Blood Rhapsody

by Nancy Morse

  The candle on the bedside table flickered from the exasperated breath she expelled. She would attend the concert, but only for Papa’s sake, certainly not for that scoundrel’s.

  Who did he think he was, treating her like a common trollop, then pretending to care what she thought of him? He was a scoundrel for the callous way he had used her. Wasn’t he afraid that she would reveal his secret to the world? Or was he so arrogantly confident that no one would believe her? Simon Cavendish would believe her. She was of a mind to march over to Clapham in the morning and tell him where he could find his vampire.

  Pru’s whole body shook with humiliation. He must have thought her an easy mark for the way she succumbed so shamelessly to his prurient pursuit. Had she been nothing more than a gullible virgin to him? Never in her life had she felt so completely stupid. Not even Edmund’s uncharitable assessment had affected her like this. Edmund. Her mood soured even further when she thought of him. What would Edmund think if he knew how she had debased herself for the sake of passion? No doubt, he would laugh in her face.

  ***

  Edmund de Vere was not laughing. In the pale moonlight bathing the wharf he stared at the corpse that lay crumbled on the muddy ground. He knelt on one knee and touched the pale, dead flesh. It retained a glimmer of warmth. This was a fresh kill, no more than an hour old. Turning the head to one side, he noticed a streak of red on the neck, and smudging it away with his thumb, saw two deep puncture wounds, like two hideously gaping little mouths, the calling card of the living dead. The creature that loved the darkness was once again only steps ahead of him. He’d been too late to prevent this killing. Too late to hear the dying cries of this latest victim. Too late to catch the beast gulping down his sanguinary meal.

  Edmund’s patience was wearing dangerously thin. Thoughts gathered around his head like moths. Where was the creature hiding? Was he watching from the shadows? Brooding behind his mortal-looking façade? Laughing at him? Instinctively, Edmund’s fingers touched the crucifix suspended by a leather thong about his neck and then slid to his breast pocket which held the thin wafer he had stolen from the tabernacle. With this protection he was safe from the monster, but the rest of humanity was not. Something had to be done. He had thought long and hard about this, and had come to the conclusion that there was only one person he could think of who could help him catch the fiend. His thin face was tense with purpose as he snatched the bag that held the killing tools and stalked off toward Clapham.

  ***

  Simon Cavendish studied the pewterer. The full moon that struggled to break through the fog threw a misty blue light into the room and over the tight curls of the man’s white wig that peeked from beneath the tricorn hat that sat askew on his head as though it had been slapped on in a hurry. The alchemist’s gaze moved to the black bag clutched in his hand, much like a physician’s bag, only larger and heavier, and then settled on his face that was a mass of tension, with lips stretched thin and nostrils slightly flared.

  “I must ask you to keep what I am about to tell you in the strictest confidence,” Edmund said.

  Cavendish ceased tapping his fingers on the arm of the cabriole-legged sofa upon which he sat, and replied, “You have my word that I shall not breathe a word of it to anyone.”

  Licking his lips anxiously, Edmund said, “The memory I carry has been handed down to me from my ancestors.”

  “Memories are such fragile, fleeting things,” Cavendish said, “and not altogether reliable. Yet they also possess the power to sustain us. It would appear from the look on your face that your memory has sustained you to the exclusion of everything else. Do go on. You have piqued my curiosity with this memory of yours.”

  Edmund swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Most families carry treasured memories of their ancestors’ smiling, happy faces. The images I carry are of my ancestors being burned at the stake for heresy. But there is one in particular, of Philippe de Vere, slumped over his desk in his study, eyes staring vacant, a bloodless corpse. That was two hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “Bloodless, you say?” Cavendish leaned forward urgently.

  “Puncture wounds on his neck. Here.” Edmund jabbed two fingers toward the spot on his own neck. “His body had been drained of every drop of blood.”

  There was a deep pause as Edmund turned his face to the wall, and muttered, “You may well ask what kind of creature…thing…would cause such a gruesome death.”

