landscapes and portraits, Lillian began to lose herself in the canvases beyond the many colors and brush strokes.
“Good evening, Miss . Saint Rose.” Barker, a regular custodian on this night greeted Lillian as he pushed out a bucket and mop. It was nearing on closing time, but Barker had allowed her to stay over many times in the past. It was well known that Lillian Saint Rose was one of the main financial contributors to the museum. It was lesser known that a few of Lillian’s great, great, great grandmother’s paintings adorned the walls within. Lillian greeted the friendly fellow absently, before turning back to the paintings. Her light blue gaze turned to the left and her feet soon followed. A framed oil painting, a portrait of a handsome, regal gentleman with spectacular green eyes seemed to stare at Lillian from inside the canvas. Lillian came closer. Her hands at her sides, she stared into the suave, handsome face of the devil himself, or so he had seemed to Lillian all of those years ago: Lord Ewan Derringer. What had become of him, she wondered for not the first time? The last Lillian had seen of the vampire had been on a ship bound for America. She and Gina had barely escaped him. They would not have if Gina had not come up with the plan to free them.
It had been so long ago, and yet Lillian could still recall that time as if it had been yesterday. She had become enraptured with the vampire, Ewan, from the first moment she had set eyes on him. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that the feeling was mutual. Gina, her dark mother, had tried to warn Lillian that Ewan was obsessed, that he longed to possess Lillian so that he might toy with her like a cat would a mouse. But Lillian had thought herself in love with Ewan and she hadn’t heeded Gina’s advice. And then it was too late. By the time Lillian had discovered Ewan’s true character, he would not let her go! Others had died due to her blindness, Lillian thought with regret. Someone who had tried to help her, to save her had perished.
Lillian turned away from the portrait. She longed to tear it from the wall, and shred it to pieces, but it wasn’t the painting that made her feel such rage. It was the vampire within it, and the horrid memories of what he had done!
Chapter seven
Dr. Nicole Harold poured herself a cup of tea, and tucked her feet beneath her on the living room sofa inside her apartment. Absently, she stroked the head of Mr. Freckles, her housecat. Mr. Freckles leaned into her hand and stroked the entire length of his long, large back against the tenderness of Nicole’s hand. Mr. Freckles got his name because he was a white, long-haired cat, with multi-colored, tiny freckle-like patterns down his back. The cat meowed for attention, but Nicole’s mind was elsewhere. She was thinking on Rita Gallenger, the woman, or rather the body, that had disappeared from the morgue last week. The tape from the camera at the front door hadn’t shown anyone coming or going other than Nicole herself, Tom, a portly security guard, and Detective Jack Stone. Nicole rolled her eyes at that one.
“Some detective! He wouldn’t know a murderer if he was standing in the middle of a crime scene with a man dead on the ground and another standing over him, knife in hand, blood all over him, screaming, “I’m the murderer!” She voiced the resentment out loud and Mr. Freckles stopped to stare at her for half a second before he meowed for more attention.
Nicole’s blue gaze fell to the coffee table at her feet. On it set a familiar, leather-bound journal. It was very old and worn and she practically knew every page by heart. Yes, Lillian Saint Rose was becoming an old familiar friend to her.
Nicole scooped up the journal, and thumbed through the contents. The writing was beautiful, the ink smudged here and there, faded in places, but Nicole knew every word, every line. She had read the pages too many times to count. Yet, she
“Good evening, Miss . Saint Rose.” Barker, a regular custodian on this night greeted Lillian as he pushed out a bucket and mop. It was nearing on closing time, but Barker had allowed her to stay over many times in the past. It was well known that Lillian Saint Rose was one of the main financial contributors to the museum. It was lesser known that a few of Lillian’s great, great, great grandmother’s paintings adorned the walls within. Lillian greeted the friendly fellow absently, before turning back to the paintings. Her light blue gaze turned to the left and her feet soon followed. A framed oil painting, a portrait of a handsome, regal gentleman with spectacular green eyes seemed to stare at Lillian from inside the canvas. Lillian came closer. Her hands at her sides, she stared into the suave, handsome face of the devil himself, or so he had seemed to Lillian all of those years ago: Lord Ewan Derringer. What had become of him, she wondered for not the first time? The last Lillian had seen of the vampire had been on a ship bound for America. She and Gina had barely escaped him. They would not have if Gina had not come up with the plan to free them.
It had been so long ago, and yet Lillian could still recall that time as if it had been yesterday. She had become enraptured with the vampire, Ewan, from the first moment she had set eyes on him. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that the feeling was mutual. Gina, her dark mother, had tried to warn Lillian that Ewan was obsessed, that he longed to possess Lillian so that he might toy with her like a cat would a mouse. But Lillian had thought herself in love with Ewan and she hadn’t heeded Gina’s advice. And then it was too late. By the time Lillian had discovered Ewan’s true character, he would not let her go! Others had died due to her blindness, Lillian thought with regret. Someone who had tried to help her, to save her had perished.
Lillian turned away from the portrait. She longed to tear it from the wall, and shred it to pieces, but it wasn’t the painting that made her feel such rage. It was the vampire within it, and the horrid memories of what he had done!
Chapter seven
Dr. Nicole Harold poured herself a cup of tea, and tucked her feet beneath her on the living room sofa inside her apartment. Absently, she stroked the head of Mr. Freckles, her housecat. Mr. Freckles leaned into her hand and stroked the entire length of his long, large back against the tenderness of Nicole’s hand. Mr. Freckles got his name because he was a white, long-haired cat, with multi-colored, tiny freckle-like patterns down his back. The cat meowed for attention, but Nicole’s mind was elsewhere. She was thinking on Rita Gallenger, the woman, or rather the body, that had disappeared from the morgue last week. The tape from the camera at the front door hadn’t shown anyone coming or going other than Nicole herself, Tom, a portly security guard, and Detective Jack Stone. Nicole rolled her eyes at that one.
“Some detective! He wouldn’t know a murderer if he was standing in the middle of a crime scene with a man dead on the ground and another standing over him, knife in hand, blood all over him, screaming, “I’m the murderer!” She voiced the resentment out loud and Mr. Freckles stopped to stare at her for half a second before he meowed for more attention.
Nicole’s blue gaze fell to the coffee table at her feet. On it set a familiar, leather-bound journal. It was very old and worn and she practically knew every page by heart. Yes, Lillian Saint Rose was becoming an old familiar friend to her.
Nicole scooped up the journal, and thumbed through the contents. The writing was beautiful, the ink smudged here and there, faded in places, but Nicole knew every word, every line. She had read the pages too many times to count. Yet, she
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