Souls Collide: Book 1 of The Soul Wars Read online

  Souls Collide

  The Soul Wars: Part 1

  J.D. Blackrose

  To my husband and children,

  who have allowed me to dare to dream.

  To my brother,

  who is a one man cheerleading squad, complete with pom-poms.

  To my mother,

  who shows me what unconditional love looks like every day.

  To my father,

  who told me “Jack the Horse,” was good,

  and

  To my cousins Deborah and John,

  for showing me art is worth doing.

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Acknowledgments

  Falstaff Books

  About the Author

  1

  “Holy Mother of God,” muttered Adelaide Beauchamp (née Rochon), using the strongest language she ever allowed herself. “That…that…vampire thinks he can buy my land, my family’s land? He’s too big for his britches.” She sliced a piece of pecan pie and nicked her left thumb, her hands unsteady with age and anger. She sucked her bleeding thumb and abandoned the pie.

  She continued to talk to the ghosts in the house. “I may be the last of our line,” she said, walking through the mansion, caressing the priceless antique furniture, “but no perversion of nature is getting his hands on Rochon or Beauchamp property.” The house ghosts rattled the chandeliers in agreement. “Stop that!” Adelaide admonished, hurrying to the dining room to check on a crystal light fixture from the 1800s. “They may not stay up.”

  At eighty, she stooped over with a widow’s hump and a belly pooch that looked as if all the fat in her body had either traveled up or fallen down to her midsection. She lived with a Creole woman a short ten years younger than her employer, who now stood at the entrance to the kitchen. “Ma’am, a few more wall tiles fell, and the paint is peeling badly. Should I call the repairman?”

  “Too expensive, Mathilde. Let’s make do for now.”

  “When Mr. Beauchamp was alive, we kept the house in pristine condition.”

  “That was twenty-five years ago, Mathilde. Louis has been gone for over two decades.”

  “But with the house falling into disrepair like this, we cannot have any parties or teas. It just wouldn’t do. You have a reputation to protect.”

  “My days as a society lady are long gone. Do what we always do—hide it with a painting.”

  “Yes’m.” Mathilde sniffed, turned her back, and exited in precise, crisp steps.

  Adelaide studied the woman’s back as Mathilde exited, and then she extracted a parchment envelope from her pocket, running her uninjured thumb over the wax seal, and read the contents for the umpteenth time. The message was delivered by a human, of that she was sure, since it was dropped off in the middle of the day. The deliveryman had exquisite manners and spoke in a lyrical Old-World French. She fumed at the memory. Employing formal etiquette made it impossible for her to refuse the envelope. That Gaspard Bessette had out-maneuvered her.

  Adelaide sat at an old escritoire, an antique writing desk that she still used, and compared Bessette’s note to another from the Historical Society. The Historical Society had agreed to consider the home and its trappings as a Louisiana Heritage Site.

  The photos of her ancestors rattled in their frames. “Hush,” she said to pictures on the desk. “That creature is not getting this land or this house for a long time, hopefully never.” She pounded her walking stick on the hardwood, picked up the receiver of her antique phone, and called for her driver. She was going to meet the lion in his own den. She patted her hair, straightened her pearls, and took measured strides to the car, concentrating on keeping her breath steady. Rochons and Beauchamps don’t show fear.

  The main entryway of Gaspard Bessette’s mansion was heavily guarded, and cameras recorded activity from every angle. The tall, blond Nordic woman who drove that monster truck was most likely responsible for the extra security, Adelaide thought.

  The guard at the gate stopped the car, and her driver, Noel, the eighteen-year-old son of her first driver, handed the guard her greeting card. The guard motioned for her to roll her window down as well.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I need you to exit the vehicle so we can inspect it and check you for weapons.”

  “You must be kidding, young man. I’m not getting out of my own car so you can pat me down like a common criminal!” The whip crack of her voice made the guard step back and mutter “sorry, ma’am,” a reflex programmed into children of the South from birth. He hurried into the guard box and placed a call. Meanwhile, the other guards swept the underside of the black Town Car for bombs. She seethed. Who did he think he was, this vampire?

  The guard on the phone gave a thumbs-up.

  The other guards did a visual inspection of the interior of the vehicle and completed the scan of the external body. Then, the head guard said, “You can go in, Mrs. Beauchamp. Monsieur Bessette is expecting you.”

  As she and Noel waited for the gate to slide open, she heard the head guard say, “Kara is not going to like this breach in protocol.”

  A second guard replied, “Well, I’m not going to be the one to tell her. She’d kick my ass.”

  “Can you believe she carries an actual sword?”

  “She has a shield, too.”

  “I don’t think she’s human.”

  The drive up to the house took another ten minutes.

  “Noel,” Adelaide said, “did you know that this house originally belonged to the Leroux family? They died out years ago.”

  “No, ma’am, but I’m sure my pa remembers.”

