by Lee Carroll
Dr. Tolbert came back with the journal and a thick, clothbound book.
“This was one of the books your mother used in her research on watchtower imagery. I’m afraid I can’t let it out of the library, but you’re welcome to browse through it here.”
“I don’t want to keep you, though,” I told him, taking the heavy book from him.
“Oh, you’re not keeping me. I was going to do a little writing down in the Cuxa Cloister.”
“You write in the cloisters?”
“Yes. I find it peaceful after the visitors have gone. The guards are tolerant of my little eccentricities. When you’re done, just leave the books here and come down and find me. If you like, we could go for a drink. There’s a delightful new place in Inwood called the Indian Road Café.
“I’d love to. I’ll be down within the hour.”
“No hurry, no hurry,” he sang as he left the library.
His voice faded as he went down the steps and I turned to the materials he’d brought me. The journal article flagged with a Post-it note was on the role of the watchman in Provençal poetry. It included a twelfth-century alba—a traditional form of troubadour poetry in which a lover expresses regret at the coming of dawn.
While the nightingale sings
I am with my beloved
through the perfumed night,
until our sentry from the tower
cries: “Lovers, get up!
The nightingale sings no more;
it is the lark
greeting the break of day.”
The poem was illustrated by a woodcut of a watchtower under which two lovers clung to one another while a sentry leaned out a window and shouted at them. The article itself was interesting, and I could see why it had reminded Dr. Tolbert of my mother, who had spent her summers in a village in southern France, but it didn’t tell me a thing about ancestral orders of guardians.
I put the journal aside and turned to the book . . . and turned cold when I read the title: John Dee and the Four Watchtowers. I had to remind myself that it only felt like a strange coincidence to find that the Elizabethan alchemist was connected to the symbol that Hughes claimed was part of my mother’s history. After all, Hughes was the one who had linked the two together in the first place.
Before turning to the page that Dr. Tolbert had bookmarked, I skimmed through the first few chapters to find out a little more about John Dee. The Wikipedia entry I’d read about him had told me little more than that he had been the official astronomer to Queen Elizabeth I. Now I discovered that he had amassed the largest library in Europe in his age, lectured on algebra at the University of Paris, and coined the term British Empire. Late in his life he had turned to the supernatural, attempting to contact angels with the help of a medium named Edward Kelley. Dee later fell out favor under King James I and reputedly died in poverty at his home in Mortlake (although there was no record of his death and no gravestone bearing his name in Mortlake’s cemetery).
I turned to the bookmarked page and found an illustration of the four watchtowers, which Dee had learned about through the teachings of the “angels” contacted by Edward Kelley. Each one corresponded to one of the elements: earth, water, air, and fire. I read through the whole chapter, growing impatient with the flowery language and elaborate constructions invented by Edward Kelley, but could find nothing about a line of woman guardians. I was about to put the book aside when a yellowed index card slipped loose from one of the pages and fluttered to the floor. I leaned down to pick it up . . . and heard a faint sound coming from downstairs. I paused to listen, wondering if it could be Dr. Tolbert calling for me, but it wasn’t a voice, it was music. A flute playing a haunting melody. Perhaps there was a concert planned for tonight.
I picked up the file card. It contained a drawing of a watchtower surmounted by an eye and, underneath, the words Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Exactly the same image as the one on Will Hughes’s ring—the ring he claimed had once belonged to my ancestor. What startled me even more, though, was the handwriting. It looked like my mother’s.
I turned the card over. In the top right-hand corner was a number, 303, which I guessed corresponded to a page in the book I was holding. I turned to page 303 and saw a ghostly white square on the yellowed page—a square the same size as the card I was holding. Knowing my mother’s research habits, she would have placed the card under the lines she was interested in, so I read the passage directly above the white square.
The watchers watched over humanity from the four watchtowers at the corners of creation, but they were beguiled by the beauty of human women and descended to earth to consort with them. In exchange for their company the watchers taught their consorts enchantments and spells and all manner of esoteric arts.
