Chapter One

“Jane Wells! Where are you?”

I covered my ears with my hands. The old crone's screeching was enough to make me want to rip them from my head.  Mildred Elliot's squalling voice grated on my nerves like nails against a blackboard.  I’d told her so on more than one frustrated occasion.  It had little impact on the old woman, other than reinforcing her viewpoint that I was a bit “odd in the head”.  Mildred hadn't a clue what a blackboard was.  They weren't invented yet.  That came years later, around the turn of the nineteenth century, when a headmaster in Scotland named James Pilans got it into his head to frame a piece of slate for the school's use.  The screeching old crone I was fervently dodging happened to be located in England in the year seventeen-forty-five.

I didn’t belong in that time or place.  I was a covert transient from the twenty-first century.  I’d traveled back in time for one purpose only.  To change the future for the one I loved.

I was never very good at planning things out. I'm more of a grab the seat of my pants and go kind of girl. Patience has also never been one of my strongest virtues. Historically, this grab and go habit always worked for me. Somehow, I managed to achieve my goals.  This time I wasn't so sure. Had I jumped the gun without adequate preparation?

I’d arrived outside the village of Colchester, England almost seven weeks earlier.  The first thing I did was steal what had to be the scratchiest, most abrasive bodice, skirt, and gown in existence. I'm not a thief by nature. It's just that, since I'd jumped back in time without considering what I was going to wear I needed to do something.  Jeans, a tee shirt, and a hoodie weren't the proper attire for someone trying to blend in. I spotted the apparel drying on a bush behind a little farm cottage not far from the cave where I’d teleported into the eighteenth century and grabbed what I could.  As luck would have it, the owner and I were close in size.  Over time, I managed to acquire a few more necessities for my needs.

“Jane!” the old crone screamed out so loud I was sure she was going to go hoarse, “Where are you, gal?   The washing will not tend to itself!”

I held my breath as I waited for her to finish her bellowing.

“Fie… the wench will be the death of me,” she muttered.

I felt a little guilty about referring to Mildred Gould to an old crone, even if she did look the part with her piercing black eyes and hawk-like, wart infested nose.  If she was in the twentieth century she could have easily gotten the part of the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz film.  The makeup department wouldn't have had to do a thing, except paint her green.  She’d shown me a bit of kindness and deserved a little more consideration and compassion from me. After all, there were no plastic surgeons around to help the poor woman out.

Mildred and her oversized husband, Carl, owned a busy little inn on the edge of town on the main road of travel.  They were not a bad sort, as persons of the times went.  They lived a life comfortable enough to keep them above the pits of poverty, but not sufficient enough for them to rub elbows with the upper class in any way other than catering to their needs on the occasions a lord or lady saw fit to patronize their little establishment.  The innkeepers belonged to a branch of society destined to be labeled the ‘middle class.’   

Mildred was good enough to take me in and give me a roof over my head, a uniform, and food.  I was fed a decent portion of gruel in the morning to start my day. In the evening, I was provided with a sparse portion of hard crusted bread with the tiniest bit of butter, bland potatoes boiled in oxtail broth with an occasional piece of meat stuck to them, and weak ale. In exchange for these I worked, and worked, and worked some more.  I was left with about two shillings at the end of the month, when all was said and done. I continually had to remind myself that in a time when generosity and kindness were not at optimum -with no governmental social services to fall back on- I was lucky to have stumbled upon the inn almost immediately after arriving. Talk about serendipity! As unprepared as I was for survival, I might have been forced to go into a workhouse.

So, why was I hiding from good old Mildred?

I'd stolen again.

I’d just finished hiding a crisp white falling band and a pair of beautifully embroidered mules amongst my other stolen goods and I needed time to compose myself.

I'd made good use of time, since teleporting from the future, to acclimate to their ways and culture.  I spent every waking moment studying the language, style of dress, politics, mode of living, et cetera. Working at an inn located on a heavily traveled road gave me the opportunity to witness a variety of life.  I saw travelers from varied social stations enter and stay in the humble place of food and rest.

I was grateful for the linguistic lessons I took to enhance my acting skills.  I was able to pick up the dialect of both the tavern workers and the elite who occasionally passed through.  Since I still hadn't worked out how I was going to pull off my mission, I needed to be prepared to pass as a person of whatever social standing proved beneficial for me to be successful.  Feeling confident in the versatility of my linguistic skills, it was time to move on to the next stage of my mission.  I had to do what I could to change the course of history for Duncan.  This was my one and only chance. If I was unsuccessful, he would be doomed to a life he despised... a life that saddened him to the core...  the life of a vampire.

