Adamant Spirits, page 64
“You still have to serve in the army, though, huh?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, that’ll be okay. Do you think your grandmother’s going to be upset?”
I nodded. “Well, she won’t be happy. I mean, she’s fine with you, she likes you, it isn’t that. But she told me not to get involved, and instead, we got engaged.”
“I’m happy, are you?”
I smiled. “God, yes. I mean, I’m terrified but happy it’s you.”
He held my hand in his. “It’s official now, you and me. You still haven’t seen the house. It’ll be our house now.”
“Well, I’m sure it is more comfortable than the shed.”
He grimaced. “I’m sorry about that. Tomorrow I’ll take you out there. You can start thinking about how you want it to be. For you, for us.”
“Our home, that does sound wonderful,” I said, looking dreamily at him.
I came to Ealach this year hoping to win his attention but never dreamed I’d end up promised to him as his bride.
Suddenly everything blurred. My head was spinning.
“Marjorie, that’s enough for now,” a voice said.
I opened my eyes and remembered I was in the faery realm. These were lost memories that my mother’s parents were helping me remember.
“How did I forget all of that?” I thought to myself. “And what else is missing?”
One Night in Mayfair
Heat Level: ☕︎☕︎☕︎☕︎
Chloe Parker
Chloe Parker is a full-time smut peddler and part-time academic working on a PhD in alien eggplant. When she's not dreaming up angsty, fantastical love stories, you can find her spending time with her three little dogs and her delightfully weird husband.
* * *
One Night in Mayfair is a prequel continued in In Her Thrall.
* * *
TikTok
Copyright © 2021 Chloe Parker
Jonathan
It was not my head, but my heart that took me to London.
If I had been smart, I’d have boarded the next train to Norwich and headed home to the country house where I’d spent my youth: a proper, provincial English hamlet where I could, in my mother’s words, “recover” from my newly acquired nervous disorder. Some peace and quiet would do me good, she said. She was anxious to have me home; Alice Morrow, from up the hill, had been asking after me, and wasn’t it high time that a man of my age was married?
Socializing with Alice Morrow was, however, the last thing on my mind. In fact, I had thought of very little beyond the war up until the moment I set foot once again on English shores, windblown and disoriented by the notion that anything might exist beyond the disturbed earth of the French countryside and the ice fields of Siberia. The bright white cliffs of Dover burned my eyes, and I had taken shelter in the belly of the ferry as my comrades took to the deck in celebration.
For I was no longer a man. I was something else entirely: a creature of the night.
When last I’d left England, my mind had been clear, my purpose obvious. The murder of the nurse Edith Cavell had moved me deeply, and I had enlisted the very next day. We had to protect the world from the German menace that had ravaged poor little Belgium; the wicked Hun, animalistic, carnivorous, violent. Monsters were everywhere, and my outrage was a weapon ready to aim at the nearest sinister target.
What I did not realize was that Germans were the least of my worries.
For there was something worse that lurked in the ruined forests of the Front: a beast of mottled flesh and tarnished steel that would slay my entire battalion at the Somme. One night, I woke to the sound of screaming and to something massive prowling through the narrow trenches. I watched as my comrades fell to their knees, their ears bleeding, their eyes going black as night. I tried to help them, to get them to safety; but it was to no avail. I was, apparently, the only person who could see the entity. Unbeknownst to me, there was something in my blood that enabled me to see across the veil of illusion that cloaked the creature, and I was thus able to hide.
The power of an ancient order of hunters coursed through me.
The blood of a Van Helsing.
When I arrived two days later at the nearest field hospital, I was caked in mud and viscera, unable to recall much of my journey. All I could remember was the image of a beast unlike any natural creature: hulking and contorted, constructed of arms and legs and screaming mouths and mirrors. I had only escaped because I was immune to its eldritch magic, which left my compatriots helpless as it devoured them. I had run through the night, into the forest, and somehow emerged on the other side with all but my sanity intact.
That’s where I met him.
He was poorly-dressed for the rain and chill of the Front, though his camel trench-coat and scarlet waistcoat somehow remained immaculate even in the mud. I remembered that his shoes were the only thing that seemed aligned with the otherwise filthy setting, flecked with mud as I sat across the fire from him and told him my story. He poured me a stiff drink in a rusted tin cup, and though my hands shook and my voice stuttered, he believed all that I told him, his blue eyes locked on mine through that endless night.
“You’ve been through quite the ordeal,” Edward Shelley said. “It’s remarkable that you survived.”
“The doctor thinks that I’m mad,” I muttered, raking a hand through my hair. “He’s threatened to send me to Roehampton to be treated for shellshock. But I know what I saw.”
“I believe you,” he said, and his hand touched my shoulder, and for a moment I stopped shaking, heat coursing through my veins. “I can set you at ease; would you like to forget?”
I frowned. “How?”
Something glimmered on his knuckles, then—a flash of color that caught my eye, but had no other effect. Shelley’s brow furrowed, and then he waved his hand before my eyes, another flash of crimson and gold shining in the dim moonlight.
