Thank You For Reading
About the Author
Also by Cassandra L. Thompson
PROLOGUE
She was crumpled against the ancient oak tree with her head buried in her hands, tufts of raven hair between her fingers.
Although he longed to comfort her, he found he was unable, his own grief squeezing at his chest. Around them, the Upperrealms sighed with melancholia, the turquoise skies cooling to a dreary cobalt as the stars ceased their dance to hold space for their weeping mistress. The animals in the enchanted forest had halted their stirring to watch them, a single crow swooping down to rest on her narrow shoulder.
“You cannot ask this of me,” she said as she looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. They pooled at the dip of her collarbones, threatening to spill down her chest. “We just settled in here.”
“It is the only way,” he said, falling onto the moss beside her. The crow respectfully returned to its branch, letting him draw closer. He reached up to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear, amused as it sprang back up in defiance.
“I will tear him apart,” she muttered between gritted teeth.
He couldn’t help but smile, proud as always of her spirit even in the midst of tragedy. “I have no doubt that you shall,” he told her.
She suddenly jumped to her feet, her sorrow rapidly replaced by indignation. The skies responded to the shift, lightning cracking through the darkening, thunderous sky. “We created the Earth, how can we be ousted from it? Just like the old religion, warped beyond recognition with the Roman gods our replacement. We are no longer wanted.”
“The world has grown much bigger than us,” he agreed. “Look how many gods now exist. We are but two.”
“I know,” she sighed. “As I know the earth follows its own rules, like the mothers who created her.” She attempted a playful smile but could not free herself completely from her building distress.
He rose to his feet, pulling her hips against him so she was close enough to be kissed. “Humans do not have to remember who we are, but it is still our duty to protect them. That is why we must make this decision. We cannot let him destroy everything they have built.”
Her stony exterior dismantled once more, overwhelmed by anguish. “You cannot ask this of me,” she repeated. “How can I live here without you?” With her last word, she pushed him away, the skies erupting into a full-fledged storm, as flocks of birds echoed her cries, and the clouds released their downpour.
He pulled her back to him, holding her tightly as he buried his face in her dampening hair. “Do I have to tell you the story of the Lovers, the ancient gods destined to find each other always?” he murmured into her ear.
She closed her eyes, nuzzling into his neck. Her vulnerability was so uncharacteristic, it nearly threatened his resolve. “Please tell me,” she said in a small voice.
He shut his eyes, memorizing the press of her body against his, the smoothness of her skin, and the earthy redolence of her hair, like the woods after summer rain. “There are two souls who will continue to find each other until the end of time, the first lovers, whose love for one another transcends all,” he began as he folded her hand around the handle of his knife. She let out a sob as she realized what he was doing. They were now drenched in frigid cloudburst, a river gathering where they stood. He gripped her tighter. “They circle the realms throughout different lifetimes, restless and incomplete until they find each other … but find each other, they always will.”
“Remember me,” she wept.
“Remember me,” he whispered, bracing himself.
And with a battle cry laced with the purest despair, she thrust the knife up into his stomach, the realm screeching her pain, crows swooping in to catch her as she fell away from him in unrestrained sobs. He dropped to the ground, picturing her face over and over in his mind, determined never to forget her eyes.
The earth shook, squalls of wind roaring around him as he perished, the Upperrealms incensed by his departure. And then, in the midst of chaos similar to that which he’d been born of, he died, and all the worlds around him faded to black. LONDON, 1857
Out of the shadows, he emerged.
The chill of approaching autumn nipped at his skin and he pulled up the collar of his overcoat around his ears. The city was smothered in thick September fog, a putrid mixture of factory smoke and the noxious gases that floated up from the River Thames. It hung heavy in the air, reverberating with the laughter of intoxicated streetwalkers in the midst of late-night chicanery. As he moved further into the city, the stench of decay lent its acidity to the unpleasant combination, revealing the presence of wasting bodies packed like spoiling sardines in the alleyways.
As the century turned, overpopulation had rendered London defenseless to an abundance of filth, with rotting excess cluttering the streets and rancid water pooling at its crossings. Crime added to its deterioration, and soon, unsolved murder became as common as the thefts heralded in the daily newspapers. London’s citizens were either as poor as the dirt they slept in or rich beyond measure. Those blessed with prosperity paid the suffering wretches on the streets no mind, carrying on in willful ignorance as they explored the slums in elegant horse-drawn carriages, hoping to discover some scandalous bit of entertainment before retiring to their grandiose, upper district homes. The stark dichotomy between rich and poor in the city was so commonplace that no one paid it any mind, assuring the lone wanderer that his presence would also go unnoticed.
