|
IT HAD BEEN some years since he, Jude Durrell, the renown viol maker, had seen the vivacious Charity Renwick, Jude mused, licking the edges of his fangs and contemplating another hunt as he eyed her. Jude had left on the very next ship out of New York Harbour bound for London, only two days after his encounter with her at the Smyth’s annual masked ball one cool night in October. With haste he had packed a few articles, employed a manager to mind his New York viol shop, and took up once again in his native London, escaping any gossip of his pursuit of Miss Renwick, and the strange illness that soon befell her that autumn when the leaves were turning golden and scarlet all over Manhattan. He recalled the events leading up to his sudden departure and the delights of the masque he attended several evenings prior, as he eyed the still lovely lady now, at this picnic given on her lawn with all the best New York couples present.
Waiters with trays of wine and spirits whisked by as more kitchen staff laid out cold dishes of fresh salmon, imported cheeses, luscious fruits, and a large, stunning cake, decorated with sugary mermaids and ships, waiting to be sampled. Jude wandered to the edge of the gathering and sipped his wine, observing the scene before him as Charity bounced from guest to guest, especially the men. She was obviously very aware that her figure and wanton demeanour were on full display under her summer dress, blue muslin with white lace trim, low cut nearly down to her nipples, She was every bit as beautiful since last he saw her, those few years ago. He took a moment to relive his previous acquaintance with her, a past that had never come to fruition. Nevertheless, the memory had continued to taunt him.
He had been the only white domino at the masque. No one would recognize him as Jude Durrell, he was sure, as he adjusted his oyster white satin cloak, and dusted some bluish wig powder from his shoulders, as he seldom wore a wig and never a blue powdered one at that. He carefully placed a spotless white tricorne over his periwig after tying his mask securely in back, ensuring there was no chance of it falling off or being easily undone by a lady’s curious fingers. Being recognised could cost him everything of his excellent life, his rank in society and the pleasures he had as the finest viol maker in London, and now, the American colonies where he was enjoying his life and work in New York. All of the best families consulted him when preparing their salon style gatherings at which often he was asked to perform, as well. It was a station in life with much gratification for a tradesman and musician, yet there was little chance in such circles to enjoy their daughters, such as the delectable Charity Renwick.
Charity had appeared early at the masque. He remembered stealing behind a large fluted column in the hallway and watching as she rippled back and forth through the parlour of the Smyth house in a Greek gown of spun silver and jet trim, which hugged her just beneath her unrestrained breasts. Though she was masked, just like everyone there, Jude recognised her slim figure and golden hair. Only the week before at the de Peyster’s ball, Charity had entreated him to meet her here, this night, but to her open dismay, he had refused her. Now present without a man to entertain her, she seemed to lapse into a pensive mood as an array of gentlemen guests sauntered through the front door, dressed as wild buccaneers, exotic hussars or typical black dominoes. Jude smiled as he recollected her excitement at the de Peysters when she kissed him under the winding staircase of that sumptuous home. Focusing on her at this masque, he watched as she unconsciously smoothed her gossamer bodice and he saw the hardness of her nipples beneath. Jude fantasised about having his hands roving over that dress, certain that if he did not approach her shortly, she would gain libidinous satisfaction with one of the other male guests. He smiled as he recalled this wayward young woman and her obvious desire for such activity.
‘There are many here I do not recognize, nor they, me,’ she announced to another young lady disguised as a footman, in tight, slick satin pants, a powdered white wig and men’s black boots. ‘Sarah, we shall have some fun, no doubt,’ she chuckled. ‘Tis only a masque, meant for frolic, no harm intended towards anyone or their reputation.’ The two young women had gone off arm in arm to find glasses of wine and perhaps some male company.
From his view behind the pillar, he had seen Charity viewing with fire in her eyes, a diversion on the staircase in the main hallway, of a masked Julius Caesar examining the ankles of a nearby haymaker. The rustically attired lady tittered with delight while his hand wandered beneath her skirts for all those passing by to notice, which some did. Charity avidly watched their show on the stairs with increased impatience. The haymaker leaned back, sighed and giggled still louder at the games her Caesar was playing under her skirts, which were now raised far above her ankles, then her knees. If he, Jude, did not intercede quickly he had no doubt that Charity, herself, would garner the attentions of this emperor, and invite his remaining hand into the recesses of her goddess gown to have him continue his wanderings there.
