The Outcasts Read online

  Her eyes widened. “Mr. Stanton owns this hotel and many others. He's on business in London. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I pulled out an old photo of my dad from my pocket. In it he was smiling, a rare glimpse of him with a day’s worth of scruff on his cheeks—he never went anywhere without shaving. He was also wearing his brown leather jacket and wedding ring. “I'm looking for this man. His name is Jack Collins. He's stayed here before.” She glanced at it, looking bored. “The name doesn't ring a bell.”

  “Are you sure? I know he's stayed—”

  “I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, but you're welcome to ask around with other staff members.” She didn't seem to be in the mood to offer any further assistance.

  “Can I ask you one more question?” I persisted.

  She clicked her long nails on the counter in annoyance, but gave me a curt nod.

  “Do you have suggestions on any historical buildings or features in this town that I should visit?”

  As if she'd rehearsed the speech for just such an occasion she said, “As far as historical places go, try St. Owens. It was built in 1740.”

  I nodded. “Thanks a lot.”

  The pub was open for breakfast and several people were seated around tables with cups of coffee in their hands, some with orange juice, and the rest of the die-hards had beer to start their mornings off right.

  The bartender gave me a nod in greeting and gestured for me to seat myself. Finding a table in the corner, I pulled the breakfast menu toward me and looked it over. My stomach was queasy after all the traveling I'd done, so I settled on eggs and toast—the cheapest thing on the menu—and pulled out my now marked up map.

  The bartender, a tall gangly looking fellow with dark hair and arms covered in tattoos, met me a few seconds later.

  “Hello. What can I get you?” he said, wiping his hands on a towel at his waist.

  “I'll have the eggs and toast, please, sir.”

  He wrote my order down on a piece of paper and gave me a sideways glance. “A Yank, huh? So where ya from, lass?”

  I supposed I should probably get used to people asking where I was from while I was here. I was guessing that Yankee meant Westerner. “I hail from Texas,” I joked.

  “Oh yeah, well what brings you to this neck 'o the woods?” he asked with a teasing smile.

  I handed him my dad's photo. “I'm looking for this man, his name is Jack Collins. You wouldn't happen to have seen him would you? He's stayed here before.”

  He studied it for a second as he pulled it closer to his face. “Maybe... looks familiar.”

  “Really?” I perked up, but after a second longer, he finally shrugged. “I can't be sure, sorry.” He handed it back and I put it away, trying not to let the disappointment show on my face.

  “I hope you find him,” he added.

  “Thanks, me, too.” I leaned forward, fiddling with my napkin and with a renewed determination said, “So, what's with this Gabriel Stanton guy? I met him yesterday. Seems like a mysterious kind of dude.”

  The tattooed bartender cocked his head and scanned the surrounding booths to make sure we weren't overheard. “Depends on what you mean by deal?” When he leaned in closer, I suddenly became ten times more interested. “Between you and me, he's a bloody prat.” He gave me a wink and straightened back up.

  I couldn't help but laugh at his honesty.

  “Why do you ask, lass?”

  I shrugged. “He seemed to know the man in the picture. I was hoping to ask him a few questions but I didn't know where to begin.”

  Again, his eyes flicked around us to the shadowy corners of the bar. “You don't want to get involved with Mr. Stanton.”

  I frowned at this unexpected revelation. “Why's that?”

  “He's one of those types with an agenda, if you catch my drift.” The word agenda came out sounding like agen-DA, the emphasis on da.

  The way he was staring at me with such intensity made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. For some reason, I felt he was trying to warn me. “Thanks for the advice.”

  “What's your name?” he asked.

  I stuck my hand out. “Larna Collins.”

  “John Poynter—nice to meet ya. Stop by on your way back in for a drink if you get a chance, I'll hook ya up,” he said with a wink.

  I'd forgotten that the drinking age was eighteen in London and suddenly this trip wasn't looking so bad anymore. “I just might do that.”

