The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘Stand still,’ came a voice from just a few feet behind him. ‘Hands in the air.’

  Jago did as the man said as he felt the muzzle of a rifle press in his back.

  ‘I’m going home. I live at Streonshalgh Manor – the orphanage, Mrs Macarty,’ he tried to say just before he was pushed forward.

  ‘Didn’t you read the signs?’ the man asked in a brackish northern accent that Jago could hardly understand. ‘Gates are locked so you must have jumped the fence.’

  ‘Took a short cut, that’s all,’ he tried to protest as again he was pushed forward.

  ‘Got one here,’ the man shouted to the shadowy figures under the portico. ‘Found him in the trees.’

  Torchlight was shone in his face. It was bright and dazzled his eyes. Another man spoke.

  ‘From the factory, lad?’ he asked.

  ‘Says he’s one of Mrs Macarty’s from Streonshalgh Manor,’ the man behind him said as he jabbed the gun deeper into his back.

  ‘Too old for that – just look at him.’ The man’s voice faded as he thought. ‘Could be a spy,’ he said, just above a whisper. ‘You a spy?’

  ‘I’m from London, an evacuee,’ Jago argued.

  ‘Better take you inside. Johnson?’ He called to the man with the cigarette. ‘Fancy getting the truth from this lad before we hand him over to the police?’

  Johnson threw the cigarette to the floor and swaggered down the short flight of steps towards Jago. He unslung the rifle from his shoulder and cocked the bolt.

  ‘Did anyone see you catch him?’ he asked the man behind Jago.

  ‘Why?’ Jago asked as he saw the man’s expression change and his eyes narrow. ‘What are you going to do?’

  The blow came swiftly and unseen. The rifle butt hit Jago in the stomach. He fell to the floor as the toecap of an army boot struck his shoulder and rolled him backwards.

  ‘That’s for talking,’ the man said. ‘Speak when spoken to or not at all. This is war and you could be a spy.’

  ‘He’s just a lad,’ one of the others said.

  ‘You’ve gone soft. Keep it shut or you’ll get the same.’ Jago felt the other man back away out of striking distance. The rifleman prodded Jago again. ‘You a spy or what?’

  ‘I’m an evacuee,’ Jago insisted as he tried to get to his feet, only to be knocked down again.

  ‘Who told you to get up?’ the man asked. ‘Better search him. Take him inside.’

  Two hands gripped Jago by the scruff of his leather coat. He was lifted quickly from the floor. A hand smoothed against the pockets of his coat and felt the handle of the knife.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked the man.

  Jago knew they would take the knife. It was silver, precious and worthy of being stolen. He had to keep it at all costs. It was the only thing the voice in his head kept on saying.

  The soldier with the rifle turned.

  ‘Hiding something?’ Johnson asked.

  There was a sudden flurry of blue sparkling lights across the sky. They rattled through the trees loud enough for everyone to hear. Jago looked up as the lights came together just in front of him. They seemed to settle on an empty flower urn that was set on a pillar by the steps to the museum.

  ‘Johnson!’ the man holding him said as he let go of Jago and pointed to the steps. ‘What is … ?’

  Johnson turned as the other two men stepped away from Jago. On the ornamental urn sat a creature. It hung on to the side as if it were a gargoyle on a roof. Long bony fingers tipped with thick claws grew from stubby black hands.

  ‘It’s a g-g-ghost …’ Johnson said as he took aim with the rifle. ‘Look at it!’

  Jago did not need to look. The creature was staring at him as he stood his ground whilst the two soldiers fled. It was half the size of a man, with a narrow face and large eyes like a gigantic insect’s. It looked human in every way apart from its skin, that was stretched-drum tight across its bones. It rubbed the flesh on its white, etiolated face and looked about as if it had come from a world of darkness.

  Johnson took a step back as he aimed his rifle. The shot rang out, breaking the silence of the night. Jago saw the creature wince, and then its face changed as if it were smiling. Johnson fired again and again until the rifle clicked and clicked.

  ‘I have come for the book,’ the creature said. ‘Give it to me.’

  Johnson staggered back as he heard the creature speak. Jago had heard its voice before, in the library of Hagg House. He knew this was the face of the poltergeist.

