Jul 8

Jul 8 Birthright

Birthright - book excerpt

Chapter 1

By the time I’d been contacted and had returned home, my parents had been buried and the investigation into their death, although inconclusive, had been closed. I still didn’t understand why they didn’t wait for me. What was the big rush? It’s not like I had other family members or did I? Father never mentioned anyone, nor did mother. Curious. As we drove down the familiar roads, half of me didn’t believe they were gone and the other half was scared-to-death of what might have happened to them.

Reality was setting in and I ached in places I never knew existed. Would everything go back to normal again? Would the hurt go away eventually? Now that my past was dead and buried I would have no choice but to continue on the new path fate had dictated for me.

It seemed to me that everything in my life so far had prepared me for the loneliness. I had no one, no siblings to go to for comfort; it was just me now, alone. I’d spent my teens in very expensive boarding schools, but for some reason, I’d never really made close friends.

I was born here in Utica just as my parents had been. My mother and father lived here all their life; school sweethearts. My mother chose to be a homemaker, as for my father, he didn’t need a nine-to-five job. The Rosewood family goes back to the eighteenth century in America and they helped build Utica. They had been investors. My parents were rich you see. It’s funny, even though we were financially set, I never saw a conspicuous show of wealth in our life. I don’t remember my Father ever leaving home to go to work. Mom told me he was an important person and whenever I asked as a child just what he did, she’d shoosh me and say I shouldn’t be asking. She called me Miss Nosey Pants and shooed me off to go play. In my childish imagination, I pictured him as a gangster, a Don of a big Italian family, and the business being illegal. One time I thought maybe he was under the witness protection service. Whatever fantasies I had didn’t prepare me for reality.

I got brave one day and asked my father what he did that made his job so important. I felt scared, which surprised me because I was never scared of my father, but I was then. He told me I shouldn’t ask him and I should just be happy to have a father who could afford to send me to such good schools and who spent so much time with his family. From that day on, I never did ask again.

My mother always said I looked like my father. I had his dark auburn hair, emerald green eyes, and ivory complexion, but I could never see it myself. I was short like mom, only reaching my father’s shoulder, and my hair, whenever I was away from home at school, lost its auburn color and instead seemed to burn with the orange glow of a raging fire, which was why I kept it short. My eyes changed subtly, becoming less green, more hazel, and even gray on overcast days.

I was tough too as a kid; I wanted to be the son my father always denied wanting. I must have been a disappointment to my mom. I’m not a typical girl. I know she would have liked to put me in dresses or frilly clothes, only I wouldn’t have it. Like my father, I’m always happiest in a pair of blue jeans and an old sweater.

I didn’t feel so tough now; more insecure for probably the first time in my life, and if I could go back in time and put on one of those dresses my mom had loved so much I would, but I couldn’t, it was too late now.

On my journey back home, the sky began to turn gray and the scenery became lovingly familiar to me. I was nearing my home and sure enough, as the car crested the hill, Rosewood Manor stood, stately and familiar, just up ahead. The wrought iron fence still guarded my home as it had when I was young, but now the imposing gates stood open, almost as if they were waiting for me to return. The prodigal daughter, only now I wasn’t anyone’s daughter anymore.

I didn’t want to go inside; I didn’t want to see any evidence of a struggle, or worse yet – blood. “Oh, God.” I raised my eyes to the heavens, “Please let there be no blood.” I whispered.

“Did you say something?” The driver asked as he pulled the taxi up behind my mother’s BMW.

“No, not really,” I said, getting out and paying him. He drove off without pausing and I realized no one knew I was back, except for my father’s lawyer. He had met me at the airport and took me back to his office to sign some legal documents. I was an heiress to a fortune that would be mine only when I married. The clause in my parents Will shocked me deeply. That was the kind of thing you only read about in Gothic novels or historical romances. When the lawyer explained it to me, I felt as if I’d slipped into a time warp. Like a Victorian heroine, I would have a generous allowance when I would appear in the lawyer’s office with a valid marriage license and a husband. I figured it would be a year or ten before that happened.

My stomach churned and my skin grew clammy at the thought of going into the house. I told myself sternly that someone would have cleaned up the scene. Taking a calming breath, I remembered the copy of the autopsy I’d been faxed had stated my parents had been ensanguined. The official cause of death was hypovolemia: in layman speak, loss of blood.

The strangest aspects of my parents’ death were the absence of blood in their bodies. That one piece of information shocked me, and when I looked-up ensanguine online, it wasn’t a pleasant experience. My imagination ran wild. The word vampire popped into my brain, but I passed it off as anxiety. The official investigation closed now, said my parent’s death was accidental, the absence of blood and strange wounds glibly explained as postmortem animal scavenger activity. I couldn’t accept that my parents were careful people. What could have killed them both without giving them time to call an ambulance, police, or even a neighbor?

Sighing, I unlocked the door and stepped in. It hit me hard, the void. It wrapped its arms about me and strangled the very breath from me. I gasped for air as I fought the need to let out the despair, the anger, but gave way to tears as I walked around the house remembering.

A loud crash brought me back and I panicked. Immediately I thought the worse, that, he, the murderer, had come back. I grabbed the closest weapon, the fire poker, and slowly made my way back to the hall. The front door stood open and the cold air made me shiver. I shut it, firmly, and made sure it wouldn’t blow open again. I put the chain on.

