Lord of the Vampires

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Then I shall leave and bring a mortal to do the task, I told myself. I would not be swayed, nor would I permit myself to believe I was in as terrible a danger as Elisabeth insisted.

  The workers (a small group of lower-class cockney “blokes,” as they would call themselves) took the boxes in through the front entrance, at a maddeningly slow pace, one box at a time. This, with several pauses for bawdy jokes, conversation, and laughter, left me so impatient for the hour and a half it took them to finish that I was tempted to appear to them in my most ferocious fang-toothed guise and send the lot of them running.

  The sun was straight overhead when finally they left—mid-day, which realisation cheered me, as this was the hour Vlad was weakest. Even so, I took care to strengthen the veil of invisibility around myself and my silver weapons before entering, and with them slipped through the crack in the weathered front door, which the “blokes” had relocked.

  Inside, the floor was carpeted with a layer of dust inches thick (how like Vlad!), leaving the workmen’s every step visible. Making no footprints myself, I followed the trail through the corridor, until it ended at an arching oaken door bound with iron.

  There was a sizable gap between the door’s base and the dust-padded floor, as well as between its arched top and the curving lintel. One might expect to see rays of sunshine streaming through, illuminating errant airborne dust; but in place of brightness shone that ominous and sparkling indigo aura, darkness which was not an absence of light, but an equal and opposite force that could displace it.

  For a brief moment, I quailed—then summoned all my anger and courage and again reduced myself and my burden to a hair-thin sliver which slipped easily beneath the gap at the door’s base, through the radiant darkness which seemed to permeate my being. I emerged on the other side full of trepidation, for though the room (once a chapel, as the far wall bore the marks of a large crucifix which had been recently removed, above the rotting remains of a wooden altar) was vast and high-ceilinged, it was filled with the sparkling deep blue radiance that marked Vlad’s presence.

  I steeled myself and with my weapons moved forward, towards the box from whence the indigo non-light emanated. And here I can only describe the sensation in mortal terms, for immortal experience fails me here: It was rather like attempting to walk into and through a swarm of very annoyed bees, or to swim against a raging current; I felt myself being buffeted backward by a hostile, buzzing force, whilst the skin on my entire body stung as if pricked.

  Excelsior.

  I moved onward, struggling to submerge my fear. No matter how powerful Vlad might have become, I trusted in my own invisibility, and my plan: to reach the box in which he lay, fling open the cover, and, in the instant of surprise, pierce both heart and neck with silver.

  At last I arrived at my goal, and there paused to gather my nerve even as I reached for the wooden lid—nailed shut, though I could tear it free with but a modicum of effort.

  My fingers curled round the edge; I pulled. The lid did not move, but remained steadfastly bound.

  Again I pulled, harder, silently cursing. Again, no result at all. I paused, infuriated and perplexed, wondering what immortal skill I might use to pry open the impossibly stuck lid.

  Or was this a trick of Vlad’s?

  The lid in front of me suddenly exploded into a mighty whirlwind, hurling me back against the door in a flurry of splintered wood and dust; had I been mortal, I would have certainly been killed at once. As it was, I listened with pure astonishment at the sound of the door and my own immortal bones cracking … and at the ear-splitting clang of my weapons driven into the stone wall an inch from my head.

  And when the storm eased, causing the dust and bits of wood to drop to the filthy ground with the abruptness of a funnel cloud belching out a tree or a terrified sheep, I sat and looked through the glimmering darkness to see that the box was open—and within it lay Vlad.

  Not asleep, yet utterly still as a corpse, with his arms crossed upon his chest, his malachite eyes opened wide, and a sneer upon his lips. He was a young man now, no longer ghastly but handsome, with flowing coal-coloured hair and mustache. I looked upon him and was at once smitten and horrified.

  And desperately curious about the piece of iridescent white parchment pressed between his hands and chest, as if it were a great treasure that must remain close to his heart.

  The sensuous lips moved. “Zsuzsanna, my dear,” he said, in a voice beautiful, strong, godlike. “Surely you are not so stupid or foolhardy as to want to do me harm. Perhaps you have merely returned after realising that you have sided with the loser.”

