Poinsettia

By Ravyn Karasu

Scotland, 1897. Displaced and melancholy vampire, Gavin MacIntyre has had an emotional attachment to the St. Raphael's Children's Home & Hospital for decades. Every year, the children there receive personalized poinsettias to show them care and give them hope. So, it's quite a shock to Gavin when he learns that not only did the children not receive their poinsettias, but the hospital is going bankrupt all together.

With the help of his loyal servant and a brave little girl, Gavin is exposed to the mysterious intrigue of the hospital's missing money. He is determined to find the cause and put a stop to it before the children of St. Raphael's end up with no place to go and no one to care for them. This is surely to be a Christmas that none of them will forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ravyn Karasu
• Release date: Aug 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516331710

Book preview

Tis the season for the world to sleep deeper under its powdery pale blanket.

Snuggled from this cold do we hold crimson stars to warm our souls.

They can be touched but should not, or their points may fall off.

Peppermint and nutmeg speak the season to most, but those hearts haven't seen our treats.

Our lights are not from the sky where Santa flies.

Can't you see the heart in the flower, how it's pattern explodes?

A scent that lingers and tells you it's time to get the gifts ready before Yule’s night.

Let the red flow over your hands.

Our precious poinsettias.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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Special thanks to Sarius Impariul for collaborating with me on the front cover and sharing his beautiful poetry.

1897. Strathaven.  It was an unforgiving November evening. If his bite didn’t get you, Jack Frost’s would. But, the cold night meant very little to him, for he had experienced many previous Scottish snows in years passed. It was nothing more than another piece of wood in the fire, another crank of the oil lamp.

The snow rested in thick blankets about the world outside. Frost plastered on all surfaces, glazing over windows and kissing the exteriors of carriages. The mansion standing alone on a vast piece of property was a perfect picturesque vision of the upcoming Christmas season. It was not decorated, but its stance alone was enough to inspire a spirit within all those who passed the lonely black road. Pigeons in a scatterbrained formation rested upon what was left of frozen iron spikes making up the front gate of the manor. This cold weather wasn’t enough to chase them off.

Within this manor was many rooms for many functions, each gathering dust in their misuse, more specifically the absence of use, over the years. The halls were dark, save the light from the moon outside filtering in. The stillness was not uncommon for this time of the evening, still early but just beyond the reach of dusk. The master bedchamber was the center of tonight’s activity, if one would be so bold to call it that.

It was a large room with a large bed, seemingly swallowed within the shadows of the only half-utilized space. The bedposts were tall and holding up a flat hunter green canopy. The headboard arched with intricate designs carved within. Celtic knots lined the edges from the top, all the way to the foot and up all bedposts like vines. The drapes were drawn shut. No sunlight ever came into this room.

The room was fairly spacious, with a writing desk to one side of the room and a few odds and ends, but no real décor to truly speak of. Above the master’s bed hung a plaque of his family coat of arms: The rounded emblem with the victorious hand raising from the ground and holding a blade to the sky like Druids with athames. Across the top, within the encircling emblem were the words Per Ardua; words that the master lived by. Through Difficulties. Such was the story of his life of which he always prevailed...in the end.

Within the bed lay the master himself, already awake and dressed but lying on the bed, staring at the emptiness of the canopy. The oil lamp beside him was already lit, casting a dim light, not that he needed it. One leg was bent at the knee, resting down on its side while the other dangled from the edge of the bed, the ball of his foot touching the hardwood floor. One arm was sprawled out across the bed while the other rested across his forehead absently.

He was not completely tended yet. Yes, he was dressed in white pants, black riding boots, a white frilled poet’s blouse and sand vest and a green velvet Edwardian coat. He wore a green sash about his middle and a chain dangled, not clamped yet from his pocket watch to his vest. His face was beautifully pale and long with eyes that enchanted, a glittering emerald that sparkled in any form of light. One would almost expect greedy men to snatch them from his face. But, that was not, perhaps, so farfetched, as he was not without his proposals of both women and men who fell to their knees to plead for him. A tryst here and a tryst there of any sort was not a folly he participated in too freely, but not without either. His hair was a sweet chocolate of auburn, fading to dark rust red, but of the most pure and cleanest of care. It spread about his pillows like ragged wings from his head, brushed but not tied. He was the vision of beauty, no matter how you looked at it. And no one could deny that his debonair flair always made him look invincible.

He was Gavin MacIntyre, the master of the house and a man...a poinsettia...a vampire of stories long past and issues yet buried and unleashed in intervals of emotion and heartlessness. The yet unheard padding of soft shoes and an uninvited entry interrupted his absent stares of unknown thoughts. His eyes never moved, but he was well aware of his company.

