Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Charlotte
Boxon Village
The Woodhouse Home
“Are you certain this is the wisest course of action?” Her father stood amongst the boxes haphazardly piled into his library.
Charlotte plastered a fake smile on her face and slowly counted to five.
Yes, she was sure.
Yes, she was absolutely positive that she was sick of being questioned.
Yes, she knew what people would say.
No, she didn’t give a fig what people said.
And no, she wouldn’t change her mind.
There. Five.
She unclenched her hand. “I’ve decided, Papa. I won’t change my mind.” No matter how many times she was questioned. “Besides, this is too valuable a research opportunity to pass by. Draven is nearly two hundred years old.”
“Allegedly.” Nathan Wodehouse opened the nearest box and peered inside. “I say, what is this?”
“Lionel’s papers and diaries,” Charlotte said. Her father raised his brows. “Oh, don’t give me that look. His sister is taking up residence for the next year and she’d burn all this given the chance.”
Charlotte herself had fought the urge to destroy her late husband’s diaries but decided against it. The information was too unique and too valuable to be destroyed out of some misguided attempt to protect the family name. Lionel had written faithfully in his journal for years, starting when he entered military service as a young man. He had been bitten by his commanding officer. His entire unit had been turned. Some held onto their minds. Some could not. The survivors hunted rogue beasts and monsters in the West Lands.
They had good intentions. Charlotte had to believe that. Whatever monster Lionel became, he started with the goal of helping keep people safe.
His military career was filled with success, commendations, and medals. She knew that. Lionel made his fortune in the military, a fortune she now possessed.
“Have you read these?” Nathan flipped through a leatherbound journal.
“Yes, I have.” Of course she read them. She pored over them, searching for some clue as to how her husband had turned out so wrong. A young soldier, full of promise and good intentions, ended up twisted into a monster that killed indiscriminately.
One that tried to kill her on their wedding day.
“It’s rather interesting if you want a firsthand account of the transition.”
“Seems to be nothing but military jargon,” Nathan said.
“Lionel was a military man,” Charlotte replied. The military life had suited the beast in him. Countless journal entries supported that. Structure kept him grounded. Human. When his commander and half of his unit were killed in a skirmish, Lionel’s control began to slip. He grew erratic. Angry. The beast lurked just under his skin, ready to claw its way out.
Whether Lionel was forced out of the military, or he chose to leave, the journal was unclear. What was clear was that the beast inside him had control. He killed for the fun of it. His transformations were no longer limited to the nights of solstice and the equinox. He was dangerous, a beast wearing a mask, and no one suspected.
Her father picked up another journal, this one just as beaten as the other.
“No matter what we think of him, his journals are valuable,” Charlotte said.
“I suppose they are useful for research purposes,” he admitted.
She seized the opening. “Then you admit that research is important.”
“Charlotte—”
“No, Papa. There is only so much I can research from here.”
“You can request books you need from the university in Founding.”
Charlotte shook her head. She wasn’t being stubborn about the issue. A year ago, the subscription fee to the university library was a luxury beyond her reach. Now that she was a wealthy widow and could easily afford to buy any book she wished, books were not good enough. She could buy a house in Founding and visit the library daily. That wasn’t the issue. She could buy her way back into the university with a generous donation or fund a new building, but she would never be accepted.
Papa spent the family fortune on a fool’s mission into the mountains.
In the process, he destroyed his academic reputation and ruined any chance of Charlotte making her career as a historian. The sudden change in fortune resulted in Charlotte quietly withdrawing from the university and returning to Boxon.
Academia was a small world, and when one’s father was a known eccentric who famously financed a doomed expedition, one’s opportunities were limited. Even if she returned, her work would never be taken seriously. She could pour every cent Lionel left her into the university and rebuild it brick by brick, but she’d forever be an amateur historian, the daughter of the disgraced professor with outlandish theories.
“This is your book, isn’t it, dear?” Nathan handed her a well-worn copy of Captain Beckford’s memoir.
She turned the book over in her hands. Captain Beckford’s memoir, written in the last year of her life. She had read and reread her copy enough to wear away the gilded lettering on the spine. This copy had suffered the same abuse though the colonial logo embossed into the leather binding remained. Three stars streaked across the front of the book, leaving a fiery tail.
Charlotte brushed a thumb over the stars. Three stars for three ships.
Her father often repeated that phrase, so much so that the words barely registered. The same design was all over Founding, stamped into the structures built from the carcass of the original ship and carved into subsequent buildings. The design even graced the metal streetlamps.
Three ships left Old Earth. Only one made it to Nexus. The others were lost. Everyone knew that. Only crackpots—and her father—believed that the other two ships landed safely and somehow remained a secret for centuries.