  After polishing off my meal, I found myself overly anxious to get to the Library. I was confident I'd find my father sooner rather than later, or at least have a new direction to look in. I wouldn't even be surprised if I ran into him on the street, the way things were going. The main question was, would I recognize him if I did? It had been six years since I'd last seen him. How would he have changed in all of that time? It suddenly hit me how very real all of this had started to get. My dad was someone I had looked up to and I was his little sweet pea. His leaving us had broken our family apart. Maybe what I really needed to know was if he still loved me. Because I still loved him.

  Chapter 9

  THE DAY WAS OVERCAST with a slight chill in the air. Without even giving it a second thought, I found myself wandering over to a rock garden in the courtyard of the hotel and sitting at a stone bench.

  What would I tell my dad if I found him?

  There’d be lots of shouting, mainly from my end. I hadn’t even thought I would get this far, to be honest. Finding him had always felt like a pipe dream. I wasn’t good at finishing things, but I wasn’t going home until I found him. Anything could happen in three months. But a macabre thought hit me—what if he was dead?

  I shut down that thought quickly. “Looks like you might need a ride, love,” a familiar voice said from behind me.

  I twisted around to see Paul leaning against the side of his ugly yellow Beetle; he had parked in the middle of the turn-about at the entrance of The Swan.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Where’d you come from?”

  He shrugged as if he were used to being looked at like that. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  I pointed at him and said, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  His moustache twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Most women usually do.”

  “You could have said something about the railway,” I muttered.

  He didn’t seem at all surprised that I’d discovered his trick of the trade, to finding unsuspecting tourists and getting to them before they could discover a cheaper route.

  “A man has got to make a living, don’t he?”

  He pulled open the back door and it groaned in protest as rust grinded on metal.

  “Oh, no, not this time. I’ll find another cab or just walk.”

  He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Don’t be like that, love. How’s about I give you a ride, no charge, as an apology.”

  No charge sounded good to me—and since he hadn’t killed me yesterday, I felt fairly safe, so I trundled over to him and hopped in. He closed the door behind me and jumped into the driver’s seat as I asked, “Do you know where the town Library is?”

  With an offended sniff, he said, “Course I do.”

  “You really do need to invest in a nicer car,” I grumbled, staring at the burned cigarette holes in the fabric.

  As Paul started the cab, he lovingly patted the dashboard. “She gets the job done, alright.”

  I help my hands up. “No offense meant.”

  On a whim, I decided to show him the picture of my father. Maybe he’d seen him if he knew this area so well. “Can I show you a picture of someone I’m trying to find?”

  Paul’s cigarette hung precariously from his lips as he took his eyes off the road to study it. After a second, he shrugged. “I see a lot of people. Sorry…”

  A little disappointed but not surprised, I changed the subject. “So what can you tell me about this town?”

  “Not much to tell around here. All you go
t is an old mill and a church.”

  It was the same thing I had already discovered on my own, so I wasn’t surprised he couldn’t offer up anything else.

  Five minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of a small building with a sign that read ‘Library and Town Hall’.

  I was pretty sure the walk back wouldn’t be too bad, so I thanked him and said, “You don’t have to wait.”

  “You sure?” He held his cigarette between two fingers and gave a small shrug when I nodded. “I might wait around anyway because I like to relish my cigs. Driving and smoking at the same time takes all of the pleasure out of it.”

  “I’ll take your word on that. Thanks for the offer, but I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  I tried to tip him but he shrugged it off. “I do appreciate the ride, Paul.”

  He gave me a nod and a wave to show no hard feelings.

  Inside the library, it smelled of fresh paint, cleaning solvent and bleach, as if whoever ran the place was trying to cover up the musty odor of mildewed books. I followed a sign that pointed in the direction of the receptionist’s desk, but when I rounded the corner, no one was there.