“You’re immune to illusion,” he said, leaning forward. His knee brushed mine, his head cocking to the side and his mouth twisting in a handsome smile. “What are you, Jonathan Wakefield?”
It was thus that a deep and lasting friendship was born. I returned to service with a commendation for my bravery on Edward’s good word, and soon found myself on the Eastern Front, headed north to Siberia with a retinue of hunters like me on my first hunt for the supernatural. I corresponded with Edward as frequently as I could, given the restraints of the postal service, and I dreamed of him often, and of the profound change he’d had on my life.
Edward wasn’t aware that I was passing through London on my way home, though I had told him I was returning from service. My betraying feet, contrary to my plans to board the train to Norwich, carried me out of the station and out onto the cobblestone paths of the city. By all accounts, London had recently fallen victim to a wave of the deadly influenza striking around the world as one last gasp of the vicious war, but the city had been rescued by summer’s saving grace, rooting out the disease where it had taken hold. I had been in the cold north of Russia through the worst of the illness, and had somehow been spared, as I so often was.
While I was away, I wondered if the flu had struck Edward, and had waited a breathless month before hearing from him one cold night in Siberia. He was performing at the Alhambra nightly, he said, so I knew exactly where to find him.
The Alhambra was magnificent, with glowing yellow lamps lighting up the decadent Roman columns outside and draped red fabric between each one. Painted posters in the art nouveau style so popular in France graced the exterior, depicting an elegant hand with a swirl of light and rich color around its outstretched fingers. Edward’s name was painted in bold lettering beneath the illustration, and something clenched in my chest at the sight of all these people waiting to witness his talents.
The theatre was swarming with patrons inside and out as I approached, underdressed in plain grey trousers and a shirt rolled to the elbows. I had no waistcoat, and it was too warm for a jacket; and besides, all I had was my military uniform, stained with blood and sweat and not suited for such a locale. It was a warm night, summer dew accumulating on my forehead, and I brushed my hair back as I bought my ticket and carried my whole duffel inside with me.
I had rarely been in such a luxurious place. Yes, the Alhambra’s exterior was magnificent, but the finery of its interior was even greater. The draped red velvet was everywhere here, almost like stepping into a boudoir. Electric lights were installed in sconces along the walls, housed in twirling art deco settings. I had only ever met Edward in the dingy surroundings of the Front, but this was more his aesthetic: rich, fine fabrics and glowing golden light. I hoped to meet him prior to the show, but upon further inquiry I learned that he would remain backstage until after his performance, and would hold a small reception for honored guests in the aftermath. I cursed myself for neglecting to write about my visit, though I supposed that it had been unplanned to begin with.
It was with some disappointment that I settled into a plush seat, sweating profusely as I tucked my duffel between my knees to wait for the show to begin. My nerves were getting to me, despite the fact that I had faced far greater horrors than visiting a theatre, and my knee bounced incessantly. The man beside me gave me an ugly look, his eyes narrowing at my clothes and my clear show of anxiety, and I tried desperately to stop myself from fidgeting.
The lights saved me, dropping low all over the theatre as a drumroll sounded from the orchestra pit. A small band set off in a jaunty tune, and the crowd applauded, excitement mounting and whispers passing through the audience. The pageantry was somewhat startling, and I waited with bated breath for the moment I would see my friend.
The red curtain parted as the song came to an end, and I felt a thrill that I was sure the rest of the audience felt too when the man himself came into view. Edward was dressed in a black jacket and red silk waistcoat, a bowtie around his neck. His slim form was illuminated from the front of the stage, casting a long shadow on the empty stage behind him, his blue eyes surveying the audience with a wry smile that was most certainly part of the reason he was so popular. His gaze skated over the crowd until they found me in the center, and it felt as if that bright blue would bore right through me. It seemed impossible that he would see me with the stage lights on his face, but somehow, I knew that we had locked eyes across the expanse of bodies. A grin broke out on his face, his white teeth sparkling.
“Welcome to the Alhambra,” he said, his voice echoing over us, drowning me in its rich heat. “I hope you’re ready for the show of a lifetime.”
Edward
It had been three long years since I last saw Jonathan Wakefield and we had only ever spent a few weeks together. Yet, somehow, it felt like seeing an old and dear friend when I spotted him in the audience at the Alhambra.
He was underdressed, yet somehow still wore his ensemble better than many of the socialites surrounding him. Given that he had his travel kit with him, it appeared that he must have come straight from the train station, fulfilling a deep and abiding hope of mine that he would stop over in London for a nightcap before traveling home to Norwich.
The only problem was that his presence made it exceptionally difficult to perform without distraction. With every sequential illusion, I kept my eyes on him, watching how he narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brow; how he leaned forward to examine what I was doing, resting his elbows on his knees. Even from this distance, I could make out the sinewy lines of muscle in his forearms, the dark hair that dusted his pale skin. His lips parted as I performed my last trick, a ball of light that I sent rolling over my shoulders and across my fingers, tossing it into the audience to rain sparks on their mystified faces. Our eyes met as the stars fell, and he gave me a knowing smirk as the audience cheered, his own hands clasping together in appreciation, the illusion reflecting in his dove grey eyes.