I looked back at the index card. Under the page number my mother had written, Despite the erroneous identification as consort, perhaps an echo of our people’s tradition of the watchtower. The word that stunned me was our. My mother had been aware of some tradition associated with a watchtower—and not just in a scholarly way (and she would have hated any ancestor of hers being called a consort!). It was part of her family (I assumed that’s what she meant by our people) tradition, but she had never told me about it. I recalled all the nights she had read me bedtime stories—the old classic French fairy tales, like “Beauty and the Beast” and “Cinderella,” but also strange Celtic tales about seals who turned into maidens and maidens who turned into swans who lived in a magical land that she called the Summer Country or the Fair Land, where it was always summer and no one who dwelled there ever aged. Why had she never told me this story? I couldn’t help but feel betrayed by the omission.
I looked through the rest of the book for any other file cards, but found nothing. I took out my notebook and copied the passage on page 303. Then I stuck my mother’s index card in my notebook. I didn’t think Dr. Tolbert would mind me taking it. After all, it had belonged to my mother. I would show it to him and ask if he knew anything else about the watchtower story and if he knew anything else about my mother. Maybe my mother had never told me the story for a reason—some shameful secret about her family that she had felt she had to keep from me.
I shouldn’t keep Dr. Tolbert waiting any longer, though. Even if he had work to do, I didn’t imagine that it was good for a man his age to sit on a cold stone wall in a drafty cloister for too long. And it was cold. They must turn off the central heating after the museum closes, I thought, putting on my jacket, slipping the strap of my bag over my head, and adjusting it across my chest. Then I neatly aligned the book and journal with a ray of red light that lay upon the table. I looked up and saw that the light came from the angel’s halo in the stained-glass window . . . but how? I checked my watch. It was five thirty, a good hour after sunset. What light was shining through the window?
It must be an outside security light, I told myself, turning away from the room. In the hall I looked out a window to see if I could see any outside lights, but I couldn’t see anything at all; the building was surrounded by fog. More freakish weather? I started down the stairs, reminding myself that I wasn’t alone. There were guards and Dr. Tolbert . . . and musicians, I recalled as the flute music resumed. In the Entrance Hall I looked for the guard who’d been there earlier, but the desk was empty. I turned and went toward the Cuxa Cloister, where the music was coming from.
As I stepped under the Narbonne arch, I could see that the walkway around the cloister was dark, but behind the glass—now opaque with condensed moisture—the enclosed garden was lit by a strange yellow glow. Silhouetted against the glass sat Dr. Tolbert. I couldn’t see his face, but I could see that his head was tilted up toward the arch above my head.
“Still studying your mythological beasts, Dr. Tolbert?” I asked, stepping through the arch.
He neither answered nor moved his head in my direction.
I took another step forward and saw the expression of horror frozen on his face.
“Dr. Tolbert!” I
cried as I crossed to him quickly and put my hand to his neck. There was no pulse . . . and his skin was already cool. I touched his hand, which still gripped his cane. His fingers were supple yet and loosened their grip at my touch. The cane would have fallen if I hadn’t caught it.
He’s evidently had a heart attack or a stroke, but why? He’d been perfectly fine an hour ago. He looked as if something had shocked him, but what could have frightened him in this peaceful place? It looked as if he had positioned himself to contemplate his favorite sculptures . . . I turned around and followed his gaze to the Narbonne arch.
On the left side, where the manticore had been, was a blank spot, as if the figure had been chiseled loose or . . .
From behind me I heard the trilling of a flute.
