Page 7 of Eternal Obsession

Alex ran after me. “I sent the servants for you, but they could not find you,” he said.

“What?”

Alex, fretfully, continued, “The midwives and physicians were called when she went into labor this morning, but everything went terribly wrong. They could do nothing for her. We would have had a sister. She passed, just after three. Thank God you have returned.”

It dawned on me. Alex referred to our mother.

I went numb.

Chapter Four

ORPHEUS

Present Day

Your days are numbered. That is where you and I differ.

I am Lord Daumia Velde, a.k.a. Orpheus. The question is, “Who is the hunter and who is the hunted?” I would have no part in allowing Jadeon to write another word if I were not allowed to offer my part. Such is an indication of my character, as it is for Jadeon’s, who permits me this luxury. Therefore, we will leapfrog our way through, each vying for your attention.

Allow me to assure you, my story doesn’t merely compel, it captivates. It doesn’t ask for your attention, it seizes it. Once you’ve heard it, looking away isn’t an option.

In May 1805, the night fog was all-engulfing as a large merchant ship swayed upon the turbulent waters of the North Atlantic. The vessel sailed along under the mastery of its experienced crew, now but a few hours off our destination, the Cornish harbor of Falmouth. One of the few passengers, I was hungry and stifled within my cabin, and decided to go out onto the bridge of the ship. I leaned against the balustrade, looking out into the night and up at the numerous stars, soon to be covered again by the thick fog. How easily their beauty equaled that of the full moon, though these romantic ruminations were rare for one so seldom sentimental.

It was midnight, and several crewmembers struggled frantically to reel in the large, flapping sails in order to ballast the rocking ship. The crewmen were so engrossed in their work that I, their grand passenger, who was unaffected by either the blustering weather or its effect upon the sturdy vessel, went unnoticed. My tall and proud stature was an obvious indication of my noble birth, and my attire of dark, fine silks and luxurious velvets were a distinct intimation of my great wealth. What my presence did not indicate, however, was who I really was.

During the long journey from Spain, I attempted to subdue my appetite, but this had been a challenge. I was reluctant to finish the crew off, as I would have done easily upon land. This would have been quite absurd, as the safe arrival of this vessel was dependent upon them. I may be wicked, but I am not insane.

With my energy in decline, I would have to drink soon, and my dark olive skin was paling. That decision made, the next one was who would best suit my taste. I observed the crewmembers, considering who would be missed least. I smiled, such supremacy was empowering.

My grin faded as I recalled the reason for my journey. Sunaria . . . I saw her face—a vivid, bright memory of unusual turquoise eyes, perfect complexion, soft raven hair. She was of such beauty that she had often left me speechless. To watch her seduce her victims had been a sensuous delight. She had been entirely mine for over three hundred years, my bride, partner, and lover. We had been virtually inseparable, two perfect immortal beings, delighting in our dark ways as nightwalkers and reveling in our powers.

However, England had been her downfall. She insisted on traveling here to find her family’s descendants and observe how they had progressed over the years.

“Complete folly,” I had warned her.

Nevertheless, she would not relent, in her own stubborn way. Her foolishness proved my argument. She was discovered and trapped by those who called themselves the Keepers of the Stones. We had known of this ancient order, but such an alliance had always seemed of no real consequence.

Her trip changed everything. The league took her to some dark and depraved room, cut her wrists to drain her of her very life source, her sacred blood. Then, while she was still alive but weak, they dragged her off into the night, to the place of death they call Stonehenge. The Keepers of the Stones had then carried out an excruciating ritual. Her death was to be slow and painful. She was tied to the stones, then left for the cruel, harsh sun to do its worst. Her life was extinguished. My bright flame was snuffed out. In that moment, part of me died with her.

It was torture to go on without her. For sixteen agonizing years, I lived in the shadows, hiding from all and everything, sleeping most of the time, waking to feed when desperate hunger took a hold, only to return to my slumber. Rather than face my grief, I chose to sleep through it. Gradually, I regained my strength and the will to live, driven on by the overwhelming urge to seek revenge.

My last vision of her—as bonded vampires such as ourselves can share each other’s visions—was terrifying. Sunaria had been blindfolded in order to protect the very men who held her captive, as her own waking nightmare would easily be conveyed to another vampire. Their fear was realized. Through her mind, I had witnessed her last excruciating days by way of her thoughts, joining her within the dark room where she was drained of her blood during that dark ceremony. I listened to the ritualistic chanting and felt the very cuts in her wrists as if they had been my own. Nevertheless, there was some hope of vindication.

When the blindfold had fallen off, she had a clear glimpse of two boys, their similarity discernible. They had looked on in frightful wonder, and she imprinted their faces upon her mind so clearly, I completely shared their image. Though I could do nothing for her, I promised her I would find them. Although with the passing of time the brothers would grow into men, I knew I would recognize them again and they would be the ones to lead me to her murderers.

My hunger intensified. I decided my next victim would be the captain of the ship, who spent most of his time in a drunken stupor in his cabin, and therefore would not be missed. His lieutenant, his second-in-command, would take charge of the helm and navigate the ship into the Cornish harbor.

Now all I had to fathom was how to get into the captain’s room without anyone noticing. As I pondered on this, the eleven-year-old cabin boy came into view.

I signaled to the child and pointed to my cabin, indicating for him to meet me there. The boy had been the one to bring me my meals, though unbeknownst to him the rations had never been consumed, but thrown overboard.

Sitting in the darkest corner of my cabin, I hoped my sallow complexion would not startle the boy, and gestured for him to approach.

“What is your name?” I leaned forward.

“Samuel, sir.”

“Samuel, there is something I would like you to do for me.” My Spanish accent effortlessly lulled the boy. I studied him carefully.