  ‘I was given it by Draigorian. It is mine to keep,’ Jago answered as he clutched the knife in his coat pocket.

  ‘I decide who keeps the Book of Krakanu. It is in my gift,’ said the poltergeist, bragging of its authority as it slid from the urn to the ground and straightened its lizard-like body.

  Jago could hear Johnson choking and holding his throat. His rifle fell to the floor as he staggered down the steps, away from the beast. The man tried to scream, his voice crushed to that of a whisper. In the distance he could hear police whistles and the frantic bell of a patrol car.

  ‘This place will be full of people. They will see you,’ Jago said.

  ‘I don’t care. You have the book.’ The demon prowled around him like a roaring lion as if it looked for a chink in his defences.

  ‘Take it from me,’ Jago insisted as he looked at the poltergeist and wondered what world it had come from.

  ‘Better if you just give it up,’ it said.

  Jago heard the patrol car coming closer, its brakes squealing as it took the narrow corners by the harbourside. He reached into his coat pocket. ‘Very well,’ he said as he stepped closer to the beast. ‘If it is the book you want …’

  Without warning he stabbed the poltergeist with the silver knife. The creature leapt back and squealed – the blade had caused it harm.

  Jago ran towards the iron gate. Turning back he saw the poltergeist giving chase. But its legs were slow and sluggardly and could not keep pace with him. In a stride he had jumped as high as he could and with ease had vaulted the gate and was now on the street.

  Across from the entrance to the park was a long terrace of fine Victorian houses. Jago crossed the road and ran in the shadow of their high garden walls overhung with ivy. He looked back to see the poltergeist slowly climbing the gate, the creature’s bony fingers gripping the metal bars. Then it leapt to the ground and gained speed, sniffing the road like a dog to see where Jago had run.

  Coming from the river, Jago could hear the patrol car racing towards the museum and from an adjacent street came the clatter of running footsteps. A police whistle blew from an alleyway that entered the street ahead of Jago. Two men in uniforms spilled on to the road. Their heavy torches lit the footpath and scanned the dark shadows on the far wall.

  The poltergeist didn’t seem to be perturbed by their arrival. It hunched its shoulders and shuddered. Its large, insect-like eyes scanned the night. Jago knew it was looking for him. Then, it fixed its stare directly towards him where he hid, crouching under a long cover of ivy.

  ‘This way,’ shouted the copper as he pulled his companion by the shoulder and pointed down the street towards the harbour. ‘It came from down there.’

  The two men ran off, their hob-nailed boots sparking on the cobbles. Jago took his eyes from the poltergeist. When he looked back, it was gone. All around the dark of night pressed in. He didn’t want to run – the cover of the ivy protected him, he was surrounded by its branches like the walls of a yurt so he could not be seen.

  Then Jago heard a rustling in the bushes above his head. It was as if a cat was hunting through the ivy branches in search of a lost bird. Jago held his breath and pressed himself against the cold wall.

  The ivy strands hung down like the hair of a medusa as whatever was above Jago picked its way down through the midst of the brackish foliage. Then he could hear the wheezing of the creature. Instinctively Jago knew it was the poltergeist. He could feel its presence getting cl
oser and closer. As he looked through the curtain of leaves, he became aware of two red eyes staring at him. The creature was hanging from the ivy, its head upside-down. Its wide, bug-like glare shone on his face as a long tongue flickered snake-like as it tasted the air.

  ‘Thought you’d get away? Quite a trick to stab me with a silver knife. Did Draigorian give that to you as well?’ it asked as it stared at him, its parchment-skinned hands gripping to the ivy. ‘I want the Book of Krakanu. Draigorian should never have let a breather take it.’

  Jago felt the spine of the book, hidden in his jacket.

  ‘You’ll have to pull the book from my dead hands,’ he said, wondering why such words had fallen from his lips.

  The poltergeist gave a shy laugh.

  ‘Pleasure beyond pleasure,’ it said as it dropped to the ground and huddled like a small monkey by the side of the road. ‘You are sought after by creatures far worse than me.’

  ‘Vampyres?’ Jago asked as he slid his hand onto the handle of the knife and made ready to strike.

