Vampirates 3: Blood Captain

by Justin Somper

  She watched as Mosh Zu lifted his right hand. As he did so, something amazing happened. The three ribbons stopped hanging limply in the air and began seeking his hand, as surely as if a magnet were attracting them. The others noticed it too, raising their eyes in wonder.

  “Don’t focus on me,” Mosh Zu told them. “Keep the focus on yourself. Shed the pain from your body and let it travel into the ribbon.”

  Grace watched as the ribbons grew tauter, as if Mosh Zu were reeling them in. She could see a pool of light gather around the edges of the ribbons. If she needed any convincing about the power of the treatment, she found it when she turned back to the vampires.

  Grace saw that the princess was crying. Her eyes were still shut but tears were flowing down her cheeks. Grace turned to Mosh Zu. He did not meet her gaze. She realized that he too must be channeling all his focus into the ribbons.

  Then there was a terrible moan. Grace realized it was coming from Thom Feather. His eyes were also closed. The moan continued, low and long. She remembered his death date as 1916. But it was as if the pain of six hundred years were slowly leaving his body. At first the sound distressed her, but as it continued, she imagined a boil bursting deep within him and waves of distress at last beginning to break free.

  As Thom Feather’s moan at last began to subside, Grace turned her eyes to Lorcan. There were no tears on his face, nor did he make any sound. Grace frowned. She sensed that this was not a good sign.

  She watched as, at last, Mosh Zu lowered his hand and his connection with the three colored ribbons was broken.

  Gradually, the princess opened her eyes. She was still clutching the ribbon. With her free hand she rummaged in her dress and removed a lace handkerchief with which she dried her tears.

  Now, Thom Feather opened his eyes. He looked shaken, as if he had just woken and was surprised by his surroundings. After a moment or two, he came back to himself, but Grace thought that already there was a new vitality to him.

  Lorcan did not make any movement, but Mosh Zu seemed to sense that he too had done as much as he could.

  “You have all made the first step,” he said. “Whatever pain you have brought to Sanctuary, you will leave it behind here. Whether you are struggling with your hunger, or battling wounds old or new, or are simply tired — so very tired — of wandering, here you will find a new beginning.”

  Grace thought how tranquil his words were, like soft water lapping on a shore.

  “Go now,” Mosh Zu said. “Return to your rooms or, if you wish for air, take to the gardens. Spend time in solitude or, if you prefer, get better acquainted with each other, or those who came here before you. We will meet again tomorrow night. Keep your ribbons with you at all times and bring them along here tomorrow.”

  He smiled and turned. It was clear that the session was over.

  “I have a question,” the princess said. Her eyes swiveled toward Grace. For some reason, Grace found herself shivering.

  Mosh Zu turned back to her. “Yes?”

  “Blood,” she said. “My need for blood is very strong. They said that you would advise us of the arrangements.”

  Mosh Zu smiled at her. “You will take no blood,” he said.

  “No blood? But that’s preposterous!”

  He shook his head. “You do not need it. I can tell. You must learn to distinguish between real need and habit,” he said.

  “But —” she began to protest once more. Mosh Zu cut her off.

  “When you truly need blood, we will address the question,” he said. “Live with the anxiety. Allow your hunger to possess you. And then deny it. And watch it recede.”

  “I can’t . . .” the princess began. “I am weak.”

  “No,” Mosh Zu said. “You are very strong. You all are. Stronger than you realize. But soon you will know yourselves better.”

  He smiled. Then, to Grace’s surprise, he simply walked out of the room and disappeared along the labyrinthine corridors.

  22

  BLOOD TAVERN

  “What are we going to do?” Bart asked as he and Connor gazed nervously at the fire burning in Jez’s eye sockets.

  The hunger was clearly growing stronger but Jez seemed to be doing his best to fight it. “Don’t fear me,” he rasped. “I won’t harm you.”

  “Mate, you need blood, and we’re all alone at sea with nothing but a drop of rum in my flask,” Bart said. “You said it yourself. When the hunger takes you over, you can’t control yourself. I think we have every reason to be afraid.”

