by David Wood
The Minister cleaned the woman’s hand with gentleness, wringing out the cloth he used into the bowl, turning the water first pale, then deep pink. And all the time Tony watched, ready at any moment to make a dive for the poker. But the teacher didn’t move, didn’t even flinch as dry crusty blood was carefully removed from her wound exposing the raw flesh and the glimpse of white bone beneath.
Even when the Minister wrapped the hand in a clean white bandage and placed it back, like a small pet, in her lap, she didn’t move.
The Minister stood, pressing his palms at the base of his spine and groaning.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered to himself, then, in a louder voice, spoke to Tony.
“What a night. Do you think we have any more surprises yet to come?”
Tony shrugged, still not taking his eyes from the teacher.
“It’s getting on for four o’clock,” the Minister said, dropping himself into his armchair with a sigh, “Too late to go to bed, too early to do anything worthwhile. I’ll stay up and wait for the doctor. Do you want to go to bed and get some sleep?”
“I’d rather stay with you,” Tony replied. In truth the thought of being alone filled him with terror, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep...not with the teacher downstairs.
He sat in the chair opposite the Minister and stared at the chess pieces.
Neither of them made a move and neither of them spoke.
There was only the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the soft heavy breathing from the sleeping teacher in the other chair.
Brian opened his eyes, but the darkness did not lessen.
He felt weak, as if just recovered from a long bout of flu, and when he tried to bring a hand to his brow he found it too much effort to move even a finger.
There was a dull ache at his throat just above his collarbone, rawness like that left by a burn, and there was a leaden tiredness in his limbs.
His eyes slowly adjusted, and the shadows to either side of him hardened and became defined.
He lay in a stone box, walls rising almost a foot above him to his right and left. Somewhere in the room beyond someone, or something, was singing, a melodic, almost child-like chant. He felt a lethargy take hold, first in his feet, then his calves, slowly spreading to all his body, a tingling sensation like a tuning fork being ran lightly from his head to his toes.
The roof of his head felt light and he seemed to float just above the hard stone at his back as calm washed over him.
The singing stopped and there was the sound of metal sliding against stone.
He felt a sudden burst of panic, but the vibration modulated, rising in speed and driving all thought from his mind, even as the sharp glint of steel came into sight above him.
A long white arm was holding a sword above him, and it waved in a series of passes over his body as a strange chant joined with the vibration and synchronized with his heartbeat.
He watched, hypnotized as the silver steel passed above him, once, twice, then again. And with each pass it came closer and the silver shone brighter.
A head came into view...a white ghost with burning eyes. Brian knew that he had seen it before somewhere, but he couldn’t remember when, and he knew that he should be afraid, but all he felt was quiet calm and acceptance.
The creature smiled, exposing its fangs, and Brian smiled back as it brought down the sword, hard, across its own arm, slashing a six-inch wound that immediately oozed redly.
“Drink and become mine,” a voice echoed inside Brian’s head. The blood began to fall on him, spattering across his cheeks, nose and, finally, falling on his lips. He licked it with the tip of his tongue and gasped as it burnt a fiery trail down his throat.
It hit him almost immediately...an ecstasy that was stronger than the most powerful orgasm.
He opened his mouth wide and began to gulp hungrily.
Heat coursed through his body, burning its way through his veins and arteries, lighting him up from within.
He could see every pore on the face of the creature above him, the fine crystalline structure of the skin, the root of every hair. He turned his head to the side and realized that he could see the finest grain of the stone, each atom dancing and cavorting.
The room was suddenly lit up brilliantly, as if by a roaring fire. Shadows danced on the ceiling and among the shadows he could see bats roosting in the nooks and crannies of the rough stone.
He could feel every beat of his heart, like a bass drum in his chest, a pounding that shook and reverberated through his body, slower, then slower still, like a clock winding down.
And still he gulped down the hot liquid, and still the fire coursed through him until it consumed him entirely. He felt his heart burn away, piece by piece, the drum stuttering and faltering until it was finally silent and there was only the fire and the burning eyes of the creature above him.
Enough, the voice said in his head, and the flow of liquid suddenly stopped. He gulped pleadingly, but there was only air.
The heat inside him flared, threatening to incinerate him completely then died as suddenly as it had come. An icy coldness took its place, a cold so deep that ice must be forming in all the empty places inside him, a deep blue cold that froze where the heat had ravaged and left him an empty vessel.
A white hand came down to his face and stroked him across the cheek, its touch as cold as the ice he felt in his veins.
Now you are first made, the voice in his head said. Now you are mine.
There was naked lust in those blazing eyes, and Brian felt as if he fell into them. The cold inside him intensified, like ice water running through him. Deep in the pit of his stomach there was a place that demanded heat, which needed heat. For the moment it was little more than a mild hunger, but he could feel it growing, tugging at him.
Come, the voice said, and Brian felt himself rise from the box of stone, so light that he felt he might float.
