- Prologue

by Quincy Morris, Vampire (BAEN) (v5. 0)

  Jack Seward—also rejected—and I had drowned our sorrows somewhat and played the good sports in congratulating Art on his luck, but there was a sad sting to it. Art barely noticed, being too stunned with his own happiness. We made a good party of it, though, the last we had together before she took sick. The last we would ever have, apparently.

  Arriving at the hotel in a dour mood, I paid my driver, and went in to confirm the reservation I'd made by cable. They'd received it in good time so all was well. I went straight up, literally, by means of a new elevator, to the fourth floor. These digs were on the fancy side, but I could indulge myself. Later, after I figured out a few things, I might find a flat or a house to rent. Until then, I wanted the sort of privacy one achieves by being lost in a great crowd.

  Once my baggage arrived and one of the hotel men had unpacked the trunk and put everything away, I found myself at a loose end. I'd been pretty engrossed in the getting here, and had only a vague idea of what to do next. At some point I would seek out my friends and see how they fared, but tonight seemed too soon to begin such business, yet sitting in my room held no appeal.

  I changed into one of my evening suits, determined to track down some entertainment. Perhaps London was not as lively a town as Paris, but was still full of distraction, even on so cold a night.

  Top hat in place, stick in hand, I ventured forth into the turmoil.

  I'd hardly gone fifty steps before a youngish woman caught my eye and gave me a regal little nod and wink. For an instant I thought I might know her, then realized she was merely looking for custom. Some of her Parisian sisters were more obvious in their approach; I'd have to adjust myself to the change.

  As it seemed only polite to return her greeting, I did so. From there, things proceeded as one might expect, but more slowly than on the Continent. The English can be mighty roundabout in their ways, so it took a while before we determined what sort of arrangement to agree upon. She dressed up what should have been a fairly simple business into something fancier with all her pretty flirting, but I wasn't so impatient as to not enjoy playing along. Keep the lady happy, and the gent always benefits a thousand-fold.

  She said she had a room just around the corner, which struck me as odd. This was not the East End, after all, with bedroom doors opening right onto the street. Curious but eager, I escorted her as she directed, finding myself in a narrow byway off the main thoroughfare.

  Now I may yet be young, but in these matters I'm no greenhorn. The instant I left the gaslit walk I suspected I might be in for something disagreeable.

  The lady did not disappoint. Had my eyes not been so well suited to the dark, I might have taken a bad turn then and there when her partner darted out of the shadows, club in hand.

  A few months back and I'd have given him a first-hand show of my boxing skills. You don't grow up where I did and not learn how to account well for yourself. But that was changed. With hardly any thought behind it, I vanished quick as a music hall magician. And just in the nick. I felt the rushing intrusion as his club came down, whistling harmlessly through what had once been my solid body. To him it was empty air, and the force he'd put behind the blow must have overbalanced him; from the sound of it, he stumbled.

  The woman let loose with a good hollering screech. Up to a second ago I had firm hold of her arm, so I couldn't blame her for getting spooked. I was none too happy with either of them, but the fear-filled questions they shot at each other over what had just happened had me laughing, or close to it. In this form, without breath to draw or lungs to put it in, it's a little difficult to express oneself, but the feeling was strong.

  Funny as they were I didn't feel right in just letting them go. There would likely soon be another gent come into their clutches, and he'd not do so well by himself as I.

  While I thought things over, they searched the area, arguing the whole time over the impossibility of my strange escape. When the woman suggested ghosts I got my idea.

  Floating some three feet off the ground, I began to cautiously resume form. It was by no means easy to keep myself light enough to float, yet dense enough to speak. I wavered, like a tightrope walker having difficulty with his balance, slowly rising and falling as I swam in the air.

  "Gor, Prudy, lookit that," said the man, staring at me.

  She blurted another shriek, clutching him.

  I pointed at them both in a grand way, summoning up my memories of a fire and brimstone preacher who had been a great favorite of my mother's.

