Oaths in Blood: A Gothic Novella Read online

  Oaths in Blood

  Sara Sterling

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Oaths in Blood

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

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  Copyright

  Oaths in Blood

  Sara Sterling

  Copyright 2021- Sara Sterling

  All Rights Reserved

  All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers.

  Chapter One

  THERE’S BEEN A MISTAKE. You should not be here.

  Lisette stood before the towering oak door. A fierce, golden lion's head, holding a heavy ring in its maw, gaped at her. She looked down at her ragged dress. It had once been new, fitting and flattering her form so well. But that had been back when she’d had enough customers to own several dresses. Now, she had to force her growing curves into the same stretched and stained fabric night after night. It was the only one of her dresses she had left. The only one she hadn’t worn to shreds or sold for gin.

  Soft piano music drifted from above. She turned her face upwards to see a light glowing in the darkness. There must have been a mistake. She turned back, peering into the darkness to where the carriage had been only a minute before. The steady lanterns to either side of the door were the only thing holding back the night.

  “How do you know m’ name?” she had asked the driver after he beckoned for her to come out from the dark alleyway where she’d been waiting for a lonely man to leave the pub and come stumble her way.

  “What does that matter when I have ten shillings to offer for an hour of your time?”

  Ten shillings? It had been years since she’d earned that much. And even then, it had been a fluke. She’d eyed the man suspiciously, but not for long. As did every woman walking the streets this time of night; she needed the money. She’d climbed in.

  Now, the man and the carriage were gone, having left her there. She hadn’t even heard them pull away.

  If it isn’t a mistake, then I really shouldn’t be here.

  "Hello?" she called, weakly into the night. No answer came. Not even the sound of crickets or the wind could be heard. Her breath, heavy after climbing the stairs that led her away from the carriage and up to the door, was the only noise that broke the silence.

  The carriage had taken her out of London. She didn’t know where she was, but she knew a fallen woman like herself, drunk and long past her prime, did not belong.

  Bending over, she reached up her skirts and pulled out a flask that was strapped to her thigh. On the other thigh, she kept a knife, small but sharp. Both were a necessity for Lisette. Protection.

  The gin calmed her nerves. She snuck a drink as often as her purse allowed when she felt unable to cope with everything, which had been more than usual the past few days. The loss still pained her. She’d finally sold the one thing she had left in the world. Her locket. She hadn’t worn it in years. Gold was a dangerous thing to flash about in her profession.

  The flask had been getting lighter and lighter throughout the night and she had a feeling it would be empty by the time she left this house. She would have to stop back at her room and fill it up again. No matter. It was the cheap stuff, the only thing she could afford these days, even with this sudden influx of money. The gin would take her eyesight and her life eventually, but she didn't care. She was only forty-five years old, but she had died long ago. Her body just had yet to realize it. The liquor burned her throat in a delicious way that scorched out any thought or feelings, at least momentarily. She wiped the side of her mouth and replaced the flask on her thigh.

  Feeling settled and braver now, she took tentative hold of the heavy gold knocker and hit it loudly against the door. Her nerve dissolved at the resounding clang that rang out. It was too harsh, too loud in the dead of night. That one solitary knock hung in the air like some unanswered question.

  With a long, mournful groan the door swung open, and a man stepped into view. He was tall and thin like a spindly tree with thin lips and sallow skin. He didn’t exactly look old, but there was a long-suffered exhaustion that seemed to age him beyond his years. He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter. There was precious little light shining out from the foyer before her, but it was still more than what lay behind her in the night. She stepped into the house.

  "You're late," the man croaked. The door shut with a hollow thud.

  She opened her mouth, ready with a cheap and clever response—an instinct which had both served and cost her throughout her life—but the words died in her throat. Late? How could she be late when they’d brought her here?

  The inside of the manor was as grand as the exterior. The foyer was round with an impossibly high ceiling and beautiful white marble floor. The walls seemed to glow in the flickering candlelight. A broad, dark staircase stood at the other side of the foyer, a rich red carpet running down the center. The manor even smelled of wealth and respect. She remembered that scent.

  Lisette looked down at herself again. She attempted, uselessly to smooth out the wrinkles of her skirt and fixed a few folds in the skirt in order to hide the larger stains. She cast a short and round shadow on the floor, with curls of hair darting in all directions. She gave her ever greying, frizzed hair a pat, trying to tame the wildest parts but made as little of an impact as she had with her dress.

  It was no use. Again she had the thought that she didn't belong here. Not a woman like her, not a place like this. Nothing good ever came from her kind stepping into their world. Any one of the girls on the streets would say the same. They'd all heard stories about those who disappeared, or the ones who never should have been found, whose remains should have stayed buried and hidden forever. But Lisette had still come, accepting an offer that seemed far too good to be true.

