She gasped for air as her heart thundered in another panic.  Dr. North’s advice rambled through her mind. 
Forgive and forget?  Move on?

How?
  The mere thought had her gasping harder.  In her mind’s eye, she saw Tom wielding a golden golf club, swinging right at her head.  Fore!  She heard him yell as her head rolled across the fairway.  She blinked at the disembodied image of herself.

She had to do something.  Just because she mistakenly followed Tom down a false Primrose Lane didn’t mean she had to lie down in the middle of Divorce Alley and let him run over her.  Nik grabbed her cell phone.

“S. E. Butler Investigations.  The moon’s right to catch your two-timer tonight.”

Nik frowned.  “Ezzy?  Does Liz know you’re answering her phone?”

Nik had met Esmerelda and Scarlet Elizabeth Butler four years ago when Nik had spearheaded a charity art auction to benefit a women’s shelter the sisters sponsored.  The fundraiser had been such a success that the three of them made it into an annual event and over the years, Nik had been adopted into their quirky ranks.  They’d become her tried and true friends that she didn’t know what she would do without.  Liz’s newest venture was to open up her own private detective agency.

“I’m negotiating the position of receptionist with her.  She’s with a client right now, but I can already tell he’s a no go.  His karma reeks.  Let me tell you what the cards said this morning—”

“Tell me tonight, Ezzy.  Seven.  My place.  Tell Liz it’s a do or die.  I’ve a big emergency and I’m bringing out the G’s.”  When it came to Tarot, Ezzy could be long winded.

Coming Soon!

Aerik: Point of No Return

Crimson Thorn Series

By Jennifer St. Giles

Chapter One

Castelborough, England

1808

A chill wind from the North Sea whipped up the craggy cliffs to punish the dark walls of Castle Lieu Morte before raking across the Yorkshire moor.  Christine Webber shivered.  The brewing storm stole the late summer sun’s warmth and dashed her plans for what little time she had left of her day off.  She had to settle on wistful glances across the moor and gathering a few handfuls of lavender rather than clues.

Between Lady Stafford’s absorbing demands and the recent spate of afternoon thunderstorms, it seemed to her that both man and nature were determined to keep her from searching for the truth. Either that, or her beloved grandmother was wielding a firm hand all the way from heaven.  Her many warnings were never far from Christine’s mind.

“Lieu Morte led your mother to ruin.”

“Stay far away from its black walls, Christine, lest you succumb to its evil as well.”

“Trust no man from there, ever.”

“Tell no one who you really are.” 

Having survived the terror in France, narrowly escaping the guillotine, her grandmother had rightly feared everyone and everything.  Both Christine’s aristocratic grandfather and father had fallen to the revolution’s murderous blade in Paris and she would never tell a soul her ancestry.  But after reading her mother’s diary last week, she had to question her grandmother’s fear about the castle.

The diary made it clear to Christine that her mother had fled
to
Lieu Morte for help and the only evil around had existed in the minds and hearts of the superstitious townspeople.  Though that night was a blur of torches and terror in Christine’s memory, it was their witch-hunting accusations that had sent her mother fleeing for her life.

Now that Christine reflected back to the months before that awful night, she realized her mother had seemed happy after years of sadness and it was during those months that her mother had spent a lot of time gathering healing herbs and plants from the moor and forest surrounding Lieu Morte.  Christine now wondered if her mother had been alone during those many hours or if someone, someone like the dark prince who’d been living at the Castle then, had come to know her mother.

Wishful thinking?  Not if what her mother hinted at in her diary was true.

It was no coincidence that the dark prince left the castle the same night her mother disappeared.  Though the castle had been empty since then, Christine still wanted to talk to the caretaker.  Hopefully she’d discover clues as to where her mother might be now. 

The history of Lieu Morte was a mystery in itself.  From whispers of ogres who ate humans to foreign princes who preyed upon women.  There so were many different legends about the “dead place” and its monstrous owners, that no one really knew anything at all.  Any supplies brought to the castle came from ships and rowed to shore in the dark of the night.  No one from the castle ever came to the village and no one from the village ever ventured across the moor to the castle. 