  ‘Demanding to know where you are,’ it said. It stepped closer so it too was hidden in the overhang of the wall. ‘Sent me – commanded me to find you. They will expect me to tell them where you are hiding.’ The poltergeist changed its expression and tried to smile. It was something it had never done before. Somehow it could not quite make the correct face and all Jago could see was a grimacing, lopsided mouth full of teeth. The poltergeist hesitated as it tried to see if he still had the knife.

  ‘Then you will have to do what they ask you,’ Jago said as he stepped away from the beast.

  ‘I thought a barter – a haggle or exchange – could be in order,’ it answered glibly.

  ‘What?’ Jago asked.

  ‘The book for your life,’ replied the poltergeist. ‘I am sure that it would be a fair exchange.’

  ‘It has all I need to kill Strackan and heal my friend,’ Jago said as he eyed the creature warily.

  ‘The girl? She will be a Vampyre. They always do that. Give her one night and she will never want to be human again. It is a life they cherish. Beauty and eternal life is hard to give up. As for killing Strackan, many have tried and failed. How do you think the Quartet came into being? They hunted Strackan and he took sanctuary. He lured them to that place, made out he was weak, dying, at his last. When they came for him he attacked and before they could even think, blood had been exchanged.’

  ‘How do you know? Were you there?’ Jago asked.

  ‘I was once the hermit,’ the poltergeist said proudly. ‘I was a man more in service to Strackan than you could ever imagine. Now look at me. A demon, a poltergeist – a djinn without a lamp who guards the book that I wrote.’

  ‘How?’ Jago asked in a whisper as he looked for a way of escape.

  ‘Every Vampyre always has a human assistant. I gave my life readily to Strackan. It was an easy thing for me to do. He would talk in his sleep and I would write down what he said. At first I thought the stories of Krakanu were just his imaginings. Then I realised they had a power and mystery of their own.’ The poltergeist watched as Jago backed away from him. ‘You can run, but I will find you. I have to have the book. I have given you a chance – now give it to me.’

  The creature held out its hand pathetically as if it waited for charity. Its voice whined as it spoke, tired of the ages it had walked the world.

  ‘Give it to you?’ Jago asked as he clutched the knife. ‘Give it to you?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ it panted like a dog.

  ‘Very well,’ Jago answered as he snapped the knife from his pocket and stabbed the creature through its hand, pinning it to a large root of ivy that climbed the wall.

  A burning scream went out through the night, shaking the branches of their hiding place.

  ‘Again?’ it squealed. It looked at its hand as Jago pulled the knife from the bone.

  ‘When Strackan is dead and Biatra healed, then you can have to book. Until then it is mine.’

  ‘Fool,’ said the Poltergeist as it shook with anger, its skin flaking into tiny orbs of light as it slowly disintegrated. ‘Don’t make me …’

  Gripping the knife, Jago ran from the cover of the ivy and into the street. Head down, he ran faster and faster towards the harbour. The place where he had been hiding exploded in a ball of fire. The flames chased him down the street like dragon tongues.

  ‘He’s there,’ shouted one of the soldiers who had been searching for him. ‘Stop!’

  Three shots went above his head and ricocheted from the buildings beyond.

  The poltergeist exploded into a bright ball of fire that sucked in all the light until there was not even a shadow of the red moon. Then, like a falling star, it was gone, leaving no trace but for the burning ivy bush that was now nothing more than a hundred charred branches and snarled roots.

  Jago sped down the hill and soon he had reached the harbour. The swing bridge that crossed the narrowest part of the river was just closing. A group of workers, breaking the last hour of the curfew, stood impatiently by the gates, their eyes fixed at the large cloud of smoke that billowed up in to the air. A bell rang as the gates opened. More shots were fired in the park by the museum. No one appeared to care. The men walked across the bridge, heads down and staring at the ground. It was as if they were all too frightened to get involved or dare to ask what was happening in case they gave away a common secret.

  Jago pulled up the collar of his coat and tagged along. One of the workers gave him a cursory glance but said nothing. On the steps of the, a man sat weaving a wicker fence. His gnarled fingers were as knotted as the willow in his hands as he sat in amongst the wood shavings from his whittling knife.

