Page 26 of Eternal Obsession

On taking a large key from his pocket, my father turned the lock and stepped inside, then gestured for me to follow. My eyes adjusted to the dim candlelit room.

I flinched, quickly composing myself so as not to annoy my father.

A woman lay splayed out upon the sizable oak table at the room’s center, tied down with shackled limbs to the floor. She was a Cornish beauty, her locks a cascade of burnished copper that caught the light like flame on water.

My flashback to the beautiful woman of sixteen years ago came with waves of dizziness that unsettled me. I walked around to see her more clearly, noticing she too was as beautiful as the first. Brass chains secured her.

Her eyes fixed on me. “Jadeon, please help me,” she begged.

My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth.

“Silence!” my father said. “See how they manipulate, Jadeon. They use their evil to read your thoughts. Guard your mind.”

“Who is she?” I asked.

“She calls herself Athena. Do not let the appearance of the body of a young woman fool you. She is unimaginably old.”

My once-innocent life dissolved as I viewed the seemingly harmless lass. I considered rescuing her, but when she spat at my father and revealed her fangs, I changed my mind, glancing at her shackles and hoping they would hold.

Her cries faded with my lightheadedness. I resisted gravity’s pull toward the stone floor and leaned against the wall to support myself.

“Let’s begin,” my father said.

I was wary. There was more to it.

Father’s men guided me to stand at the feet of the redhead. A sickening churn in my stomach told me I was playing some part in it.

Father Edward De Mercy stood in the corner of the room, holding holy water in a golden cup, occasionally splashing it upon the terrified victim. The other men positioned themselves on either side of the table—two men on one side, two on the other—as my father, lord of ceremony, took his place at the head of the table.

Could it get any worse? My question was soon answered.

The men chanted an eerie noise—at first a muffled echo that increased to a distinctive vibrant echo. My father picked up a baroque knife from the altar behind him. One of his assistants held the silver chalice below the woman’s outstretched hand. She squealed as my father cut into her wrist.

Rum rose in my throat.

Her blood trickled into the cup.

To my amazement, the wound healed immediately, only to be incised again.

“We drain their blood,” my father said, “not so that they will die. It is impossible to kill them this way. But it weakens them.” He cut into her wrist again. “See how the wound heals quickly. We must not allow her to regain her strength. Come, son, take this knife and do as I have done.”

Beads of perspiration spotted my forehead. I stared at my father. His displeasure forced me to approach her. Shaking, I took the knife and studied it, hoping this would cause his impatience to grab it off me.

He glared at me with an insistence that was impossible to ignore.

I offered the knife back. “Perhaps next time?”

My father’s gaze bored into mine. “Now,” he ordered.

Her cold arm pulled away from my grasp. I glared down at her veins. “Is this really necessary?”

Her shrill screams pierced the room.

“Gag her!” my father shouted.

“What has she done?” I asked.

“Murder.”