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  Bite of the Vampire

  ML Guida

  Copyright © 2019 by ML Guida

  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.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Dear Reader

  About the Author

  Also by ML Guida

  Chapter 1

  Savannah, Georgia

  1756

  Rosalind woke to another miserable day. She sighed and ran her fingers down the left side of her face, feeling the deep bumpy scars that labeled her a monster. Only her eye remained unscathed. She refused to have a mirror anywhere in the room that reminded her of the fire––the day her father perished saving her.

  Ignoring the birds chirping their happy morning tune, she rolled out of bed. She seized a tan leather mask off her nightstand that hid her scars and quickly tied it under her dark hair, hiding her unsightly scars. Yesterday she had walked pass a woman with two small children when her masked slipped off, revealing her naked face. The children had screamed, then hid behind their mother’s skirts. Rosalind was shaking so bad she could barely fix her mask.

  Her fingers brushed over the pinched and leathery skin. Like those children, she couldn’t help but shudder. The mask almost matched the color of her golden skin and sometimes people didn’t notice it. Or at least she tried to believe they hadn’t noticed.

  She opened her dresser drawer then pushed away her shifts to find a faded, brown leather bag that had seen better days. The black edges were curled and frayed, but she didn’t care. She cherished it more than any other possession––it had been her late father’s. He’d worn it when he saved her from the fire.

  She quietly dumped the coins inside it onto the wooden dresser. With Esmond Doyle, her stepfather, watching her constantly, it had taken her months to steal enough to barely purchase a dress. She sighed. At this rate, it would take her a year to secure passage out west and escape.

  Someone timidly knocked on the door. “Rosalind, are you up?”

  Rosalind quickly scooped the coins back into the bag, then placed it back under her clothes. “Yes, I am awake, Maggie. You can come inside.”

  Her cousin, Maggie, slowly entered, as if afraid she was intruding. She was a mulatto and had the creamiest tan skin that reminded Rosalind of syrup. Maggie’s father had been a merchant and her mother a freed slave, but they were killed on a riverboat. She came to live with them, and like Rosalind, she was forced to earn her keep, but she was able to work at the house.

  Not so Rosalind.

  Her stepfather considered her to be a burden and insisted she earn her keep by working in his dreaded tavern––the Pirate’s House Inn.

  Maggie poured water into the basin and dipped a cloth in it.

  “You don’t have to take care of me, Maggie. I can dress myself.”

  “I know,” she said, as she wiped Rosalind’s body down. “But I feel guilty that I get to work here in the house while you’re forced to work in that dreaded tavern. At least ´tis a beautiful morning, Rosalind.”

  “Looks like it will be. Has Mr. Doyle left for the day?” Hope swelled inside her that she wouldn’t have to face her glowering stepfather.

  “No, both he and your mother are taking their morning meal in the parlor.”

  Rosalind groaned, knowing she’d soon have to join them and listen to more of stepfather’s insults.

  Maggie helped her put on her corset and stays. She pulled tight on the strings, making Rosalind’s already narrow waist even narrower and pushing her breasts up. Rosalind’s shift had deep pockets where she secretly squirreled coins away from her stepfather’s prying eyes. If he found her savings, he’d quickly confiscate it and all hope of escaping would perish.

  Maggie pulled out one of Rosalind’s dull olive gowns that her stepfather made her wear because ´twas easy to clean and would hide any stains. The dress emphasized her large breasts, which according to him were her only fine assets, since they enticed men to spend more coin on draughts.

  Rosalind put her slippers on over her tired and swollen feet. She’d soaked them in a bowl of water, but they still ached. Last night, she’d been so busy that she could barely catch her breath. Tonight would be no different. Just once, she’d like to escape the tavern and have a full day of rest.

  She put on her silk petticoats, then Maggie helped her slip into the dreaded gown. She carefully tucked Rosalind’s hair into a lace cap, hiding her dark curls. Rosalind looked at her dreary prison garb that marked her as even less than a maid, but until she had a means to escape, she was trapped.

  Before she followed Maggie, she slipped her father’s gold watch into her pocket. It hadn’t worked for years––the glass was shattered, and one side was badly scorched. But she didn’t care. Her father had been wearing it the day he tried to rescue her. Rosalind always hid it on her person. When she wore it, she always felt he was near her.

  She followed Maggie out of her room to face her stepfather and her mother in the parlor. Her mother gave her a bright smile.

  “Good morning, dear,” she said.

  Mr. Doyle didn’t acknowledge her when she entered, and instead, concentrated on buttering a croissant.

  Her mother, dressed in a fine gown of yellow, got up from the table and hurried over. She hugged her then kissed her on her right cheek. Even her own mother shuddered at her scars.

  “Rosalind,” she said, “I have the most wonderful news.” Her voice was as giddy as a schoolgirl’s.

  Rosalind turned her mouth up into a tight sneer. “You’re both going to Europe again?”

  Only when her stepfather was away, did she have any peace.

  “No! You aren’t going to have work at Pirate’s House Inn any longer!” She clapped her hands together, and her blue eyes flared with excitement.

