A Vampyre's Daughter by Jeff Schanz (ebooks children's books free TXT) 📕

the elements. Makes perfect sense. Right? Ok, so what about the glowing eyes? Brandt shook his head, which reminded him that moving his neck still hurt. He had no explanation for the eyes, but he had also been floating in frigid water for who knows how long, so his brain was probably addled from shock, concussion, and cold. The eyes didn’t matter. The rest of the explanation made sense.

And it seemed the more rest he got, the more his body recovered, so perhaps it was best to stop stressing himself out trying to solve this entire mystery right now. He was safe and warm regardless of the bone-rattling chills in his joints. He had to be on one of the Channel Islands in a park service cabin. It was the only thing that made sense. He could work on remembering everything else later. More rest was needed.

He lay back down, relaxed, and eventually fell asleep.

 

 

By the time he awoke, the natural light coming from the window was dimmer and had an orange hue. It was still light enough to see easily, though the sun had most certainly retired to the opposite side of whatever structure he was in, and the light coming from the window was an ambient reflection rather than a direct beam. Brandt’s body was still weak and he was reluctant to bend or strain it getting out of bed, but he pushed himself slowly until he sat all the way up with his feet flat on the floor. He was determined to at least get to the door and have a look outside of his room. Maybe he could find out who else was here with him. Of course, he could just shout out, and if there was someone here, they might come into his room. He felt caution was prudent in an unknown situation, and if for some reason the people who brought him here were not as benevolent as he assumed, then maybe having a sneak peek would be a good idea. He doubted someone would go to the trouble of airlifting him here if they wished him harm, but his survivor’s brain was not hearing any other arguments at the moment. He carefully stood up straight next to his bed.

Rembrandt Dekker, Brandt to everyone except his mother, had recovered most of his wits from that last nap. He now remembered why he had been floating alone in the cold Pacific Ocean. Memories he had sought earlier to regain were now suddenly unwanted. The relief he had felt when he found himself alive, and in one piece, was replaced by a sober recollection of his failure. He shouldn’t be alive. He hadn’t wanted to be. Yet here he was. And the reason he had come way out here, the culmination of six months of obsession, was still unfulfilled. Once again, he was the reluctant sole survivor.

That recollection also meant that the wrong people may know he was still alive, and here. It was still uncertain where “here” was. His assumption was one of the islands. He took a slow step toward the window and leaned against the wall.

Outside was an endless stretch of dark blue water, rippling and tossing with a steady wind. In every visible direction, there were no landmarks and no indication that there was any civilization nearby. There were no sounds of cars, or people, or even airplanes. There was only the growl of the wind and the distant shrieks of seabirds. Brandt thought he might have heard the bark of a sea lion as well. Brandt leaned his head out of the window and glanced downward. Damn, my neck is stiff. The pain was sharp, thankfully only lasting a moment before it was simply an ache. He saw that he was on the second floor of a large house. Are there houses this big on any of the islands? He didn’t think there should be, but he wasn’t an expert. The house rested on a flat section of rocky ground which ended abruptly in a steep rock-faced cliff. The cliff rose directly from the foamy surf, framed in jagged boulders. There was no hint of human accessibility anywhere within view. Anyone climbing that cliff better be sure they had a secure rope or they could fall and be turned into a gruesome abstract painting on those rocks below. It certainly looked like one of the California Channel Islands, though Brandt couldn’t figure why there was a mansion-sized house way out here. Nobody could possibly live on one of these islands.

A majority of the islands were more than fifty miles from civilization. There were very few beaches on any of them. They were formed from solid rock that had been thrust up from the sea when tectonic plates collided eons ago. Most of the islands didn’t have much foliage except for low rising grass, weeds, and some scrub trees. Birds, sea lions, and crabs were about the only things that would call the islands home. A couple of the islands had welcoming terrain that supported tourism like hiking or camping, and Catalina Island actually boasted permanent residents and hotels, though that was also much closer to the mainland. The other islands were inhospitable and offered no ingress without a lengthy manmade staircase or manufactured ramp of some sort. Before California became a desirable destination for Americans, the Chumash Indians dwelled on the islands. The harsh mountainous land was difficult to navigate or grow anything on, so the Chumash eventually migrated to the California mainland. With the Indian territorial claim, and the fact that the islands didn’t have an immediate use, it took a long time before the government officially annexed most of the islands, leaving only a few that remained privately owned for many years. Today, they were an attraction for tourists to mainly just look at, or to kayak near, and a hotspot for viewing marine fauna like whales, sea lions, and dolphins. The westernmost islands were less frequented by whale watching tours because of the tremendous amount of diesel needed to drive there and back, and seldom used as camping destinations since the time to and from civilization was far greater, and was more dangerous in case of emergency. And though the idea of an uninhabited California island sounds great on a brochure for a getaway destination, the frigid Pacific Ocean, and an atmosphere more like Maine than the tropics, plus nearly unscalable cliff faces, make the westernmost islands less inviting in reality.

