Hidden (Marchwood Vampire Series #1) (35 page)

During the
first year, when Harold had returned from Turkey with the sleeping
children, he had been approached by a firm of London solicitors who
had offered their services. He had an odd feeling they knew
something of his affairs, but he had politely declined their offer.
He already dealt with a local firm whose services were perfectly
adequate.

Now, after
Havva Sahin’s letter, he could no longer afford to let things
slide. Harold had an urgent desire to put everything on a more
legal footing. He did not wish to deal with his local firm, so he
dug out Mr Fairchild’s business card. The London solicitors were
called Hamilton Blythe and he set up a meeting for the following
week.

Mr Fairchild
had been very forthcoming. He seemed to take the words out of
Harold’s mouth before he spoke. Yes, it really was all most
satisfactory. He could die now without the worry that he had not
done everything he possibly could to ensure the welfare of his
charges. Of course, he had not mentioned the children, but
Fairchild seemed to know he had some hidden agenda. Even so the
solicitor had been discreet and had not asked any awkward
questions.

They would
begin to search for any living member of his or Victoria’s family.
No matter how distantly related, the Swinton estate would be willed
to them. If he died before they located anybody, it would be held
in trust for one hundred years, giving them that period of time to
find somebody. After this time, if no relative was traced, the
money from his estate would be given in its entirety to a
children’s charity and the property itself would be left to
rot.

To ensure
Hamilton Blythe did everything within their power to trace his
family, Harold decided to award them a generous bonus if they were
successful. But with a condition: For the relative to inherit the
estate and for the solicitors to earn their bonus, the relative
must live in Marchwood House for a minimum of ten years, after
which time they could do what they liked with it – sell it if they
wished.

In this way,
Harold hoped they would discover the hidden room and help find a
cure for the children.

In the
meantime, Refet and his family would be caretakers of the house and
paid a generous salary. They would pass on the legacy of
guardianship to their descendants. As long as they upheld their
side of the bargain, they would have the right to remain in the
Lodge House.

Harold had
thought long and hard about the possibility of leaving the entire
estate to Refet and his family, but despite everything, he was at
heart, a traditionalist and Marchwood House had been in his family
for generations. He wanted family to inherit.

*

Over the
years, Harold’s face and body grew older. His hair greyed, the skin
on his face sagged and developed a criss-cross of lines and
crevices. He became frail and hunched, his movements awkward and
slow. But the faces and bodies of his demon children stayed
youthful. No age blemishes or wrinkles sullied their still
countenances. Neither laughter nor worry line marred their beauty.
They remained unchanged, unmoving, unconscious.

Harold finally
succumbed to old age in 1922 and died in his sleep aged ninety one.
In his final days, he did not wish to be apart from his children
and so slept in the hidden room where he spent his last remaining
weeks. He wrote in his journal by candlelight and he talked to the
occupants of the large wooden crates as though they could hear his
every word.

After his
death, he wanted Refet to seal him into the room with his sleeping
children. He did not know what would happen in the future. Whether
a long-lost relative would be found to pick up the threads of this
strange saga or if strangers would take over his house.

A few days
before he died, he summoned enough strength to lock and bolt
himself inside the room. And so he finally breathed his last breath
and closed his eyes to join his wife and friends on the other side.
Refet built a false wall in front of the original one and both
stayed intact for ninety years.

Harold’s body
remained in its bed, gradually decaying to nothing but bones. The
five children lay untouched for decades in their comatose state,
unaware of years passing and times changing. Shrouded in darkness,
stillness and silence, they were together, but cut off, alone.

*

One day,
Alexandre’s unconscious mind felt a change. He still slept, locked
inside himself, but part of his brain noticed a minute shift - a
lightening in his surroundings. A freshness and sweetness of air
which turned his black universe into a brief warm moment. It left
as quickly as it had come. But soon the feelings returned more
often and he sensed he was less alone.

Still he
didn’t stir, he remained a prisoner trapped in his century-long
coma, only half emerging from the deep, through dark layers of
stiff unconsciousness.

One black
night, he sensed the sweetness so close he could almost touch it.
He felt the sweetness come to him. It flooded his body and infused
his limbs. It gave him a brief moment of sharp clarity, but the
feeling left him as quickly as it had come. He had a muted vision
of himself trapped beneath a thick layer of ice, hammering and
shouting in silence, powerless to break free. Without coherent
thought or feeling, he experienced brief flashes of changes around
him. But for most of the time, only blackness.

Suddenly, in a
light-shocked instant, the darkness splintered, banished by a
crippling brightness. Too much of it. Unbearable pain. A thousand
volts of electricity through his body. He was on fire. Burning from
the inside out. He could not open his eyes for behind his eyelids
was a light so evil and bright, he felt it would sear his brain and
blind his very soul.

Exposed, he
could see no dim, dark haven of escape. The heat was intolerable.
Through the overwhelming pain, he felt the solidity of his body
again. He had to force himself up and out of this chamber of
torture, but the light had blinded him.

He used his
base animal senses to throw himself out of his container. He
dragged himself across sharp stones of fire and ice, willing
himself to flee from the white heat. It took all of his diminished
power to subdue his own body and order it under control.

He crawled for
what seemed like an eternity until he finally found himself away
from the glare of death and in the relief-giving gloom of a cool
place. As he lay, exhausted and in agony, he felt as though his
body had been turned inside out. He retched, but his throat and
mouth were dry. From the distance, he heard a voice, like a buzzing
fly, getting closer.

The sound grew
louder, turning from a buzz, to a hum, to a voice, to a scream and
when he looked up he saw a beautiful, but terrible angel devil
creature rushing towards him with a gleaming axe. Terror numbed his
brain. He scrabbled to get away from the approaching demon, using
his weakened limbs to try to escape.