  Rosalind glanced warily at her stepfather, who stuffed another croissant into his mouth then proceeded to lick the tips of his fingers. As always, he dressed as if he were a wealthy aristocrat with his embroidered red jacket, vest, and breeches. Many people commented on how handsome he was with his gray eyes, white powdered wig, and muscular build, but all Rosalind saw was a hated tyrant.

  He wiped his hands over his plate then dabbed each end of his mouth with a napkin. “Your mother is quite right, Rosalind. I have actually found a suitor that will take you off my hands.”

  “Esmond!” Her mother frowned. “That’s not what he meant, dear,” she said as she rubbed Rosalind’s arm.

  Rosalind jerked away from her mother’s touch and pretended not to notice the hurt in her eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s exactly what he meant. Who?”

  He leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on his belly. “Captain Barnard Foster.”

  His low voice stripped her dream. Captain Barnard Foster was at least ten years older than Mr. Doyle and had a temper even fouler––if that was possible. He was riddled with the pox and had the most annoying habit of staring at her breasts rather than her face.

  Her stomach tied into triple knots. “Why?”

  “He’s a good match, Rosalind,” her mother pleaded.

  Rosalind squinted. �
�How could you say that, Mother? Do you hate me this much?”

  “No, dear. Of course not! Captain Foster is a wealthy man, and you’ll want for nothing.”

  “Why would he lower himself to marry a tavern wench?”

  Her stepfather straightened his cuffs. “Because he would find it advantageous to eventually gain the tavern if something were to happen to me, then he’d be entitled to all of it.”

  Rosalind glared. “I will not marry him. He’s pompous and selfish.” He wasn’t fooling her. Something would happen to Barnard, then she’d be next. Her stepfather would do anything to further himself socially.

  “You don’t have a choice.” He narrowed his eyes, and his voice had turned cold.

  He was dangerously close to losing his temper, but Rosalind didn’t care. “I’d rather be dead than marry such a horrible man. If you would have chosen a man of decency––”

  He slammed his hand down on the table, making the silver bounce. “No man of decency would have you!”

  Rosalind winced.

  “Esmond,” her mother said. “That’s not true.”

  “´Tis true, Clare. You know it is. Captain Foster is asking for a minimal dowry–”

  Rosalind lifted her chin. “I said I would not marry him.”

  Her stepfather jumped out of his chair and slowly walked over to her. His movements were always slow and meticulous before the storm.

  “Please, don’t hurt her, Esmond,” her mother pleaded. Tears glistened in her eyes. “She’s in shock.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “She’s not.”

  Rosalind glared. “Mother, stay out of this. You’re as bad as he is.”

  He grabbed her arm. “You will do as I say.”

  Rosalind pushed her fear down to her toes. “No.”

  He slapped her hard across her face, knocking her onto her knees. Pain exploded on the right side of her cheek, and wetness rolled down her chin. She bit back a sob.

  Her mother knelt next to her and used her sleeve to wipe the blood off Rosalind’s lip. “Darling, don’t you understand? Barnard Foster is old. He’s not well. You’ll inherit his wealth.”

  Her stepfather looked at his well-manicured fingernails. “Clare, Foster and I have an agreement. When he dies, his wealth belongs to me.”

  Her mother stopped dabbing Rosalind’s lips. “How could you do such a thing?”

  Rosalind gently put her mother’s hand down. “Isn’t it clear, Mother? He hates me.”

  Her stepfather raised an eyebrow but didn’t counter her. He looked at Rosalind. “Your wedding will be announced, and you’ll be married by the end of this month.” He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. He shook her until her teeth rattled. “Defy me, and I’ll have you flogged and locked up until your wedding.” He tossed her across the room. “Go to work. I have no desire to look upon your repulsive face.”

  Before she left for the tavern, Rosalind glanced at her mother, who averted her eyes, and as always, offered no protection. Just once, Rosalind would like to see her mother get angry at Mr. Doyle for hurting her, but she never did. Her mother’s refusal to help cut into Rosalind’s heart more than her stepfather’s words or fists.

  Chapter 2

  Zuto’s Island

  June 1671

  * * *

  “Don’t let him kill me,” Penelope the undine said, as she pulled on her arm to escape Phearson MacFie’s tight grasp. Her tangled white hair fell across her frightened blue eyes.

  His gut twisted at her plea.

  Penelope was a water elemental and had the power to turn anything to ice, but the enchanted manacles bound her powers.

  “Phearson, if the spider bites me, the demon will drink my blood. He’ll be able to escape. Is that what you want?”

  The demon desperately needed Penelope’s blood to break his god Maketabori’s binding spell, which kept him prisoner on the island. Betraying Zuto was treacherous.

  “No. I am sorry, my lady, but I have my orders.” Zuto’s freedom was the last phenomenon he wanted. Dread settled in his heart at the thought of the demon walking the Earth. No one would be safe.

  Zuto pointed at Penelope. “Seize and bite her.”

