The Last Constantin: A Novel of the Original Vampire: The Legacy of Constantin, #1

By Alydia Rackham

Young Quinn and Agatha are caught between immortal factions, and Quinn must face the truth about all of them--and his own lineage--if he is to save his own life, Agatha's, and indeed, all of Europe.

Christmas Eve, 1848. Young Quinn Campbell and his best friend Agatha have been kidnapped. Their captor, Dmitriy Gavrilov, is cruel, ruthless--and a vampire. Thus begins a treacherous journey through ice-locked Europe, toward a castle in the depths of Romania, and a mysterious ruler at the heart of a thousand-year war. Can Quinn somehow bring peace between the two factions by assuming his birthright, or will he and all he loves be destroyed in the fight?

"The Last Constantin" is the first of Alydia Rackham's vampire/werewolf novels. If you enjoy Bram Stoker's "Dracula," Mary Shelly's "Frankenstein" and the gothic works of the Bronte sisters, then you will love this.
Plunge into a great vampire adventure today with "The Last Constantin"!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: May 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224434268

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

Prologue

London, 1830

TWO SETS OF SHOD HORSE hooves thudded through the snow, flashing in the moonlight. The black cloaks of the riders billowed behind them as they hunched low over their flying steeds, and their fur collars and hats shielded their faces. Their practiced hands guided their mounts through the treacherous maze of the leaning tombstones of Brompton cemetery, the horses’ breath clouding through the frostbitten air.

A piercing howl cut the night. The first horseman jerked back on his reins. His horse reared its head, neighing and digging his hooves into the earth. The second horseman flew past him, then swung around and slowed.

A second howl joined the first, and another, until a chorus had begun. The second horseman swore.

He is across the border.

Quiet, Vadik, the first horseman snapped. His mount stomped his foot and snorted, but the horseman did not move. He listened. Vadik urged his horse back toward his companion.

He could bring ruin to us all. You know this, Vadik said. Whatever risks we must take, they are worth it! We must follow him and—

The first horseman lifted his head, so the moonlight shone in his inhumanly-emerald eyes.

He is a child.

Since when has that mattered to you? Vadik protested. We should kill him before...Dmitriy!

You may do what you wish, Dmitriy said as he turned his horse around. I am no longer your captain. His horse began to trot, and he spoke again without turning his head. But if the Canis take you, you ought to know that we may not expend very much effort to recover you.

With that, the shadows of the thick trees swallowed Dmitriy and his mount. Vadik stood for another moment. Then, muttering to himself, he kicked his horse hard and followed after Dmitriy.

Chapter One

Eighteen years later

AGATHA BYRNE SAT ON the shadowed wooden stairs that led up to her bedroom. Her green frock was starched, her black hair was pinned up tightly, and her hands gripped each other in her lap. She frowned fiercely at the wall to her right, never taking her large, dark eyes off the single, thin crack in the plaster, lit by a hanging oil lamp. Below her, people laughed and talked as the large front door opened and shut.

She listened. The voices mingled, rising and falling in variations of merriment. Agatha strove to pick out individual tones. There was Mrs. Campbell, one of Agatha’s guardians, instructing two ladies where to place their coats. There was Mr. Campbell, greeting a neighbor with a hearty laugh.

The house was soon filled. Conversation rose to a roar, and the clanking of glasses drifted into the stairwell, but Agatha remained where she was.

Suddenly, Mrs. Campbell’s voice shot through her solitude.

Agatha? Are you ready yet, my dear?

Agatha gritted her teeth, staying silent.

Agatha, the lady’s voice persisted. We are waiting for you.

Sighing, Agatha rose to her feet, straightened her skirt and began descending the stairs. Warmth increased with each step she took, and the shadows faded behind her. She followed the twisting staircase, keeping one hand on the banister, and finally arrived in the wide entry way.

The first floor of the great house was alight with candles and lamps and music. Snow fell outside the windows, like feathers from a burst pillow, as twilight descended. Guests of all ages milled about with glasses of punch and tea, decked out in their Christmas best. Agatha swallowed, gripping her simple dress in both hands. It was two years old, and about three inches too short and too tight.

There you are!

