Paigan Stone
I’m looking for a girl – and not just any girl will do. You see I’m no ordinary student at Manchester University and the lovely Carolyn is exactly what I want. Tall, dark and androgynous; she resembles my cousin and first love. All my girls do...
I didn’t bank on the beautiful Lilly, of course. She’s blonde, curvy; has thrown me with her lyrical voice. I admit she’s gorgeous even though she is not my type!
But despite my protests my dreams are filled with Lilly and even a Seventeenth Century vampire has trouble controlling his urges. Especially when drugged by a fellow student with Ecstasy…
Over four hundred women have died because of my uncontrollable passion, so why is Lilly the only woman in centuries to survive my fatal kiss?
Gothic Fiction Author and Poet, Paigan Stone began writing at 11 years old after reading her first adult fiction book, The Collector by John Fowles. “I’d never read anything like it. It was terrifying – but so exciting…that’s when I realised I liked to be scared.” Her love of Gothic Fiction began soon afterwards when she stayed up late one night with her sister to watch Christopher Lee in Dracula. Since then she’s been a huge fan of Vampire movies and novels old and new.
The youngest of seven children, Paigan struggled to find her own space and is a self-confessed bookworm. “I always have a book on the go. It’s my time. Life wouldn’t be the same if I couldn’t chill sometimes with a good book. It’s where I learnt about life, long before I lived it.”
Married with a daughter Paigan is an English and Drama teacher in Lancashire. She’s appeared in six anthologies for her poetry and short stories.
Her recent success with her Vampire novel Gabriele Caccini –The Vampire Gene Book 1 has been the fulfilment of a lifelong dream. Like all good author’s she drew on her own knowledge and passions to write it.
Paigan is currently working on the sequel Lucrezia -The Vampire Gene Book 2.
The Laird had named her himself even though he never admitted she was his daughter. Colina. It meant ‘young hound’ in the old tongue; she entered the world howling. Her mother Mordag had been a rare beauty; the same dark Gaelic curls passed down to her daughter and the same fiery coal black eyes, inherited from some ancestral gypsy. Mordag was the village witch and she kept the local youths at bay. Fear of her curse was enough to cool their blood and as Colina grew from child to woman her mother’s protection enclosed her like a thick hide on the cold moors. Even the Laird, though he lusted after his own daughter as she grew, dare not claim her. He remembered all too well the night Mordag cursed him, the night Colina was conceived; the night his youngest son died of a strange brain fever. He never again forced his lust on an unwilling maid from the village.
Mordag kept Colina safe. She did not envision the life of a midwife for her; Colina was too good to throw away on farm-hands or a greedy old Laird who had fathered half of the bastards in the village. No. Colina had a future. Colina would be rescued by a prince who would carry her away. Mordag had seen it.
So, when she heard talk of ‘the stranger’ staying with the Laird, a noble man from Europe – some speculated he was of royal blood - Mordag gave Colina more freedom. It was only a matter of time before the stranger observed the highland beauty and they struck up a secret friendship.
“Take the goat up the hill girl. Her milk is thin. You’ll find good grass on the south side…Near the sacred stones…” She gave her a brown threadbare sack. “Stay until evening.”
“Yes, Ma.”
Mordag watched as Colina left, tugging the reluctant animal. The cool air brought colour to her fair cheeks. Colina was wrapped in her thickest hide, wearing her mother’s warmest boots; all of their collective finest clothes. Looking through the crystal ball Mordag watched as Colina travelled through the dull morning mist, cursing as the goat pulled against the rope. She felt no sadness even though she knew she would never see her daughter again.
“Come on, you curséd devil! Don’t eat the grass here. Ma says up the hill.”
The morning stretched to afternoon as they made steady progress through the lilac heather and halfway up the hill. Colina could see the grass was good there, but her mother had said clearly, ‘near the stones’, so she trundled round and up for a further hour before she reached the correct place.
The sun was high and the hill was hot, even for late autumn. She tied up the goat and allowed it to graze in the rich grass as she found a dry patch next to the deep set rock and seated herself. Back pressed to the cold hard stone she looked out over the village like a queen surveying her kingdom while she munched greedily on the hunk of bread and cheese she found in the sack her mother had given her; and something else - a treat, a jug of ale.
Halfway through the ale, she grew sleepy. The sun pierced the sky. A gull flying inland from the sea, swooped and cawed as Colina closed her eyes, resting, waiting like a good daughter, for the time her mother said to return. She drifted slowly to sleep as the stranger left the Laird’s castle and mounting his horse headed out over the moor.