With short, mincing steps, so unlike his usual gait, he, the white domino, had proceeded towards her. Jude allowed his eyes to wander boldly over the young lady’s fluttery gown, imaging the willing charms which lay beneath. ‘Do I know you, sir?’ she asked when he stood before her. The white domino shook his head in silence as he perused her costume. ‘What do you think of my costume?’ Charity sauntered closer to him and smiled, but he still did not answer. ‘I am the Goddess of the Moon, Luna, or Selene, if you wish me to be Greek instead of Roman. Which would you prefer, sir?’ she canted, determined to induce an answer from him and recognize him through his voice, but he refused to speak, or even smile at her. Jude only gave her a slight bow.
After a few waves of her fan she gave off trying and seemed ready to decide that he could just as well be the man to entertain her privately that evening. ‘I have seen these lips before,’ she said, touching the edge of her fan to the corner of his mouth. Jude’s hard lips, though made-up with a dandy’s rouge for the masque, remained stern. Charity seemed to take a moment to imagine their effect on her breasts and thighs, before lifting a red and yellow Dutch tulip from a nearby vase, and swept it softly across the domino’s lips. A brief smile of understanding passed between them, Jude careful not to expose his teeth, which were beginning to grow in anticipation of a bloody feast. She ascended the staircase, carefully stepping over Caesar and his happy haymaker.
Momentarily the domino followed her upstairs. He would search for the tulip that she would have tied around one of the chamber door handles to identify it as her hideaway. Finding that flower, Jude opened the door.
Moonlight spilled into the room from the long, arched window which ran from ceiling to floor, an open wall to the heavens for all the night stars to peer into and observe the minute stage and players within. Would the sparkling audience pass judgment on whatever took place, or merely enjoy the one-act play? Charity sat on the edge of a green brocade lady chair, while her toes rested lightly on the corner of a matching footstool. He had entered without knocking, and gazed at her under the moonlight that fell full and radiant upon her willing young figure.
Jude was mesmerised by her refined, yet wanton beauty, and his recollection of her indecent desire for him the week before. Dare he reveal himself to her now? He had been careful not to speak to anyone in order to keep his identity a secret. Patrician girls such as Mistress Renwick were usually kept well-guarded, with little chance of a mere musician such as himself getting close enough to ravage them without being found out. He must not be found out.
Charity would make a fitting otherworldly mate for him. He could enliven her with the thirst, as he had once been, albeit against his will. Together they could enjoy the world of mankind as well as the cravings of their undead flesh. Yes, he could feed on her patrician blue-blood and in turn feed her his unholy blood, teaching her to hunger as he did for the red substance of living humans. Jude desired a mate, not for love, for he had none to offer in his undead state, but wished a companion for the simple need of having someone of his own kind at hand. All creatures seek their own kind by instinct, he justified, if for no other reason. Charity would be his choice. He would marry her, and they would appear as content as any living man and wife to all of New York.
Jude placed his fingertip on her jugular vein. It thrilled him to feel the pulse of the warm fluid as it ran fleetingly along its path, down into her magnificent throat, outlining in blue-violet its map beneath her smooth skin. He bent over her and kissed it, his tongue tasting her blood through her flesh. But his first bite of rapture must remain unseen. He gently pushed her back into the chair and pulled her skirts upward over her thighs and belly. He knelt in front of her and slid her legs apart, pulling his white cloak over her like great angel wings, and kissed the uppermost part of her thighs. He made only one tiny bite, barely large enough to allow two liquid jewels of ruby red to escape onto his lips. The drops tasted of thick, sweet cream and tart cherries, her vitality in utmost danger of oozing out into the undead man who knelt before her. Jude longed for another taste, yet did not indulge himself. Her transformation from human to vampire must be slow, and even her sickness into death, smooth and tranquilising, not brutal as his had been. There must be no attention drawn to this maker of fine viols. Mr. Durrell must never be suspected in connection with unexpected fevers or illnesses, let alone fiendish murders.
