Disclaimer: The Southern Vampire Mysteries are copyrighted to Ms. Charlaine Harris. All rights to characters and locations in the Sookie Stackhouse books belong to Ms. Harris. Copyrights to original characters belong to me. This work of fiction is not intended infringe upon rights held by others than myself, and I make no profit from this work.
CAETERA DESUNT (The Rest is Wanting)
Chapter 5: 'Twas in the Moon of Wintertime
"'Twas in the moon of wintertime, when all the birds had fled that mighty Gitchi Manitou sent angel choirs instead. Before their light the stars grew dim, and wondering hunters heard the hymn."—Jean de Brébeuf
Charles Brandon, the 1st Duke of Suffolk, had never been a stupid man. A tad foolish in his youth, perhaps, but even then he was more than a match for many older, better educated men. His father, Sir William Brandon, was standard-bearer for Henry VII and slain by Richard III in person on Bosworth Field. Before his death, William spoke often and proudly of his second born son, believing him smartest of all five siblings. Raised in the court of Henry VII, Charles was of an age with the king's younger son, and described as comely of stature, high of courage and pleasant of disposition. Not to mention extremely clever, besting even the Prince at many things.
But not all. It's never wise to best the man who holds your fortune in his hand.
And so, it was that as friend of the Prince, Charles became a favorite of the King. He first became a Master of Horse, then scaled the ladder to Lord President of the King's Council, Lord Steward for Anne Boleyn's coronation, and lastly, Justice in Eyre. According to historians, he married four wives, even becoming King Henry's brother-in-law when he wed Mary Tudor, sister of the king and widowed Queen of France. His enemies called him ambitious and tried their best to thwart him. He rose in power and prestige despite their efforts. 'Though hated by some, Brandon was adored by the ladies at court, and loved by the king. He had everything a man could want and more.
But it all ended on a spring night because I couldn't keep from dipping my wick.
Seated at his desk, Chase waited for his man of business, letting thoughts roam where they might. He hadn't meant to travel this path of memory, and laid blame squarely on an invention of the damned: television. He'd meant to watch something mindless until his attorney arrived. Brandon was one of Murrell, Murrell & Brown's most important clients. No job was too big, too small or too complicated for them, and they were paid handsomely for the privilege of handling Chase's legal matters.
Douglas Murrell III was to arrive at nine, which left Chase with time to kill. He was flipping through TiVo when he saw something guaranteed to pique his interest. The Tudors. He never noticed the series before, and curiosity overcame him. He selected it, and before long was caught up in this new version of history he'd lived. The actors were passing good, the nudity appealing, the assumed authenticity amusing. He laughed at the absurdity of Anne Boleyn wearing a sheer, sleeveless gown to revealing her virtues. In truth, the witch was far too clever to be that free with her charms. She knew how to play on Henry's lusts. He also knew what the real King Henry would have done to whomever suggested he wear such paltry clothes, or take part in pantomimes wearing a sleeveless doublet! Chase admitted the actor portraying himself was passably good looking, and the costuming worn by that actor was fairly accurate. They even had some of his exploits correct.
It was the settings which touched his withered heart with melancholy.
Filmed in some of the surviving Tudor houses in England, Chase had actually once stood in those self-same rooms. He'd seen the woodwork, touched the stone walls. Be it castle or stately home, he knew a few of them first hand. The grounds had changed, and some restoration was incorrect, but it made him nostalgic. There were times when he missed those days, yearning for things so long denied: food, wine, sunlight. He would've enjoyed living to a ripe old age, seeing his sons and daughters reach their majority. It was true a Charles Brandon did reach one and sixty, but he wasn't the real Charles Brandon. That Charles Brandon was son of his father's brother, born on the wrong side of the familial blanket, but enough like him to masquerade amidst the court.
Of course, it took careful planning, but Charles was clever. Never before was he so in need of his wits than in this new life. It was remarkably easy to feign illness in days of plague and pestilence. Contracting the sweating sickness spelled a death sentence, though some did recover over time. He retired to one of his minor estates, dismissing all but one man servant and sending word he was taken ill. He refused to see even his wife, and begged the king to pray for his soul. Months passed while schooled his half-brother in the manly arts of sword and dance, chess and horsemanship. Of an age with Charles, Edward looked remarkably like him when dressed the same. Learning his new powers coincided with his brother's lessons.
