ORIGINAL BLOOD SERIES: Echoes of Shadows (1 of 5)

Echoes of Shadows Vampire Series

DESTINY IS IN THE BLOOD

Dust and Shadow

ECHOES OF SHADOWS is the tormenting, but the ultimate tale of two women as they become vampires against their will. Gailene must rise from devastation, rage, and vengeance in 1790s rural England, leaving her human family in her search to destroy her creator, Fenton, and any vampires she meets. She creates a set of vows that will change vampires forever. Her journey takes her to fledgling 1800s America, where she becomes a powerful vampire matriarch. Two centuries later, college coed and artist, Zondra, discovers she’s the leader of her grandmother’s empire when she becomes a supreme vampire even though she was never bitten. Gailene’s story unfolds to Zondra through dreams of the past from familial blood, revealing a tragic destiny, but poignant love both women have for Jeremiah. He lives in anguish while preparing Zondra to protect her new family against other vampire houses who believe Zondra’s unique abilities could end the vampire nation.

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PUBLISHED January 13, 2024

Kindle & print & audiobook

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ECHOES OF SHADOWS

Live to the point of tears.

— Albert Camus

 

CHAPTER ONE

Present year

 

Being alive can be both an overwhelming blessing and a complicated burden. It’s a bittersweet reality and a pitiful thing to say for a coed who’s only twenty-two, and I’m too young to feel such a heavy weight on my shoulders. My days are filled with deep conversations, earnest questions, and thoughts on humanity. My life is so drastically different from those of others my age. There are more questions than answers and people waiting in the wings to make their mark on me. It seems like a common enough occurrence in life: decision after decision after decision… There aren’t any simple answers. Not even a sure way to get through my life without consequences or regrets.

But our story is a little more than what meets the eye. What? She said ‘our story’ and not ‘my story.’ That’s the difference, that’s what I’m talking about. I shudder to think how difficult it’s going to be to navigate through life when every decision I make affects not only my future but also the future of everyone around me. A rollercoaster ride of joys and sorrows. It’s hard not to be cynical at a young age, though. Perspective is everything. I don’t even know where to begin, and I’m afraid that if I try to explain it all, it’ll only leave you feeling more confused than before.

Let me go back a bit.

I was five, lost in the snowflakes drifting down on my face as I stared into them, my hand reaching up. A woman grabbed my wrist and leaned into me, her sinister, smiling face blocking out the world, and demanded to know where I got the birthmark on the back of my hand. Her voice was like a wind blowing through the trees, her words a whisper in my mind. I didn’t understand what she was jabbering about, so shrugged my shoulders. My mother’s voice rose above the other noises like a siren. As she rushed to me, the lady disappeared. I mean, literally disappeared, magically gone, a gush of wind in my face.

I turned into the gust, my eyelashes fluttering, making me squint, as my mom grabbed my other hand, admonishing me for losing her in the throng of evening shoppers. That’s when the surrounding movement slowed. I could see the woman who had taken my hand so harshly. She glided with elegant fluidity through the nearly static tangle of shoppers, while staring at me in bewilderment. She slipped past the corners of my eyes and evaporated. I stumbled after my mom, eyes wide with fear and confusion.

After that encounter, these people, either alone or in small groups, hovered around whenever my parents took me to New York City. I thought the strange sightings were just coincidental or some bizarre dream of a lonely little girl. But with every passing day, it became more and more obvious that these people were seeing me. They weren’t dangerous, and they never spoke to me, but there was something oddly warm and comforting about their presence that made me feel very safe. I couldn’t explain why I felt so comfortable around them—it was almost like I knew them from somewhere else.

I only sensed them at night or in the evening. Sometimes, I would see them in my little town, but rarely. They weren’t always rushing about in a blur, usually quite the opposite, at least as they appeared to me. As time went on, they always noticed me before I noticed them and we’d stare at each other; for me, out of curiosity and wonder; for them, out of suspicion.

I asked my parents about these strange, seemingly magical people, but they glimpsed at each other in the same bewilderment as the elegant woman who had studied me. They said I was having daydreams. But I only see them at night, I protested. They smiled at how cute I was. Since they didn’t believe me, I would keep any further information to myself.

As I grew older, I’d still get the occasional person, man or woman, who’d appear from the edge of my eyes to turn my hand over and stare at my birthmark and sometimes ask where I got it. Well, they didn’t ask like a normal person, their question just came into my mind. When I questioned Mom about it, that’s when I learned what a birthmark was. After that, I no longer shrugged my shoulders but told those people I was born with it, then I impertinently demanded to know why they cared, anyway. None of them answered. They stared into my eyes as if trying to pull something out of me they could understand. They always left in a rush of wind, glancing at me in even more consternation because they knew I could see them.

One evening in NYC, when my parents thought I was old enough to go to a musical and not squirm around, I was overjoyed. As the curtain fell, my parents and I joined the throng of people leaving the theater. I walked beside them on the crowded New York City street, feeling grown up at ten years old, so didn’t need to hold my mother’s hand every second like before. My mom knew that if we waited at the stage door down the alley where the actors come and go, we might snag an autograph. I saw one of the Others leave the theater with us. She came down the narrow passage with a small group of interested admirers, but she slipped away on her own, turning down another even narrower alley. Something drew me towards her.

