"I could definitely see myself reading this again, and I'm so glad I read this right before Halloween, because it really put me in the mood for my favorite holiday. It was hauntingly beautiful and really came to life, with just the right amount of horror and paranormal aspects. And the ending left me with hope for a second installment! What a satisfying read!" - Darque Dreamer, Goodreads
Description:
Published: October 30th, 2019
Jonathan is the immortal master of Raven Hollow Manor – a decrepit mansion riddled with superstition, murder and restless ghosts. Beneath it lies a restless malice.
Its previous owner driven mad, violently kills his guests with a rusted ax, creating the perfect venue for Jonathan to seclude himself in a prison of his own device.
When the streets of London begin to run red with blood; the bodies exhibiting disturbing signs and baffling wounds, the identity of the killer remains elusive to police.
The bodies are just the beginning of Jonathan’s troubles. A mysterious letter accusing Jonathan of committing the murders appear, raising suspicion in the police. Hidden beneath the mangled bodies, Jonathan soon realizes he is being forced to face demons he thought died in a forlorn past he attempted to escape.
One thing Jonathan knows for certain: He must deal with the demons of his past if he is to survive his future. Not only him but those he has come to love as well.
For fans of Jim Butcher, Stephen King, Darcy Coates and Nick Cutter.
EXCERPT
I. The Streets Ran With
Blood
I want
it known before this tale begins – I am not a hero but a villain. I want no
sympathy from whomever reads this recalling of my story; no mourning for the
tragedy that befell my life. I am not an innocent man but a sinner forced to
face the ravaging demons and ghosts of his own creation.
My story began as many do –
a lie, a fire and murder. One of my kind murdered the woman I loved in the
coldest of blood in one of history’s darkest times at the behest of a possessive
noble.
After a run in with him in
Nottingham, I soon found myself fleeing for my life from hunters, framed for a
murder I had not committed.
Forgive me, I am getting
ahead of myself.
Let me begin where this
part of my story took place.
A bloody civil war ravaged
London followed shortly by the Great Fire in 1666. A glorious time for me and
those like me to take advantage of the chaos and remain hidden in the
shadows.
I managed to pursue the one
responsible for nearly getting me killed two centuries prior to the plague
which befell London before the fire.
Within the shadows of the
flickering flames of St. Peter’s Cathedral, I struck him down and departed the
city, thus avoiding my demise.
I had yet to escape him,
however, when his vengeful spirit devoured the souls of the innocent in a mad
bloodlust.
Though greatly injured, I
managed to drive his spirit to my new home Raven Hollow Manor in London,
imprisoning him in stone coffin in the crypt beneath it.
Peace resumed in my life
and nobles of all kinds enjoyed lavishly hosted parties within the halls of my
estate.
Unfortunately, the short
lived splendor at the hands of the hauntings filled the ears of the locals and
my beloved home decayed into a tangled web of blood-filled rumors and
superstition.
My once glorious halls
became infested with dust, its crystal chandeliers covered with cobwebs, their
spiders fat on the insects buzzing around the decay and mold-covered
wallpaper.
Yet, there I remained as it
proved a decent place to not only contain my greatest sin but served also as a
castle of solitude.
The tides of time swept by
in a cacophony of modernization and the movement from superstition to things
only mortal science could explain.
I still needed to venture
into the city, not only to feed but also to purchase other items needed for
everyday living.
It wasn’t until the winter
of 1910 that my silence would be disrupted in the form of a girl named Holly, a
young street urchin accused of theft. I took her with me after using a bit of
“persuasion” on the local officers to let her go.
They did not need to know
where I would take her and she soon grew into a wonderful messenger on my
behalf. She became a rather attractive young woman with bouncy blonde curls who
kept me company with stories of what went on in the city.
I am sure, at one time, she
became infatuated with me. It did not surprise me. To mortals, my kind held a
certain allure they found difficult to ignore. I ended her infatuation quickly
following a stern talking to and dousing with cold water.
