Read Vampire - In the Beginning (Vampire Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Charmain Marie Mitchell
Vampire - In the Beginning (Vampire Series Book 1) (8 page)
"In a few months’ time you will be able to see him, and maybe even play with him...but...until then you must allow Matilda and Henry to bond."
His eyes glanced at me in a cold stare, stern and unyielding, and I knew that his look signaled the end of the conversation. I would not be able to convince him today and in truth, I knew I would never convince him, no matter how much I begged. I had made a bargain with him before our love had grown, and before my son was born, and I knew Robert would never break that bargain.
"But I am your lover, Robert! You share your body with me every night, you spend your days with me...Matilda is nothing to you...and is your wife only in name..."
"That, for the moment, is true. However, do not presume to know how I feel about Matilda! Matilda will always be my wife, and it is well that you remember that, because it will never change, you will never be that, now or ever! I am sorry, Gwen, but that is how it is!"
I noticed the compassion etched into his face, but I was too angry to care.
"Well, that being the case, sir," I said, my voice full of sarcasm and anger, "I recommend that you had best go and sleep in your wife’s arms, for I'll not be a doxy for you tonight!"
His compassionate expression faded, replaced instantly by anger, and as his eyes grew red I wondered if I had indeed pushed him too far. I had seen his wrath in the past, and having witnessed him kill several vampires a few months previously when I was a human, it was not something, I would, in all truth, look forward to seeing again. I waited expectantly for the cruel punishment I thought I was going to receive. Instead of expressing his anger in this way, he simply bowed towards me, walked to the bed, snatched up his clothes, and said, on his way to the door, "As you wish, my lady."
Anger washed over me. How could he do this to me? I flung myself down on the bed, rage running like poison through my body, curses flowing from my lips. I knew deep down that I should not expect him to act in any other way. He was, after all, the man who killed the father of my child and all of his family. He was the man who had given me the choice of living and giving my unborn son up to him and his wife, or dying and condemning my unborn child to death. He was the man who had stolen my life, in every sense of the word, and in doing so condemned me to an eternity of depravity. How could I be so stupid to believe that this man, this man whom I loved, and who I believed loved me, would ever let anyone or anything stand in the way of what he wanted?
My rage subsided, but it was rapidly replaced by sorrow, as my mind relived the last few months. The residual human part of me recoiled and grimaced with terror at the horrors I had witnessed. The new, vampire element, accepted that everything I had seen was part of my new life, and the fact of the matter was that I needed to accept my life as it was now.
Rising from the bed, I walked to the door, and ushered in the serving girl Anne whom I had heard rushing down the corridor. Leading her to the bed, I bade her sit down, and then taking her slim wrist into my hand I bit gently into her thin translucent skin. The taste of her salty but sweet blood eased my mind further, and I felt myself drift into the realms of beauty, which a vampire shares with their victim. Floating in this world of bliss I heard a soft voice ask, "But what does the Gwen part of you think?" and I heard my inner voice scream with venom, "Gwen needs revenge!"
<<<<>>>>
You can continue reading,
Vampire – Child of Destiny
, by following the links:
US:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HZL4VDE
UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00HZL4VDE
Or alternatively you can purchase
Vampire – Gwen’s Journals 1541 – 1627,
which is a compilation of the first three books in the
Vampire Series,
by following the following links:
US:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MH4IUYU
UK:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00MH4IUYU
<<<<>>>>
Sign up to Charmain’s newsletter for release dates & freebies
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). Feb 2015
Sins Forgotten,
(book five in the Vampire series). May 2015
The Betrayers Kiss,
(book six in the Vampire series). Aug 2015
Book three in the,
Mary Howard Supernatural Mysteries Series
. Dec 2015
More books by Charmain Marie Mitchell
Death Whispers
(Mary Howard Supernatural Mysteries Series)
Chapter One
Her feet tingled from the cold, in fact, every part of her ached with a damp chill. The day had started well enough with only a touch of ground frost, which normally was a good sign, and usually a cold but sunny day was bound to follow. However, today seemed to be the exception, and it had rained and rained.
Mary had set out on her two mile walk into the pretty market town of Petersfield, when the sun was shining and the air was crisp. It was therefore a little bit irritating, actually very irritating when, after buying her groceries, popping into the bank, and having a well earned latte at Costa's, she had started to make her two mile trek home, only to experience the heavens suddenly opening and soaking her to the skin.
When she finally reached her tumbledown (falling down might be more apt) cottage, which was nestled on the outskirts of a very pretty, very tiny village; which was bizarrely named Sheet, she was tired, cold, aching, and felt very, very, irritated. Peeling off her very thick, absolutely sodden, woollen cardigan, which she had worn instead of a mac; believing it would protect her from the cold, she made her way to her bedroom. Of course, the wet cardigan, wet cords, wet shoes, in fact wet everything had only served to weigh her down heavily, and she smelled like a hairy wet dog, and presumed that she looked like one too.
