Morvicti Blood (A Morvicti Novel Book 1) (3 page)

“For me, too.” She would forever be grateful to whatever had brought him to her, be it gods or chance. He was her champion and always knew just the right thing to say. “It’s been more than five minutes. Shall we go see what the results are?”

He kissed her, and they walked into the loo together.

The pregnancy test showed negative, completely deflating her. “Damn. Just late again.”

She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to will away the defeated reflection that met her gaze. Her skin was still smooth and wrinkle free. She remembered what her mother looked like at this age, right before she died, with crow’s feet and laugh lines marking her time in the world. Of course, Angelique had different genes, being adopted, but she knew her appearance was unusual without some cosmetic work being done.

She looked much younger than Michael, even though he was only a year older. She would have chalked it up to the stress he faced at his job, but hers wasn’t cushy either. College department politics could be more vicious than the real thing, and she had to be tough to hold her own against the older men who treated her as if she was still a doctoral student in her twenties. She grabbed a brush and took a few swipes through her long, dark hair. Her mother had always brushed her hair when she was stressed, and the simple ritual never failed to calm her down.

She’d been through so many tears over the years. She didn’t look older, but she knew she was running out of time. She felt the weight of each late period, each breathless second before the test results, each disappointed call that followed. She knew Michael would be a great father, and although her career fulfilled her, she wanted to share the love they had with a child.

They baffled the doctors. Her husband’s sperm count was perfect; her body checked out just fine as well. There was absolutely no medical reason why they couldn’t conceive. They even took the fertility drugs but never achieved the desired results. Trying every method possible, the outcome always remained the same.

No baby.

He put his arms around her. “Like I said, angel. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Maybe it’s time for us to get serious about adopting a baby. The Williams Agency seemed like the best of the lot to me.”

“If you’re serious, sweetheart, I’ll call them when I get to the office and see if we can set up an appointment this week.”

She nodded. “Speaking of work, shouldn’t you be on your way already?”

“The ambassador is on a flight to DC to meet with the President.”

“So it’s a cats-away-the-mice-will-play kind of day?”

He grinned. “How about I call in sick and you and I play together?” Twirling her around, he took her breath away. Then he pulled her in close. “What do you say? Shall I take the day off?”

“It’s a wonderful offer, honey.” She pointed to the stack of her students’ essays she needed to grade. “But I have so much to do. You know how anxious my freshers can get. The good news is that tomorrow I’m done with Kelsi’s exhibition.”

“So Dr. Vicker’s mummy show is over tonight?”

“Five-thirty.” Her friend, Dr. Kelsi Vickers, who worked at the British Museum, had asked for her help with the recent Egyptian Headless Mummy exhibition. “I don’t have to go tonight, but I do tomorrow. I promised to drop by to help Kelsi with some paperwork.”

“You’re a good friend to her, Angelique.”

Trying to fit in a couple of meals a week with Michael was about all the free time available. “The crazy schedule is about over. I promise.”

“No more teaching night classes?”

She kissed him. “Maybe. Who knows?”

“The university is lucky to have you, sweetheart.”

“And the embassy is lucky to have you.”

He ran his hands through her hair. “You’re not the only one of us who has a crazy schedule. I’m sorry about that. Mine is starting to slow down for a while. I’d love for us to take a trip to Mykonos again. I know it is last minute, but would you like to go over the winter holiday?”

“That sounds wonderful. You better go.”

He kissed her again. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now scoot.”

Grabbing his coat, he walked out the door.

She took another sip of coffee and felt the ticks of her biological clock with every beat of her heart.
I’m over forty now. Putting away my fantasies is long overdue.

“God, I need to get my mind off this.” She grabbed an apple from the fruit basket. Slicing it up, she accidentally cut her finger. “Ouch.”

Her blood dripped into the sink. Tossing the ruined apple into the bin, she turned on the tap and put her finger under the stream of water. By tomorrow morning the wound would be fully healed with no sign of a scar.

Her entire life she’d been curious as to why anytime she got a cut or bruise it healed overnight, or why she never got sick. She remembered how her twin brother’s scrapes from a bicycle accident had been gone the very next day. Their adoptive parents always remarked how healthy she and Austin were.
God, I miss the three of them so much, but especially Austin.
She wished she and her brother had resolved their differences after their parents’ funeral. But it was too late. Austin was gone. He’d died a hero over ten years ago.

With the help of Michael, she’d overcome the loss of her brother. She’d moved on, hoping to start her own family. But despite how amazing her body seemed to be, it still couldn’t produce a baby.

Glancing back at the essays, she shook her head.
I’m not ready to dive into them yet.

She grabbed her purse and walked out of the flat for her favorite café.

After purchasing a bagel and coffee, she took a seat at one of the tables. She opened the newspaper and saw a name that she hadn’t thought of in years.

Dr. Thomas Wilson.

CHAPTER 3

8:31 AM

David Bathry carried a bottle of 1964 Macallan, retrieved from his expansive treasured collection. He walked down the dimly lit hallway of the three-century-old home, listening to the familiar creaks of the wooden floor. Not his home, though nothing happened here without his consent.

No one lived in this house, at least not on the three floors above ground. It was like a museum, each floor decorated with relics from England’s Victorian Era. As he continued down the hall passing the main parlor, he glanced into his favorite room. The chairs, ottomans, and two love seats were densely stuffed and plump, covered by a scarlet velvet fabric. The gilded wooden arms and legs were made of English oak. The rooms in the house were filled from wall to wall with ornamentations of ceramics, glass lamps, tapestries and more—all in various shades of red, gold and blue.