  “They had the most extravagant balls held in this house. I can still recall kissing the Leroux boy in the rose garden.”

  The teenager swallowed and willed that mental image away. “Sounds fun, ma’am.”

  She knew the house’s electricity and plumbing had been completely replaced, and she assumed the kitchen was re-done. The exterior and the gardens were returned to their former glory, but the statues had been replaced with more security-friendly low stone walkways and benches. Adelaide felt like she was moving into a beautiful bunker.

  Noel opened the car door for her, and she exited the vehicle holding his hand. He walked her to the entrance, where a butler and more security greeted them. A suited man with a crew-cut held Noel back. “I’m sorry, son, but you can’t come in with Mrs. Beauchamp.”

  Noel raised his eyebrows and glanced at Adelaide. She patted his hand. “It will be all right, Noel. I won’t be long, so please stay with the car.” Noel nodded.

  Reminding herself that she was a Rochon and a Beauchamp, Adelaide entered the vampire’s lair. The entryway was illuminated by lights that somehow mimicked both the warmth of the sun and the elegance of the stars. The ceiling soared, revealing an arched staircase leading on both sides to the second floor balcony. The floor tile was a white and black pattern, and the walls were painted a light blush. Ornate mirrors graced both sides of the entrance to further refract the light, creating an experience of floating through the mid-day sky.

  A voice said, “Welcome to my home, Madame Beauchamp.”

  Adelaide turned her head toward the voice, which emanated from the en
trance of the sitting room.

  His baritone was silky smooth with a slight edge, like whisky on ice. The man who addressed her wore a custom blue pinstriped suit with a lighter blue tie and matching pocket square. His long dark hair, marred only by a white streak from his left temple, was pulled back into a queue held by a blue ribbon. The last time she had seen him, his hair had been cut short. She wondered how a dead person grew hair.

  His eyes matched his tie, a sparkly blue that had undoubtedly charmed many ladies in the past. His mouth was quirked into an amused smile as he walked toward her with his arm out as a signal that he would escort her into the sitting room.

  She ignored the arm, walked right past him, and settled herself on a long chaise.

  Startled by her poor manners, Gaspard Bessette lowered his arm and followed her, his eyes now glinting with both amusement and some annoyance. He sat across from her, taking a moment to unbutton his jacket and inhale a small breath.

  “Madame, how may I help you?”

  Adelaide did her best to straighten her shoulders. “You can start by ceasing to offer me money for my house and land. I am not selling.” She tossed his latest missive on a side table.

  Gaspard pursed his lips and stared at her as if he could see through her soul. The seriousness of his scrutiny combined with the luxuriousness of his lips reminded her of those secret embraces with the Leroux boy. Parts of her that were way too old to be tingling sat up and noticed. She found that irritating.

  He settled back on the chaise and asked, “Isn’t your maiden name Rochon?”

  “Yes, my family has been here for generations. Unfortunately, I am the only remaining member of my family.” She grasped her hands together at the last.

  “I knew a Baron de Rochon in the 1700s, who lived in Franche-Comté. Are you from the same family?”

  “You knew him? Personally, knew him?”

  “Yes, Madame, I am somewhat older than you may think.”

  Adelaide knew vampires lived a long time, but it was difficult to imagine the man in front of her, who looked to be a virile forty, as centuries old.

  “Yes, our lineage goes back that far,” said Adelaide. “We have few records, but he was indeed my distant, very distant, ancestor.” Leaning forward, she said, “I would love to know any details you could share about him and the family.”

  Gaspard closed his eyes a moment and then torqued his head in a brief nod.

  “Le Baron was a portly man as he aged, but he started slim and was quite a good horseman. He was known for being fair and honest to the villagers, but ruthless when it came to criminals. As a result, his barony had little crime. A story followed him for his whole life about how he came upon a horse thief stealing from his barn. He, it is said, singlehandedly captured the criminal and then personally drew and quartered him. It is reported that he buried the head and left the other pieces on the main traveling road as a warning for others.”

  Adelaide was rapt. “Is the story true?”

  “After a fashion. His son, not him, did come upon a horse thief and capture him, but in a moment of mercy for the poor soul, the son declined to kill the thief and placed pig parts on the main road instead.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I was the horse thief.”

  Adelaide’s jaw dropped.

  “I was human then, not yet turned, aged forty and knew better, but my son and wife had died from disease, and in my mourning, I took to drink and lost my position as a cook. Forty was old in those days, and between illness and famine, I was weak and desperate for food. I couldn’t ride well, but I thought to steal the horse and sell it. Your ancestor had other plans. He warned me not to try to steal from the family again, gave me an apple from his pocket, and sent me on my way with a few coins. He felt sorry for me, and that one moment of kindness saved my life.”

  Adelaide sat back and lifted her chin. “It’s a nice story, and it may even be true, but I am still not selling to you. In fact, I have deeded my house, land, and belongings to the Historical Society with a promise that they will maintain the property as a museum for one hundred years.”