It was
difficult to gain any purchase on the smooth stone floor. He
skittered backwards as far as he could go. Trapped against a wall.
Cornered. He had to do something before the creature brought its
axe down upon him. He begged for his life.

‘
Non!’ he cried and then he realised the creature had not
screamed at him in his mother tongue of French, but in another
language. He recognised it. Not Latin or Greek. Not the language of
the Gods, but ... English.

Her voice was
rasping and guttural, not a dialect he was familiar with. She was
enraged with him, but he had no idea why. Had he done something
wrong? He did not know her, did he? He would never forget an
encounter with such a magnificent creature and yet, there was
something familiar he could not quite put his finger on.

Her legs were
clad in black and she wore an indecently short dress with great
leather buckled boots. She had dark hair in a plain style, but her
pale eyes flashed like a she-wolf.

He thought
quickly and amended his words, ‘No! Please … Je vous en supplie! I
beg of you!’ His voice sounded strange to himself, weak and hoarse.
He knew the essence of himself, but he had difficulty remembering
who he actually was - his name, his status, his life.

Suddenly, he
saw the glint of metal and heard the swish of the axe as it fell,
but strangely he felt no fear, felt no pain. He caught the weapon
easily and now held it in his hands. He had stopped it dead. It had
not harmed him.

It was then he
realised who she looked like. He remembered a name and a face from
his past.

‘
Leonora? Is it you? He shook his head. ‘Non, ce n’est pas
toi.’

She looked at
him with fear in her eyes, pulling desperately at the axe. But
Alexandre did not need to exert himself at all in order to keep
hold of it. She screamed something at him, but he could not make
out the words.

‘
Why did you attack me?’ he asked, starting to recover. He
still felt weakened and in pain, but his body had stopped
shuddering and jerking. He was more in control.

‘
Why d’you think?’ she spat the words at him, still tugging
uselessly at the axe.

He suddenly
had a blinding flash of realisation and remembered. He was at the
house of Harold Swinton. He was in England. And then, the true
horror of what had happened hit like a sledgehammer all over again.
He was no longer human. He was a vampire.

As soon as he
remembered this, the thirst came upon him. The girl creature who
stood above him, smelled like a heavenly angel and he would have to
be strong to resist her. She spoke to him and he thought he heard
her say that this was her house.

‘
This is not your house!’ he exclaimed. Had something happened
to Harold and to his family? His family! Where were his brother and
sister? ‘Why are you here?’ he asked.

‘
I don’t have to explain anything to you!’ she retorted. ‘You
need to tell me who you are.’ She still tugged at the axe, staring
at his face. He looked back at her in confusion but he was no
longer afraid.

‘
If I release this weapon, will you refrain from your attack?
It is too exhausting to talk whilst you are trying to kill
me.’

He saw her
think for a moment. She nodded her head in assent and so he let go
of the axe. He saw she still gripped it tightly, but she was true
to her word and kept it lowered.

Alexandre sat
up and put the palms of his hands together, interlocking his
fingers and bowing his head.

‘
I must think,’ he said to himself, dizzy with the scent of
her. Then he looked up and stared into the girl creature’s eyes.
‘The others? They are …’

‘
There are four others like you,’ she snapped. ‘They’re still
down in the cellar.’

‘
The cellar? Bien. This is good, I think. You are a strange
girl, no?’

‘
Strange!
Me
? Yeah, that’s a good one. What are
you
? What are you doing
here?’

He smiled at
her outrage. ‘Very well, I am tired, but we shall sit somewhere
together and I will tell you about myself. Yes. I will tell you my
story and you will tell me yours.’

He had to
resist his thirst and speak to this girl to find out what had
happened. For he realised she was no angel or demon, but merely a
strange and beautiful human made of flesh and of … blood.

Chapter
Twenty One

*

‘
Two thousand and eleven? Two thousand and eleven! But that is
more than a century.’ He choked out the words. ‘I have been asleep
for one hundred and … one hundred and thirty years.’

Madison
watched as several emotions disrupted his perfect face. He seemed
pretty gutted, but she still didn’t trust him.

‘
What of you?’ he continued, his voice stilted with emotion.
‘Does this house now belong to you and your family? Harold must be
dead of course. Poor dear Harold. What a sad and wretchedly lonely
life he must have led.’

‘
I’ll listen to your story and then you and your vampire
family need to get out of my house.’

They stared at
each other for a moment.

‘
Very well,’ he said. ‘I will tell you my story and if you
then still wish me to leave, I will abide by your
decision.’

Madison
nodded, briefly. She found it hard to look at him without catching
her breath at his beauty.

He said his
name was Alexandre Chevalier. He told her a condensed version of
his life and how he had come to be asleep in her house and, despite
herself, she listened in fascination. If he was to be believed, he
deserved her sympathy, not her fear and anger. Her emotions
skittered all over the place. Could she really kick him out if he’d
suffered all that? But then again, he could just be a really good
liar.

‘
And now you have heard how I came to be here in this place,
in this time, won’t you please tell me a little of your own
life.’

She paused.
She knew she should just tell him to leave, but part of her wanted
him to stay. His voice, his face … He was mesmerising. Alright.
She’d just talk to him for a while longer. She needed more time to
make up her mind.

‘
My name’s Madison Greene. I live here with my brother, Ben
and I’m pretty sure the Harold you told me about, is Harold
Swinton, my ancestor.’

‘
But that is incredible! You are Harold’s relative? A
descendant. This means you are related to Leonora and Freddie. So
that is why I thought you were she. You look so alike.’

‘
Leonora,’ she repeated the name. ‘Yeah. Ben, my brother, he
said she looked like me.’