Scarlet Vamporium: Vamporium #2 Read online

  Scarlet

  Vamporium

  by

  Poppet

  Book 2 of the Vamporium Series

  A ThorStruck Publication

  Published by ThorStruck Press in 2012

  Copyright © 2012 Poppet

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  First eBook Edition

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1479374502

  ISBN-10: 1479374504

  This novel is dedicated to Scott McCombie,

  (Property Manager & Senior Ranger,

  National Trust for Scotland Glencoe & Dalness)

  and all the other rangers who help to preserve and conserve our delicate world.

  Thank you Scott!

  x

  Prologue

  From Indigo Vamporium... Book 1...

  Glaring at my uncle, I'm flummoxed.

  “What are you freaking out at me for? I'm not the only girl in the world to do it you know! Everyone's doing it!”

  “Just because 'everyone's' doing it, doesn't mean you should be! I don't know what to do with you! How do you manage to get into trouble while out with three chaperones? You're like an eel!” uncle Venix bellows at me, white light pouring rage out of his eyes and doing his best to intimidate me.

  “You're archaic! I shouldn't even be raised by you, a girl needs a female influence in her life! You will never ever understand what it's like to be in my shoes, in this world, in my skin!” I scream.

  “There, you are absolutely right. Go and pack your things. You're banished to your aunt until you learn some sense!”

  “Aaaaaaargh!” I yell, stomping from the lounge, up the stairs, and into my bedroom, slamming the door as loud as I can.

  Four seconds later it opens and I'm staring at two faces, Jo and Seithe. “Just go away,” I hiss.

  “Ellie...” soothes Seithe, and I round on him.

  “Don't Ellie me! You told him! You got me into all this trouble! I'm seventeen, not twelve! Everyone my age is doing it so why can't I?”

  Anger sparks in his eyes and he shoves me hard up against the closet, growling at me, “I'll tell you why. We are here for love. The first step of love is respect. Putting out is just going to make you a jack off vessel. I love you too much to watch some little human asshole treat my sister that way. He must respect you Ellindt, or he will never love you. You aren't some cheap piece of ass, so don't behave like one!”

  Jo pounces onto my bed, jumping up and down on it, thumping the ceiling with each bounce, “It's true. If he is into you there's no hurry. Only jerks want a lay and you are too good for that, Ellie.”

  Seithe slowly releases me, his build three times stronger than mine. “Ellindt, first you cast the foundation, and you build on that. You need to be someone's sun that their whole world revolves around, only then will you know you have the right type of human to offer redemption. When they find out the truth it's going to flip them out. Only love can keep them tied to you even when the secret's out. You are not human so stop trying to fit in. You are better than that and you need a man who is committed for the long haul, not for a quick romp up your skirt.”

  “Just get out,” I point at my door, hearing Venix coming up the steps to send me away.

  “I told him because I'm protecting you Ellie. And the next time I catch a human up your skirt he'd better be ready for death. The man who lies with you best be prepared to die for the pleasure!” He yanks my door open and marches out, my twin angrier than I've ever seen him.

  Jo nods at me with an 'I told you so' sneer, and follows his idol out of my room.

  The threshold is immediately refilled by my enormous uncle, “Let's go. Selene's waiting for you.”

  ***

  Residing on the outskirts of Glencoe, we're high above the river Coe in a hideaway nestled between two elevated peaks with a deep and glorious vale swooping through, situated perfectly between Lock Leven and Loch Achtriochtan.

  It's picturesque and fey, in every way. It feels like this savage and beautiful place has thwarted man in the battle for sovereignty. Here the land reigns supreme and it reminds the trail plodders of its might through awe and aggressive brutality. It's a dichotomous dimension which both bewitches and tortures the impure. Respect it or it will slay you the way it massacred your ancestors before you. Where else would you expect to find the Devil's Staircase? It's right here in A’ Chàrnaich.