One day, while in my
labyrinthine garden, Holly came to me in tears.
When the people of London
learned where Holly lived, the townsfolk dubbed her a practitioner of black
magic.
One day, I found Holly
sitting on one of the marble benches in the garden, sobbing. I picked a flower
and put it in my daughter’s hair, sitting next to her beneath the statue of a praying
angel.
“You need not worry about
them, dearest. Mortals are always quick to place labels on what they do not
understand.”
Holly sniffled and sobbed,
wiping her nose and offering me a smile. “But why do they avoid this place,
Jonathan?”
“Mortals fear what they
cannot comprehend. Pay them no mind. You are a wonderful young woman,” I
purred, brushing a blonde curl from her face.
The words appeared to have
placated her as she smiled and joined me in a moonlight stroll through the
garden.
***
Around midnight, after dinner with Holly, I dismissed her to bed. Once
she departed, I sought out sustenance in the city.
A dense fog rolled in due
to the cool winter weather and the recent days of rain.
Combined with the darkness
of the streets and alleyways, I managed to meet a young working woman on the
corner and wooed her into joining me for a walk to the park. As with other
women, I made sure she understood I respected her body with gentle caresses and
loving words murmured into her ears.
Once I placed her deep
under my spell, I kissed the tender flesh of the woman’s throat and exposed
shoulder, thanking her for her gift.
My fangs pierced her flesh,
earning a moan of pleasure as her body surrendered its precious life force
without any significant damage. Her body pressed against mine, her moans
increasing with pleasure at my kiss.
I preferred this method to
those of many of my other brethren who tore their victims apart during a
feeding, choosing power to subdue instead of sexual allure.
When signs of weakness
began manifesting I released my hold, picking her up after licking the small
puncture wounds, my saliva healing them, leaving no marks or scars.
To assure she received
care, I took her to the nearest hospital and deposited her on the steps without
anyone noticing.
As always, I used hypnotic
suggestion to erase her memory and leave her with a pleasant dream.
During the wee hours of the
morning, I tended to enjoy the calls of the birds and the chirping of the
crickets to help relieve the burden on my mind.
Not a soul roamed the
streets near the bridge where I liked to sit and write poetry or read a
book.
In the midst of the
silence, a horrifying shriek caught my attention, almost startling me.
My pupils narrowed to those
one might see in a viper or a cat. I let my body dissipate into the form of a
black mist, hovering over the city in search of the source of the scream.
I found it in the shape of
the body of a mangled man.
The whites of his eyes
consumed most of the portion of the glossy orbs in his skull, mouth gaped open
mid-scream.
I knelt before him, my own
brows furrowed in frustration at the recognition of the familiar puncture wounds
on the man’s throat. This cannot be. No other has hunted here in
centuries.
The disturbing find made
something clear.
Many of my kind preferred
not to hunt in one place occupied by another of higher status, or in another’s
territory for that matter. We changed due to the growing number of human
hunters who would kill any of us they came across.
Despite the city’s size, my
reputation often kept others out of my hunting grounds, for which I remained
grateful.
This new kill had been
malicious.
If I allowed such behavior
to continue, it could draw the attention of the hunters or the local police to
my home.
Whomever the responsible
party, I needed to locate them and have a word with them or kill them if
necessary.
My eyes closed, a heavy
sigh drawing up from within my lungs. I placed my fingers over the man’s eyes,
using a gentle touch to close them. “Forgive whichever of us did this to you.
You did not deserve to die in such a horrific manner.”
Searching through the
pockets of his trench coat, I located his identification card and vowed to send
some money and roses to his family.
Sounds of sirens and the
calls of the corner watchmen announced the arrival of the authorities. I left
them the man’s wallet so they could inform his family of their loss.
I lurked in the shadows
listening to the inspectors scrutinizing the scene.
“Bloody mystery, it is.
