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    Vampires Don't Cry: A Mother's Curse
    Vampires Don't Cry: A Mother's Curse
    Vampires Don't Cry: A Mother's Curse
    Ebook389 pages4 hours

    Vampires Don't Cry: A Mother's Curse

    By Ian Hall

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    About this ebook

    Valérie Berthier is born into a world of strife and confusion. Torn from her mother’s womb in an alley in Florence, Italy, she spends her infancy in agony. As she grows, she is cast into an asylum, her Father too weak to care for her. From Italy to America she battles the hardship of asylum life, until the day she breaks free. Only then does she reluctantly accepts that she is unique; she was born a vampire. But to live as a one, there are consequences.
    Theresa (Finch) is an average New Jersey coed until she’s smitten by the mysterious newcomer to class. Rocked by the vampire transformation process, she turns to Valérie for assistance. Caught up in a vampire turf war, the two are soon separated, but Valérie refuses to accept her lot, determined to escape her drudge-like existence and re-unite with her vampire friend.
    A Mother’s Curse is a two voice epic that spans a century and two continents.
    Ian writes as Theresa (Finch) Scholes: a very determined teenager, forced to grow up quick in the violence of a vampire world.
    April writes as Valérie Berthier; born a vampire, with the words of her mother still ringing in her head, guiding her through a tumultuous life.
    Twisting and turning, Valérie and Finch find themselves drawn to an inescapable climax against two of the oldest vampires alive. Yes, they have been given training, but will it be enough to survive?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherIan Hall
    Release dateJun 1, 2014
    ISBN9781310547133
    Vampires Don't Cry: A Mother's Curse
    Author

    Ian Hall

    Ian Hall is a former Commander Officer of No. 31 Squadron (1992-4), as well as being the editor and writer of the Squadron Association's three-times-a-year 32-page newsletter. He is the author of Upwards, an aviation-themed novel currently available as a Kindle download. This is his first full-length historical study, having previously penned a 80-page history of No 31 Squadron's early Tornado years.

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      Vampires Don't Cry - Ian Hall

      Distant Childhood Memories

      Valérie Lidowitz, 1860’s, Florence, Italy

      When I look back on my early days, I see them through a red veil of rage. It seemed the one emotion; the singular driving force that both encompassed and propelled me through that time.

      I can dimly recall my father’s face, weather-worn, drawn and pale. I could not comprehend then his great, fierce love for me. To my childish understanding he held the warden’s keys, holding me against my will. No amount of affection could have tamed the torment contained within me.

      Those distant years of the 1860’s come back to me in dreams. I’m wearing a blue silk dress with white lace at the collar and sleeves, a yellow bow and ribbon in my long, blond hair. I know that it is me and that I am four. Meant to be a lady, bred to good standing and high society, yet, beneath the fine garments beats the heart of a savage.

      As soft as a butterfly’s wing, father brushes the hair from my moist, angry brow. Valérie, he says, Be still, child. Gingerly he pries the dead bird from my clutches, its crimson blood still fresh on my lips. I am scraped and bruised, the smell of my own blood increasing the never satisfied hunger. Father, holding my arms by my sides, lifts me by the waist, tears in his blood-shot eyes. I kick and scream as I’m carried from the garden, my one sanctuary through the madness of those hazy, turbulent times.

      He is always so tired; Father can scarcely bear the burden of my small frame. Like miniature daggers, my tiny nails dig into his soft skin and peel four concentric lines down the side of his neck. The wounds are deep but not fatal, but to my child’s mind, they still serve their purpose. Out of shock and terror, Father loses his grip and I go tumbling onto the plush grass as he drops to his knees beside me. I am free to run, but I’m held in place by the promise of a fresh meal. Instead I lunge. The first trickle hardly coats my tongue and yet it is enough; the frenzy engulfs me.

