The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Black with a white blaze on his head? Quite tall?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe Lord Aubrey rode him during your pleasure ride last month. Ambrose is—was—unusually large for such a breed. Just over seventeen hands. The duchess purchased him last year to form a new line with Paladin’s descendants. Mr. Clark found him inside his stall about half an hour ago. I do apologise for waking you, sir, but I assumed you’d wish to know.”

  “Yes, of course. Send no word to London about this, though. I’ll tell the duchess myself,” he said, hastily donning the clothing and pulling on boots. After making sure his pistol was fully loaded, Sinclair followed the butler out of the apartment, down the main staircase, and into the cold night air.

  Voices rose up from every direction as grooms, footmen, and gardeners searched the estate grounds and nearby woods. The waning moon stood high in the cloudy sky: its silvery light shining brightly upon the dying blossoms and vegetation of the gardens. As the detective walked, he could hear the sharp calls of a peacock and several foxes near the edge of Henry’s Wood. The daytime temperature had cooled considerably, and he noticed that he could see his breath.

  It took nearly fifteen minutes to reach the stables, where a knot of armed men stood near the entrance to the largest of the six barns. Each tipped his hat, one stepped forward. It was Chief Groom, Edwin Clark, who’d been injured during the Branham Battle in early October.

  “Sorry to wake you, my lord,” he said as Sinclair approached. “I reckon Mr. Baxter’s told you about Ambrose. He’s in here, sir. I’ve touched nothin’ aside from makin’ sure the horse was dead, o’ course. Nothin’ we could do, I’m afraid.”

  The detective followed Clark into a stall near the end, where three lanterns hung from ceiling hooks, illuminating the crime scene. The dead animal lay on his left side, the head towards the door; a slender stream of blood stained his powerful neck. Before entering, Charles surveyed the scene, assessing each item present and where it now stood or hung.

  The stall was approximately ten feet by twelve; the packed earth floor covered in sawdust and straw. A four-foot long trough stood parallel to the east wall, and it was half filled—the water within looked clear. A black leather halter, decorated with the initials A. A. in silver, hung from one of the doorposts, and a dark green, woolen blanket embroidered with the name ‘Ambrose’ lay draped over the animal’s withers.

  “Clark, did you place this blanket here?” Charles asked.

  “He had it on already, my lord. If you look closer, you’ll see it’s buttoned at his throat, so that it draped ‘round his chest. Ambrose had been off his feed the past two nights. We wanted ta make sure he kept warm.”

  “Had a vet visited?”

  “We’d called one, sir, as we’d wondered if it might be connected to the sheep what’s died, but Mr. Soames—he’s the hall’s game warden, but also trained in animal medicine—well, sir, he thought the horse might have strangles, for there’s a swelling on his head, just beneath the left ear, but that’s an unusual spot for strangles. We’d hoped to get Mr. Stillwell’s opinion once he returns from holiday.”

  “Stillwell? Is he the hall’s vet?” Sinclair asked as he knelt beside the horse.

  “Yes, sir. He studied in France. A bright man, sir. He lives over in Margate, and as I say, he’s been on holiday, visitin’ his mother up in Yorkshire. We wired him, and he promised to come down once his mum recovered. She’s been right poorly. I don’t reckon it’d make no difference now, though. Don’t think this is strangles at all, sir. Looks more like somethin’ bit ‘im or even attacked him ta me. There’s blood on his neck, but it don’t come from his ear. There’s a mark, but as the animal’s coat is dark, it’s hard ta see in this light. I’ll fetch a lantern.”

  After removing one of the hanging lamps, Clark bent down to cast light across the horse’s head. “See here, sir? Ain’t this a wound o’ some sort?”

  Charles used a handkerchief to wipe the drying blood from the area. “Move the lamp to your right, please, Clark. Yes, there. I see two wounds. Both quite deep. Is there a major artery near a horse’s ear, as is in humans?” He thought of the exsanguinated women from Victoria Park. Was it possible that the same bloodthirsty killer who’d drained the life from those victims also preyed on animals?

