Shade: A Re-Imagining of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (The Frankenstein Saga Book 1) Read online

  Praise

  SHADE

  “Beautiful and atmospheric.”

  —Bersaba, 5-Star Amazon Review

  “Merrie takes the reader on a Gothic horror thrill ride through Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin's eyes that ends in a heart-stopping cliffhanger. I can't wait to read the rest of the story!”

  —Jane, 5-Star Amazon Review

  “Shade hit the ground running from page 1.”

  —Kimberly, 5-Star Amazon Review

  DUSK

  “I was on the edge of my seat, and couldn't stop reading.”

  —Bersaba, 5-Star Amazon Review

  “Part 2 was just as atmospheric and chilling as Part 1 and the plot thickened.”

  —Kimberly, 5-Star Amazon Review

  “This just keeps getting better.”

  —Kaye, 5-Star Amazon Review

  “Again, Merrie Destefano keeps a relentless, page-turning pace that will leave you at the end breathless and anxious for book three.”

  —Jane, 5-Star Amazon Review

  DAWN

  “It’s full of action, horror, heartbreak, and difficult decisions. I feared for my favorite character and for Mary.”

  —Bersaba, 5-Star Amazon Review

  “Merrie Destefano brings her trilogy galloping to a satisfying end, a thrill ride through the long dark night of the soul.”

  —Jane, 5-Star Amazon Review

  “I started reading this afternoon and I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. I finished all three books in one day! I was under this series spell until the thrilling end!”

  —Kimberly, 5-Star Amazon Review

  SHADE

  A Re-Imagining of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

  Merrie Destefano

  Ruby Slippers Press

  For my husband, Tom.

  Forward

  In 1816, an infamous group of friends spent a holiday together in Geneva, Switzerland. Forced to stay indoors because of unprecedented foul weather, they challenged one another to write tales of the most gruesome horror. What happened next was legendary. Frankenstein and The Vampyre were born as a result.

  The names and ages of those in attendance:

  Mary Wollstonecroft Godwin…………18 years old

  Percy Shelley……………………….….23 years old

  Lord Byron…………………………….28 years old

  Claire Claremont………………………18 years old

  Doctor John Polidori…………..………21 years old

  To the rest of the world, 1816 would be known as the Year With No Summer.

  But to those few living in the Lake Geneva area, it would forever be known as the Year The Monsters Were Born.

  “What terrified me will terrify others;

  and I need only describe the spectre,

  which had haunted my midnight pillow. “

  —Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin [Shelley],

  about the visions that gave birth to Frankenstein’s monster.

  Contents

  Forward

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Read the Next Book

  Notes From The Author

  About the Author

  Also by Merrie Destefano

  Quote

  “I ought to be thy Adam,

  but I am rather the fallen angel...”

  —Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

  One

  I was cursed from the moment I met him.

  He laughed at my jokes and his eyes sparkled when I talked. Everyone in the room adored him, from my father to our literary guests. And when he leaned close enough to whisper in my ear, asking me to slip away with him, I saw the envy in my sisters’ eyes.

  If I was cursed at the sight of him, then I lost my soul when we kissed. I was only sixteen at the time, still I should have known better.

  He was married, after all. He promised me his marriage was a loveless union and he was certain he would get a divorce any day. However, in the end, his freedom had taken longer than either of us expected and came at a great price.

  Now, we both had blood on our hands.

  We tried to run, to escape the guilt, the landscape changing from rolling hills to sharp mountains, rivers giving way to lakes, and winter giving way to spring. But we could never run far enough.

  For the whole world had fallen under our curse.

  Brown snow began to fall in Hungary and red snow in Italy. Rumors claimed that almost a foot of snow now blanketed Quebec City, while lakes and rivers as far south as Pennsylvania chilled beneath layers of ice.

  And here in Switzerland—the one place we were certain we’d be safe—the entire landscape from valley floor to mountain peak was covered in snow.

  But it was the middle of May.

  The sky should have been full of stars. A soft breeze should have been blowing across Lake Geneva and the forests should have whispered in reply. Our carriage should have been surrounded by grassy meadows.

  Instead, I sat in the back of the carriage, bundled in furs, snow drifting around me, the wind chafing my skin. I knew I deserved this penance. It kept me in a valley of sorrow, where I belonged. Still, it was terrifying, this feeling that my sin might destroy the world.

  “Someday they’ll call this the year with no summer,” my fiancé, Percy Shelley mused as he poured another glass of wine, spilling most of it on my gown. “Perhaps we’ll write epic poems about it during our holiday, you, Byron and I. Maybe we’ll even sing about it.”

  “While we’re all stuck indoors,” I said.

  My soul had longed for green fields and daisies and sunshine.