Peering into the mirror which sat on top of her dressing table, she no longer presumed, but knew, she looked like the aforementioned hairy wet dog. Scurrying out of her clothes, she quickly changed into her fluffy pj's and warm bed socks, and then proceeded to jump head first into her duvet and snuggle down into the warmth. "
Ah bliss,
"
she mumbled in quiet satisfaction, she then closed her eyes and deliberated on what she was going to do for the rest of the day.
Mary was a writer; well, she liked to think she was. Although, if her book sales were anything to go by, she wasn't really succeeding at her chosen profession. She pretended that it didn't matter to her very much, but the truth was that it did matter; very much, if she was being brutally honest.
Closing her eyes tightly she tried to visualise her grandmother. Her inspiration, the warmth in her life, and the very essence of her being, because for Mary, her grandmother was the place she called home. However, much to her irritation, she found it difficult to connect to the visualisation, and with a sigh and "
blast it,
"
hissing from her lips, Mary threw back the duvet and marched into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.
Figures...just bloody figures,
she thought as she looked out of the kitchen window at the now perfect sunny January morning. Turning from the window and clenching her cold hands around her warm mug of tea, she made her way into the study.
The study was her favourite room in the cottage, it was snug and warm, or would be when the open fire started crackling in the grate. With this in mind; she took the box of matches from the mantle, struck a match, and carefully placed the small flame into the paper and kindling that she had prepared before her shopping expedition to Petersfield. She waited until the kindling was roaring and then emptied a small bucket of coal and a couple of dry logs on top of the flames. She watched for a moment, and after satisfying herself that the coal and logs would take hold, she made her way over to an old leather chair that stood in front of a huge antique walnut desk, and sunk in to its welcoming folds.
She had walked into the study with the intention of continuing where she had left off with her current story. However, she found that she was unable to open her laptop, not because it wouldn't open, but because she didn't want to.
What's the bloody point,
she thought,
it’s no better than anything I've written in the past, it'll flop, just like they all flop.
Laying her head back against the old, tattered, but soft and familiar leather of the chair, Mary tried to figure out where she was going wrong. She knew that most people would look at her life and think she had it made, and she wasn't so stupid or selfish not to know that they were probably right.
She was twenty-two, owned her cottage outright (even if it was falling down). She also had more money in the bank then it was likely she would ever, in her lifetime, be able to spend. However, she had no one to share her wealth with. Her parents had died in a car crash when she was just two years old, and her grandmother, whom she had lived with ever since her parents died, had died just under a year previously.
It was her grandmother whom she missed the most. She found it difficult to remember her parents, but her grandmother had always been there for her. She missed her presence, her beauty and kindness, and the way they would discuss their writing; warm by the fire, with her grandmother giving, but also receiving Mary's constructive criticism. After all her grandmother was one of England's greatest authors. Victoria Howard was known throughout the world for her horrific and hugely popular, 'Nightfall Mysteries'. When the great Victoria Howard died, she bequeathed the whole of her vast fortune to her granddaughter, but with Victoria went the extent of her family - Mary was the sole remaining member, she was to all intents and purposes, alone.
Well, apart from one person, her best friend Kate, but Kate lived in London, and she mixed with the famous and wealthy jet-setting types. It was the type of life that didn't really suit Mary, who was shy and reserved, and a woman who blushed at the mere mention of a dirty joke.
They did, however, spend part of the year together, normally when Kate felt she needed the peace and tranquility that only the leafy country lanes of Hampshire could offer her. She would arrive like a whirlwind, taking over Mary's life, and just as suddenly vanish back to her world of glitz and glamour. Thus leaving Mary to feel even lonelier then she had before Kate had arrived. Mary didn't really mind. It had been the same when they were children, so why should it be any different now?
Kate was the daughter of the late, but very well remembered, Edward Windell, Victoria Howard's long time agent and lover. Edwards’s wife had died giving birth to Kate, and so it was that Mary's grandmother eventually become his lover. It seemed the whole world knew of the affair, but no one talked of it. Least of all the two children that happily played together in their own little world, whilst their guardians discussed business, and, as both the children later realised, partook of pleasure.
Nowadays Kate would laugh about the relationship, often saying that she wished Victoria and Edward had married, that way she and Mary would have indeed been sisters. Mary would retort that she felt like they were sisters anyway so it didn't really make any difference.
However, she had never understood their relationship. She had tried; but to her, love was about flowers, hearts, and kisses. Not about a quick bunk up in the back toilet (she had actually walked in on the lovers in the said toilet one day). She believed in love, and that was why she chose to write about love. However, as Kate had so often pointed out to her, "To be able to write about a subject, Mary, you need to understand it." She knew this and if anyone had asked, she would have been ashamed to admit that she was twenty-two years old and had never been kissed; actually she had never even come close to being kissed. She knew that was why readers of her books had criticised the love scenes, and why some had stated that her books reminded them of fairy tales. She needed to understand all of the emotions she wrote about, and not guess at them. But how was she able to do that, when to even smile at someone of the opposite sex resulted in a bright red blush brightly colouring her skin?
