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  Heart of Dracula

  Immortal Soul: Part One

  Kathryn Ann Kingsley

  Copyright © 2020 by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

  First Print Edition: July 2020

  ISBN-13: 979-8-65327-416-9

  ASIN: B084NFB7PM

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  A Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Also by Kathryn Ann Kingsley

  About the Author

  A Foreword

  Usually, I take this time to thank everyone who supports me while I go on this crazy-train journey toward of being a writer. And to all the usual folks—Lori, Evan, Kristin, Michelle, Sylvia, you readers—thank you. But I thought I might take a second to do something a little different.

  I know many of you who read this are aspiring authors yourselves. I know you haven’t finished that manuscript, or you aren’t brave enough to hit “submit,” or you don’t think you can handle the aftermath.

  Do it.

  Write that thing. Publish that thing. Yes, you’ll get bad reviews. Yes, you’ll have to deal with your friends and family reading something you wrote and the embarrassment that comes with that.

  My father has read “the desk scene” in Steel Rose. Process that for a moment.

  But it’ll also be something you get to hold up to the world and say, “I did this.”

  I mention this in the beginning of my Dracula duet for a reason. I began writing, like few people would likely want to admit, with fanfiction.

  I know, I know.

  The horror.

  Stay with me.

  I started writing Dracula fanfiction when I was young. I did it because nobody was writing the fiction I wanted to read. I wanted to read stories where the villain got the girl for a change. Where they got to win for once. They are always the better and more interesting character.

  I also wrote stories because I daydreamed them in my head and needed to get it all out on paper to make it stop. It only freed up space for my head to move on to the next one.

  It was many, many years before I was brave enough to post my silly stories online. I made a few fans—Sylvia, I’m looking at you—and I slowly realized I was spending so much time building my own world within someone else’s that it was time to break free and do my own thing.

  I took the leap and put my stuff out there. And it’s been a wild ride. It’s had ups and downs. And it’s a slow climb. But it is absolutely worth it.

  Now, here’s a simple fact for you.

  I’m not special.

  You can do it too.

  My writing story began with Dracula, and here we are coming back around to him. I’ve made friends, garnered a few fans, and have had a blast. And I hope to continue for many years to come.

  So to you, the one sitting on the manuscript you’re afraid to put out into the world, I say push the button. Send the email. Hit submit. Be brave. Be silly. Tell the stories you want to tell. Get the things out of your head and share them with the world.

  This story is for you.

  1

  Maxine Parker’s life ended with the sound of a knock on her front door.

  Squeak. Clack, clack, clack.

  A brass ring in bad need of oiling let out its preemptive squeak before the figure on the other side rapped it against its plate. Not urgently, not impolitely, and with nothing except simple social propriety.

  It did not help the sense of dread she felt as she sat on the stairs of her home, gathering the skirts of her long navy dress around herself as she stared at the back of her front door, wondering if she should simply ignore the call of those on the other side. She did not know who was standing there, summoning her to answer, but she could sense one thing from them—death.

  Maxine was very good at sensing death. Especially as of late, considering what had befallen Boston. Murder came to the city on the inky wings of the night, summoned by a crimson moon that never wavered and, by some means, defied the motion of the Earth to remain full.

  Most of the residents of the city ignored the screams and howls in the darkness, the sounds that belied what hunted its prey was not human. The papers attributed the disappearances and remaining gore to a pack of wolves or coyotes that had taken up residence in the Boston Common and the Public Gardens.

  But wolves could not leave a man’s head impaled on the wrought-iron railing of the Granary Burying Ground. But the papers kindly skipped over the details of that particular night. No need to incite a panic. People might run for their lives.

  Many had already done exactly that, but many either believed they had no reason to fear or they had nowhere to go. As for her? She fit in neither category. Her excuse for remaining within her walls was far less valid. Or far less sane, at any rate.

  It was the whispers she heard in the night’s calls that inspired her to remain. There was an intelligence behind the death, and it was calling to her. She could not understand why, or for what purpose it bade her stay, but she felt compelled.

  Spirits whispered often to Maxine, and she always listened. They had successfully guided her through her life up until this point, and she would never refuse their council. She had some part to play in what had befallen her city. She believed in fate without question. Perhaps not that all choices were immutable, but that some were inevitable, like death.

  Death came for all, no matter the choices that were made. No matter the circuitous path a mortal might take to escape, all roads must someday cease. And whoever knocked upon her door felt like such things. The end of one journey, and the beginning of another.