As I turned around, I recalled Dr. Tolbert’s words from his lecture. And here is a monster out of your worst nightmares! I must have entered the world of nightmare. A small winged creature—about the size of a well-fed rat—hurtled toward me through the air, three sets of teeth bared. I brought the cane up just in time to strike it. It hit the glass wall so hard that the glass shattered, letting a wave of fog roll in. I heard the creature’s horrible high-pitched squeal as I turned and ran into the Romanesque Hall, through the Entrance Hall, and down the long vaulted passage. Halfway down I tripped over the body of the guard who had let me in earlier. As I landed on my knees, I felt the manticore’s claws graze the top of my head. If I hadn’t fallen, it would have been on me already. It spun around at the bottom of the stairs, hissing and lashing its scorpion-tipped tail like an angry house cat. But this was no house cat. I could see the sinewy muscles of its hind legs preparing to bound. I gripped the cane in both hands and swung when it leapt, catching it in its mouth. Needle-sharp teeth rained into my hair. I took the last stairs in one bound and hit the door at the bottom with my shoulder. I fell out into the fog, stumbled, and scrambled to my feet just as the manticore slammed into my back, tackling me onto the ground. I heard one impossibly sweet note trill in my ear as its teeth sunk into my neck.
It Is the Lark
My hands flailed at the creature to pull it off and fastened around the tip of one scaly wing, but then something yanked it out of my grasp. I rolled over, raising my arms against another attack, but none came. A tall man in dark clothes held the manticore by its neck. I couldn’t see the man’s face because the manticore’s wings were beating the air in front of him. The scorpion tail lashed toward the man’s hand trying to sting him, but the man wore gauntleted leather gloves. He brought his other hand up and with a quick wringing motion snapped the manticore’s neck. Its wings beat twice more and went limp, but the scorpion tail still writhed. He dropped the creature to the ground and smashed the scorpion beneath his bootheel.
When he looked up, I saw that it was Will Hughes. His face was splattered with so much blood that even his eyes appeared to be red. His whole face was contorted, his lips pulled back in a grimace that bared his teeth . . . I stared at his teeth, hardly believing what I saw. Where his canines should have been were two sharp fangs. I recoiled in horror even as a voice inside my head said, Of course, it would take a monster to destroy a monster.
Frantic, I tried to get to my feet but my legs had gone numb. Hughes raised his eyes from the body of the manticore and looked at me, but I wasn’t sure he really saw me. His eyes were flooded with blood. I somehow knew that all he would see through those eyes was blood: the blood pulsing through my veins. His eyes were fastened on my neck where I could feel blood trickling from the manticore’s bite down onto my collarbone.
I tried to scramble backward but now my arms were numb. Will Hughes blinked and a single tear of blood spilled from his eye and ran down his cheek. The red haze began to clear, replaced by a silver gleam. I tried to scream but it came out as a hoarse choking sound. The numbness had spread to my throat.
“The manticore’s bite is poison,” he said. “You’ll die unless I get it out.” He knelt down by my side, keeping his eyes on me. “But I need your permission.”
I tried to scream again but this time no sound came out at all.
“Nod your head if you give me your permission, but quickly. Once the poison travels to your brain—”
I didn’t need him to finish his sentence. With a great effort of will I jerked my chin up and down. It must have been enough because he was on me immediately, his chest leaning against mine, his mouth at my throat. I couldn’t feel the pressure of his body against mine, but I could feel his teeth sinking into my flesh. After one sharp painful sting, the pain turned into something else—a warmth that spread outward, down through my chest and into my belly, out into my arms and legs, like a hot liquid moving through my veins. It burned away the numbness. Slowly I became aware of his body pressing against mine, the tug of his lips and tongue on my neck pulling a silver thread that ran into the very core of my being.
I moaned as my throat muscles loosened. His mouth left my skin and he exhaled softly over the wound, sending a ripple of shivers through my whole body. When he moved away, I could see a shimmer of silver light filling the space between us. It lit up his eyes and made his skin glow.
Then he knelt back on his heels and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ll be all right now. I think I’ve gotten all the poison—”
Before he could finish his sentence, he began to shake. He fell back and I reached for him, but he held up a hand to keep me away.
