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His Vampyrrhic Bride

Severn House Publishers Ltd

He sees her ...

Tom Westonby's life changed the moment he saw the woman.

She shouldn't have been there. Certainly not at this time of night.

But there she was. Tom looked out of the window and watched the stranger walk across the lawn. Moonlight flooded the valley. That other-worldly radiance gave the white cotton dress she wore a spectral glow. While her pale, yellow hair had the appearance of a luminous mist that cascaded down around her shoulders.

She was beautiful. Uncannily beautiful. Somehow dangerously beautiful. As well as tingles of physical attraction, he felt the cold, tingling sensation of an inexplicable fear trickling down his spine.

So, what was this striking, yet ghostly figure doing gliding across his lawn at midnight? The question made him wonder if he'd fallen asleep on the sofa again. These fourteen-hour working days were exhausting. Maybe he was busily dreaming about the remarkable, luminous vision dressed in white?

'My God,' he breathed, 'what on earth is she doing?'

The stranger lifted the skirts of her dress before stepping into the little pool in the garden that was fed by a natural spring. She took a deep breath as her bare feet entered the cool water. At the same time she raised her face to the moonlight, an expression of sheer bliss spread across her face. She closed her eyes, a smile touched her lips. Even from this distance, Tom could tell she loved the sensation of chilled liquid stroking her skin.

The expression on her face sang out: this is ecstasy!

He had two choices. Either turn away, forget he'd seen the woman, or go out there and find out what the hell she was doing on his lawn. Tom Westonby wasn't one to back down from a challenge. He decided to learn more about the mysterious beauty dipping her bare toes in the spring pool.

The possibility that this was a dream vanished when his hip smacked into the table as he strode across the room to the patio door. The blow hurt. So maybe it was the pain that made him act out of character, because a dangerous, reckless spirit seized control. He decided to confront the woman. No, he'd do more than that. This was going to get physical. His heart pounded, his breath vented in gusts through gritted teeth. A wild excitement ignited his blood.

The moment he opened the patio door and stepped out into the night air he passed the point of no return. Something significant would happen tonight. No ... More than significant. Tonight will be momentous.

He follows her ...

Tom Westonby knew that in the next few minutes life as he'd lived it would die. Nothing would ever be the same again.

The sound of his feet on the patio immediately warned the woman that she wasn't alone.

His midnight visitor turned towards him. Her eyes locked on his. There wasn't any sense of fear, or even surprise. It was as if she'd expected all along that he'd come out of the house. If she'd stayed there, then what happened next would never have happened at all.

But even though she'd held his gaze for a moment without any sign of being frightened of him, she suddenly ran. Her bare feet splashed through the shallow pool. Moonlight caught the drops of water, turning them into glittering gems that flew up to speckle her white cotton dress. By the time she left the pool those sparkling drops of water were caught in her fair hair. Twinkling diamonds flung outwards as she quickly twisted her head to watch what he'd do next.

He followed.

No. Not followed.

Chased.

With a mixture of dread and excitement, Tom realized this was more than a chase. I'm hunting her, he thought. I'm actually hunting her, like she's prey.

A small voice inside his head told him to stop. But it was the massive, roaring voice that erupted from some primeval hunting instinct that issued the orders now: CATCH HER. FORCE HER TO TELL YOU WHAT SHE WAS DOING IN THE WATER.

Sheer hunt-lust had its teeth in Tom Westonby. He focused hearing and sight on to the woman. He heard her bare feet whisper across the grass. He saw the searing white flash of her dress. Even when she'd darted out of the moonlight and into the deep, dark shadow of Thornwood Vale he still kept his eyes nailed on her. He was a wolf pursuing the vulnerable fawn. Instinct ruled his movements. Nothing else mattered. He was determined to catch the woman – seize her tightly by the arms, and ...

... and then what? Rationally, he didn't know what he'd do when he caught her.

Irrationally, though? Oh, the irrational side of his brain supplied him with vivid images. That ancient beast segment of brain told him EXACTLY what he must do to her, once he'd got his hands on her.

The chase took them deeper into the forest. Mull-Rigg Hall, the house he'd just raced from, was the only property for miles. Nobody else ventured into this remote English valley at midnight.

He and the woman were alone. Just the two of them. Nobody would see. No witnesses. No one to stop the madness of what would happen next.

His dangerous thoughts ...

The chase took them by the river. These turbulent rapids gushed down from the surrounding hills. At this time of night the water was black. Tom Westonby caught a glimpse of an eager figure that seemed to be on a vital mission. To Tom's surprise he realized that the eager figure, with the wide, staring eyes, was him. He'd seen his own reflection there in the dark waters.

What had come over him? Why was he driven to catch the woman that he'd watched dipping her bare toes into the spring pool?

