Chapter 4
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.
“Yes, sir?” Samuel frowned.
“I want you to keep this a secret. Tell no one, and you will be well rewarded. I will give you a gold coin now, and one when the work is done. Come closer.” I placed a coin in the palm of the boy’s hand, and then closed his small fingers over the large doubloon.
The boy’s eyes grew large.
To my horror, he began to remove his shirt. Startled, I jumped to my feet. I staggered backward, knocking over my chair.
I gestured. “Stop. Replace your shirt. I did not mean—”
Samuel stared at me. He buttoned his shirt.
“All I would ask of you,” I stuttered, “is such a small thing. I wish to visit the captain, and I know that at night his door is locked. I ask quite simply that you unlock it at three in the morning.”
At this time, there would only be a handful of crewmembers working, minimizing the risk of anyone observing me entering the captain’s cabin.
“Samuel, I will wake him and discuss important business of which he must be informed. There, that is all I ask of you. Please remember not to wake him. It is business of state, do you understand? Three hours from now, unlock his door, and when I take my leave from him, I will present you with your other gold coin.”
“Sir, I think the captain would be very angry if I . . . I mean, he is very fussy about his room and who goes in and—”
“I understand. Has anything I have done, even in these last moments, made you doubt my word or my honor?”
“Sir, you promise to explain everything to him?”
“Of course.”
He stared down at the coin before tucking it safely into his shirt pocket.
I felt sorry for him. His behavior had been a clear indication of his abuse.
The appointed hour arrived. I hovered before the entrance to the captain’s quarters, turned the handle, and opened the door, reassured that Samuel had done his bit.
With caution, I stepped into the dark, sparse room.
There upon the small bunk in the corner lay the ship’s captain, a large man still fully dressed and snoring loudly upon his back.
Hunger drove me on. I sat on the side of the bed, leaned over the oversized man, and then turned his head, exposing his pulsating jugular.
Instinctively, I nuzzled in, mouth against skin.
The salty, sweaty taste stung. Enraptured, I shuddered when my fangs punctured his fleshy neck.
An immediate rush of blood ran from vein to mouth—drinking, satiating, and glutting.
The blood that flowed through his veins now flowed through mine.
Eyes closed, I welcomed a flurry of emotions, though not the foreign wave of dizziness…
I was drunk.
By the foot of the bed lay an empty bottle of Cornish rum, consumed by my victim. The contents of the bottle now surged through me. In my rush to feed, I had missed this detail and now saw the ludicrous side of my predicament.
The ship rocked, causing me to lose my balance, and I fell.
I tried to regain my poise, roaring with laughter, swaying from one side of the room to the other, determined not to jeopardize disposing of the body.
The captain would soon be dead. The telltale fang marks could threaten my safe position upon the ship.
I had to regain composure and think as clearly as my intoxicated head would allow.
Carrying the portly man upon my shoulders was reasonably easy, but the careening ship proved challenging.
I proceeded along the side of the deck, hiding in the shadows of the lifeboats before staggering to the balustrades.
I rested the stocky officer up against the rail, lumbering with the rocking vessel.
Feeling a tap on my shoulder I turned, surprised to see the ship’s navigator. His concerned expression equaled my own.
I drew toward him, heady with the rum, and laid the captain’s body on the wet planks of the boat.
“Thank God you found him,” the navigator said. “One day our captain will be so drunk, he’ll fall overboard!”
“I caught him retching over the side. He’s completely out.”
“Come, I’ll help you carry him,” the navigator said.
I feigned that carrying the captain back to his berth was arduous and silently chastised my carelessness. On arrival, I discreetly pulled up his shirt collar as I settled him back onto his bunk.
On the following evening when the sun had set, I withdrew from my quarters and made my way toward the starboard. The crew unraveled the huge white sails that had been reeled in during the storm. A gust of wind caught the flapping canvas, propelling the vessel rapidly over the now-calm ocean.
I approached the navigator.
“Our Captain died last night,” he said. “Men are all rattled. It’s a bad omen.”
The navigator informed me how the captain’s burial had been a traditional ceremony—his body wrapped and cast overboard.
It was over. All evidence was now weighed down and resting soundly on the bottom of the ocean.