  “Take me . . .” It seemed a great effort for Jez to force out the words. “Take me to the Blood Tavern.”

  Bart looked at him, confused. “Blood Tavern. What are you on about, mate?”

  In answer, Jez held out his arm and lifted his sleeve. Connor was shocked afresh by the whiteness of his skin. It was almost translucent, pale blue veins swimming beneath its sheer surface. There, on the inside of his forearm, was the mysterious tattoo of three cutlasses they had all woken up with after their lost weekend in Calle del Marinero. But Jez was pointing above the tattoo to fresher ink. Not a tattoo, but what appeared to be a hastily scribbled note.

  Blood Tavern

  Limbo Creek

  Black door

  Lilith

  “Take me,” Jez said once more, his eyes aflame and his mouth seeming now to contort.

  Connor shivered. He turned to Bart. “Do you know Limbo Creek?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Bart said. “It’s not far from here.” Already he was adjusting the direction of the boat.

  Connor turned to Jez, who seemed to be trying desperately to contain his appetites. But his body seemed no longer his to control.

  “How much time have we got?” Connor asked him.

  Jez kept his face turned away but rasped once more, “Need blood now.”

  The night winds were in their favor and Bart made swift work of steering the safety boat toward Limbo Creek.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’re here.”

  Jez was rocking to and fro, causing their small boat to do the same.

  “We’re here,” Connor repeated, tentatively reaching out an arm to Jez. When Jez looked up, Connor had to tear his eyes away. With every passing moment, Jez seemed to be shedding another layer of his human visage.

  “Have you been here before?” Connor asked.

  Jez opened his mouth, but instead of answering the question, he simply repeated, “Need blood now.”

  Bart let out a deep sigh. “There’s no point. You won’t get any more sense out of him,” he said. “We’ll just have to find this Blood Tavern ourselves.”

  Connor agreed. “So we’re looking for a black door,” he said.

  “Right now, any door would be a good starting point,” Bart said, his voice heavy with frustration and anxiety.

  They were now up close to the rock at the perimeter of the creek, but so far, there was no sign of any buildings or habitation at all.

  “I don’t ever remember seeing a building in this creek,” Bart said disconsolately.

  Connor’s heart was sinking fast. If they didn’t get to the Blood Tavern soon, there was going to be a bad end to this. An end which would result in at least one less person returning in the safety boat, possibly two.

  “Wait a minute,” Bart suddenly cried, pointing up the rock face. “Could that be a door, there?”

  “Where?” Connor couldn’t see anything but the shadowy rock.

  “Quick,” Bart said. “Pass me your lantern!”

  Connor did so and Bart held it up toward the rock.

  There was a ledge and, above it, somewhat obscured by rough vegetation, the outline of a door.

  “That must be it!” Connor said.

  “It’s black and it’s a door!” Bart said, grinning. “It’s good enough for me!”

  Jez lifted his head and opened his mouth. It looked swollen. Connor hadn’t noticed before how pronounced his incisor teeth were. They seemed to be growing. His gums were engorged
and bleeding. Connor was greatly relieved when Jez closed his mouth again.

  “There’s nowhere to moor the boat,” Bart said. “Connor, I’ll have to wait here, while you go in with him.”

  “Me?” Connor said.

  Bart nodded, squeezing his arm. “Go on, buddy. However bad it is, it can’t be worse than the alternative.”

  Connor wasn’t so sure. A blood tavern sounded like a pretty bad place to be. He shivered as Bart steadied the boat so he could step out onto the rocky ledge. “Here,” he said, holding out his hand to Jez. “Follow me.” He helped Jez climb up onto the ledge. It was like leading a wild dog.

  Once they were on the ledge, the overgrown plants formed a kind of arbor leading toward the black door. There was a bellpull at its side. Trying to calm his tide of nerves, Connor reached out and gave it a tug.

  After a slight delay, there was the sound of sliding metal and a small opening appeared in the door. A pair of milky eyes glanced out. They fixed on Connor. He stared back, his heart beating fast.