  This cutlass of granite is so beautiful it tames the corrupt. It is also the realm where a caldera cauldron crater resides in glacial majesty. The U shape of the glen is intimidating and grim as this is the site of a long ago supermassive volcano which erupted with enough force that the world felt like it had fallen deep into the abyss to be choked with Satan's shackles.

  Yet now the imposing mountains are sliced with silver streams and smothered in lush green. In this impressive empire the ego becomes extinct while you are humbled by the dominion of Seelie and Unseelie shamans and the boughs they point into your heart. It's hypnotizing and transcendent. There is no other way to explain how ethereal this esoteric slice of earth makes me feel.

  But despite me wanting to explore this exotic territory, Selene has made it perfectly clear I will be staying away from trouble.

  I know what that means. I turn heads and I'll get noticed. I've literally been banished to the end of the earth.

  Punishment doesn't get any deeper than this.

  Chapter 1

  Ellindt:

  Breathless, giddy, I am so happy and I can't explain it. My heart is pounding with anticipatory excitement. Enraptured with Coe, I flirt down the steps and prance onto the immaculate lawn, twirling in my medieval dress secured with sky blue ribbons.

  It's thrilling to splash my skirt out in a billowing sail when I run over turf right into the copse of trees at the bottom of the garden, dancing from trunk to trunk on fragrant mulch.

  The infinite woods are on a slope and I skip downhill between boughs, hopping over stumps carpeted in thick clubmoss. Dappled sunlight turns the forest floor into a miniature mountain range in hues of hessian and viridian.

  Zooming through glades I duck under low hanging branches draped with beard lichen. It gives the trees a sage scruff of old age and wisdom. Lungwort lichen sticks out of rowan trunks like mismatched oak leaves, and I'm awed as I make my way over ferny bracken and around brambles. The blueberries are already forming blue-black juicy fruit and I pause just long enough to select a handful, dropped berries staining the loam with purple spatter from my footsteps.

  Spying a curious robin I watch the bold bird flit through the branches to perch lower down, staring at me from a shelf of juniper hedge.

  As I sneak closer he swoops off his twig and disappears. Giggling, I rush up to it to look for him.

  The blood starts pounding in my ears when instead of finding robin redbreast I'm staring at a guy with his back to me. His shirt is off and long strawberry blond hair flaps across wide shoulders while he fiddles with his fishing line.

  It poured with rain yesterday and even today isn't that warm. His blood must belong to a polar bear for him to not feel the tendrils of cool still clinging to the pockets of shadow.

  A dull zzzzip curls across the fresh silence when his spool unravels again and he renews the battle with a wriggling fishing rod. The motion causes long muscles lining down behind his ribs to flare o
ut, enhancing a lean physique.

  He snares his catch and pops it onto a fisherman's basket which is set next to his feet. Tossing the hook back into the brook, he is oblivious to my presence. He's wearing combat boots that act as a corset for his legs, highlighting the impressive calf muscles sitting like plump cleavage above the black leather of his shoes, his jeans wet and clinging.

  Wow!

  He snaps around with wide eyes, as if sensing me the way you sense a ghost walking over your grave. “Allo!”

  His startled features dissolve into a charming smile and I am smiling back, unashamed to be caught spying.

  “Hello,” I nod, shyly tucking errant strands behind my ear.

  He puts the rod in some kind of anchoring brace on the ground and strolls over to me, offering a hand in greeting, “I'm Douglas, but ye can just call me Doug.”

  Shaking the hand locking mine in a firm grip, I stare at the rippling muscles in his forearm briefly before turning on my sunbeam smile, “I'm Ellindt.”

  “What're ye doin' here? Yer surely not dressed fer fishin'.”

  Laughing, I extricate my hand to restrain my breeze blustered hair, “I've been sent to stay at the house just above. I got into trouble and was told I needed some rehabilitation time with my aunt.”

  Only after I say it do I remember that no one knows about the house we have hidden here. Oops.

  The boreal wind gusts down the slope, flapping my lily-bell sleeves and encouraging leaves to applaud in a hushed clap. It's a whispering omen which sends a trill chasing across my nape and straight down my spine.