He would drain her ever so tenderly and slowly, night by night, visiting her while she slept, and piercing her thighs again and again where no one would ever see the signs of his ravages. The young woman would become ill in a few days but not terribly so—only pale and a little infirm. In a week’s time she would become bedridden and feverish. Physicians would be sent for and insist on bloodletting as a cure, but Jude would not endure such barbarism. He would drain her ever so quietly one night before they had the chance to degrade her creamy flesh with their flames, lancets and leeches. He would hold her close and deplete her of every drop of her rich sustenance until she expired, only to awaken into a bride of his making, married to him with a taste of his own blood from a bite to his wrist. She would feel his dark heart and know him as her creator, while all of fashionable society would see her only as Charity Renwick, who very luckily, recovered from a dire illness.
Jude could not resist one more drop. His hunger deepened, and he felt driven to feed heartily, yet held back lest he impede the process of his own plan. It would be comfortable to have a mate, since it was now his destiny to continue his existence by feeding on human blood, he mused while giving her the enjoyment she desired. He then discreetly covered her again with her silvery gown and departed, leaving her in a swoon in her chair with one final kiss to her limp fingertips. Soon she would be his.
A star dropped across the indigo sky, falling with a burst of brightness, a cutting spark of light that seemed to burst through the long arch of the window into Charity’s lap, illuminating her face, now strangely emblazoned with a silent malevolence. Her eyes were closed and unaware as her suitor exited. Jude shut the door on the ensorcelled lady and her twinkling audience of constellations.
Departing the masque and disappearing into the night, the scene with Charity had driven him into an uncontrollable hunger. Instead of going home, Jude had detoured around several of the more common taverns near the docks. A strumpet in rosy silk tatters called out to him from her shadowy post near a tavern door. ‘If no one cares for thee, come to me,’ she cried, barker style. Her husky voice carried beyond the streets and echoed mightily over the sea waters, bouncing her advertising slogan off tavern and warehouse walls. Jude responded with a nod, moving towards her. He hastily followed her into a convenient lair beneath a creaking wooden ramp leading from the street to the second floor of a warehouse that smelled of coal and pitch. The experienced lady of the night made no preliminary speeches or gestures, but accepted the coin the domino gave her, and without grace, lifted her skirts nearly to her waist, leaning against the wall in expectation of his need. She turned her face away towards the view of several similarly occupied warehouse walls and wharf piles. A beam of moonlight fell upon her neck, reddened and furrowed from a hard life, but sturdy and full of the warm blood which her present customer so badly wanted.
Pressing close to her, he kissed her there on the throat once, and then bit into her, full force, and sucked up mouthful after mouthful of her blood, stunning the woman into a stupor. She faded and died as quickly as a fly killed with yesterday’s newspaper, with no time for fear or pleading. Jude left her flopped in a pink pile under the warehouse ramp, to go unnoticed until daylight, when her ill-used body would be carried off to a common grave with little interest at the how or why of her death. ‘If no one cares for thee, beware of me,’ whispered Jude, creeping away undetected and unconcerned.
The following night Jude had again assumed the part of the white domino, carefully masking his face before stealing out into the small hours for his tryst with Charity. The spotless costume concealed him well, as it had the previous night, and he confidently departed into the quiet city streets.
The Renwick’s house was newly built and splendid. It stood amidst a square of garden area on Broadway, just north of Trinity Churchyard, where Jude’s undead corpse had once been laid to rest. He flew past the church, barely a glance or thought of his night spent buried in that grave, but hurried on to Charity’s house to initiate her into the same fate. He passed no one in the street, as not a soul would be found loitering about the wealthy residential area at this late hour, for any such presence would seem suspect. Jude’s pearly cloak flickered in the night breeze along with the sweet smell of decaying leaves as he stood in front of her home, wondering which upper floor window led to his lover’s bed chamber. He unlatched the wrought iron garden gate and walked to the north side of the house where he could more carefully survey the upper windows.