  I was too stunned to flee. Clearly, Elisabeth had been right to fear; I knew that he would destroy me now, despite any lie I might think to tell him. The keen understanding that I was utterly lost filled me with numbness and an odd calm. If I was to die, then I should at least learn the truth that had been kept from me.

  “Loser?” I asked. “Do you mean Elisabeth?”

  “The same,” he replied, all but his lips still motionless. “You are her pawn, my dear. She is too cowardly to confront me herself, and so she uses you. Ask her, Zsuzsanna; I know you will believe nothing I say. Ask her about the terms of her own covenant with the Dark Lord. Ask her what they have to do with you.”

  A sickening surge of dread overwhelmed me, for he spoke with the calm confidence of truth. “Why are you so powerful now? And what is that?” I pointed at the shining paper in his hands, leaning forward just enough to see a few lines of text written in pure, gleaming gold.

  He smiled, but ignored the question. “Ask her what it is; ask her what she would do to you in order to get it. You must destroy her, Zsuzsanna. Destroy her before she destroys you. If you do not, I shall have no choice but to inflict upon you both the same grievous end. Take heed: I will not warn you again. And remember that I could have destroyed you here and now, but chose instead to take pity.”

  Immediately, the door behind me swung open, and another mighty gale pushed me—furious and frightened and spitting dust—out into the corridor and out of the house altogether, as easily as if I had been a feather and not an angry immortal.

  Outside, I dusted myself off and travelled upon sunbeams into the city, to the beautiful house where Elisabeth sat waiting upon the sofa, golden curls freed and swept all to one side so that they spilled down onto her bosom. She sat with uncharacteristic stiffness, spine straight and unsupported, hands folded primly upon her knees. To test myself—and her—I entered the house with aura still retracted, maintaining my invisibility.

  She did not see me at all—or if she did, she belongs onstage with Ellen Terry, for she kept sighing and frowning and glancing out the window as a concerned lover ought; one cream satin slipper tapped relentlessly against a Turkish carpet the colour of blood. When I materialised hastily in front of her, she rose, clapping her hands, and cried out:

  “Zsuzsanna! My sweet Zsuzsa! I have been so terribly worried! Did you go inside? Did you see him? How did you ever escape?”

  She flung her arms about me and repeatedly kissed my cheeks and lips. But I did not return the embrace; I stood still as Vlad had lain in his coffin, and said, “You are right; he is powerful, fearsomely powerful. I cannot defeat him alone.”

  At this she drew back, confused by my physical coldness yet approving of my words, and clasped my hands, waiting for some sign which might explain this contradiction.

  I kept my expression solemn, my hands limp, my gaze direct. “He says that I must ask you about your covenant. Your … contract with the Dark One, and what it has to do with me.”

  The judgement? Guilty. Conflicting emotions rippled subtly over her features like ocean waves spilling onto the shore, only to be pulled back and swiftly replaced by others: rage, hatred, fear, cunning—and the last, indignance.

  “Zsuzsa! Can’t you see what he is trying to do to you? To make you hate me, to make you return to him. And what do you think will happen to you then?”

  “I h
ave seen the manuscript,” I said quickly; she recoiled as if she had been slapped. Indeed, she turned away, clearly overwhelmed and unable to respond to this new development, whilst I affected a knowing expression. The intimation was that I had read and understood its value to Vlad (and clearly, now, to her)—a lie embedded in a truthful statement.

  With her back still to me, she wrapped an arm round her ribs—clutching herself, really, though she tried to make the gesture seem casual. Her other hand quickly massaged her forehead, then her neck, just above the sweet, sculpted bone beneath milky skin. With utter—and unbelievable—calmness, she asked: “What did he tell you about it?”

  “Enough. Enough to know that you have lied to me.” She whirled about, setting pink and cream satin skirts aswirl, and began to protest, but I raised my voice and would not hear her. “At the very, very least, you have constantly kept the truth from me.”

