Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1)

MORVICTI BLOOD

A MORVICTI NOVEL

LEE SWIFT

SUSPENSE PUBLISHING

MORVICTI BLOOD

By

Lee Swift

DIGITAL EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Suspense Publishing

Lee Swift

COPYRIGHT

2016 Lee Swift

Cover Design: Shannon Raab

Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/Vichly44

Cover Photographer: iStockphoto.com/coldsnowstorm

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

DEDICATION

In memory of Angelique Torres, my sister.

And for her granddaughter, little Angelique.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you, Liz and Steve Berry, for the encouragement you gave me when I first told you about my beloved Morvicti.

To Chloe Vale, who took the time from her busy schedule to edit early chapters, I am so grateful.

I want to give a big shout out to Amy Lignor for her fantastic editing on the book.

To Shannon and John Raab, who took a chance on my book, thank you for believing in me.

Thank you, Lexi & Rich Blake, for always lending an ear or shoulder whenever I need one.

The very first person to encourage me to write a novel was Shayla Black, and I so appreciate her and her husband Lee.

To my friends, who have constantly encouraged my endeavors: Mike Cintron & Michael Elderkin, Al Blackwell, Steve Kincel, Jay Green, Phillip Milligan, David Aston & Bert Fox, Jim Shafer & Michael Welch, Chuck Dube & Mike Lucock, John & Libby Zerner, Martin & Jennifer Jensen, Mike Stimpson & Daniel Sneed, Chad Dugger & Steve Swager, Salena Tamez & Joey Garza, Max & Lauren Rossley, Robin Lowe & Toby Grissom, Tina Dowds, and Kathy Keaton.

To my family, who share in all my successes: Roger & Margie Swift, Lisa & Leo Stephens, Steve & Rosa Torres, Jake & Laura Torres, Kyla & Adam Bailey, Kelsi Hakala, Christina Hakala, little Angelique Torres, Bri-Anna Soliz, Madeline Torres, Stephen & Delores Pattay, Alison & Jim Reiber, Amanda Bartholemeo, Sabrina Lake, Joey Bartholemeo, Stephen Elliott, Aunt Connie & Uncle Charlie McCord, and Les McCord, Loa Freeman, Karen & Jeff Bower.

A couple of special thanks: First, my wonderful, amazing niece, Kyla Bailey, whose input was invaluable and will never be forgotten. Second, my mother, Lana McLemore, for being my Chief Idea Officer, the one I get to bounce all my craziness off of every day.

And to Stephen Pattay, Jr.—most of all.

PRAISE FOR
“MORVICTI BLOOD”

“Thrilling and chilling, full of poignant and naked emotion. But beware of shocking twists and unexpected surprises that keep on intriguing, readying you for the ultimate gut punch.  A wild escapade.”    

—Steve Berry, #1
New York Times
Bestselling Author of “The 14
^th
Colony”

“Plan to stay up late! “Morvicti Blood” grabs you from the beginning and won’t let you go. Filled with riveting action and emotional surprises, you’ll think about these characters long after the last page...leaving you anxious for the next book in this gripping new series.”

—Kathleen Antrim, Bestselling Author of “Capital Offense”

“Inventive and audacious, “Morvicti Blood” is a ground-breaking thriller. If Bram Stoker had written “A Game of Thrones,” this is the book he’d have produced.”

—Andrew Grant, Bestselling Author of “Run”

MORVICTI BLOOD

LEE SWIFT

1888

London

PROLOGUE

Sir Simon Bathry despised his assigned duties, always, but particularly now with his rival so close to him standing on the other side of the grave.

The smell of primordial earth permeated the air. The two spades slicing into the soil were the only sound that could be heard. The moonless sky and dense fog concealed the unholy undertaking in the Catholic cemetery of St. Patrick. The nasty weather typical for this time of year was not the cause of Simon’s discontent, nor was the location. He actually found graveyards quite comforting.

Not tonight, though. Not with
her
here.

Rage rolled through every fiber of his being, screaming at him to pull out his blade, slit her pale throat and remove her head from her body. But as he had done a thousand times before, he tamped down his indignation. Now was not the time, especially since they were not alone.

They were never alone.

Roxanna Drake kept her trusted guards close. Always.

Simon held one arm of the accused while a noble born from Bucharest gripped the other. Thick chains wrapped their charge, who wore a demeanor murkier than the damp fog chilling everyone’s bones.

