by Amy Hoff
“Centuries ago, you saved us,” Desdemona said, “I was there with you then, and not with you the other times, but I am here with you now.”
Nour smiled briefly.
“Someone might say you’ve grown a heart,” said Nour.
Desdemona grinned. She looked up at Robert, who had just come through the door with Leah and Fludge.
“Yes, well,” Desdemona said, “I’ve had a good teacher.”
Robert beamed at her, but she shook her head at him slightly. He understood in an instant and retreated, pushing Leah and Fludge behind him, and closing the door.
Desdemona turned back to Nour.
“Finish the spell,” said the baobhan sith.
Nour placed her hands in Desdemona’s once more.
They leaned together and spoke together; fire and fallen.
“Let Glasgow flourish.”
The resulting explosion of fire consumed everything; leaving the buildings untouched, it raced through the streets of the city and destroyed every evil thing. The fire burned bright and pure, healing the patches in reality and organising the real world again.
And Robert trembled, trusting Desdemona, and fighting against every part of himself that would throw his body onto the fire to be consumed along with her, fearing the bleak darkness of knowing with a true certainty that she was no longer of this world, but hoping all the same that she would come back to him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HERE COMES THE SUN
The death and subsequent rebirth of the phoenix was a spectacular affair, although no one but Desdemona witnessed it. The baobhan sith found herself stitched together far more quickly than usual, but then, phoenix fire was healing as it was destructive.
Desdemona swept up what was left of her friend into a little pile to sit in the sun that would soon pour through the windows. As the sun crept into the City Chambers, the sounds of the city starting up for the morning were carried into the building on the breeze, echoing off the stone.
***
Nour was dressed in gold and white. Her hijab shone in the early-morning sunlight. Desdemona had withdrawn into the safe darkness of the building as Nour stood smiling into the sun, her spiritual home.
Glasgow went on as if nothing had happened; the buses almost ran on time, the clockwork orange subway rattled around its subterranean circle, birth and death continued, the shops opened to the hubbub of Buchanan Street and Sauchiehall. There was an Old Firm game on that afternoon. People got ready for the evening by pre-gaming before hitting the pubs and clubs and everyone would eventually drain into the Garage or the Corinthian by the end of the night, despite no intentions to end up in either place. It was life as usual, as if the previous night had never happened at all.
The tree and the fish and the bird and the bell stood watch over the city, from the seal at City Chambers to the wall of the Royal Concert Hall at the top of Buchanan Street to the bas-relief carving atop Caledonia Interpol on the unsuspecting castle-coffeeshop that once served as the St. Enoch subway station, unremarked by Glasgow’s populace and yet the key to one of the most powerful spells in the existence of humankind.
In all this normalcy, Robert Burns waited for sunset, and in the gathering dark, walked to Desdemona’s club in the light and misting rain.
***
She was there, dancing, as she did when she felt most in her element. The baobhan sith loved to dance, and Desdemona was no different. Her people tended to favour the waltz or reels, dances that could be shared with a partner, but Desdemona danced alone. She was a bellydancer, which made a lot of sense now that he thought about it.
She spun with veils and undulated, her body responding to the music, and she took no real notice of the patrons in her establishment. Robert watched from the doorway, a fond smile upon his face.
And he wanted to talk to her, to look at her, to break bread with her; he wanted, just as he always had.
But this time, he finally understood. He knew she was safe, alive, healthy; that was all he needed.
He put a hand to his heart; it was still beating, though vampire he remained.
The only vampire with a beating heart.
Turning away from Desdemona for the first time in his long, long life, he walked into the darkness and the rain, singing to himself.
“Ae fond kiss, and then we sever...”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FAREWELL TO THE NORTH
Back at the block of council flats, Dylan was saying farewell to his houseguest.
Dylan stood with Nuriel in the open doorway. Light streamed in, white and blinding, a pathway to heaven. Every doorway can lead to any destination if you want it badly enough.
“Perhaps we are wrong to judge the Fae,” said Nuriel. “You are a formidable warrior.”
Dylan beamed.
“Cheers,” he said. “So, what’s next for you then? You going back to Heaven?”
“Yes, I have been missed,” Nuriel said. “My responsibilities have been neglected.”
“Oh aye?” Dylan asked. “What is it you do up there, anyway?”