This is the second mangled body we found this week. One has to wonder if we
might be witnessing the birth of another blighter of a serial killer.” One of
the inspectors scratched his head beneath the dome shaped hat.
I recognized him as
Bertrand Abrams, a well-known officer and one of the only men who aided Holly
during her visits to town.
From his looks, one would
expect him to hail from Scotland. A bushy mustache and stringy hair with the
consistency of sheep’s wool held the color of fire. Dimples set into high
cheekbones and a double chin made me smile. A portly belly betrayed his
affinity for too many scones and perhaps Scotch.
He had been wrong. This
death held no mystery. I merely needed to find the one responsible before it
resulted in too much of a personal dilemma.
Following the release of
the corpse to the medical examiner, I took the form of black mist and drifted
back to Raven Hollow.
The beginnings of my night
would be haunted by dreams of a past filled with love, vengeance and
pain.
It would be filled with
shining auburn locks and eyes the color of the fresh leaves of spring.
II. Annabelle
London, Summer
1565
I stood
in the shadows of the balcony in a room full of people in London’s upper class,
a glass of champagne in my hand, my eyes following the path of a young woman as
she drifted from group to group—her strawberry lips plump and perfect for a
summer night’s kiss. I fantasized about what it might feel like to taste her
lips beneath the moonlight.
At times I caught the woman
glancing at me, a shy smile on her face.
Beneath the ornate feline
mask, I caught eyes colored with facial shadow, half-lidded with as much desire
as I felt welling up within me. The glances and flirting gestures occurred so
often through the night I could take no more and approached her.
The woman covered her face
with a frilly, cream fan, gesturing her head towards the opened window panes
leading to the granite balcony.
The satin curtains danced
in the warmth of the breeze, their soft whooshes unheard by the gossiping
guests as the woman moved through them.
With immortal grace, I
glided through the bodies, refusing advances from bourgeoisie ladies whose
breasts struggled to remain hidden behind their laced corsets.
When I reached the young
woman, she stood staring out at the lavish gardens below. My eyes never left
her face, entranced by her porcelain skin almost shining in the moon’s light.
Below, gurgling water
echoed from the fountain in the middle of the stone pathway, surrounded by
beautiful flowers blooming, permeating the air with sensual smells.
“Greetings, my lady.” I
took her silken gloved hand and placed a kiss on the back of her knuckles. My
hazel eyes locked on her bright green gaze.
We appeared to be studying
one another. The sounds of the party faded into nothingness the further we
drifted into our own world.
Thoughts of what she might
be thinking ran through my mind along with concerns I often held during such
encounters. Did she fall victim to my wiles? My natural seduction or did
she feel a natural attraction?
A brief sense of ache
pushed at the walls of my beating heart. I forced the thoughts away. It could
not be. If my seduction did indeed affect her, she would not have teased me as
much as she did. Attraction would have been instant as it had been with those
other women from the party who shoved their large bosoms in my face as I walked
by.
“To you as well, sir,” She
replied, gesturing a slight nod.
Her bright smile set my
heart ablaze with the desire. I gathered my will and requested her to dance
with me, an offer she agreed to, never letting go of the mischievous tease of a
grin lighting her lips.
I led us to the ballroom
where I proceeded to guide her through the most graceful dance. My hand held
firm around her tiny waist while her frilly dress followed each majestic spin
with the rhythm of the music.
During a dip, I ventured to
ask her what her name could be.
The woman giggled, fanning
herself and requesting some fresh air in light of so much dancing. I obliged
her and guided her back to the balcony.
In the distance, I could
hear the bubbling sound of the water cascading in the fountain. All around the
smell of flowers drifted in the cool summer breeze. To give her a rest, I
helped her sit on one of the marble benches, joining her.
I repeated my request to
know her name.
She pushed one of the
loosened curls of her bronze hair away from her face. Her green eyes
threatening to delve into the depths of my soul. “I am Annabelle Price. May I
ask your namel, my Lord?”