Brandt had realized he had been holding his breath against the pain and leaned back inside and braced himself on the wall. He took several even breaths and the pain subsided. The distance to the door seemed impossibly far, but Brandt was not about to waste the effort of standing up with the sole result being a glance out of the window. If he had to crawl all the way, he was going to have a look outside that door.

Brandt took a timid step, satisfied himself that his knee and ankle would hold, then took another step. The iron rail at the foot of the bed was a welcome object to rest his weight upon and he paused there for several seconds before starting the long journey between the bed and the door. Never before had ten feet seemed like a marathon to traverse. Well, maybe once before. The chills that had rattled him earlier in the bed were returning since he was no longer bundled in a thick comforter. The air probably wasn’t that cold, but the time he had spent floating in the frigid Pacific had embedded an iciness deep inside his body that would probably take days to fully overcome. He would risk the chilliness for now. The door beckoned.

It was a bland, white door with raised rectangles that constituted the design. It had a brass knob that was the old-fashioned oblong shape rather than the more modern round knob or bar lever. It even looked like it had a keyhole underneath the knob. Serious old school. On any other day, walking to that door would be taken for granted. Today, it was Everest.

Brandt filled his lungs, held it, and started forward.

The first step went fine. The next went all right. The third was a struggle. Brandt started to feel the unwelcome prickle of a fainting spell swarm through his muscles. He stumbled forward and slammed into the door. He waited for a few moments while his body relaxed and accepted that he was at rest, even if it was resting upright against a door. Before he grasped the knob, he listened through the door to see if he could hear anything outside. There was nothing. The ocean noises behind him were louder than anything he heard through the door. He gripped the doorknob and twisted.

The door creaked open like a sick goat bleating. Loudly bleating. If there was anyone in the house, they would know for sure that Brandt was coming out of his room. He waited, listening for any sounds of someone racing toward him. Nothing. No voices, no footsteps. No rustling of objects, clanking of plates, slamming of doors. Zilch. Brandt allowed the door to creak further open and he leaned out of the doorway, gripping the door frame.

He looked down a hallway. It was wide enough for two slender tables to be lined up across from each other. The floor had ornate carpet runners covering the length of the hall, which was about fifty feet long. The walls appeared to be the same bland white of his room and had the same absence of light fixtures. However, there were several iron sconces that would hold candles. No candles were currently inside them. At the end of the hallway was an open area that looked like it began a stairway down.

Brandt looked left and right, wincing from the spike of pain in his neck. He saw no one in the hall. No doors were open, despite several doorways identical to the one he was standing in. Light came from the stairway area, though not bright. It was hard to tell if it was natural light or candlelight. Brandt made the assumptive leap that there was no electric light in this house. To his right was another door and an adjoining perpendicular hall that he couldn’t see into.

He decided to head toward the stairwell. The hallway may be empty and quiet by itself, but the wooden floor would probably be loud and squeaky once Brandt tried to sneak down. The floor in the room wasn’t squeaky, so maybe the hall won’t be either. Brandt took a step into the hall, put his full weight on his foot, and waited. No sound. Perhaps the smallest of creaks and the shoosh of a pant leg against an ankle, nothing loud enough that anyone other than a dog could hear. Brandt exhaled softly and proceeded forward. His hand slid along the wall for support as he took several steps. The shiver and tingle in his muscles were still present but subdued since his body was in motion. Slowly, laboriously, he made his way to the end of the hall.

He stood at a railing which overlooked a large room, with a set of stairs leading down. The room below was vast and somewhat dark. The walls were a mix of grey, black, and brown stone, stacked with a random mish-mosh of sizes and shapes, like a farm wall. There was one large woven covering that would probably be called a tapestry, otherwise, there were no pictures or wall décor anywhere. There were also no windows. Despite that, there was enough natural light to see everything. That light came mostly from slender rectangles of brown beer-bottle colored glass along the edge of the ceiling. They surrounded the house on three sides, save for the upper hallway where Brandt was. The glass was warped and bubbly, not fit for looking through, just sheer enough to allow light in. It