I gestured towards Sadie, who had begun to stare pointedly in our direction. My recently-arisen redheaded companion looked at the dog briefly from his lounging position on the second gatestone then went back to reading a copy of Twilight that Victoria had included with the computer books as a jest.
Aiden Jones had been a captain in the English Navy back in the middle of the 18th century. He had been turned by a particularly malevolent female vampire while crossing the English Channel to France in 1783. Her name was Amanda Winston, and she was one of the most vicious vampires I’d ever encountered.
I’d found Jones washed up on the rocky shore north of Calais, almost completely drained of blood and half dead from lying out in the sun for three days. Curious about him and his circumstances, I gave him some of my blood and moved him in to a guest bedroom at my country home on the outskirts of the city of Calais.
As it turned out, he was an interesting fellow. For an Englishman, he was a rather large specimen. He stood nearly seven feet tall, had the muscles of a gladiator and the demeanor of a demon when provoked. He had the red hair and drinking capacity of an Irishman, though he adamantly claimed to be English born.
Our friendship was based on common interests. He was enamored with French impressionist art and loose women. We’d spent three years as captain and first mate aboard a pirate ship in the Caribbean, during which we became exceedingly wealthy. When I grew bored with the sailing, I went back to Paris. We met up again in New York in 1908. He stuck with Victoria and me through many tremulous years, and due to the fact that he’d witnessed me turning Alex, he was deemed a coconspirator in my crime. Therefore, we both ended up trapped within the containment field.
I heard Jones groan and slap his hand against the surface of the stone.
“What a bloody fabrication!” He exclaimed.
I chuckled, “Which chapter are you reading?”
“Edward just showed that dim-witted wench how he looks in the sunlight.”
“Ah, yes. He doesn’t project a very masculine image, does he?”
“Masculine, my arse! He’s bent as a nine-pound note!” Jones tossed the book to the ground below the gatestone, leaped down upon it with a sneer, and proceeded to piss upon it.
I shook my head. It wouldn’t do any good to try to placate the man. He had his Irish up.
Copyright © 2011 by Stephanie J. Wright
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