As he ran through the forest he kept that blazing stare of his on the slender feminine shape. Yet other thoughts, which seemed strangely disconnected from the present, floated through his head. He remembered working long, fourteen-hour days to empty the big house of accumulated rubbish. All those heavy brown wood chairs that filled every room. His aunt must have been obsessed with them. Who knows? Maybe before she'd died she'd been planning to seize the world record for having the greatest number of uncomfortable, straight-backed chairs crammed into one house.

Yesterday, Chris Markham had phoned. Chris was his business partner – at least, he would be once they raised enough capital to open the scuba-diving school in Greece: something they'd been planning ever since they were at college together. After devoting weeks searching for suitable premises, Chris had discovered the perfect place just yards from the beach.

The big problem was this: the building's owner had demanded seventeen thousand dollars in cash. Five thousand dollars bond, twelve thousand for a year's rental in advance.

'I don't know why he wants dollars not euros,' Chris had said over the phone. 'He just does.'

'Where are we going to get that kind of money?' Tom had asked. 'We don't have anything like seventeen thousand dollars.'

'Tom, we've got to have this place. It's next to a whole bunch of hotels; think of the passing trade. It's perfect.'

'It'd be easier for us to raise the Titanic than raise seventeen thousand!'

Chris had begged Tom to somehow find the cash. What's more, he must have it by the end of the week, otherwise the landlord would find other tenants. 'Get that seventeen thou, Tom. We'll never find another place as good as this.'

Before ending the call, Chris had reminded Tom that serious girlfriends were forbidden until they'd got the dive school up and running. DIVE SCHOOL FIRST. MARRY THE GIRL OF YOUR DREAMS LATER. That's the rule they'd agreed upon back in their college days. Not that they'd taken a monastic vow of celibacy. Both had enjoyed casual dating; quite a few girls had featured in their lives.

Tom murmured the words, 'Seventeen thousand,' as he pursued the stranger ... or was it his intended victim ... down the forest path.

Seventeen thousand dollars. Where am I going to get seventeen grand by the end of the week? He'd thought about nothing else all day. Even tonight, when he'd been clearing the basement of yet more wooden chairs, he'd been so preoccupied with schemes for mustering the cash that he'd accidentally kicked over a big glass jar that contained a green spirit. Probably the kind of stuff used to clean paintbrushes, though there must have been half a gallon at least. In that confined place its stench had made him dizzy.

Come to think of it, he told himself, I might still be high on the fumes. That's why I'm chasing some woman I saw in the garden pond.

He realized that the intoxicating vapour might leave his body, if he took deep enough breaths. But it was far too late. Tom Westonby sped around the trunk of a huge oak and found himself face-to-face with the mysterious creature he was hunting.

A sudden violence ...

'Are you following me?' the bewitching stranger asked in a surprisingly soft voice. The tone suggested mild curiosity rather than terror at being pursued by a menacing figure at midnight.

Tom Westonby stood there panting. Not for a moment had he expected her to stop running. He'd thought he'd have to grab hold of her to prevent her escape. For a moment all he could do was stare in astonishment. Her pale blue eyes were as striking as the incredibly light blonde hair. It seemed more like a luminous mist than individual hairs. He judged her to be close to his age. Twenty-three or thereabouts. And she really is beautiful. Amazingly beautiful.

'I asked if you were following me.' Her words seemed more like a pleasant invitation to agree, rather than an accusation. The woman in the white dress didn't even appear to be annoyed that she'd been pursued. 'You were following me, weren't you, Tom?'

'You were on my property.'

'Oh? Your property?'

'My parents' property. I'm clearing out the place before they move their stuff in. They're planning —' He stopped himself from saying more. The thing is, he wanted to say more. Her wide-eyed expression gently encouraged him to keep talking.

'So you're living there by yourself, Tom?'

'Wait a minute, how do you know my name?'

'Do you usually chase girls you've never met before in the dead of night?'

'You were trespassing.'

'And now you want to prove how tough you are?'

'No ...' But he recalled the hot excitement pumping through his veins as he'd chased her. 'I just wanted to know what you were doing in my pond.'

'Your parents' pond,' she corrected.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Well ...' Her eyes fixed on his. 'Owning that big house, they must be rich.'

'What's it to you?'

'Why don't you ask your parents to give you the seventeen thousand dollars?'

Tom stared at her in surprise. 'What seventeen thousand dollars?'

'You need the rent money, don't you?' She gave a knowing smile. 'And by the end of the week?'

'Hey.' His surprise ignited into anger. 'How do you know about that?'

'I just do.'

'I've never even met you before.'

'Well, you have now,' she said as she turned away. 'Goodnight, Tom.'

'Wait! How the hell do you know about the seventeen thousand dollars?'

She silently darted away into the forest shadows.

Tom shouted, 'I told you to wait!'

