by G. P. Taylor
‘You murdered them,’ Henson said as Rathbone pointed the gun at his head.
‘The trouble is,’ she said as she looked at him wearily, ‘you have both become quite tiresome to us. Jago murdered Draigorian and you are a superstitious meddler.’
‘Draigorian asked me to kill him,’ Jago said.
‘The only reason I didn’t rip the veins from your neck is that Strackan insists on you being alive. Understand?’ she snapped angrily. Trevellas looked at Rathbone. ‘Can we take them to the car?’
‘Not the boy. Not until it is safe,’ he answered. ‘I will take Henson to Hawks Moor and come back later.’
‘Very well,’ Trevellas mused. ‘It will have to be the sanctuary. I take it that the Cup of Garbova is in that stupid bag? I have always known when it is near.’
Rathbone smiled and gestured with the gun for Henson to take the bag from Jago and step to the door.
‘Where are you taking him?’ Henson asked.
‘The bookshop. I rent a room above. Have done for years. I thought you would have known that,’ Trevellas answered as if she enjoyed the game. ‘I watched you so often from the window that overlooked the street. I saw your anger and frustration. I even watched them lower the coffin into the grave.’ She gave a short sigh as she smoothed her tight tweed jacket. ‘What gave me the greatest pleasure was watching you suffer.’
‘I will kill you,’ Henson said. His simmering anger could be seen in his face.
‘Don’t think of running, Henson,’ Rathbone said as he snapped iron cuffs on to his wrists. ‘Just walk with me to the car. Madame Trevellas will look after Jago and bring him with her, understand?’
Henson nodded and looked at Jago as if to tell him all would be well.
‘They won’t harm you, Jago. Not until the Lyrid of Saturn.’
‘How amusing,’ Trevellas scoffed as Henson was pushed from the shop and into the street. ‘That man has made it his life’s work to destroy me and now his life is in my hands.’
‘What will you do with him?’ Jago asked.
‘It is more, what will we do with him,’ she answered. ‘After tonight, Jago, you will be with us. It is what you were born for.’
Sibilia Trevellas said no more. Gripping Jago tightly by his arm, she led him out of the bombed-out shop and into the empty street. He glanced as the Daimler car drove away. Henson looked out of the rear window and raised his cuffed hands to the glass. Trevellas scowled, her face like a windswept tundra.
‘Why can’t I go with him?’ Jago asked as she pulled him close to her as if he were her companion.
‘Preparations,’ she replied, keeping her lips over her teeth.
The bell on the door of the bookshop jangled urgently as the door opened and Jago was pushed unobtrusively inside.
It smelt of coffee and was cozily warm. Jago had never seen such a place. High shelves were stacked with neat rows of books and by the counter a woman with corn-weaved hair smiled and knew not to speak to Trevellas. Jago hesitated; he looked up at the long, curved Georgian staircase that swept upwards under the high dome of the ceiling and circled a magnificent grand piano that looked out of place.
‘Another student,’ Trevellas muttered with a rustle of breath as if Jago was a labour to be endured. ‘The desire to learn French is quite appealing.’ She prodded Jago in the back as the woman by the counter looked the other way. ‘Up the stairs and then we can start on your pronunciation.’
The woman at the counter smirked as she looked out of the window. Jago climbed the staircase until he reached the landing and then turned towards a cream-painted door. To one side was a brass plaque and on it the words: Madame Byrony – Teacher of French.
He stopped at the door and waited for Trevellas to turn the handle. Once inside, he could see that he room was sparsely furnished. It had curtained windows and brightly polished floorboards. There was a chair by the open sash window. Silk netting blew gently and rustled on the floor. At one side of the room, by an iron grate, was a long sofa. There was nothing to say who used the room. It was, as she had said herself, a place to look through the glass and gloat at those passing by whose life she had made a misery.
‘I want to go,’ Jago said like a demanding child. He leant against the thin wall and pressed his fingers into the damp plaster.
