If Morning Never Comes - Episode One

Editor’s Note:

Something new for our magazine: a serial fiction series, and from an exciting guest contributor!

Gaius Warner

brings classic influences and muscular sensibility, or to put it bluntly “he gets it.” He’s also currently serializing another novel over at

The Graveyard Orbit

, which is off to a roaring start.

You’re going to like this one.

- Zack Grafman

“Well, I think it would be rather exciting to meet a vampire!”

The young woman’s exclamation was met with surprised laughter from around the sitting room. Her mother returned her cup of tea to its saucer, interrupted before she could take another sip.

“Charity!” she cried. “What a thing to say in front of the vicar!”

The vicar himself chuckled behind his own cup of tea and swallowed. “Oh, not at all Mrs. Ashley, you needn’t concern yourselves with me. I am hardly one to take offense at spiritual inclinations.”

The plump Mrs. Ashley sat in the chair closest to the fireplace. She leaned back, the folds of her dress bunching up. Next to her sat Vicar Clarke in his white collar, perched on the edge of his chair. Two young ladies sat on the sofa directly opposite the fire. The one who had spoken, Charity, leaned on the arm of the furniture, her nut-brown hair beginning to fall out of the pile she had made of it on top of her head. Her sister sat to her left, straight and tall.

“Well, I would hardly call such nonsense a spiritual matter, Mr. Clarke,” said the mother. “Silly girl.”

“On the contrary, Mrs. Ashley, the desire to understand that which is beyond our senses is by its very definition a matter of the spirit. It demonstrates a mind that is awake to the stirrings of the angelic realm all around us.”

Eleanor shook her head, “You are very kind Mr. Clarke, but I do not believe my sister’s inclinations are quite as noble as you describe.”

“Darling, don’t speak ill of your sister,” her mother reprimanded.

“As if you wouldn’t jump at the chance to dance with a vampire if one asked you,” Charity teased.

The vicar laughed again and set down his empty cup. “You really find the idea exciting, Miss Ashley? May I inquire as to what it is that stirs such a sentiment?”

“Oh dear, Mr. Clarke, please!” laughed the mortified mother, “Don’t encourage her.”

When Mr. Clarke had assured Mrs. Ashley that he took no offense as a man of the Church, Charity began, “Vampires are the most handsome of creatures; tall, dark, mysterious, dashing and–”

“Don’t make a fool of yourself,” Eleanor whispered.

“Imagine meeting eyes with a man across the dance floor, being drawn into his arms only to realize that he holds your very life in his hands. To exist for a moment, only at his mercy!”

“Charity!” exclaimed her mother.

Vicar Clarke laughed again, “You have quite an imagination, Miss Ashley. But would you not be afraid that he might drink your blood?”

“Oh, that’s the most delicious part!” Charity squealed, “The danger. I can hardly stand it!”

Eleanor sighed as a girl brought in a tray of cakes for the room. “Are we really going to talk about this for our entire teatime?”

“Quite right, Miss Ashley. Charles, you haven’t spoken much this afternoon. What would you care to discuss?”

Seated opposite the cleric and the matron sat a young man of close on to twenty years. His jacket hung rather short of the ends of his wrists and ankles. He sat up at the vicar’s words. He had not touched his tea.

“Oh, best to let him sit quietly, Mr. Clarke. The boy has no manner of manners at all,” said Mrs. Ashley. The boy reddened in his face and reached for a cake from the tray.

“I’m sure that’s not true, Mrs. Ashley. Come Charles, what interests you this afternoon?”

Charity cut in, “Yes Charles. Let’s talk about your mustache, shall we?”

Charles couldn’t help from brushing a finger past his lip for a moment as though he were wiping away a crumb. On his upper lip sat an unfortunately thin line of hair. His mother and sister were laughing; even Vicar Clarke smiled. Charles looked into his cup and took a drink.

Mr. Clarke took a consoling tone, “It’s really nothing to be ashamed of, Charles. How long have you been at it, then?”

Charles cleared his throat and spoke, “Three weeks, sir.”

“Three weeks and this is the best he can come up with!” laughed Charity. “It looks like he drew it on with a pencil.”

Charles took a deep breath and looked to Eleanor. She was no help. She was too mild to join in the laughter, but even so he could see a smile behind her eyes.