  Her life, as she knew it, was now over.

  Squeak. Clack, clack, clack.

  The soul that stood on the other side of her door was still patient and wonderfully polite. That was the first indication that it was not a ravager from the gates of Hell come to rend her asunder. More importantly, it was barely before noon and the sun was out, and therefore that meant those who waited for her—and they were plural, she now realized as she felt three distinct emotions on the other side of her door—were not a pack of the demons that now stalked the night.

  But that did not mean they did not her bring danger all the same.

  Rubbing her hand over the back of her neck, she shut her eyes and let herself reach out through her mind’s eye instead to focus on those standing on her stoop. Two men and a woman. The older of the two men caught her attention first. He was stern, resolute, dignified, and felt every inch a soldier. The younger man was easily distracted, his emotions flitting from one to another with little hesitation. He was bored and nervous in the same breath. T
he woman was eager, excited, and anticipated greatly the answering of the door.

  Standing from the stairs, she brushed her hands down the folds of her dress and reached for the black silk gloves she always kept tucked into her bodice, even while inside her own home. She slipped them on before heading to the front door to answer it. The gloves were necessary. Immensely so.

  Unfortunate as they may be, they were for the benefit of everyone.

  Taking a breath, she let it out, steeling herself for what might come. She sensed a magnitude about this moment. This was why the spirits had called her to stay.

  My life is about to change.

  She was not a psychic in the truest form of the word. She could not see the future. She could only see the present and past—often in rather excruciating detail—and it was easy enough to see the strings of where she stood and predict the next thread that was to fall in the loom.

  And a black stitch fell into place in front of her.

  Fate was fate. It could not be avoided.

  Maxine opened the door.

  Upon seeing her, the older man who had been the source of the knocking pulled his hat off, and a young, beautiful blonde woman elbowed the other man beside him. The young man jumped and nearly ripped a wide-brimmed leather hat, a style rarely seen on the east side of the Mississippi, off his head. The over-eager action knocked a hand-rolled cigarette from behind his ear. He scrambled after it, and the woman rolled her eyes.

  If death has come to me, it comes in a strange guise.

  “Excuse me.” The older man interrupted her thoughts. “Are you Miss Maxine Parker?”

  “I am.”

  Her opinion of him carrying the air of a soldier was matched by his appearance. He had short, dark hair graying at the temples. Kept in a style that was all function and no form, he was every ounce the utilitarian creature she expected. His eyes were creased at the edges, and she knew it was from worry and not from laughter. He had seen grief. He had seen loss. He knew death, and he knew it well. The children behind him—they looked not much younger than Maxine herself, but they felt more youthful all the same—were marked with their own tragedies, but not nearly to his extent.

  She could picture flashes of their memories in her mind’s eye. Bits and pieces of what they carried around with them in their souls. She had to push them away to keep from being overwhelmed. But she saw a trail of blood had led them here to her. They may not mean her harm, but they brought harm all the same.

  The older man reached a hand to her. She hesitated for a moment before meeting him, taking a moment to ensure that she still wore her gloves. It was a reflexive action.

  “My name is Alfonzo. Alfonzo Van Helsing. And I am hoping we might speak with you.”

  Walter rose from his bow. He kept his gaze downturned. The sunlight hurt his eyes. It did not trouble his Master, who stood in front of a window, gazing out at the city beyond, pale hands clasped behind his back, his forefinger and thumb rubbing slow circles against each other as he thought.

  The elder vampire cast an imposing and stark shadow over the floorboards and across his own shadow, mingling them together into one. Walter may not wish to stare into the sunlight, but he did not worry about it burning him overmuch. It would take significant and direct exposure to harm him, although its presence was hardly enjoyable.

  He did not speak. He would wait until his elder addressed him. He knew better than to interrupt his thoughts.

  Walter did.

  His compatriot did not.

  “Why can we not hunt in the streets at night? Your monsters can. It is a travesty and gloriously unfair,” Zadok whined from where he sat, draped on a chaise lounge by the wall, far out of the reach of the sun’s late-morning rays. His feet were up on the back of the wood frame, his head hanging off the portion where his feet were intended to go.

  Walter shut his eyes to keep from rolling them.

  His Master kept his voice even and devoid of the annoyance Walter was certain was there. “They are allowed a few a night. They are not free to kill with abandon, and I will not command them to starve. You have taken three pets since we have arrived in this city. You are not bereft.”

  “One died last night.” Zadok squinted over at the window then covered his eyes with his arm. “I’m down to two.”