  I had secretly hoped that something would lift the heaviness in my heart, that feeling like someone was standing on my chest and making every breath difficult. There were times when I felt as if I was sinking in a lake of black tar and would never escape.

  “There will be good days ahead, my beloved,” Percy said. It was the old Percy speaking, the one I’d fallen in love with, the one who had seduced me.

  Once he’d been a wild rebel who challenged every political and religious structure, he’d been a growing force in the Romantic Movement. But today he was a twenty-three-year-old man who drank from sunrise to sunset, who gambled away our meager funds until we were penniless. He took laudanum every day, but the opium couldn’t stop his nightmares. Or mine.

  Our long journey finally ended when a villa appeared before us, grand as a royal manor, surrounded by forests, the Alps rising in the background. The front door hung open, which surprised me, since the hour was late and the weather cold. As the carriage drew nearer, I noticed someone shadowing the doorway. When our horses stopped, that person ran toward us.

  It was none other than our host, Lord Byron himself, a weapon in one hand that looked like a seventeenth-century dueling pistol.

  “Hurry, get inside the house,” he commanded us. “One of the servants will tend to your horses and you can retrieve your luggage in the morning.”

  His tone startled me and I looked around, but saw no danger. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I must grab my satchel first,” Percy protested in a slurred voice. “I’ll have nothing to sleep in—”

  I knew he didn’t care about clothing. His laudanum was in that b
ag.

  Percy stumbled out of the carriage and Byron caught him by the arm, while I continued to scan the landscape around us. “Inside, quickly,” Byron repeated, hastening us both toward the front door. “You were supposed to have been here hours ago.”

  “Our carriage broke down outside of Lancy,” I said as I lifted my skirts to run beside them, my boots sinking into ankle-deep snow. It was a lie, but I didn’t want to explain the argument Percy had with an innkeeper about our lodging or how it had delayed our travel. We all stood inside the villa now, the door closing behind us.

  I moved toward the fireplace, shaking the snow off my dress and cloak. “Why on earth did you rush us inside like that?” I asked, my hands extended toward the fire. I didn’t realize there were other people in the room until I began to slip off my gloves. That was when my stepsister, Claire—one of Byron’s many lovers—rose from a nearby chair, her belly even more swollen with his child than the last time I had seen her.

  “Sister.” She nodded a greeting at me and I gave the same back to her. There were no warm hugs between us, not now, nor had there ever been.

  An unexpected fifth member to our party sat in another chair—Byron’s personal physician, Doctor John Polidori. He glanced up from the book he was reading long enough to run a curious gaze over me. It was hard to ignore him, with his olive complexion and black curly hair and that intense expression in his dark eyes.

  “Byron?” I asked again. “You’d think we were being chased by assassins from the way you ushered us inside.”

  He paused in the doorway, still carrying that dueling pistol in one hand, his face flushed, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned. He looked oddly disheveled for a man who always prided himself on his appearance.

  “It’s the weather,” he said as he joined us in the drawing room, pouring himself a glass of whiskey and slugging it down in one, long swallow.

  No one moved or spoke. I had a feeling Claire and John already knew what was going on for they avoided my gaze.

  “All this snow has driven wild animals down from the mountains—lynx, wolves, bears,” he continued, filling his glass again and then, almost as an afterthought, pouring drinks for Percy and me. “The beasts can be quite dangerous if encountered when one is unprepared.”

  At that point, his characteristic charm rose to the surface and he gave me a polite bow, before handing me a tumbler of whiskey.

  “As I explained in my letter, you may both do as you please while you’re here,” he said. “Stay up all night and sleep all day. Drink so much that you forget which room is yours. There is only one thing that I must insist upon,” he said, an ominous tone in his words. “You must not go outdoors after dusk.”

  A puzzled expression must have crossed my face for he focused on me, taking my hand and holding it in his.

  “My dearest Mary, we wouldn’t want someone as lovely as you to end up as prey, would we?”

  I gave him a short laugh, trying my best to hide the sliver of apprehension that flowed through me.

  We’d come to Switzerland to keep Byron company during his exile, secretly hoping that this holiday might set us free from the torment that pursued us. Instead, I realized we were on an unwelcome adventure and, from this point on, anything could happen.

  To the rest of the world, 1816 would be remembered as the summer when snow replaced rain and crops refused to grow and thousands died in their beds, hungry and cold.

  To me, it would forever be remembered as the summer when our curse took shape and came down from the mountains, ready to devour us all.

  Two

  For days, rain and snow beat at the villa until I forgot what the sun looked like. I thought my riding boots would never make it out of my trunk, nor any of my summer frocks.

  Then one morning, John and Byron had a brilliant idea. We would all go on a hunt.