****

I first met Duncan Colliers at the neighborhood bar located just below my apartment in Queens. I hooked up with my friends, Doug, Chuck, and Linda, at Patty’s Pub every Thursday night for our ritual of a few drinks and a few games of billiards. It was ten thirty and I was leaning against the wall and casually rolling a cue stick between my palms while I waited for my turn at the table. I was in-between acting jobs, but my friends had to work the next day.  We were just about to call it a night when I felt Duncan enter.  His presence was so strong and commanding, there was no way I couldn't feel it.  I don't know if everyone felt him; probably not, but since I'm a little bit psychic and extremely sensitive there was no getting his arrival past me.

Just as I knew there was something uniquely different about him, he recognized a difference in me.  He said I stood out from the rest of the room and was like a beacon of light in the gloom of his existence. Who knew such a corny comment could send shivers of delight up and down my spine like it did?  I watched him out of the corner of my eye while my friends and I finished the game and said our good-byes.  I pretended to leave with my friends.  After we parted ways, I waited in the foyer of my building until I was sure they wouldn’t see me before heading back into the bar.  I brazenly sat on the stool next to him.  I knew the bartender, Julie, so it was easy to find an excuse to justify my presence.  He never let on, but I'm pretty sure he saw through my charade.

I didn't have to wait long before he struck up a conversation with me.  We talked until Julie made last call.  He asked me to meet him the following night.  I agreed.  The next night he asked me to meet him the night after that.  I agreed again.  Then the following night we agreed to get together the next night… and so on. 

Never once did he mention he was a vampire. 

Never once did I see signs of him being a vampire. 

Never once would I have even considered he would be a vampire.

First of all, I didn't believe vampires really existed. Secondly, from what I'd read in books and seen in films, vampires were quite grotesque with long nails, red lips, and piercing yellow eyes.  Duncan's hands were extremely well manicured, his lips were normal in color, his eyes were a delicious sea foam blue and his hair was the color of sun kissed wheat.  He stood half a foot taller than my five-foot-five inches and moved with the grace, beauty, and self-confidence that radiated wealth and good breeding. Everything about him spoke of ‘rich kid from the right side of the European tracks’; nothing more.

We'd been together for a few months before I learned of his true nature.  It wasn't as if he'd intended to show me. He confessed sometime later that he’d feared showing me his true self because he worried I'd walk away if he did.  That was a natural fear. I'd probably feel the same if the situation was reversed. In fact, it was in a way.  He may have been keeping his vampire identity a secret from me, but I was doing pretty much the same thing.  Not that I was a vampire; because I wasn’t.  I was a psychic, and a sensitive who dabbled in magic; real magic, not that of an illusionist.  Could I have been called a witch? I wouldn't have called myself that.  I practiced no rituals and belonged to no covens.  I simply had abilities to feel and sense things.  I occasionally saw and spoke to spirits -although the ability wasn't something I had a lot of control over-  and I possessed a strong curiosity and interest in alchemy.

One night, after visiting my favorite occult bookstore, I was followed by a small group of freaky looking characters.  There were five or six of them. From what I could tell, they were all boys, but I could be wrong.  They wore their hair in a green, orange, and blue punk spike.  I assumed it was some sort of gang symbol; like them all having the same tattoo or something.  They sported leather studded jackets and body piercings of indescribable locations and amounts.  This was in stark contrast to my designer jeans, navy wool pee-coat with a matching beret -that was pinned just right on my fashionably braided long, honey blonde hair-, pear studded earrings, and Movado watch.  I was wearing green and tan pumps and carried a green and tan Liz Claiborne crossover bag to match.  They actually had the audacity to taunt me for being weird because I'd bought a few things at a spooky occult store.  Imagine that?  I did my best to ignore them while I picked up my pace.  Unfortunately, they were itching for a confrontation.  Since I’d never considered myself a fighter or the least bit brave, I did the only thing I could think to do. 

I ran. 

Right into a dead-end alley.