  “That’d be a question for Soames, sir. I could send Stephens ta fetch him from the game warden’s cottage, but it’s a ways off; over by the brewery, near ta Fairy’s Copse.”

  “Fairy’s Copse? I’ve not heard the duchess mention that.”

  The man’s breath hung in the air as he spoke, creases around his eyes revealing lack of sleep and worry. “It’s not somethin’ my lady’s likely to speak about, sir. She got lost there as a girl. We used ta call it Henry’s Copse, but after the duchess saw the fairy there, it sort o’ changed name.”

  “I see,” Sinclair answered, recalling Prince Anatole’s strange tale of a cottage seen only by children. He started to ask about this fairy, but a sudden rapid series of gunshots sliced through the cold, night air, drawing all their attention. Charles took to his feet, rushing out of the stable and into the moonlit paddock. From beyond the fence line, he spied movement in an area populated by a stand of tall elms, ringed by mulberry trees. Foxes cried in the distance, harmonising with the insistent yelping of the dogs, set to the staccato drumbeat of more gunfire and men’s boots upon gravel and turf.

  “Over here!” he called to Clark and his men. Cornelius Baxter had stood guard near the stable entrance, and he, too, dashed towards the commotion, a loaded derringer in his livery pocket.

  As he ran, Charles suddenly worried about Elizabeth, as if the fears were meant to distract him from the current task. He forced the duchess’s face from his mind, concentrating solely upon finding and apprehending the intruder. He could hear his own, quick breaths as he ran past one of the large storage sheds used by the gardeners. His long muscles pumped like pistons, propelling arms and legs and expending oxygen faster than his lungs could provide.

  Most of the men had reached the mulberries, but as the detective neared their position, he slammed bodily into something unseen and was knocked to the ground; the sharp blow nearly rendering him unconscious. The entire left side of his head felt as if a blacksmith’s hammer had struck it, but Charles ignored the intense pain and regained his feet. Sudden movement to the right caught his attention, and he spun on his heels to find himself staring at an enormous shadow, shaped like a man, standing no more than six feet away.

  The being’s face held no definition, yet its eyes burnt like live coals. Fear threatened to overwhelm him, but Sinclair took a deep, painful breath and burst forward, rushing towards the supernatural creature. The apparition turned and fled; its unnatural speed quickly outpacing the human pursuer.

  Despite his injury, the detective forced his legs to pump faster, whilst the great Shadow led him on a dangerous and winding chase beneath overhanging limbs and through razor sharp brambles with the ease of a gazelle. Bella and Briar, the two dogs who lived inside the hall, raced alongside the marquess, Briar taking the lead, for the animals also perceived the supernatural figure.

  As he ran, Sinclair began to recognise the path as the one he and Elizabeth had taken in early October; the road which led to the old abbey and its subterranean altar, where Trent murdered Duchess Patricia in 1879. Not six weeks past, Charles and Elizabeth had ridden Paladin through these same trees, pursued by Trent’s hybrid army, and now he ran alone, pursuing a hellish shade in a race that began with the death of another of Beth’s prize horses, Ambrose Aurelius.

  The low hanging branches, barren of leaves and fruit, reached for his eyes as he plowed through them, but miraculously, none brought him any harm—as if unseen hands restrained even the woodlands. Many minutes passed, and it seemed to Charles that he’d been running for more than a mile, perhaps even two, and he feared that his body might fail him, for it had been many
a year since he’d chased down criminals as a police constable. Despite the intense pain in his lungs, he refused to slow; instead, he forced his long legs to move faster as he ran past the original hall with its crumbling stone towers and bat-filled chambers.

  Then he saw the impossible.

  The Shadow stopped without warning and turned. Its contours became fluid, like ripples upon water, and the arms elongated, morphing and stretching into massive wings. It rose high into the air, hovering there above the trees, taunting its pursuer. It emitted an ear-piercing wail, and then flew towards Sinclair’s position—pursuing him now.

  The enormous night bird was making straight for the human’s head, its mouth yawning into a black cavern.

  Just before the creature’s red eyes reached him, just before the enormous claws tore his tender flesh, a blinding flash of light illuminated the path and surrounding trees.

