My Vampire and I Vol 3: Blood Resurrection

A Total-E-Bound Publication
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Blood Resurrection
ISBN # 978-1-906811-62-4
©Copyright J.P. Bowie 2009
Cover Art by Lyn Taylor ©Copyright April 2009
Edited by Michele Paulin
Total-E-Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

 

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The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2009 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated
Total-e-burning.
My Vampire and I
BLOOD RESURRECTION
J.P. Bowie

Dedication

To Vampire lovers everywhere
and for Phil, above all else
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: People: Time, Inc.
Blood Resurrection
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Chapter One
France, 1425
Bernard

So that you don’t take me for a hallucinating idiot in some of the things I have to tell you, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Well, not so little really—maybe quite important. I’m a vampire. Yes, it’s true. Please don’t shudder with fear. I’m really quite a nice fellow, and I promise I won’t take any bites out of your neck or suck on…your blood. Well, not unless you say ‘go ahead’, first.

My name is Bernard Fournier—yes, I’m also French, but please don’t hold that against me, either. A French vampire, I hear you saying. What else is he going to confess to us before the story’s end? Lots of things, actually, some good, some not so good, and some quite terrible—but, I must not get ahead of myself.

My life began, some six hundred years ago, in a little village in the south of France. The name of it is irrelevant, for it no longer exists—it being just one of those long forgotten casualties of the wars that have raged off and on throughout the centuries, before and since I was born.

I was born a bastard, the product of ravishment by pillaging knights, thrown into a rubbish heap by my less-than-doting mother then discovered by an old woman digging for scraps of food. Amazingly, she didn’t eat me but handed me over to some monks who baptised me to redeem me from sin and gave me the name Bernard. They raised me after a fashion, using me as a slave to fetch and carry then when my prettiness began to show through the grime and filth I was covered in due to their neglect, they abused me. Truth to tell, I had no idea as to what I looked like or why I had suddenly become an object of lust. I had never seen my reflection. Such a thing as a mirror was not hung in the monastery stable.

Not an impressive start to anyone’s life you might say and I would have to agree. So is it any wonder that my mind was consumed with thoughts of escape, and sometimes, with revenge? Many times, I would lift my eyes and look beyond the monastery walls to the fields and forests that lay so near, and yet so far, with their promise of freedom. Escape was Blood Resurrection

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impossible, however, for the good monks fettered me securely at night and, in the daytime, tied a length of rope to my ankles, long enough to not impede me in my chores but not quite long enough to enable me to run through the monastery gates.

 

For eighteen terrible years, I lived thus, wondering why the God the monks prayed to several times a day and praised as the Almighty Saviour did not care to save me. What had I done to deserve this wretched life? I asked Him each night as I knelt in the stable straw that served as my bed.

I had long since become immune to the vile advances of the monks, merely lying passively as they had their way with me, not even protesting when they would beat me afterward for being the temptation they could not resist. When left alone, I would lie on my back, staring up at the stable’s wooden roof, and imagine myself being able to fly away from this place of torment. If only I could escape, I thought, and never have to look again at the cruel and leering faces of the men who brutalised me, I would forego any desire for revenge.

To be free of them and their hypocrisy would suffice.
* * * *

Perhaps God did hear my silent pleas after all, for it came in the form of a tall and handsome man, who arrived at the monastery late one night, requesting shelter from an impending storm. The monks and I had been busy shoring up doors and windows, getting the livestock inside and bringing enough food and water indoors to last them until the storm abated. The previous year, they had been confined within the chancery walls for three days.

I, of course, had not been permitted to shelter there and had to huddle inside the stable, listening to the howling winds and lashing rain and wondering what would happen to me should the stable be carried away in the gale.

I watched with interest as Prior Hubert conversed with the tall man who had a military bearing and was dressed in fine clothes. Greedily, the Prior snatched the coins the tall man offered him then ushered him indoors, away from my sight. A moment later, one of the monks bade me to take the man’s horse to the stable and bed him down for the night.

The horse was a fine steed, its saddle and trappings of the best quality, and I handled all of it with care as I stowed them away in a corner of the stable, before preparing to brush Blood Resurrection

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the horse down. In the distance, I head the rumbling of thunder, heralding the storm’s approach.
“That’s all right…” A deep, melodious voice behind me made me jump. “I’ll take care of him.”