My parents were yapping away with people like themselves and didn’t pay attention to me when I broke free from my mother’s grip to follow the woman into a world I couldn’t have imagined existed before that moment.

She paused in the middle and turned around, her long gown billowing as she gazed at me. Her eyes were soft and welcoming, the warmest of browns that seemed to look right into my soul. She was a woman I’d never seen before, a princess or queen from a storybook. Her jet-black hair was knotted in swirls that rose above her head, and her face was so smooth and ebony dark, the kind of perfect beauty you see in paintings in museums. A soft hum reverberated from her, like a lullaby from far away that soothes and comforts. A gentle fragrance of flowers filled the alleyway, as a garden had bloomed in the night. She had an aura of power that seemed to glow from within her and around her, yet at the same time she was inviting me in with open arms.

At that moment, I knew that this was no ordinary encounter; it seemed like we had connected in some strange way. She glided forward. Her elegant gown was a deep purple that seemed to float around her, making it appear as if it was alive with her graceful movement, and the trimmed gold lace sparkled in the dim light of the alleyway. Her eyes were bright and full of love, her face radiantly calm. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she looked upon me, gentle and reassuring. She reached forward and, ever so delicately, enfolded my hand in hers; electric sparks shot through me. She had the power to protect me.

Her whisper in my mind felt like a caress, “Child of Destiny.” The words echoed in my mind as if they were meant to stay there forever. Then she was gone, like the wisp of a dream. That’s when I finally realized what they were—angels sent to guard me against harm and make sure I was safe on my path in life.

From then on, whenever I saw them again, I bowed my head out of respect for their protection over me. Every time we passed each other in the street, they’d look back at me with what I thought was wonderment. I imagined them whispering something like “We’re watching you!” before fading away into the crowded New York City sidewalks. Knowing that these gentle guardians were watching over me gave me the courage and strength to move forward without fear or hesitation on my life’s journey.

Unfortunately, this wholesome feeling didn’t last for long. Most of these strange people didn’t feel this way. No one ever confronted me or said or thought anything bad to me, but their looks and their feelings swept over me whenever we were near each other. And it wasn’t comforting. So, I was back to where I started. They weren’t angels. I had just met one that was nice.

When I reached adolescence, I noticed more from them, and their confused stares and hushed voices between themselves. They came into my mind, but not my ears. Fear set their faces. These reactions came from people with whom my father did business, or those at nighttime parties and evening movie shows. These fearful eyes seem to implore me to keep silent. I would always hear this strange melodic noise swirl around in my head as we met, almost speech, but I couldn’t understand it.

I became more accustomed to viewing these wondrous people, and they, in turn, became more accustomed to me. By the time I hit my teens, no one stopped to gaze at my hand or whirl about me, inspecting me from head to foot. They still stared and talked in groups, although they did this without actually speaking. I knew they were discussing me. If I approached them, as I tried several times, they’d flutter away almost too fast for me to see. At first, this made me sad, but later, it made me angry.

As a young teenager, full of confrontational angst, I tripped to New York with several other disobedient girlfriends without permission. The sounds of the city carried on the air like a symphony. People walking on the sidewalks, riding in cars, or riding buses had a happy, jovial look about them that gave me a smile.

As the sun dipped behind the buildings and the city lights illuminated the streets, our group set out on an adventure to explore the vibrant and historic neighborhoods of Greenwich Village and Washington Square. The streets were bustling with energy as locals and tourists alike walked around, taking in the sights and sounds. We were on a mission to seek new and exciting life experiences, and we had heard that the Greenwich Village, with its charming cobblestone streets, trendy cafes, and world-renowned music clubs, was the perfect place to find them. We knew that the Village was considered the cultural and artistic center of the city, and we were eager to immerse ourselves in its unique atmosphere. As we strolled through Washington Square Park, taking in the street performers and the iconic arch, I couldn’t help but feel that I had truly found the center of the universe for the kind of experiences I was looking for.

As we walked into Washington Square, it didn’t take long for a flock of young men to fall upon us. They were a mix of ages. Some were barely in their teenage years while others were in their early twenties. They seemed filled with admiration and excitement when they approached us. We were caught off guard by the attention, having grown up in a small town where people were more reserved and interactions with the opposite sex were still somewhat shy. The boys in our hometown would still blush when faced with a girl. However, here in the city, the young men were much more forward and confident in their approach. We couldn’t help but feel charmed by their attentiveness and it was a new and exciting experience for us.

Some street boys approached us. I mean, maybe they weren’t street boys because they looked clean, but a bit raggedy with holes in their jeans and music icons across their tee shirts. They were curious about our appearance, which was mostly store-bought fashion as far as our parents were concerned.

