Adduné - the Vampire's Game

ADDUNÉ
PART I: THE VAMPIRE’S GAME

By Wendy Potocki

To Edie –

This book is dedicated to you, my most amazing sister. Thanks for all the good humor, insight, and kind support. You’ve always been my number one fan, and that sentiment is easily, and most assuredly returned.

© 2010 by Wendy Potocki
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

CHAPTER 1

Weatherly Manor loomed oppressively before Miranda Perry. She eyed it suspiciously as Weatherly returned the favor. Intrepid sunlight penetrated the façade’s thick foliage awaking a glittering, shuttered eye. It gave the impression that while she was watching it, it was watching her. She was no longer sure she wanted to leave the safety that Reginald’s luxury car afforded. Weatherly sensed her discomfort and, as if in response, its etched spires cast barbed shadowy fingers in her direction – its reach ending just outside the passenger door. There was now an invisible boundary drawn.

Miranda shook her head. What was it about the sprawling structure that was unnerving her? This was the last piece of property her father had purchased. She had been expecting to feel something of him in its presence, but instead was treated to a rising sense of panic. She ruled out that size alone could account for her distress. Although the massive building dwarfed her, she’d grown-up on an estate of its approximate dimension. There was something else – a characteristic that impinged on her sense of well-being. While her family estate had exuded a warmth, the most that could be said about Weatherly was that it had survived. It was nothing more than a corpse, losing parts of itself all over the lawn.

Before she could express a word of her apprehension, Reginald exited and started across the lawn. Her hand rested uneasily upon the handle watching Reginald briskly stroll towards the front door. He seemed remarkably nonchalant. There wasn’t a trace of the anxiety and uneasiness that Miranda was feeling in his demeanor. It convinced her that she was being ridiculous in letting an overactive imagination take hold. It was turning an old, stately building in need of repair into something of monstrous proportions. She shoved her discomfort in the same place she shut away all her unpleasant thoughts and followed his firm lead.

Reginald waited patiently at the front door for her to join him. She quickly crossed the meager distance giving him a quick smile. Reginald Charles had been her father’s barrister and was now hers. If Reginald had been good enough for her father, she certainly saw no need to change. She stood to the side watching him forage through his pockets. It was leisurely entertaining. He gave each pocket of his Savile Row suit a good pat. She waited impatiently as he shifted his leather briefcase from one hand to the other, hastily probing his outfit’s hidden recesses. He took care to smooth what he rumpled, but then he was always the picture of sartorial splendor. He couldn’t abide being unkempt. While attorneys were judged on their appearance, Miranda was certain that the care he took in selecting his ensembles was due to fastidiousness, and not concern over attracting clientele. Today’s attire reflected this preoccupation. While an informal look would have better befitted the occasion, his was anything but sporty. The nattily tailored garb was too carefully constructed to be considered anything but rigidly formal. It was because of the inordinate effort put into appearing casual – right down to the merest hint of that expensive manly cologne that always happened to appear when Reginald did.

Miranda put one hand on her hip and stretched the other out. She raised her eyebrow and tapped her foot to deposit even more pressure on her father’s trusted confidante. She became satisfied only when her change in posture very slightly jarred his composure. It had been the effect she was after. Miranda’s opinion was that Reginald was almost too orderly and organized for his own good. Therefore, it was satisfying to illustrate that he wasn’t perfect. Of course, quite a few people could have made the same statement about Miranda and her remarkably fine opinion of herself, but right now Miranda was having too much fun pulling the chair out from under the stodgy barrister. When the explorative digging yielded no fruitful results, Reginald started retracing the circuitous route, beginning with his uppermost jacket pouches. He went methodically down, lingering in each finely-appointed pocket just long enough to find out the object of his scavenger hunt wasn’t there. Finally, the tremendous moment of success as he pulled an impossibly large iron key out of his English tweed pants pocket. An expulsion of air that was a reserved English version of “I told you so”
followed as he tried to place it in Miranda’s open hand. She pulled back slightly, hesitating a moment before taking it. It had nothing to do with Reginald or his offering. It had more to do with being at Weatherly Manor. This was the first time she’d seen it with her own eyes and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know it on more intimate terms. She eyed the key disparagingly, trying to conjure up reasons to not enter at all. One look at the outside convinced her that entry just might bring the old structure falling down around their ears.

