Love is the Cure Excerpt: The Crow King

angel-grave-highgate
Detalle de Sepulcro en el cementeriode High Gate by Carlos Ramos Alar, from  WikiCommons CC BY-SA 3.0

This is an excerpt from my gothic novella, Love is the Cure. This part is from the point of view of a very ancient vampire, Bren. It’s the most gothic point of view, so the perfect way to celebrate Halloween. You can download the whole ebook for free this weekend. There are 56 other ebooks available for free here as part of the promotion.

The paper dolls dance and play, their consciousnesses tugging at my own by the bond I made with them. My world, dull grey, is peopled with transparencies. They light a thousand candles each night for me, but not one nor a thousand can light this place. My empire of ash. They call this mausoleum my court; they cannot tell a grave from a throne.

It comes, first the scent. Unmistakable. Hot trickling red, thick with heady power. Her force, her essence, running through their veins. The pull, after centuries, is still irresistible.

Mortagne, the parasite who inhabits my shadow endlessly, approaches me. His is a pestilence, an infestation of which I am never rid. Bathsheba too ascends the dais, lurking, sliming, funereal, dragging her mothball scent. I do not recall which chest I pulled her from, so that I may put her back.

Where did they come from, these wraiths that hang from me like so many tattered garments?

“Hic est ignis,” I hiss at them, raising one finger and pointing at the two strangers who have appeared at the bottom of the stone stairs to my vault, and now await official entry. My Latin is not strong, but Mortagne and Bathsheba do not understand my own tongue. It is long dead to them. It does not matter; words are not needed. I have my hooks in their minds. They can feel my will without my voicing it, though they little comprehend my desires.

These two strangers glow with her flame, taking on her substance, her strength, and the scorching fatal colour of her. “Ena,” I mouth, but I will not sully her name by speaking it in the presence of my parasites. I recognise him, the dark one. He is her child. She laid her kiss on him when he ran through the shadowed tunnels under Londinium, and stumbled near her realm. It marks him like a burning brand, drawing me to him.

“Quis sit qui venit?”

“It is George Kerrick, my Lord,” Mortagne says.  “And his get, Sebastian Talbot. You recall, my Lord, that we won Talbot’s soul for you dicing but three nights ago. He is yours by right.”

I let out a low rattle. It is something like a sigh. I care not for their foolish games, or the other one—the soft, preening blond they call Talbot. “Kerrick,” I say, tasting the name, savouring it. He is the one I want.

Mortagne and Bathsheba ooze down the stairs and across the room, but I do not wait for them. I point a finger once more towards Kerrick and beckon him to me. In his shadowed eyes there is understanding. He comprehends my purpose, even before it is known to me. He has come to barter.

(c) Ambrose Hall, 2016

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