Today had been the day Christine planned to change that and it rankled that her errand to Scarborough for Lady Stafford had taken hours longer than planned.

Sighing, she glanced at the distant storm darkening the horizon.  It was likely a blessing in disguise.  Because, otherwise, she would have gone to the castle anyway and had been very late in returning Stafford Hall.  Doing so would have incurred more attention from her employers than was presently wise.

Any
notice from Lord Stafford made Christine’s skin crawl.  He’d been ogling her more and more of late.  And considering just how on edge Lady’s Stafford’s nerves were due to the upcoming party, she’d have doubled Christine’s workload for the next week. 

Pulling her worn cloak tighter, she hastened her step toward the town and regretted having left her sketchbook at in her room.  A few moments spent sketching would have at least given her a little respite from the Staffords.  The enormous luncheon Lady Stafford was holding tomorrow to celebrate Lord Stafford’s birthday had everyone madly scrambling as if King George was coming.

It was a shame that despite all of their efforts, the party was sure to be a disaster.  Lord Stafford loved his scotch, which is why Lady Stafford didn’t dare host a party after dark.  He was usually too far into his cups by that time.  With all of his cronies around, Christine bet Lord Stafford will be foxed within an hour.

Thickening forest kept the chill wind at bay and deepened the stormy afternoon’s shadows as she made her way.  Rounding the bend to the graveyard she smiled with anticipation as she passed the eight foot cross marking its entrance.

Her secret obsession was here, a man whose magnificent form she likened to that of a Viking or Roman warrior from ages past.  Even Zeus maybe, for he had stolen his way into her imagination like a powerful god.

The stories she wove about him had captured her heart as a young girl and as she matured into a woman, had given breath to her secret desires.

He stood in the center of the cemetery, tall and broad-shouldered, looking as if he could keep the devil at bay from all those buried within.  Courage, noble bearing, and--heaven help her—a forbidden sensual appeal filled every contour of his bronze likeness.  She couldn’t help but wonder how much more so had the man been in real life?

  She slid back the hood of her cloak and breathed in, swearing she could actually smell the sandalwood she imagined him wearing.  She was in love with a statue, or more accurately the man she imagined him to be.  Most would consider her mad enough for an asylum if they knew, for even she had to question her own sanity.  But the stories he inspired gave her hope of a future beyond her grief, beyond this smothering village and the grave of drudgery she dug deeper every day she worked as a maid.

After a quick glance about to assure she was alone, she sauntered forward with a saucy step.  “So who shall you be this stormy day, sir?  A captain of a fine ship fighting pirates on a wild sea?  A noble soldier riding to the rescue of your king?  Or a knight slaying dragons to win the affections of the fairest princess in the land?”

  She angled her head back and slid her palm against his chiseled cheek.  “Had I lived during your time, I surely would have loved you even if only from afar.”

She slid her hand down to press against the smooth curve of his breast where she imagined his heart would have beaten passionate and true then she traced the circle of thorns etching his upper left arm.  “Would that I knew your true story, my lone warrior.”

No one knew who he was or why he stood guard over the dead.  He stood naked, save for his loin cloth and weapons—sword held high, shield slung over his back.  Her hands had explored every part of him many times in her quest to draw him perfectly upon the page.  He was unlike any man she’d ever seen, and especially unlike the odiously obese Lord Stafford.  Sometimes Stafford’s gaze was so bold Christine seriously wondered if she would have to leave Castleborough and her beloved moor for the stench and grime of London’s streets-- the one place she could assuredly disappear from the man.  Any place smaller, she would be noticed, for the vibrant red of her hair marked her like a scarlet letter.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, reminding her that she should hurry.