      It takes two servants to pull me from Father’s bleeding throat. They drag me to my darkened bedroom and secure me to the wooden post that long ago replaced my bed. Alone with the rage, I bellow into the cavernous space. I pull against the chains and bite the shackles at my wrists. And then I smell it: the coiled skin beneath my filthy nails. I chew at them until even the flesh of my own fingers hangs in shreds.

      The slideshow of red-tinted images brings me forward. I must be close to nine years old, and now sheathed in a soiled cotton nightdress, my hair thickly matted. A Catholic deacon presses an ivory rosary to my forehead, christens me with sprinkles of blessed water and prays mightily that God will exorcise the demon from within. Again, I am chained at the wrists, my knees purple from the bare wooden floor I’m forced to kneel on. Three nuns hover behind the priest, crossing themselves for protection. I am laughing.

      I will never know if these are true memories or a collage of dreams my mind has pasted together. I only hope the truth of my youngest existence had yet to be revealed, that this nightmare of moments had been torn from my imagination. Time passed until there came a day that believers stopped praying and I had been sent away to be forgotten.

      My childhood in Italy should have been a time of play, a period of laughter and freedom. Instead it held nothing but restriction, first chains, then later bound in thick starched canvas, short leather and brass buckles fastened tight. Twice a day they prised my mouth open using a metal contraption, and a rubber tube passed between my straining teeth, down into my gagging throat. Then cold liquid trickled down from a funnel held high above my head. I resented the world for its invasion into my body, and twice a day I struggled against the snakelike intrusion until I eventually relented, tired and weak from the fight.

      Throughout this time I never spoke. I initially found the words difficult to copy, so kept them to myself. But I listened. I memorized every word, every nuance. For years I kept the secret in my head, my source of solace through the long cold nights.

      One day, bound tightly in my starched contraption, I watched as father visited me. Happy birthday, my child, he said with a smile, but his face could not deny the revulsion he felt. You are ten years old today.

      I denied the urge to answer him, and stared antagonistically into his eyes. I regret that now. It was to be his last effort to make an effort on my behalf, and I knew I had brought my own fate upon myself.

      Days after my tenth birthday, I got carried from the tall walls of my home. I remember father’s sad tear-filled eyes. He stood on the wide stone staircase waving to my struggling form, but I could not return the gesture, my body again encased in the stiff, unforgiving canvas device. The carriage ride swiftly took me from the streets of Florence into the countryside.

      For the shortest time I cried pathetic self-centered tears, then as the city disappeared through the small barred window, giving way to long lines of grapevines, I allowed anger to rise. Anger against my banishment, anger against father, and of course, mostly anger at myself for my own condition.

      My life change that day, and my new room held little light, only two high dirty windows showed the sky of the outside world. The floor, walls, and door padded in thick studded wadding. Two long glass panes sat high on the inside wall, but the dark glass rarely revealed the watchers that lurked beyond. When I caught sight of them, their faces lay in dark shadow against the glass, silhouetted against a pale yellow ceiling.

      I spent my time running between the walls, propelling myself from one side to the other. I lived that way for a very long time.

      I don’t remember when, but at one point my days must have taken on a different routine. Each evening, two strong men held me to the floor, and a man in a white jacket stuck a long needle in my arm; a painful injection that propelled me into a deep dreamless sleep. When I woke, still groggy from my slumber, the same men force-fed me and changed my diaper. This went on so long that I almost forgot my previous regime. In time my muscles atrophied, the slack skin feeling strange as I lay, continually bound. I have no idea how many days the dark shapes of the observers watched from above, but on one morning, it all changed.

      Strapped in my canvas contraption, two men carried me to a small, bright room, where they laid me carefully on the floor, and walked away. A row of windows looked out onto brightly colored green sycamore leaves. I lay on the floor, smiling at their young beauty, my first glimpse of nature for many years, and did not see or hear the new man enter the room.

      You can go outside, Valérie, he said, his words suddenly spinning my head in his direction. If you’re a good girl.

      He stood wiry and tall, with closely cropped brown hair and beard. His smile exuded calmness, and I found myself listening to his monotone, somehow spellbound. He walked past me to the window and looked outside. The summer here is very pretty. There are gardens and flowers, hedges, and so many birds.

