Birth of a Scion

By Robin N Greenwood

Vicci Drake had gone out of her way to stay out of the family business, and away from her twin sister Elizabeth. It is the death of her great uncle that destroys Victoria Drake’s life and reveals the true family secret. Vampires are real and worse; her family have been policing them for centuries.

Across the Atlantic a reporter struggles trying to make sense of a series of and unexplained deaths, which leads to an unlikely alliance with an embittered army veteran and his civilian team. Ancient dark forces are stirring, and ancient hatreds that had been buried for so long are scheming to mould a new age in their image.

What the world needs is someone trained to fight these vampires, someone who had spent her life preparing for the call, unfortunately the call was answered by the wrong twin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin N Greenwood
• Release date: Jul 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005008918

Robin N Greenwood

I am a mild-mannered tutor by day, writer the rest of the time and lives with his wife and two bonkers but lovable Bengal cats on the Isle of Man.You can contact me at [e-mail].

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Birth of a Scion

Book One of the Sub Rosa series

By Robin N Greenwood

Copyright 2021 Robin N Greenwood

Smashwords edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover Design: SelfPubBookCovers.com/flickimp

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

About Robin N Greenwood

For my wife

Chapter 1

The beautifully made cavalry sabre made of silver edged steel came within a few inches of severing Charles Drake’s head and instead struck another target. Charles skilfully sidestepped the blow, almost languorous in a grace that might have seemed slow to him but would be blindingly fast to anyone watching. Instead of flesh the blade struck Brown’s ‘Dreams under a steel moon’ and carved through the three year old painting in a cut that Charles noted with some satisfaction looked clean and therefore it should be easy to repair. Some opponents of modern art might have preferred the picture to retain the long and clean gash, claiming instead that it would improve the picture.

Charles lept back several feet and drew his own blade, a curved sword that borrowed a little from the katana style with a single edged blade. That edge gleamed in the gallery’s weak light where traceries of silver etchings marked the sword as one with a special purpose in mind or a special kind of person that it would be used against. In another time Charles might have been amused about the imagery of swords glinting in the poor light of high halls and stark décor of the Tate Gallery’s room 19.

There were six of them, two had the bestial and warped forms of ferals along with heavy and bunched muscles. Ferals were common enforcers among some vampire groups. Two women flanked the burly man whom had tried to decapitate him in what must have been the rudest introduction in history, the sixth form hung back and looked somewhat out of place. Where the other five vampires they had sent after him had dressed lightly the final figure looked of middling height and swathed entirely in black cloth that looked designed to obscure any detail of the wearer. Not an inch of skin could be seen of the person though from several meters away he could detect the scent of strong cologne or perhaps perfume.

I think you’re going to need more men, you do know you are facing a scion. I suggest that you surrender immediately since we should not fight amid such beauty and of course such delicacy, Charles quipped, flicking his blade around so that the silver flashed. Even the presence of the metal should have put the ferals on edge.

The building does not matter and if it were not for the value of the art represented here I would burn it to the ground. The voice of the wrapped up figure sounded high pitched but the kind of voice that made it difficult to determine the age or the gender of the speaker, but rang with a hatred and a boiling anger, they detested the scion before them despite this probably being their first meeting.

So, you have been stealing paintings for a while, it sounds like a brilliant plan, most vampires were not stupid, but baiting their ego often caused them to slip up what cannot be forced can often be led with the right questions.

More brilliant than you realise, stealing and replacing artworks can be… The figure paused, before revealing too much.

The figure indicated and the others closed in, the ferals leading on all fours and growling like huge hounds while the two women and the man slowly fanned out. The three human form were either knights or pawns, it was always hard to tell. His moment of thought broken when they came at him all at once, normally a combatant would have a lot to fear from two ferals and even three pawn vampires but then Charles had been doing this a long time.

The ferals came quick and without any real thought as to their attack, his blade caught the first one in mid flight, entering under the rib cage and ramming up through the massive chest of the once human thing. The angle of the blade and the weight of the feral rammed the blade through the feral’s heart, ending it’s miserable excuse for a life. No sound escaped the feral but for the soft hiss where silver touched vampire flesh and charred it on contact.

Once more Charles had to wonder what kind of vampire could turn one of it’s own into a feral, a debased and instinctive sub human. To his mind, such an act went beyond cruelty. As the first feral died he twisted the blade and turned the body with such force that it slammed into the second feral and carried them both into the wall. The other three came in at once, thinking that the ferals would slow him down. His sword flicked around in a wide arc, catching one of the women on the side of her neck and the blade not even slowing down as it emerged from the other side. Her eyes, dark and if this had not been a time of combat no doubt pretty went wide as a few traceries of smoke trailed up from her neck and her existence terminated in a moment.

The broad man moved more rapidly than the others, Charles concluding that he must have been a knight, which raised chilling conclusions in itself. Pawns and ferals could be made by any Knight vampire, the presence of a type two suggested something Charles found very worrying, that the organisation had a scion vampire. Charles stepped to one side, placing the knight vampire between him and the pawn and focusing his attention on him entirely.