  “So yer gonnae be around here for a while then?” he says.

  “Yes,” I nod, smiling at the delight the prospect seems to have given him.

  “That's great. Yer gonna need a tour guide. Ye can't be wonderin' these glens on yer own, we've got plenty of wild beasties roamin' here.”

  “Beasties?”

  Gosh, his accent is so smooth you could lick it up.

  “Aye, we've got deer an' badgers, foxes an' wildcats, not to mention the dragons an' loch monsters.”

  The twinkle in his eyes and a lone twitching dimple betray him.

  “You're teasing!” I accuse.

  “What gave me away?” he laughs, and it's like spun sugar catching morning sunshine. It's that warm and intoxicating.

  Shaking my head, laughing with him, I'm captivated. “Your eyes, they totally let on you were just having a laugh.”

  “Och, the damn Celtic eyes, we cannae hide a thing.” Stepping a tiny bit closer to the hedgerow separating us, he looks down at me while I struggle to keep my eyes off his chest and on his face. “So are ye gonnae hide behind that hedge or are yer gonnae come to this side?”

  I look up and down the border of shrubbery and wonder how on earth I can even get to the other side.

  “I'd escape if I knew how,” I mumble, looking for a gap in the bland spikes of evergreen.

  Before I can blink he leans over, grips my waist, and hoists me high over the thicket. Without warning I'm airborne as a butterfly and it's instinct to brace my hands on his shoulders. He sets my feet down on the uneven sedge bordering the stream, making the moment strangely intimate.

  I felt every muscle in his upper chest cording under my fingers when he did that maneuver, and I'm loathe to relinquish the touch but know propriety insists I do.

  His hands are warm and inviting, and now I can clearly gauge the difference in our height. I must have been elevated behind the boscage because now I barely take him to his chest.

  Lowering my hands I step carefully away, automatically looking at my footing and then at the surrounds. This creek is both spellbinding and mystical. Spindly trees line both banks, their bark coated in lush moss and patched with sage green lichen. The incline exposes a gorgeous view of the ambling rivulet chuckling over rocks. It's brilliantly bordered with emerald moorgrass intermingling with bladderwort and ling.

  It's a rich tweed tapestry of deep spinach to bright pea greens, woven with thick strands of gray, russet, and faded browns, all speckled with shade freckles and mote suspending sunshine.

  Dingles provide privacy and solitude, their bases subdued with gorse and liverwort which morph to scrub closer to our enclave.

  He fits this landscape perfectly. Rugged but enticing, untamed yet fascinating. Just in this quick survey I can see trails etching scars through grass hedgehogs, leading into the surrounding trees. They beckon with adventure and memories of magical tales where the weald hold mysteries and ancient secrets.

  “So where did ye come from?”

  “I was on holiday in South Africa but my uncle lost his cool with me, so here I am.”

  “It must feel cold here tae ye then?”

  “It's a bit of a shock but I quite like it,” I nod, venturing closer to the birch on my left, its base wearing a thick bright green and red blanket of haircap moss. Stuck up the trunk is a kind of black growth looking like upside down stepping stones.

  “That's tinder fungus. Ye can tell when its fruiting because it turns from gray tae black and wet,” he explains.

  “Ew,” I step back, not wanting to touch it.

  Clasping my arm to get my attention, he gestures to the branches crisscrossing over our heads, “Never walk just looking at the ground. If yer really lucky ye might see a wildcat or marten overhead.”

  Looking up, the chaffinch chatter sprinkles over us like fairy blessings. It's magical; more portents of goodwill. The intoxicating scent of wet bark, decomposing leaves, and sprite-breath stroking up and down moss and lichen still fragrant with yesterday's rain and humidity soothe my lungs with every inhalation.

  The scope and ambiance of the strath tattoos my skin, filtering excitement into my veins. It's a cloistered pocket of elemental wonder which I've stepped into. My heart tingles with the primordial heartbeat of Caledonia, and I feel like I've come home. My kind belong here.