A familiar resentment stirred in her gut. Her father had wasted the family fortune chasing the myth of the lost ships. He ruined his academic career and prevented her from even finishing her studies. For what? An obvious fantasy.
Just the logistics of having to scrub the ships’ existence from every recording and data entry was a nightmare. Yes, a lot of digital data was lost, but people had pen and paper. They wrote letters and memoirs, kept personal journals. There would be evidence. Solid evidence, not the flimsy supposition her father found.
If anyone knew if all three ships landed, Draven would.
“Lionel’s. He’s made annotations in the margins.” Charlotte handed the book back to her father. “And library books are not acceptable.”
“Not good enough for you?”
“No two editions are the same. Details are missing or removed entirely. I’m tired of comparing editions and piecing together a complete work,” she said, reciting the very complaints her father expressed many, many times.
It was frustration they shared. She was interested in early accounts of the colony, diaries, and log entries from the very first settlers. Unfortunately, what was socially acceptable had changed greatly in the two hundred and some years since humans arrived on Nexus. Society had drifted toward being more conservative, and “offensive material” had been removed from newer editions.
Her father nodded in agreement. “The truth has been censored.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, but getting my hands on a primary source would be ideal.” Those were under lock and key at a museum in Founding. No amount of money in the world would buy her access without academic credentials.
Nathan took the Beckford book from Charlotte and set it aside. With her hands in his, he said, “If you are trying to punish yourself with exile, don’t.”
“Why would I punish myself?” She gave a nervous laugh. Why did he have to be observant? This wasn’t like him. Usually, he spent his days working on his manuscript about the lost ships and barely noticed the outside world.
“No one could have guessed about Lionel. It’s not your fault.”
She swallowed, her throat suddenly very dry. “He hurt people.”
People she cared for deeply.
“Yes, he did,” Nathan said in a level, reasonable voice. “That is his doing, not yours.”
“I should have known. Suspected. I was blind. I should have—” Charlotte didn’t know what entirely she was meant to have known or done. Her excitement at escaping the fate of an old maid dazzled her, making her overlook Lionel’s true nature. He had acted oddly in the days leading to the wedding, but she brushed away her concerns about his behavior. She had a wedding to plan, after all.
Nathan watched her inner struggle, his eyes soft and compassionate. “He had the entire village fooled. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Don’t I? I hear the whispers when I go into the village,” Charlotte said.
The last time she walked into the tavern, the entire place went quiet. No one looked at her directly, but she felt eyes on her. Always an odd duck in the community—too educated, from money but impoverished, from the village but she had city manners—she never fit neatly into the village’s social structure. Solenne was her dearest and only friend, another odd duck who didn’t quite fit in. Having a compatriot, another woman who didn’t meet society’s expectations, made it less lonely. Now that Solenne was married and Charlotte not , she felt alone.
She wouldn’t be so dramatic to call herself a pariah, although at times it felt like it. She did have Lionel’s fortune and his estate. Money solved a great many problems. If the villagers regarded her with suspicion and were less than friendly, so be it. They accepted her coin.
“Let them talk,” Nathan said.
Pointing out that her father placed no value in having society’s good regard would be a waste of breath. Instead, she said, “My reasons are sound.”
“Research,” he said in a dubious tone.
“If Draven is as old as the rumors claim, then he knew Beckford, Reeve, Stoker—”
“And Radcliffe,” he said, cutting her off.
Charlotte fought the urge to shiver at the name of the infamous butcher, the scientist who went rogue after the ship landed and whose experiments caused the monster mutation. So many died at his hands. Ethan Radcliffe was the name children whispered to scare each other and parents used to warn against bad behavior.
Behave or Radcliffe will find you.
That was a story designed to frighten and not a historical fact. She was only interested in facts. Although, being strictly honest with herself, there was one particularly lurid historical novel that involved Radcliffe seducing a na?ve woman. Charlotte read it cover to cover.
Being pure of heart, the heroine resisted Radcliffe and escaped to the loving embrace of an equally virtuous hero. Charlotte had been immensely disappointed that Isadora Starling chose the rather bland Bram Finch over the far more intriguing and appealing doctor. She may have written an impassioned letter to the author of The Curse of Dr. Radcliffe , but she’d never admit it.
“You won’t change my mind.” She lifted her chin, determined. “You are my father and I love you. As much as I wanted your approval, I don’t need it.”
Her father did not respond immediately. The air in the room grew tense.
He smiled, causing wrinkles around his eyes. “You look like your mother when you’re being stubborn.”
“Papa—” With anyone else, she’d suspect a tactic to distract her with memories of her late mother, but not from Nathan Wodehouse. The man was sincere to a fault. A flaw they both possessed.