  Prudy shrieked again, but was too rooted in place to think of running.

  "I serve the Angel of Death!" I boomed, loud as I could manage. My voice came out all hollow, though in this case it seemed to be an advantage. "Change your ways or suffer the Wrath of Hell for Eternity!" How that preacher man had scared me as a boy.

  "Bosh," said the man, nonplused. "Yer jus' one o' them stage fellers swingin' on a wire."

  He must have been drunk, making such a sight as myself normal. Though his reaction was disappointing, I had a ready answer and swooped right at him, arms spread wide. I passed through them both, with Prudy screaming her head off. She was now of a mind to escape, but her man had a good grip on her.

  "Never you mind 'im, old girl. If 'e's nowt but a ghost, 'e can't 'arm us."

  I had an answer for that as well and went fully solid, landing light on my feet. The man turned around to face me, but not as fast as he should. I dropped my cane hard on his lower arm. He released his club with a howl. Next I put a fist into his belly. He doubled over, staggered back, and fell on his seat. So much for my being a ghost.

  Rounding on the woman, I let myself shoot up in the air again to tower above her. She fair cowered, her eyes fit to pop. I pointed right at her face. "Repent, sinner! Repent or be damned to the Lake of Fire forever!"

  "Eeeee!" she cried.

  "Repent or be doomed! Go thy way as an honest whore and never thieve again so help you God!"

  "Aaaaaah!" she screamed, covering her face as I dove upon her, vanishing at the last instant. I wrapped about her like a blanket, knowing she could feel my cold touch. Dracula had once said the effect for them was like being in an ice bath. She lurched up and stampeded toward the main street, still making a fine hysterical racket. I let her go, having made my point.

  "Repent!" I bellowed.

  Her partner gave one hell of a jump, for I'd materialized right behind him to deliver this order. He now looked ready to abandon his theories about magicians and ghosts.

  "Repent or be damned!"

  Whether he'd come around to my way of thinking I could not tell. What he did show was a remarkable fleetness of foot in his own howling retreat.

  I laughed myself into a coughing fit after that. Once I'd settled down my chief regret was not having Art or Jack around to have seen the show. How they would have loved it.

  Perhaps in time, I thought, as I followed the path my would-be attackers took and resumed my explorations. Henceforth, I promised myself to seek fleshly entertainment only at whorehouses and ignore the temptations of the street. I might not be so lucky again. I was no coward, but I'd turned into enough of a dandy to not want my fine new suit ruined by common roughhouse on its first wearing.

  The rest of the evening I wiled away at one of the city's many musical theaters. Art had first introduced me to them years ago, and a rare treat they were and remained. Back in Texas we had nothing to compare with them, and rarely had enough acts to properly fill up the whole evening. Here they had dozens of performers doing all manner of highjinks, from little songbird gals in pink tights to jugglers to dancing dogs that could count out your age by barking. Paris had similar halls, but naturally I enjoyed myself more hearing the jokes in English.

  I sat in one of the upper boxes and roared laughter, applauded, or sang along with the rest of the audience until the last curtain, then purchased a new ticket to see the second show. In the interval I studied the program, picking out familiar names of favorites I'd not seen since last summer.r />
  What a long while since then. Lifetimes. I'd lost a good-sized parcel of living for my sojourns in Transylvania and France, and I felt vaguely cheated for the gap. I wanted the time back to do things over, to change things for the better.

  That put me in another slump. Lucy had been alive then, engaged to my best friend, but still smiling and happy despite her mysterious "illness." Throughout all those weeks she'd shown a loving face to him… and yet at night she allowed Dracula to pay his special kind of court to her. I couldn't see it. It was almighty indecent. How could she have done that and been the same sweet, innocent girl?

  Dracula's words about none of us knowing her true heart came back to me yet again, and I wondered at the truth of them. He'd had no reason to lie. From the first he'd been in charge and could have killed me whenever he wished for he had no need to curry my favor. He was a man—and I could just about call him that now—who absolutely did not give a tinker's damn what anyone thought of him. I'd met that kind many times, and had ever found them to be truthful, often brutally so.

