The Fool (12 page)

London, April 1987. Joanne is out for a
night on the town and her plans go awry. She slips into a pub for a
quick drink before going to see a film. Jonathon Dreyfuss is on the
prowl, looking for something tasty to devour. He spots Joanne
through the window. Joanne vanishes from sight.

She wakes in a room with no windows, trapped
in a nightmare of pain and terror. Dreyfuss finds her boring and
tedious... yet he can’t quite kill her. Something about her, some
aspect of her, is pleasing to him. He keeps her for a little while,
house training her as he’s attempted to train others in the past.
She resists, as they all did, and he takes up the challenge, to
prove once again he is master of all. Joanne fights back as best
she can, terrified and confused, beaten, starved and lost in a
madman’s fantasy. He spends months schooling her to obey, tearing
her down. When she begins to break, as hope of escape fades... he
reveals his final madness: he is Vampire. She too, will be Vampire:
his Changeling.

He wishes her to be his immortal companion,
his eternal mate. What Dreyfuss wishes, Dreyfuss gets.

The battle for her soul begins. All she has
is her will and the need to be free. Dreyfuss holds all the cards:
money, power and no conscience. Can she keep fighting, or will he
win? How long can Joanne stay human?

What would you do to win your freedom?

Changeling
is the first novel in the
Dreyfuss Trilogy: a compelling and unique vampire mythology for
adults.

Horror: 152,000 words. Ebook and
Paperback

Reviews for
Changeling

“
It took me two sittings to read it. Why
two, because I started reading in at 8pm. If I had started earlier,
this would have been one of those books you don't put down until
the last page and you read that twice not wanting the adventure to
be over. Morgan has mastered the emotional ride... a new talent to
be discovered.”

Betty Carlton

“
It was impossible to put down, disturbing
and intriguing at the same time.”

Alison Sauer

“
...brutal and visceral -- so well written
that it was almost physically painful to read. [it does]... a very
good job of depicting physical and psychological torture – people
either crack into catatonia or fight with every scrap of their
being. Even when fighting means taking it passively.”

Christine Whitley

“
This is a very smart, well-written novel.
It delves deep into the psychology of both the abuser and the
abused. It contains graphic scenes of physical, psychological and
sexual abuse that will upset those made queasy by portrayals of
torture. But... this isn't splatterpunk. It's purposeful. So if you
can handle that, you won't find a much better vampire tale than
Changeling. ... I think that fiction should both entertain and make
you think. It's surprisingly difficult to find novels that do both.
Changeling does.”

Alan Ryker

Read the first four chapters of
Changeling:

CHAPTER ONE

The door slammed shut with the deadened
finality that comes with the emptying of a living space. Silence
filled in behind her, flooding the rooms with despair. The air in
her bedroom, thick with deodorant, hairspray, floral shower gel and
perfume, settled into scented layers around the debris of her work
clothes. The cat, nonchalant about her absence now it had been fed,
climbed onto the front room window sill, looking out on its domain
of kebab shops and off licences. Endless traffic piled the corners,
hooting and groaning as it snuffed along, pouring stink into the
already sickly late afternoon air. It felt more like the middle of
September, than that of April. The cat preferred the view over the
back windows, endless roofs, tantalising birds and other cats to
snarl at. It would wait until the acrid chemical smells in the
other room faded, before proceeding to settle in its usual spot,
angled out to the inner square of the backs of the houses. It would
mewl and scratch fruitlessly on the glass at the outside wild life:
desperate to be free to attack, to chase. Or so it thought. Once, a
pigeon had settled on an open window sill in the summer’s heat, and
the poor cat, comfortable and safe in its window glass world, had
hissed in fright. It was so big, so aggressive, compared to the
small fluttering victims of its day dreams, tiny and fragile on the
roof spars opposite. The bird had eyed him coldly, without fear.
The cat had hissed and growled its warning, but it had had no
effect. It was a stand off until the bird flew away, unruffled.
Since then, the cat went into a frenzy any time a bird landed on
the other side of the window. The other side of the closed
window.