‘You still don’t understand, do you?’ she asked him as she turned the key to the door and slid the brass bolt. Jago felt the wall move slightly. ‘This is not a game that can be finished when you want it, Jago. It has to be completed. We have waited a lifetime for this moment and it is finally here.’
‘What were you like before? Before Strackan bit you?’
Sibilia Trevellas leant against the door and eyed him from head to foot. The wall moved again. He realised it was just a single board in thickness.
‘Weak,’ she answered glibly. ‘Weak and frail – just like you.’
‘That woman knew you don’t speak French or teach it,’ Jago said. ‘You could see it in her face.’
‘She most probably does. I have never felt the need to look inside her mind. Probably not much going on other than the price of bread and what man she will seek out to ruin his life. Yet she has the good sense never to mention it to anyone.’ Trevellas she crossed the room to the bay window and sat on a fine Italian upholstered chair. ‘Ezra Morgan has told me to prepare you for tonight, the Lyrid of Saturn.’
‘Tonight?’ he asked.
‘Just after midnight,’ she said, surprised he didn’t know. ‘That’s when your work will begin. It is the dawn of a new Quartet. Mrs Macarty has done a good job in selecting you all.’
‘Lorken is dead,’ Jago said.
‘There is always Griffin and Staxley and of course your friend Biatra,’ Trevellas answered as she looked at the gathering crowd in the marketplace. ‘I can see that they must have escaped. Their heads are not dangling on poles.’ She laughed, amused by her own joke. ‘I remember in the time of the Napoleonic war, when a French ship was wrecked on the beach at Hartlepool. The only survivor was a gorilla that was found on the beach dressed in the uniform of an officer. The magistrate, being a superstitious sort of man, ordered it hung as a spy.’ Trevellas laughed again. ‘Think what they would do if they knew who you really were …’
‘Or you,’ Jago said as he contemplated jumping through the glass of the window to the street below.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ Trevellas answered, knowing his mind. ‘It would make such a mess and I would have to say that you were a spy. If you survived the fall, they would shoot you.’
‘And all would be lost?’ Jago added as he tried to rid his mind of any thoughts of escape. ‘How long must we wait?’
‘Until the breathers get bored of their sport and go home as night falls. The two boys should be far away. They were told that if they didn’t find you they should go to Hawks Moor. Staxley knows the way. He is a fine young man. Shame it was not he who was born from that strumpet of a woman who was your mother. Is it true she is dead?’
Jago didn’t reply. He looked out of the window at the thick dark cloud that covered the sky and the sea mist that began to fill the street to the rooftops of the houses.
‘I can imagine she would have been hard to live with,’ Trevellas went on. ‘Anyone in love with Hugh Morgan must be quite difficult.’
‘Why does he allow all this to happen?’ Jago asked the question that had troubled him for so long.
‘He is like you. Hugh is a man with a mind in two worlds. There is the knowledge that what he does is wrong and then the excitement that life can be different.’
‘Is he immortal?’
‘That is the curse of being born from a brood of Vampyres. Unless he takes Strackan’s blood he will die very slowly and painfully. The same will happen to you. Sadly, Hugh Morgan had his chance.’ Trevellas sat cold-faced and stared at him. It was as if she looked deep beneath his skin to what lay beneath.
‘Did you kill his mother?’ he asked.
Madame Trevellas smoothed the tweed of her long skirt and tapped the heels of her brown boots against the wooden floorboards. It looked as if she had done this a thousand times before as she perched in the chair by the window and looked at the crowds of people who were now shadows in the fog.
‘Do Vampyres betray everyone they meet?’ Jago asked.
‘Jago, you have been betrayed by everyone in your life. Julius Cresco, your mother, Hugh Morgan, and I hear that even Bradick pretended to befriend you. Life is betrayal at the best of times. It is something not to worry yourself about. Tonight, everything shall change.’
Jago walked towards her and smiled. ‘If I give in to Strackan, what will happen?’
Trevellas rested against the open window, her arms on the ledge as she stared at the street below. ‘You will have a life that you could never imagine. Kings and princes will fall at your feet. You shall have time to study, create music and do great things.’