Parlour drapes were left open in the first two. Not there. The third window was too tiny, no doubt only a small sitting room lay behind these panes. Through the fourth he could make out the silhouette of a jug and wash basin behind the thin curtains. Perhaps here.
He leaned face-forward onto the side of the house and climbed upwards, gliding smoothly up the wall, like a white moth on a tree trunk towards ripe fruit hanging above. Moving effortlessly and using his fingers for balance, he stopped when he was at eye level with the middle of the window, suspending himself in midair. He easily rested there, the thin night air his only platform. One glance inside revealed the portly figure of a woman beached awkwardly on her bed, belly up and rasping as she breathed deeply in her slumber. The elder Mistress Renwick.
Through the last window on that side of the house he could make out a corner of a bed, but could not see who occupied it. He moved around the corner to the back of the house, his toes and fingers touching only lightly on the outer wall as he crept sideways to the next window. This back window was open and completely uncovered by curtains or shades. Across the room on the bed he saw an unclothed leg, long and well-formed, dangling off the side. Charity. Jude licked at his teeth and remembered the sweet taste of her blood. His saliva sizzled, animal-like, over his burning tongue and lips.
He rapped softly at the window and called to her as he waited hovering in the air, staring through her window and into her bed. His gaze poured into her room and enveloped her naked leg, unprotected from the coverlet, which lay in a heap upon the bed. A foot twitched, one knee bent, and a pair of firm breasts and throat emerged through the faint light, sitting up over a fallen bundle of sheets. Charity’s face and flaxen curls appeared as a sleepy apparition, her cheeks blushing unseen under his percipient eye. Mechanically she walked towards the window and stood before him, naked and entranced. Jude reached with his fingers through the open window and lightly stroked her hip and arm.
The sound of doves on the wing made the youthful sleepwalker start and lean outward. She looked up towards their nests under the eaves, but it was only the domino’s cloak wavering now and then in the night zephyrs. Charity grabbed his cloak by a corner and walked backwards towards her bed, Jude’s cape becoming a satin leash in her hands. He floated over the floor and fell like a feather into her bed and over her, hushedly shielding her under his satin plumage.
His teeth again pierced her thighs, and again she displayed her rapture, her limbs quaking with pleasure, and she mentioned a ringing peel of bells shooting through her ears, as her unearthly lover lapped up her blood, her nectar, and tasted her sweet young life flowing into him. Afterward, she lay quietly as the clandestine viol maker lifted himself up, departing as he had arrived through the window, and drifted airily to the ground. He would come again the same way on the next night, and the next after that, until he had taken so much of her blood and life that she would die beneath him.
He imagined Charity perishing under his touch, how she would grow cold, and he would lie with her until she awoke as another creature entirely, undead and his desired mate. How eager she had been to sample his masculine skills that evening of the de Peyster’s party. Since she could not have him then, she willingly allowed herself to be seduced by the unknown white domino at the Smyth’s masque. And if the domino had not appeared, she would surely have satisfied herself with another party-goer. Jude smirked a little as these thoughts picked at his mind. The girl was depraved enough already, and as for becoming a being of his making, he would have to give her little instruction in the procurement and digestion of human blood. By day he would lead his renowned life as Jude Durrell, with the lovely Charity, his fashionable young bride. By night they would participate in nuptial rituals unknown to humans, and he would enjoy sharing those acts with one of his own kind, a vampire couple enticing their prey and feasting together in satisfaction.
The lingering thought of them delighting in this undead lust also disturbed the memory of his once human sensibilities. Such viciousness and turpitude had once been beyond his understanding. Even as the vile creature he now was, he felt shame in it, recalling frequently what it had been like to be human, to have a code of conduct towards others, a man with intellect to protect his status in society and reputation in business. His unmasking as a vampire, that damnable word, would mean the end of his esteemed position, the end of his comfortable life. Being exposed as a monster without a soul he would be nothing but a hideous cadaver, animate but not alive, and doomed to live insect-like at night, hovering secretly around the living in disguise, culling his prey. No longer, and never again would he be able to call himself Jude Durrell, master builder of the most exquisite viols money could buy. He found himself in careful consideration of these ideas more and more frequently, ever since the desire for Charity had arisen, but these thoughts must never consume him.