  “That is your fault. It is no concern of mine.”

  “I didn’t kill him. He killed himself.”

  “I fail to see how that changes my statement. Make do with your two remaining toys, Zadok, and be happy I allow you that much.” The elder vampire paused. “Walter.”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “The ghouls are becoming too bold. They killed a man and left his head on a rail the other night. They must take their prey and eat below grounds in the tunnels. Ensure those responsible for the misstep are dismembered and fed to the rest.”

  “As you wish, my Lord.”

  “Tell Mordecai he is to see that the rest are kept hungry for a week. I will not have them ruining my plans over their insatiable bloodlust.” The elder vampire’s voice was a low rumble and did not need to be loud to be heard. It carried easily in the room, especially to their preternatural ears. “And tell Mordecai to keep his lust leashed as well.”

  “I will do my best.” Walter felt his eye twitch. He was not fond of Mordecai. It was nothing personal. They were simply very different men. Attempting to convince the captain of his Master’s demon horde to keep his desires curtailed was quite like attempting to hold back the tide with a teacup.

  Mordecai was an incubus, after all. Some things couldn’t be helped.

  “Soon, this city will be ours, and those within it will be the same. We will stretch our grasp, and we will etch our new kingdom into this fledgling country. You will all be fed as much as you can desire. But now is the time for patience. We must play the game. One must not spook the flock if one wishes to catch more than one sheep.”

  “Yes, Master,” Zadok said through a heavy sigh. The Frenchman did not care to be lectured, yet often found himself in precisely that position of his own accord.

  The elder vampire tilted his head to the side slightly, long black hair falling along his shoulders in dark tendrils. “Both of you must stay on your toes. We have unwelcome company in our city. I smell them on the air. Hunters have come.”

  Walter felt his eye twitch. “How many?” While he was not overly concerned, any hunters always meant more, and more meant trouble.

  The elder vampire paused. “Three.”

  “Only three?” Zadok snickered. “Send me after them tonight. I will deliver their heads to you by dawn. I will—”

  “One of them is a Helsing.”

  Zadok fell silent. Briefly. For as long as Walter suspected the Frenchman was ever capable of staying in such a state. It lasted a whole fifteen seconds, which was a remarkable feat on his part, before it shattered. “Merde.”

  The older vampire chuckled and turned to face them, crimson eyes shining even in the dim light of the room. “Walter. One last thing for you, once you are done with the ghouls and Mordecai. This is a delicate matter. I trust you to treat it accordingly.”

  He would complain about being sent on so many errands while Zadok had neglected to receive one, but he knew better than to speak his thoughts for two reasons. It would result in little more than having his arm torn from its socket and fed to the creatures who lingered below. And Zadok could not be trusted to fetch the mail, let alone be given a task of any importance.

  So, he simply nodded and said nothing. “What is it, my Lord?”

  His sire smiled. It was an unkind one. It was the expression of the pleasure of a predator moments before the kill. “The hunters have gone out of their way to meet with a young woman. I will need to find out why. Find me everything you can learn about one Miss Maxine Parker.”

  Bowing low again, he folded one arm at his back and the other at his waist. “It shall be done.”

  May the gods help you, Miss Parker. For I have seen that
look on him before, and it spells your doom.

  Maxine made tea.

  What else was one supposed to do with guests? Manners demanded she serve them tea and cookies. She might have spent the better part of her life living in a Roma caravan, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t first been raised in “civilized’ society and taught all the ways she was meant to act.

  Even if she was rather terrible at such things.

  Even if she did hate it.

  She guessed she hated it precisely because she was terrible at it. People rarely hated things they were good at. Focus, simpleton. She poured her three guests their tea and sat at her spot at the table, filtering her own through the strainer and into her teacup. She took it with a single cube of sugar and nothing else.

  The younger man in the leather duster and hat apparently took his with four cubes. She couldn’t imagine it tasted anything like actual Earl Grey by the time he was done. She couldn’t help but smile at him, finding his sweet tooth disgusting and charming at the same time. The young man smiled back. “And you are?” she asked.

  “My name is Eddie Jenkin.” His accent was thick and labeled him clearly as somewhere west of Boston. Although being east of Boston and still being American was rather a trick, so she supposed it wasn’t hard.

  “And I am Bella Corallo,” chimed the blonde woman. She had a beautiful smile, one full of happiness and life. One that perfectly covered the tragedy Maxine could sense dwelled in her past. She wore it better than the other two. It might even be invisible to the naked eye.