Mordag watched as the stranger rode expertly across the heather. He was alone, as was his way. His pale hair was tied back into a tail that dipped halfway down his back and his head was covered with a wide-brimmed hat that shaded his eyes and face from the now lowering sun. Though he wore black, appeared in mourning, they were rich fabrics. His clean and perfect hands, pale skin, his strong but aristocratic bearing all confirmed her vision of the Prince; the Prince who would take her daughter away from the highlands.
It was as if some invisible force pulled him to the hill because he always seemed to know where to find her. Mordag knew that he had been meeting Colina secretly now for several weeks. Through the ensorcelled glass she had seen their innocent friendship bloom into unfulfilled lust. But she trusted Colina, had warned her from childhood what would happen.
“Never. Never until he promises to take you away…Then it shows he loves you, darlin’. It’ll prove he’s the one in my dream for you.”
Colina was a good daughter. She always listened to her mother.
“You are sent further away today.” He said, his pale lips curving under the shadow of his hat.
His voice was thick; it held the Latin tang of some of the priests that had tried to convert Mordag several years ago. One had promised her eternal salvation if she gave up her pagan ways. But Mordag had known that deliverance couldn’t come from a man who liked the touch of young boys.
But the stranger’s words were less precise than the priest’s and he often struggled to find the words in their language.
Colina woke slowly. Lazily she smiled up at his handsome face. Her mother had made her bathe in the big tub before the fire. She felt clean and pretty.
“You!” A small blush spread across her pale cheeks.
He smiled. Then bent slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, and picked up the half drunk jug of ale. “What is… you drinking?”
“Ma sent it. She hates to feel I’ll be cold and lonely out here with this wretched goat. If only she knew…” Colina teased.
In her sleep her dress had ridden up above her calf. The stranger glanced at her smooth white flesh then turned quickly away. On the back of the horse was a rolled blanket which he untied before pulling out a jug of wine from the saddle bag.
“This will be more…” Colina smiled as he struggled to find the word. “Comfort for you.”
The Laird insisted they spoke English now, but he, her Prince did not speak it well yet. Though it had improved steadily over the weeks she had known him and he always seemed to understand her, whatever she said.
He helped her to her feet then carefully spread the thick woven cloth on the grassy patch which was indented and flattened to her shape. They sat side by side as he opened the jug of strong red wine. Holding it out to her willing hands he watched her sip, sloshing the fruity liquid over her front.
“How will you … how much time?”
“Ma said to start back in the evening…” She squinted into the sun above the village. “A few hours yet.”
“You will go back?”
“’Course!”
“Stay…”
His kiss surprised Colina but not Mordag. She looked away from the crystal rubbing her eyes. The vision told true. Her beautiful daughter would find happiness in the arms of this man. She covered the ball with a strip of soft linen. Turning to the fire she scooped sizzling hot broth from the blackened pot hanging from the spit.
“Have to give them this time…” Colina was a good girl; Colina could be trusted.
She sat at the table with the bowl and tore of a piece of bread from the fresh loaf that lay on a platter in the centre. She ate hungrily pausing only when she heard the strange howling that echoed across the moors from the Laird’s hounds. Even the animals knew this night was important. But the ethereal cries soon stopped; the Laird would never allow the magic in the eve to interrupt his fun.
Later, as the night filled out and the fire crackled in the hearth she pulled away the fabric, looking once more into the glass. As the cloud in the ball cleared she gazed deeply into the pure glass.
“No!”
Beautiful and terrible the Prince lay above Colina. His naked body glistened under the moon. His teeth sharp and pointed like a starving wolf dripped with thick red liquid as he dipped and tore, dipped and tore until he satisfied his lust. He was bathed in her. Her bare breasts and ragged naked throat looked like the shaved flesh of a lamb, sacrificed on the altar of the Great Mother on Samhain. Her naked body was limp and spread beneath him like a wanton whore.
“No!” Mordag screamed again and he stopped, gazed up as though he had heard her cry.
For a time he stared at the lifeless face; his eyes were strangely blackened as they reflected the moon. His hand stroked Colina’s hollow cheek. He rested his forehead on her shoulder. Then he stood, dressed. Wrapping her in the blanket he lifted her with infinite care; then laid her across the horse, pushing back her limp arm as it slipped from the covering. Mounting behind her he looked down at the town, as though into the eyes of the witch Mordag as she stood helpless before the crystal her eyes shining but dry. She was paralyzed by his gaze.
He turned and rode away; far from the village, far from the Laird’s castle and Mordag watched unable to move, frightened to admit what she had seen.
“He took her…Just like the vision. He took my girl away…”