Agatha jumped as Mrs. Campbell strode up to her, a broad smile on her once-lovely face. Her white hair was done up elaborately, and she wore a gown of deep maroon and gold. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and wrists. Agatha stiffened.

Go on into the parlor, Mrs. Campbell instructed. Someone is waiting for you.

Frowning, Agatha crept toward the broad entrance to the packed parlor. Hesitating by the threshold, she peered inside.

Most of the guests within were young people, mingling around two punch bowls, the fireplace and the Christmas tree. It was hot in that tall-ceilinged room, and everyone was laughing. They all wore fine clothes, especially the ladies. Agatha brushed her fingertips along her collarbone. She had no jewelry. She closed her hand into a fist and dropped it back down to her side.

Miss Agatha?

She fought against jumping again, and turned to her left. A tall, gangly, blonde young man with freckles inclined his head to her.

Merry Christmas, he said in a deep voice. She nodded.

Merry Christmas.

I believe we were introduced once, he said.

I don’t remember, Agatha told him.

Allow me to refresh your memory. I am Rudolf Smith, the nephew of Sir William Middlehouse.

Oh, Agatha glanced through the room again.

May I get you some punch? Mr. Smith asked, his plain blue eyes watching her. She thought a moment.

No, thank you.

I insist, he said, and held out his arm for her to take. She stared at it.

You must join the party, he encouraged. Please come with me.

Biting the inside of her lip, Agatha took his arm and allowed herself to be led into the room.  The wool of his suit was rough, and she could not feel any warmth through it. No one looked at her, although they did glance up at Mr. Smith’s towering form. He led her straight through the crowd toward a punch bowl, ladled some for her hand handed it to her, and did not get any for himself.

Aren’t you having some? Agatha wondered. He shook his head.

No, it’s not entirely to my liking. No offense to your aunt, of course.

She is not my aunt, Agatha corrected. He blinked.

No? Pardon me, I merely assumed—

I am the Campbells’ ward, Agatha stated, taking a drink of punch. I have no dowry, no connections and will inherit no fortune. She smiled at him for the first time. Do you still wish to get me refreshments and inquire after the state of my health?

Mr. Smith’s mouth worked but no sound came out.  

Who would? A different voice intoned.  A new form slipped easily into their sphere, straight-backed, his hands behind him, but his head canted toward Agatha. He wore a gray suit and silver tie and waistcoat—a striking combination—and his slightly-wavy, light-brown hair hung stylishly down to his high collar.

Forgive me, Mr. Smith, but this young lady is completely without manners and is certainly not worthy of any of your attention. Beneath dark eyebrows, his brilliant brown eyes sparkled at her as a secret smile formed on his soft mouth. Agatha could not help but admire this slender, softly-wolfish young man, as she always did, especially up next to this gawking scarecrow. Of course, she would never show him what she was thinking, or that his intrusion was welcome.

I resent that assessment, Quinn, Agatha arched her eyebrow at him. Are you suggesting that wealth is the only measure of worthiness?

He shook his head halfway and looked at her pointedly.

"Weren’t you?"

Excuse me. Agatha handed her punch glass to a flabbergasted Mr. Smith and stepped away from the two young men toward a lonely window seat.

Pardon me, Mr. Smith. I’ll just be a moment, Quinn assured him. Agatha ignored them both.

You are so rude, she then heard Quinn mutter from behind her.

You’re an idiot, she countered, not glancing back. She plopped down on the window seat and drew her knees up to her chest.

That’s not ladylike. You’ll scuff the pillows, Quinn corrected, sitting down across from her and pushing her feet off the cushion. She growled but put her feet back down on the floor. She leaned back against the side of the window and glanced out at the frost.

I hate parties. I hate dressing in this ridiculous frock and using the Queen’s English and being forced to talk to all these snobs I don’t know.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Quinn watching her, his subdued and characteristically-crooked smile on his face.  

What? she demanded.

He folded his hands on his lap, kicked his head back slightly and leaned against the pane opposite her.

I think you enjoy them, he prodded. She sat up straight.

"What?"

Yes, I think you do. Now he crossed his arms. I think you enjoy shocking people with your frankness and walking around like Victoria herself, even though you’re wearing half of the other ladies’ finery.

