The Lore Giver

By Ralph Halse

The rich, aristocratic and overtly sensual vampire Countess seductively promised a somewhat naïve Tony Delmonti that his conversion to vampirism would bring him not only youthful immortality, but innumerable women and all the sex and party drugs he could handle, plus more besides. So far, Tony had seen only a glimpse of those promises. Come to think of it, that sex was with the Countess herself and those were her party drugs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Dec 25, 2012
• ISBN: 9781771113694

Book preview

Immortality and more sex, drugs and promiscuous women than the average virile vampire could handle, the Countess promised.

The rich, aristocratic and overtly sensual vampire Countess seductively promised a somewhat naïve Tony Delmonti that his conversion to vampirism would bring him not only youthful immortality, but innumerable women and all the sex and party drugs he could handle, plus more besides. So far, Tony had seen only a glimpse of those promises. Come to think of it, that sex was with the Countess herself and those were her party drugs.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Lore Giver

Copyright © 2012 Ralph Halse

ISBN: 978-1-77111-369-4

Cover art by Carmen Waters

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Devine Destinies

An imprint of eXtasy Books

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Smashwords Edition

The Lore Giver

The Vampire Book of Lore 1

By

Ralph Halse

Dedication

1To Cameron Douglas for his inspirational Vampire photographs at True Vamps on Facebook, without which I would not have been able to complete this novel. Every time I hit that Writers’ block, a review of Cameron’s sensational and inspirational photographs had me back on track, hitting the keyboard.

Acknowledgements

Sincere thanks are extended to Lachlan Meek and Dominic Kilpatrick for reading my early drafts and providing incisive comments. Special thanks are extended to my nephew, Nathan Halse for offering his honest appraisal. Nathan’s suggestions carry through in this novel.

Chapter One Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

Two figures were briefly illuminated when they suddenly emerged from behind a series of overflowing waste bins and empty beer crates into the dull, yellow glow spilling from a battered streetlight swaying overhead. Slipping into the cover of deep shadows, backs to a poster-plastered wall, they stared momentarily back down the laneway at a nearby nightclub. A bulky figure detached itself from the gloom. Stepping onto the edge of the diffused streetlight, a huge man almost seven feet in height wearing a long coat and black bowler hat stared pointedly at the rear of the nightclub. He had cocked his bulbous head as he listened intently. Propped atop massive shoulders supporting a thick neck, his head moved slightly to catch and filter the night sounds. The big fellow possessed a long nose, high cheekbones and a protruding forehead wrinkled in consternation.

Seconds later, a much smaller figure joined him. Satisfied their next actions would remain undisturbed, the big fellow relaxed while the smaller of the two turned his attention to his larger companion. He gesticulated wildly before dropping to a squat, while the big chap responded with a negative headshake now and then to a staccato of low questions.

The shorter of the two’s expression was tense and exasperated as he looked up from a dark mass sprawled on the cobbles to stare meaningfully at his hefty companion and shook his head. Pressing down on his knees, he jacked himself up, then jammed his hands, deep into his coat pockets, You bloody great lump of misery. Look what you’ve gone and done now! She’s dead, she is, he stated in a flat monotone.

Naw, she’s just foxing, I reckon.

Fox… The smaller of the two passed a hand across his brow as he hovered at the light’s edge, revealing tense, pale features. A single welt travelled laterally across his brow, angrily knitting above bright brown eyes glittering with frustration. Running from below his right eye socket, a raised scar ended in the centre of his cleft chin.

You reckon, do you? Look! He jabbed his index finger at the dark blob sprawled on the filthy cobbles, You bloody great lummox. She’s got red ink leaking out of a whacking great gash in her noggin. He stabbed his index finger up at the larger fellow’s face, stating, "Put there, by yours, bloody-truly, mate."

Maybe she’s just holding her breff, like? the huge man toed the corpse hopefully, trying to produce a groan or two, signifying a sign of life.

Holding her br… he sputtered incredulously, stepping back a pace. Squatting again, he grabbed the corpse with both hands by the shoulders, then shook it. The body wobbled, but otherwise, his efforts elicited no response. He made a sound of disgust. Dropping it, he stood abruptly, Dead is bloody dead, mate. His Lordship wanted this one alive, not some shite bag’o bones.

Sshhh, the big chap hissed as he suddenly flattened against the wall behind a stack of beer crates to peer cautiously toward the lane entrance.

You’re making me jumpy, now, snapped the smaller of the two, joining him.