Two more such pensive nights were spent in the same way with his alluring victim, who continued to grow weaker and more somnambulant. He was certain she did not realize what had overcome her, nor even that he, the white domino, was there with her. She was close to succumbing to death, and soon his plan would be complete. In passing he had overheard two women with their husbands while in his viol shop, speaking of Charity’s headaches of late, and her indisposition for society. ‘Such is her well-deserved fate for being so smug and wayward,’ a lanky woman with a broad grin and a space between her front teeth scoffed, remarking on what she held as Charity’s moral delinquency. Jude looked blankly at the woman, whose grin grew ever broader under his scrutiny.
‘Mr. Durrell to visit Mistress Charity,’ lisped the spindly butler to Charity’s mother, who sat busily sorting through a chocolate box with her pudgy and bejewelled fingers. She managed to delay placing a piece in her mouth just long enough to greet Jude, politely offering him one, and confirming her daughter’s recent spell of dizzying headaches. She would be fine very soon, the elder Renwick lady was certain, for neither the surgeon nor the physician had found anything wrong with her that some quiet bed rest would not cure. Charity was not so very ill, they had assured her.
‘Please, you must visit her, Mr. Durrell. You will find her at her toilette in her dressing room with my lady’s maid.’ She smiled at Jude, her fat cheeks puffing out and squeezing a dozen long crow’s feet upward at the corners of her squinty eyes. She called out for her butler as he was leaving the room. ‘Two cups of cocoa, Jones,’ she said, holding up two fingers to her man. ‘Mr. Durrell will be joining our daughter upstairs.’
‘Thank you, Mistress Renwick,’ Jude said, bowing as she dismissed him with a nod of her head, her mouth already full of chocolate.
When he reached the third floor, he heard Charity’s voice and another woman’s, the maid’s, no doubt, from the end of the short hallway. He advanced toward the dressing room and was about to announce his arrival with a light knock on the partially opened door, when he heard Charity’s drawn and lithesome pronunciation of the words, ‘a white domino.’ Jude’s hand froze at the door and he listened in dismay as she repeated the adventures of the past several nights to her maid. He could not believe his ears. He had thought her to be in a completely hypnotic state during his ravishing of her. The maid, titillated, also sighed several times and giggled alternately as her mistress spewed forth every salacious detail of their hours together. He cautiously glimpsed into the room to see Charity leaning back luxuriously in her chair, her fingers lifting her morning gown well above her naked and open thighs, and the excited lady’s maid kneeling between them for a viewing of Jude’s secret bites.
Even today while standing at the picnic, Jude remembered the sharp, hot surge of disbelief that had blasted through him that morning a few years earlier. What had he been thinking? That reckless girl would surely expose him through her carelessness. Why had he not realised that a girl with such a nature, greedy for lust and a penchant for bragging, was exactly the sort he should stay clear of? Not for a moment longer did he entertain any thoughts of her as a mate. He had moved away from her door and quietly descended the staircases like a feather spiralling downward in a circular draft, treading lightly, no, not treading at all, but gliding past the open parlour doors. Charity’s mother had caught sight of him leaving and choked mightily on both her words and her chocolate while trying to inquire of his hasty departure.
Jude stood pondering these events of old as his eyes followed Charity, prattling to the men in her garden as their wives looked on in mistrust, the scent of midsummer flowers wafting in a faint breeze. What would he do now, finding himself once again in her presence, her beauty as striking as ever, as she glanced and smiled at him from time to time. He stifled his desire as she approached, running his tongue over his fangs to make sure they were contained, and not growing as a man’s erection does when anticipating its favoured act. ‘Mistress Renwick,’ the musician said, bowing when she stood in front of him.
‘It’s von Brant, now,’ she corrected Jude with a wrinkle of her nose, like a cat purring at its cornered prey before pouncing. She waved to a sullen-looking man with thinning brown hair and a ruddy complexion. ‘My German baron,’ she said.