  “I–I shouldn’t ‘ave come,” she mumbled, backing away. Fear gripped her. “I want to go.”

  “That’s unwise,” he said. “He’s been expecting you.”

  "Who—" she started, turning back towards the man, but found herself alone in the foyer. She covered her mouth, forcing the rest of the sentence down.

  "I asked you here," a deep, rich voice rang out.

  She turned again towards the staircase. The top of it was bathed in darkness. She couldn't see anyone, but she felt him there. His presence was undeniable. "Who are you?" she asked, trying to sound unshaken.

  "I've been waiting for you," he said, his voice flowing softly down to her ears. There was a sensual, liquid quality to his voice that seemed to surround her, even though it came down from a distance. "So long."

  "Me? But I'm not nobody."

  He sniffed, as though he found her amusing without being particularly funny. "Truer words have
never been spoken, my dear."

  "What do you want me for?"

  "Why does anyone want anyone else?"

  "You're good at not givin' me answers."

  There was that light, sniffing laugh again. "I've had practice. And you'll get your answers. When I'm ready to give them. But you must come to me first."

  She squinted, peering into the darkness. She almost felt like she saw some movement though it could have been her eyes playing tricks on her. They were starting to do that more and more. Lifting the tattered hem of her skirts, she moved forward and conquered the first step. The plush red carpet moulded to the thin soles of her shoes. The stairs tapered as she ascended, as though they were closing in on her, drawing her forwards.

  Climbing the stairs was not an easy feat. Not at her age, not at her size. Her breathing was laboured, and her generous thighs burned with the strain. It had been years since she had gotten so much exercise. Selling her body to half-drunk sailors and fishermen wasn't nearly as strenuous as people would believe. Not the way she did it at least.

  She took the last step triumphantly, moving out of the light and into the darkness on the landing. If she'd been hoping for a little more illumination once she reached the top, she would have been disappointed. But she'd learned long ago that hopes were futile, the worst was always coming whether you hoped for it or not.

  Stepping into it, she let herself sink into the darkness, the unseen. "Well," she said. "Where are you?"

  "Come to me and see."

  His voice felt so close, but still far away somehow. It had a sweet, velvety quality that brought her back to her youth; to the days when a man's touch was light and bashful, warm, welcoming, and still something to crave. She felt her cheeks flush in a way that they hadn't in years. She turned to the left, facing the black nothingness. Hands outstretched, she crept forwards.

  "That's right," he whispered.

  His voice was like a chain around her wrists, pulling her closer to him. She couldn't resist. There was a marked change in the air, in the sound, that told her she'd probably wandered into a hallway. In the distance, a bright yellow light glowed underneath a door. She knew, in her gut, she'd find him there. Her stomach fluttered. There was no reason for her certainty. He had been at the top of the stairs moments before, and she hadn’t heard a single footstep, nor the door open or close. But she knew it, all the same.

  She crept down the hallway, the floorboards creaking underfoot. She was almost there.

  "Yes," the voice said, surrounding her. "Come to me. Follow my voice."

  She came to the door and placed her hand on the brass knob. It turned effortlessly and the door fell open, bathing her in warm, yellow light. The room was immense and filled with fine furniture and candlelight. A red room. Red wallpaper, crimson curtains draped over the windows. Candelabras and dishes of fruit and almonds decorated the surface of a table. A grand piano stood to the side, beautiful but incapable of dominating the impressive room as it normally would.

  Her eyes landed on him, and she took a sudden breath. He sat next to the fireplace, in one of the smaller chairs, his legs crossed. And he was, by far, the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. His hair was thick and dark, reaching just below his strong, square jawline. His lips were plump, with a natural, slight upturn. He had the classic look of a naturally handsome man, but no one could dare call him something so common as handsome. He was nothing short of beautiful. Majestic. But his appeal was not merely the sum of his features.

  And he was young; far too young to have such a commanding presence, to look at her with such confidence as he did now. He could not have been more than thirty, at the most.

  He couldn’t have been more different to her usual customers. This truly was too good to be true, but she found that it no longer mattered. Now that she was here, in this room with him, there was nowhere else she’d rather be. She had a strange feeling that she was somehow meant to be there.

  He observed her as though she was some fascinating creature. He pressed his fingers together as she crossed the threshold and entered the room. A book sat next to him on a table, opened to blank pages. She wondered what he’d been writing.

  She opened her mouth to speak but simply couldn't, suddenly terribly self-conscious of everything about herself, from her now more-than-plump figure to her frizzy, greying hair, and even her smoke and booze damaged voice.

  He gestured for her to approach. “Come here.”