  Into the hushed stillness one scratchy word issued from the back of the alchemist’s throat. “Vampire.”

  Edmund whirled to face him.

  “I know all about vampires,” Cavendish said.

  A look of wild relief washed over Edmund’s features. His breath came in rapid bursts. “Then you know how dangerous they are. What they are capable of.”

  “Oh yes. It’s quite well documented. Not so much here in England, of course, but when a myth appears in virtually every culture around the world, you have to wonder if it is it really myth.”

  Edmund’s face flushed. “I am greatly relieved to know that someone other than myself here in London knows of the creatures’ existence. Will you will help me, then?”

  “To do what, my dear man?”

  “A vampire is roaming these streets.”

  “I know. I have been reading accounts of some very curious murders and had my suspicions.”

  “No one is safe from the fiend. Just tonight I discovered another of his kills, a bloodless body on the wharf. He must be destroyed.”

  “Or captured.”

  “What?”

  “Think of what we could learn from him.”

  “You cannot catch the thing,” Edmund said, aghast. “It would destroy you before you could learn a damn thing from it.”

  Cavendish raised a finger to the air. “Not necessarily. If I were to concoct a potion to render it immobile and subdue it and lock it up without any means of escape, I could perform some experiments that could very well unlock the mystery of immortality.”

  “You’re mad,” Edmund exclaimed. “There are no chains that could hold it, no bars that could imprison it. It has the strength of a hundred men and would break loose and snap your neck like a twig.”

  “But that is what you are here for, isn’t it? A potion to render it immobile so that you can slay it?”

  Edmund drew a little closer and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I have in mind a poisonous mixture to be ingested by some unfortunate derelict, and when the creature drinks the tainted blood, it will be rendered immobile long enough for me to destroy it. But it must be a potion that is undetectable to even the most acute sense of smell and one which will leave no trace in the dead body.”

  “Capital idea,” Cavendish said. “I will strike a bargain with you. First, we will capture the thing and subdue it. Yes, yes, I know how strong it is. We will figure out a way to imprison it. And when I am finished conducting my experiments and have obtained from it the secret to immortality, then you can do whatever you want with it. No doubt you carry an arsenal of methods by which to destroy the creature.” He rose from the sofa and took a step toward the black bag. “May I?”

  Edmund held back, drawing the bag closer to his body, but reluctantly relented, handing it over to Cavendish as if he were handing over his own first-born son.

  Cavendish opened the bag and squealed with delight when he saw its contents. “Hawthorn stake. Sword Mirror. All blessed, no doubt. Very well stocked, indeed. Had you given any thought as to how you would actually destroy the creature once it had ingested the tainted blood?”

  “I thought to place it in the sunlight.”

  “Sunlight will not kill it. You have been swayed by the folklore.”

  “Then I will inject it with holy water.”

  “That would require close proximity. If the thing were to regain its strength, you would not want to be near it, now would you? That would also rule out extracting the heart. Aside from the fact that it would be very messy,
you would then have to boil it in oil, or wine would do. You could behead the thing, but you would want to avoid splattering the blood. No, my suggestion would be to destroy it by fire. A very hot fire. Fire has the power to purge evil. Just as fire was used to save villages from the Black Death, it can be a most effective method of destroying the undead.”

  Edmund eyed him suspiciously. “How is it you’re so knowledgeable about these creatures?”

  “Immortality is at the root of my studies. I have made it my business to know.”

  “And you do not fear them?”

  “I assure you, I wholeheartedly fear them. But I take precautions. Look around you. This room is filled with candles. An abundance of light deters them, and these candles have been blessed.” He snickered. “I may be intolerant of religious rites, but I’m no fool. I also keep this on my person.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a vial of dark liquid. “Appeasement with blood is rarely useful, but it can stall for time until dawn arrives. The rooms of this house are adorned with holly, and you may have detected the aroma of incense, the Eastern variety. I am well protected.”

  “I’m impressed,” Edmund said. “You know your subject.”