Agatha ducked her head. She pried at a loose piece of lace on her sleeve. Suddenly, Quinn’s hand darted out and took soft hold of her wrist.

I didn’t mean that. His voice was low. She lifted her head to look into his deep, watchful eyes.

Oh, I know. She pulled her hand away. You know what I think of all this flimflam, anyway.

Where is my nephew? Mr. Campbell’s boisterous voice overpowered the chit-chat in the drawing room. The white-haired, bearded, portly man pushed his way through the crowd. Quinn? Quinn, my boy—come give the toast so we can start dinner!

Quinn glanced at Agatha, flashed his eyebrows and got up. Agatha’s chest grew heavy. She rose to her feet and stood behind him.

Right here, Uncle Campbell, Quinn waved a hand. Then, he reached back and grasped Agatha’s fingers.

Use the back way, Aggie, he whispered, barely turning to her. I’ll sneak something up to you later.

A cheer went up amongst the guests as Mr. Campbell caught sight of Quinn, slapped him on the back and handed him a glass of wine. All the guests gathered around them as Agatha eased toward the back corner, where a doorway stood to the servants’ staircase. She watched them all, vanishing without notice, until Quinn caught her eye again. He winked. Agatha smiled and rolled her eyes, then slipped through the door and up the stairs, free again.

VVV

CARRYING TWO GLASSES of milk, two plates of turkey and potatoes, and a handful of silverware up a pokey flight of stairs is usually considered challenging—and holding the ends of two napkins in one’s mouth adds to the difficulty. But Quinn had done it so many times he did not even have to think.

Arriving on a small landing, he bent down to a triangular door and tapped on it with the end of a knife. A different knock replied, and then the door swung open. Agatha poked her head out.

It’s about time, she scolded, swiping the napkins out of his mouth. It’s nearly midnight! I am starved.

You could have eaten dinner with the rest of us civilized human beings, Quinn said as he ducked through the short doorway and entered the little room. It was a small space, an extra room designed for no specific purpose, so common in houses that age. Agatha, who had changed into her nightgown and thick maroon dressing gown tied with a sash, had already lit the two lamps and the candle that were sufficient to illuminate the space. A short table whose legs had been sawed off sat in the center, and pillows, board games, boxes and books were neatly tucked into all the corners. There was another door directly across from the first that led into a short servants’ passage behind the guest bedrooms.

Speaking of civilized, Quinn said as he set one of the glasses down on the table. Where is the rug?

Agatha took a plate from him.

I moved it. See? It’s turned the other way. The table is hiding it.

I don’t like it. Quinn handed her a fork and knife.

Why not? she demanded, propping her fists on her hips.

For one thing, you can see the charred spot on the boards where you almost caught the house on fire.

I did not, Agatha protested, kneeling, then setting out her place and folding her napkin. I was little. I just dropped the candle.

"All right then, you almost caught me on fire," Quinn substituted, plopping down on the floor in front of his own place and sitting cross-legged.

I did, Agatha nodded. But you don’t care about that burnt spot—you just dislike change.

Quinn snorted, arranging his silverware.

There’s the pot calling the kettle black.

I like change, Agatha insisted.

Oh, of course you do. Quinn buttered a piece of bread. That’s why you had an hour-long fit when Aunt Lydia decided to rearrange the furniture in the parlor.

"I was ten," Agatha reminded him.

Or that other time, Quinn considered. When Uncle Thomas wanted to put Old Gray out to pasture and get a new horse.

I liked Old Gray, Agatha muttered.

Oh, and that other time—

Shut up, shut up, Agatha huffed, reaching up to unpin her hair.

You’ll never get a husband with that kind of language, Quinn said around a mouthful of bread. 

Oh, a husband, Agatha waved the comment away. Why would I want a husband?

I don’t know, Quinn’s voice was muffled by his food. He glanced at her slyly. You seemed to have caught Rudolf Smith’s eye.

Rudolf Smith, Agatha grunted, setting down her last pin and running both hands through her waist-length hair. That bean-pole?

Quinn choked on his bread, cleared his throat and kept laughing.