‘Indeed, pardon me,’ Jude said, taking her fingers in a light kiss. ‘I still think of you as the lovely and innocent young lady that kissed me at the de Peyster’s ball under the staircase.’ Charity led him to a pair of chairs at the edge of the garden behind several tall shrubs, but Jude was careful not to stare too deeply into her round, azure eyes.
‘So you remembered!’ she chuckled. ‘That was the last time I saw you, after you had inspired us all with passion during your performance of … what was it?’
‘It was a Bach sonata for harpsichord and viola da gamba, my dear. How kind of you to remember.’
‘I often wondered why you had not visited me shortly afterward when I lay sick in bed for some days. I understood you to have suddenly departed for London.’ Charity’s eyes darted over Jude’s. ‘Your eyes are the colour of old gold,’ she said, playfully leaning closer to him.
Tempted to kiss her full on the lips, Jude instead turned his head and said, ‘As I recall, I did try to visit you, but your dear mother thought it imprudent and asked me to come a few days later after you had recovered more.’
Charity closed her eyes briefly and sighed. ‘Indeed, I missed seeing you, but I was still delirious, as I was told, although I do recall several visits from a white domino, but that may have been only a fantasy due to my fever.’ She looked back at Jude, blinking, a simper on her lips, placing her hand on his knee.
Such a bold display of adventure in her remark aroused him, his black heart rumbling furiously inside his chest. So she knew, she had always known. ‘Dearest lady, I cannot enter into such risky conversation. My reputation …’ He ached to ravage her and make her his own mate as he had wished to do years before. With stiff, outstretched fingers, he placed his hand over hers before removing it from his knee.
‘Shall we not complete our tryst, Jude?’ The bare skin of her arms and throat blushed warmly in the sunlight, and he caught the faint, metallic smell of her blood as she leaned back and bent her neck under his chin, laughing.
‘And what of your husband, the good baron?’ Jude intended to turn away, but his desire kept him pinned in his seat, savouring the heat of her body next to his, and the sight of the blue veins in her hands as they reached out and clasped his.
Charity sat up straight again and quietly said, ‘I heard of a trollop who was found dead near the shipyards one morning that October, her neck torn to shreds, blood all over her dress, but not a drop left in her veins.’ She turned and blatantly stared into Jude’s eyes and said. ‘I wonder what creature attacked her, but whatever it was, it must have been a very quick end.’
‘What creature?’ she had asked him. The words reverberated in his ears like the sound of an enormous conch shell telling a furtive tale of murder to a well-seasoned pirate. Perhaps he had been wrong about her, or else she had simply matured in her ability to keep a secret. But he had been right about her depravity being an excellent quality for a mate of his own.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Charity interrupted, her tone changing to her usual sociable repartee, ‘And what of you, Mr. Durrell, have you also found a spouse since our last meeting?’ Her lips curled into another simper and she again moved closer, her arm rubbing his coat sleeve as she awaited his answer.
‘No, I have not,’ he stated simply. ‘I have not found a woman as rare and enticing as you, my dear, and you are already taken.’
She took hold of his arm and whispered into his ear. ‘Perhaps if I were widowed …’ Charity turned to look if there were any other guests nearby before quickly kissing Jude hard on his lips, her hand guiding his over her breasts.
Peals of shrill laughter from behind the shrubs reminded the pair of the ongoing party, and they reluctantly rose to their feet and walked back to the main garden. Two children, blond little girls, rushed up to the baron as he caught a small black and white dog that wriggled to get away. The children held up their arms to receive their pet. ‘Papa, Papa, give us our puppy!’ one child called as their father smiled, returning the dog to her.
Jude looked at Charity who blandly said, ‘My daughters, Faith and Hope.’ She looked pointedly back at him and added. ‘Twins,’ in a short, irritated trill.
Jude watched the father laughing with his daughters as they kissed and mauled the tolerant puppy, who lapped at their hands and faces as he accepted their attentions. Momentarily the baron walked them over to the table and placed a sugar cookie in each of the girls’ hands, the dog wagging its tail and waiting for crumbs to be dropped. ‘Your baron appears to be an excellent father,’ he said to Charity, who only heaved a deep sigh and looked away.