  “Well?” came a voice from inside.

  “Is this the Blood Tavern?” Connor asked.

  There was no response. The milky eyes stared out, devoid of all expression. Connor couldn’t help wondering if they were the eyes of a blind person.

  “This is Limbo Creek and this is the only black door. This must be the Blood Tavern. Please let us in. My . . . my friend needs blood . . . very badly.”

  The eyes showed not even a flicker of understanding. Then Connor remembered the final note on Jez’s arm.

  “Lilith,” he said. “We’re looking for someone called Lilith.”

  At that, the door creaked ajar, and an opening appeared in the rock. Connor ducked down and stepped inside, pulling Jez along with him.

  The milky eyes of the doorkeeper seemed to hover in the darkness. He was dressed in dark robes. Saying nothing, he lifted a hand and pointed along a curving corridor. Connor could see a glow of light and hear voices up ahead.

  “Blood?” Jez said, questioningly.

  “Yes,” Connor reassured him. “Blood. Very soon now.”

  He pushed on through the dimly lit corridor until they came to a small square vestibule. There was a glass booth at its center — rather like the one at the Crescent Moon Bay Picture House — and Connor could see a woman inside it. Her hair was arranged in an unruly black beehive. Her eyelids were thickly caked with emerald green glitter. It seemed somewhat incongruous to her surroundings and to her face, which was not in the first flush of youth.

  There was someone ahead of them in line. He turned and Connor saw, to his horror, the same fire burning in this man’s eyes. Another vampire. If it had felt dangerous out on the boat when he and Bart had outnumbered Jez, it felt a lot worse here. In this strange place deep inside the rock, doubtless vampires outnumbered mortals. He watched as the vampire reached into his pocket and produced a stash of coins. Then Connor felt his own blood run cold. They were going to have to pay for the blood. Of course they were! Why hadn’t he anticipated this?

  “Room three,” the woman in the booth announced, dropping the vampire’s money into her till and pointing to a doorway covered in red velvet. The vampire nodded and pushed through the doorway into the darkness beyond.

  “Next!” called the woman from inside her gilded glass cage.

  Connor stepped forward in trepidation.

  “We need some blood,” he said.

  “You’ve come to the right place,” the woman said. “A pint, a half-pint, or a special measure?”

  Connor looked at Jez, then turned back to the woman. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s for him, not me.”

  The woman looked Jez up and down and turned to Connor. “I’d say a pint.”

  “Okay,” Connor said, then asked the question he’d been dreading. “How much is that?”

  It wasn’t really a large amount. But it was more than Connor had on him.

  “Do you have any money, Jez?” he asked.

  Jez shook his head and then moaned, “Blooooood.”

  “No money, no blood,” the woman said. “Sorry, dearie, but we’re not running a charity here. Now step aside, there’s others behind you in the queue.”

  Connor couldn’t believe they’d come this far, only to be defeated. Sadly, he turned away. As he did so, the woman spoke.

  “Wait! That locket you’re wearing. I’d say that’s worth something.”

  Connor turned back. “My locket?” His fingers fell on it. It was the locket he’d given Grace and that she’d left for him when she went away. It was a talisman for him, a way of keeping her close. “I can’t give you this,” he said. “I can’t.”

  “Oh well,” the woman said. “It was just a thought. Next!”

  23

  AN ALTERNATIVE TO BLOOD

  Olivier had a suite of rooms, though from what Grace could see, each was as simple and monastic as the other chambers within Sanctuary. The door to his bedroom was ajar and looked as sparse as Lorcan’s or her own, suggesting that the “staff” at Sanctuary enjoyed no more privileges than visitors or those undergoing treatment. Another door opened into a small office. This, she was not surprised to see, was fastidiously tidy. There was a chair and small desk, currently clean of any papers. Behind it was a shelf bearing a neatly ordered row of files and ledgers. On the wall was some kind of wooden unit with cards inserted into it. It looked like something you might find in a hospital or library. Grace wished she could get closer to see exactly what it was.