  Jago walked on, his head down, as the town suddenly came to life around him. Doors opened and were then wind slammed. Curtains were pulled to one side, careless of the diminishing black-out.

  When he reached the 199 steps that led up from the town to the old church, Jago wanted to sleep. All he could think of was the night before. The face of Draigorian was uppermost in his mind. He could see the smile on the man’s face as he had rested back in his bed and sighed. Jago had pulled the silver knife from his chest and put it back in his pocket without even looking at the blood.

  ‘Three more … three more … and you weren’t here to save them.’ The ghost of Ebenezer Goode cackled from his prison by the thirteenth step. ‘Taken last night from just by the gates to Streonshalgh House. I heard all about it from Jack Henson and saw it myself.’

  Jago looked up. Ebenezer stood against the brightening sky in his frock coat and tattered boots. His fingers were protrud ing from the torn gloves that hardly covered his bones.

  ‘Three?’ Jago asked. ‘Who?’

  ‘The boys – you must know them. Lined up, they were … as if they were waiting for it. Strackan came and took them one by one – him and the woman, Madame Trevellas.’

  ‘Three boys? From the orphanage?’ Jago said as he feared for Laurence and his brothers. ‘Old or young?’

  ‘Rough, if you ask me. Coarse-mannered, language of a navvie.’ Ebenezer cackled. ‘Willing, though. It was as if they wanted to be taken.’

  ‘They allowed it to happen – for Strackan to bite them?’ Jago said.

  ‘Swapped blood – not just a bite. Hands fastened with cords and willow. Magic, if you ask me.’

  Jago was beginning to understand why, but never saw the gathering of orbic lights. They clustered high on the church tower, coming together one by one, until they took the shape of the poltergeist.

  ‘I need to find Jack Henson,’ Jago told Ebenezer, who was by now following him along the path made of gravestones that ran the length of the churchyard.

  ‘Tobias Grayling – that’s who you need to see,’ Ebenezer replied with a grunt. ‘Get under him and mad Jack won’t be far away.’

  ‘Tobias Grayling – where does he live?’ asked Jago with a shudder, as if the sudden cold chill of the air was a warning.

  ‘Live? L
ive? Tobias Grayling doesn’t live. He’s deader than me.’

  The whisperer pointed with his bony finger to a grave stone in the midst of a hundred other stones. ‘There he be. Just like the rest. Dead …’

  ‘But –’ Jago tried to say before Ebenezer Goode snapped his finger.

  ‘Find the stone and beneath is a stairway. That’s where Jack Henson will be – down there – in the grave. He has a visitor.’

  [ 24 ]

  Dreams Long Dead

  THE GRAVE OPENED EASILY. Ebenezer Goode had told Jago exactly how to trip the catch and stand back whilst the cantilever put in by the smugglers lifted the granite tomb slab. A row of wet stone steps covered in thick moss went down into the earth.

  ‘Henson only used this one once,’ Ebenezer said brightly as the stone slid back into place. ‘It’ll take you closer to him.’

  ‘Thank you for helping me,’ Jago answered the ghost as he reached the bottom step and turned the corner of the passageway.

  ‘You have helped me, Jago Harker. When Strackan is dead I and my companions will be free to complete our lives and go on to death,’ Ebenezer answered gladly as he walked up through the gravestone, his body disappearing. ‘I look forward to slumber and the hope of paradise.’

  When the ghost had gone Jago was alone in the candlelit corridor. ‘But what am I supposed to do now?’ he said to himself.

  The passageway led on. Jago knew that Jack Henson would be somewhere in the myriad of narrow arched tunnels cut by the smugglers over hundreds of years. He walked deeper underground, holding out his hands and shuffling his feet in the pitch darkness. At the turn of every corner was a thick wax candle. As he went on, he could smell the peat fire. Jago knew he was getting close to where Jack Henson would be.

  Coming from the darkness, he could hear a voice. Jack Hen-son gabbled quickly as if he spoke to himself. Jago couldn’t make out what was being said. Each sentence was short and crisp, ending with the inflection of a question. As he got to the end of the tunnel, he could see the light of the fire. To his right was the tunnel through which he and Bia had escaped. On the left was the doorway to the large room. He knew that Henson would be there, waiting.