      I could see nothing but the tops of trees, but recognized a bribe when I heard it.

      He turned to me, returning my stare with quiet stoicism. You could go outside. Are you going to be a good girl?

      I nodded, having the notion I would pretend just long enough to get the buckles removed, then I would smash his face to a pulp.

      But then he shook his head.

      You be a good girl first, then you get outside. You never struggle, you never try to bite us, you take your food without incident. Then you get outside.

      I shook my head in anger and roared my protest past the mouthpiece in my canvas suit.

      Never!

      I jammed my jaw as tight on the bar as I could, but tears welled as I conceded his victory. My new enemy knew that I could talk and his expression betrayed his realization of the fact.

      I closed my eyes as he walked through the door into the dark corridor beyond, and the two strong men carried me back to my dark, padded room.

      Each morning, they forced the tube down my throat, then I got taken to the room with the windows and he repeated the bribe to me; being a good girl meant I could visit the garden.

      But each evening as they came with the rubber hose, I continued my rebellion.

      Soon the leaves began to change color, subtly dimming from bright green to a paler, subdued yellow. As I lay daily on the tiled floor, I began to realize how much I wanted to see the garden.

      That night, I did not struggle as they fed and injected me. Instead I lay still on the floor, looking into their eyes, accepting every violation of my body. For four days I exhibited no revolt against my captors.

      The next morning I woke not encased in my suit. I sat up, and flexed my arms and legs. When the men entered, they carried no tube or funnel. Instead they offered me a small waxed paper cup, which I gingerly accepted. I slowly drank the fluid from the cup, returning it carefully to the man’s hand.

      I sat back and watched them leave. I had been a good girl, I now awaited my reward.

      Soon the white coated men came. This time they carefully lifted me to lead me by the hand along the corridors to the tiled room. The tiled floors felt good on my bare feet, although my leg muscles protested the new exercise. Arriving at the room, I walked to the window, and holding onto the wooden sill, looked out onto the garden below.

      Good morning, Valérie. The thin man said. My name is Dr. Fabrini; you may call me Alvise.

      He came to my shoulder, but never touched me, pretending to enjoy the luscious view along with me. It seemed to be his gesture of trust, knowing full well the likelihood of my turning to attack. For the first time in my short life, mind overruled instinct; the small chance that I might feel nature beneath my feet offered me an incentive a father’s approving voice never could.

      This view never fails to impress me, he said whimsically. I have worked at many asylums over the years, Valérie, and none offered such amenities. Most facilities I’ve seen could pass more for dungeons than a hospital, cave-like walls, dirty and crawling with infestation. You could never dream the horrors endured by the patients in those places, Valérie; they are treated worse than animals and their keepers are cruel beyond reason.

      Being strapped to a bed, force-fed through a tube doesn’t qualify as cruelty beyond reason by your definition, Dr. Fabrini? I clutched the window frame to contain myself, but could not disguise the venom in my voice. I smiled at the pause before his answer.

      You speak well, Valérie.

      Perhaps you would have me curse like your orderlies, Dr. Fabrini? I reluctantly turned my gaze from the window.

      Alvise, please, He forced a grin. The treatment you have endured here is reserved for only well-behaved patients. You would not want to know what becomes of the, eh, less cooperative inmates.

      I looked down to the garden, content to allow the doctor to think he had baited me into a dialog. I kept my eyes forward, unwilling to grant him any further victory.

      He continued without my input, You have your father to thank for your luxury accommodations, Valérie. Mr. Lidowitz has invested much of his wealth sending you here and ensuring no harm befalls you. His devotion is something quite spectacular and quite rare, my dear.

      You’ve spoken to my father? I bit my lip, punishing the cruel flesh for allowing the hasty words to pass.

      Oh yes. He personally commissioned my fellowship here, relocating my entire family from Sicily.