  “Having a good nose around, eh?” Olivier said, fastening a simple apron over his robes and tying it at the waist.

  “Sorry!” Grace said, blushing. “I can never resist exploring new places.”

  “No sweat,” he said. “Mi casa su casa and all that.”

  Grace looked puzzled. “It means ‘my home is your home,’” Olivier explained.

  “Ah,” said Grace, stepping away from the office doorway and toward the wooden counter where Olivier was now setting down a large iron pestle and mortar.

  This was the largest room within his suite, and it seemed like a cross between a kitchen and a pharmacy. It was dominated by the large counter. The wall behind it was lined from left to right and floor to ceiling with shelves. They groaned with a cornucopia of glass jars containing spices, bottles of oils, baskets of fresh herbs, fruits and vegetables, barks, nuts, and other items which, for the moment, eluded Grace’s powers of categorization. A wooden ladder was connected to the highest shelf, enabling Olivier to climb up and fetch what he needed from the uppermost reaches. Each of the glass containers was labeled, but he seemed to know instinctively where everything he needed was located. It was like watching a pianist, Grace thought, as Olivier’s hands ranged across the shelves, swiftly selecting the various items he required, and placing them down on the counter, alongside the pestle and mortar.

  “Pull up a stool, Grace,” he encouraged, as he lined up the jars and bottles and prepared to set to work.

  “Thanks,” she said, doing so. “So, what’s in this salve?”

  “Ground ivy . . . wormwood . . . beeswax, from our own hives . . . sunflower oil . . . green elder . . . ribwort . . . plantain leaves . . .”

  As he named the ingredients, Olivier opened each container in turn and measured an amount into the iron bowl. He continued itemizing further substances but Grace lost track, fascinated at how he seemed to know just what quantity of each ingredient to add, without the use of scales, measuring spoons, or any other equipment.

  Suddenly he looked up. “What’s the matter?”

  “Do you always make up your potions without measuring them?”

  “I am measuring them,” he said. “Just not with equipment. I’ve made this salve many times before.”

  “Very impressive,” Grace said.

  He shrugged. “Not really. It’s a common enough remedy. Elder is the most important ingredient. Do you know about the magic powers of elder, Grace?”

  She shook her head.


  “Well, allow me to bring you up to speed,” he said, crushing the various leaves and twigs. “In Russia, they believed that elder trees drove away evil spirits. And in Sicily, they used it to repel serpents and robbers! Serbs used elder at wedding ceremonies to bring the happy couple good fortune. And in England, people gathered elder leaves on the last day of April and hung them on their doors and windows to prevent witches from entering their homes. And here at Sanctuary, we use it to heal external wounds and bruises, like those around your friend’s eyes.”

  He began pounding the mixture with the pestle. Grace watched as the disparate substances gradually coalesced into a creamy paste. She wasn’t sure she believed in the folklore he’d just spoken of. Nevertheless, there was a certain alchemy in the way he had made the salve from its many constituents.

  “It looks good enough to eat,” she said, as Olivier set down the pestle.

  “Best not to,” he said with a smile. He reached for a small, empty glass pot and spooned the salve into it. Then he passed it to Grace. “Here, take care of this. We’ll deliver it to your friend later. I’ll apply the first dressing but then it will be your responsibility to do so, twice a day — when he wakes and before he goes to sleep. More often if he requires it.”

  Grace held the pot of salve in her palm, pleased at the thought she could do something practical to help reduce Lorcan’s pain.

  Olivier took the pestle and mortar over to a deep sink and filled it with hot water to soak. Grace watched as he vigorously scrubbed his own hands. Then he moved over to a vast copper pan, which stood on an unlit stove.

  “What’s in there?” Grace asked.

  “Come and see for yourself,” he said.

  She slipped down from the stool and walked around the edge of the table. The pan was still warm, though there was no heat under it. Inside it was a dense purple red liquid, on which a thin skin had formed. Olivier reached for a ladle, broke up the skin, then gave the liquid a stir. As he did so, a rather distinctive and none-too-pleasant smell snaked its way into Grace’s nostrils.