Masta, will ye be a’risin’ any taime ta’night? The moon is oop oond tryin’ so hard tae peek in. Let it see yar beautiful face.

Gavin merely rolled his delicate green eyes. Can’t you speak clearly, Angus? He asked with a sigh. Even among a fellow Scot, I still can’t pick up every word. Why must you exaggerate your brogue so?

It’s second nature by now. Ye once looved it, but tha seems tae nae longer be the case. Tha be because ye are well-edge-cated oond well-traveled, Angus, Gavin’s faithful servant, smiled. He was quite a bright sight to see and was in himself a piece of sunshine in Gavin’s life. Gavin would never tell him so, as it would make him choke on his own pride and second, Angus was a man who loved having his head swelled with any piece of praise and ego he could muster. The far distant relation between master and servant...let’s just say that Gavin liked to pretend otherwise and Angus was just as compliant, finding more joy in other methods.

The young servant, at least young in his appearance, had a slightly darker complexion, but just as smooth. He obviously saw more outside daylight time than the grand master before him. He was slender but well-toned, yet in his dress he seemed almost jokingly pathetic. Perhaps he did it out of tradition, his dress and manner. Perhaps he did it as a form of jest. The master was so cold and miserable, he needed the jester. Though Gavin rarely ever laughed the way Angus wished, he could always tell if he had struck a chord of amusement in the strings of Master’s heart.

He was dressed in a yellow turtle-neck, absent of his suspenders today. It was tucked neatly into his kilt which he wore religiously, of green plaid. His legs were smooth, and, though no one would ever confront the idea, well shaved. The high yellow socks shone like beacons against his pale, yet not so pale...and in Gavin’s mind, a little too feminine pair of legs. His shoes seemed far too young for him, with a set of straps over the top where the tongue would be, and the yellow socks peeking out like eyes from the shoe. Little yellow pom poms graced the delicate feet about halfway down the foot. On his head, Angus wore a felt beret with a yellow pom pom in the center. Somehow, he was the traditional image of his heritage, yet also the image of youth, looking as though he was trying to dress as a child. His scruffy black hair and large milk chocolate eyes gave him an even more innocent and youthful presence.

He sauntered with a gleeful hum to the window, ripping the drapes open with a loud shweesh.  Come now, Masta! Look at this moon! The room lit up in a silver light where the flame’s light could not reach. Finally, Gavin peered towards his servant and shook his head slightly.

What am I going to do with you, Angus?

Loov me, a’carse. If a dog be man’s best friend, then I be vampar’s best friend. Would ye like far me tae wag me tail oond let ye roob me belly?

Don’t get cheeky and carried away, Gavin sighed, sitting up and coming over to the window, peering out to the lonely streets of Strathaven. Along the walls of his property, large bushes of poinsettias seemed to wave their greeting to him as the chilly breeze kissed upon them. It was a wonder they were not dead, but then, maybe there was a little magic, even in this dark and gloomy place.

*

The evening was cold, whispering rumors of more snowfall. Snow that had melted in the day’s only slightly warmer sun had refrozen into crystals of ice along the roads that had been shoveled with the hard labor of the townspeople. The lamps were lit and flickered with a pale light. It was as if the flame within was shivering away in the cold. On a night like this, the lamplighters would have rushed through the job and ran into the closest pub or meeting place to take a warm drink to thaw them from winter’s frosty bite. This weather, however, it didn’t affect a vampire the same as it did to humans.

Gavin was dressed in a heavy overcoat and top hat. His boots crunched into the slush and ice as he chose to walk to his destination rather than take the carriage. It was his special night, and he always wished to be alone.

My Dearest Clementine McVeigh,

The passing of Samhain has come and gone. The weather has taken a turn for the colder; a significant change from the warm autumn evenings of Mabon and Samhain. November evenings have become bitter...numbing. How befitting for me to be out on these nights. The gardeners have arrived yet again to replace the flowers imported for the garden. Sometimes, I wonder if it is foolish to plant poinsettias in the garden at this time of year. They always die within days if they do not freeze solid. But, you insisted, after all, to bring in flowers to see before Christmas.

I’m both relieved and saddened by my return to Strathaven...my return home. Perhaps, I have grown too fond of the warmer evenings of India. Mid-November blossoms such tropics, at least compared to the cold heartlessness of the Celtic Isles. But, how could I cope if I could not re-acquaint myself with you, yet again and again? Perhaps my sorrows are not the absence of the warmth. Perhaps, it is just an old vampire’s misery of which I’ve been engulfed for years upon years. Fear not, my love, for you were never my burden, and I find no sorrow in our time, our solitary visits. Perhaps, also, it is the between-Sabbath blues. The festivities that welcome in Yule and Christmas will not take place for weeks, awaiting December days.