“I am the angel of hailstorms,” Nuriel said grandly.
Dylan stared at him for a very long time.
“You what,” he finally said.
“I assure you, it is a noble calling,” Nuriel hastened to say.
“Aye, ‘cause you’re no down here stuck in it!” Dylan said. “I knew the weather was a bit too good lately. I thought it was the dream thing.”
“Thank you for this experience, Dylan,” said Nuriel. “It has humbled me. I will leave you with a parting gift; your heart’s desire.”
Nuriel walked into the light and vanished.
And there stood Aonghas in his place, nonchalantly eating chips and curry out of a box.
“Who was that then?” he asked.
Dylan’s beatific smile did not last long. He took one look at his boss and exploded.
“Where the fuck have ye been, ye mad fanny?!” Dylan roared. “The city went nuts, there was an angel, an’ pure fire all over the shop!”
“Oh, is that what the commotion was?” asked Aonghas. “I was at the pub.”
Dylan’s expression grew stormy enough to host lightning.
“You were at the pub,” he repeated. “The city went to hell and you were at the pub.”
“Well ye handled it awright didn’t ye?” asked Aonghas. “Call it a test o’ yer Guardian abilities.”
“You can kiss my arse, you lazy Faerie,” Dylan snapped.
“Hey! Still your boss,” Aonghas reprimanded him.
“Glasgow deserves better than this!” Dylan said.
Aonghas spread his arms.
“It’s got you!” he said.
Dylan shook his head.
“Fuck right aff forever.”
“Who was that then?” Aonghas pressed, catching up with Dylan as he walked.
“Oh, that was Nuriel,” Dylan said. “He was an angel, hailstorms an’ a’–”
***
And suddenly the world changed.
Dylan fell into what seemed like a very deep puddle.
“Ah, fuck me,” he muttered. He looked up into two round eyes.
“Angel,” whispered the man, who was dressed in Highland finery.
In fact, their surroundings did look suspiciously green and mountainous like the Highlands.
Dylan wished away his wings at the last moment and wondered how he was going to get out of this one.
He stood up, and noted his body, far different from the usual one he was used to. Curves in different places.
This was a woman’s body, he realised with a start.
Dylan thought of those letters, in that strange box, that he’d snatched away from Nuriel while the angel was nosing around his flat. Held them to his chest. They were his most precious possessions. Nuriel did not understand. Or hadn’t seemed to.
Dylan looked at the man again, still frozen in place, having seen an angel fall from heaven. Dylan stared
at him, hardly daring to believe.
“Tearlach?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
JANUARY 26th
In Caledonia Interpol, the monsters went about their business as usual. The pixies poured the tea, the firedogs slept in the fireplace as the flames roared, warming the office. The clouds floated by on the ceiling, and no one could quite make out what was beyond the enormous floor-to-ceiling window in the blue mist.
Leah sat with Dorian, who was holding a red velvet cupcake.
Chief Ben walked up to their desk.
“Well, that’s that,” he said. “Back to work.”
“Chief, they saw us,” said Leah. “Those reporters, people in the city.”
“They’re calling it mass hallucination,” said the giant. “All those dreams and nightmares. I guess the idea of monster police just seemed like it was part of that.”
“Well, that’s convenient,” said Leah.
“By the way, congratulations,” said Chief Ben. “You get to do the writing up.”
He dropped a pile of folders on the desk as Leah groaned.
“Awww, Chief,” she protested, and then relented with a sigh. “At least I don’t have to murder Dorian now.”
“Don’t you dare murder each other,” Chief Ben admonished her. “I cannot be arsed with that kind of paperwork.”
Dorian favoured Leah with a watery smile, once he tore his eyes away from the cupcake.
“My apologies, Miss Bishop,” he said. “I was not the same man back then.”
Leah gave him a Look.
“Clearly,” she retorted.
Fludge chose this moment to leap onto the table.
“Leah, you can’t have pets in the office,” said Chief Ben.
“Fludge isn’t a pet,” said Leah. “He’s a fellow officer.”
Chief Ben stared at Fludge. Fludge stared back, hopping from foot to foot.
“All right,” he relented. “Just make sure he doesn’t start gnawing on the table legs.”
“Thanks, Chief,” said Leah. Ben started to walk away. “Oh – by the way, what did you see?”