He became the hunter again – in furious pursuit of his prey. Dear God, he would put his hands on her this time. He imagined how her fragile arms would feel when he gripped them in his muscular fists. Even though the fumes from the green spirit still made him groggy, he ran faster. His heart pounded.

Just wait till I get my hands on you ...

He'd only just lost sight of the woman when the branches crashed above his head. He heard twigs snapping. Then a heavy object slammed into his back. He yelled as he was flung upwards. For a moment, he flew through the air high above the ground. Pain tore through him.

I'm dying, he thought in surprise. I'm actually dying ...

Moonlight pierced the leaves. Suddenly, there were faces. Dozens of faces. Eyes glared at him.

Then darkness fell. And nothing more.

Tom Westonby opened his eyes. The first words that entered his head were: I've killed her.

The sun blazed down from a clear blue sky. He was lying on the riverbank, and he was hurting all over.

'I murdered the stranger.' This time the horror of those words exploded inside his head. Tom lurched to his feet. The sudden movement ramped up the agony. But there were more important things to worry about than mere physical pain.

Because memories of the night before came hurtling back. The woman ... He'd seen the woman on the lawn at midnight. Then, like a madman, he'd pursued her. He'd relentlessly chased her through the forest.

What was I thinking? His heart pounded as a growing sense of dread gripped him. It's like I was determined to murder her.

His eyes swept over the riverbank. He absolutely expected to see the fair-haired woman in the white cotton dress. His imagination conjured visions of her lying there dead, her arms flung out, eyes staring. There'd be blood ... Oh, yes, there'd be blood – great crimson pools of it. Blood would smear the grass. Her white dress would be drenched with a violent, screaming red.

Tom Westonby frantically searched amongst the trees.

I've murdered her ... What have I done with the body?

Behind every rock and beneath every bush he expected to see the corpse. Tom's chest heaved. Panic gripped him. As he hyperventilated, the forest leaves became a vivid green, like dazzling green fire. Desperately, he tried to make sense of the confusing memories of last night.

I caught the woman. We argued. When I realized she'd been spying on me and knew about the seventeen thousand dollars, I got angry, I grabbed hold of her. Then I murdered her.

Tom ran his fingers through his hair. 'No,' he hissed. 'She ran off ... then someone attacked me.' This recollection brought a surge of relief. He sighed as his muscles began to relax. 'Someone hit me from behind.' The more he thought about what really did happen, the more he realized he'd been the victim. 'Maybe that's how they do muggings in this part of England.' He found himself so relieved that he hadn't slaughtered a stranger in cold blood, he started to smile. 'It's obvious. Muggers use a beautiful woman to lure the victim from the house – that's when the accomplices pounce.'

He scanned the riverbank again. The forest appeared tranquil. There wouldn't be a body to find. He'd murdered no one. No, he was the victim. A gang of rural muggers had made a fool of the city boy.

Tom's back hurt most from the blow. The force of the impact had painfully wrenched the muscles. He didn't think he'd been punched or kicked. Even so, he decided to check his reflection in the river for black eyes and busted lips.

He made his way down the bank where he crouched at the water's edge. The melody of the river pouring over the stones had a calming effect. His usual sense of well-being returned. Once again he was the twenty-three-year-old easy-going guy with a plan to open a scuba-diving school in Greece – not a murderer facing prison.

Tom Westonby examined his reflection in the water. His dark hair stuck up in tufts. What else can you expect from sleeping outdoors? His brown eyes were clear. There were no signs of being punched. What there was, in massive abundance, were red blotches. Midges had made a meal of his face. Just the sight of them triggered a tide of itchiness. A rash of insect bites covered his bare arms, too. He scooped up handfuls of water to drench his skin. Its coldness helped counteract that hot itch of the bites. The sooner he grabbed a shower the better. Then get to work with the antiseptic ointment.

As he sluiced his face he noticed that the gold chain was still around his neck. He checked his watch. 'Still there,' he murmured in surprise.

Quickly, he stood up to yell into the forest. 'You muggers are crap! In fact, you've got to be the crappiest muggers ever! You forgot to take this!' He pointed at the diver's watch on his wrist. 'You are absolutely crapping useless!'

Even as images blazed inside his head of a gang of thugs comically blaming one another for not stealing the expensive watch, another explanation of last night's events occurred to him. A more rational one.

The jar of green spirit he'd smashed in the basement? He'd been working in those pungent fumes for more than an hour. When he'd finally cleaned up the glass, and the pool of green stuff that reeked so powerfully, it felt as if his tonsils had caught fire; he'd gone upstairs to grab some fresh air at the window. That's when he'd seen the beautiful barefoot stranger.

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Excerpted from His Vampyrrhic Bride by Simon Clark. Copyright © 2012 Simon Clark. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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