“Jonathan Holloway. It is
my greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Price.”
Annabelle giggled.
“Annabelle, please. To you as well, Mr. Holloway.”
As she had done with me, I
corrected her to use my first name.
Little had I known that
night would lead to more meetings in the near future only to end in a tragedy
which would begin my descent into the darkness of vengeance.
***
Light tapping followed by
Holly’s voice calling out to me through the closed door caused me to groan,
rising in bed and calling to her to give me a moment. Immense pressure
threatened to tear my eyes from my skull as I lumbered over to the rack in the
corner of the room where a black, silk robe hung.
I put on the robe, taking
in the tangled sandy mess of shortened hair in the mirror before staggering
over to the door, opening it.
As usual, Holly managed to
make herself look beyond beautiful despite the early hours of the day. Her
bouncy honey-blonde curls sat at the top of her head in a formal bun, her cream
dress and green overcoat glistening with the light of the sun. Plump cheeks,
colored with a slight hint of blush drew up in a deep-dimpled grin.
“Good morning,” She
greeted.
Rubbing my eyes, ignoring
the annoyance niggling my mind, I returned her greeting. “Holly, you know I am
not a morning man. What could you possibly need so early?”
Holly pursed her lips, her
blue eyes displaying irritation. “Well, that’s rude. I wanted to have breakfast
together like we used to. Were you out late again?”
I nodded.
My body ached from fatigue,
the muscles heavy and throbbing with want to go back to bed.
When she continued to
plead, I sighed and asked her for some time to allow me to get a bath and join
her downstairs.
Despite my belief to the
contrary, Holly’s dimpled grin grew wider, eyes shining with excitement.
It made me regret all of
those mornings I sent her away, choosing to sleep until after sunset.
Holly placed a kiss on my
cheek, thanking me, prancing off like a deer through a field of grain back down
the stairs.
I returned to my room to
procure some clothes for myself and mosey into the bathroom where I ran a hot
bath, letting the warm water fill the tub and ease my aching body. I added some
of the scented oils and foreign bath salts I purchased during one of my rare
visits to the bustling London market.
They eased the stress and
lingering pain, allowing me to relax into a peaceful state of mind. My head
lulled back to stare at the ceiling as I thought about the dream recounting the
time I met Annabelle, the woman I loved more than my own life. The woman I
watched helplessly murdered with my own eyes.
I remembered the crimson
streams of blood, the life leaving her eyes as she reached out to me, gurgling
out my name before she fell to the ground.
Never before had I felt
such pain. Such loss.
Not now. I cannot allow
myself to drift into despair. Not when my daughter waits for me. I rose
from the bath, dried myself with one of the soft cotton towels.
I dressed to join Holly in
the kitchen, stopping by my dresser to look at a small, ornate box. I opened it
to find a necklace and a ring, sighing at the memories they held. Its bronze
hinges creaked when I closed the lid and left the room to go downstairs.
Holly sat at the table,
standing when she saw me, moving like the wind to prepare me a plate containing
a full English breakfast and a cup of tea with cream and sugar.
Holly joined me, her head
turned away towards the table, hands twiddling in her lap.
I opened the paper she got
me and proceeded to read, ignoring her since I knew the behavior to mean she
had something she wished to ask.
I sighed, unable to handle
her less than subtle attempts to get my attention. “What is it? I know you have
something you wish to say,” I asked, lowering the paper.
Biting her lower lip, Holly
whimpered. “I wondered if you would be okay with me attending a dinner party
with one of my best friends. I know how you are about me going out after dark
without you.”
Knowing what lurked in the
shadows and our affinity for young men or women, I often forbade Holly from
roaming the streets after sunset.
Seeing the look of
desperate longing on her face proved holding my resolve more difficult the
longer she did so. I gave in, making her promise not to leave her friend’s
house alone or at all, provided she complete her chores both in the house and
outside of it.
With more vigor than I
would have liked, she repeated “yes” and “thank you” so many times I lost count.