  A bell with a sign attached to it read: ‘RING FOR HELP’. It wasn’t the biggest library or the smallest, but it was definitely the emptiest. For it being the Town Hall and Library, it was deserted. Several tables were clustered together in the center of the room and most of the book shelves lined the rest of the walls. There were small conference rooms on the four corners of the square shaped room.

  Pictures were hung in a row on the wall at the front. My father’s obsession with photographs must have rubbed off on me because I found myself gravitating toward them.

  The first one was a black and white photo of a huge mansion—it wasn’t quite a castle but close enough in my book. A large expanse of well-manicured lawn met the stone sidewalk in front of a stunning two-story building with tall windows. Vines curled intricately around the lower-half of the castle, extending up to the second floor balcony like Romeo reaching for his Juliet. The bottom of the photo read Stanton Manor: 1386.

  Assuming there was only one prominent Stanton family in this area, I figured it belonged to Gabriel. This kept getting more interesting by the minute. And for some reason the bartender’s warning about Gabriel popped into my head. What was up with this guy?

  “Can I help you?”

  I jumped and let out a small cry. I’d been so focused on the photograph I’d forgotten I was even in a public place. I turned to find a man scowling at me, his hands on his hips. With short blonde hair and muscles that bulged self-righteously from underneath his too tight Polo, he definitely didn’t seem the librarian type; more like he belonged on the set of a movie, instead.

  What did they put in the water around here?

  “I was wondering if you could help me find some history on…” My voice trailed off at the stern expression on his face, as if I were interrupting his hectic day. I glanced over my shoulder to the still and empty library and my eyebrows drew together in confusion.

  He couldn’t be that busy.

  The Librarian seemed to consider something and then as if deciding on a course of action, nodded and said, “Follow me.”

  A chill ran up my spine as my intuition niggled at the back of my mind, hinting at something being off about this place. I hadn’t even told him what I was searching for. No one was in here except me, and the blonde weirdo was about as out of place as he could possibly be. But I shook off the strange feeling. This was my only course of action and I was so close to getting some answers.

  So I followed the Polo wearing preppy. I couldn’t quite help but notice how this place was quiet as a tomb, too. The thin walls shuddered and shook as a strong wind picked up outside. Even Mother Nature was trying to warn me about something. It was easy for me to mix-up my imagination with my sixth-sense, though, so I ignored it.

  The Librarian turned back to make sure I was still behind him as we reached the farthest corner of the library. He stopped outside one of the darkened rooms, which turned out to be about the size of a broom closet. As we entered, I noticed the only light source was coming from outside in the main hall.

  He waved me in after him; I could barely make out a stack of books scattered haphazardly across the floor. It looked like they were in the middle of renovating. How did he expect me to find anything in all this chaos?

  “Could you turn on the light?” My voice echoed around the empty room as he shut the door behind him, dousing us in total darkness. The sound of a lock latching into place sent my heart up into my throat as panic took root.

  As my eyes adjusted, I started to make out the outline of his form blocking my only escape. Man, I really should have listened to that voice in the back of my head. The soft light coming from underneath the door sent his shadow scuttling in the opposite direction, making him look more like a demon or a monster than a human being.

  “Hello?” I said, taking a slow step back as he took a slow step forward.

  A pile of books blocked my path and I tripped. By some miracle I managed to stay on my feet but when I glanced back up—he had moved from the spot he’d been in.

  Adrenaline hit me like a bolt of lightning.

  I was going to be murdered in a strange country in a broom closet. The image of the Russian in the garage at the concert came flooding back to me as I realized this was the second time in about a month that I’d been approached by threatening strangers.

  My hand hit something solid and I let out a small gasp of relief until the hard surface moved. And that’s when I knew it wasn’t a wall; it was the Librarian’s hard muscled abs. He moved incredibly fast—actually, inhumanly fast because the next thing I knew I felt the concussion of air from the force of his fist right before he hit me—before I could come to my senses, I was flying into a stack of books in the opposite corner of the room.

  The wall was upside down…no, never mind, I was upside down.