  For three hours I forgot about the horrid weather. All I cared about was the speed of my horse and the accuracy of my rifle and, of course, I was delighted when my shot was the one that took down the deer we had been tracking all morning. My blood was like fire in my veins and every inch of my skin felt like it crackled with lightning.

  Which it nearly did when a moment later the sky opened up and the black tempest parted just long enough to shoot an arrow of lightning at a nearby oak.

  I screamed when the tree burst into flames, then I glanced at both Byron and John and the three of us started laughing.

  “You’ve angered the hunting gods, Mary.”

  “There’s no hope for you now.”

  “There’s no hope for either of you,” I answered quickly. “Not if any of your creditors catch up with you.”

  After my remark, Byron chased me through the forest for nearly ten minutes until both of us were breathless. When he finally caught me, he swung one arm around my waist and pulled me close enough to whisper in my ear.

  “You shouldn’t marry Percy, you know. He’s the sort that breaks girls’ hearts.”

  “And you’re any different?” I asked, pushing him away with a grin. “‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know.’ Isn’t that what everyone back in England is saying about you since your exile?”

  He shrugged and raised an eyebrow. “I’d be different with you, Mary. I’d be a changed man.”

  “And that’s exactly why we are all vacationing in Switzerland. Because you keep repeating the same sweet lies to every woman you meet.”

  Through the trees and the relentless rain, I saw one of Byron’s servants carting the trussed-up deer back to the villa. Proud of my kill, I followed behind the cart and when we arrived I helped John and Byron carry it into the kitchen. There, I tossed my cloak on a chair and dashed upstairs, eager to write about our day’s adventure in my journal.

  I could still feel the deer’s life, as if it was flowing beneath my fingertips. It was as if the whole world became more vibrant when the beast had fallen to its knees, my bullet in its heart.

  Death was the natural way of things. I kept reminding myself of that fact, despite the grief and guilt that pressed against my chest.

  Three people were dead because of my union with Percy. Three. And every day it got harder to breathe.

  I wasn’t watching where I was going and almost ran into Percy in the upstairs hallway. His hands braced my shoulders as he held me at arm’s length. Glad to see me, he slipped his arms around my waist, eager for a kiss. But the expression on my face caused him to falter.

  He’d seen this look in my eyes too many times—the guilt and the regret. Death followed us wherever we went.

  His hands fell away and he took a step backward, lifting his chin and catching my scent, choosing a familiar argument instead.

  “You have blood on your forehead, my love,” he said with disapproval. He was a strict vegetarian and abhorred my love of hunting and eating red meat. “And you smell like a wild beast.”

  His harsh words stung. He was as guilty as I was, though he never admitted it.

  People commit suicide because they’re unbalanced. That was what he said when my half-sister, Fanny, killed herself because she’d fallen in love with him. It’s what he said again when his wife, Harriet, had drowned herself in the Serpentine River.

  But we rarely discussed the other death, the one that hurt us even more than either of these. This was the one I could barely allow myself to think about. It was the one that haunted me.

  I took hold of his shirt, my dirty fingers leaving a smudge on the freshly laundered linen. I pointed at several of his buttons, which were undone, and I slowly fastened each one as I spoke.

  “And you, my sweet, are already drunk, even though it’s only midday.” I leaned nearer, taking a deep whiff, the stubbled skin on his neck scratching my cheek. “Is that wine or whiskey on your breath? Or maybe you’ve found more laudanum and that’s why your step is unsteady.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but I brushed past him, heading to my room.

  “Mary,” he said, his tone weary.

 
I didn’t want to hear him explain how we still had a long future ahead of us, not today. And I definitely didn’t want to hear him quote one of the many poems he had written for me. Any one of them would cause me to melt and change my heart. So I covered my ears with bloodstained hands and ran to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

  For a long time, I leaned against the wall, waiting until he left the hallway and went downstairs. I forced myself to forget about him and sat at my desk. The journal he and I had been sharing lay open and I stared down at it, thinking about what to write. There would be long paragraphs about the woods, and the snow that capped the nearby mountains, and the long trek through winding trails that finally led us to the deer.

  I lifted my hand, ready to dip my quill in ink.

  That was when I saw what he had written that day.

  It was a love sonnet, so beautiful and passionate it brought unwelcome tears to my eyes. Line upon line resonated with my soul, making me regret our recent quarrel. Then I paused, perplexed. I read it again, realizing that it wasn’t about me. There was a distinct difference in hair texture and eye color and temperament.

  My fiancé had written this for his dead wife.

  Sorrow gave way to anger.

  I took my thumb and smeared it across my forehead until it was wet with the deer’s blood, then I wiped it on the page. One long, bloody print swept through his flowing script, almost erasing the poem he had written to the wrong woman.