“A kiss to hold you until I return again, my warrior.”  She lifted her lips to the breeze and waited a moment, imagining how a kiss would feel.  Then she patted his thick thigh and stepped back with a wink, before turning to leave.  The path would take her past the church, the village, and on to the Stafford’s estates.   At one time there had been a church adjoining the graveyard, but it had burned down years and years ago.  Many of the townspeople trapped inside had died.  Instead of rebuilding on the same spot, the villagers had moved the church closer to town and had built a large memorial on the edge of the cemetery.  Iron gates fronted the marble structure that was bigger than the bedroom she shared with two other maids upon the Stafford’s upper floor.    

Carved across the top of the memorial was a phrase that comforted her and yet unsettled her in some strange way she’d yet to understand why.

“Death cannot kill, what never dies…”—Penn.

Aerik the Eternal waited in the shadows, watching the red-haired beauty as he had too many times to count.  Frustration and longing pulsed with every beat of his heart.  He knew her well.  Ten years ago his uncle had given him the task of watching over her, of protecting her-- a responsibility that had become an exercise in torture for him.

Everything about her had become ingrained in him.  The scent of her blood, the fragrance of her skin, the softly, sensual lilt of her voice.  From the darkness of the memorial-crypt in which he stood, he’d often observed her talking with his bronze-likeness across the graveyard.  At first it had been amusing to listen to her charm his statue as she drew.  But as the years passed and she matured from a girl to woman, the way she spoke and touched the statue inflamed his passions.  It was as if she were enticing and caressing him.  And like the love-starved fool he’d become, he’d often stolen into her room during the dark of the night just to see her sleep, breathe of her essence, and imagine awakening her to the pleasures he longed to bring her.

Some guardian he’d become.  He knew he’d reached the point that he’d have to go to his uncle and have another guardian assigned to her.  Honor demanded that he do so.  But he couldn’t stand the thought of another watching over her.  Of another falling in love with her.  Another who’d have no conscience.  Who’d seduce her, selfishly take her virgin flesh then leave her.  Or worse, since she bore the mark of a crimson thorn at the nape of her neck denoting her as a breedmate, they’d claim her with a bloodoath and curse her forever to a life spent only within the darkness of the night.  No sunrises, no sunsets, no heated kisses from the sun, only a pale moon and the distant stars to illuminate the world night after cold night with the dark cloud of extinction looming upon the horizon.

Very few Purebloods roved the earthly realm freely now and after the Reign of Terror even the Half-bloods—part human-part vampire--had, like his uncle, moved deep within the earth to the Dark Asylums.  They’d given up freedom for safety and only having one child if any.  The breed was under siege.

He didn’t want to believe it, but even though the Blood Defenders had brought Robespierre and his beheading-insanity to an end, they were losing ground in the current war against the Slayers—creatures of the damned sent from the Destroyer to wrought evil with their every breath.  Creatures who could mimic any shape or form in a flash.  They were almost impossible to expose, only Pureblooded breed and pureblooded Lykin could scent Slayers.  The senses of Half-breeds and humans were inadequate, which often left them lambs for the slaughter.

Sometimes he wished he were one of them because as a Purebred Warrior, he had no choice but to hunt Slayers.  It was his duty.  For centuries he’d led his fellow warriors in stopping the Destroyer’s evil but now he feared they were on the cusp of losing.

It had started with the Reign of Terror.  For the first time in eons Slayers had formed a political network strong enough to annihilate tens of thousands.  Maximilien Robespierre and many members of his murderous Committee of Public Safety had been Slayers who’d led hundreds of humans upon a murdering spree.  The horrifying deaths of humans, Purebreds, half-breeds, and Lykins by the guillotine still had all of creation by the throat.  And even though Aerik and his warriors had brought the Slayers responsible to a head chopping just end, it seemed as if the number of Slayers invading was growing.

He knew his warriors were beyond weary and as their leader, he had to do what had to be done to turn the tide.  The Prime Council and his warriors hated what Aerik was about to do, but in two moons, he’d meet with the Lykins about having their Werearmy join forces with his Blood Defenders to fight against the Slayers.