The killer was fair-skinned and had oiled his tawny hair close to his scalp. His sparse mustache and beard made him appear much younger than his thirty years, and possibly more approachable to the women he ended up brutalizing. Simon stood several inches taller than the butcher and could feel how slight his arm was under his suit jacket. He was not surprised that this man could commit acts of such forceful violence. He himself was propelled by the same rage that inspired the murders, though his came from a righteous indignation unlike the killer’s misguided hostility.

Dressed to their stations, he and the other aristocrats observing this macabre undertaking appeared vibrant and youthful, but their outward countenances were deceptive, the benefit of their lineage—an illusion.

The prisoner’s lips curled into a twisted smile as the workmen continued their task. No surprise, really. Anything less would have been false. He could not help but secretly admire the killer who had shaken the foundations of the hidden seats of power.

Not long now, until one of the two workmen’s spades pierced the wooden coffin of Mary—the name attached to her by the police.

Another lie. Like so many others.

Most in Simon’s circle paid no attention to the bloody happenings in the poorest district in London. Dead harlots fell far below their status. But his most fierce adversary, who stood just two feet away, realized the significance of the murders. Like him, she knew the very fabric of their secret society hung in the balance.

He scanned his enemy, the only woman in the group of elite grave robbers. Roxanna wore her hair down, the dark locks hitting her exposed pale shoulders. The silk garment, scandalous by London’s current standards, clung to her figure. Her feminine perfection enchanted many, both high and low born alike. The other noblemen’s desire for her made them the perfect marionettes, just like the members of the highest council. Her noble lineage gave her title to the most prominent seat at the table of nine, and by pulling the other eight’s strings, at the moment, all males gave her even more power.

With eyes full of lust, the two workmen stole glances at Roxanna, the promise of three shillings each the only thing keeping them to their task. No doubt a small fortune for the degenerates.

Her beauty no longer ensnared his heart, and by the look on the accused’s face, it clearly had no power over him either, which he found praiseworthy. Still, he knew well not to underestimate Roxanna’s talents—
or to overestimate his own.

Keeping that in mind had served him quite well over his very long life, but now he sensed his approaching deep slumber with every ache and pain. Sheer will alone kept him vertical these last few years, but his days above were definitely numbered. Everyone ended up in the ground sooner or later, no matter how high the prestige or extreme the stamina.

Soon, his son would lay him in the family sanctuary, becoming his only anchor to the world above. His son would assume his bloodline’s obligations, and the most important of them was a timeworn vow for revenge. Their family had been wronged. He had been wronged. Duty demanded justice. He hated that the day of retribution would come while he was in the grave. But come it most assuredly would.

The sound of metal striking wood shook him from his thoughts.

The thinner of the two men in the hole wiped his thick brow. “Me lords, we’ve hit the poor soul’s casket.”

“Finish it, good sirs.” Roxanna’s rage was barely concealed under the surface of the façade of kindness she attempted to present.

He seemed to be the only one aware of it. Numerous times he had witnessed how astute and ruthless she could be, presenting whatever mask necessary to push her political advantage.

She smiled sweetly, turning his direction. “Sir Bathry, would you consider one shilling more for each of these gentlemen once the coffin is opened?”

He lowered his gaze, which filled him with disgust. Careful of his tone, he answered, “Your will is my duty, Your Majesty. Always.” Raising his eyes, he saw her turn her attention back to the grave.

The workmen rejoined their assignment with a renewed fervor, shoveling the dirt as fast as humanly possible. Pity none of his own kind did such menial enterprises, as the job would have been finished already. The two miscreants finally heaved the box up to the surface.

“Open it,” Roxanna commanded.

The men nodded and lifted the lid. The remains of Mary looked more gruesome than he imagined they would. The killer’s crude slicing had devastated the flesh of the young woman. Even so, Simon could see that the bottoms of her feet and the palms of her hands were a pale violet color, identifying Mary’s noble bloodline.

Unbecoming her position, Roxanna pushed the men out of the way, falling on top of the casket weeping.

Witnessing an honest emotion from her surprised him. She appeared vulnerable. Of course, she was not.

Wiping her eyes with the red handkerchief she had recovered from the assassin this very evening, Roxanna motioned the executioner holding the weapon, forward.

She rose and faced the accused.

Calling the killer by his true name, Roxanna said, “Nicolae Nothusson, you have committed the gravest of crimes, taking down a Morvicti woman.”

Morvicti woman? Mary’s very existence is an abomination.

Roxanna’s hypocrisy sickened him. He craved the old ways of orthodoxy. The righteous laws would not have allowed the creature to continue to live, and her mother would have been punished for her crime of conception. Roxanna was the guilty one, having given birth to Mary.

Roxanna’s regal tone echoed off the tombs around them. In a superfluous gesture, she lifted her hands to the heavens.