      I looked up into his face. I’d never seen eyes so clear, blue as crystal water. Great patience lay behind them, and immense curiosity. Does my father ever visit me? I wondered if my father’s face had been one of those at the high window in my cell.

      Dr. Fabrini smiled. He watches you sometimes, and wonders.

      I turned to the garden and pretended to take in its details, but I felt conflicted by a longing to see father once again and anger that he’d confined me here. Reluctantly I accepted the fact that he still cared for me.

      At last I broke my gaze from the beautiful landscape and took in the full measure of Dr. Fabrini. He looked a young man, yet had the finest brush of gray at the temples.

      Why would my father confine me here? I did not need an answer; Italy did not need someone like me wandering wild.

      Your father loves you. Dr. Fabrini tried to appear humble. I have a good deal of documented success in matters of healing the mind, Valérie. Your father is a tenacious man; he did his research. And now here I am.

      My mind is not sick, I sneered.

      He continued as if I’d not spoken, Most physicians in my field tend to focus on punishment for poor behavior. I believe in reward when appropriate behavior is exhibited.

      The doctor cupped his hand around my wrist. Immediately, I flinched against his grip, then grudgingly allowed him his show of dominance.

      You have earned your first reward.

      Through a long, white labyrinth of halls, he led me to a heavy pair of thick, oak doors. For the first time since being dragged in through those doors I felt a rush of brisk, clean air in my face. Were it not for Dr. Fabrini’s persistent hold upon me, I would have run out into the open fields and put the asylum at my back forever. Instead, I walked out like a mutt on a tether, knowing my frail muscles would take little catching.

      He pulled me onto the manicured lawn, and my bare feet sunk into the soft carpet. I felt a thrill run up my toes and through my body. The air felt moist with the promise of a coming downpour. Above, clouds gathered and I remembered quite suddenly the sensation of bathing in the fresh rain.

      I remembered Father holding my arm, much the way Dr. Fabrini held me now, as I struggled to leave the dry awning of the porch and rush out into the storm. At last I managed to wriggle free, leaping from the stone steps and into the driving rain. Arms open and face up to the heavens, I spun and rejoiced gloriously. Laughing, Father ran to me, flung me into the air and twirled me about. We danced together as the clouds thundered above. For the first time in all my years away, I knew a longing to be held in the arms of someone who loved me and shame for my inability to love in return.

      Dr. Fabrini tugged at me as the first sprays of droplets coated my face. I wanted nothing more than to stay and dance beneath the purging clouds, but I knew my only chance at feeling the grass on my feet again would be to acquiesce and follow.

      Slowly, I bent and plucked a single blade of grass from the ground. I clutched it in my palm like a treasure and Dr. Fabrini graciously allowed me my prize.

      Immortal and Pathetic

      Theresa Scholes, 1958, Cookeville, Pennsylvania

      I often wondered as I drifted through my teenage years if I’d ever show an ability to be excellent at anything. I’d hit mid grades at high school, and now easing through second year of Community College, I did the same. I sat mid to upper grade in most of my Gen Ed classes, and with the end of the semester approaching I sent out applications to some of the mid-level colleges; nothing too expensive, but nothing too cruddy either. My folks were definitely middle class, or considered themselves so, by their house, big family car and income.

      Then I met the new guy in class: Jason Conrad, the smoldering hunk from just outside of town, and my life changed forever. He looked like James Dean, and had a south western drawl like a gunfighter in the cowboy movies. Of course I was smitten; so were half of the girls in class. We could barely keep our heads turned to the black-board. Then, to my surprise with the rest of college to choose from, Jason asked me out. Talk about cloud nine!

      I allowed Jason to court me with his smooth talk and his sexy smile. I watched his lips as they pulled the smoke from his cigarettes, and accepted one for myself. I accepted his invites to ‘take a drive’, giving encouragement to his wandering hands and persistent lips as he pressed my slender body against the chrome of the car door.