Being cold now, I decided a fire was in order. I walked through the house to the back door and stepped outside. The shed was a few feet from the door and I knew my parents would have stored wood for the winter. Luckily, the shed was unlocked and I found four logs that would do nicely. My nerves seemed to have calmed a little, but entering the house again, something didn’t feel right. I wasn’t alone; it felt as if someone or something was watching me. My skin began to tingle and my heart raced. I put it off as being tired or overwrought, but it seemed as if the house was alive and that its heartbeat, silenced by death, had somehow zapped back to life when I came in.

It was hard to shake off the feeling of ‘being watched’, and so I listened carefully to every sound. I was petrified, the thought that the killer had come back, watching my every move unnerved me. Should I get out of the house? Would I be any safer outside? I heard a creak from behind me and it sent my jagged nerves into a raw panic. Running to the staircase, I sat down, my back flat against the wall on the sixth step. The sound of my heart beating loudly comforted me a little, but not enough. I still didn’t feel safe.

“Come on,” I said aloud. “What would mom say or dad for that matter?” They would say I was letting my imagination run away with me and tease me about seeing too many horror movies, but the only horror that mattered was their death. The urge to cry overwhelmed me and I took a deep breath to hold myself in check. I needed to stop being a chicken and start the fire as planned. The sun had gone down by now and it felt colder inside.

A knock at the front door startled me. No one knew I had come back, not even my neighbor and he lived half a mile down the road from me.

“Who is it?” I yelled. No reply. I shouted the question again, louder, but still no answer.

With the poker in my hand, I slowly made my way to the front door, checking first to see if the chain was in place, and opened it. A stranger stood there, my age, maybe a little older, with black hair. Masculine, strong-looking, he dressed all in black, his t-shirt faded with wear, and he seemed oblivious to the cold. From what I could tell, he didn’t tower over me. More like a few inches or so. I stared at his chest, but now my attention roamed upward to his face; his eyes were the clearest blue I’d ever seen. Mesmerized by them, I couldn’t look away, but the wind caressed my face, bringing me back. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t think when I had met him, I’d been away from Utica so long.

“What do you want?” Nice going, Candra, could we be more snobbish? I blamed it on being tired. Also, standing by the door, cold, didn’t help things.

“I am sorry to disturb you, but I heard a family member had come back to Rosewood Manor and so I thought I’d pay my respects. Mr. and Mrs. Rosewood were lovely people; it was such a terrible shock to hear of their death.”

“Um… thank you so much, that’s kind of you.” I wondered why he’d come over in the evening and not during the day. Then, it hit me, he probably worked late. “I’m sorry I’ve been away for quite a while…do I know you?” I said, feeling drained and tired beyond bearing.

“I’m sorry, how rude of me. My name is Kane, Kane Smith.” His smile seemed genuine, but unsettling at the same time. Something about him sent shivers cascading down my spine, but I couldn’t place the feeling. I felt drawn to him. I had the strangest notion that he could feel my sorrow and knew exactly what I was thinking. Almost like he fed on my emotions. Not wanting to scare myself anymore, I let my gaze drift past him.

“I can see you are tired, I will let you rest, but I will be back again soon.”

“Yeah, I am a little tired at that. Um, thanks for coming by and offering your condolences… wait. You’ll be back? I don’t wish to sound rude or anything, but why? I mean, I don’t know you and I…”

“I come by here often, on my way to… work. So, now that you are here, I’ll stop by again, but I’ll wait next time, you know, wait a little bit longer until you’ve adjusted.”

“Oh that won’t be necessary, I mean, the stopping by again, really, I’ll be fine.”

Strange man, dark night, and my parents dead… not good I thought. “I’m having a friend of mine stay with me until I can tie things up here before I leave.”

“You’re leaving? But you just got here.” His eyes held mine.

I had this feeling I wasn’t in control of my thoughts or for that matter my emotions. I wanted him to leave me alone, and I didn’t want to be impolite. My mind and body were worn-out and I became incapable of saying what I wanted… I kept quiet. What was going on with me?

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts. Rest, and sleep well. Oh, I never caught your name.”

Just as if a switch had been turned off, I was like my old self again. “I…Oh, it’s Candra. I’m Candra Rosewood. It’s late, so if you’ll excuse me, I need to see what is keeping my… friend.”

“Ah, so you’re their daughter, such a pity.” He shook his head and I could see my pain reflected in his eyes. “Goodnight, Candra, I hope we can meet again under happier circumstances.”

“Goodnight.” I closed the door but peeked through the window to see which direction he took. Instead, I saw nothing. It was as if he had just disappeared into thin air. I looked toward the drive; nothing, just a blanket of darkness, and then it dawned on me: I hadn’t heard the sound of a car pull up or leave for that matter. This freaked me out. “He walked. Don’t get freaked out by this dude.”

I leaned back against it. “It’s just my imagination running wild again.” Heading into the living room I thought about him and how he looked… good, kind, in a scary way. Something in his eyes spoke to me, but not with words, it was hard to explain how it felt; it was like a connection between us. I pulled myself together and snapped out of it.

Throwing the logs into the grate, I carefully crumpled bits of newspaper up and shoved them in strategically. My father always started the fires, and I would watch him. Now it was my turn. I lit the papers and blew slightly. “Come on, please…please.” I watched as the flames engulfed the papers and then slowly caught on the dried bark of the logs. I curled up on the couch with my mother’s afghan and watched as the flames danced through the openings of burning embers, disappearing as they neared the chimney. The fire was welcoming, comforting, and familiar. As the flames danced in the grate I wondered what the future held for me.