Famished Read online

  FAMISHED

  by

  Cassandra Pierce

  Published by Cassandra Pierce at Kindle Direct Publishing

  Copyright 2019 Cassandra Pierce

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Elwyn Blaylock sat by the picture window in his morning room, sipping lukewarm coffee from a delicate china cup when his manservant, Reginald, came in with a letter on a silver tray.

  “A missive from Germany, sir,” Reginald said with a slight bow. He did not lower his gray-haired head in time to conceal the sardonic smirk that touched his lips.

  “Indeed?” Blaylock set his cup down and raised a brow as he reached for the envelope. He noted the address—a prominent university in Germany, and one he had heard much about. He had taken care never to speak its name out loud, of course, even in Reginald’s presence. “How very stimulating. A good thing, too, as the coffee you brought me lacked a certain kick this time. Do make the next batch stronger, won’t you?”

  “As you wish, sir.” Reginald watched him open the letter with undisguised curiosity. “I’m afraid I can guess what that is in reference to.”

  Blaylock unfolded the paper and read—aloud, since Reginald made no move to afford him some privacy.

  My dear Herr Blaylock,

  I hope you will forgive any mistakes in this letter, but as you know English is not my native tongue. I write, however, to inquire if you have heard from my friend and colleague Herr Doktor Ulrich Werner, a scholar with an interest in rare and antiquarian books. It is almost a year since he flew to England to attend a conference and has been missing ever since. A reference we have recently found in his notes mentions his interest in the library located in your castle. It is said to contain many 15th and 16th century books, which were my friend Ulrich’s passion. Please, I beg of you, to let me know if you have ever heard anything from him. We have followed all other leads here in Germany as well as many with the London officials and have no luck in finding him. We do not know if he is dead or alive. We can only hope that you may have heard from him or that he may have inquired about visiting your area of England. Any help you may give us will be most heartily appreciated.

  Sincerely,

  Professor Karl Bachmeier

  “Well?” Reginald prodded. “Is it as we expected?”

  “Yes.” Blaylock handed it back to Reginald without looking up at him. “You may answer it on my behalf. Tell him we have nothing to report. We never received any communication from Professor Werner and we have no idea what may have happened to him. Send my regrets that we cannot assist him. You might also tell him that this is an abbey, not a castle, though his confusion is understandable under the circumstances.”

  “Very good, sir.” Reginald paused and scowled. “I must say, I do harbor a faint concern that someone may one day turn up here looking for answers.”

  Blaylock’s voice became harsh. “We have nothing to worry about. There is no evidence to this day that Herr Doktor Werner ever set foot in this house or on these grounds.”

  “And all the others over the years? There is no direct evidence of their fates, either—your father and brother saw to that—but there is always the chance that some enterprising investigator will notice the large number of disappearances that involve Blaylock Abbey, even tangentially, over the last fifty years or so.”

  “Enough!” Annoyed, Blaylock pushed out of his chair and directed a chilling glare at Reginald. “We both have our parts to play, as well you know. And a large part of your duties here involve making sure nothing of that sort ever happens here.” He glanced down at the letter now clutched in Reginald’s knobby hands. “You may start by writing the letter I just dictated to you. Bring it to me when it’s done so that I may check it over before I sign it.”

  “As you wish, sir.” Reginald bowed, again letting a smirk slip through his subservient demeanor. “I shall get to it as soon as I finish with the breakfast dishes.”

  “Fine.” Eager to be away from Reginald and his insolent manner, Blaylock wandered out of the room and down the corridor to the abbey library—the same library that had captured the attention of both Herr Werner and his colleague Karl Bachmeier, albeit for different reasons. It really was a magnificent room, fashioned entirely of stone and dating back to the fifteenth century, as did many of the items on the shelves. Any historian or lover of antiquarian volumes would count himself fortunate beyond belief to immerse himself in such a collection for a few hours, or perhaps even a few minutes. Ulrich Werner certainly had.

  The real treasure, though, lay beyond the shelf-lined wall that stood opposite the door. Access could be gained only through pulling a certain lever that lay well concealed behind a section of the shelf few would have ventured to examine too closely. The intruders Reginald feared would never know where to look for it, just as Ulrich himself hadn’t until Reginald had shown it to him.

  Sliding his hand between the shelf and the wall, Blaylock grasped the worn metal bar and pushed down. With a creak, the wall parted and the space between opened to reveal a narrow passageway. There was no electrical wiring in the space, since such things had not been invented, or even dreamed of, when those walls had been erected. Blaylock paused to take a lighter from his pocket and ignite one of the sconces that hung just inside the secret doorway.

  He moved the torch around, inspecting the bare stone floors and walls as best he could. Thankfully, there was no trace of either Ulrich’s mutilated body or spirit.

  Blaylock’s shoulders relaxed as relief washed through his body. He should not have let Reginald play on his fears. Even if someone did manage to locate this space—highly unlikely—there would be nothing for them to find. It was also highly unlikely a stranger would make it back out to tell anyone what he had or hadn’t seen.

