Book #2 in the Chrim Chronicles series
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The second book in the Chrim Chronicles occures in three different worlds that collide in an inevitable war.
The reckoning is coming.
I...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The crypt was damp and dark. The tombs were made of solid black stone and stretched high enough to lean my elbows on. On the newly built pair lay garlands made of white and green orchids and on the headstones their names had been painted in silver; Henry Fortier and Demetra Fortier. It was odd to imagine that my aunt and uncle were sealed inside those big blocks of concrete even though I had seen it with my own eyes; the shiny caskets housing their corpses slowly being lowered inside.
A tear fell down my cheek as I relived the day of their deaths in my head, the sight of their bloodstained bodies being thrown on a pile of corpses. Even though I had turned into a vampire, I would never stop honoring the traditions I was taught as a witch. One of those traditions was something witches would say before they left to battle, in case they didn't make it back alive, and though Uncle Henry and Aunt Demetra never knew they were coming into a battle I knew that these words still implied.
Don't mourn me, avenge me.
There is nothing wrong with doing both, I thought to myself. There was none left of our bloodline now, except for me; that one vampire member who would never bring forth a descendant to carry on the bloodline. Just as the Fynce clan, the Fortier line was now as good as extinct, and with that only five of the Original Seven witch bloodlines remained. Soon it would be four.
The Van Velsen mansion nearly touched the sea. Pitch black of color, it was built on giant jagged boulders that stood up from the sea. I climbed across their iron gates. The two towers on both sides of the entrance were topped with spears and their front door had their family sigil carved and painted in the wood; a hissing snake twirled around a lightning bolt. But I would not be going through the front door, not on this day. I walked around the mansion until the solid ground made place for the rough rocks and I climbed up the wall, and slid through the first window.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Two small cribs with white bedding fenced by grey wood stood side by side, separated only by a nightstand which held a lamp. A white canopy was draped over each. The only difference between the twin cribs were the names written above them; Jorvik written in blue and Jovenna written in pink. Small chubby fingers grabbed one of the bedframes. The baby made babbling sounds as he pulled himself up. I met him at the backside of his crib and stared down at Frank's son. His soft hair was brown and wavy, and his eyes bright blue. My fingers gripped the knife's blade tighter. I lifted it and placed it on the boy's soft, ribbed neck. Jorvik let out a sob, then another, and before I knew he cried so loud that I startled and fell back against the wall.