  Gaspard raised one eyebrow. “Then I shall wait another one hundred years.”

  “If you live another one hundred years. You are quite hard to kill I understand, but not impossible.”

  “Are you threatening me, Madame?”

  Adelaide laughed, gesturing at her frail frame. “No, Monsieur, I am no threat to you, but I do not want a vampire owning my property. I am doing all I can to prolong that occurrence.”

  Gaspard stood, buttoning his jacket. A man dressed in a butler’s uniform appeared at the entrance, apparently summoned by some invisible signal.

  “Please escort Madame to her car. She has made her case quite plain.”

  “Yes, I have. Good evening, sir.”

  Adelaide followed the butler out, once again refusing the proffered arm, and tottered to her car where Noel was waiting. She entered the car with as much grace as she could muster because she knew that Gaspard watched her. Once inside the vehicle, she let out a wheezy breath and allowed the fear to seep in.

  The vampire’s entire being screamed power. She could feel it in his look, his voice, even the posture of his body revealed him to be the dominant force in the room. How was she, an old human woman, supposed to oppose that? She wondered how many vampires lived in the mansion. She’d seen several in the past but surmised that since she didn’t frequent the grounds at night, she would not have an accurate estimate. It could be dozens, hundreds even. Was the only thing keeping them in control Gaspard’s sheer will? She hoped not, even though his will was formidable, because that seemed too thin a thread to hang on. Which brought her to her other question. The human muscle and weaponry was equally as intimidating as his presence, but she couldn’t help but wonder why he needed all that security. Who could a man like Gaspard Bessette possibly be afraid of?

  2

  Gaspard stood at the living room window and watched as Adelaide drove off. As a master vampire, the small amount of fading light didn’t bother him, and he took a moment to enjoy the view from his window before full dark.

  Adelaide was a proud lady, something he could appreciate. It took a certain kind of toughness to approach him in his own home. He didn’t understand the reason for her refusal. His financial offers had been generous, but he could afford to wait longer if need be.

  He thought back to those days long ago in the Burgundy region of France and the junior Baron de Rochon, not yet of title, who caught him thieving. Despite all the generations between them, Adelaide had his nose and his spirit. Of course, he hadn’t told her the whole story, and he doubted he ever would.

  She did not need to know that the person who turned him was the then residing Baron de Rochon. When the hale and strong son found the desperate and frail Gaspard, he beat him to a pulp and dragged him in front of his father. There were already rumors about the reclusive Baron and his penchant for only appearing in the evening. The stories claimed that the father was a blood drinking monster of the night and that is why the son ruled the day. They weren’t too far off.

  Gaspard tumbled on the floor of the Baron’s study, bleeding everywhere from the son’s assault. He remembered it like it happened yesterday.

  “Henri,” said the father to his son. “Good work. Leave us.” Gaspard recalled the look on Henri’s face as he realized he had miscalculated. Nevertheless, disobeying his father was impossible, and he retreated. As he did, he cast a look at Gaspard and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  When Gaspard glanced up at the Baron, his bowels loosened and he pissed his pants. The Baron’s face was stretched and pale white. His eyes were bloodshot, and most frightening, his fangs were two inches long.

  Despite his injuries, Gaspard scuttled backward toward the door attempting an escape. He left a trail of blood along the floor and shivered when the Baron bent down on one knee, ran his finger through the blood and sucked, reveling in the taste.


  Gaspard grasped the door handle, but it was locked. He was gasping for breath now, physical injuries forgotten. His mind was ripe with fear, and panic told him to run, run, run. His back hit the door, and he stood, whirled around, and pounded on the wood, yelling for help.

  He swirled back around to face the monster but saw nothing because the monster was already at his throat. He collapsed to the floor, held in the Baron’s arms like a child, losing his senses, and crying inside for the mother he could barely remember.

  He woke with a pounding headache, a mighty thirst, and the feeling that the room was too bright. He blinked several times and covered his eyes with his hands against the light.

  “You will get used to that in time,” a voice said. “Your senses are heightened.”

  The Baron stood off to the side holding a glass of wine. He handed it Gaspard. “Drink this. You will feel better.”

  Gaspard gulped the wine down, his thirst driving him past delicacy. “Merci, Baron. What is this vintage?”

  “Scullery maid number three, I believe.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s human blood.”

  Gaspard dropped the goblet to the ground and put his hand to his mouth. He felt his own fangs, and the events of the past hour returned to him.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “No. Don’t believe He had anything to do with it. Maybe more of the Devil, if you ask me.”

  “You’ve turned me into a monster.”

  “That is a matter of opinion. I need a student, an heir. You seemed to fit the bill.”

  “You have an heir. Your son.”

  “He takes care of daytime duties. I need someone to learn my nighttime responsibilities. Together, you will run the barony when I am required to leave.”