The day came when Charles knew Edward was ready to take his place in Court. Eight months to recover from his illness, and people forget a man's true appearance. So it was with Edward, who became his pock-marked and bearded brother returned after a long period of recovery. Chase remained in England for six months while his doppleganger made merry at court. He invested wisely, making certain he had enough to build another life. Then he left England on a cold, dismal night, bidding farewell to all he knew. Chase joined his sire and together they roamed the continent.
But always I remember, be it one year or five hundred.
So Charles Brandon, 1st Duke of Suffolk, died and was buried at Windsor in St. George's Chapel. A century later, Chase returned, pretending to be a distant relation to the Brandon's, and visited his half-brother's tomb in secret. Servants were surprised to find red rose petals scattered over and around the sarcophagus.
Chimes echoed through Brandon's house. He met Murrell in the entry hall a moment later, dismissing his human steward. A true gentleman—if there were such a thing in America—the thirtyish attorney was handsome in a wholesome, football hero kind of way. He chose law only after losing a gridiron scholarship, and settled down with his high school sweetheart to raise the obligatory 2.5 children. He liked hunting, fishing and flying, and knew on which side his bread was buttered. Murrell never let Chase down; he might have other clients, but when Brandon called, he dropped everything.
"Evening, Mr. Brandon."
Brandon's heels clicked on the marble floor as he led the attorney into the office. He turned off the TV, then settled behind his desk. "What do you have for me?" As charming as women found him, Chase was all business when need be.
Murrell set his black Gucci briefcase on the desk, opening it as he sat in a wing-back chair opposite Brandon. A manila envelope was presented. "Pretty much everything you asked for." He passed the envelope to Chase, looking pleased. "Her name's Meredith Ann Ward. Born 31 October 1986, in St. Vincent Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida. Parents were Mary Gail Ward—nee Fairchild—and Steven Robert Ward. Both died in a car accident when she was sixteen.
"She lived with her paternal aunt, Kathryn Ward for two years, then moved to Shreveport in 2005 to attend Centenary College. She's now a first year grad student working on a masters in History. Moved in with her great aunt, Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild, and helped take care of the old lady until Miss Lurleen died last year. Meredith inherited a dilapidated, Victorian house, Lurleen's seat on the Historical Preservation Society Board of Directors, and a modest monthly stipend. She shares the house with Grace Murray, Miss Lurleen's long-time housekeeper." Murrell's recitation ended, and he closed the briefcase.
Brandon looked over the documents presented to him. The info told him very little about the girl herself—her personality, likes, dislikes. "History." He mused on that, then picked up a photo accompanying the papers. The color picture looked to be from a yearbook; probably college, since Meredith looked older than high school age. Hazel-green eyes stared back at him, not brown as he'd surmised. Pale blonde hair with a slight wave fell below her shoulders. Modest gold stud earrings, a matching chain and a Celtic cross. The black background and graduation gown washed her out.
"What about this Lurleen Dillman-Fairchild? Human?"
"Definitely. My wife could probably tell you more about her, since Lily's the current president of the HPS Board of Directors. All I know is as long as there's been a Shreveport, there've been Dillmans and Fairchilds living here. We're talking founding families. From what I understand, Miss Lurleen considered Meredith her only living relative, but someone else filed a motion to contest the old lady's will. I've got my people researching the details."
Looking at Murrell with a degree of interest, Chase fingered the girl's picture as he listened. He saw Murrell check his watch for the second time since his arrival. "Am I keeping you?"
Embarrassed. "No, no. I'm just meeting the folks at Diamond Jack's for dinner and a show. It's Mom's birthday, and she wants to 'gamble like a crazy person,' so she put it." A grin, and a chuckle followed. "But sure, I can get Lily to do that. She's always willing to dig into the 'juicy stuff,' as she calls it." Douglas paused. "Anything else I can do for you, sir?"
Chase shook his head. "Nothing—other than completing the background check on that contractor in New Orleans. It sounds like a good investment, and the area could certainly use affordable housing, but I need to know more about him before I commit myself."
