Kept: The Lost Vampire Journals Book 2 (The Kept Series) by Helen Allan

Author:Helen Allan [Allan, Helen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hell West Press
Published: 2019-11-02T16:00:00+00:00

New Entry

Constance, my heart, my soul, is dead.

I have been weeping, most profusely, for many days. Even now, my hand shakes and my tears fall as I record what has befallen. But my resolve to join her in the afterlife also grows, and it is that which prompts me to write, for I have struck a deal that will deliver me back into her arms before too long, I hope.

I arrived unannounced at her home, our lesser manor house, mid-afternoon five days ago, to the ringing of bells.

The hairs stood up on the back of my neck as I dismounted, ungreeted in the stables, tethered my mount myself, as I have never had to do before, and approached the front door. No footsteps rushed down the hall to open the door. No little lap dogs rushed out barking to greet me. The house stood as though abandoned, apart from the peal of the bells, which I knew, could only mean that someone had died.

I immediately thought Mr Ingleby, Constance’s father, had passed. He was much stressed since his fortunes had collapsed. I imagined I must have missed the horse and rider sent to inform me, as I was on the road heading here.

Upon knocking at the door, I waited an interminable time before it was opened by none other than Constance’s mother, her hair shorn, her dress of mourning black.

“How did you know?”

“Know, my lady?”

“I did not write, we were told not to write,” she frowned, looking left and right behind me as though confused and suddenly frightened. “I did not write.”

“Pray, Mrs Ingleby,” I grasped her hands and stared earnestly into her face, she looked twenty years older than when I had left, just 18 months prior, “tell me what is afoot. Who are you mourning?”

Yet even as I asked it, I knew, on some deep, dark level, I knew.

“Why, Constance, my daughter,” she replied, “my dear daughter, Constance.”

She spun then, and hurried down the hall, turning sharp left into their small parlour, where the sound of bells was pealing.

I followed, my feet dragging like a man walking to the gallows, my breath trapped in my throat.

Entering the room, I saw her. My love, my life. Illuminated by candlelight, serenaded by the small bells being rung by a choir boy, standing as he had been paid to do, unobtrusively in the corner.

Laid out, her hands crossed over her still breasts, her face was thinner than I remembered and yet, just as beautiful. She was so tranquil, as though she had paused, mid-sentence, to concentrate on something, a tiny frown just noticeable on her otherwise smooth brow.

I fell then, to my knees, my grief erupting from my throat in a roar of agony, and I sobbed, I’m not ashamed to admit it, like a baby.

None came to comfort me. Her father sat where he had upon my entering the room, nearby her corpse, his hand stroking her hair. Her mother stood at her feet, staring down at her as though once again confused about who she was, or where she was.

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