BYRON, SIX WORDS
1.
OF ALL THE TIMES I HAD COMMITTED MURDER, there was but one that filled my heart with regret. It haunted me ever since I left Myrtle Hall on self-imposed exile. I deserved no mercy; the flames of hell wouldn't be enough punishment to pay for what I had done. And perhaps that was why I had chosen this place as my new home. The sizzling heat of the summer day permeated every street corner in Istanbul, reminding me of my imminent appointment with the Devil.
Memories were a prickly nuisance. A single nudge sufficed to stir them back into life with renewed strength, but also, a slight push to the back of my mind silenced them long enough to allow myself a bit of fun.
There was a small forsaken coffee shop a few streets away from the bustling market. Saffron, cinnamon, and cardamom lingered in the air as I moved through the jostling crowd. It tingled the senses or at least would have in times past. But the hour was late, and the market would soon close. As much as I enjoyed the unbearable cacophony of bartering locals and tourists, my heart ached for a moment of silence and solitude.
No longer had streaks of red and purple tinged the dark blue sky. Evening set fast, quieting my concerns until the first rays announced the rising sun. The old pocket watch remained inside my dressing room's drawer back at London.
The sight of bright multicolored tapestries soon disappeared. I stood before the weathered door ... the crackled wood planks, the rusted hinges ... yet the most alluring view I had come across so far.
The distant call of the baglama drew me closer. I stopped at the shack's doorway and leaned against its rotting jamb to feed my eyes with the precious mortals huddled in the darkened room. The melody wrapped me in a trance, driving my thoughts away from the pulsing hunger rattling in my damned entrails.
Oh, how I want them.
A woman sat on a wooden stool at the end of the room, hugging the baglama between her delicate hands. Her eyes were a hazy shade of green that gleamed against her smooth tanned skin. Her enticing fragrance was that of jasmines and twined in the air with the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
Byron Bay?' A hand landed on my shoulder, tearing me away from the trance.
'Yes, that's me,' I said.
'Byron Bay,' he repeated. The man's eyes widened, an all too familiar reaction whenever my family's name was mentioned. 'The poet!
'No.' I pursed my lips. 'It's just Henry Byron, I'm afraid.'
No matter how distant our blood bond ... I preceded him by centuries ... I could never escape the shadow of his fame. George had spent the summer in this part of the region a while ago, and by the looks of it, he'd made quite an impression.
'Henry Byron Bay ...' the man cleared his throat. 'Someone waits for you. Beni takip et.' Follow me, he said.
We moved through the tables towards the end of the room, where another door opened. A powerful stare compelled me to look back, but a sideways gaze was enough for our glances to meet. It was the woman playing the baglama. She began to sing, and her voice numbed my senses like an ancient spell.
'This way, Henry Byron Bay ...' the man tugged my arm.
Before me lay a small ottoman room, richly decorated with luxurious tapestries and rugs. One-inch tiles covered the walls in shades of blue and green smalti arranged in floral designs. In the center of the room, before a square table, a man sat guarding a perfectly straight posture. As his eyes fixed on me, he leaned forward, steepling his fingers.
'Have we met before?' I asked, standing in front of him. Dark three-piece suit, silk Ascot tied around his neck ... The man stood out as a foreigner, whereas I wore the more traditional attire, a dark red embroidered yelek and a fitter cepken. I had fled my motherland with the hope of leaving its restrictive lifestyle miles behind ... was there to be no escape?
'Sir Henry,' he said, getting on his feet quickly.
I caught a glimpse of a top hat behind him, it sent a chill down my back. A quizzing glass would have been the death of me, but fortunately he was too young to wear one.
'Spencer? Please, do sit down ...' the old manners crept back into me. Propriety and the rules of common decency slithered beneath my skin, awakened after months of lying dormant. My damned spirit rebelled against them. 'How on earth did you find me?' Blunt and rude, that's more like it.
Spencer's father had worked for my family for decades—one of the best solicitors Holborn had ever spawned. When his father died, I took Spencer under my wing, provided him an education, and saw that he followed his father's footsteps until he stood on his own as a brilliant lawyer ... What the hell was he doing here?
Spencer shrugged his shoulders. 'I was sent here by Mr. Thomas, your butler.' A quick smirk. 'As for how I found you ... the name Byron is easily remembered, Sir.'
'A curse I must learn to live with ...' I mused; my voice was low enough to pass unnoticed.
'Mr. Thomas is an old man; it would have been impossible for him to make the journey ...' Spencer slipped his hand into his pants pocket. 'He wanted me to bring you this.'
He offered me an envelope. The thick parchment was engraved in ancient handwriting such as I had not seen in centuries. With growing hunger throbbing in my veins in tandem with each and every heartbeat, I snatched the envelope from his hands and ripped it open.
'I've come prepared to facilitate your return to London, Sir Henry,' Spencer added. 'I've also brought a suitcase with your clothes, and anything else you might need.'
Too engrossed by the letter in my hands, I paid no mind to Spencer's words and pulled the oil lamp closer. This was no ordinary missive, but one which carried the most dreadful news. Prince Lucio, the grand master of our lineage, found himself in the direst of circumstances. Mysteriously poisoned, his soul lingered in Death's antechamber.
Being the selfish demon that I was, I normally wouldn't give a fig about another blood drinker's condition. But this was different. The key to my immortality lay within his wretched vessel. If Prince Lucio joined the legions in the afterlife, then chances were my deal with the Devil expired or would expire as well ... and I couldn't allow that to happen. Immortality was way too much fun.
'Very well, then ...' I heaved a heavy sigh.
Three months had been enough for me to cherish my new life in the Orient. Slipping back into the shackles of a three-piece suit was quite frankly a disturbing thought ... however, it had to be done.
'Arrange everything for our travels, Spencer,' I said, rising from the seat. 'We leave tomorrow at dusk.'
With nothing more to say, I headed to the doorway.
'Back to London, Sir?' Spencer asked, slipping his top hat beneath his arm.
I turned to him.
'A passage to London for you ...' my hand landed on the door jamb, 'and another one for me ... to Spain perhaps via Italy.'
Perplexed, Spencer nodded. As he walked through the doorway, a dozen questions stirred in his mind, and I read them all including the reasoning that Italy may be a little ... odd, but they remained unanswered.