  At once the porcelain face crumpled, and diamond tears spilled from her sapphire eyes. “Zsuzsanna—do you think I did so simply to torment you? Yes, he is stronger than both of us together at the moment, but I have not given up hope. We will find a way to defeat him, but until then, we must use all our wits and caution.” She reached forward and took my hand once more, pressing it between her own and bending down to kiss it, baptising it with her tears. “Have I been cruel to you in any way, my darling? Have I hurt you? Tell me, and I shall make amends at once. I did not bring you to London to make you unhappy!”

  I wavered. She sensed it, and pressed her case with increased vigour. “You know Vlad, Zsuzsa. In all the decades you were with him, did he ever treat you with respect or genuine affection? No! He treated you as his own slave, to do with as he would; he gave you immortality, but not out of concern for you—only for himself! You know you cannot trust him; you know that he is a liar. I beg you—do not let him drive a wedge between us! He is telling you these hideous prevarications in order to achieve just that! And if he succeeds, then we all are lost, indeed. We must work together, darling, to defeat him. And our best hope, I tell you, is Van Helsing. With him as our pawn, we can succeed.”

  In truth, I was swayed—by her beauty, her tears, her words. Still, Vlad’s charges gnawed at me. “If I am to help you, then, in such a difficult task, you must explain everything to me. What is your covenant with the Dark Lord? And what is this manuscript that Vlad clearly prizes?”

  She sighed. “As to my covenant—that is not the sort of thing one discusses; if you had your own, you would understand. As for the manuscript, I cannot say. Please trust me, dear Zsuzsa. I, too, am trying to solve all these mysteries; perhaps we two can discuss them to-day, and come up with a proper strategy.”

  Then she put her arms round me and kissed me, and cajoled me until I yielded, smiling. For the rest of the day and night, she was as kind to me as anyone has ever been.

  But I cannot do as she has asked: I can trust her no longer. I remain with her now only because I have nowhere else to go. Bad enough that I have attracted Vlad’s wrath; I do not want hers as well.

  I must find a way to destroy them both.

  26 AUGUST. The delay grows maddening. No Van Helsing thus far; Elisabeth and I have agreed that he is our best hope in conquering Vlad. Kill the Dutch doctor and Vlad will be destroyed as well.

  I am convinced now that the lone lunatic asylum in Purfleet contains the view I saw through Gerda’s eyes, for the flower garden looks just the same. Yet there we can find no trace of either Van Helsing, and my fear is that they were there for a brief time, but have since left. Either that, or the doctor is as powerful a mortal man as I am a vampire, and knows how to render himself and his wife invisible for days at a time. The second possibility is indubitably worse.

  So we check the asylum almost daily, and we keep searching the city.… And each day, I grow more restless.

  Yesterday evening I could wait for action no longer; so, some hours after the sun had set, I went out into the foggy night alone whilst Elisabeth took her rest. She and I are getting along together well enough on the surface, but I still possess a great deal of wariness around her, as she does around me. She scrutinises me for signs of disbelief or disaffection (which I have in abundance, but try hard to mask); upon finding them, she reacts not with anger but with great concern and sweetness. It is as if she is courting me anew, for she showers me with presents. Yesterday, she indulged my penchant for dogs and birds (she cannot abide either) by presenting me with a full-grown white Afghan with a diamond collar, and a great white cockatoo with a diamond bracelet round its ankle (to elegantly chain it to its perch).

  The dog and bird are sweet enough and I adore them, but my presence terrifies them; so I keep them closeted in the sitting-room, and let the young downstairs maid give them the affection they deserve. In the meantime, Elisabeth showers me with white roses, precious jewelry, outrageous and exquisite ball gowns, and promises of social engagements. More delightful things, and, oh, how they bore me!

  So last night when I slipped out into damp darkness softened by fog, I felt a sense of relief to be free of Elisabeth and all my beautiful gifts, to at last be doing something of worth. I sailed upon moonbeams across the city some twenty miles to the east, where Purfleet lay upon the north bank of the Thames.

  I returned straight to the cheerless gloom of Carfax. No light emanated from behind the filth-encrusted windows—only the ominous, glittering blue-black mist, darker than the night.

  This disappointed me, as I had expected him to go out hunting die very instant the sun slipped beneath the horizon; why would he linger in that vile and dusty prison when there were thousands upon thousands of warm, red-cheeked souls awaiting him in the city; when, for the first time in centuries, he could feed to his heart’s content?