I turned, and my heart quickened as my eyes met the man’s emerald green gaze. I could now see that what before I had considered merely handsome was in fact…beauty. His smile became a frown when he saw my filthy state, the ragged clothes and the rope that bound me. “By the gods, boy,” he murmured. “Who treats you so ill?” I hung my head in shame, tears pricking the back of my eyes. He put a hand under my chin and raised my face to his, staring intently at me as if seeking the answer to his question in my mind. As he gazed into my eyes, I saw his face set in a grim expression then his eyes filled with compassion.

“Here,” he said abruptly, untying the rope around my ankle. “Give Orion his oat bag.

He can do without his brushing for one night. Then come with me.” I hastened to do his bidding without question, so well schooled was I in obedience. He led me from the stable. His hand on my shoulder lent me a comfort I had known little of in my life. The wind had picked up and big drops of rain spattered down on us as we walked quickly across the courtyard. I halted at the monastery door.

“Sire, I cannot enter here. I am forbidden.”
“Not tonight, you’re not,” he said. “Tonight, you are my guest.”
“But Sire, the Prior will be angered at my presence. He will beat me.”

“No, he will not,” the man assured me, steering me indoors and into the refectory. I trembled as every eye turned upon me. Prior Hubert stormed towards us, his face set in an angry grimace.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” he rasped, glaring at me. “Bernard, return to the stable immediately. Your filthy body is an abhorrence to the Lord God.”

“And just who allows the boy to live in this filth?” The tall man’s voice had taken on a hard and icy edge. “Does he not live here under your protection, Prior Hubert?” The Prior drew himself up to cast a haughty look at my defender. “He does, and if it were not for our charity, he would have died long since. He was born a bastard and found among rubbish—”

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“Through no fault of his own,” the man murmured.
“We took him in when no one else would,” the Prior continued, ignoring the man’s comment.

The man’s hand on my shoulder tightened. I felt his anger through the tension in his body. “An admirable action, Prior,” he said, his smooth voice belying his rage. “But surely only what your calling demands. And does your charity not extend to a clean body and clothes? The boy is pale and weak from lack of proper nourishment. Have a bath prepared for him in my room, and send clean clothes and a hot meal. He will stay with me until the storm abates.”

“What?” The Prior flushed with outrage. He turned to me, his eyes blazing. “What have you told him?” he seethed.

“He has told me nothing,” the man said quietly. “And yet, I know all.” He took his hand from my shoulder and pushed back the folds of his cloak, revealing the hilt of his sword, its gold embossment glinting in the candlelight. “Now, do as I bid, Prior, before my natural instincts to punish the corrupt ones in your brood make me forget I am a guest here.” The Prior gasped. “You dare—?”

“I more than dare, Prior Hubert.” He grasped the hilt of his sword. “I promise.” His smile was chilling. “Of course, I expect to recompense you for this inconvenience. I will see you well rewarded for your benevolence.”

 

The Prior had the grace to look away as he said, “Very well. Your request is granted.” He turned to one of the monks who stood nearby. “See to it.” And with one more look of loathing at me, he strode away.

“Come.” With a gentle hand again on my shoulder, the man led me to his room, a large space dominated by an ornate four poster bed, the likes of which I had never before seen. A table for dining, some chairs, a large oaken chest and a rug of green and gold completed the furnishings. I had not known, for as long as I had lived there, that such a room existed.

“So, they call you Bernard,” he said with a smile as I gaped at my surroundings. “My name is Marcus Verano.”

 

I bowed my head to him. “I am so very grateful to you, Sire,” I mumbled. Of course, I was terrified that as soon as the storm was over and he was gone, my punishment would be Blood Resurrection

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terrible. The Prior would never forgive me for what he saw as nothing less than utter disrespect for his authority on my part.

“Do not worry, Bernard,” Marcus said, still smiling. “I have no intention of leaving you to their mercy. I know only too well the evil of which men are capable.” I looked at him, my mouth slightly open in surprise. “Sire—” Anything else I may have said was interrupted by a banging on the door, which was then abruptly pushed open. Two monks carrying a metal bath burst into the room, followed by others carrying buckets of hot water. Marcus watched with some amusement as they busied themselves filling the bath, all the while casting hostile looks at us both. “Will there be anything else, Sire?” one of them asked, his voice filled with sarcasm.