‘How often will I have to kill?’ Jago fought to hide his thoughts and filled his mind with words.
‘We take blood at every solstice, equinox and full moon. I know Draigorian drank only that which Clinas gave to him. He never had a heart for it.’ She smiled. ‘I am glad to see you have changed your mind.’
‘Look,’ he said pointing into the fog and the vague shadow of a man walking by. ‘That is what I wanted in life. Just to be …’
Sibilia Trevellas laughed. At last, she thought, Jago was thinking like a Vampyre.
‘Like him?’ she asked as she pointed out of the window.
The woman had no time to react. Jago slammed the wooden sash as hard as he could. It fell like a guillotine and crushed her bones against the wood. Her wrists were trapped like stocks in the frame. Trevellas screamed as she was pinned by the window. It shook the glass. Jago kicked the chair from beneath her and she fell to the floor. Jago ran.
In an instant she was free and with one hand she gripped his leg. Jago turned and lashed out. He ran again, only to be caught. Jago searched for the knife.
‘Get back,’ he shouted, holding out the dagger as Trevellas dragged him back.
At once she let go and cowered like a dog. Jago took the key fron her, slid the bolt on the door and turned the lock.
‘You’ll never get away,’ she said as she stamped on the floor. Jago locked the door, keeping Trevellas inside the room.
At the sound of running footsteps on the stairs, Jago turned. There, coming towards him, was the bookseller. He realised it was the girl he had seen before, the one attacked by Strackan. In her hand was a short sword.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said as she drew back her arm to strike.
The woman lashed at him. Jago jumped back. The sword pierced the door and she rammed it in to the hilt.
Taking a book from the shelf he hit the woman as hard as he could. She fell back. Jago ran towards her just as she got to her feet, hissing like a feculent cat. He pushed her out of the way but she grabbed his coat. Jago twisted and turned as she scratched at his face, pulling him closer and closer towards her. The woman reached for the sword and began to pull it from the door. The blade juddered the wood, just as the door was being forced from the inside. He hit her again and again. The woman fell to the floor. He leant against the wall, out of breath, blood trickling down his cheek.
Plaster smashed around him as two hands burst through the wall and gripped his face.
‘Get him!’ shouted Trevellas to the bookseller, who was now getting to her feet.
Jago took the silver knife and with all his strength he slashed at her hands. Trevellas screamed and he broke free from her grip. The bookseller backed off and he held her at bay with the knife.
‘Stay back – don’t follow me,’ Jago said as she stared at him red-eyed. ‘Just stay back.’
Madame Trevellas punched holes in the lath and plaster wall. Dust and spits of debris shot in to the air. They followed him along the corridor as Jago edged towards the stairs. He could see her looking through the jagged gaps in the plaster, screaming as he got away.
‘Don’t let him go, stop him!’ the Vampyre screeched as she reached through the wall in a vain attempt to catch him.
Jago got to the stairs, the bookseller woman stepping closer with every pace. He could see the three cuts upon her neck where Strackan had tried to kill her.
‘Stay back!’ Jago shouted. He edged down the steps, keeping her in view as she came at him with the sword.
‘Stop him, Cressida,’ Trevellas shouted from the locked room. ‘Do what you have to – but keep him alive.’
The woman lunged at Jago. He grabbed her hand and twisted the sword from her grip. It slid between the rails and slammed into the lid of the piano. She stumbled and fell over the wooden banister to the floor below. Jago looked down at the crumpled, lifeless body that lay broken-backed over the grand piano pierced by the sword.
[ 28 ]
The Brig
IN THE MARKETPLACE, all was dark. The morning light had gone; thick fog and black cloud covered the sun. It was like a winter night. Dark shadows clung to the walls and the strange shapes of buildings loomed up from the cobbles.
Jago kept his head down and stooped as he walked. He crept between the stone arches of the portico under the town hall and crossed the square. A gathering of men circled the stall that sold amulets. He could hear the vendor shouting for trade and pontificating over the efficacy of each stone and wooden cross.