The combative wind threatened his top hat and he paused to readjust, combing back his rebellious locks with his fingers before tightening it around his head. He made a habit of keeping his appearance artfully concealed, lest someone notice the peculiar blue undertone to his skin or the slight edge to his teeth when he smiled. But perhaps his biggest obstacle was his eyes, for if one looked past the odd size of his pupils in the lamplight, they would be transfixed by their abnormally brilliant shade of green, reminiscent of the forest after a spring rain. He preferred to have as little attention on him as possible, a stranger in the shadows. His name was David, and for more centuries than he cared to recall, he’d been what the penny dreadfuls called a vampyre.
The clock tower in the square chimed midnight as he entered the more populated section of town. Lamplighters were finishing their nightly rounds, nodding to him as he passed. The sound of coach wheels churning up water from the previous night’s rain floated to his ears, blending pleasantly with the abundance of drunken chatter bellowing out the taverns. He walked now towards his favorite one, tucked inside a rickety old building on the far side of town. There was something about the Eastern Pub that instantly seduced him, provoking him to spend long hours there, seated in the back as he observed the colorful characters that passed in and out its doors. Occasionally, someone would glance at him, wondering what would draw a gentleman to such a tavern, but more often than not, they were too engrossed in their gluttony to give him a second thought. The inhabitants of the East End districts had long accepted it was best to mind their own affairs.
The lushery boasted its usual pandemonium when he arrived, bursting at the seams with inebriated mirth. Local men and docked sailors, all ruddy with ale, argued amongst each other as a cigarette smog choked the air. Cards were slapped on wood tables as glasses overflowing with cheap ale splashed the perpetually stained floor. David leaned over the bar, meeting the barkeep’s eyes. The man faltered for a moment, for as accustomed as he was to seeing David, his appearance never failed to unsettle him. “The usual, sir?” he managed.
“Please,” David nodded. He turned as the man fetched his drink, absorbing his surroundings. A stout man with oily hair was seated across the room, helping himself to glass after glass of strong ale, his friends cheering him on. A group of scantily clad prostitutes were perched in the corner, whispering amongst themselves as they gazed in his direction. But what drew his attention was the solitary woman of the night sitting nearby, an obvious outcast, her long legs peeking out of her skirts as she swigged her ale. Her haphazardly strung corset barely contained her curves, though her build was tall and thin. Hands with dirt-caked fingernails fished about her dress in a futile attempt to produce a cigarette. Perplexed, she looked around and met David’s eyes. They were a listless grey, shadows of terminal illness collected beneath them.
“You got a smoke?” she asked, noticing his stare. She didn’t bother to adjust her pose nor her expression into the seductive manner consistent with her occupation, though she was seductive all the same. Her face was rigid and fierce with just a hint of apathy towards the world around her. David liked her immediately.
He withdrew from where he sat, glass of dark liquor in hand, as the group of women behind them did all but audibly scoff with annoyance.
“Look at this fine gentlemen come to call,” she greeted him with an amused smirk. “Overdressed for this place, though up close, you look about as dead as me.”
“Perhaps.” He mirrored her smile as he seated himself across from her at the table, producing a cigarette case out of his pocket and prizing it open to reveal her desired intoxicant.
“Machine rolled, eh? Seems an awful bit of work to me,” she remarked as she examined the tightly packed tobacco between her fingertips. She moistened her lips before lifting it to rest between them.
David studied her as she moved. Her skin was the color of blanched parchment, hollowing at her cheeks. He surmised that she had once been a great beauty, but the imminent death claiming her body had drained her of its promise. She coughed, and he could almost see the pustules of blood clustered throughout her laboring lungs. Her dark hair was brushed back from her face, collected and tied with a piece of fabric at the nape of her neck. Several loose strands grazed protruding collarbones dotted with bruises, poorly concealed by nude paste. Her fingers were long and thin but calloused, knuckles swollen and cracked, revealing tiny lines of dried blood in their crevasses.
“What was your profession prior to this?” he asked her, curious about her hands.
She chortled at the question, nearly erupting into a fit of coughing before she quieted the spasms with a sharp inhalation of cigarette smoke. “I was a gardener by day, evil witch by nightfall.”
Flashes of unwelcome memories suddenly assaulted David, provoked by her words. He struggled to force them away, looking down at his drink. She noticed the shift in his expression, tilting her head slightly to one side as if she were a confused pup. “I didn’t peg you for a religious type. I assure you, I only jest. Though I’m sure I’ve done my fair share of evil in my lifetime.”
David composed himself, taking a careful sip of his drink. Moderation was a practice he’d adopted after the unpleasant discovery that his stomach would recoil at anything that wasn’t his main source of nourishment. The revulsion upon consumption faded as quickly as it came, but it was enough to pull him back from the morbid reflection of his past, and he looked up at her with a smile. “I suppose all of us are capable of evil from time to time.”