  Instantly, she obeyed.

  He rose to his feet. "Do you know why I asked you here?" A glimmer shone in his eyes.

  She stopped before the fireplace, two paces from him, and shook her head.

  "Would you like to?"

  She nodded.

  The corner of his lip turned up in a half-smirk and he clasped his hands behind his back. "Very well.” He turned on his heel, striding towards the liquor cabinet on the far wall. "Would you like a drink first?"

  She cleared her throat. "Yes, please."

  He brought her back a glass of dark red wine. As she took the glass from his hand, her fingers brushed his. She flinched and her first instinct was to pull away, but she didn't. He rewarded her with another half-grin.

  His hands were cold as ice.

  She took a drink, trying not to think about it. Compared to the swill strapped to her thigh, the wine was exquisite.

  "Now, I believe you asked me who I was."

  "Aye."

  "That's of little consequence, but I will answer it nonetheless. My name is Sebastian."

  "Sebastian." It fell from her lips in a whisper before she could stop herself. She blushed again and looked away, wanting to slap herself. Her blushing days were long gone, and she reminded herself that this man looked young enough to be her son. Though he didn't make her feel like that.

  "And also why I'd asked you here, no?"

  "Yes," she said, still looking at her feet.

  He brought his index finger just under her chin and tilted it up so that she met his gaze. "There. That's better, no?"

  Another nod.

  "I brought you here for the same reason any man requires a prostitute."

  Her stomach flipped. For the first time in years, the thought of a man touching her sent chills through her body. Yes, he seemed like a man who knew how to touch a woman.

  He walked back to his seat and sat down, resting his elbow on the armrest, holding up his glass of wine. "I need something from you, something that I cannot get through more traditional methods."

  "And what is this thing you want?"

  "Your body, to be sure." He grinned, then sipped his wine. "Does that frighten you?"

  "No. It's my trade. As old and used as it is."

  "Well used indeed."

  She bristled.

  "You've been selling your wares for how many years now? Twenty-five? Thirty?"

  Narrowing her eyes, she replied, "More or less."

  "A long time to be in such a profession. You're just about used up."

  A different warmth took hold of her, clutching at her breast. Pain, disgust. It crept up her throat and burned behind her eyes, but she held it back. "Yes."

  "So many years," he said, tilting his head to the side. "And now you're left with this." He gestured from her feet to her head. "Old, rotund, and withering away until you're finally dead and you won't have to earn another dollar. How much do you look forward to that day?"

  "I don't think about it," she lied, her hands shaking.

  He stood and walked towards her. "Every day, don't you?"

  Lisette looked away; her jaw clenched. Her fingers, still trembling, tightened around the wine glass.

  "Is this what you thought life would be?" He walked around her. "Drifting from drink to drink and praying for death? No company except for the precious few patrons you still receive and your hate. What a bitter friend she makes.” He leaned in close to her ear, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But a powerful ally."

  No, she didn’t want to think about it. Not
now, not anymore. She lifted her hand, wanting to swallow the rest of the wine at once and drown out the thoughts, as she always did. But before the glass could even touch her lips, he snatched it away and flung it aside. She gasped as the glass shattered and the red liquid began to spread across the floor.

  "Don't hide from it," he said, moving behind her, his voice a caress. "Embrace it. Find your hate and let it take hold instead of drunken emptiness."

  "Why?" she whispered. "What difference does it make?"

  "How often do you think of them?"

  "Who?"

  "Liar." His breath was like smoke, clinging to the back of her neck. "How often do you whisper the name Richard in the dead of night?"

  She spun around. "What do you know about Richard?"

  "I know he found a wife–a sweet little woman who never speaks out of turn and is the picture of propriety."

  A lump rose in the back of her throat.

  "They have four children and live in a small but comfortable house. They are incredibly happy."

  A choked sob broke loose, and she almost crumpled to the floor, but he grabbed her arms and held her up. Her body shook with the weight of so many years of wondering.

  "And what of your father?"

  She stopped crying.

  "You don't hate him just as much? The man who forced your child from your arms, the man who was so disgusted with you that he sent you away, telling you to never return."

  The memory of that room crept into her mind; the musty smell, the feel of the peeling yellow wallpaper she had to stare at day in and day out for all those long months. The determined, spiteful look on his face as he beat her into submission. The sound of her newborn daughter's wails. The feel of the last bit of the baby blanket slipping through her fingers as he took her away.

  Her face hardened. "Yes."

  His grip on her arms tightened grasped her by the arms. "Say it."

  "I hate him."

  "And who else?"

  "Ms. Marsh," Lisette replied, weakly. So much time had passed since she'd uttered that name, it was almost a ghost on her lips. "Ms. Marsh."