Dear Readers,

 

Below is a preview of my novella, Blood Child, which I am working on finishing by the end of this month. The story began with the first line and the image of a woman stalking away from an open door.

 

Enjoy and let me know what you think, please and thank you. 

 

Love,

 

Lu

 “I am not drunk enough to talk about it, now.”

The interview I had lobbied over six months for just turned on her heels and walked back into the shadows of the house, leaving the door wide open giving me an excellent view of her curves. My appreciation was short lived as cool air slapped me as I hesitated before the threshold trying to take in the house’s details. The ten foot walk from the car to the house, however, had broken me out in a sweat making it difficult to concentrate.  It wasn’t even May, and already Florida was managing to melt British tourists and small yippy dogs into smelly sticky puddles. British born myself it was only being raised in the U.S. that kept me from disintegrating.

Watching the current Countess Bathory return with a fresh glass it occurred to me that she was nothing like her infamous blood bathing ancestor. She had no aura of power or authority. She was, in fact, a wino, judging from the bin overflowing with bottles on the front porch.

Albeit, an incredibly attractive one. Technically, she wasn’t a countess having renounced the title, but not the money.  Only people in fairy tales give up both and usually that is for love. As far as I knew, Ms. Bathory, was single.

Nothing about Emily Bath made sense. She was richer than Donald Trump and had more degrees than Neil Degrass Tyson, yet she lived in a tiny orchid colored house with floors that creak with each every step in a mismatched Orlando neighborhood and taught high school.  She could have done anything and willing chose to work in high school hell.  Literary since she didn’t work in a regular school, but an alternative one for students who had been kicked out of other schools.

The interior was modest, if not a little old fashion for a twenty-something heiress. There was no TV in sight just bookshelves and seating. All the furnishings looked like they were hand-me-downs from someone’s long deceased grandparents. The sofa engulfed me in patterned floral pillows.  The countess smirked as I struggled to right myself.  At least she had a sense of humor.

Still nothing about the home spoke of the mounds wealth she had; it was all understated and sadly normal.  I expected more, craved it to be honest.

Emily Erzabet Bath was the survivor of modern day murder mystery.  Nine years ago, she and her three older brothers spent the weekend at their late father’s estate in upstate New York. They died along with twenty three other souls As the ten year anniversary approached interest in the case was reemerging; making this an interview priceless. And I was the man who landed it; the first and only person to speak to the reclusive Ms. Bath.  Persistence, charm and just a bit of cyber-stocking had won the day; being unemployed finally had a benefit.

The manor had been drenched in blood, literally. It dripped off of tables, pooled in puddles on the floor and had un-artfully spattered the walls. The first officers on scene inched their way around the edges of each room as they searched for survivors. They weren’t trying to preserve evidence no one wanted to step in that much blood. And with that really weren’t expecting to find anyone alive. Pieces of victims were carried out bit by bit for nearly a week. It was a forensic nightmare.

The officers who found her had to break into the room after following a blood trail to the door, only to find her cloistered in the back of the closet beneath a bunch of old musky coats stained with her blood. The combination of the smell: musky fur, stale blood and human excrement remained with the two men. Their stomachs emptied upon seeing Emily broken and begging for help with her eyes. Even mentioning her or her condition made the two turn green. They thought she was dead until her emerald eyes opened.  Severely dehydrated with deep bloody scratches which had turned her flesh into ribbons; her wounds would seep blood for days after her rescue confounding the medical staff. It was months before she was released from the hospital.

Emily allegedly had fled to her room and hidden there until found. She couldn’t explain how she had gotten there or what happened that weekend. Many believed that she was at least partially responsible for the deaths of the twenty three people in attendance. Especially the media who kept the story alive even after the relatives of the deceased pleaded with them to stop.

No evidence was found linking Emily with the deaths according to the investigators’ report in my satchel.  It had cost a pretty penny.  Now, I was wondering if the expense had been worth it.  She was just so ordinary.  So painfully plain.