  Just then he heard the restless whisper of pages fluttering and raspy, otherworldly voices calling.

  Blaylock! they clamored. Where have you been? We’ve been alone so long… so long…

  “Patience,” Blaylock answered, surveying his hidden library with a bemused expression. His torch illuminated the long row of books lying flat on dusty wooden tables. Some of them were already wide open, while others thumped their leather covers up and down like hungry jaws snapping at air. “I take my responsibilities as lord of this abbey quite seriously, as my father did before me. You know I have never failed you yet.”

  But we’re hungry, the shrill, menacing voices reminded him. Why do you make us wait so long?

  “As I’ve tried to explain to you many times before, we must conduct our business with both caution and discretion. The world today is not as it was when you left it. Large numbers of men cannot simply disappear the way they could in earlier eras. Methods of tracking them now exist. I dare not press my luck the way some of my ancestors did. That means you must trust me and not complain.”

  Your excuses neither move nor impress us! The books on the shelves trembled, the demons within their faded pages shaking with rage. Push us too far and we may devour you instead, Blaylock!

  “And then where would your next meal come from? I am the last of the Blaylocks and the only living soul, aside from Reginald, who knows about you. Without me, only Reginald would be left to sustain you, and he
is a bony and weak little thing. I am afraid you have no choice but to wait until our next visitor presents himself—a visitor who will not be missed.”

  It will take too long! We are hungry now!

  “Nonsense. You can go a hundred years or more between feedings. A few days, weeks, or months will make no difference. Soon enough, we will have our chance again, and you will have no cause for complaint.”

  The murmuring grew more intense. He could feel the anger and uncertainty clouding the air in the room, like a smoldering fire no one could see. Ulrich’s debauched flesh and corrupt soul had nourished them only temporarily. They longed to feast on youth and innocence, to experience the robust vigor of life again. After hundreds of years, no doubt they were famished.

  Yet, despite their bluster, Blaylock suspected the books understood his point. Even Reginald feared the repercussions of drawing too much attention to themselves.

  “I will be back,” he promised, blowing out the sconce and stepping back to pull the lever again.

  In the end, Blaylock’s prediction proved correct. Two months later he received a letter from a young man named Clive Whitley, who explained that he was a university student with an interest in antiquarian books. He expressed great desire in seeing the library at Blaylock Abbey whenever it proved convenient.

  This time, Blaylock did not leave Reginald to prepare an answer, but responded to the letter himself, inviting Clive to the abbey at once but begging him to keep the visit secret, even from those closest to him. It would not do, he explained, for others to get the idea that the abbey library was open to just anyone who cared to browse through it. If Clive could be trusted to remain discreet, however, he was welcome to study its contents for as long as he liked. In fact, he could plan a stay of at least a week, if that would serve his needs. Another letter arrived almost by return post, eagerly accepting the invitation and acceding to all the named conditions.

  On the day of Clive’s scheduled arrival, Blaylock found himself experiencing a mixture of smug satisfaction and nervous apprehension. On one hand, he looked forward to some intelligent conversation and a respite from Reginald’s endlessly sour moods. On the other, he couldn’t help worrying about the details. Everything had gone smoothly with Ulrich—almost too smoothly, in fact. Could he really pull it off so easily again? He had to be on guard every moment. Clive Whitley would have to remain utterly oblivious to Blaylock’s true intent until the final moments of his life.

  All that morning, he stood by the window of the morning room, his gaze centered on the threadlike road that twisted through the village below. Impatiently he watched for any sign of a car heading up the hill toward the abbey, a route few locals dared to take. Eventually Reginald interrupted his vigil.

  “Your guest just telephoned, sir. He has stopped for petrol and believes he will arrive in half an hour or so,” Reginald informed him. “Meanwhile, I’ve prepared the guest room and started the stew for lunch. Is there anything else you would like me to do in preparation?”

  “I can’t think of anything. Simply be your usual charming self, and we should all get along just fine,” Blaylock said. Reginald flinched at his obvious sarcasm. How much easier Reginald would be to deal with if only he had a sense of humor. Even Ulrich, a dour German scholar, had been more inclined to smile than Reginald. Still, one couldn’t ask for everything where servants were concerned, he supposed. Reginald had proved his loyalty over and over, first to his father and then to his older brother and finally to him. He even seemed to enjoy the more macabre aspects of his duties, which was almost too much to hope for.

  “Very well,” Reginald grumbled and turned to go. Blaylock waited until he was almost out of the room before he stopped him.

  “Actually, Reginald, there is one thing. I should like a brandy before Mr. Whitley arrives. It will behoove me to be in a relaxed mood, I think.”

  “Alcoholic beverages do tend to have that effect,” Reginald conceded.

