MAIL ORDER BRIDE: ARISTOCRAT: The Duke’s Engagement (Historical Victorian Duke Romance) (New Adult Romance Short Stories) (25 page)

“What do you mean?”

“My dad said we used to be playmates. I didn’t really believe until I heard you laughing. I remembered it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. That’s crazy.”

“Really crazy,” she chuckled.

“So, what do you say?” he asked. “Will you stay with me?” Harriet locked eyes with him, and she could see the sincerity there. He did want her. This was not how she expected things to turn out. In fact, this was not how she expected to feel about him. If she were to be honest with herself, she wanted him too.

“Harriet?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes. And hurry, and don’t take too long, I need you to read me one of these books.” A smile spread across her face. Alex was so much different than she’d initially thought.

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, lifting her in his arms. It was so unexpected that she squealed loudly.

“Well, well, the love birds have made up.” The two stopped and looked toward the entrance. Dillan was standing there with a hand against the wall, a smile on his face. Alex playfully glared at him.

“Are you serious?” he said. “You can’t interrupt a man’s romance like this.” Harriet listened to the two arguing like two children, and she could not help but smile.

Things had finally worked out after all.

*** THE END ***

A Vampire Love In Time

By: Stephanie Hunt

CHAPTER 1

              Fifteen. That was the number of shots that rang out into the crowded streets that surrounded the Gloomberg Hotel.  Twelve. That was the number of victims that had been shot. Among those victims were my parents and I. My father being a paranormal investigator, would often take me and mother with him to do investigations. I was sixteen at the time and very excited about this particular vacation. I had heard father talk so exuberantly about the hotel. He swore that if he caught something, it would change our life forever.

              The Gloomberg hotel was said to be extremely haunted. It was said that its residence had died violently there in the past. The hotel had gained fame as a tourist attraction. One of the more famous stories was told to me at the checkout desk. I remembered asking, “Why so many flowers?” as I walked into the spacious hotel.

              The blonde haired receptionist smiled and said, “Lori likes them.” I looked at dad. “Lori is the housewife who died on the fifth floor. She had jumped to her death clinging to a bouquet of flowers” he informed. I frowned, “What happens if you don't put flowers out?” The receptionist smiled again. Her fingers typing our information in with lighting speed.

              She was clearly used to these types of questions and was happy to give me an account.  “It upsets Lori and she is known to be quite violent to people. One man traveling for business swore that she had put three huge claw marks on his back while he slept, because apparently he had stolen flowers from the lobby to take home to his wife.”

              “Why did she like flowers so much?” I asked. Dad swiped his credit card when prompted, and placed it back into his wallet. “It was said that the bouquet was given to Lori by her lover, Arthur Clemens. He was said to have hung himself in the basement of the hotel. When Lori found out she was horrified. So she clung to the flowers he had given her and jumped.” Replied dad. “Oh, so you know the stories?” piped the receptionist with surprise.  Dad gave her a slight smile and replied, “I'm a paranormal investigator. It's my job.”

              Ironically, we were now its victims. The last thing I remembered were the screams. The horrible screams, and the blaring sirens that echoed in the distance. Signaling help that had come all too late. For three months I laid in a coma. When I finally woke up, my life had changed dramatically. It was explained to me by a social services lady that both my parents were dead. The shock hit me like a ton of bricks. I began to feel numb. Every other word she said sounded distant. Nothing mattered anymore. My heart shattered and a part of me, died.

              “Lucy, are you okay?” I heard the social service lady ask. “I don't understand,” I replied. The lady started again and explained everything to me once more. Basically, an investigation had taken place. The shooting was found to be a disturbed teenager. He had been arrested at the scene. The gun commandeered. While much was still unknown about the event, much had been decided about my future.

              I was to be placed in foster care. The doctors were unsure if I had suffered any brain damage or not.  For now, it was a waiting game and I would have to stay in the hospital for several more weeks. The lady left me with that, and I was forced to lay there with my thoughts. I gravitated back to the last moments I spent with my family.

              After we had checked in, we walked up the long staircase until we got to the third floor. We scouted out room one-seventeen, this was to be our room. Dad unlocked the door and mom was the first one in. She sat down a few bags that contained our equipment on the floor. The room seemed pleasant enough. There was everything you'd expect to find in a hotel. A king sized bed, a television, a desk, our own thermostat, and a mini fridge.  

              Dad took a seat on the bed and spoke, “What do you think Connie, can we all huddle in this bed tonight?” Mom pursed her lips, “Lucy is a little too old to sleep with her parents,” dad scratched his head, “Hmm...I see.” He mumbled something I couldn't hear and then snapped his fingers together. “No problem! We can get Lucy a room all by herself. How about it? My little girl, she's so brave! Being all alone in a haunted hotel,” I shrieked and jumped on the bed beside him. “No way!” I exclaimed.

              Dad laughed. “Well, I suppose not. But it won't matter anyway, we're here to investigate, not sleep,” he said in the silliest voice he could manage. Mom rolled her eyes. “Let's go get some lunch,” she suggested. “Did someone say lunch?” said dad still using that same silly voice.  He turned toward me and tickled my stomach until I let out a squeal of giggles.  “Dad! I'm too old for the tickle monster!” I complained through fits of giggles. “Too old? You're never too old for giggles!” We laughed until mom spoke up, “Alright you two. Up, up before the restaurant closes.”