  The orchestra began its overture, then the curtain came up again. I was able to lose myself in the show and was thankful for it. I had troubling questions for which there were no satisfying answers this side of the grave. Best to leave them alone.

  One of the presentations was a bit of what I would call serious acting, being the dueling scene from Hamlet. The otherwise rowdy audience in the stalls held still for it, too, which astonished me. I thought it a wonderful thing how Shakespeare could reach just about anybody, until I took a closer look at the actors. They were all women.

  Well, that sat me back in the box, and got me to paying attention. What a remarkable performance it was, and once I got over the shock, I came to see that they were doing a rare good job of acting, female or not. The girl playing Hamlet was more full of fire than even the great Henry Irving, or so I imagined. I could judge that this lady looked better in leg tights than he ever would. She sure knew how to dance around on stage with that sword, as though she'd been born a duelist.

  The program book listed them as the Ring Players. It sounded vaguely familiar, but only because Ring was the name of Art's family estate.

  I looked more closely at the woman playing Hamlet. Her voice and form struck me anew, but I still couldn't place her. The program did not list the names of the actors, only their company.

  At the end of the scene, after they bore Prince Hamlet away, the curtains drew shut to great applause and a certain amount of hooting. It seemed half approved of the novelty of an all-female company and half did not. I was for it, so I cheered.

  The curtain rippled as someone behind it tried to find the middle opening, then Hamlet stepped out and bowed—not curtsied—to more mixed reaction. She held her hand up for silence, and by God she got it. The lady was small but had a tremendous commanding presence. She loudly thanked them for their kind reception (hoots and cheers), then announced that a performance of the entire play would take place as a matinee next Saturday. I resolved to attend, then grimaced as I remembered the impossibility. This was the first time I had reason to regret the limits of my condition. Determined to find out more about the Ring players, hoping there might possibly be an evening show sometime, I quit my box.

  Outside by the stage door I found I wasn't the only one wanting to pay my respects to the ladies of the theater. The narrow alley was crowded with other men like myself in evening dress along with more ordinary johnnies in less formal attire. Some hopefuls carried flowers and boxes of chocolates. I pushed my way past them to present my card to a weary doorman.

  "I hain't 'ere to run no herrands," he said, by way of a rebuff.

  "Nonetheless, sir, I'd be much obliged if you would take this to whoever is in charge of the Ring Company." Along with the calling card, I put a shilling in his hand, and fixed him with a look. It was enough. To the astonishment of those next to me the man went inside.

  "Bloody Americans," someone muttered. I shouldn't have been able to hear but for my changed condition. I pretended to be ignorant of his feelings, and waited.

  More astonishment when the doorman returned and told me I alone was welcome to enter. Amid additional jealous mutterings, I pushed my way up the steps into the cavernous dark of the backstage area.

  We were separated from the stage by at least one wall, but I could clearly hear the orchestra merrily booming away. The doorman signed for quiet and led me along a dim passage to the dressing rooms. Here things were still somewhat hushed, but there was a great deal of activity as people bustled to and fro, fanatically urgent to make their cues. The brightly costumed players were a strange contrast to the chilly, drab surroundings.

  Our trek ended at an open door where women in various stages, types, and eras of fantastical dress were gathered. Some were changing clothes right in the hall, despite the presence of a number of stage hands walking about. From the sound of things, the room itself was too crowded. I tried not to stare, but none of them seemed to mind and a few called greetings and endearments to me as though we were old friends. When gathered together in such a pack women can get downright bold.

  The doorman was apparently well used to the sight of half-naked females and went inside, calling for "Miss Bertie." I wondered if that was the name of the lady I sought. Moments later he emerged.

  "She's on 'er way," he said, then left.

  I thanked his back, thinking it was the best shilling I'd ever spent. Of course it helped to be able to get my suggestions across so well. What a wonderful thing is was to have people truly listen and do as they're asked.