“
You’re sure this is the right place? It looks like something out of the Middle Ages and not in a good way. Definitely must have been on the losing side of a Normandy invasion. Look, it can’t even protect itself from ivy anymore! What’d they do, forget to raise the drawbridge? And where is that old bridge? Hiding out back? Did it shift from sheer boredom?”

“
Ah, Miranda, your lack of respect for history is appalling, and so typically American. And stop making faces at the key. Here! Take it and enjoy its largesse. That is the original lock on the door and this is the original key.”

Miranda felt the cold-blooded object make its way into her palm. She wrapped her fingers around it, hugging it tightly in spite of her intuition telling her to toss it away. Right now she pointed it at Reginald using it as a rudimentary instrument of intimidation.

“
I am as English as you are,” she retorted, unabashedly telling a falsehood just to get a rise out of him. “How you can so cavalierly dismiss me as a wanton child who loves only modern artifacts is beyond me. You of all people should know better. And your attaching this unfair characterization to me because of my association with America is thoroughly ridiculous!”

“
Well, you wallow there, don’t you? Often and deeply? Isn’t that what the hip boots are for?”

She wasn’t surprised at his smart retort. She was only surprised that he didn’t defend his superior English pedigree first, but she certainly wasn’t going to remind him.

“
Wallow? You mean
live
. I went to college there and now stay for business. And what’s so wrong with America, anyway?”

“
Everything,” he sneered, tugging at his major-style moustache. He always did. He was so supremely proud of it. He was always so quick to point out to anyone that would listen, that it was the center gap that defined the growth on his upper lip. “It’s the gap that makes it military style!” he would bluster.

Miranda couldn’t begin to count the number of times she heard him say that. Consequently, ever since Miranda was a small child, she had wanted to catch Reginald asleep and fill in that gap with a colored pencil or crayon. How would he describe his moustache then? He continued his rant – unsuspecting of her private thoughts of unleashing vandalism upon his hairy prize that covered his thin upper lip.

“
It sums up everything that’s wrong with the world today.”

Miranda clucked her tongue. It was so typical of Reginald to be overly dramatic in his dismissal of America and all it offered. She didn’t know why he acted with such disdain over her preference of residing in America over England. Maybe he considered it unpatriotic, but, after all, it was her life and not his. She liked to be kept busy and being kept busy meant being in New York and not New Auckland.

Miranda rocked back onto her heels and then forward on the ball of her toes. She raised herself up and bounced on her toes and then repeated the action. She shared the gesture with her late father who had performed the movement several times a day or when under stress. It didn’t escape her attention that several notable boxers of worth also had this peculiar movement in their repertoire. She wondered if all fighters shared it. She glanced up at Reginald wondering if he was enjoying this verbal exchange as much as she was. Reginald gave no notice to her silent question and launched into a brief history of Weatherly Manor. She crossed her arms in front of her and continued to rock.

“
Weatherly Manor was built on a foundation that dates back to the 12
^th
century. It’s a fine example of English Tudor architecture and features the impeccable construction that the English have always used in erecting buildings, unlike those silly wooden things that are built in that place over there,” he said wagging his finger in a direction that had nothing to do with where America was actually located. “Since it has had the good grace to last all this time and is still standing, your turning your nose up at it is an insult to those who built it and to England herself, God Save the Queen!”

Miranda sighed heavily at this last remark. What was she supposed to do? Bow down before every ruin in England? If she started now, she’d never finish since England was full of them. It was so like him to use some preposterous argument to try to prove that she was uncaring of the country of her birth. It just wasn’t true.

“
And take that sour expression off your face, young lady. It is unbelievably unattractive. After seeing it, I quite understand why you haven’t married. You probably scare off any possible suitor with those withering glances and assorted glum moods.”

Miranda raised herself to her full height and attempted to interject the fact she had been asked to marry several times, but had turned down the prospective husbands and not the reverse. The ending of those relationships – and the offers of marriage – had nothing whatever to do with her facial expressions and had everything to do with her being extremely picky. That selectivity and taste extended to residences and that’s why she didn’t approve of this one. Reginald talked over her, keeping on that rigid path of being rude. He knew which of Miranda’s buttons to push. Her being 27 and unmarried was a favorite one. It never failed to get Miranda riled.

“
Really, men do not like argumentative women and that remark did not call for a response, since it was more of a statement than question. Why you thought it solicited a reply at all is yet another queer trait of yours that you should think about eradicating. It will drive those sparse few men that are unfortunate to make it near you far, far away, Miranda. I’m just telling you this for your own good for all the good it will do.”