  This is the environment I've been missing. The scent of loam and water, forest wildflowers and peat, it sits like a thick cape on naked shoulders, shielding me in the green camouflage of elemental gods.

  “So um, I guess this land is full of radiation then?” I give him a naughty half smile, seeing if he can take his own medicine.

  Scowling, he draws both sandy eyebrows together, highlighting the midnight crescents circling his thundercloud eyes. “Naw. Why in the world would ye think that?”

  “Because you're built like you eat plutonium for breakfast.”

  Laughing indulgently, he flicks hair behind his shoulder, “It's called oats lass. We can't all be fey dainty creatures like you.”

  He gives me an enigmatic stare before touching my elbow and leading me towards where his gear waits.

  “What's with the look?” I ask, inhaling the heady aroma from the dark pink blooms on the ladies tresses, and river misted glittering woodmoss.

  I'm captivated staring upstream at big boulders draped in cloaks of velvet green while crystalline fluid gurgles between them.

  “I thought mebbe ye were sidhe when I first saw ye.”

  Pulling my curious gaze off the wind combed scenery, I look back up into his eyes. His guile is enchanting. His face is like an open palm waiting for a Gypsy to run her fingers down his fate line.

  “What's shee?” I ask, confused.

  “It's the gaelic word fer the faeries. We call them the sidhe, and although ye pronounce it shee it isnae spelled that way.”

  Arching my eyebrows, I'm tempted to laugh. “You thought I was a fairy?”

  “Aye, well look at ye, all dressed up like Morgan. And well...” He trails off, looking embarrassed by his spontaneous confession.

  “I'm five foot nine, trust me, you're tall by anyone's standards,” I argue.

  Fairy? I could be confused with many things, but fairy isn't one of them.

  He gives me a gentle smile, it softens his eyes into dewy moor mist, “I didnae mean it tae be an insult. They're well known fer their beauty, an' they're not the way the m
ovies make them look. They're tall too, they look human, just exceptionally attractive.”

  This time he hits the bulls-eye and I get that awful sensation of heat rash chaffing my neck and cheeks.

  “Right,” I smirk, ducking my face behind my hair and returning my focus to our cloistered surroundings.

  He thinks I'm attractive!

  “So dae ye like fishin'?” he says, retrieving his rod and reeling in the line.

  “Um, never done it,” I confess.

  His glance is incredulous, and I dare say I'm enjoying feeling tiny for a change. I'm taller than most girls, but Doug makes me feel like a shamrock elf.

  “I'll haev'ta show ye then,” he smiles, stepping behind me and engulfing me bodily between his arms, planting the cork handled rod between my fingers.

  Wrapping his hands around mine he forces me to lift the rod up, flick it forward, and watch the line unravel like a spiderweb looping to a new location.

  His fingers firmly grip mine and I'm immediately overwhelmed with the sharp spruce scent of his cologne. Although it's probably deodorant, either way it matches this majestic dell perfectly.

  “What are we fishing?” I ask, scrambling for equilibrium.

  “Brown trout. They're mostly wee but they'll do fer smokin',” he explains.

  What?

  “Um, how the heck do you smoke fish?”

  I have all sorts of looney images littering my thoughts. I would imagine it would have to be really dry before you can smoke it. Who wants to smoke fish? I think cigars stink enough, ground up fish must stench something putrid.

  Releasing my hands he steps back to my side, gesturing enthusiastically, “I'm masterin' the technique at the moment. That's why I dinnae mind catching wee fish fer experimentin'. I have a proper wooden box, and it looks a wee bit like a postbox with a slot at the back. Ye hang the fish inside on hooks and make a smolderin' hickory' fire beneath them. It's the same way they used tae make beef jerky in the olden days. Och, it tastes really good when ye get the smokin' just right, and it cooks a treat too cos the smoke partly preserves the fish fer ye. It makes the meat salmon pink. Serve that with a decent sherry sauce and yer smitten.”