Prologue
The white tigers roared across the wind, their snarling, guttural cries echoing across the glaciers. Red roses dripped colour across the snow-white ground, delicate butterflies flitted across the glacial landscape; I know what you’re thinking. Butterflies don’t live in sub-zero temperatures. Well they do in my world. Everything’s different in my world, even the most peculiar scenarios play out here like a motion picture. I should really introduce myself; my name is Emily Blackmoore and my age is 512, although I have not aged a day since my twentieth birthday. As you may have already guessed, I’m not human. I’m a combination of species. I’m a vampire by night and a powerful Wicca by day. I know what you’re thinking; vampires can’t walk in the light. I can, I’m a special breed known to all as a Day-walker. We are very powerful as we cannot be disposed of in the normal way vampires would be, that is the demarcation between me and such others. I’m alone in the world but for one other. My sister Elizabeth is my only comrade in this tortured, shattering world. My humble abode is situated within the Tourmaline Islands, no human can find us there, and the island is invisible to their naked eye.
If you should linger long enough and show some interest in my words, then you may hear my story of how I came to be what and who I am today and the battles I must face inwardly and outwardly day by day. I’ll not rush into my story I write this prologue to give you the time to consider my proposal. Such picturesque scenery compiles these islands, more moral beauty than any worldly delight I believe. If you are ready, I shall begin.
Chapter 1.
My story starts in 1656 in England, in the city of London. That was the year of my birth. That was where I lived and subsequently died in mortal body. It was not a nice place to be, full of plague and consumption; I lost my friends to that dreadful disease. I witnessed with my own eyes the Great Fire of London. Thousands lost their homes, loved ones and subsequently endured a world of incredible tragedy. I remember the year 1666 like it was only yesterday. I lived mere streets away from Pudding Lane, where this unfathomable tragedy began. My mother Anne and father Edward were poor and lived on the dirty, depressed streets of London, making a living by begging wealthy strangers for the food they so desperately needed. When I was but a baby, they were taken into a hostel and locked away with the bedlam of the city. Their lives were nothing but a torrent of misery and poverty, yet not once did they complain to their friends, strangers or what I remember as a tot. When I was but three years old, I noticed the sorrows and hardships of the world, not a rainbow was visible from my make-shift crib. I used to pull at my rags, nursing my persistent cough, wondering why those pretty little rich girls had exquisite silk gowns and animal furs, whilst I had none. I was a thoughtful little thing, always asking questions and getting manifestly blunt answers.
I grew up fast and at just five years old I was sent to the work house to earn bread and sixpence for the family. I worked at the factory for many years until I was twelve, I see no point in dwelling on such little insignificant details, and so I will go into no depth about my workhouse years. All I will say about those years is that they were long and times were hard, we worked punishing shifts for pittance and we were degraded and punished for our efforts. Those times stick in my mind, the blurred memories harsh and damask in some forgotten corner of my mind.
Both my mother and father died in the Great Fire when I was only ten years of age. The roaring embers tore through the houses and factories, taking with it loved ones and their possessions. Devastation swept into my heart, overpowering and without any warning. I grieved for my lost family and buried them in Lakebrow Cemetery just one week after their tragic demise. I no longer slept in the dormitories, I longed for something more and by chance the opportunity arose and I was chosen.
When I was thirteen I moved to a new establishment. I was made a governess’ daughter at a home in South London, a maid to a wealthy family who paid me thirty pounds per annum, a lot of money in those times. I was to be tutored by the children’s mother whose name was purely coincidently Mrs Blackmoore. She advised I call her Jennifer and she welcomed me into her home with some such warmth I had never known. She commenced to teach me English, Numeracy, Drawing, Music and needlepoint, a wide repertoire again in those times. I enjoyed my education greatly and strove to become a teacher of sorts when I was much older. That opportunity was snatched from me however, in the forthcoming years I commence to speak of today.