One guy got too close and even asked if my dirty blond hair was bleached. Give me a break! I couldn’t believe the audacity of the question, and the presumptuousness to assume that I’d change my hair color just for his amusement. He reached out to touch my cowlick, wanting to see if it was real. I quickly batted his hand away, feeling indignant and offended. I pushed my face into his, expressing my frustration and anger at the invasive and disrespectful behavior.

“Keep your paws in your pocket, buster!”

It was a demeaning experience, and I couldn’t believe how bold these boys were in their actions.

It’s true, my cowlick is strange, and wasn’t in the back of my head like the rest of the human race. It was in front that makes my natural part just off-center where the hair does a sweep back and to the side, like a model tossing her hair. I tried forever to plaster it down until—as I got older—boys and girls said how sexy it looked.

Everyone in the city seemed to live on the streets. Music from many styles and countries, and conversations, carried on the breeze, and everyone looked happy. Although these boys were eager and charming, they tumbled around the square like they owned it, gripping their skateboards and doing tricks, popping wheelies on tiny sport bikes with no fenders, or riding like crazy acrobats. They seemed to move with lightness as if every day was another caper for them doing adolescent feats of derring-do.

But my eyes were drawn toward a lone boy sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the square. He was one of them, older than me, but not yet a man. He stared at me through dark glasses, and being still in that way, regular people can’t. As they do to my perception, he stood out from everyone: more defined, color-saturated… vibrant. Those noises whirled in my head. The soft noise of laughter eraser swirled away as I paused to take it all in.

He moved with supernatural speed, faster than any other of his kind I’d seen before. In an instant, he sat beside me. The swirl of dusty wind that followed blew through those gathered about me, forcing eyes shut and spontaneous coughing. He was very good-looking to my young eyes, of a nationality I couldn’t place. His honey-blonde shaggy hair curled over his ears, and his smooth face was still too young for whiskers. The overhead lamp’s reflection glinted off his aviator sunglasses as his azure eyes seemed to bore into me. I could make out his curious eyes behind the sunglasses as he watched me differently than the others before him. He inspected my every move as if I were an insect. Then he leaned forward and took an exaggerated sniff. That really pissed me off!

“What’s your fucking problem?” I demanded.

“Who are you?” he demanded back.

He stunned me to silence because he was the first to answer me. “I’m Zondra,” I stuttered.

“No, I mean, who are you? Where do you come from?”

“I come from Putnam Valley. Where do you come from?”

He scrunched his face in exasperation, then grasped my hand and pointed to my birthmark. “Who gave you this?”

“Why does everyone ask the same stupid question? It’s a fucking birthmark, excuse my French.”

“No, it’s not.”

I gawked at him, stupefied. How rude can a person be? “What the hell is it, then, Mr. know-it-all?”

“It’s a protection sign. The mark of your family.”

I laughed and pulled my hand from his cold fingers. “My family doesn’t have a mark, and the closest thing to protection they’ve given me is advice I don’t usually follow.”

He bore into my eyes as others have done and came away with the same confused expression. “I can’t read you. You’re not one of us, yet you’re protected.”

“You’re full of shit.”

He cocked his head like an inquisitive bird might. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” I huffed.

“Who you are. What you are.”

His nonsense totally annoyed me. I grabbed his arms. “Explain yourself, you little shit!”

He lurched back, surprised, hissing like a viper, his lips curling up as his incisors slid down into stiletto fangs. My horrified shriek caused every head to whip around, but a human reaction isn’t near that of these Others, for he disappeared so fast even I could only see a smear of color hanging in the air.

Everyone closed in on me as I sat there on the bench, panting and shivering. They began jabbering at once, wanting to know what happened.

“Maybe she had some bad drugs,” a boy offered.

My girlfriend Beth socked him on the arm. “She isn’t an addict like you, miscreant.”

“She looks like she’s seen a fucking ghost,” another boy stated.

“Yeah, there are ghosts that hang out here, ya know,” yet another guy added.

“Oh-my-god!” my other girlfriend, Angela, interjected with sheer disgust. “And I thought small-town boys were imbeciles.”

My breath returned, and those indistinct ambient voices in my head dissipated. Blood warmed my face. I wanted to shout at those inquisitive faces gaping at me, Didn’t you see that? But I knew they hadn’t. I stood up on weak legs.

“I want to go home.”

“But we just got here,” my girlfriends yelped in similar sentiments.

They convinced me to stay, and I did, although solely out of my guilt at having been the instigator of this expedition and my inability to tell them why I needed to leave. In return, I elicited promises we wouldn’t leave the safety of public places, which meant not succumbing to the lures and entreaties of these enticing young boys to visit their rooms.

However, everywhere we wandered, the others were in the background, staring, sniffing the air as they do, searching out an aroma that I now understood they meant to follow. I’d only have a vague idea who these beings were, for I’d never read a book or seen a movie about them. I only knew the common knowledge of such things as charges the banter at school and between friends.

As the evening wore on, I doubted what I’d seen. From time to time, those garbled voices would enter my head, then leave again, taking a portion of that awful memory, until we caught the bus for home. When asked by my girlfriends later what had happened, I stared at them in bewilderment.

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One Comment:

  1. This was amazing, Stuart! It’s going on my to-read list!

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