There’s nothing wrong with him! He took a drink, then pointed at her. He’s my friend. I invited him.

Did you tell him to bring me into the parlor? Agatha questioned.

Yes, in fact, I did, Quinn said. You were hovering.

"And you thought he would be the best one to put me at ease?"

Quinn shrugged.

Why not?

"Why didn’t you come?" Agatha asked, reaching for her fork and knife.

I was occupied.

Occupied with what?

With whom.

What?

It was a correction. Quinn cut into his meat. The question should have been ‘Occupied with whom?’

Agatha’s hands stopped. She narrowed her dark eyes at him.

"All right. Occupied with whom?"

Miss Rosalie.

Agatha set down her fork with a clank.

Rosalie who?

Whom.

"Rosalie...who?" Agatha’s voice rose.

Rosalie Garrison, the vicar’s niece, he answered. She’s new in the neighborhood—I was making introductions for her.

I didn’t see her, Agatha said slowly. What does she look like?

Quinn chewed and glanced at the ceiling.

Hm. Tall, with green eyes, and curly, gold hair pinned up on the crown of her head with some of the curls falling down around her neck—

Agatha wound up and snapped him with the end of her napkin.

Ow! he yelped, his eyes wide, his hand flying to his shoulder where her blow had landed. Agatha wadded up the napkin.

What was that? he cried. Agatha raised her eyebrows, serious.

What?

You hit me!

You deserved it.

After I brought you dinner? Quinn waved a hand over the meal. Agatha grinned. Quinn wiped his mouth on his napkin, leaped around the table and tackled her. She shrieked and fell back against a stack of books, sending them sprawling. Then he found her ribs and began to tickle her.

She laughed wildly and kicked against his legs, thrashing away from him. His heels thudded against the wall and he kept her pinned. She twisted away, then struck her head against the wall.

Ouch! she gasped.

"And you deserved that." Quinn grabbed her waist to keep her from escaping and dug his fingers in. Her squeal deafened him and she tried to roll over. In reflex, she kicked out.

Ugh! Quinn grunted as her foot connected with his stomach. He thudded down to the floor beside her.

I’m sorry! she gasped, sitting up, her hair a ragged curtain over her face.

You are not, he choked. You—

What was that scream? The voice came from outside. Both of them shot into sitting positions.

Aunt Lydia, Quinn breathed.

It was doubtlessly Betsy, Mr. Campbell intoned. She is terrified of mice, you know,  Quinn— Agatha started, but Quinn had already hopped up and blown out the lamps and candle. They plunged into darkness. He silently settled next to her again. Both struggled to calm their breathing.

It didn’t sound like Betsy, Mrs. Campbell mused.

It could be Aggie and Quinn roughhousing again, Mr. Campbell suggested.

"They shouldn’t be roughhousing, Mrs. Campbell sounded irritated. They aren’t children anymore, Thomas. Something needs to be done about their behavior."

Agatha took a breath. Quinn instantly clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Must something be done now?" Mr. Campbell sighed. Couldn’t you wait until after Christmas? For whatever you are proposing is sure to put them both out of humor.

I don’t see why it should, Mrs. Campbell clipped. They both know what is expected of them, and we have been far too lenient already. Both of them, especially Agatha, need to realize their responsibilities. And the sooner, the better.

Their voices continued, but faded away to another part of the house. Agatha and Quinn sat still. Quinn lowered his hand and glanced over at her, but he could see nothing. He groped for the matchbox and lit a single lamp. Agatha leaned back against the wall, her knees bent, her hands clasped in her lap. She stared ahead of her. Her housecoat was askew and her hair was mussed and hanging in her face. The light from the single lamp deepened the shadows on her smooth features, hiding her eyes from view. Quinn breathed in.

Aggie?

Why do you always cover my mouth? she murmured, not looking at him.

Because you always say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I have to stop you somehow.

She did not reply. He scooted closer and softly pushed a strand of hair out of her face. She glanced at him. Her eyes glimmered like polished obsidian. He managed a smile.

Don’t worry.

Who is worried? she muttered, returning her gaze to the wall. Quinn’s fingers lingered on her lock of hair for a moment, and then he rose to his feet, straightening his shirt.