"Certainly, Mr. Brandon." Murrell stood. "I'll see myself out." But he paused at the office door, turning back. "Say, if you're not busy, why don't you join us? Mom would love to meet you. She's always threatening to go to Fangtasia."
It was a nice offer, but Chase shook his head. "I have a previous engagement."
"Some other time, then." He waved, then left, closing the door behind himself.
Brandon didn't move for several minutes, studying Meredith's picture. She wasn't a raving beauty, but anyone who found her ordinary was a fool. Her face had character, and her eyes were outstanding. The color was intriguing: not quite green, not quite brown, darker flecks of both near the iris. He saw intelligence in those eyes. Thick lashes, and brows barely darker than her hair. No make-up, or she applied it with a light hand. Heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, bowed mouth. The upper lip was ever so slightly larger than the bottom.
An interesting face. Arresting.
So, the mystery was solved. He had a name, an address and a few pertinent facts. Next question—what was he to do with the knowledge? Chase felt a stirring inside him, something akin to the lusts of his youth. He craved an intangible something that always seemed just beyond his reach: tantalizing, tempting, torturing. Helene satisfied some of the yearning, but always he felt the need for something more, something he couldn't name. Besides, he'd been without Helene since Marie Antoinette's head left her shoulders.
Brandon snarled, remembering the acute anguish at feeling his childe's death. The sheer fury at knowing he'd never again sleep with her at his side. Of its own volition, his fist slammed down atop his desk. The mahogany trembled, but didn't buckle. Rage built inside, blood lust surging through his body. Two centuries later, and he still wanted retribution. Her killers were long since dust, but Chase willed them alive again, so he could put those who escaped him in their graves. No amount of vengeance would bring back his beautiful Helene; she was lost to the ages, ashes long since vanished in the mists of time. The only thing he had of her was memories.
The desk chair toppled as Brandon abruptly stood. He crossed the office to a pair of French doors opening on his terrace. The night seemed suddenly empty and cold, and Chase felt lost. Perhaps he should've accepted Murrell's invitation; it was a lie, that claim of a previous engagement. There was no place he needed to be, no one to meet, no company to share the darkness. He paced the terrace, striding from side to side, once, twice, thrice. He was alone, as he usually preferred, only tonight was different.
Something about the girl. Meredith. Something about Meredith Ward made him not want to be alone. She stirred things inside him, brought out the predator. The wolf who stalked his prey, the panther who prowled the night. Integral parts of him dormant since the Great Reveal surged and roiled inside him, burning in his veins. The hunter took him, and his pacing became slower, more calculated. His hands formed into white knuckled fists, then splayed open, fingers curling like the talons of a hunting cat.
Brandon didn't want her dead, but he saw himself coming at her from the darkness. He'd grasp her slender arms, and inhale her fear like it was the finest perfume. She'd gasp, maybe whimper, or even scream as he pulled her to close, savoring her exquisite terror. Oh, how she'd taste, her blood sweet nectar in his mouth. He'd make love to her, school her in the ways of pleasure—and pain. He'd spoil her for mere mortal men, and afterwards—
—what then? Leave her empty and drained as you have so many others?
The cold cleared his head. He was running, a blur of motion without a destination. Streets flew by, alternating patterns of light and dark, colorless shapes in moonlight. Asphalt ribbons, each one alike, each one different. Whizzing past cars, trucks, trains. Buildings blending together, a continuous gray fabric. Vague forms which might be people, or trees, or light poles.
When he stopped, Brandon found himself in the midst of a garish neon jungle of all-night strip clubs, juke joints, bars and peep shows. Sounds of raucous music: rap, hip-hop, rock. Body-grinding, booty-shaking pelvic thrusts on every side. Chase walked through the miasma of light and sound, hunger eating away at his insides. There were women: white, brown, yellow, black. He could have his pick. Take them in twos, in threes; together, with men, with other women—it didn't matter here. Money wasn't the only currency here: drugs, guns, liquor, it was all good.
She was decent looking, the one who chose him, and smelled clean. Young, not long to the life. Hidden beneath heavy make-up, but Brandon accepted her almost timid approach, nodding agreement to her price. She knew he was dangerous, but she bravely made her choice. He followed her into a dingy, one room flat in a rundown motel. It smelled better inside than out, and her sheets were clean. She was café au lait, inheriting the best of both races. Full breasts, narrow waist, hips wide and accommodating.