It was clear, nothing but a bitter winter chill embraced the dingy back lane. Slick, redbrick walls dripped with moisture. Separating an ancient bookstore and a poster-covered millinery shop, the filth of modern civilisation littered the narrow thoroughfare. Discarded plastic bags were so prolific they clung to walls and objects the way plaque clogged healthy human arteries. A shadow cast by a pair of tattered sneakers tied by the laces hanging from dripping power lines bobbed to an ice-tinged wind.

Further in, the lane’s old cobblestoned street resounded with a steady thump of a bass beat emanating from an underground nightclub. Attached to the club’s blackened windows, cheap blue neon lights fashioned into a poor imitation of handwriting flashed the name, Vlad’s at intermittent times. A bored security guard, lounging by the door, puffed on a cigarette. If he was trying to look interested in his work, the bouncer was failing miserably. The only things mobile about this square block of humanity were his sly brown eyes and wet lips that twitched occasionally when he sucked back on the glowing cigarette.

Tattered posters adhered to graffiti covered walls and surrounding power poles, advertising the night’s entertainment.

Well? asked the smaller of the two, peeping out behind his friend through hollows in the beer crates.

The big chap stepped away from the crates, Naw, must be me imagination? Turning to his companion, he waved two enormous hands. She had it coming, Jacko. I swear she did. Sneaky beggar went for me, so she did. Had to hit her, didn’t think it were that hard, though.

Jacko growled, joining him. Bloody hell, Thomo, that’s just it, mate. You don’t think! He returned to squat beside the corpse shaking his head. Prodding the body, he tut-tutted regretfully to himself.

The newly made corpse was a slim young woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in what was once, a pristine white shirt, now stained crimson, and the latest denim and leather fashion skirt. Black eye shadow and lipstick donned her thinly made up features. Nasal, eyebrow and lip piercings adorned her pale, dead face in what was the latest trend in attention seeking. She was tall, slim and good looking with smooth skin, staring blindly toward the shattered streetlight with lifeless blue eyes. A pool of blood seeped across butt-strewn cobblestones toward a shallow depression clogged with greasy food scraps. Two fat brown rats, hidden behind a timber pallet, gleefully licked their paws while eyeing the blood and food scraps. Chittering in anticipation of a fresh meal, they waited patiently for the noisy intruders to depart their domain.

Jacko’s eyes slid along the lane way to the noisy club as he contemplated other possibilities. Okay, Mr Smarty-Bloody-Britches, what’re we to do now? Jacko stood.

Maybe we could take her over to His Lordships’ anyway. She’s still fresh, like.

Jacko jammed his hands into his coat pockets as he stared thoughtfully at the cooling body. He absentmindedly nudged the corpse with his toe. You’n me, we’ve been mates for far too long to argue about the likes of this. Besides, His Lordship’s been perfectly happy when we’ve brought him corpses before. He nodded to himself. What the heck. He brightened up. Maybe His Lordship might have some use for a corpse after all. As the idea took hold, he rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. Right, sunshine, young chatty here was supposed to accompany us under her own steam. So seeing as how you had to go and neck her, you can bloody-well carry her! So, hump your bundle son, and let’s get a move on.

Pleasure. Thomo grinned. Scooping up the corpse, he flung it over his shoulder with ease. Together, the unusual pair turned and trudged along the lane, away from the noisy club toward glittering city lights, disappearing below a descending fog. Dodging dog droppings, broken bottles, puddles of icy water, spilt rubbish bags, smashed shopping trolleys piled on top of a burnt out Vauxhall sedan and empty wooden pallets spattered in white bird droppings, they proceeded in silence until Thomo exclaimed apologetically in a deep voice, I dunno why you’re angry with me, Jacko. It weren’t like I had a choice or something. She went for me throat, she did.

So, why you didn’t just tap her on the head instead of pounding her so bloody hard, is a mystery to me. She couldn’t have been that quick, surely?

Thomo glanced sideways at Jacko, marching resolutely alongside him, head down, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets, his collar tucked up under his scarred chin.

Jacko stared straight ahead into the bleak, dark distance with unblinking eyes. He was a hard one—possessed of lightning-fast reflexes and an equally responsive brain.

Thomo was concerned. He respected Jacko’s opinion. The small chap was the more intelligent of the two, after all. The big fellow’s face sported thin blond, eyebrows set above worried light blue eyes and thick lips that, when parted to smile, revealed large, horsey teeth. His complexion was pale and his voice nervously deep and coarse. Don’t be angry with me, Jacko, Thomo pleaded. One minute, she was standing there nice as pie. The next, she’s gone for me throat with a blade. Mad beggar she was, I swear.

Didn’t have anything to do with something you said, per chance? Jacko snapped irritably.

I stuck to the script, like we agreed, Thomo insisted, frowning.

"Be a bloody first that, me old son. Go on then, what did I say to you before we walked into that lane, Thomo?

