Dark Rapture (40 page)

Chapter: Wicked Angels

Sequel to Dark Rapture

by Michele Hauf

Originally digitally published 2010

Copyright 2012 Michele Hauf

Prologue

Slowly, gracefully, the rhythm starts as a gentle lull as sleep struggles to capture the semi-reverie state of dreams. A vision of enchantment dances into his peripheral view. Skirts of brilliant crimson sweep across the stone floor in a wide brushing arc as she twirls. The music of his guitar urges her on. It is the farruca flamenco, a song danced and played from the heart of the gypsies.

One with the music, her arms stretch above her head. Her hands twist and rotate sensually upon her wrists. Crimson lips part in silent exaltation.

The guitarist closes his eyes, his head nodding to the rhythm of the song. He can envision her dark, sweet-smelling hair pulled away from her face, save a long black curl that spirals across her cheek, underlining the brilliant emerald sparkles in her eyes. But her eyes are closed too, as she divines the music into her soul and becomes one with the guitarist as they work their magic.

The pace increases and the slippery swishes of the dancer’s ruffled flamenco skirt blur into a frenzy. The guitarist, the dreamer, does not need to look up again. He knows another has come.

She is twirling in the arms of a stranger now, his dark-haired angel tangled in Satan’s net. She reaches out for the safety of his arms, but the guitarist does not see. Spun about, her crimson skirts skim the air like blood-seeking bats on wing. The stranger presses close, pulling the rhythm from her body, until he too matches the pulsing tempo of the farruca.

A scream gurgles up her throat. The frenzied notes cease. She does not fight him; he envelops her in his dark clutches easily. Bent backward across the intruder’s arm, her arm splays out to her side where a long trail of crimson flows down the inside of her white flesh.

The stranger laughs and crushes her to his skeletal body. His laughter grows louder as the guitar falls from the guitarist’s hands and shatters into splintering pieces across the stone floor. Sprays of blood splatter about the room, staining the floor stones in vicious disregard as he sinks his fangs deep into the pale flesh on her throat.

“Nooo!”

Sebastian’s forehead hit against the soft padding inside his coffin, jarring him from his manic thoughts. Punching upward, the cover flew open. In a rage, he sat up, thrusting his legs over the side of the coffin.

Alone in the darkened depths of the castle dungeon, his rampant breathing is his only companion. His heart clenched and expanded as he ran his fingers through his hair, riddled with beads of sweat. He swiped a hand across the blood that spattered his cheek. But...there is no blood. There never is. It was only the dream.

Again.

Part One

And forever and forever, and knowledge?

No never.

Chapter One

Diary entry ‘slightly illegible for a water stain‘, possibly August 1632.

I am Alexandre Adrian Lyons II, progeny of Vincent Amandus Lyons and unknown maternal blood. I begin this diary with great enthusiasm. For centuries the history of my bloodline has been passed down through the spoken word. Compelling and dramatic history of a story I fear may someday become lost. Forever cached in the mind of one never given the chance to orally relay his tale.

Not that I fear a sudden death or extinction of our bloodline. It just won’t happen.

I choose to physically record history for future generations so that the true story will remain intact. With written proof no man can deny the existence of our race. And it is our existence, the very fact we walk this earth amongst the mortals, that is our legacy.

For those who shall come upon my words, please allow me the indulgence of my narrative. As these bits and snippets of my ancestors were passed on to me by the flames of midnight bonfires and the quiet solitude of cool summer nights beneath the full moon, my mind would weave the spoken words into pictures, filling in the missing dialogues and emotions that were often glossed over. I fancy myself a storyteller. And so, I pray my scribbles illuminate vivid images for one and all.

But will my embellishments not change the entire story? Make great dramatics for the purpose of my own glory as the writer I propose to be?

Perhaps.

Alexandre Lyons II

***

Cantabria Mountains, Spain - 13th Century

The coffin maker rechecked his measurements, then went back to finishing the pine box. This was the eighth he’d made this year. He had been employed only to make the coffins for the Prince’s wives.

As it was, he was kept quite busy.

“And where are ye off to so early in the morn, good man?”

Rogero reined his horse to a slow cantor besides Paquita, the castle chatelaine. Her face glowed like an apple to match the bushel in her basket, and her pies were always equally as welcome. He tipped his hat to her.

“Milord’s lady wife took her death last evening. That means I’ve work to do. Hate to rise before the blessed sun but if I’m to return before nightfall means I’ve got to be on my way. I’ve myself a shiny silver coin this morn from ole’ Willie in the stables.”

Paquita propped her basket on an amply endowed hip and cast Rogero a curious nod. “What for, you been picking up some extra work?”