“Oh! That reminds me. The
groundskeeper is doing wonderfully with the gardens,” Holly said with glee.
My eyes never left the
paper, particularly one story involving the man from last night. “You hired a
groundskeeper? I take it he has no fear of this place’s reputation then?”
Holly pushed the paper down
to capture my gaze with hers. “Of course he is but I promised him decent pay so
he’s willing to overlook it.” She sauntered around me, wrapping her arms over
my shoulders.
“I worry for you being alone
so much. Why must you be such a recluse? I know you still hurt for Anna but--”
“That will be enough.” I
said. My voice a tone not to be questioned. “As far as anyone knows, I do not
exist and I am more than fine with it. Finish your chores. I have a delivery
for you to make before you leave. As always, be discreet.”
Once again, Holly’s lips
pursed. She huffed, took the dishes to the kitchen and prepared to go about her
daily business.
I retired to my study to
ponder the story of the man’s murder and Inspector Abrams’ mention of another
mangled corpse.
It soon became obvious,
what with the memories of Anna resurfacing and my mind’s endless pursuit of
answers, that sleep would remain elusive.
Knocking on the door
interrupted my thoughts. Holly threw it open, almost allowing it to slam
against the wall.
“I almost forgot, I think
Inspector Abrams’ son has taken a fancy to me.”
Oh dear. I
thought. “And do you find yourself attracted to him?”
She shook her head.
“Then there is no need to
worry. Let him down easily but be polite. The inspector has done much to
dissuade the general public from their thoughts about you.”
A thick silence lingered in
the air.
“I heard another poor
person was murdered,” Holly finally said. She hesitated at the last word, her
voice barely a whisper.
I kept my focus on the
spire of Big Ben above the treeline.
“So I can put my heart at
ease, it wasn’t you, was it?” Holly asked.
“No, dearest. I do not kill
unnecessarily. Now, go finish your chores and enjoy your evening. I will be out
late tonight and will be checking on you.” I grinned at the look of defiance on
her face.
Goodreads ** Amazon ** Barnes&Noble ** Kobo
About the author:
Iona Caldwell is the lover of all things arcane, folklore, nature and magic.
She is the author of the British Occult Fiction, Beneath London’s Fog set to be published by FyreSyde Publishing October 2019. Her second title, Hell’s Warden is forecasted to release in February of 2020. When she’s not busy weaving worlds of the arcane and dark, she’s spending time out in nature. An avid lover of books, Iona claims her biggest inspirations are H.P Lovecraft, Stephen King, Neil Gaiman and Edgar Allen Poe.
She believes storytellers should tell the stories they want to tell. As such, most of her titles are stand-alone novellas she hopes will leave her readers immersed in magical worlds.
She is also an extremely active book blogger who will review primarily horror, suspense, supernatural thriller, mystery, and occult/gothic fiction.
She is the author of the British Occult Fiction, Beneath London’s Fog set to be published by FyreSyde Publishing October 2019. Her second title, Hell’s Warden is forecasted to release in February of 2020. When she’s not busy weaving worlds of the arcane and dark, she’s spending time out in nature. An avid lover of books, Iona claims her biggest inspirations are H.P Lovecraft, Stephen King, Neil Gaiman and Edgar Allen Poe.
She believes storytellers should tell the stories they want to tell. As such, most of her titles are stand-alone novellas she hopes will leave her readers immersed in magical worlds.
She is also an extremely active book blogger who will review primarily horror, suspense, supernatural thriller, mystery, and occult/gothic fiction.
Author's Giveaway
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
7 comments:
I had previously purchased this book but haven't had a chance to read it yet. I am looking forward to it though.
Sounds like a great book.
WOW this looks amazing, love the cover and the title.
the cover is eerie
Sounds awesome and I love the cover!
I am blown away by what I have read about this book! The cover is awesome!!
I like the book cover. This sounds mysterious and chilling.
Post a Comment