  My feet were smashed against the side of what I presumed had to be heavy duty Encyclopedias. Something warm and sticky ran down the side of my head. The silence frightened me more than anything else as my heart thundered heavily in my chest. A sharp laugh revealed his location—right beside me.

  The Darth Vader theme song interrupted my terrified stupor, and for one infinitely long second, I thought I was having auditory hallucinations until the music pierced the silence, again. My phone was lying on the ground across the room,—the screen lit up with Corinth’s smiling face.

  My attacker’s head whipped around to find the source of the noise; half his face hidden in shadow.

  The distraction gave me enough time to stumble groggily to my feet.

  He growled, and then lunged at me with renewed rage.

  Somewhere in my fog-riddled brain I knew I was hurt, but the only thing I could actually feel was the sting of something wet dripping into my eyes.

  I couldn’t stop my limbs from shaking as Corinth’s lop-sided grin disappeared and my phone went dark.

  Chapter 10

  IT WAS PITCH-BLACK but I could just make out the way his lips curled into a cruel grin. There one second and gone the next, he had my shirt in his hand, yanking me to my feet. Even though shock threatened to paralyze me, I raked my fingernails down his arm. He laughed teasingly, like we were kids shoving each other on the playground.

  I could see my frightened reflection in his steely eyes as he pulled me closer. The muscles in his arms were thick as tree trunks. Even though I was sure I wasn’t hurting him, I kept scratching and clawing and kicking anyway, doing my best to aim for something soft. Ironically, this was the only time I thought being fat might help me, but his grip tightened and when my feet left the ground, my eyes widened in disbelief. But even with being built like a tanker, I still couldn’t understand his impossible strength… until I saw his fangs—

  Suddenly, the door flew open and sharp, unfiltered light hit me square in the face. I cringed at the unexpected brightnes
s.

  “PUT HER DOWN!”

  Whoever shouted it was haloed by artificial light and I couldn’t make out the face.

  Preppy Polo turned to his aggressor and growled, “Give me one good reason why I should.”

  The other voice seemed closer than it had a second before… and familiar. “Because I only ask once.”

  Several things happened at the same time, but nothing quite as mind numbingly frightening as having my vision return. The Librarian’s teeth were still bared and a vein had popped up on the side of his massive neck. He had fangs. But before I could let that thought simmer; his grip tightened. I sucked in a terrified breath and squeezed my eyes shut. Some people might get off on filing their teeth to sharp itty-bitty points, but this seemed different. His supernatural strength alone told me so. Or maybe he was just a crazed serial killer on PCP who thought he was a vampire? I must have stumbled onto some kind of cult… which only made the blood rushing through my ears increase my paroxysm.

  “Get your own bloody—” The Librarian never got a chance to finish the sentence because the next thing I knew, his head had rolled back, separated from his body, and his grip slackened. He dropped me like a sack of potatoes as I scrambled backward, still in shock.

  The Librarian’s head rolled to a stop at my savior’s expensive looking loafers. As if in slow motion, my eyes traveled up from his shoes all the way to his clenched jaw, and then finally to land on those dark brooding eyes I’d seen once before. Of all the people to come to my rescue, I hadn’t expected it to be this guy. Gabriel Stanton stood before me with a short, black sword in his hands—looking as cool and collected as if he were taking a stroll through a park. There was a strange glint in his eye that suggested he enjoyed beheading people. I suddenly didn’t know who to be more scared of—the fanged serial killer or the sword wielding billionaire. I guess I’d go with the former.

  He stuck a hand out toward me. “Let’s go.”

  I screamed.

  It was as loud and blood curdling as any screams you’d hear in a horror movie. Born purely from the need to survive, and it felt foreign even to my own ears. Gabriel rolled his eyes at my sudden panic and pulled me to my feet. As soon as my knees locked straight, they buckled out from underneath me. With a grace and speed no human possessed, he stopped me from folding like a stack of cards. There was a moment where I stopped trying to process the events that had transpired. The only thing that stuck was the word fangs.