‘I wish to be rid of him,’ she interrupted. ‘Shall we have some wine, then?’ Charity took his arm and led him to the refreshments, nodding to the butler to pour out two goblets of sherry. Taking a sip and waving to several ladies at the other end of the long, well-laden table, she raised her glass with a fleeting smile. ‘Can we do this quickly?’ she asked Jude, pretending to acknowledge other guests as she made her secret plans.
‘I think it is ill-advised,’ he answered after a long pause. ‘Your daughters will need you, my dear.’ She said nothing. ‘Are you certain, Baroness,’ he smiled, ‘that you wish to become the unnatural being that I am?’
‘Yes, I am sure,’ she said between the clenched teeth that still smiled broadly. ‘Rid me the children, too, along with the baron, and I will be yours as I should have been years ago.’ Charity stepped up to the table, and making up a plate of cheeses and morsels of salmon, offering the finger food to Jude along with a napkin.
‘Thank you,’ he said, taking a small wedge of white cheese and holding it in his napkin. He sipped his wine before speaking again, pondering his answer with the fleeting thought of once holding his own babe in his arms before becoming the thing he now was. In a moment he brightened and shot a rapid smile at his hostess. ‘Very well, then. Tomorrow night the deed will be complete and you shall awake as my bride. Meet me at midnight by your rear garden gate, and we will begin the process as in days past.’ He pointed to the back gate. Charity smiled, curtsied and tripped off to converse with some of her other visitors, Jude excusing himself soon afterward and walking back to his abode just off Broadway near his shop, the singing laughter of the little daughters dancing in the spring breeze as he exited the party.
At the appointed hour, Jude, dressed as a black domino, met his paramour at the appointed gate, her lovely form wrapped in a midnight blue silk kimono, her blond hair undone and kissed with starlight. Jude noticed the scent of her lavender toilette powder as she walked closer, her soft slippers padding gently on the garden path. ‘My darling,’ she greeted him, and reached up to kiss him, which Jude barely acknowledged, drawing her behind a stand of ornamental trees.
‘We must hurry, my dear,’ he said as he tilted her head to the side and brushed her locks away to reveal her neck. Jude opened his lips and licked the long sharp teeth that were now fully protruded. He was about to place them on her neck and give her the bite of passion, but abruptly pulled back and turned her head and stared into her eyes before delivering the promised bite. ‘Charity, my dear,’ he grinned, displaying his fangs as she started in fear, then composed herself with a sigh, steadying herself on his arm. ‘You have all the charms to lead such a life with me.’
‘My love,’ she whispered, awaiting the gentle piercing that he had delivered some years ago at the Smyth’s masque.
‘My work, as promised,’ he said, lowering his mouth and violently gashing her delicate flesh again and again, his hand firmly over her gasping mouth as she writhed and struggled. Suddenly realising his trickery, the baroness walloped Jude’s head with her fists, but he held firm and drank her blood in huge gulps, some gushing out over her shoulders and robe, splattering her cheeks, until one last gurgle escaped as she fell limp and quiet in his arms. Jude threw her lifeless body out into the street. ‘Now you have lost your blood as well as the soul you betrayed long ago,’ he muttered. ‘You shall not awaken even to such as me.’ Jude crept quietly to the shipyards to toss aside his domino costume before returning to his home.
In the morning while preparing his tea, he heard a boy hawking newspapers out on the street, crying out, ‘Baroness’s bloody remains found near Broadway home, husband and children mourn.’
Celeste Plowden has been a fabric designer, real estate title examiner, fine artist, showroom model, blues singer, dog lover, and student of early modern history, writing romance tales with dark connections to supernatural beings in historical settings in places she has lived, New York and London. Amazon best sellers: Mirth, short stories; The Harpsichordist, vampire novel; Blue Jay’s Nightclub, A Romance of Prohibition New York. Short stories for ezines, Siren’s Call, Schlock!, Achilles Anthology, Flame Tree; Beyond The Veil Anthology, Dragon Soul Press; Wolfsinger Publications Search for Any Key, anthology. She holds a BFA, Art History, minor, English literature, further studies at Parsons School of Design, NYC.
|