They were in a small, roughly hewn room, and he could now see that he had been lying in a great stone coffin that dominated the room. A silver sword lay on the floor at his feet, its jeweled hilt blazing as if it was on fire. Although he could see every ridge and crack of the walls around him, there was no source of light. But Brian accepted it as just another part of what he now was.
Somewhere deep inside him a voice was crying, shouting for attention, but he was mesmerized by the blazing eyes of the creature that took him by the hand and led him out from the room of his birth.
It took him through caverns that glowed in silver and gray, the mosses and lichens writhing, each with their own, tiny spark of life. He could hear them hum, a thin, tinny, minor chord that sang in the air around them, but he had no time to stop as the creature spurred him forward.
They went through a hole in a wall into a room that contained rows of beds along the walls.
Brian looked at them dispassionately...he knew what they were, knew their purpose, but he felt no affinity with them, could see no reason why he would ever have the need for one.
They came to a ladder reaching up to a room above and they went up, without touching a single rung, and up further, through a series of chambers, rising like smoke in still air.
They emerged in a kitchen, a room that shone in dazzling white moonlight, so bright that
Brian had to squint until his eyes adjusted. He realized that the room smelled, a heavy meaty odor, but stale, as if from long ago.
The smell got stronger as they moved silently through the house, until they came to a room that blazed in dazzling white. The serpent on the floor lay coiled in the moonlight, thin gray shadows running in smoky wisps across its surface. Overhead the moon shone, as bright as the noon sun.
“Come,” the thing that held his hand said, leading him to the center of the mosaic.
Deep inside him the other voice, the one from before the change, was shouting louder, clamoring for attention, but when he looked into the eyes of his creator the calm returned and he
was still and quiet as he stood directly under the dome of glass.
His creator reached his hands upwards and began to sing, a harsh dissonance, the words of which Brian half felt he could understand.
The mosaic at his feet shifted, the coils of the serpent expanding and contracting, great breaths beginning to bring life to the cold tiles. The huge head at his feet shifted and a pair of ruby red eyes snapped open and stared at him and through him as neck muscles contracted and the serpent’s head raised off the floor to sway in the air before him.
Tony was looking fixedly at the teacher when she sat up straight in the chair, her eyes snapping open as if turned on by a switch.
The eyes didn’t look like they belonged in her face, bulbous, staring and rimmed in watery pink.
She gripped the arms of the chair and started to push herself upwards. Tony was already reaching for the poker when she spoke, just one word.
“Brian,” she said, then started to scream.
He got out of the chair fast and had the poker raised above his head to strike when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“What are you doing boy,” Bill Reid said, pushing past Tony and taking the woman by the shoulders.
“Margaret,” he said softly, looking into her eyes. “Margaret,” he said again, more forcibly this time. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”
She stared at him, and Tony could see no recognition in her eyes, only a wild-eyed, blank gaze. Her mouth was wide open, and he couldn’t see any fangs, but he kept the poker raised, just in case.
The Minister held Margaret’s face in his hands and brought his own face up close to the teacher’s.
“Fetch me some whiskey, son,” he said to Tony. “It’s in the cupboard next to the fridge in the kitchen.”
Tony sidled past them, still clutching the poker, but the teacher was now just staring, wide eyed and slack jawed.
He hurried to the kitchen and found the almost full bottle. He had to get a chair to reach it, and his legs were shaking so much that he nearly toppled to the floor, but he managed to steady himself just in time.
He was just about to take the bottle from the shelf when he saw something else...a small jar, a bit like a pepper pot. It was the label that drew him—“Garlic Granules”.
Suddenly he remembered the graveyard, the white powder and the taste in his mouth.
He took the jar from the shelf and buried it deep in his pocket before finally lifting down the whiskey bottle.
The golden fluid shone in the overhead light.
“Just a little stiffener,” his father always said. That’s what Tony needed...a stiffener.
He pulled the cork out of the bottle... it must be cheap stuff he thought...his dad’s bottles always had a shiny smart screw top...and took a long swig of the liquid.
He gagged and had to force down the tomato soup that was threatening to come back up. His eyes watered and his stomach felt it was on fire but, strangely, he did feel better.
He grasped the bottle in his right hand and the poker in his left as he made his way back along the hall to the study. He half expected to find the teacher had turned; her teeth firmly embedded in the Minister’s neck, so that when he entered the room and found them in each other’s arms he almost dropped the bottle.
Then he saw that the teacher was crying, her head on Bill Reid’s shoulder, his hand patting uncomfortably at her hair.
The Minister gently sat Margaret back on the chair and took the whiskey bottle from Tony. He must have caught the smell of the liquor on Tony’s breath, for his left eyebrow went up, but he didn’t say anything as he took two glasses from a small display cabinet.
“You won’t be wanting any of this,” he said to Tony. It wasn’t a question, but there was definitely the glint of a smile in his eyes. He poured two large measures and carefully placed one in Margaret’s hands before downing his own in one swift gulp.