David always felt at ease with the Victorian aesthetic more than any other. A sparsely filled room had been considered to be in bad taste in that former age.

He’d begun collecting the furnishings the very day he’d been handed the keys to the home. Every piece was painstakingly placed after hours and hours of thought. It must be perfect. He would never settle for less. Most might find his obsession odd, given no one ever saw the riches of this home but him and his trusted servant. But he didn’t care what others thought. Never had. Never would.

His treasures contained here were valued in the millions, and that didn’t even take into account the paintings and other artwork in the building. They were precious to him but not as precious as following the secret plan and reaching the ultimate goal.

At the end of the hallway, he came to a door.
The door.

He opened it and saw cleaning supplies on shelves in what looked like a common closet, a well thought out camouflage to detract any curious visitors. Even though there hadn’t been any visitors in decades to the home, he could never be too cautious. These were very dangerous days for his bloodline.

As he had done countless times for the past two decades, he entered the space, closing the door behind him.

He allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light that came in through the bottom of the door. Removing the middle shelf, which contained only a couple of items, he gently placed it and the bottle he had brought on the floor. He ran his fingers over the wooden wall where the shelf had been until he found the slight indentation. Pressing on it, he heard the familiar click.

Nineteenth century technology at its best.

He spun around one hundred and eighty degrees, facing the closed door. To the left of the top hinge the flap of the small compartment was open. The compartment, just big enough for one hand, housed the lever.

He reached in and turned the metal as quietly as possible. Thankfully at this hour, the only ears that could have picked up the grinding of the metal in the walls belonged to his trusted guard, Albert who, like him, was a member of the Bathry Bloodline.

Bathry turned to his left. The wall, now revealed to be a secret door, swung open. He walked into the new space constructed of metal, smaller than the closet.

He glanced at the two biometric scanners, his addition to the measures protecting the chamber below.

Twenty-first century technology at its best.

He placed his hands on the scanners. All ten of his fingerprints were required to unlock the security doors to the stairs that led to the chamber below. Failure at any step of the authentication process would result in the entire metallic space receiving 10,000 volts of electricity. Should any of his bloodline’s enemies discover this place, they would receive quite the shock.

Even the simplest mistake made by him, and the next in the Bathry succession, his sister Lisa, would be called by Albert to come for his corpse.

What a pain she could be. On his mobile were two voicemails and several text messages from her just since half past ten last night, all of which had gone unheard and unread. He did not have time for her babble.

Lisa had no knowledge of this place. Or of the man he had brought the whisky for. Or of the deeds that had been done on behalf of their family. What a surprise it would be to Lisa if she ever learned of their father’s master plan.

Bathry could not imagine her leading their bloodline. So let her continue with the hosting of parties and travelling the world. It suited her. Meanwhile, he would work to elevate their family to its rightful status.

As always, he proceeded cautiously.

“Welcome, Mr. Bathry,” the computer announced. “Please say your name, your title, and provide your personal access code.”

“David Jonathan Simon Bathry, Heir of the Plan, and Keeper of the Morvicti Bathry Bloodline.” Though the devices used to unlock the final door had changed, the rest of the codex had remained the same for nearly one hundred thirty years. It represented the beginning of what was transpiring at long last. “Nineteen-eleven-eighteen-eighty-eight.”

The date of Mary Jane’s funeral—the nineteenth day of the eleventh month of the year 1888.

Hearing the locks give way, he retrieved the bottle. The metal slid open and the passage to the stairs leading down to the chamber came into view.

He left the doors open, expecting his associate to return shortly. The task he had given his prized protégé would be his final errand. Justice had come.

Descending the stairs, Bathry came to the last door. He opened it, walking into the lavish room. Elaborate crown molding and baseboards framed the space. A pair of gorgeous crystal chandeliers hung from the coffered ceiling. The sofas and chairs were upholstered in luxurious blue fabrics. The massive Persian rug spread out over the dark wooden floor had cost him fifty thousand pounds alone. Additional antiques and plush furnishings filled the chamber; a true gilded cage for the beast.

He looked at the second biometric scanner that had been placed in this subterranean floor as a precaution just a few days ago when his accomplice had veered from the plan.

A single hand of his digital prints was the only requirement to leave. No voice recognition was needed to exit, only to enter. Still, a nice way to keep his
friend
from escaping without his knowledge.

After years of searching, Bathry had finally found his enemies’ secret location. His excitement had bubbled up inside him. The culmination of his father’s dream.

But then the reports in the newspapers had emptied out his sails.
That abominable letter.

Betrayed by his puppet. The bitterness of it sickened him. He had wanted to confront the man, letting him know who was really in charge. But he had bitten back his tongue. This last assignment’s importance surpassed the previous jobs. The delay was necessary.

He would conclude his business with his associate this very morning.

He glanced at the several portraits of Bathry leaders, including his father, along the wall. He’d placed them in the room as visual examples of the promised world the man could join once he completed his training and missions. None of the promises were true, of course, but affability seemed warranted.

Standing in front of the most prominent portrait, Bathry studied his father’s firm expression. He had been a hard man, demanding absolute obedience. His father prized loyalty above all else.