The Vampires' Last Lover (Dying of the Dark Vampires Book 1) (38 page)

“I must be on my way, Roderick, but I would like you to come for dinner this evening. I have the pleasure of the company of Captain and Mrs. Braithwaite and I also expect Marianne’s attendance.” I had the misfortune to catch him wince, a sure sign he was reluctant to attend.

“It will be a benefit for the Captain to see our solidarity. He has put a lot of business our way and I would like it to remain that way,” I continued firmly.

Reluctantly, he agreed and, without word, went back to his meticulous, self taught accountancy.

There was little for me to do in such a state of limbo, no more than wait in anticipation for the files whilst I twiddled my thumbs. I would hasten to explain I had infinite patience
if
I set my mind to it, with the exception of a situation that occurred in the year 1555. I had made the long journey to Salon de Provence in southern France, to search for the author of a much talked about book, Les Prophecies. Word reached me he supposedly could see into the future. Like many I was desperate to have an audience with the infamous Michel de Nostredame. I traveled to him with determination, unsure he would give me an audience, but nonetheless resilient. It was simple, I wanted him to foresee
my
future. I languished long enough in lodgings in Salon de Provence, my patience torn to the limit, when I was informed by one of his associates he had been summoned with urgency to Catherine de Medici, Queen consort to King Henry II. She wanted him to make birth charts predictions for her children. My patience stretched beyond reason, as he was to be gone far too long for me to wait and I never again found the opportunity as the months passed. I did think to visit him again, but word came he died after predicting his own death the previous evening. I had, since that time, read all of his written prophecies, coming to greatly admire the man Nostredame, often wondering if he could have seen into my future what he would have made of it. It was not to be the first, nor last time, did I seek guidance, on occasions, seeing those who supposedly had the gift of foretelling the future. Many were to tell me only that I would have considerable wealth, marry and have one son. He will be a blessing and a chip off the old block! I am still waiting and, with each new century, I doubted what was told would ever come to pass.

n explosion shook the ground—maybe the world. Senses returned, and with them… pain.

A blinding light carried me to the unknown. Commotion circled me, confused me. Searing pain swept through and over my body. Between matted straggles of dark hair, I watched a thick cloud of gray dust settle on the strange scene in front of me. When I tried to move, I felt heavy… battered… ripped apart.

People yelled.

“What the fuck?” said a man wearing a yellow hat, while brushing debris off his chest and arms.

“Who is this asshole?” said another, picking himself off the ground, holding the same type of hat, his body also covered in dirt.

With their looks of disgust pinned on me, I realized immediately I was the asshole they spoke of. With all the strength I could muster, I unlatched my fingers from the mane of a white horse I lay upon and straightened up.

Excalibur.

I didn’t know how I knew the horse’s name—I just did. But who was I? Where was I? And why did I feel bashed and beaten?

A cool breeze sailed over my skin, alerting me to my nakedness. The light pressure of the wind caused me to grimace and moan. I tore my gaze from the seemingly confused and angry group of men and looked upon myself. Through the filth covering hard muscle, bright crimson gashes were visible. With a movement that caused me more grief, I brushed dirt-crusted lines of blood off one arm and blinked dust from my eyes.

Excalibur lifted his head and neighed. Particles of dirt slid down his coat. His action caused sharp pains to shoot into my groin, pressed against the horse’s warm back.

One of the men broke from the agitated group and shifted closer. He stopped a few feet from me, gave the horse a look of unease, then looked up. A layer of dirt covered his deeply tanned body and filled in the squint lines around his eyes. “Hey, are you drunk?”

Was I drunk? After brief consideration, I decided I was not drunk, although I wished I were and that this scene was all a bad dream.

The guy spit to the left of him. “You got a name?”

The horse gave a soft nicker and turned, facing me in another direction. Instinctively, I flattened my hand on its neck to calm it. In front of me, near the edge of the debris-littered road, a white ornate sign, framed in gold, hung from two posts.
Welcome Home to Solomon Brandt Estates,
written in black script, stuck out at me from inside the frame.

“The idiot doesn’t know his own name,” belted another voice from the crowd.

“I-I’m… Solomon Brandt.” The weak rasp of my voice sounded unfamiliar. My seared throat begged for liquid.

Laughter rang throughout the circle of bystanders that formed around Excalibur and me.

“Yeah, sure you are. And I’m Abraham fucking Lincoln,” said someone else.

More laughter.

Their jesting didn’t divert my focus, however. My gaze was plastered to the name on the sign. My name. I was certain of it.

“Hey, Frank, did you call the cops?”

“Yeah, they’re on their way.

The guy called Frank removed his white hat, similar to the yellow ones, and raked a hand through his flaxen hair. “You’re gonna pay for the damage to that sewer line, asshole.”

After managing to work a wad of spit, flavored with dirt and blood, down my parched throat, I turned toward him and answered in a stronger voice. “What is a sewer line?”

The grin Frank sported was a sign of trouble—I knew that much.

The muscles in my chest twitched under the lacerations, adding to the sting. Excalibur pawed at the flat, strange-looking ground. Even though I sat upon a horse, I could tell I was a good six inches taller than the guy glaring up at me, and broader. Although the muscles in his arms bulged from whatever he had been doing, I somehow knew I could snuff out his life with one blow, in my best form. But I wasn’t in good form, and I had to find out why.

A squeal like nothing I’d ever heard before pierced my eardrums. My mount crouched on its hind legs. With a white-knuckled grip on the horse’s mane, and my knees pressed hard against its sides, I clung to the beast beneath me, as his front hooves lifted and his upper body reared.

The screeching grew louder, and my heartbeat drummed against my chest wall, as I fought to hang on to Excalibur—my lifeline.

The crowd parted, and through the break burst a shiny, white, motorized vehicle, with swirling red and blue lights on top.

With a jolt to my entire body, the horse landed on all fours.

A man and a woman, wearing some sort of identical uniform, exited the vehicle and swaggered toward me. My gaze drifted over the strange-looking couple, until it landed on a handgun in a holster fastened to the woman’s belt.

Powerless as I was, my urge to flee the lynch mob suddenly grew stronger. With amused expressions, the uniformed couple stopped a few feet from my mount, closing the gap in the circle. As the man opened his mouth to speak, I leaned forward and spoke low into Excalibur’s ear.