Um, His Lordship’s apt to get mighty unpleasant when he doesn’t get what he orders.

Too bloody right, Jacko mused, That’s why we agreed on a script. It was to be a bit like that play we saw last year about them kings ‘n queens, remember? Now, you sure you stuck to what we agreed?

Abso-bloody-lutely, me ol’ mate, Thomo confirmed with a nod and a wink.

Go on then, repeat it? Jacko urged.

Thomo almost missed a step as he swallowed apprehensively. His ability to recall short-term instructions was a struggle at best and Jacko knew it. "As I recall. I waited until she came outside for a smoke. I snorted a couple times as we’d agreed to get her attention. Then I stepped out asked, hey girlie, was that you looking to buy some o’the white stuff?"

Jacko hissed between clenched teeth. Bet that was when she became a tad narky?

How’d you know that? You weren’t there watching us. You were around the corner.

‘Because, I said coke—bloody coke, mate, not white anything. She probably thought you were a drug squad copper trying to trap her, or worse. Drug squad cops do that, you know.

"Dunno about that, mate. Coke’s white though, innit?

Jacko shook his head while muttering to himself. Holding up his right arm, palm out, he stopped. Thomo followed suit. They stood at the intersection a residential road, shrouded in fog and as silent as a graveyard. Squinting, Jacko peered across the dimly lit carriageway to a broad, mist-topped river. Nearby, a tug blared its horn. Vision was restricted to about twenty paces in both directions by the closing fog. Satisfied they were alone, Jacko nodded towards the semicircular mouth of a railway underpass. Even as Thomo shambled past him, Jacko skidded to a halt in the centre of the road. Spinning on his heel, he stared hard back into the alley. He raised his head as he walked backward, sniffing at the fog. He froze, cocking his head, listening intently.

What’s up, mate? What’d you hear? Thomo asked standing at the entrance to the tunnel looking nervously back the way they had come.

Jacko glared at Thomo, demanding silence. When Thomo clapped his jaw shout, Jacko closed his eyes, concentrating, saying, Waves lapping at those stinking muddy banks, a fish jumping, a dog barking in the distance and the pulse of a living city. He snapped his eyes open, Probably nothing, mate. Jumpy, I guess. Best we shake a leg, though. Can’t be too careful these days, be closing time soon enough.

Bloody full moon n’all. Brings out the nutters, it does, Thomo responded, pointing upward to a cloudy sky before swinging around and into the dark tunnel mouth.

In no time, they were through the underpass and heading quickly down a grassy slope into a thick, roiling fog clinging to a soggy football pitch paralleling the river. Sticking to long shadows provided by weeping willows, the secretive pair hurried toward Empire Street. Pausing beside a dew-covered hedgerow, Jacko checked their back trail as best he could through the grey murk. From the safety of the hedgerow, they crept into the shadows before starting along a cracked pavement riddled with weeds.

They scuttled along a narrowing road, crowded by parked cars and crammed with piles of stinking black garbage bags, until they stood opposite an impressive three-story mansion. A dog munching on the contents of a split garbage bag growled menacingly. Built on the last day of the Victorian era and designed by Charles Barry as a favour to an old chum, this monument to British architecture displayed almost no signs of aging. Nevertheless, it remained an impressive red brick structure with porch columns, covered in thick ivy clawing its way up to a roof crowned by slate tiles and guarded by stone gargoyles.

Satisfied they were alone, the pair tiptoed across the road and into the property whereupon they disappeared into inky porch shadows. Without knocking, they opened a tall, timber door and entered the premises.

* * * *

As the door closed, three silent figures emerged from the hedgerow shadows. One turned to glare balefully with feral yellow eyes over his shoulder at an ancient oak. He pointed to a spot where the trunk met the heavy, leafy foliage, then hissed in an impatient voice laced with menace. Michael, get down here, you miserable little wanker.

Ever so slowly, a head appeared at the top of trunk followed by the torso of a young man crawling vertically downward with the dexterity of a spider. The instant his hands touched the wet grass, he catapulted in a handspring that carried him some ten yards to land beside the young man who had instructed him to leave the tree.

In all, there were two men and two women edging the shadows. All were young and attired in a fashion that one could best describe as gothic. All wore black clothes decorated with chrome chains, face piercings, tattoos and black makeup. The only aspect of style separating the clan members was the fact that all four wore their hair plastered low across a left or right black-painted eye, like some tribal totem.

Michael, you’ve been nagging at me to see what an enraged vampire can do. What about five? the tallest male asked, clapping the tree-climber on the shoulder.