Had she known it was the last time she’d
abandon both the cat, and her flat, she might have washed the
dishes. As it was, she had rushed around the flat, ignoring the
smell from the sink. That morning, as she’d fallen out of bed to
find that only her best suit was wearable, she’d planned to come in
tonight and clean, ridding her life of the guilt the week had
scattered around her. The resolution had been spurred on by the
blissful thought of a Saturday morning lie in. A pristine flat all
around her, requiring no effort on her behalf. Her change of plans,
however, had left her with less than twenty minutes to bathe and
change: she had once more ignored the chaos. Stopping only to throw
some biscuits in the bowl (tinned food stank the place out) she
vowed her allegiance to the hum drum of living; tomorrow. She’d do
it all tomorrow. Clean out the cat litter, empty the bins, do the
laundrette run and find her bedroom carpet under the skin of peeled
off clothes that she kicked out of her way to find a matching shoe.
Tomorrow would be good enough, and Sunday morning would be the
sweet spot, as she lay in bed wondering how to fill a lazy day. She
grabbed her keys and ran, heading off down the stairs at full
pelt.

After four days unexplained absence, during
which all answer phone messages had been ignored, her boss finally
called the mother of her erstwhile assistant. Mrs Maitland, to the
embarrassment of all concerned, exploded into tears at the thought
of her only child’s fate. A day later, after some hemming and
hawing, the police were called, forcing open the flat in absence of
anyone with a spare key. They found the dishes partially in the
sink, partially on the floor, courtesy of an exceptionally hungry
cat. The cat took its revenge on the probationary policewoman,
leaving a trail of claw marks across her cheek. The sergeant, who
had cautioned against such inappropriate action, handed a clean
handkerchief over and called in the RSPCA. Their elbow length
leather gauntlets would handle the animal, which had conveniently
hidden itself inside the fold down couch in the living room cum
kitchenette. He had never had any truck with people who took free
ranging creatures and locked them into tiny fourth floor flatlets,
or patted them as if human sentimentality could mitigate a
completely empty stomach. He left his charge dabbing at the blood
and had a good look round.

There was a strong whiff of cat in the air.
Cat sick, and well developed litter tray. Having scoured both rooms
of what little food there was, the cat had evidently chewed through
the motley crew of long suffering pot plants scattered awkwardly
around, subsequently throwing up with abandon. Splotches on the
carpet and furnishings tracked its comings and goings, mostly
goings. It was a very annoyed cat, he had no doubt of that. The
smell was one that the sergeant could easily stomach, was greatly
relieved by, given what else there might have been in evidence,
both of the girl’s disappearance and the cat’s subsequent hunger.
As it was, there was no sign of the girl. The usual clutter of
single living met his eyes; the fridge testament to the overall
lack of care, or comfort, this young woman had afforded herself.
Diet drinks, weeks’ dead salad, a dehydrated lump of cheese, rancid
low fat spread and half a mouldy loaf. Two bottles of white wine
and half a carton of milk, long turned to cheese. The bin, before
it had been dragged around the floor, had been stuffed with various
take away containers and two empty bottles of wine. She preferred
Chinese, apparently, as the Chinese was six doors down, after the
chip shop and the kebab house. On the other hand, the Chinese was
first if you were walking back from the tube. The cupboard had
several packets of fat free powdered soups, all well past their
sell by date. The usual collection of tins and half a bottle of
cheap vodka. The vodka had dust on the edges: no clues there then.
The bread bin was stuffed with chocolate biscuits and crisps. The
cramped and musty shower room gave evidence of the usual obsessions
with creams and lotions, all feminine in nature. Nothing in the
cabinet to suggest any other bad habits, not even the pill. The
toilet bowl itself was clean and shiny, which confirmed his
opinion. Make up was scattered out over the tiny table that served
for a make shift dressing area, but that could have been the cat.
The bed was single, unmade and rented out old. The sheets looked
clean and the duvet was brightly coloured and newish looking. The
clothes spread out on the floor were the formal side of business
casual, the shoes impeccably heeled and well cared for. All the
used knickers were in a laundry basket, but the bras were spread
around. She used panty liners.

