Soul of A Vampire

Soul of a Vampire Brothers of Scrim Hall Book One Andie Fenichel Copyright © 2023 by Andie Fenichel All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination. Locales are fictitious, and/or, are used fictitiously. Edited by OopsieDaisyEdits.com Cover design by LoveTheCover.com Contents Soul of a Vampire Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Also by Andie Fenichel About the Author Soul of a Vampire Oliver Vampires don’t fall in love. At least, that’s what I’ve always believed. How can you fall in love when everything with a beating heart is a potential food source? Yet from the moment I first saw Britta, nothing else mattered. I don’t even care that the story she writes may destroy me and my brothers. Fighting my instincts to claim her isn’t an option, but getting her to see beyond my monster may be impossible. Britta I came to Scrim Hall to unravel a mystery and write a story that would push my journalism career to the next level. I never believed the stories of monsters living in the woods. I was wrong. Though this monster has a hold on me that I can’t explain. His bite is magic, but his heart is a drug I can’t resist. Chapter One Britta Working for the online segment of the World News Station is the best job I’ve ever had. I’ve been with them for a year, and they seem to like me. Even so, it took my best working-the-angle skills to get permission to follow the tip I received about an old story of missing orphans. I’m heading to the orphanage now, but I might be lost. They said I need to look northeast of the small town of Havendoor in western New York. I’ve been driving for six hours. My phone lost its signal a few miles back. I know this place is off the beaten path, but I’m still in New York. There’s no reason not to have a satellite signal strong enough to use my GPS. At some point, I’m going to have to admit I’m lost, turn around, and go back to town for directions. On the right, Scrim Hall is etched into a man-size stone. With a wash of relief, I turn at the sign. The woods are dense on either side of the road. It’s been a hot summer all over the country, and today is topping out at ninety-eight degrees and humid. The thick canopy of trees keeps the sun from baking my Jeep. Even so, I’m glad I kept the doors in place so I can run the air conditioning. Something blurs across the road, and I slam on my brakes. “What moves that fast?” I look out the passenger window into the thick brush and leaves. All I see are more trees and ferns covering the ground. Pressing the gas pedal, I ease down the road, my senses alert for a deer or bear. I hit a squirrel once when I was seventeen, and I still haven’t quite gotten over it. Movement flashes across my rearview mirror and I stop again, but there’s nothing there. “So weird.” This is getting creepy, but I keep driving. Ten minutes later, there’s finally a break in the dense forest. The road opens up to a circular driveway in front of a house that would fit better in the English countryside. I swear it’s a Regency manor house in the middle of New York State. I stop the car near the path to the front door and stare out the windshield at the enormous house. I take in the wide front, with tall windows and spires reaching into the blue sky. Grabbing my purse and phone, I take a deep breath. “Just get the story and get out, Britta. You’ve got this.” The heat hits me like a wall of yuck as soon as I step onto the driveway. Pulling back my shoulders, I walk up to the eight-foot-tall front door. There’s no button to ring a doorbell. I knock on the heavy wood but have little hope my knock can be heard from within. I knock again with my fist, which, while quite satisfying, still sounds feeble. In my Jeep is a toolbox, and I’m beginning to think about the hammer. The door opens a crack. “Hello?” I nudge the heavy wood, and it swings open with a creak. The large foyer is full of light from high windows, and the floors are black and white marble set in a checkerboard pattern, but no one is inside. “Hello? I’m from WNS. I’m here to look into a report of missing orphans.” I step inside. A pair of beautiful staircases curve around the oval foyer and up to a landing. The chandelier must have five hundred crystals catching the light. To the left is a closed double door; to the right, an open door reveals a cozy sitting room with antique furniture and a tray with a tea set on the coffee table. Entering the sitting room, I touch the side of the porcelain pot painted with yellow roses. It’s warm. I look around as if I might have missed my hostess, but the room is still empty. Returning my attention to the tea, I sit and pour a cup. It would be a shame to let it go cold. “I’ll be here if you’d like to chat. Thank you for the tea.” The strong Earl Grey brew is oddly comforting despite the hot day. “We have no children in this