  "Mr. Morris?"

  I recognized the voice of Hamlet and turned, hat in hand. A pretty lady she was indeed, of an age with me. She'd worn a short blond wig on stage, but had removed it, revealing a heavy knot of dark hair.

  "Mr. Quincey P. Morris?" she said, holding my card. She fair gaped at me for some reason. "You've a beard now, but how the devil… ?"

  I was all set to bow a greeting, then got a good close look at her and froze awkwardly in mid-motion. "Oh, my God. Lady B—"

  Her eyes—and they were remarkable orbs, all green fire—flared hot. "Not here, you muggins! Not one more word or I'll murder you."

  "Uh… but L—"

  She clapped a hand over my mouth. It smelled of greasepaint and some sort of rare spice. "I said not one word!"

  She grabbed my arm and dragged me away. I was yet too startled to think to resist.

  Thus did I unexpectedly renew my acquaintance with Lady Bertrice, Art Holmwood's black sheep sister.

  Chapter Eight

  She was the elder child by exactly one year to the day. Until Art was sent off to public school they'd been raised close as twins, and he told me that therein lay the beginnings of her defiance to the Holmwood family and the rest of the world.

  Upon learning that her brother would go off to school but she was not allowed to go as well, Bertrice had pitched a conniption fit that nearly brought the house down. No amount of orders, argument, scolding, cajoling, or spanking could persuade her from her rage. She bitterly railed against the unfairness of being separated from her beloved brother and playmate by the mere fact that she was not a boy. Art said she'd rushed up to his room, donned some of his clothes, and brutally attacked her hair with dressmaking shears, then presented herself, small traveling case in hand, ready to go to the train station with him. He'd been all for it, but their outraged parents had other ideas. She was locked in her room, and he was packed off to Eton, both children in tears.

  From that point on it was Bertrice against all of society. She'd have done well in Texas, where women with high spirits and gumption were welcome. In England, and especially in the class to which she'd been born, those qualities were considered Deadly Sins number Eight and Nine.

  I'd met her at Lord Godalming's funeral. They were his only surviving children and rode in the carriage behind the coffin. Jack and I had been there, too, at Art's request. Bertrice had been alone, with no friend for
support. He'd quietly introduced us, and I'd bowed over the hand of a veiled lady in a dress somber enough to please even the still-mourning Queen, but apparently not the rest of the Holmwood kinfolk. As we stood around the grave I noticed the whole pack—especially the women—staring at Bertrice as though she carried the typhoid. Some of the men either looked poker-faced blank or nudged each other with sly smiles that I didn't like.

  This sort of manner was long familiar to me, having experienced a certain amount of disparaging patronization from the English. It started the moment they found out I was American. Some of them liked me for it, the rest would have drowned in a rain storm from holding their noses so high. I was raised in a place where if you looked wrongwise at a fellow you could get that nose blown right off. None of these fancy britches would have lasted two minutes with my hired hands back home, so I always smiled and let it slide.

  The exceptions to this snobbery were Art and his father, who were true gentlemen when it came to respecting a man for who he was, not who society thought he should be. It was too bad there weren't more like them in the world.

  After the service, the crowd lined up to give words of condolence to Arthur, but said nothing to Bertrice, who stood right next to him. Though she was suffering just as much in her grief they simply moved on like she wasn't there, which I thought damned bad manners. It made no mind to me that this was the cream of British aristocracy, I was ready to dust my knuckles on the next one to cut her short, male or female.

  To my surprise, Bertrice touched my arm and gave it a squeeze.

  "Miss?" I said in response.

  "Never mind them, Mr. Morris," she whispered through the folds of her thick veil. "They're not worth the trouble."

  How she knew what I was winding myself up for still mystified, but it was just as well she'd headed me off. Fist fights at funerals aren't unheard of, but best that everyone be in agreement for their necessity or it can get almighty embarrassing.