“Nay. I and a handful of others always make wagers on how long the new mistress will last. I could tell right away, the poor lass was so thin and dreadfully quiet, she didn’t have more than three weeks on her head.”

“God rest her tainted soul.” Paquita crossed herself and Rogero nodded agreement.

“I’m off. I have a half day’s journey ahead of me. Good day to ye, senorita Paquita.”

***

“Bring me an angel,” Rogero muttered his master’s words. “Hair as brilliant as the sunlight and eyes as blue as the skies. The same thing every time. I must have an angel!” he called out dramatically to his horse. “Hair like sun, eyes of sky. Bah! I’ll give him a dash of sunlight one of these days, and he’ll never live to order me around again.”

Rogero’s shoulders slumped as he anticipated finding what he searched for. Ah well, it was his job. He shouldn’t complain; the coin filled his purse nicely. And though he knew his task to be wrong—sinfully wrong—he carried out his orders with no questions asked. As did everyone at the castle. For if they did not provide the master with his required virgins then he would look elsewhere for his sustenance. Elsewhere being the people of the castle.

***

“Esmarelda!”

The sound of father’s voice drove Esmarelda straight up amidst the hay she had scattered for the last remaining cow. She shielded her eyes from the bright sun to see him marching toward her. Just beyond him sat the shack they called home where her younger sister, Margarita, ground wheat for bread. Hobbled beside the stone shack stood a horse and rider.

“Papa, who is here?”

“Esmarelda, I’ve good news.” His face beamed as he pulled her close.

Esmarelda pushed away from her father and scanned his eyes. He never showed affection toward her, other than to tell her she’d look good with her hair pinned to her head. ‘More boyish’, he’d say with a gaze down her body that told her he was wondering if he could pass her off as a male. Would be much easier to find work in the village if she were not a woman.

“Papa, what is it?”

He took her by the shoulders, his jaw growing firm. “Esmarelda, remember I’ve always taught you to be brave and never judge another man until you’ve lived a year in his troubles. I know I’ve not been the best father a daughter could have over the years…hell, you know I’d much preferred to have a son…”

“
Si
. You needn’t apologize, Papa. You have taught Margarita and I good values and I have tried desperately to help around the farm.” She glanced aside to the scattered hay. She wasn’t much as a farm-hand. Lately her thoughts had been occupied with dreams of her future. “But tell me what it is. Who is here?”

“A man from the Castle Trastamara has come. Esmarelda, I’ve made a decision. He’s offered me fifty crowns for your hand in marriage.”

“Marriage! Papa, how could— But I haven’t even met him.” Esmarelda glanced around her father’s head. All she could make out was a silhouette of a man standing next to the horse. A rather plump silhouette.

“Esmarelda, now don’t be
vigoroso
with me. I am your father. I’m doing this for your own good. You know we won’t be on this land much longer without the money. And it is high time you married.”

“
Si
,” she acquiesced. With the money, her father and Margarita would eat well for some time. “But—”

He pressed a wrinkled finger to her lips. “But you’ll listen to your father now. You’ll hold your head high and do this for me. Courage, Esmarelda. I do love you, you know that.”

“
Si
.” She walked past him out into the sunlight. It shimmered across her hair, setting each strand ablaze. A sparkle to match her dreams. Dreams of someday marrying a handsome and brave man whom she could care for and love. “If he is paying you, then I should be thankful for that.”

She squinted but was unable to make out the man’s features. Slumped shoulders, not young, from what she could determine. Her heart sank to know her dreams of a handsome husband would never come true. Pray he treated her kindly. “How old is he?”

“Oh, he is not the one.” Her father laid a hand on her shoulder. “He is just a messenger. You are to wed a prince.”

***

Los Angeles - Present day

Cooling summer air filled and burst with a thunderous clatter. Narrow velvet leaves shivered on the olive trees as unnatural vibrations taunted them. Small animals and birds fled the scene as the hysteric crash of rock n’ roll took command of the night.

Rising amidst the rumbling din, a man, his arms spread wide in worship to the moon, his thin shirt rippling in the breeze and pressing tight to his flesh in waves of purple silk, raised his head to the sky, and closed his eyes. Long torrents of his golden hair blew across his face. Spreading his legs to secure position upon the crumbling stone ledge between the castle battlements, his body was suddenly illuminated by a fierce beam of moonlight, a spotlight crowning his head.

Below him, drums thumped steady and loud, an army of leathered, metal-studded soldiers marching steadily onward. A bass guitar matched the drums in an evil chord of resonant harmony, while a spiral of vicious electric screams spun into the night as the lead guitarist’s fingers raced into action.

The golden man, a brat prince among his peers, looked down from the heavens and cast an evil sneer into the camera. “Cut!”