The knight had been trained and trained well, parrying two blows even from an opponent more rapid than him with a katana expertly wielded. If Charles had been an unskilled opponent he might even have given him a hard time. The feral had managed to recover himself and leap again, growling with a guttural fury that seemed infect its’ entire body and in that moment the knight glanced sideways towards the movement and gave Charles the opening he needed.

As a scion vampire Charles had a reaction arc that would have been difficult to match and the knight might have been distracted for a fraction of a second but that time gave Charles more than enough. His sword darted in like a viper’s tongue and glistened as it struck the knight mid chest and rammed through coming out of his back, separating the spine in a single movement. That still gave Charles enough time to twist around with the knight still beginning to writhe on the sword and the tip of the blade met the roof of the feral’s mouth, allowing the feral to impale itself through the length of its skull. The weight of the two of them bore the blade out of his hands leaving him bare handed as the final pawn vampire approached.

You have no weapon, she said, grinning evilly though the flicker of her eyes betrayed her fear. She knew that even without a weapon she would be outmatched. Another attractive woman, this one with long blonde hair, he noted with a cold smile before replying. Who ever had turned these women he had a good eye, or at least a tightly focused one.

I don’t need one, you’ll be useful to explain all this to me.

I would no…

As her lips parted to form around the word ‘would’ he sprayed, a gland in the roof of his mouth letting out a thick jet of seed aimed for her mouth. Even at the distance between them it struck true and struck her between the lips. The seed would take seconds to spread through her system and subvert the control that her vampire lord had over her. As a scion he could do that to just about any vampire he pleased and she should prove useful. In general pawns were easy to subvert than knights and ferals were useless if you wanted someone able to comprehend the question and answer it.

In response she doubled over, a sure sign that the seed would soon have her. Then and only then did he reclaim his sword from what he mused could be called a vampire shish kebab and turn to face the cloaked figure who drew it’s own sword, a basket hilted broadsword, also tinged with silver.

If you come quietly I can seed you as well. Charles said, brimming with confidence.

I will dispose of her or reseed her later. The figure replied, stepping into a courtly stance with one hand one a hip and the tip of its blade circling slowly.

You can’t win, I’m a scion and almost sixty years old. Do you have any idea what it would take to defeat me, he replied, the script did not seem to be going to plan here. Normally a vampire that has seen a knight taken out easily would fold or run.

The answer came to him microseconds before the cloaked vampire attacked and did so with such speed and skill that he suddenly found himself on the defensive. The blade of the cloaked one almost spitted him but he managed to brush it aside with his own blade but the action came so close that the tip sliced a narrow cut across his chest, a cut that hissed and burned. Normally the blow would have been brushed off but for the silver but Charles had other things on his mind, his sword just deflected a blow aimed for his head and he lost ground.

The vampire that faced him moved with such speed, grace and skill that there could only be one conclusion. He had to defeat another scion vampire and by the look of it the vampire must have been well over a century of age.

Their blades met, reinforced steel screaming against steel before the cloaked vampire lashed out at him with a kick, a kick that propelled him back into the information desk of glass and wood, which shattered as he slammed into it with bone crushing force.

I knew they’d send a scion after me. The cloaked vampire said, the voice soft revealing no signs of fatigue.

The roles had reversed and whoever this vampire might have been they were just playing with him. He righted himself quickly, barely avoiding the sharp flechettes of wood and glass before raising his sword in time to block a blow that would have cut him cleanly in two. Their blades locked over his head.

The Drake Scion if I’m not mistaken, one of the families that still lives with their disgrace. The cloaked figure remarked slowly while pressing the blades down, though he had the advantage of height the other pushed him around with ease.

Yes, but even if you kill me another will arise. He said desperately, pushing upward with all of his might and yet still the blades lowered.

Ah yes, the daughters of your son, Terence. I have heard the rumours that a female scion is rarer but more powerful than the male but it’s a rumour I’ve never particularly believed. Your death should shock the Sub Rosa into some kind of action, or more likely Raven and the others will cower behind you precious scions. The figure said, the sneer not needing to be visible to be obvious.

Who are you? He choked through the stress of keeping the sword away from him.

Me, I am no one, I am the puppet master behind the scenes and I am going to make your filthy, heathenish country pay for what you did. First though, I think I will take the Drake scion and use you as a demonstration.

The blow when it came stunned him, hitting with such force that one of his temples caved in. Normally a human would have been killed by such an attack but a vampire who had not had most of their brain destroyed or spinal column severed would recover. He fell like a sack of potatoes at the feet of the cloaked vampire who walked away and moments later dropped the body of the pawn vampire that he had seeded next to him and paused only to drop a small metal canister between them.

Goodbye Charles Drake. When I have removed you I will have dealt the scion families a blow that should take them out of my way. The figure said before striding away. He had time to focus on the canister before he recognised it and knew his time had come to an end.