  “If so, I’m tempted to encourage you to pour one for yourself, too—but better not. One of us will need to remain sharp and on guard so we can make Mr. Whitley feel welcome.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Reginald was efficient as always, and for the next twenty minutes Blaylock sipped his drink and stared out at the rolling lands that undulated down to the village. For centuries, his ancestors had ruled the abbey, bestowed upon them by King Henry VIII himself. Things must have been much easier in the old days, before computers kept track of even the lowliest people and before anyone cared whether a peasant or two, or even a merchant, disappeared on a trip to the local abbey. Still, there were ways to deflect modern scrutiny. His father and brother had always chosen their guests carefully, and Reginald was useful in covering their tracks. On occasion, he had even impersonated the missing person, establishing his whereabouts far from the Abbey. Not one disappearance had ever been investigated in Reginald’s lifetime. He hoped to keep it that way.

  Presently he saw a car he didn’t recognize—small, white, and nondescript. That was good. Less chance of anyone remembering it later. After a while, Reginald appeared once again. “Your guest has arrived, sir.”

  As he spoke, Clive Whitley stepped up from behind him. He looked a bit disheveled, his wire-rimmed glasses askew and his sandy brown hair slightly mussed, as though he’d been raking his hands through it. He was a good-looking bloke, Blaylock had to admit, not extraordinarily handsome but charged with a youthful naiveté that gave him a fresh sort of appeal.

  “You look a bit out of sorts, Mr. Whitley,” he observed. “But welcome to Blaylock Abbey all the same.”

  Clive blinked behind his glasses, which he promptly reached up and straightened on his nose. “Um… you’re…?” he faltered, looking a bit bewildered.

  “I am Elwyn Blaylock, yes. Tenth master of Blaylock Abbey. My family’s title fell by the wayside some years ago, I fear, but we keep up a pretense of my feudal lordship. Makes living in an abbey more fun.”

  “I can see that,” Clive said, though he still looked a bit confused.

  “Reginald, get Mr. Whitley something to drink. What is your pleasure?” Blaylock held up own empty glass. “Brandy?”

  “Uh… tea?”

  “Of course. Anything you like. You are my guest.” Blaylock gestured to Reginald. “See to it.”

  Clive looked around the room, fidgeting, as Reginald rolled his eyes took his leave. “Can I tell you something? I was… um… expecting someone a lot older.”

  “Ah, a gouty old lord with a paunch and a walking stick?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Had you come four years ago, you would have seen exactly that. Your description suits my father perfectly. Unfortunately, he passed away. My older brother, also somewhat gouty, followed him into the grave last year, I’m afraid. A tragic motor vehicle accident.” Blaylock gestured toward himself theatrically. “So I’m afraid you’re stuck with the newer model.”

  Clive blushed. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh, don’t be. You didn’t know either of them, and you’re better off for it. My father wasn’t the sort of person anyone will miss terribly. Bit of a tyrant, really. And as for my brother… perhaps the less said the better.”

  Clive looked uncomfortable, but luckily Reginald soon entered with tea for both of them. Blaylock invited Clive to take one of the plush chairs in the corner, while he took the one opposite it. Reginald pulled a small table between them, served the tea, and withdrew again.

  “I read a bit about the history of this place,” Clive said. “I understand it was a monastery at one time. They specialized in making books, which is where your amazing library came from.”

  “Yes. Most assuredly. They were known as the Order of the Bookmakers in a time when making books was a laborious process that took years, not to mention dedication and talent. They had all of those things, fortunately.” He offered Clive a thin smile. “Then came the Reformation, and the destruction of all the monasteries in England. King Henr
y the Eighth seized the abbey and everything in it. He later distributed the booty to his favorites. One of my ancestors was among them. Hence my unique and historical living quarters.”

  “A bloodthirsty time. The poor monks.”

  Blaylock shrugged. “Long dead. They need no pity.”

  Clive raised his brows a bit, but didn’t comment further on that topic. “I’m surprised more people don’t know about this place,” he said instead. “I ran across the reference in an obscure old journal while I was looking up something else at the university library. I would have missed it completely if I hadn’t known what I was looking for.”

  “As I mentioned, in general I prefer to keep the abbey’s trove a secret. Can’t have tourists, dilettantes, or even thieves trodding through here handling rare manuscripts that haven’t been touched since the fifteenth century, can we?”

  “Surely not,” Clive agreed quickly. “And I promise you my interest is purely scholarly. I respect and cherish old things, books especially. I’ll handle everything with the utmost care if you’ll permit me to see the books.”

  “Have you always had this interest? It isn’t a common passion these days.”

  “I’ve always loved museums and stuff. Now I’m getting my doctorate in medieval literature. I don’t mind telling you I’m really looking forward to my stay here. You’re very kind to let me do my work in your library. One day I’d like to work in a museum or a university archive, cataloging and caring for handmade books like yours.”

  He looked so eager, so earnest, and so hopeful for success that Blaylock regretted for a moment that he would never have the chance to fulfill all those worthy dreams. But he quickly suppressed the feeling. He had no time for sentimentality. Never had. He didn’t lament the loss of his father or brother, and he wouldn’t mourn a perfect stranger, however sweet his manner and appealing his dimples.

  “I would be delighted and honored to assist in your quest. I’ll show you the library after we enjoy a nice meal together.” Blaylock rose and clapped Clive on the shoulder. “Let us go in and see what Reginald has prepared for our lunch. I trust you are hungry after your trip.”