I was resigned to working at the home, but in awe of its beauty and such satisfaction to be a part of that washed over me. The one other pupil there was Lily; she was a quiet and shy little thing. We talked often during lesson breaks and found out we shared a common interest in poetry and dance. Often we would converse about the many awe-inspiring new works of art at the museum, wishing to be able to see them with our own eyes. I know that I have not yet mentioned my sister Elizabeth, truth be told she was not my sister entirely by blood. We shared our mother but our fathers were different people and she lived with her own father at this present time. I’ll tell you about her soon dear reader. I was now developing an expertise in poetry and needlepoint, my music was adequate and often did I sit on the lower balcony and sing to my own heart’s content. Those were years of contentment for me, that was my home and my solace, far different from my street life as a child. When I reached my twentieth year, I no longer needed the tuition offered to me and thus longed for another change in lifestyle to suit my new needs. I was capable enough now to teach other children what I had learned. I longed for another career but did not want to leave Jennifer and her family, they had been so kind to me I was loathe to cause them any despondency or heartache.
I woke up one late October morning with a tight and heavy chest, and the coughing was intolerable! This had been ongoing for several months now, and I could not get a wink of sleep for this awful sensation of dying. I felt as though I were no more than a spectre wandering aimlessly in the land of the living, breathing in to the imperative earthliness around me. Rubbing my tired eyes, I wandered from my boudoir into the lightened hallway, it was a beautiful morning besides my ill health I was jubilant. Lily ran into my arms, her height only just reaching my waist. She was as always pleased to see me and she always enquired about my ever-descending health. I retorted that I was alright of sorts and she smiled up at me. My head begin to feel light and airy; I walked into the reception area, my vision faltering before me. I rested some on the chair in the corner, my breath tightening and becoming a struggle. Jennifer walked into the room with her tea tray and greeted me and then of a sudden paled at my deathly pallor. She panicked and charged over to her jacket on the coat stand and ran out into the crisp morning in search of a doctor for myself.
When she returned my consciousness was fading and my will to keep open my eyes was draining away. The doctor walked into the room and over to my chair. He took my temperature and muttered something in a language I did not know. He told Jennifer to leave the room, he told her he knew how to cure me but there must only be him and me in the room. She nodded softly and left. The doctor whispered into my ear that I should not struggle nor cry out for he was helping in the only way he knew how. He lowered his mouth to my neck and I felt his breath tingle at my nervous skin. A sharp searing pain ensued and I bit my lip so not as to cry out suddenly. After what felt like an eternity, my eyes grew weary and I found his arm at my mouth, hot liquid flowing onto my tongue I felt repulsion at drinking it for I knew what I was drinking. But I craved and longed for it and so I drank until I felt like I should burst if I drank another drop. My eyes wide and lustful I muttered out in Latin, what sounded like some ritual from a play or novel. That was the night I became immortal, reader.
Of course being such a young fledgling I shook profusely in desperate need of sustenance. I was frightened to tell the truth reader. I just stared blankly into the eyes of my maker. He smiled frightfully, such a dark aura he possessed I couldn’t comprehend the events I had just been a part of. He whispered softly to me how I was now safe and that I would be alive until the world ended. He ensued to tell me what was expected of me and that I must leave my safe home. I was confounded at the very thought of it. He pointed out that with my dire need for life force I would devour my only family. I was crying a river within my heart but not a tear flowed down my sallow cheeks. I called Jennifer into the room and told her of how I was now feeling much better. I commenced to tell her how I had been thinking of late and that I longed for pastures new. She looked dispirited but fully endorsed my thoughts and feelings with an open and honest mind. The doctor had left in my converse with Jennifer but had left a parchment with a scrawled note upon it asking me to meet him with my personal effects at dusk just outside Bond Street. I packed away quickly and in my haste, ran down the many stairs to say goodbye to Jennifer and Lily. When asked where I was headed to, I had no answer I just had to get out and quickly someone was waiting for me and I must leave without more ado. Jennifer nodded, but alas poor Lily was inconsolable and would not detach herself from my apparel. I then left the manor without another word to anyone, and no one was there left to see the tear glisten in my darkened eyes.