The canister flared, not with normal fire but a chemical reaction that created a yellow flame along with all of the radiation patterns normally found in sunlight only much more concentrated. While the Sub Rosa produced a skin covering capable of blocking sunlight such a thing would be useless against this. It did prove useless. Soon the sunlight burned his flesh along with that of the vampiress he had tried to turn around to his way of thinking. There would be little left of their remains and the gallery would be closed that morning while the government cleaned up and quietened the matter down. He had worked long enough within the Sub Rosa to understand how things would be. In his last moments as the light burned through him, consuming him he thought of his family, he did not envy them the change to come.

Or the duty that one of them would carry as the next Drake Scion.

Chapter 2

The stench struck the senses first; the accreted combination of shit, the dead and unwashed human terror all of varying ages of decay forced itself into awareness and hung over the Tower of London like a veil of filth and regret. The Bloody Tower’s dungeons in 1535 were not built for the finer things or people. Within one corner of the building, in one tiny cell sat a man who would have not drawn attention until one took note of his shackles, iron might have been customary but iron shot through with silver strands; might be thought to be a little strange. He huddled, wrapped in filthy and tatty clothes that might one have been the finery of a man that commanded respect, or at least asked for it with good cause.

Now nothing remained of that well placed man, nothing but a beggared figure, broken and wracked by the tortures that only the undying could tolerate. He held those rags to him, huddled in a ball perhaps to evade the worst of the ravages of the winter cold that seeped into the tower’s cells or perhaps to avoid the weak sunlight spilling out into the chamber from the tiny window. A mass of burns and charred flesh interrupted his pale flesh with their ebon kiss. Tudor jailors can often be relied on for their single mindedness and determination when it came to punishment.

This man had once been Thomas More, an advisor to the king; there had been a time when priests and men of knowledge had come to his court to discuss and consider points of wisdom. That time long gone. Now he waited here, too inconvenient to be casually killed and too important to be forgotten and left to rot. He waited in a state of perpetual terror for the light of torches and the sound of voices, or rather what fate they would bring.

Soon enough, as with all things feared, he glimpsed that flickering and weak light that signalled that people were coming this way. His stomach tightened into lead shot and his throat dried. Even without the cold he would have been shivering for even though his existence had become something to be pitied and held in contempt, life was still life and the full value of living is only really appreciated under the leaden weight of its end.

They were coming for him. Footsteps rang out within the corridors along with the raucous coughing of the pox-ridden gaoler along with the bobbing lights of more than one torch. A guard, a pinched faced and sallow person, whom always appeared as if he had smelled something foul beyond reason, opened the door. Given the surroundings it was more than likely that the smell of this place and the filth that caked the floor caused his expression. It might have been that he always looked that way. He stepped aside for the syphilitic jailor. The jailor easily recognised by his half rotted nose and the bright edge of madness that lingered within his eyes. Neither of these held Thomas’s attention though; the man that came with them appeared almost pure amid such filth.

Thomas had once known him as a minor functionary of the court, Phillip something or other. He stood out like a golden clad angel standing within the depths of the foulest of hells. The torches glittered off his gilt threaded tunic, winking to those who would look with brilliant and passionless light. His daughter had always called Phillip a handsome man, not that a woman should talk such near her father. He had come now on the king’s business and the king did not give many pardons these days. More guards followed, as if the prisoner could have put up much of a struggle.

Thomas More, the young man’s insolent tone would never have been tolerated within the court of King Henry VIII, a place of glittering fancy despite the smoky fires where impoverished light made gold of gilt and silver of pewter and iron. It had been within that court that they had found a poison that had been spreading like the pox through the nobles and priests. This had not been a poison though that mortified the flesh, but instead attacking the faith and the spirit.

The lack of his response gained a silver capped cane slamming into the mass of cloth that he huddled within. Two more blows followed until he finally looked up, having almost lost the last shreds of dignity he had once possessed.

Yes, Thomas’s voice came out in a dry croak, spattered with a cloud of blood droplets from his wrecked gums, they had made sure he would not bite again.

I am here to deliver sentence, the young man reeked of fear, even in this stench and awkward within his task, no doubt having practiced this conversation but still not wearing it with ease.

Then you must do what you must do. No blame will be attached to you for you are but the messenger,

The few kind words caused the young man to relax slightly though without the slightest suggestion of a thankful smile. One of the guards would certainly be a king’s man and would report back to him any signs of sympathy.

You are given on last chance to recant, to sign the oath of supremacy. You must accept the king as your new master as must all of your filthy kind, The younger man said, a soft pleading within his voice that peeked out beneath the anger that he projected just a little too much.

And betray my lord? Thomas More coughed, a mixture of blood and the deeper stain of spora splattering on the stones before him.

The King is your lord, the younger man said while stepping back in disgust.

Not any more and to deny my lord would be a sin of the highest order,

They will kill you if you refuse,

Then I will sit beside the seat of my lord, but I am god’s servant before the King’s. Deliver your sentence; I absolve you of all blame,

"The King has declared that you will recant, you will proclaim him the voice of god upon the earth and you will bind to the signing of the pact of blood with the leeches. If these conditions are not