  Startled, Sinclair immediately stopped, but the abrupt change in momentum caused his boots to slide upon the gravel path, and he toppled forward—but before his body crashed into the hard-packed earth and stones, a pair of strong hands caught the marquess in a desperate embrace.

  It was Cornelius Baxter, his fleshy brow white as chalk and beaded with sweat; cheeks pink with the rush of blood and the night’s brisk chill. “There now, sir,” the butler said gently as he helped the detective to his feet. “Take a moment. Slow, deep breaths.”

  Sinclair’s eyelids squeezed together, and he gasped repeatedly, the vaporous exhales clouding the night air. Every muscle in his body screamed in agony, and his head and eyes stung, but he managed to maintain composure.

  “Just a...leisurely stroll...for you, I take it, Mr. Baxter?” the marquess panted, wincing as the calf muscles of his left leg tensed into a tight ball of pain. “I, uh...I fear you’re the better man. I’m only glad...none of my constables...was here to see me...try to run beyond my limit.”

  “No one could have run that far, my lord. I certainly didn’t. Clark and I were in one of the dog carts. When we saw that foul creature knock you to the ground, Clark broke all speed to put Little Girl into her traces. It’s no wonder you’re out of breath, sir. I know of no man who could have done as you have. You’ve run over ten miles!”

  “Ten? Whatever do you mean? It cannot be more than two,” Sinclair argued, his brain gobbling up oxygen, that now slowly filtered through his bloodstream.

  “No, sir, it was ten or more,” the butler insisted. “No mistaking it. That’s the old abbey up ahead, which is the eleven-mile marker from the hall, and since you started half a mile from the house, I make it nearly ten-and-a-half. Quite remarkable! Come with me, my lord. Let’s get you back to the hall and see to your head. It’s bleeding.”

  “Yes, all right, but did you see it? The creature, I mean. Did you see what it did? How it flew?” the marquess asked as they turned about towards the waiting dog cart.

  “We did, sir. But let us speak more of it inside. You look close to fainting. You took quite a blow.”

  “Yes, all right,” Charles managed. His vision began to dim—telescoping inward as consciousness faded. “Wings. It had wings,” he finished, collapsing into the butler’s arms.

  “Yes, sir. We know,” the butler replied. He and Clark lifted the marquess into the dog cart, carefully laying him against the straw bales. Climbing into the back, the massively built butler gently placed a horse blanket around Sinclair’s shoulders. “It’s starting all over again, Ed,” he told Clark. “God help us, those monstrous shadows have returned.”

  As the cart rumbled along the pathway towards the hall, the enormous winged bat landed upon the parapet of the mansion near a second spirit being, this one clad in human flesh. His skin was pale, eyes a radiant crystal blue, and his hair flowed like a river of ebony upon broad shoulders.

  “Welcome back to the night, Saraqael,” he told the bat-like creature. “I regret that I was unable to attend your ceremony, but business in France detained me.”

  “Raziel!” the creature exclaimed. “Can it be you? I saw you chained within the stone. Samael and his followers placed you inside and covered it over with spells and runes to conceal its hiding place. I don’t understand. How are you free? You were doomed to remain there for all time.”

  “What you say is true, yet here I am,” Raziel Grigor replied. “The how, as you might guess, is due to the actions of a foolish human. The when? In the year 1871, according to their reckoning. It is now 1888, late fall; one and a half cycles past the blood moon. Soon, the day and night will share equally—bringing with it great power, and we shall use that power to free the third of our number. Designer of patterns, discerner of wheels.”

  The enormous bat blinked, its black tongue licking hungrily at the horse blood remaining on its upper lip. “Do you mean Araqiel?”

  “Indeed. We require his skills to locate the remaining prisons. For now, my brother, you must master your rage against the Sinclair family. We require his blood to achieve our ultimate goal. That is why Samael punished you—do not anger him again, lest you suffer a worse fate than imprisonment. Remember his office.”

  The ancient vampire tore a section of iron railing that formed the edge of the roof and dashed it towards the ground. “Samael the Betrayer! Samael the Torturer! Samael the Prison Guard! Yes, I remember his office quite well. I shall find my own poison and bring him to the lowest pit of the deepest night for what he did to me—and to you!” he shouted. “Surely, you must hate him as much as I.”

