Chapter 1:
The skeleton of the small plane rattled louder and louder against the turbulent remnants of the storm that lay ahead. The pilot was used to difficult flying conditions and, while the last part of this recent venture had been both a delightful game and an infuriating incident, it was far better than the droll life he led at home. Having been a vampire for nearly a hundred years was boring by itself, but added to that were the responsibilities of an undead family. His own descendants the generation following his had decided to form their own coven and reunite with their 'grandfather' which was at first, admittedly, something grand for someone becoming increasingly lonely. By the end of the first five years, though, it had become tiresome. Taking a short excursion in the summer months was something he had grown so used to that it seemed like his only respite from the drab life he was now prisoner to . . . or rather, a drab after life. The small, dark plane came to rest easily in the large makeshift landing strip that led to a large barn acting as a hangar. The two drudges he had recently commissioned into service were already waiting for him and looked to be expecting him. Clearly, Marion had already given them their instructions and they would require little educating about their circumstance. As the plane slowly stopped moving, he thought back to the final few moments of his encounter with that blasted rag-writer. He could still feel the man's presence ever so slightly in the vessel, an often unfortunate side effect of being psychic and therefore capable of telemetry. It suddenly reached him that the precious photo album had been handled and quite without permission. He stifled rage, reminding himself that the man was now in custody facing the music, so to speak, for his years of malodorous misdeeds. And he had been doubly sure to send the woman who had followed him a strict message:
"Breathe, write, or type a word of this, Miss Blair, and I will come and tear you to shreds in an instant. Be a good girl and get back to your work . . . creating grotesque fantasies," he had said as their eyes locked for a few brief moments. She had seemed to understand it and walked away from the window without a word or a gesture in his direction. She wasn't entirely unattractive for a modern woman. He gently opened the photo album on his lap and fondly stroked the first image that met him. Kitty . . . no one could've ever been as beautiful, no, lovely as she had been no matter the age of the world. Such an exquisite and delicate being. He somewhat regretted not having a relationship with the two sons she had died birthing. The first one hadn't survived an illegal enlistment during the Second World War and the second had given life to the three strange granddaughters that were now his extended family. Kitty would've loved them, all of them, despite their oddities. He slowly put the book back into the little shelf where other photographs were stashed and sighed as he opened the door. Ray Sarch stood looking at his new master with slight unease.
"Have you been shown where the cleaning materials are?" he asked. Ray nodded as Ellen joined him and gave the same warm smile she had given him when first falling under his influence. He had caught himself imagining that she was Kitty which must've altered how she viewed him as well, but in the end he had managed to break that train of thought and simply treat the old woman as a gentle old grandmother; even though she had been dressed clearly expecting something else. The vampire sighed and moved past them. "Come inside and inform me the moment you are finished. I want to be sure you know what you're doing."
"Yes, Mister Beringer," Ray said softly. The vampire halted and turned in a flash. The old man knew his name? His real name?! "Myrtle Louise told me. She thinks it's best we know who you are and Marion agreed it's more proper to address you, in her words, 'as such'. But maybe you'd feel more comfortable if we used the surname, Mr. Amedee?"
"Then I suppose I shall forgive the trespass just this once. I do not respond to anyone that is not my own blood calling me by my given name," the vampire replied angrily.
Ray seemed to almost smirk, a streak of defiance that he hadn't been able to muster at the end of his life somehow forming the tiniest of glints in his eyes. "Thank you, Mister Beringer Amedee."
The vampire's eyes flashed bright red as he snarled at the old man. "Get to work quickly. You have only five hours until sunrise." He gestured towards the plane as Ellen turned and started to get to work while Ray hesitated. The vampire snarled once again. "Get to work, Mr. Sarch, or no amount of expert suturing will repair what I will do with your still living head." He hurried to the door and gripped the handle as he allowed the rage within him to subside. There were certain things even he with all of his immense power didn't dare do around his three daunting granddaughters, particularly Marion. Marion had been adamant that while at home he use his proper name, not even the perfect performing name he had concocted; Baron (or Berin) Amedee. Marion, the eldest of the three, had been the one to initiate the three joining him as a coven when the three had turned 19. She was the most sensible and somehow maintained the propriety of the early 19th Century without ever having actually lived there. She even dressed in one of the most conservative and early 20th Century manners as possible despite being born in the mid-40's. He opened the door and noticed her standing, arms folded and sharpened tongue waiting. Her dark brown hair was pulled behind her head in a neat bun while a string of pearls hung about her neck, complimenting the navy blue dress she wore as if copying a magazine cover from Good Housekeeping from decades long passed.