‘Seen it – we’ve seen it with our own eyes, Vampyres here in Whitby,’ thige man said again and again. ‘All of you need to be protected, to sleep safely in your beds, my amulets and pieces of the true cross will do that for you and at a price you can afford.’
No one seemed to doubt what he said. The crowd surrounded him with frantic hands, holding out brown ten-bob notes. Every hope was to exchange them for some relic or stone that would ward off the Vampyres that others said they had seen marauding through the town. It was as if no one had seen them with their own eyes – they had just heard from a friend, neighbour or passer-by. One thing was the same inall the stories – the Vampyres were from Streonshalgh Manor, and that was without doubt.
Jago listened to the moaning as he walked by, hoping they would give him no attention.
‘Saw it myself, saw it I did,’ said one old woman in a shawl and sea-boots. ‘Teeth like a dog, skin the colour of death. If that wasn’t a Vampyre then I will eat my own foot.’
She eyed Jago warily as he walked by. He was covered in plaster dust and blood trickled down the side of his head. It was hard for him to keep his eyes staring at the cobbles. He wanted to turn and see her superstition for himself.
‘Last chance! Last chance before nightfall,’ the man on the stall shouted as he exchanged the talismans for crumpled notes that he gripped in his fingers. ‘Amulets – potions – Vampyre protection …’
Jago walked towards the entrance to the street that led along the harbour side from the marketplace. He knew the woman was still watching him; it was as if she knew who and what he was.
‘Boy!’ she shouted just as he reached the corner and the dark shadow of the narrow street. ‘You one of them from the Manor?’
Jago didn’t turn. He swallowed hard and kept his head down as he looked to the ground and tried to increase his pace without her seeing.
‘You, boy! You one of them from Streonshalgh?’ she asked again, with more accusation than question. Jago ran. ‘There’s one!’ she shouted and raised the alarm. ‘Streonshalgh boy – running down Sandgate.’
As one, the crowd turned. They caught the fleeting glimpse of his coat tail as he ran in to the mist that filled the street. Jago heard the shouts as he pressed on, knowing they would com
e after him.
The first shout of Vampyre came quickly. It echoed around him like the call of a hunter. The crowd screamed in odious delight and those protected with amulets gave chase. Their sea boots and hobnails clattered on the stone as the mob ran as one.
Jago did not know where to run. He wanted to stop, give himself up. They could inspect him, check the teeth in his mouth and see he was not a Vampyre. But, he knew they would not wait. He was the stranger, the outsider, the enemy in their midst, the boy from London. They would catch him and kill him, so he must not be caught.
The screams grew louder as the sound of the hunt spread from street to street. It overtook Jago as the warning spread and the calls of his pursuers ran ahead of him. People turned and looked, stared at his bloodstained face, saw his fear. Women screamed as they stepped from the curious little shops that sold vagabond clothes and ladies’ gloves. Jago sprinted on, turning towards the bridge just as the gates swung shut. He could feel the whirring of the gears beneath his feet. The road juddered and shook as the swing bridge started to open. The crowd pressed on, spilling from the narrow lane on to the road. They screamed as they caught sight of him in the mist.
‘That’s him! Vampyre boy!’ shouted one man ahead of the crowd.
Those waiting by the gates turned. A soldier made a grab for Jago and held tight to his jacket.
‘I’m not a Vampyre,’ Jago screamed in protest as he gripped the man and threw him to the ground with incredible force.
‘Look what he did,’ an old man shouted as the soldier slid across the road. ‘Vampyre!’
Jago leapt the gate and ran on to the swing bridge. It opened quickly, the gap between each side widening by the second. Already the pursuers were nearly upon him. He ran on, checking the distance he would have to leap.
‘I’ll stop him,’ Jago heard as he ran faster. There was a click of a rifle bolt and then a shot. The bullet whistled passed his head and smashed the glass of a disused lamp post.
The bridge opened wider as a fishing boat came towards it. Jago ran on as the crowd pushed open the gate to follow on.