  “Five thousands years have taught me to appreciate what he did,” Raziel insisted calmly. “Do not mistake me. I loathe Sama, and eventually, I shall repay him, but he did save me from the fires.”

  “Was it you who freed me, then?”

  “Indeed. The humans think themselves clever; yet they are easily led. I know that you hunger, my brother, but you must curtail these urges—for the present. Surely, you recall the fragile nature of human understanding? It was your impetuous actions which saw you chained inside that prison, Sara. I’m told that you struck at the very heart of the bloodline—one which harkens back to my time. And all for spite.”

  “Revenge,” he whispered bitterly. “Why must we rule through humans? They are fit only for food.”

  “I agree,” Raziel said patiently. “Their blood is sweet, but their minds have potential. If we are to rule this realm, then we must cajole, not consume. Teach, not terrify.”

  The creature’s rage slowly dissipated, and his form shifted from monstrous to something more human-like. His wings became arms; claws became fingers; the flat nostrils, a refined nose; beady eyes rounded into a man’s pupils, surrounded by ice-blue irises; and fur lengthened into spirals of thick hair as black as night.

  The monstrous had become exceedingly beautiful.

  “A significant improvement,” Raziel observed drily. “I’d forgotten how much you resembled Samael when in this form. That similarity may aid in our plans. However, you will require clothing, Sara. It is still customary for one to dress when visiting the fashionable parlours of London.”

  “Is it?” the new arrival quipped. Saraqael snapped his fingers, causing expensive thread to wrap around each perfect muscle, weaving a tapestry of gold and silk. In less than the time it takes for a fledgling’s feather to fall from a nest, the imposter had clothed himself in luxury. “Have I your approval now?” he asked, his raspy voice softened into a curious accent.

  “The ladies of London will swoon, dear brother,” Raziel replied with a sideways smile. “Of course, my own reputation in such circles is quite impressive. Women are readily fooled by a handsome face and genteel manners, but do not bleed them dry. The harlots of the city can be tricked into believing our need to consume their blood is but another style of sexual play. A taste here, another there can provide nourishment, but you must leave no evidence that leads to us. Instead, find ways to blame the humans. If they go to prison, so much
the better.”

  “Tasting only?” the other asked with a sigh. “It will require many women to provide the quantities I require, Raziel. I have slept for nearly thirty years inside that ancient mirror! My hunger is great!”

  “Yes, yes, I recall that savage hunger when first awakening, but you and I are but the forerunners of an assault. Consider yourself a spy within the human realm. Spies do not draw attention to themselves. Killing the horse was a mistake.”

  “But a delicious one,” Sara parried back, smiling.

  “Temper your urges, my brother. You remind me too much of my son. He is rash and indiscreet.”

  “Son? Have you taken human women again?” he asked greedily.

  “Not as before,” Raziel answered, the light wind blowing through his locks. “I take them to my bed, of course, but I am careful. Herbs and plants keep the seed from growing, and a knife proves useful when these remedies fail. I speak of a son born of magic. I have perfected the rituals that alter the innate structure. Rasha is my first experiment.”

  “A successful one?”

  “I cannot yet say. If a failure, then I shall begin afresh.”

  “Then you will fail again, for no magic can transform a human into one of our kind,” Saraqael argued. “They are inferior stock.”

  “Perhaps, but that stock can be reshaped into useful creatures. A similar process has proven successful in hybridising men into all manner of animals. You might consider satisfying your thirst on them, Sara; rather than on horses. Or roam the fields in search of sheep. If a few are found slain, the shepherds will lay the blame on predators such as dogs or wolves.”

  “Or bats?” he asked, winking.

  “Perhaps,” Raziel answered. “You must keep to the shadows. Allow Sinclair to recover, for we require him whole and able to rule. Now, let us fly. The moon rises, and I have much to tell you.”

  The two humanoid shadows thinned, and within seconds, only the wind remained. A white-faced barn owl flew past the parapet, its round eyes scanning the roofline.