      Then of course, with my resistance crumbling by the second, he went all the way and took my virginity on the floor of his family living room. I just lay back and let him get on with it, wallowing in the pleasure he gave, driving his naked hips against mine.

      So far so good, but when he bit into my neck, drawing such an outpouring of blood that its flow stained my wide-open blouse, I knew something had gone horribly wrong. When he slashed his wrist and presented it at my mouth to drink, I thought I’d lost my mind.

      He’d torn an artery wide open, and it spurted dark and red onto my face.

      Drink! he growled at me, pushing the torn flesh past my lips.

      I caught a taste of his blood on my tongue, and sucked gingerly on his wrist once, not finding immediate aversion to the taste. Then as the sweetest nectar flowed down my throat and the world changed with a flashing of lights and an eruption of pleasure in my loins, I gorged my fill.

      My head seemed to explode, and simultaneously I both accepted his rutting seed and orgasmed in unison.

      I know I fainted.

      I do recall vivid dreams, mostly red pools of boiling blood.

      When I woke, he’d re-arranged my clothes and tied me firmly to his bed, my arms and legs secure under many lashings of thick rope. What’s going on? I croaked, my throat sore and somewhat tender.

      Just wait, you’ll be fine. Jason said pressing his hand on my belly, his attention out the window, his lips sucking noisily on his cigarette.

      My stomach churned, pains shooting around inside with such ferocity, I thought I’d been poisoned. What’s happening to me? I pulled hard on the bindings, lifting both arms slightly off the bed.

      Don’t struggle! he spat at me, the tenderness of our previous moments gone completely.

      Inside the dreamy exterior of Jason Conrad beat the heart of a cold blooded thug. I can’t say he forced me, because I definitely took part willingly, but now that I lay suffering the consequences of our actions, his bedside manner needed a bit of refining.

      I spent the next day at his house, I kinda had to. I passed the first night unconscious and bound on his bed, and the next day flat on my back on his uncomfortable sofa, my body churning in pain with no explanation as to why he’d refused to call a doctor.

      Then I heard a knock at the door, and a girl walked in, good-looking, shoulder length blond hair, with all the curves in all the right places. She oozed complexity. Before I could protest her arrival, she’d crossed to my side and put her hand on my forehead.

      You are a dick-head, Jason, the censure sounded strange on her lips as she spat over her shoulder. What have you told her so far?

      Nothing much,

      She shook her head, then smiled at me. I’m Valérie, and I’ve got good news and bad news.

      I’m Theresa, I managed, people call me ‘Finch’. I watched Jason slink away to his room, obviously intimidated by this woman. What’s going on?"

      When she said You’re a vampire, I almost got up and walked away. But I’m glad I stayed. I listened to her introduction to the vampire fold; listened as she explained the four phases of the my turning.

      The hunger, the thirst for human blood.

      The passion, the sharing of vampire blood mid-coitus.

      The turning, the moment when a human passes from one species to the next.

      And the beholding, a vampire’s lasting dependency, a bond of loyalty to the one who turned them.

      It proved to be a lot to take in, and in time we moved to the porch and shared a smoke as Valérie provided more information.

      So Jason’s not in love with me or anything? I tried to remain stoic, but my heart fell at her answer.

      No, he was just following orders, she drew deeply from the cigarette, and exhaled loudly through her nose. Amos, that’s the big boss, wanted more college kids into the fold. You got chosen. It seems he’s got a place for you in his plans.

      I nodded as I stared into the trees of the park. The beholden part explained my eagerness to hump Conrad every time he came into my mind, despite his lack of tenderness or emotion in my direction.

      In the coming few days, Valérie and I talked together quite a lot, she’d meet me at college, and we’d go for a soda.

      I lived as much of a normal life as I could at home, but my ‘beholding’ drove me nuts at school; I just wanted to jump Jason at every glimpse.

      Of course, some nights he’d let me, and I found that vampire sex would be the highlight of my life so far.

      In time, Valérie taught me patience and some of the methods vampires use to keep their urges at bay. Pretty soon I could ignore Jason most of the time, unless he got right under my nose and commanded me to give in to him. Then I still proved an easy lay.