"Well, I hope you've had a pleasant vacation this time," she said with a huff. He growled a little as she scowled at him. "Four months, four months this time, grandfather! And what do you have to show for it? You were nearly discovered entirely!"
"I dealt with the issue, Marion, not that it is any of your concern what happens to me during my annual furlough," he said. Marion lifted one brow and allowed him to pass. "I see you have already staffed the household for the time being."
"You should've chosen a younger couple. The ones you've been selecting are almost as fragile as the antique Russian bone-china you so adamantly refuse to be touched!" Marion exclaimed as she followed him. "Marjorie has been in such a state since that horrid, horrid man began following you! She's practically been inconsolable."
Beringer stopped by a doorway leading into one of the parlours of the larger old house. The mansion seemed cliche' but cliches were something he was fond of and believed they had become cliche for a good reason. Marjorie, the youngest of his granddaughters, sat at a bay window on its seat, gazing out through the glass as the curtains were drawn to the side. She had hair a half shade darker than Marion's and it was kept shorter, but not too short, and flipped under. She looked like she belonged in the decade she'd been born into and was incredibly quiet despite being a wellspring of deep thought and emotion. In a way, Beringer preferred it this way as he never quite knew how to react to any displays of outward sadness or worry. He smiled as she retrieved a book that had been open on her lap and began pouring over the pages once more. Whatever had been troubling her when Marion had last seen her was clearly gone from her mind. "I am glad to see Marjorie recovering so quickly," he mused as Marion huffed and continued to follow him, now almost stomping. He smirked inwardly and removed the cloak he had been wearing for theatrics and placed it on a hook as he continued down the hallway. He loved it and loved the look of it (in theory), but he knew how much Marion loathed it and how easy it would be for her to start the final granddaughter, the middle child, to join her in mocking it.
"Marjorie has only recovered so quickly because of Myrtle Louise insisting that she drink that ridiculous tonic she's been working on," Marion snorted. "If you ask me, I believe she's dabbling in witchcraft, Grandfather."
"She's not dabbling, Marion, she's been rather open about her desire to study old Pagan traditions," Beringer huffed back. Marion scoffed and turned to walk in the other direction as her grandfather hesitated in front of the door leading to the family library. "Anything else I should know?"
"Wendell has been worried as well, Grandfather. Myrtle Louise's birthday is this year, you know, and the last time you went after a gift for her we all went through an ordeal," Marion said as she stormed away. "Nevertheless I'll remind you that the meal is in 3 hours and I expect you to be a beacon of good manners returned home for Wendell!"
"This is exactly why I leave every year," he muttered. He knew Marion had heard it, but he also knew that she wasn't going to do anything about it if she wasn't finished with any preparations for the meal. He growled a little at the thought of another dull and excruciating meal with his family. As much as he was often glad to have them, more often he wondered how much better he might appreciate them if they all somehow disappeared. That thought itself disappeared as he opened the door and saw Myrtle Louise. Myrtle Louise was, in spirit, Kitty reborn. She looked the least like her, having fallen in love with the freedoms given to fashion and art by the 1960's, but from the way she carried herself to the liberated notions to the way she almost exuded joy despite a wry sense of humor, she was truly Kitty's granddaughter more than she was his. Beringer had always been told that parents did not practice favoritism among their children. After the briefest of moments with her in infancy he had realized that he had always been lied to. Myrtle's hair was nearly black and flowed wildly under a headband dotted with flowers and eastern symbols. Her flowing shirts and pants were something he still hadn't become accustomed to in the slightest, but it was what Kitty would've loved to have seen. Her movements were just as graceful, just as fluid, and she was the only granddaughter that had Kitty's green eyes. From what he had seen, even when feeding she had maintained the green in them instead of them becoming brown or red. She sat folded neatly onto a pillow on the floor like the Swamis she admired, also reading, but nothing as classical as Marjorie's choice. He cleared his throat and she glanced up for a beat before turning the page.
"Grandfather," she said softly. "You're still being followed."