“You don’t need my permission or my approval, Charlotte. You haven’t for some time.” He pulled her into an embrace. “I will worry, and I will miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too, Papa.” Charlotte sank in the hug, feeling like a small child again, a feeling normally met with irritation. She found she did not mind so much this time.
Nathan stepped back and cleared his throat. “There are some suggestions that Draven’s mountain contains the remnants of the missing ships. It’s a fascinating idea. I’ll prepare a list of questions for you to pursue…” Nathan hurried to a writing desk, excitement adding a bounce to his steps.
“I’d expect nothing less.”
Draven
The Aerie
Draven crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fireplace.
Troops were amassing at Sweetwater Point. Again. The human military could be stubbornly single-minded about taking back the Aerie. Obsessive, even. In Draven’s day, the outpost had been nothing more than a camp for the workers building the railroad. Now it was the last stop on the rails, a trading outpost for those foolish enough to live in the West Lands, and a depot for military supplies shipped via the train.
Now his scouts reported that soldiers arrived on those trains, along with a concerning amount of munitions.
It seemed the military would try to take the Aerie again.
“I think it’s time to pay a visit to Sweetwater,” he said.
Charlotte
Boxon
Vervain Hall
“You need a bigger cart,” Solenne said.
Charlotte sat on a trunk. She had already agreed to leave half of her luggage behind. Leaving some clothing behind concerned her, but it was not a disaster. The weather in the mountains would be cold. Draven was…well, not quite human. Perhaps the cold did not bother him, and he kept his fortress in the mountains frigid. She would need layers, something Luis and Miles did not seem to comprehend. “I tried to pack light, but I have no idea what to expect. Your brother thinks I should bring one dress and perhaps a light shawl.”
“Plus, the mountains,” Solenne said with a nod, as if she understood Charlotte’s worry perfectly. “Reading material will be hard to come by.”
“Yes, you understand. There’s nothing worse than having nothing to read.”
Solenne raised an eyebrow as if she disagreed but said nothing. “I have a gift for you.” She handed Charlotte a medium-sized case.
“Oh, thank you,” Charlotte said, eyeing the size of the case. Surely one little case couldn’t weigh enough to break the cart’s axle.
“Well, it’s more of a necessary supply than a gift. Don’t let Luis convince you to leave it behind.”
Intrigued, Charlotte opened the case. Glass vials nestled inside a velvet-lined case along with a silver dagger, a small pistol, and a wooden stake. It was a very generous gift. Too generous.
“I can’t. The expense—”
Solenne made a dismissive noise. “Those old things? Just cluttering up the basement.”
Charlotte knew that was not true. Silver was a potent element against the monsters, and it was expensive to maintain a functional armory. Blades could be sharpened or even reforged, but bullets were often lost. Her friend handed her a small fortune.
“Solenne—” Charlotte started to protest but stopped when Solenne held up a hand.
“You would not say it is too generous if you saw the condition I found it in. Truly. Luis sharpened the blade, and Miles put the pistols in working order. Papa replaced the lining with a set of old drapes. Do you remember the ghastly pink ones from the drawing room?”
Charlotte brushed her fingers over the velvet lining. The pink drapes had once been a rich red but faded unevenly. “I thought the color was familiar.”
“So the only true expense is the bullets. If you must use them, use them well.” Solenne demonstrated how to load the pistol. “If you require more than six, I suggest running. If your aim is halfway decent, the vampire will be injured and slow.”
“Doubtful.” Hunting was not one of her interests. “I’ve never fired a pistol.”
“Have Luis teach you along the way. He’s bringing enough ammunition, silver and lead, that you needn’t worry.”
“And this?” Charlotte removed the stake for closer inspection. “Isn’t driving a wooden stake through a vampire’s heart an old Earth superstition? It doesn’t work here.”
“It will hurt,” Solenne said, “and it might work. I checked the family logs, but we haven’t fought a vampire in a long time.”
“Oh, how truly delightful it is that you are from a family of monster hunters. Speaking with you is always interesting.”
Solenne sat next to Charlotte on the truck, despite there barely being enough room. Charlotte set the wooden stake back in the case and scooted as far to the edge as she could.
“My family has hunted monsters for generations,” Solenne said. “You’d do well to listen to my expertise. Someone once told me that I was quite an accomplished monster slayer.”
“I believe I said you were well-read on stabbing and poisoning, but I do not doubt your prowess with monster-slaying.” Charlotte brushed her fingers across the pistol, noting the lack of detail on the handle. It looked antiquated, boxy, and rough, like it had been made by a person trying to rediscover a lost craft. When the settlers’ technology failed, they had to figure out how to survive without tech. Often that meant learning to make the basic components of civilization from books. The original settlers had to rediscover how to spin wool, weave fabric, forge metals, build carts, and a hundred other crafts, but weapons were mastered quickly.