His skin, already pale, turned a shade of milky blue, against which his veins stood out a darker blue. I could have left while Will Hughes writhed on the ground. I should have left. I was terrified. Although he was helpless now, I’d seen what strength he had when he broke the manticore’s neck. I’d seen his lust for blood. I let myself say the name to myself. Vampire. Just thinking the name made me want to run away and pretend that none of this had ever happened. But I didn’t. No matter what kind of monster he was (vampire, the voice inside my head said again, he’s a vampire) he had saved my life by sucking the manticore’s poison out of my veins, and now that poison was inside him. I wouldn’t just leave him while he suffered because of me. Nor would I tell myself that I had imagined that statue coming to life. The manticore had come to life and it had killed poor, innocent Dr. Tolbert. Will Hughes was a vampire and he had saved my life. Everything that had happened to me over the last two days since I’d walked into that shop on Cordelia Street was real. The silver box had flown open in a flash of otherworldly white light, blue alchemical symbols had moved across its lid, possessed shadowmen had broken into my house to steal the box, my metal sculpture had come to life and attacked me, and my father had talked to a dead man who had spilled paint on his bedsheets. It had all happened. I wasn’t crazy. I hadn’t gone over the edge—the world had. I may not have understood it and I might have been terrified, but I would wait beside the vampire who had saved my life until he was well enough to explain it all to me.
When the shaking had stopped, he sat up and wrapped his arms around his knees. He drew in a long breath. “Thank you for staying,” he said.
“Thank you for saving my life,” I countered, “from that . . . thing.” I looked over to where the manticore’s body had lain, but all that was there was a heap of marble debris.
“Air and mist,” Hughes said, lifting a handful of stones and letting them sift through his fingers. “Dee sent the fog to animate this thing. I saw the fog come up as you left, but I had to wait for nightfall to leave my apartment.” He grimaced. “I would have been here sooner but Dee had sent an emissary I had to deal with first.”
“A man in a red sweatshirt?”
Hughes nodded. “You saw him?”
“He followed me from the other side of the park. Is he . . . ? Did you . . . ?”
“He’s alive. When he wakes, he won’t even remember what happened. He was only half-enspelled; Dee must have been in a hurry. He’d been implanted with the notion that he had to follow you and little else.”
“You can read min
ds?” I asked, wondering if anything should surprise me anymore.
“Only when I drink someone’s blood.” I lifted my hand to the wound at my neck and he smiled. “Don’t worry. All I got from you was your fear of the manticore . . . and sadness at your friend’s death. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to save him.”
“Dr. Tolbert. Edgar Tolbert. He was a friend of my mother’s.” An image of the librarian’s face—his expression of horror—passed painfully before my eyes and I looked up at the looming bulk of the Cloisters. “We have to tell the police what’s happened . . . so they can remove his body.” I started to get to my feet, but even though I could feel my arms and legs now, they were weak and my head swam when I tried to stand upright. I started to sway and Hughes, who had been a good six feet away, was at my side in a heartbeat to hold me up.
“We can’t do that,” he said. His voice seemed to echo in my head, filling me up, driving out every other thought. “There’s nothing more that you can do for him. Involving yourself with the police will only place more obstacles in your way in the days to come and believe me, you have your hands full already.”
He started leading me away from the Cloisters and across the lawn, his arm clamped tight around my shoulders, his voice silky and insistent in my ear. I felt that pull again, just as when his mouth was at my throat. . . . We had already crossed the lawn that separated the Cloisters from the woods. We were on the edge of the lawn beside a wooded path. How had we gotten so far away from the building so quickly? He was doing something to make me do what he told me to do, exerting some kind of power.
“Stop!” I cried, planting my feet firmly on the ground. “Stop whatever it is you’re doing . . . forcing me . . .”
Will Hughes turned around to face me. He was so close that I could see a blue vein at his temple pulse . . . but how? Wasn’t a vampire supposed to be dead? Then I understood. It was my blood moving through his veins. I started to feel faint again, but his arm held me up.