Secrets: A Vampire Mermaid Trilogy

By Sno McLaine

A young woman washes up on the coastline of a primitive but growing civilization. San Francisco. Taken by brothers from a Spanish Monastery, the woman-Thalassa-discovers the heavy and violent realities of the human world. At the same time a war begins in the Vampire Kingdom. With their King murdered, his children battle each other for control. Against his will, legendary warrior Erechantheus Maldaiv travels to forbidden lands, the western hemisphere in search of the dead King’s bastard. The vampires believe that the bastard’s blood will end the war and stabilize their kingdom. But the western world is dangerous for their kind, and Erech soon becomes distracted by forbidden fruit. In the form of one of the nuns from the convent, Thalassa, who has taken her vows to fight against the dark creatures who have invaded their land. Soon he realizes that this nun has a terrible secret and one that he is wiling to fight for. FI

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sno McLaine
• Release date: Dec 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310579196

Book preview

Secrets

Book I: A Vampire Mermaid Trilogy

Sno McLaine

Copyrighted Material

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Produced in the United States of America

Chapter 1

1848

He was almost there. He could feel it, much different than before. The strands of the web had weakened. There was a pulse of excitement which he quickly suppressed. Morcant knew better than to allow emotion to enter the void. The huge black abdomen of the spider protruded above and he could see the red hourglass on it’s belly bob up and down as thin threads were ejected, then carefully knit by long writhing legs, each with an apparent life and will of it’s own.

Morcant worked with the strands as they spat forward, diluting them with this new rare power. He could feel them quiver, and then reshape themselves in the complicated and dangerous matrix.

After all of these years. The many times he had traveled here, to this place. He looked down at the dark and nearly invisible patterns beneath him. Complex and layered, the unwoven world had a kind of immeasurable intelligence that challenged even his own mind. It never ceased to amaze him.

Carefully, meticulously, he found the strand and then pulled it, gently but with force, finally snapping it at its roots. As expected, another sprang forth like a snake made of coarse rope, twisting upward in a knarled embrace. It burned his skin like acid and coiled around his legs squeezing its prey.

He ignored the pain; merged with it, his energy joining with its very composition. At first it seemed that the web would repulse him, as it had done so many times before; but today the strand felt different, began to lose it’s stickiness, seemed to melt with him. It recognized something, some faint part of him.

The blood of the Pure.

He felt his heart pound in anticipation as the web thinned, and he calmed himself instantly. Suddenly the coiled snake vanished, like cotton candy doused with water, and the other strands seemed to follow. The protector, the mother creature who had nearly cost him his life many many times before cried out in the matrix; he could feel her weaving shatter as she fell.

He was in.

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There was a great surge from the sea and something dark seem to impregnate the fog, thick and palpable, it held a heavy danger that Father Lucrose couldn’t make sense of. Not, what he considered a good day to gather clams. He called to one of the Indians by Brother Antonio who was crouched and using a digging stick in the sand. El clima se ha cambiado, he shouted, we must return to the Mission.

Brother Antonio was used to the Father’s unpredictable ways. He had, after all, convinced the small band of religious leaders to embark on a dangerous journey west, to battle the Devil’s army. The Father seemed more familiar with the tactics of Satan than any of his kind, and some of the Modoc savages knew this well, in the form of the repentance whip that occasionally lit their backs and kept them from what had once been their seaside home.

Though the Mission had long been the center of Bahia de San Francisco de Assis, or San Francisco as the residents had come to call it, the land remained a wild and uncivilized place. The military presence at Point Reyes and The Presidio created a surplus of men and after hours debauchery that were a constant danger to the already loosely defined morality of the native population. The Father believed that only the strictness of religion and the defined standards of God could deter Satan’s strong grip. Vamonos! he called, uneasiness growing thicker around them.

Brother Antonio rounded up the Indian converts, and tried to see the pathway through the haze. The air was a mixture of fog and thick sea spray blown by the wind. It seemed as if a storm had collected itself on the waters of the ocean and then struck out like a hand to squeeze itself around the small group of missionaries.

Padre! Antonio shouted, I cannot see you?!

Father Lucrose turned to respond, but stumbled over a large object and fell. He reached out and his hand touched something. It felt soft and silky beneath his fingers. Suddenly there was a strange kind of opening in the fog and he could see the object, which was no object but rather a body, white skin, the color of fresh snow, red lips, black hair long and curly, covering some but not all of a woman’s body, a woman’s nakedness. The Father’s eyes grew wide, he took in the lush contours of the creature’s breasts beneath the strands of coal black hair. He stood and his body cast a shadow over her.

Was she dead? He wondered, and felt a pull inside of him, he hoped not. He reached down, moving the strands of hair away from her face and gasped. She was stunning! Cheeks that looked to be carved out of fine porcelain, long black lashes, lips flushed red by the wind and the sea. Unusual features set her apart from most of the women he had seen in this rugged land.

He felt something sinful rise up, a stirring in his loins. The same lust that he felt when one of the native women tempted him, forcing him to do a dance with Satan. He reached out; he wanted to feel her, to touch the soft skin of her perfect breasts, rose-colored nipples peaked and hardened by the cold.

How he hoped she was not dead.

Father? Brother Antonio’s voice interrupted his thoughts; he could feel the course fabric of his robe beside him. What is it? When he saw the woman he startled.

Brother Antonio took off his cloak and bent down to drape it over her nakedness. As he did so he felt her move, and then she moaned softly. She is alive! He exclaimed, and called out to the Indians to help them.