You’ll feel better if you eat, then go get some sleep. He prodded her with his toe. Tomorrow is Christmas!

She smiled lopsidedly.

True, that.

Goodnight, Aggie.

Goodnight, Quincy.

Chapter Two

RELAX.

I am relaxed.

No, you are not.

Quinn—

Shh.

Side by side, the two of them paced down the stairs, dressed for dinner. Quinn wore his new blue velvet coat and white tie that he had gotten that morning from his uncle and aunt. Agatha wore the same dress she had worn the night before.  Her only added bit of finery was the simple gold cross necklace Quinn had just given her.

Quinn reached over and subtly wiggled his fingers against the backs of hers. She smirked, not turning to him.

"I am relaxed," she promised. They arrived in the entryway and proceeded into the long dining room.

The Christmas Day table was done up with gleaming silverware and a stunning centerpiece of poinsettias and red candles, and a white lace tablecloth. Mrs. Campbell stood to their left, at one end of the lengthy table, and Mr. Campbell stood at the other. Agatha felt Quinn leave her side and walk behind his uncle to the opposite side of the table. Agatha approached her usual chair and waited.

Mrs. Campbell seated herself, and then Agatha did the same. Quinn and Mr. Campbell followed suit.

Agatha, there is something I’ve been meaning to tell you, Mrs. Campbell said as the servants brought out the soup. Agatha’s hands, which had been arranging her napkin on her lap, fell still. She glanced at Quinn. He returned the look.

Yes, Mrs. Campbell? Agatha said.

Mrs. Campbell set her hands on the table, studying her large wedding ring.

Ever since you came to us when you were seven years old, we have treated you as one of our own. We have fed you, clothed you and given you every possible consideration. And though at times you have been properly grateful, and I am certain you are a good-hearted little thing—Quinn seems to think so—you have taken full advantage of any liberties we have granted you, and bucked any rules set before you. Your blatantly ungraceful withdrawal from the party last night is just such an example.

Agatha’s hands closed around her napkin, but she never took her eyes from Mrs. Campbell’s blue ones. Agatha felt Quinn’s foot slide forward beneath the table so it pressed against the side of hers, and it remained there.  Mr. Campbell silently spooned his soup. Mrs. Campbell took a breath, looked briefly at her husband, and went on addressing Agatha.  

"I am loathe to bring it up in such a blunt fashion, but I fear I must, so you will understand me. You have arrived at a responsible age—passed it, rather—and as such, you must consider your responsibilities. You came out into society two summers ago and yet you have not had a single beau. Mr. Smith was the first, last night, to show any interest in you. Quinn selected Mr. Smith himself, finding him to be a goodly gentleman, and yet you gave him not three minutes of your time."

Agatha drew her foot back away from Quinn’s. His eyes darted to her. His mouth opened, but his aunt kept speaking.

Such rudeness is intolerable. Henceforth, if Mr. Smith comes to call, you will entertain him cordially, and encourage his affections.

Agatha frowned.

But...I do not like him.

You barely know him yet, Mrs. Campbell waved it away. He lives comfortably, is not a drunkard or a gambler—a lady of your station you could not possibly ask for better.

Agatha gazed keenly at her.

What are you saying? She looked quickly to Quinn, but his brow furrowed. She turned back to Mrs. Campbell, her chest tight. "Are you saying I should...marry him?"

Of course, dear, if he offers! Mrs. Campbell laughed. And you would be doing very well for yourself if he does.

"Well...for myself...?" Agatha repeated, hardly able to breathe.

Yes, Mrs. Campbell finally started in on her soup. "After all, what will become of you once Mr. Campbell and I pass on? You don’t expect Quinn to take care of you, do you?"

"But I would—" Quinn cut in.

Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs. Campbell scolded. "With a wife and family of your own, and Agatha not even your cousin? No. She shook her head. Agatha, you will do your duty, and not visit your burden upon anyone else if you can help it."

Tears stung Agatha’s eyes, and her face filled with heat. She shoved her chair back and stood up.

Burden? she cried, her tones rising. Is that what I am?

Even Mr. Campbell lifted his head now. Mrs. Campbell started. Agatha