God, he was a pretty thing.
I couldn’t be bothered to grapple with the crowds of adoring fans when I stepped through the stage door and into the warm London night, my eyes scanning the onlookers for a glimpse of Jon. When I found him, he was standing just out of reach, bathed in the light of a lone streetlight a few yards away with his duffel beside him. His hands were in his pockets, and he rocked back and forth on his heels like he would rather be somewhere else entirely.
I pressed through the crowd, ignoring those who tried to speak with me until I was able to break through on the other side and stride toward him. Normally I enjoyed the attention, but I had other plans for this evening, and I could not be delayed. Jon smiled as I approached with an extended hand, which he took in a firm grip for a friendly, vigorous shake.
“Surprise,” he said quietly, ever the serious and soft-spoken warrior. He was out of place here in the glamor of the theatre, but it was a refreshing kind of displacement—the kind that reminded me this was not all that life had to offer. “The show was excellent, my friend.”
“You nearly had me distracted enough to ruin the performance,” I chided, and he chuckled. I realized then that our hands were still clasped together, and I quickly drew it away to clap my palm on his shoulder. “No matter, though. I simply wish you’d told me you were planning a visit so I could give you a warmer welcome.”
“It…wasn’t exactly planned,” he said. “And besides, London is warm enough compared to Siberia.”
I released him with a laugh, casting a glance behind me. The crowd would be upon us soon, and I didn’t want them overwhelming Jon, so I gestured down the road. “Let’s get a drink,” I said. “I’m anxious to hear of your travels.”
We spent the next half an hour discussing the time we’d been apart, during which Jon’s life had changed quite dramatically. After I had informed him of his status as a Van Helsing—an ancient order of vampire slayers—he had been put in touch with a squadron of his kin and learned the tools of the trade. I could see the way that he’d filled out, taking note—for academic reasons, of course—of his physique and of the way his pecs strained at the well-worn fabric of his shirt. I also noticed the silver cross hanging in the open collar of his shirt and the silver blade clipped to his belt. He was no longer the trembling, fearful young man I’d met in France.
He was so much better.
Sure of himself. Quiet and somber, yet calculating, his every step illustrating a kind of confidence that a man only took to once he’d come into his own. This was not the man who had almost been committed to Roehampton, but a fine young warrior of some distinction, victoriously returned from a mission to slay evil.
Yet there was something in his eyes that betrayed a haunted nature; that told me he would never forget what he went through at the Somme. And how could he?
Especially when we had never found the culprits.
“You wear the life of a hunter well,” I said, letting my gaze scan his tall form beside me. The muscles of one shoulder were flexed under the white linen of his shirt, his heavy duffel draped with ease over one arm, and I didn’t conceal my admiration for his appearance. “The changes look good on you.”
“I suppose that makes living with such horrors worth it,” he said. “My mother always feared I was too skinny to find myself a wife before, and now…well, I can’t imagine marriage is on the table now that I know what I know.”
“And why is that?” I asked.
“Bringing a woman into this world…or God forbid, a child?” He shook his head with a sigh, squeezing his eyes shut. “The very notion unsettles me.”
I regarded him with a wry smile. “You know that there are plenty of female practitioners, and that I was born into this life,” I said. “And I hope that I turned out alright.”
His eyes widened. “I didn’t know—I meant no offense.”
“None taken,” I said. “You’ve seen things I haven’t. But I want to show you that the occult isn’t all bad.”
“And how do you intend on doing that?”
We’d just come to our destination, and I gestured at the plain wooden door, over which hung an equally plain wooden sign reading “The Brimming Chalice.” Jon gave me a quizzical glance, his eyes flitting from mine to the pub, and then shrugged his shoulders. “What is this?”
I pushed the door open and a flood of voices washed over us, laughter and shouting and even a dash of song. I could smell food, too—fresh chips and curry, if I were to guess from the aroma of cardamom that hit the back of my throat. “This is London’s most notorious haunt for the city’s practitioners,” I said. “Are you ready to meet your people?”
Jon almost looked like he would flee, and I gripped him by the shoulder as he rocked back on his heels, his eyes darting toward the firelight spilling through the front door. “Oh, and Jon?” I said.
“What?”
“I wouldn’t mention your concerns about bringing women into the world of the occult,” I said with a good-natured grin. “The women here might not like it.”
Jonathan
My experience with the occult had thus far been bitter, dark, and dangerous.
Once it became clear that I had Van Helsing blood, I was connected with a squadron of hunters on the Eastern Front. The devastation and chaos of the war—and of Russia’s civil war after their revolution—had left villages in the bleakest reaches of Siberia vulnerable, and vampires had moved in, requiring an expertise that not just any organization possessed.
It was there that I received my training as a hunter. I couldn’t perform magic like Edward, but I was stronger than an ordinary man, faster, quicker with my reflexes. I was also able to resist a vampire’s glamour, a skill I found quite useful when we made our way to Siberia. There, vampires had enthralled an entire village, draining men, women, and children until they were no more than desiccated corpses. We cleared the village, but it was too late—it’s residents were dead.