An ironing board filled up the tiny space on
the other side of the bed, with an expensive iron on the floor
beside it. Not the cat this time, as it had been carefully placed
to cool out of harm’s way. For all the chaos in the room, an
expensive jacket in dark blue hung impeccably on the back of the
door. A matching skirt had been hanging in the shower room,
obviously left to steam out its wrinkles. The tiny fragrance bottle
by the bed was pricey but affordable enough to have been a present
to herself. A secretary, the report had said. The flat screeched up
and coming PA at him; with three daughters of his own, he was wise
enough to know the difference. The probationer sniffed around after
him as he called in the details, heeding his warning to touch
nothing. She crumpled her nose in disdain at the mess, and smell.
She’d learn. She’d learn bloody fast. A double duty of nights in
the riot months of summer and her no doubt currently pristine room
back at the police house would look the same. He logged the time
and complete lack of evidence in any direction. Her suitcases were
on top of the wardrobe, and the drawers filled with underwear,
clothing and two sex toys. A vibrating egg and slim finger sized
vibrator. This made it extremely unlikely she’d just walked away.
He finished his report and sighed: this didn’t feel a good one, not
at all.

A week of searching saw Joanne Maitland’s
neatly typed details logged and filed, the case unofficially
closed. She was lost somewhere in the mystery that the city became
at these times, her disappearance overshadowed by a sensational
libel case and another marital dispute over at the House of
Windsor. Mrs Maitland, crumpled and creased from the jostled and
chaotic trip South, shed her tears for the camera, wailing a little
at Fleet Street’s seeming indifference. Had a paparazzo photograph
of a distraught Princess of Wales not stolen the morning headlines,
a little more might have been made of her one shot appearance on
the evening news. As it was, London lifted its head in grief for a
split second, returning to business as usual by close of trading.
Jo, oblivious to the future of her good name, left behind a less
than fitting epitaph in the form of her last confirmed sighting.
Breathless, half in her jacket, red from the run, she had stood and
watched the tube she had just missed hurtle down into the depths of
Archway station.

“Shit!” is what she had said, loudly, as she
stalked up and down the platform. “Shit!”

It had been another vile day. Too much work,
not enough time. Fridays were always her worst day, not the usual
Blue Monday of office worker fame. Friday was the day she’d be in
such a rush that she would skip breakfast completely, her Monday
good intentions on sensible eating abandoned sometime around
Wednesday. Friday breakfast usually joined Thursday dinner as a
non-event. Friday break would find her stuffing chocolate biscuits
down her throat as quickly as she could, her now up and running
body desperate for anything that looked and acted remotely like a
calorie. If she was lucky, and this Friday she hadn’t been, lunch
was a sandwich and a doughnut, washed down with lukewarm coffee.
Every Monday she began a perfect routine of fruit for breakfast and
break, with peppermint tea to wash her virtue down. She would smile
sweetly at the others as they moaned about the coffee machine being
broken again, as she waited for her tea bag to infuse. By Wednesday
she was beginning to think maybe she should phone through for a new
machine herself, as she waited for the damn thing to gurgle out
more tepid caffeine. Friday always found her deciding that she’d
damn well put the order through as urgent as soon as she had a
minute on Monday, as she sent out an order for a massive triple
mocha from the coffee shop on the high street.

Minutes were Friday’s real problem: there
were not enough of them. Work that had not seemed too important and
could be put back for a day or two, suddenly had to be cleared and
logged out of the office before the weekend. Logged and cleared by
her, for she’d learnt, as had her boss, that if she didn’t do it
personally, it sometimes wasn’t done. Friday nights usually saw her
pegged on the couch, having missed the soaps again, picking the
topping off an extra large pizza, a bottle of plonk for company and
a tub of ice cream melting in the sink, awaiting her pleasure.
Fridays she was fit for nothing but collapse and retreat.