They lifted her, Brother Antonio’s cloak still draped around her, and started up the hillside. As soon as her body left the ground, the fog seemed to thin and then dissipated entirely.

He watched as the savages carried the girl up the little hillside trail on the beach. His stomach clenched with a kind of envy, and he wished it were his own hands curled under the cloak and around the smooth white skin.

How did such a woman come to be washed up on the beach, not a scrap of clothing on her? It had to be the work of Satan. Only the devil could concoct such a scheme, breed such delightful darkness and lay it before him.

A secret pleasure grew inside of him, anticipation of the work before him. If the woman should survive, a delicious task belonged to him to see what Satan had dared to taunt him with this time. What evil the girl was assigned to bring to the strictness of their impenetrable Holy fortress.

Brother Antonio nervously hovered behind the Indian carrying the girl. He glanced back only for a quick moment at Father Lucrose and did not like what he saw. The Father had his own ways of interpreting God’s work, and the rest of the Brother’s did not always agree. He moved ahead of the group and hurried along the path. He would need to make sure proper arrangements were made for the girl. A doctor brought. Until they knew the situation, he would try to find some kind of distraction for Father Lucrose.

Erechtheus Maldaiv sat at the old wooden table. He saw that the finish was wearing on one corner, the same place where Mozart had once injured himself when he slammed down his cup and proclaimed the musical poverty of the then modern world.

You are not listening to me. The Prince sounded annoyed.

Of course I am listening. Erech flashed him one of his winning smiles. He reached up and brushed away a blonde streaked strand of hair that looked like it had been kissed by the light of a sun it had never seen."

Ianuarius eyes were narrow slits. What has happened to you Erech? He moved from the corner of the lavishly decorated flat. What is it you have become? The Prince glanced at one of the huge oil paintings on the wall. A well-endowed nude woman stared seductively out at him from the glittering gold frame. Her sister, who had at least some scant amount of clothing draped across her bosoms, seemed to snicker in amusement from her own adjacent place on the wall. Ian’s lips were a thin line, pressed together in undisguised disdain, and he turned to look out the window. The city loomed above the cobblestone streets, back lit by the flickering torches and winking candlelight illuminating some of the windows.

I did not ask you to come here Ian. Erech dropped the niceties. And what I have become is what I now am. He picked up a sheet of music and seemed to study it for a moment. In this moment.

Frustrated, Ian grabbed the music from Erech’s hand, You have no idea what she has done. What she will do! He crumpled the sheet and threw it at one of the sisters, hitting a rosy cheek on her painted behind. Do you think my father deserves this? That his kingdom, his life should be so defiled! He looked at Erech, his eyes scouring his face, searching for the man, for the warrior he remembered so well.

Erech lifted his head and met his gaze unwavering. His eyes were a rich amber color with little sparkles that glittered in the candlelight. A deep alluring warmth seemed to pull Ian in and then rudely bash him with a thicker layer that he could not penetrate. He tried to push further, deeper into his mind, but Erech had long ago mastered the void, and easily deflected him.

I need you Erech. My father needs you.

Erech stood from his chair. He brushed his fingers over the long velvet coat he wore, lingering along the creases of the colorful patches stitched together by one of the traveling minstrels. He reached up and straightened the lace at his throat carefully. Your father is dead Ian. Isolde rules our kind now. What you are seeking, I cannot be a part of. I do not know why you have come here. It has been so long since I have held a sword I don’t even remember the feel of it. He picked up his violin, his beloved Stradivarius from the table and held it in his hands gently. This is what I wield now.

He set the instrument back down and poured some wine into one of the glasses on the table, sliding it toward the Prince. Drink my friend. You will like this. He smiled and his eyes sparkled again in the light. You have come a long way, and I would not want your journey to be for naught. Erech poured himself some of the wine. Though most of what humans consumed was painfully unpalatable, there were some things that his people could enjoy. This wine was a special variety, discovered by his brother some century ago.

Berengar will be back soon, he will be pleased to see you. And honored that you have graced our household. Like me, he does not fault you for your revolution and remembers your father well.

The Prince picked up the wine. The dark skin of his hand seemed to merge with the rich red color. He swirled the reddish purple liquid around the glass, then set it back onto the table without drinking. I did not come here to see your halfling brother. I came to see the man who is a legend in our world. Who saved the lives of the ancients and has reveled in a thousand human wars.

You will not find that man here. Erech drained his glass and poured himself another.

Ian stood tall at the edge of the table. He was dressed in fitted black trousers and a tailored blue velvet waistcoat. His jacket had a turnover collar and he wore a subdued square necktie folded in a knot. Erech thought he resembled a darker version of his father, King Achaikos, as he stood there, his chocolate skin, framed by a mass of styled curls curving into a tail in the back below his neckline. His face remained serious and implacable. On the surface he looked to be a man in his mid 30s, but Erech knew him to be one of the few who could claim to be born of an ancient.

It was no hunter that killed my father. Ian’s voice was quiet, serious. I know the lies she has spread. The songs she sings to keep the allegiance of the Modhai. His eyes were piercing, There are those who know the truth. Wulfric, who saw what I saw in Morcant’s dungeon. It was he who turned first against my sister when I could not.

Ian leaned back and sat down across the table. He picked up the glass of wine and seemed to study the contours on the outside for a moment. You cannot know what she has done. His voice was quiet, serious, What they have created in the bowels of my father’s castle. He looked back at Erech with sorrow