Six bullets were nestled alongside the pistol, smooth and well-made. They gleamed in the sunlight like the promise of trouble. She’d never fired a gun before, and here she was equipped with a portable arsenal.
“I’m not there to assassinate Draven,” Charlotte said.
“It’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“He’ll assume the worst if he discovers this case,” Charlotte said. Draven—if he were the original Draven in the history books—had a vicious temper.
“He’ll assume you came prepared to defend yourself. Some men appreciate that. It makes for interesting conversation.”
Charlotte laughed. Her friend never experienced the joy of a social season in Founding, the center of the civilized world. When she was young, before her family’s fortune had diminished and her father was still a respected scholar, she did her time on the marriage mart. Nothing came of it, of course, other than she grew to understand that most gentlemen did not care for interesting conversation from a young lady. They cared about a woman’s face and her fortune.
Some men might crave stimulating conversation, but she had no idea what Draven craved. Well, blood, presumably. He was, after all, not entirely human.
Solenne took the case from Charlotte. “If you think the vampire will react badly, you don’t have to take it.”
“No, you have a point. I should be prepared to defend myself,” Charlotte said. Draven asked for a year’s companionship as his bride. What exactly that entailed, she could not say. She had her suspicions. He would have demands of her. Fine. She had demands of her own.
Charlotte patted her friend’s hand. “Thank you for the gift, although I’m surprised you’re not trying to talk me out of this.”
Solenne shrugged her shoulders. “I know not to waste my breath. Now, your gift.” She opened the satchel and produced two tin canisters. “This is a tea of vervain, nightshade, and rose.”
Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “That sounds dreadful.”
“It’s supposed to make you taste dreadful. One teaspoon, let it steep for five minutes. No more. It is poisonous.”
Charlotte took the canisters. “Poison tea. You’re so thoughtful.”
“So you’re not pressured into a situation you’re uncomfortable with.” She sounded so matter-of-fact, but Charlotte noticed the way her gaze went anywhere but Charlotte’s face.
“There’s something else,” Charlotte said, reading her friend’s expression.
Solenne nodded. “I realize this is a topic usually tackled by mothers, but, well—”
They had both lost their mothers. “Go on,” Charlotte said.
“And you may not wish to discuss this with your father.” Solene took a deep breath and blurted, “Do you have any questions about what to expect on the wedding night? Heavens, this is awkward.” Her face burned scarlet.
“Thank you, but I am not…inexperienced in that regard.” Charlotte wore a matching blush. “I was married, after all.”
“Goodness. How did you find the time? I was run off my feet that day.” Solenne sounded genuinely impressed.
“Oh, we, um, celebrated a bit early,” Charlotte said, blushing so furiously she felt she might burst into flames.
Solenne chuckled and bumped her shoulder against Charlotte. “Well, good for you. Now we needn’t have a mortifying conversation.”
Yes, good thing. Too bad Charlotte was already mortified.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to reach our first stop before dark,” Luis announced loudly.
“I’m not afraid of riding in the dark,” Charlotte said, moving to her feet.
“You’ll appreciate sleeping in a bed. We won’t have that luxury too often,” Luis said. He and Miles loaded the last trunk into the cart. Despite his protests that she packed too much, they traveled with only three horses and a cart. Hardly anything at all.
Solenne wrapped her in a bone-crushing embrace.
The hug from her father was less enthusiastic but just as comforting. Nathan refrained from last-minute questions, which was as good as a blessing as anything.
“Well then, since you’re determined, here’s something you’ll need for your journey,” he said, producing a tarnished silver fob and chain from his waistcoat pocket. He placed it in her hands.
She ran her thumb over the pattern on the back, three stars worn away to nearly nothing, and opened it with her thumb. Engraved on the inside, Ad Astra Aspiramus .
To the stars, we aspire.
Her mother’s compass, an heirloom passed down in her family from the time of the original colonists. Nathan had carried the relic with him on the ill-fated expedition and touted that it had saved his life.
“Papa, I can’t.” Charlotte held it out for him to take back, the metal object waiting on her open palm.
“You can, and you will. She’d insist.” He gently moved her fingers inward until her hand had closed around the compass. “Bring it home to me.”
Charlotte nodded, accepting the priceless gift, and slipped the chain around her neck.
Before the sun reached its zenith, they were on their way into the West Lands. Charlotte wouldn’t look back. She wouldn’t doubt herself. Everyone had questioned her decision, but she refused to question herself. She couldn’t stay here one more day as the pitiable, na?ve widow. A new future awaited her in the west.