Before I knew what was happening, I was on the ground with those punks ransacking my Liz Claiborne shoulder bag, pulling at the pockets of my pee-coat, and tossing the contents of my shopping bag back and forth between each other.  In my struggles to be free and salvage what I could, I'd managed to obtain a few cuts and bruises.  Unfortunately, due to poor blood coagulation, I bled a lot more than one would have expected wounds of that nature to bleed.  Needless to say, even though my wounds weren't really bad, my type "A positive" blood was all over the place.

What happened next I can only say was so farfetched, had I not known better, I would have thought I was dreaming. 

There was a loud swooshing sound. I heard it clearly above the cackling of the haughty attackers as they reveled in their torment of me. Either they didn't hear it or they just didn't care because they kept on doing their utmost best to rob me of all I had to offer; my dignity included.  A loud anguished cry brought the entire scene to a standstill while everyone focused on the source.  As my assailants slowly backed away from me, I witnessed a sight that burned so deep in my memory I'm sure I'll carry it with me forever.  Two vampires stood over me. Their mouths dripped with the blood of several of my tormentors who now lay in a heap on the ground nearby.

It's strange what goes on in one's mind when facing death.  I'd always been told my life would flash before my eyes chronologically.  That didn't happen.  Perhaps it was because in some crazy way I didn't think what happened to my attackers would happen to me or perhaps it was because I'd been misinformed.  I couldn't say. There was certainly no walking down memory lane. Instead of reviewing my almost nineteen years of life, I studied the faces of my soon to be slaughterers.  I stared deep into their eyes, while noticing the kaleidoscope glow that shot light from their pupils like one of those mini flashlights on key chains.  I felt their rage permeate my surroundings. One vampire was male and one female, but both radiated equally angry power.  Had I not seen them and only been privy to their energy, I would have been hard pressed to decipher gender.   

Their faces were distorted.  It wasn't just their anger causing it. Their bones were... how do I put it?  Off.  They looked animalistic.  These were like the faces you’d expect to see on the silver screen. Exactly!  

I looked beyond the distorted bone structure of the female and decided she was a beautiful woman when she was in human state.  She must have felt my energy piercing through her vampire veil because she stopped advancing and stared at me, as if bewildered.

The male, on the other hand, kept on coming. I could smell his foul breath as he closed in on me. His halitosis was so horrific, I gasped for air.   I cringed at the long, pointed nails on his hands when he reached to grab my shoulders. They resembled claws. Even while he was lifting me effortlessly to my feet, I couldn't help confirming that the nails matched the vampire stories as well.  It was hard to tell how his lips compared -since they were dripping of blood and were overshadowed by elongated fang-like teeth at the moment-, but his eyes actually flashed some sort of red spark from them. It wasn’t quite like a strobe light, but more like a neon light gone bad. 

As crazy as it sounds, I'd yet to fear for my life. 

My feet were several inches off the ground when I heard, as well as felt, the swoosh of someone else arriving.  It was an energy I recognized, but I couldn't place it in my chaotic state.  I twisted my head as best I could to look for the familiar.  Through the entire ordeal, I’d stayed relatively numb. Now, I was finally shocked!  There, only feet away from me, stood Duncan... my Duncan... or a version of him, anyway.  His face was not as distorted in the animalistic manner as my captors, but it certainly wasn't the handsome face I'd made love to over the last few months.  Long canines projected from his beautiful set of brilliant white choppers.  His normally rosy cheeks were sunken and hollow.  His sea foam blue eyes were so dark they could have been mistaken for black. 

I gasped -more with surprise than with fear- while I watched him tear the heads off my assailants with rapid speed and incredible ease.  It brought to mind my brother's slaughter of my dolls when we were kids.

I fell to the ground along with my headless attacker and quickly pried myself from its lifeless vice grip.  I stayed breathless and motionless while I watched Duncan look around with disgust before he scooped me into his arms.  He half-ran, half-flew across roof tops to my apartment building, with me in his arms as if I weighed no more than a feather. He quickly found the doorway from the roof to the stair well and continued until he deposited me on my living room sofa.  Without a word, or allowing time for me to gather my wits to comprehend the reality of what was happening, he disappeared.

For whatever reason –probably shock- I decided to play Scarlet O’Hara and deal with what happened another day.  I immediately went to bed. Believe it or not, I slept like a baby that night. One would have never guessed I'd been through such an ordeal. It wasn't until the following morning, when I turned on the news and saw the report of the dead bodies of the punks who’d tried to mug me, that reality struck and I collapsed from the trauma of it all.