              Outside was the warmest of days. The air was fragrant with the stench of burnt rubber, covered up by the delicious smells of hot pizza and French fries. The streets were packed with tourist like a New York strip. We had just gotten across the street. Racing for the nearest restaurant, when gun shots exploded into the crowd. Bang! Bang! Bang! I heard and never realized that I had been shot. I stared up into dad's eyes one last time. His smile was still plastered on his face. Then it faded and the screams rang out.

              I snapped myself out of the nightmare. Tears flooding down my cheeks. I sobbed loudly, uncontrollably. I cried for everything I had lost. I cried because I was alone. I cried because I wanted the comfort of my dad and mom, I cried because I so desperately wanted it not to be true. That was the first time I felt it happen.

              I began to feel dizzy and sick. My mind raced and as I closed my eyes I saw a thousand tiny stars. It is hard to explain, but as the stars started whizzing by at speeds I couldn't calculate, I felt my spirit move with them. I was flying so fast and I felt so free. Then I fell, I fell so fast that I hit the ground in a matter of seconds. I instinctively winched, but found that I was unharmed.

              After exploring around a bit I discovered that I had been transported back to ancient Greece.  I had dined with poets, sang with bards, nearly escaped death twice. Once by marauders, and once for almost being imprisoned, (though it was little fault of my own just a communication error), when I had finally returned to my time two weeks had passed.

              Doctors and nurses had been in disarray; they were frightened that I had run off. “Someone call off the amber alert,” I heard a doctor say. He checked me out from head to toe and could find nothing wrong. “Where did you go?” he asked. I didn't know what to tell him. Somehow the truth felt like I was going mad. So I just shook my head.

              He declined to press me further.  I guess it was the look on my face. He left me to rest but it felt unnecessary to me. Somehow I felt stronger. I would go into foster care with confidence. Because I had discovered a secret power. I could escape my reality and perhaps I could change what happened here. The first spark of hope ignited in my spirit. It doesn't have to be this way. I thought.

              Over the course of time. I realized that I could not control this gift. Nor did I know where I would be taken, how long I would stay there, and if I would be brought back to my time at all. It was wildly scary but I learned to accept it. I couldn't do anything else. I couldn't stop the time traveling even if I wanted too. Numerous tests had come back as inconclusive. The doctors wanted to say that I wander off and could never remember where or how I got back. They said it's due to my brain injury that I couldn't remember. Sort of like dementia.

              I knew better though. Foster homes tried to take extra precaution with me. They put cameras in my room that never caught anything because the camera battery would just die. I was accused of tampering with it. I would be punished. I was switched from home to home. At one point I was held in a Juvenal correction facility for running away. Still I kept flying through time.

              When I was eighteen I left foster care and moved to an apartment. I got a part time job as a waitress. Now I'm twenty-four, work two jobs, and still live in the same slump. I barely make the four hundred, nighty-five dollar rent. And night terrors had become a frequent thing, plaguing my life since the shooting. I toss and turn and always gasp awake, drenched in sweat and fear.

              In my dreams there is always the same man. He seems to be young, maybe early twenties, his hair is dark and I have no doubt he is dreadfully handsome. Though, I've never seen his face. He is always just hidden in the shadows. I feel a strange attraction to him. I try to get close to him, but he always disappears. Then my senses are overcome with a pungent smell, and I see rotting corpses climbing out of the ground. They start chasing me and no matter how hard I try I can't get away. That's when I wake up.

              I start looking around when I realize that the demoralizing feeling is only bitter loneliness, smothering me, weighing me down, and trapping me into my own self-depravity. I begin to cry. Then the questions start in my head and I am left with nothing but the word, why?  Why is it that I lived and my parents died? Sometime after mid-night I had realized that time was my shell, it was all I had left, my safe haven. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't go back and fix things. My childish fantasy died. On this particular night, my cries were muffled by sharp raps at my door.

              My heart jumped to my throat. Quickly I wiped my tears away and tossed on a robe to hide my revealing night gown. I opened the door but there was no one there. Instead there was a small envelope stuck to my door. I snatched it and closed my door. Upon ripping open the envelope, I found an old letter. It was somewhat torn and yellowed with age. I unfolded it to reveal a note written in fancy handwriting. It read:

                                        
 
I know what you can do. That feeling you feel, I feel it too.

                                          I am called to you as you are called to me. I hide just in the shadows.

                                          You might think me a dream, but I am real and I am just like you.

                                          Be prepared, dream queen, I am coming for you.  

                                                                                                                              Your dream thief,

                                                                                                                              Harcourt

              I felt the hair on my arm prick up. How could anyone have known about my dreams? I had never mentioned my nightmares to anyone. Was someone watching me? How did they know where I lived? Maybe it was just some kid trying to get their kicks off by scaring people.  Either way I tossed the note in the trash. The strangeness was not the best remedy for sleep. So I made a pot of tea and started flipping through the channels on my TV. I tried my best to just forget about it.

              Then I suddenly felt a strange pulling sensation in my stomach. It got stronger with every passing minute until I could not ignore it. I passed out on my couch. I saw the stars whizzing by at unimaginable speeds. I didn't feel care free this time, I felt pulled, almost dragged through time. I flew faster and faster until it all disappeared and I fell.