Ben looked over his shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
“We all saw our dreams and nightmares. What did you see?” asked Leah.
Ben held her gaze for a while.
“The coffeeshop,” he said finally. “Upstairs. It was closed. I couldn’t get my morning coffee.”
But Leah could tell he was lying.
“Back to work,” Ben admonished, and turned away to attend to other matters.
Leah watched him go.
“So, anything good?” asked Dorian, distracting Leah. She shook herself and started going through the paperwork on the clipboard in front of them.
“Do you remember, back in the ‘50s, when the kids thought there was a vampire with iron teeth in the Necropolis?” asked Leah. “Well, those stories have started circulating again...”
***
Outside, Chief Ben stood in the darkness of the city, mercifully quieter than it had been the night before, and smoked in peace.
“When you pray, you go to God, then Mary, then Jesus, then the saints,” he said aloud, as if talking to himself. “You go to the Devil himself before you go to the Fae with your requests.”
He flicked his cigarette into the gutter.
“The Devil can only take your soul.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I’ve presided over Burns Suppers for several years. I’d say I’m a fan of Scotland’s favourite son. Burns Night, its characters, and many of its events were based on real stories from his life.
Elizabeth Gebbie (Alison Begbie) was the woman who said no. She was apparently not beautiful, but one of the most intelligent women he had ever met, and he never forgot her. He proposed to her, but she turned him down with “peculiar circumstances of mortification”. Afterwards, Burns spent his time in Irvine in a deep depression. Elizabeth lived on Cessnock Banks, and the poem of the same name was written for her. Even as an old woman in Glasgow, she was still able to recite every word. One night, while Robert was out late visiting her, his excuse to his father upon returning home was, I met the Devil on the road last night. Three of Robert’s female children were named Elizabeth. Many people believe it was down to the memory of this woman.
This story led to the creation of Desdemona, and a story about how love is love. Who better to star than Robert Burns?
Other sources of inspiration were the obsessive love of the lead character in W. Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage and a Jim MacLean song called Bonnie Mary Jane, in which the hero promises to crawl back to his lover despite being mortally wounded or dead; the song isn’t clear.
I came up with this story when hearing the tale of the exhumation of Robert Burns when I was a Master’s degree student in Scottish history and literature at the University of Glasgow. Apparently, when they opened his casket, he was entirely intact years later despite having been buried in poverty. One touch from an onlooker and the body crumbled away. I distinctly remember having the thought (perhaps spoken aloud) maybe he’s a vampire. And Burns Night was born, woven into the overall tapestry of the Caledonia universe.
There are various Easter eggs for eagle-eyed history and literature buffs throughout the book; for example, it was Sir Walter Scott who described his eyes as the first thing you see of the Poet; his eyes were like coach-lamps approaching in a dark night. I assume this is because Burns was ill all of his life and he might have suffered from leukocoria, as we are still unsure what chronic illness he had, although many experts have given their opinions ranging from chronic rheumatic heart disease causing enlargement of the heart, to brucellosis, to malignant lymphoma. Whether the cause of death was due to his chronic illness or foolish treatments from the doctor (bathing in the waters of the Solway Firth, drinking from the Brow Well) or treatment with mercury ointment, we still do not know. The prevailing theory is that he died of bacterial endocarditis. The one thing we do know as regards his death is that it was his heart.
This novel involving Robert Burns therefore also revolved around his figurative and literal heart.
It is also a story about how Desdemona, an aromantic individual, deals with this scenario, and her aromantic-asexual companion, Iain. Desdemona’s genderfluidity also comes into play when discussing the concept of love, as well as her status as something of an eldritch horror. Robert loves her anyway.
This has been a lot of fun to write and the movie was fun to make. A great deal of the making of the film was spent in teaching the history of Robert Burns to the cast and crew; his poetry, his character, the women in his life (Jeannie was a saint and no one can convince me otherwise), and the circumstances surrounding his fame and his early death. The cast and crew have a newfound interest in and respect for him, as if he were a man they knew personally. I’m hoping that those who read Burns Night will also discover a new or renewed interest in him, his life and times, and poetry that still survives hundreds of years later.
Here’s tae the Immortal Memory – Robert Burns, the only vampire with a beating heart.
-Amy Hoff