My Clementine... My Clementine... Where are the evenings in which I would wake before sundown, anticipating the chance to live yet another night; to experience yet another day in a long life of adventure, however simple? Clementine, when will we see each other again? How long will I hold out on this lonely agony? Where are you? Where is our Ceredwen? Where...am I?

Your Beloved,

The Clementine Journal was always special to Gavin. It was not a journal, however, but a series of letters written to his beloved Lady Clementine McVeigh. He was on his way to see her. He always took the long, scenic route to get to his destination. He always walked up the opposite end of the road, towards the shops, through and around, passing through a park, always stopping at a bench to throw one slice of crumbled bread at its feet. Then, onward from here he would tread, towards a strong standing church, in need of some cosmetic repairs, behind into the graveyard. Up the hill he’d go until he would reach the most expensive piece of plot he could find: a mausoleum built of the finest stone, carved in the most intricate of manners. It was demanded to be in this location for it overlooked St. Raphael’s Children’s Home & Hospital.

The hospital in the distance was in reality a very old castle cutting from the landscape, standing victorious and tall, yet shrouded with an invisible and heavy cloud of loneliness and keeping a burden of hushed silence of lonely tales passed. It was as if the building longed for something it once had. It longed for something it had lost so long ago and desperately wished to embrace once again.

One more moment to take in the glory of the building, and Gavin then removed his keys, opening the door of the mausoleum and entering. Envelopes littered the back corners in semi-neat piles. Many had yellowed, at least those that had survived. Somehow, the rats had managed to get in and out, stealing away the letters, chewing them up and making off with them to bed their nests. It was a bittersweet sight for Gavin. On the one hand, his work would go unseen. It was hopeless and the only ones being helped by this lunacy were the rats. This silliness wouldn’t make him happy. It wouldn’t bring back Clementine. It wouldn’t bring back Ceredwen. But, then again, it brought a sickening, morbid sense of fantasy and hope. He never saw the rats, but, he knew their signs. But, because the rats came, the piles never overflowed. There was always room for many more. Gavin liked the delusion that perhaps the letters were taken to whatever Heaven, or Tir na Nog, or Summerland that souls departed to and read by his dear Clementine and heard by their precious Ceredwen.

He placed the newer envelope on top of dusty piles and yellowed papers. He then came along the stone casket, running his hands over the sarcophagus, wishing he could lift the top and see the coffin within, and open it to see his beloved once more. However, that was taboo even for him. It was only opened once, this sarcophagus. It was to place another small coffin within, atop the previous.

Gavin knelt, his body sliding down the stone until he was sitting down against it. He brought his hands to his face, unsure if he should weep or not. He had shed so many tears already for these bodies, and the memories they’d left behind with him. Deciding he could not choke them up, he used his hands to brush back his hair and wipe his face.

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The Lady Clementine sat on the bench of a nearby park. The year was 1820. It was a warm spring day. Clementine, dressed in a simple dress, watched as the townsfolk and their children danced about the Maypole, celebrating the Beltaine Sabbath. It was a much needed peace in a time when political wars were ripping Scotland apart and creating tension and unrest in the Highlanders. She wasn’t really much of a Lady, but she was a lady. She was of the merchant class, wearing a simple robin egg empire gown and tight, long ringlets in the back, carefully styled, and simple and inexpensive shoes, as well as a hand-me-down shawl about her arms in case the breeze brought too much of a chill.

She could smell the fires beginning to burn. Dusk was falling and it would be time to dance between the bonfires as the ancients before them would drive livestock betwixt them to protect them from mischievous faeries. Clementine, by no means, was a superstitious person of that manner, but it was a fun tradition. Would it protect her? Perhaps; perhaps not. She reached into a small bag she had brought with her and began to toss breadcrumbs before her, tempting birds to descend from their lofty perches to her feet to dine.

Her eyes rose for only a moment, but even that was enough to catch the sight of the most lordly looking man she had ever seen. He was strangely familiar, but so vaguely; it was as if they had only an illogical sense of déjà vu about them. He was very tall and slender, looking mannerly, with a long, slender face and immaculately kept long hair, tied in the back with a black ribbon.  An absolute Beau Brummel, he wore a long tailcoat above a waistcoat, a silver chain vanishing within a pocket. She could only imagine the extravagant pocket watch a man so well dressed and so clean looking could be hiding. Under still that was a very breathable cavalier shirt with a lace jabot and a set of cuffs made to match peeking from his sleeves. His cream colored pants seemed to possessively hold onto his long and slender, yet tempting legs. She could only blush and catch her breath in her throat as his form would flitter before her as he would move so fluidly to dodge