Michael, their newest convert, licked black-painted lips wet with anticipation at the promised blood bath. Running his tongue slowly over his newly developed incisors, he savoured the fact that he was coming to terms with his new vampire strength and powers of perception. The others, including Christine, who had volunteered to be the sacrificial lamb, had been vampires for almost a year. He was the latest recruit to Tony’s clan and Sonya’s triumph into vampirism.

Tony, their leader, though he looked around twenty, claimed he was thirty. Then again, who could tell for certain, such was the vampire legend. Whatever his vintage, Michael had no trouble sensing his clan leader’s frenzied blood lust and the awesome power welling on the edge of Tony’s psychic vampire aura.

We’ll give them a minute to get comfortable. Tony turned to the others and hissed a dire warning in an accent that hinted at Devonshire roots. Quiet as mice we go. There will be no noise, no fuss and no killing—especially no killings until we know who these vampire stalkers are. Christine will assist us once we’re inside.

Tony grinned to himself, knowing that the blow delivered by Thomo to Christine hadn’t been fatal at all. Like all vampires, unless Christine was exposed to high doses of sunlight or had a stake driven through her heart, she couldn’t be dead. Christine was faking it in order to gather intelligence, so Tony had told them back in the dingy nightclub they called home. After a pause, he nodded a signal, and the four companions loped across the street.

Chapter Two Dead Reckoning

As luck would have it, the bumbling vampire stalkers omitted to lock two huge ornate brass and timber doors behind them. As the clan slipped silently into a hallway as wide as many modern garages, Michael scuttled up the wall, sending white plaster falling in a showery haze of white dust over his companions. Clinging upside down to the ornate ceiling, he stared balefully into the dark bowels of the house. Unconsciously, he pulsated as he sniffed at the air.

Glaring up with yellow eyes, Tony shook plaster out of his slicked down hair. He pointed up at Michael, hissing in a low voice riddled with displeasure, You little gob shite. Do as we agreed, or else! He spun to face Sonya. Gripping her by the arm, Tony cruelly hauled the youngest clan member to him. Placing his lips close to Sonya’s ear, he whispered in a menacing tone as she struggled in his grip, Control your pet. If he gets out of hand once more, I’ll personally see you drive a stake through his heart. He then shoved her violently across the hall.

Sonya righted herself to glare up at Michael with hate-filled eyes.

With that sorted, the clan spread out. Michael scuttled along the ceiling, stopping only to sniff at door entrances.

Sonya shadowed him with worried eyes, until he paused like a hunting dog at two doors. Chinks of yellow light emanated from around the doorframe. Tony pressed down on a huge brass handle to open one door wide enough to slip through sideways. The clan crowded his back, waiting for his signal.

Once inside, Tony grinned mirthlessly. The only source of light was a dinghy lamp situated atop a desk, at which sat a wrinkled old man studying a large, leather bound book through round, gold wired glasses. Tony choked back a laugh because the old fellow was dressed in a fashion not seen since Queen Victoria had sat upon the throne. The old boy’s herringbone suit looked to be as musty as he was. He had a tartan scarf wrapped loosely about his wrinkly old throat, while fingerless black knit gloves encased spindly hands. A library of books stretching to the ceiling wrapped themselves along the walls, encircling three-quarters of the enormous room.

Elsewhere, objects that would have been better suited to a museum filled every vacant space. Rich carpets covered a timber floor. Wherever wood was exposed, it was polished to a brilliant sheen.

Tony smirked. Directly above the old codger’s head, he noticed two odd-shaped paddles fitted to the wall. Tony, who had done some rowing at university, thought they were about the crudest paddles he had ever clapped eyes on. Both had pointed, leaf shaped blades. The handles were thicker toward the blade than at the butt, making them much too heavy to move through water effectively. One appeared brand new, the other one stained almost black. Some form of wood preservation gone wrong, he thought.

A sofa with a finely carved floral crown and stylishly shaped bergere legs held the supposed corpse of Christine. Standing beside it were the two inept body snatchers. They both had their backs to him and were looking up expectantly at the old man, whose desk, Tony noted, was sitting on a raised platform. It was almost as if the old duffer was passing some form of judgement over the two bumblers.

Tony smirked as he reflected on this evening’s events. Very soon, these three interfering fools would be facing judgement, but not the sort they could have ever imagined—not in their wildest nightmares.

Just as that thought trailed off, the old fellow looked directly at Tony and stated with an amused smile, tugging at the corners of his thin, flat lips, Gentlemen, our guests have arrived. Please see them in.

What occurred next rocked Tony’s senses. The two bumblers turned to smile benevolently at him. Both separated, gesturing with the flats of their palms to the sofa and to chairs at a roundtable.

Don’t just stand there with your mouth ajar, my dear fellow. Come in and take a seat. The old chap raised his voice