Vince Lyons jumped from the castle wall, pushed past the perturbed cameraman, and cast a nod toward Sebastian DelaCourte, who checked his watch and signaled back. Vince grabbed a thick towel, offered by the makeup girl, and swiped it across his face, removing most of the heavy pancake that kept the spotlight glare from his pale complexion.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Gary Rose flipped his electric guitar over his back and stepped over a tangle of electrical cords that ran beneath his feet. He grabbed Vince by the arm.

The singer shrugged. “Sorry man, I gotta run.” Vince’s body jittered as he swayed from foot to foot, unable as of late to keep still, and finding even to his own surprise his energy level was near uncontrollable at times. “I told you earlier I’m outta here at midnight.”

“Yeah, I forgot.” Gary looked over Vince’s shoulder, seeing Sebastian stood next to his sister, Scarlet, off beyond the tangle of electrical wires and camera equipment. He gestured for him to join them.

Sebastian nodded toward the tower door as he joined the men. “You go, Vince.” His voice was cool and buttered with the barest of a French accent. “There are some other shots we can do right now. Like Gary’s solo. Everything’s cool.”

“I’m already gone.” Vince tossed the sweat-drenched towel over Gary’s shoulder. “Catch ya later, guys!” He waved to the filming crew and the other two band members. Scott, the drummer, did a ba-dum-da on the drums and Gary went back to his position beneath the red lights.

Vince breezed past Scarlet, giving her cheek a quick stroke with the back of his hand as he did. A glance back toward the crew and he noticed the tension square Sebastian’s jaw as he witnessed him touching his girlfriend.

Scarlet shrugged away Vince’s hand. “Leaving so soon?”

“Got things to do. Hey, you read those diaries yet?”

“Started last night. They begin in the thirteenth century. Fascinating stuff.”

“Yeah, let me know if you discover anything about my father. See ya later.” Vince swung the tower door wide and stepped into the castle.

“I will.” Scarlet waved to Vince’s retreating back.

But she had no intention of skipping ahead in the ancient leather-bound diaries Vince had loaned her. Found in the family crypt in the basement of Vince’s house, and written in flowing French script, Vince had asked Scarlet to browse through them, knowing she was familiar with the language. He had hopes of finding clues to his father’s identity. A father he had never known, though he was aware the vampire nature had been passed on to him through his father’s blood.

And while Scarlet was eager to help Vince, she also entertained her own secret hopes. Maybe somewhere in the history of Vince’s family the answers she sought would be revealed. Elusive answers, whose quest had haunted her for months.

There had to be more to the vampire life she now led. Even after being transformed by Sebastian a year ago, Scarlet just felt so…mortal.

“There is more,” she whispered. “And I will find out.”

***

Stepping out of the tightly wound stairway that circled the north tower, Scarlet flicked the lighter she always carried in her jacket pocket and ignited a candle in one of the hallway sconces. The cherub holding the candle smiled gratefully as the warm flame caressed its face.

Only the study, the kitchen and bathroom, and the studio Sebastian used to practice in had been electrically wired. Their home had been built at the turn of the century by a wealthy historian. An exact replica of a fourteenth century castle, though with modern plumbing. Sebastian was reluctant to electrically wire the rest of the castle, finding candlelight, as he stated so frequently, much more romantic. Always the romantic, Scarlet thought.

I give you the moon and the stars. My blood runs through your veins and my life is yours...

Words spoken a year ago by Sebastian as he promised to love her forever in their vampire eternity. And Scarlet loved him with every inch of her being.

They were literally soul mates.

But lately the desire to discover more had begun to make Scarlet question Sebastian’s lifestyle. He had seemed so normal when she first met him. A vampire? Suppose so. But not at all like the fictional vampires she had read about. He could endure the sun’s heat, look at crosses, even enter churches. As could she. Besides drinking blood they both led such normal, mundane lives.

Where were the fantastic vampire powers? Could she fly? She’d yet to see Sebastian take to wing, or feel herself suddenly weightless come a gust of strong wind. What about changing into bats and all that Dracula stuff? Wasn’t any of it true?

The fact she walked this earth as an immortal creature most believed only myth had to mean something. Scarlet was determined to find out what that something was. And until she did, she would not feel completely whole.

“Scarlet?”

Sebastian’s leather boots clicked across the stone floor. Her lover’s dark eyes searched hers as he drew her into his arms. She pressed tight against his body, divining his growing desires in the form of an uncontrollable moan from Sebastian. “Finished already?”

“Just taking a break. Thought I’d take advantage of Gary’s broken guitar string and come find you.” He stepped backward, guiding them both through their opened bedroom door.