      One evening, Jason called for me, driving a Desoto soft-top. 1946. He said to me proudly. Dad loaned it to me. He didn’t smile much anyway, but I should have known something was up. Before we left town, we drove to the park, and picked up Valérie. In minutes, we were driving for Rutherford, a slightly bigger town, some twenty miles away. Probably because of Valérie’s presence Jason drove in silence, and I felt too much of a mouse to start any meaningful conversation. I just sat back with the wind in my hair and enjoyed the ride.

      We arrived at a building that resembled a scout hall, and Jason and Valérie led me inside. There must have been twenty people already there, mostly young, but some were my dad’s age. Then an old man walked in looking like a thin Jimmy Cagney. Two huge men followed him, looking around the room menacingly. All wore well-fitting suits, all looked like they’d walked off the most recent gangster movie.

      He’s the big boss, Valérie whispered, leaning close. I could smell the stale cigarette on her breath. You do whatever he tells you.

      I nodded. Something about this thin creature spelt danger, and I didn’t like him at all.

      He walked up the three steps to the small stage, and we all shuffled closer.

      To those who have not met me, my name is Amos Blanche. Even his voice sounded creepy. Bring the newcomers closer.

      Seven of us were pushed to the front, four girls, three guys, all in our late teens or thereabouts.

      Prepare them to feed, Amos said.

      I felt Jason behind me, kissing my neck and whispering sexy words in my ear. Despite myself, I felt the now common urges between my legs, and I tried to turn round to him, regardless of my audience, but he held my shoulders firm. By the time he’d finished, I stood panting. It seemed all too much, and I ran my tongue over my new sharp teeth, in anticipation of Jason’s flesh.

      Then suddenly it all changed.

      Jason’s hands left my shoulders, and he was brought struggling to our front. Two huge men held him as Valérie tore his clothes from his body.

      Jason has seen fit to defy me. Amos said from the stage above. Despite many chances to amend his ways, he has proven himself unreliable, and a weak link in my cadre.

      I felt confused, I shook my head. I felt hands grab me by the arms, holding me firmly in place.

      Now you will all see the consequences of such a betrayal.

      Jason had been stripped completely naked, held firm by the arms. Valérie walked behind him, her hands moved under his arms, and began to caress his chest. His manhood began to rise at her manipulation, and I felt an immediate overpowering need to strike her hand away and replace it with my own.

      From behind we were all prodded forward, and held firmly just an arm-length away from Jason Conrad’s now quivering form.

      Let the new ones feed from his betrayal. Amos said, his voice rising in timbre. Let them see the penalties of deceit. Let them feast on treachery!

      Valérie suddenly dug her fingers into his chest, and ripped downward, exposing sinew and ribcage. I could hold back no longer, I broke against my bonds and thrust forward, slashing on his throat with my teeth, then sucked longingly on his neck. I reached down automatically and grabbed his familiar penis, pumping the shaft. My fingers were torn away by others, and I felt hands touching me too, clutching and pawing. I looked up at Jason’s ecstatic face just as Valérie ripped his head from his shoulders. To my shame and joy, I drank from the streams of blood which poured forth.

      Hands tore at my clothing, prised their way to my sex, and I welcomed them. In a pool of warm blood I copulated again and again until the world turned from dark red to black, and the echoes of my cravings had turned to the stuff of nightmares. I remember Amos himself rutting above me, his face contorted in lust, then gradually the world turned black.

      ~ ~ ~

      I woke up in a room so austere, I thought I’d been thrown into a convent. I lifted myself to my elbows and looked around. Single bed, window, door, but no wooden cross hung on the whitewashed walls. As my eyes became accustomed to the bright sunlight slicing through the trails of dust, I noticed a change of clothes, folded neatly, clean, on the floor beside the bed. I nervously looked under the single covering, finding myself indeed quite naked.

      Details of the evening drifted back, and I felt

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