  His gigantic time spider that was as big as a small schooner slowly approached. Its fangs clamped back and forth, and their image reflected in its eight, glossy black eyes.

  Phearson shuddered and pitied the lass.

  “Phearson, please!” She twisted her body as if she were strong enough to break a vampire’s grip.

  Then, all hell exploded on the island. Cannons boomed. Palm trees burst into flames. Fire burned hotter, and smoke swirled around them. The heat of the flames drenched Phearson’s body, leaving his shirt sticking to his skin. His eyes watered and his heart beat faster.

  A dragon unleashed its fury, and flames ignited on the beach, separating the spider from Phearson and Penelope, giving him time to think. His instincts to save himself sparked, but for the first time, he hesitated. He had a choice: hand over Penelope to the demon Zuto or die.

  Phearson had grown to admire her courage and hated to think he would be responsible for her death. He wanted to unlock her manacles around her wrists and ankles, but he wasn’t a hero–he was a slave.

  Disobeying Captain Quinton Palmer meant being thrown into the bowels of the Fiery Damsel. He’d never betrayed Palmer before. Not because he felt any loyalty but because of his will to survive.

  “I didn’t want this to happen, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  He waited for her to admonish or spit on him.

  She stared at him, and pity replaced the terror in her eyes. “I forgive you. Do what you have the courage to do.”

  Confusion settled over him. She hadn’t called him a coward, but ´twas as if she looked into his soul and saw his shameful fear.

  He opened his mouth to answer her, but the Soaring Phoenix unleashed its guns, and cannon balls sailed through the air and ripped the Fiery Damsel’s sails, silencing his voice. Fire broke out on the deck, and his fellow crewmen scrambled to put out the flames. The Damsel’s hull and sails were pelted with holes while the Soaring Phoenix had little damage. ´Twas as if an invisible force protected the Phoenix.

  He wished he was on board the ship fighting the Phoenix rather than on the beach ready to hand over an innocent woman to a demon. Hadn’t he any honor left?

  “MacFie, Bring the girl.” Palmer yelled, as he motioned with his sword.

  With his leaky right eye that always left a stain of dribble in his red beard, Palmer always gave Phearson the chills. He was a giant of man and was at least five inches taller than Phearson. More than once, Phearson had felt the lash on his back.

  Something he didn’t want to experience again.

  But he glanced warily at Penelope. She lifted her head in defiance. Her stance of bravery didn’t fool him. He could feel her trembling beneath his strong grip. Doubt was settling into him over whether he could be as callous as his captain just to save his own yellow skin.

  He reluctantly escorted her toward Zuto. Dried blood and bruises covered the demon’s half-naked body, and the beads on his loin cloth glistened in the sun. Victory flashed in his red eyes.

  The wind blew the demon’s long black hair across his face, and he raised his hand and pointed. “Bring her.” He waved his hand, and the flames separating them doused.

  Desperate to escape, Penelope twisted her waist and dug her heels into the sand. His grip loosened.

  Phearson shook his head. “Stop. Ye need to stay close. If ye want to stay alive.”

  She glared. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Because I am yer only hope.”

  The time spider scurried toward them, cutting a screaming man in two with its long spindly legs. Blood burst through his lips and gore stuck to the spider’s leg.

  Guns exploded, and cannon balls pounded the beach. A ring of fire cut into the spider’s path. It shrieked and sat back on its back legs, its fangs clamping together. Phearson
shoved Penelope behind him.

  Once again, Zuto lifted his palms toward the flames, and they slowly died down.

  The ground quaked, and Phearson fell onto one knee, dragging Penelope down with him. A loud crack spread across the beach like lightning, and another giant spider, this one white, crawled out.

  “Shite,” Phearson mumbled, as he and Penelope edged backward.

  Someone yanked Phearson’s head back so hard he thought it would break.

  Penelope screamed. He turned to see Palmer dragging her.

  “Here, you foul thing, take her,” Palmer said.

  Phearson brought his forearm down hard, breaking Palmer’s grip.

  Palmer’s eyes widened. “What the hell?”

  Before the captain could react, Phearson flung him onto the ground. Palmer catapulted face-first under the beast’s legs, his arms and legs spread out wide. There would be hell to pay later, but Phearson didn’t care.

  Palmer glared. “Phearson, you bastard!” His tone was edgy and sprinkled with anger.

  The beast didn’t even slow down and walked over Palmer, who aimed a pistol at the creature’s underbelly, his hand shaking.

  “Palmer, you fool.” Zuto flicked his wrist, and the pistol flew out of Palmer’s hand.

  Shock and fear flashed in Palmer’s eyes. Suddenly, he rose into the air as if by magic and was flung across the beach, straight into the jungle, screaming.

  Phearson grabbed a skeleton key out of his trousers. His hand shaking, he unlocked Penelope’s manacles. She looked at him stunned.

  He pushed her to get her to move. “Go, now!”

  Zuto swayed on his feet. “Take her!”

  The spider scurried through the smoke.

  Phearson blocked Penelope with his body from the terrifying spider, then fired at it. “Leave her alone!”