  Alas, my plan had been to search the premises during his absence for the mysterious white parchment. Instinct said its discovery would lead to the truth that neither Elisabeth nor Vlad would reveal, and perhaps even to my own liberation.

  Fuming, I retreated at once to the property’s edge. Now that I was sensitised to it, I could see the deadly aura’s faint glow even from that distance; and I was tempted to keep my distance, for I knew that this time, Vlad would have no mercy. I lingered quite a time near the black iron gate, with its tall spikes, every few minutes deciding in disgust that I could not wait an instant longer—and every time, remaining. All the while, I prayed that my frail efforts at invisibility would permit me to escape detection.

  After no more than half an hour, the blue-black aura abruptly vanished, like someone extinguishing a lamp that shed darkness rather than light. I turned my gaze skyward and saw a large bat flapping silently through the air—a beautiful creature with vast wings of bone and sinew covered by gossamer grey skin, and the whole of it veiled in sheer, shimmering indigo.

  I took to the air and followed at quite a distance, taking care not to be discovered. He sailed along the Thames’ north bank over regal estates and green bits of farmland, until the landscape grew dotted with buildings closer and closer together; and then we were in the city.

  He knew precisely where he was going, for never did he slow or swoop down to inspect the area or search for victims. Not until we were in the heart of London proper did he gradually ease the flapping of his wings. Lower and lower he sank through the undulating white mist, until at last he hovered just outside a respectable-sized house of brick, set behind a gated stone wall bearing the sign HILLINGHAM.

  Again, I kept a respectable length between us, and strengthened my invisibility as best I could. What I now report I saw from beneath a great sycamore a whole rolling grassy lawn away. From there, I put my immortally keen vision to good use and witnessed the following:

  The bat hovered at a dark second-story window, the sash raised to let in the cool, damp air and release the day’s heat. There the handsome creature lingered but a moment before transforming itself into the handsome, dark-haired Vlad, who slipped easily through the gap without awaiting an invitation to enter. This
was a house he had visited before.

  Though the room was dark, I could see inside with ease. Upon a white, lacy (and no doubt virginal) bed lay a young lady with waving sand-coloured hair and a pretty enough face. Apparently her sleep had been unrelentingly restless, for she had kicked off her coverlet and lay so tangled in the twisted sheets that one could not judge where they ended and her frilly white night-gown began; from beneath them both a pale, curving thigh peeked scandalously.

  As Vlad approached the bed, she wakened drowsily and, upon recognising him, sat up and opened her arms to him, as the biblical man must have welcomed his prodigal son. He stepped into the embrace and held her, golden-brown waves cascading over his arms—and drank. (Almost fifty years ago, he did the same for me—and how well I remember the sweetness of it still!)

  At the moment his lips found her tender neck, I turned and fled back to Carfax at the highest possible speed. I had seen what I needed, and knew the way back to Hillingham; now I was obliged to conduct a swift search of Vlad’s new and dreary home.

  What did I find? Dust, dust, and dust, and scores of inhospitable rats—but certainly no gleaming parchment with golden script. I looked inside the box where he had lain and found nothing within but mouldering earth that I suspected had been dug from the chapel floor in Transylvania. (Elisabeth is right on one account—his superstitions are strange indeed!) All fifty of the boxes had been recently pried open, and I looked into every one.

  Dust and vile-smelling dirt. I searched a few places elsewhere—in a cabinet built into the wall, and the lone table that stood near the entryway—without success. Yet I dared not linger; thus I made a swift tour of the house and the grounds, and departed for home, fearful of being discovered.

  Now I am home, and although Elisabeth is solicitous to an annoying degree, I have stolen a moment of privacy to sit with my beautiful hound and cockatoo (the poor things, how they tremble at my very nearness, and when I speak tenderly to them, they are undone by confusion). I must write this all down and think hard in terms of strategy. I am alone in this and can trust neither Elisabeth nor Vlad; Van Helsing I might believe, for though he means me harm, he is not given to deceit. If I could only find him, I would question him first and kill later.