Chapter 2
The cold wind wrapped abound my icy fingers, I pulled my mantle all around me in some attempt to block it out. I walked down the rain-swept streets, treading with caution so as not to fall down. I was headed for Bond Street on this cold October night, searching for my benefactor, and whom I owed my life. I reached the forsaken street ten minutes thereafter, but there was no one to be seen on the lonely road. I must just break my reverie for a moment. I realise you may find my story a little rushed and to be fair to myself, it has to be. You see I haven’t much time to tell at present. The Tamers are hunting me. They are one ones who hold the ability to tame any living creature to their wily commands. I have become the hunted. But that epiphany is but for another chapter. I’ll continue with my story now if you will allow. I looked around in the gloom, my vision struggling to define even the largest of objects. I saw a tall, dark figure walking towards me, head down in the rain; he did not look up and almost bowled me over in his haste. He asked softly of me if I were ready to leave the streets of London for another country tonight. Now I have not been completely honest with you reader, there is much more to all this than I have spoken of, but I feel that it is not to be said at present. I will reveal to you these very details after I tell you where we went and what wonders I obtained from talking with this man.
As we walked the aimless streets, the man strode ahead of me; I struggled to keep up with his hurried demeanour. I called out to him, to ask of him why we must walk so fast. He mumbled some such words about how we were against time and we had very little of it. I longed to ask for more, ask him where we were going and why we had so little time and what was making him so panicked. Alas I got no answers. The cold October wind howled and pushed against us, disorientating me, I had not time for such chicanery. After many minutes the man stopped dead in his tracks, causing me to bump right into him. I asked why we had stopped, and I looked around. We were at the docks and in front of us a gargantuan vessel was moored to the little pier. The man turned to me and hurried me on to the boat. He repeated the line from earlier about there being no time. I asked of him his name and he replied I should call him Eric. I smiled courteously at him but he never met my gaze for more than a few seconds.
We settled into a small dining area, the furniture although faded and wearing, was quaint and the chairs comfortable. A coal fire burned in the centre of the room with both chairs pointing in the direction of the little flames. A round occasional table stood in between the two chairs, roses blooming in an ornate vase in its centre. The chairs were claret red material with brass stud decoration on the arms; the lighting was dim, whilst the small port windows let in a little more light. This was to be our quarters for the next three days the porter had informed us before leaving a tea tray next to myself and Eric. I asked where we were headed and was told that we were on our way to Oakland, California and I smiled. I had been told a great many stories about America and its wonders and had longed to go there as young as seven. I did not ask more in-depth questions at this point as I was tired and lonely, even with Eric beside me during the journey.
Eric poured me a cup of tea and asked me more about my upbringing and how I came to be such a beautiful young woman. I blushed at this comment, for what reason I cannot say. I smiled and told him of life on the London streets and the bedlam house. He sighed in a benevolent and genuinely concerned manner. I grew tired talking about myself and longed to ask more about Eric, but at this point I dared not ask, for I did not know him so well. It was as though he heard my very thoughts as he began to tell me about himself. He was born in 1489, I stuttered at this epiphany, which would mean he was over one hundred years old! I was at that time, ignorant to the fact he and now I was immortal. He explained in great depth the gift in which he had been given and how it was his moral duty to give that gift to me. He was 23 when he was created; he too had been dying from Small Pox. His mother thought him dead and left him in the room alone. A young female vampire snuck gently into the room in which he lay dying, and she pressed her sharp fangs unto his gloried neck. His eyes became wide with wonder and pain, he was helpless but to let go. She too made him drink from her wrist to seal this harrowing deal. That was how I was created but he hushed me, there was so much more to vampirism than just that fatal bite he said.
Author notes
I will add more as soon as I can 
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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wow... this was just gr8... i couldn stop reading it. it has everything i love in a story.
hugs,
georgie,
xxx -
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ooo I'm liking the story line so far
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Shoud have the end of chapter two up by the end of today
It's loosely based on Interview With The Vampire and Jane Eyre but only very loosely 
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I find this very interesting, and a very good story line. I Loved the way you started this poem off with the prologue, done like Ann Rice. It actually reminds me of the way ann rice writes her vampire novels lol. But i think you gave to much away on the first chapter, i thought you revealed a little too much about how Emily actually turned in the first chapter, but thats just me. I really like this story Georgia, can't wait to read more of it
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