He looked almost longingly at the bottle before putting it down beside the chair.
The teacher was staring into space again, the drink forgotten in her hands. Bill reached forward and guided the glass to her lips.
She took a sip and coughed, the liquid running down her chin. She grabbed the glass tight as she gulped down the rest of it greedily.
“More,” she said, thrusting the glass at the Minister.
He lifted the bottle and poured two fingers worth, then more as she gestured at the bottle, until the glass was almost full. She drank half of it before lowering the glass to her lap.
It was only then that she seemed to notice the bandage on her hand. She rolled her wrist forward and back, studying the bandage as if it was something alien and new. Her eyes went out of focus, and Tony thought that she would cry again, but there were no tears...only a low moan.
“Oh, Brian,” she said.
She looked up at Bill and her eyes were clear for the first time.
“How did I get here?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Bill replied, almost absently pouring himself a whiskey from the bottle. “The policeman found you in the churchyard. You gave him a hell of a fright...he thought you were dead.”
“I remember him,” Margaret said, “I thought I dreamt it. But what was a policeman doing here?”
“It’s a long story, and it concerns our young friend here,” Bill said, “But it’ll keep for a while. You look done in. What happened to you?”
She shook her head, as if refusing to remember.
“I need to go,” she said, trying to stand, but only getting halfway out of the chair before her legs betrayed her and she fell back against the cushions.
“You’re not going anywhere until the doctor’s had a look at you,” Bill said. “That’s a nasty bite you’re got there.”
Tony noticed her flinch at the word, and she looked down at her hand but her thoughts were a long way away, remembering. Then she said the thing that made him start paying attention.
“I know you’ll think I’m mad Bill, but I’ve got to ask,” she said, gripping tighter to the whiskey glass, “Do you believe in vampires?”
Andy Crawford looked at his watch and grimaced. Half past four in the morning, and no sign of relief.
He’d already counted the visible gravestones twice, and the only movement he’d seen all night had been the injured woman.
Even that had brought little respite. He’d just taken enough time to get her inside and to phone for a doctor, and then he’d been back out here in the cold while they were snug inside the house.
He sometimes wondered what had made him become a policeman in the first place. It certainly hadn’t been out of vocation. The long nights and shift patterns meant that he had little chance of a normal social life...not that any of the local women would be seen dead with a copper anyway.
When he’d joined up he was thinking of the early retirement and the pension, but that seemed far away...too many nights like this between now and then.
The night was quiet this far from the center of town and there was only the quiet rustle of the breeze in the trees.
“Bloody Collins,” he muttered to himself, “Leaving a man out here for hours.”
His radio crackled at his chest, but when he lifted it to his mouth it was quiet once more.
“407 Crawford here,” he said, and waited for a reply, but there was only static.
“Bloody Johnson. Probably jerking off in the lavvy.”
“407 Crawford here. Come on Gus, talk to me.”
But there was still no reply.
They’d probably all be in the station, swigging coffee and having a good laugh at his expense. Well he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of being worried by it.
He paced backward and forward, trying to get some feeling into his toes, cursing under his breath, so his back was to the slim figure that slipped out from the trees like a ghost.
He only caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and didn’t have time to turn fully before something jum
ped on his back and thin legs were wrapped around his waist.
His hair was pulled hard, bringing his head up and back and there was a sudden jab of pain as teeth pierced his neck.
He rammed his body backward, catching his attacker between himself and the stone wall of the church, the jar of impact driving most of the air from his lungs but failing to dislodge whoever was clutching him.
He bent almost double and rolled forward, until he toppled in a forward roll, and he smiled as he brought a small shriek from his attacker and felt the limbs that were gripping him loosen and fall away.
Blood was welling from the wound at his back and he felt it pooling at his stiff collar. He put a hand to his back and it came away dark and wet.
“You bastard,” he said, and turned to his attacker.
She was small, less than ten years old, and her nightgown was ripped and torn in a dozen places. Long blonde hair hung in a tangle over her left shoulder and large blue eyes stared up at him from beneath an uneven fringe. She hooked a finger at one side of her mouth and tugged at her lips, looking ready to burst into tears at the slightest provocation.
“Oh shit,” Crawford muttered to himself. His mind was reeling with visions of being charged with assault on a child.
“Are you my daddy?” the girl asked. It sounded like there was something wrong with her throat...her voice coming harsh and strained...but there was no missing the loss and pain in her tone.
“No darling,” Crawford said, and bent down to be at the same level as the girl. “But I’m sure I can find him for you. Come here,” he said, opening his arms and gesturing her forward.
She shook her head.
“Don’t want to,” she said. “I’m having fun with my new friends.”
Now Crawford was thinking about child abuse, and possibly catching the perpetrator.
“And what friends are these then?” he asked, just as he noticed her gaze slip over his left shoulder.
“Friends like me,” she said, and giggled.
Crawford didn’t have time to react. He barely had time to turn. They were standing around him in a rough semi-circle.