His face grew hot, “If I don’t let it grow, it will never fill out.”

Charity snickered, “Yes, only you’d think two decades would be enough.”

“What, you mean like the empty nest on your head, Charity?”

His mother and older sister exclaimed at his rudeness, but Charity returned fire, “If my hair offends you, Charles, you’re welcome to borrow some to build a nest of your own. You seem to be having trouble managing it yourself.”

Mrs. Ashley guffawed at her daughter’s joke, “Oh, he’s always been rather ridiculous, Mr. Clarke. Always getting the strangest ideas into his head, aren’t you, Charles?”

“No, Mother.”

“Of course he’d say that, but the stories I could tell you!”

Charles put his tea down and tried to speak sternly, “Mother, that is quite enough.”

She turned to the distinguished guest on her left and said, “Not a year ago, our stable master hears shouts coming from the barn and goes to investigate. A light was on and what do you think he found there?”

“Mother, please!”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered the vicar, with that look of simpering pastoral interest he wore so well.

“In he goes to find the stable boys carousing. And right there in the middle of it, with his arm around the neck of a young groom, was Charles.”

“Your Charles?” cried Mr. Clarke. He looked at the young man, distressed.

Charles raised his cup to the Vicar. “I had him, too. He’d have been out in a few more seconds,” he said, and sipped his tea.

“It’s nothing to joke about, Charles,” Eleanor rebuked him. “It was a shameful breach of decorum.”

“And dangerous and violent and outrageous and sinful!” added his mother, with a sharp gesture.

“I don’t know of any chapter and verse that tells me not to knock the stable boy’s block off, Mother.”

“Have you not heard Christ’s injunction to turn the other cheek, Charles?” the Vicar intoned.

“Amen,” said Charity with her mouth full.

“Well, I know he’s heard it from me!” blustered Mrs. Ashley. “I take the utmost care to practice serenity in all things.”

“I didn’t attack him, we agreed to it. It was a game, not an assault,” Charles retorted.

“Is there really a difference, Charles?” whispered the Vicar, his eyes large and sad behind his spectacles.

“You’re the man of God, Mr. Clarke.” Charles knew he was losing, and now all wanted to do was move on from the conversation.

But Mr. Clarke did not. He looked closely at Charles, “But why, my son? What is it exactly you were trying to accomplish?”

Charles looked at the clock. How many more hours would he have to wait until he could make a polite exit? “It was just a contest, sir. An exercise. It’s always good to prepare for the worst.”

“For the worst? What could you possibly be afraid of, Charles?” asked Mr. Clarke.

“Bandits and beautiful women!” teased Charity.

Charles ignored his sister. “It’s not a matter of fear, Mr. Clarke, it’s about being ready.”

“For what?” pressed Mr. Clarke.

“Trying to train himself to fight,” lamented Mrs. Ashley. “Deplorable.”

“He wanted big muscles so he could impress the ladies,” tittered Charity, to another hissed rebuke from her sister.

“I see,” said the Vicar, looking back to Charles. Charles wished Mr. Clarke would leave him alone. Why did every visit with every guest have to end with him apologizing for something?

“I can’t imagine why any son of mine would want to harm another person,” huffed Mrs. Ashley.

Her son tried to explain again, “Mother, I was not planning to harm anyone. Men need to be able to defend themselves.”

“Yes. Well, not my son,” she snapped. She tried to smooth her dress, which seemed only to get more rumpled with each adjustment. “You’d think you could be grateful with what I have been able give you, little enough that it is after your poor father.”

“Mother, I–”

“What do you need to be strong for?” his mother demanded.

Charles didn’t answer. But all eyes were on him. They were waiting for an answer. He said nothing. Eleanor gently shook her head. Vicar Clarke cleared his throat.

“Charles, you are blessed to live among fine people who love you. Your land is at peace, are you not grateful for that?”

Charles sighed, “Yes sir.”

“Violence is the mark of a degenerate soul, Charles. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Undoubtedly,” Charles quipped. Eleanor noticed the sarcasm and raised her eyebrows, but the others sipped their tea and reached for more cakes.

Mr. Clarke broke the silence, “Mrs. Ashley, I am very much looking forward to meeting our new neighbor this evening.”