There was no tenderness, no intricate mating ritual. There was just sex.
Chase knew his strength, and didn't hurt her, but he used her, filling her time and again. Thrusting, pumping, pounding. The old bed squeaked out a rhythm as old as history. He made slick with her own juices, giving her at least some pleasure to make up for the pain his rage caused. Her blood was surprisingly untainted; years from now, she'd be like the others: strung out, diseased, dying a slow, insidious, poisonous death. For now, her youth was a commodity, bought and sold for a fair market value. Chase would pay her well, more than enough to take her away from this world, should she wish it. That choice was hers, though. He could only offer her the means. Afterwards, the rage appeased, he left her asleep. Exhausted, tangled in ripped sheets, body covered in sweat—but alive.
He wandered again, this time away from lights and sounds and the smell of greed. Quiet streets of broken dreams and abandoned houses. Empty windows witnessed his passing like sightless eyes. Prowling the night like a satisfied predator. Slinking from shadow to shadow, a hunter not in search of prey. One street blended into another. Some still bore scars of a riot in 1988. Others bore gang symbols and newer graffiti—street art, they called it. All of it washed clean in moonlight and mist as the dew rose. Nothing stirred, save the scurrying of vermin.
It was the overpass which made him realize exactly where his feet had instinctively brought him. The ever-present 50-gallon drum smoldered, standing alone in the shadows, at rest, duty done for the moment. He peered up beneath the bridge, saw vague lumps which might be humans, keen ears catching sounds: raspy breathing, strangled snoring. He smelled their stench: puke, urine, stale bodies. There was no hope in this darkness; it had all drained into the gutters.
Chase found himself in front of an iron gate. Her gate. He leapt the fence without a conscious thought, soaring up to a second floor window ledge. A precarious perch, Brandon hovered lest his weight collapse the aged wood. A single low wattage bulb lighted what had once been an attractive room. His fingers found purchase on the frame, and he peered through the sheer curtains.
Inside, Meredith lay in the light, asleep. A book she was reading lay open on her stomach. The bed was heavy, a four posted holdover from the days when craftsmen took pride in their work. She lay angled to one side, resting against feather pillows. White sheets and a handmade quilt covered her. She looked ethereal, like an angel come to earth. Relaxed in slumber, her breast rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Features composed.
Would she dreamed of me, but she doesn't know me—yet.
The instant he thought it, he knew it as truth. He was yet a stranger, a dangerous stranger, the very kind of stranger she should avoid. Brandon was no longer a knight in shining armor come to rescue a fair damsel from the dragon. He was the dragon, more likely to ravish than romance. Chase watched her sleep, remembering things he did earlier, projecting those images of raw, animalistic sex onto her. He felt himself harden again, lust throbbing in his groin. Like a demon, he wanted to take this angel's innocence. There was no gentleness in this hunger, there was only the wanting.
She stirred. Chase wasn't sure if he made a noise, or if she awakened on her own. He wasn't willing to risk discovery, and flew from the window. An eye blink later, he was hidden amidst the mossy branches of the oak, watching as she rose from the bed and moved out of sight. A light came on in another, smaller window; he heard rushing water. She reappeared after the light went off. A moment later and she'd turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into full darkness. But, Meredith didn't instantly lie down, instead crossing the room to pull back the sheers to peer out at the night.
Brandon watched, seeing a dreamy expression reflecting in the moonlight. He was captivated, almost swearing she knew of his presence. She watched the moon ride the sky, then let the curtains fall into place. He lost sight of her in the shadows, and was forced to content himself with images of her lying beside him, beneath him, before him.
Only one thought burned inside Chase as he turned toward home: he wanted Meredith was he'd not wanted another human for over two centuries.
AUTHOR NOTES: Thanks to everyone who left a review, or sent me a PM regarding the story. The encouragement has been great, as have the discussions of historical facts. One thing I'd like to note: the Cromwell Chase discussed was Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII's Chief Minister. I can highly recommend Showtime's series The Tudors, which was partly my inspiration for Chase Brandon.