Mrs. Ashley swallowed yet another cake, crumbs stuck to the corner of her lips. She coughed and forced it down with a swallow of tea. Charles could not watch her eat. She answered, “Yes, I’m very much looking forward to meeting him as well.”

“I understand he comes from the continent?”

“Yes sir, from Switzerland I believe.”

“Germany, Mother.”

“What’s that, Eleanor darling?”

“Herr Stryker comes from Germany, not Switzerland.”

“Oh, it’s all the same to us, dear.”

“Do you think he’s been to the Alps?” asked Charity.

“I’m sure he has. Why live so close and not take the time?” asked Mrs. Ashley.

“Well, it is not uncommon to take for granted the wonders that live right in front of us, don’t you think?” asked Mr. Clarke.

The women agreed and began to rehearse old stories and gossip from the area. Charles saw that the clock had not moved enough for him to excuse himself. He let his mind wander.

The night his mother had referred to so easily had been one of the worst of his life. His best friend among the servants had been dismissed and he’d received a stern talking-to from John, their butler. His age and privilege made it now quite impossible for him to associate with the servants in such coarse familiarity any longer. He was left alone, with only the occasional rogue member of the staff willing to risk John’s wrath to speak to him informally.

Vicar Clarke could speak of common wonders all he liked, but Charles certainly didn’t see anything wondrous in his life. He had roamed every corner of their house and grounds time and again, and there were no marvelous secrets to discover. The house remained stoic and the moor remained bleak. Even his jaunts into town were starting to lose their thrill. Charles put a finger to the frail mustache on his lip. He thought of their guest arriving that evening. At least there were new faces coming to the area.

Charity seemed to think so, too. “So many new neighbors coming in, I can hardly stand it! A yodeling German from the Alps and a family of vampires!”

Eleanor closed her eyes as the Vicar collapsed with laughter. Charles considered various illnesses he could convincingly feign. Mrs. Ashley scolded her youngest child with an adoring smile.

Mr. Clarke adjusted his spectacles and wiped a tear, “Are we really back to that, Miss Ashley?”

“Seventeen and a head full of dreams,” cooed Mrs. Ashley. Charles scoffed. When Charity acted strangely, it was dreams. Apparently his own dreams were violent and offensive.

Eleanor placed her hands in her lap and spoke to her sister in her measured voice, “Charity, you must promise me that you will not speak to them this way when we meet them. Not every guest is as patient as Mr. Clarke.”

Charity blew back a lock of brown hair. Her cheeks were red from mischievous laughter. “Well, I don’t know what else you want me to call them, Ellie. No one knows where they come from, and they only come out at night.”

Eleanor had a single line furrowing her pale brow, “Simply because someone does not want to endure your frivolous garden parties does not make them a demon.”

“Eleanor! Your sister was only joking,” said Mrs. Ashley.

“I most certainly was not, Mother!” said Charity. “If they plan to spend the entire summer shut up in that haunted house, then the rest of us are bound to start to speculate.”

“You are not bound to do anything, Charity,” said Eleanor. “You might keep your opinions to yourself and mind your own business.”

Charity and Eleanor argued and their mother tried to calm them down. The Vicar made eye contact with Charles and tried to give him a knowing wink. Charles was in no mood. He disliked the Vicar. The thin cleric reminded him of a stray dog, sidling up to the most important person in every room, looking for table scraps and a pat on the head. Charles was convinced his mother only ever invited him so she could have someone repeat her own words back to her. Well, let the Vicar preach, he truly was not interested.

While the ladies squabbled, a young servant came into the room and begged his mistress’s pardon. It was Tom, one of those rare, rogue servants who had just enough of a sense of mischief that he did not mind bringing Charles along for his various debaucheries and pranks. It was odd indeed to see him in this room.

“Whatever is this about?” Mrs. Ashley demanded of the young man.

“I’m terribly sorry, madam. But I have something that requires Mr. Ashley’s attention?”

The women in the room seemed mystified that anything could benefit from Charles’ attention. Charles smirked. Good old Tom. The servant leaned forward and spoke into his ear.

“Sir, we found something on the moor, and I believe you’ll want to see it.”

Charles stood and excused himself as his sisters resumed their cantankerous quarrel. He took pleasure in leaving the Vicar behind to wait out the results of the duel. Tom opened the door and closed it behind them.

In the hall, Charles turned around to laugh with his occasional friend, but Tom looked grave.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.