  “Not as well as you do, perhaps. But you have not told me why you are searching for this thing.”

  “My ancestor.”

  “Ah yes, Philippe de Vere,” Cavendish said in a skeptical tone. “You are avenging the death of an ancestor who died more than two hundred years ago? With all due respect, I think it is more than that.”

  Recalling the oath he took as first born son of a first born son to keep the mission of the Sanctum secret, Edmund said simply, “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “I see. And I suppose the contents of your bag are not the tools of a sanctioned vampire slayer? Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. But remember, the strength of the cross you wear around your neck rests not in its substance but in the power it emanates, magnified by the faith of the wielder. Without a firm belief in the triumph of good over evil, it is effective only against the weakest of the undead.”

  “You doubt my belief in what I am doing?” Edmund questioned with sharp annoyance.

  “Not at all. I merely question whether it is for the purpose of thwarting evil or for a personal vendetta. Tell me this, is it all vampires you seek to destroy, or just this particular one?”

  “I have destroyed others, but this one is killing people on these very streets. It must be stopped.”

  Cavendish shrugged. “From what I have observed, it appears our immortal friend kills only the, how shall I put it, dregs of society. He does not drink the blood of the innocent. I suspect he has retained a naiveté despite centuries of killing and feasting.”

  “My ancestor was an innocent,” Edmund said flatly.

  “Perhaps not as innocent as you think. The passage of centuries does tend to muddy the picture.”

  “So?” Edmund said impatiently. “Do we have a bargain?”

  “Yes. I will prepare a potion. But remember, I get him first. Then you can do whatever you want with him. Although I must say, your plan for the creature is far more realistic than the young woman’s.”

  “What young woman?”

  “The one who came to see me. She plans to write a novel, a romantic tale about a mortal woman who falls in love with a vampire, if you can imagine such a thing.”

  “A vampire? That’s what she called it?”

  “Well no, but the protagonist she described certainly fits the description of the undead.”

  “What did she want from you?”

  “She had questions about the soul, or rather, the loss of the soul and if it can be reclaimed. I told her that as far as I know it depends on the circumstance and what you believe.”

  “How did she know that a vampire has no soul?”

  “She said a pupil of her father’s told her about the folklore of his native land. In any event, my explanation seemed to satisfy her.”

  “Did she say who this pupil was?”

  Cavendish shook his head. “A musician I should think, since her father is the music master.”

  Edmund’s insides turned cold.

  “She asked for an elixir for her father who is ill. I gave her something to appease her, but I doubt it will work.”

  The slow churning in Edmund’s stomach grew to a furious roil. “What was her name?”

  “Her name, now, let me see. I’m so bad at that sort of thing. But I do recall seeing her before, coming out of your shop, as a matter of fact.”

  The blood left Edmund’s face. “Prudence?”

  “Yes, that’s it, Prudence. I don’t recall the surname.”

  “Prudence was asking about vampires?”

  “Yes, for her novel, I told you.”

  “Did she say what the vampire of her novel looks like?”

  “Well, let me see. I seem to recall she said he has very pale skin. No stretch of the imagination there. And dark hair. And his eyes were, oh yes, I believe she described them as shockingly green.”

  The owls called from their perches in the eaves of the house, but the sound was lost on Edmund who struggled to hold back the tide of his furious thoughts. It was intolerable to think that Prudence actually knew that fiend. But how? Good Lord, was that the reason she had called off their engagement? Questions dive bombed at him like a flock of furious birds. The sense of humiliation that swarmed over him was unbearable. Humiliation and disbelief and red hot rage. He realized that he had begun to breathe too fast, but he could not control the frantic rise and fall of his chest as the dead weight of realization sank into his being. His vision clouded and turned black. All noise around him ceased. For several precarious moments he felt as though he had been rendered unconscious, yet by some miracle he remained upright.

  He emerged out of the dark swoon and gradually regained his senses. The light in the room weaved and bobbed, throwing thick shadows across the walls. A floorboard creaked close by. He flinched when a hand touched his shoulder, reminding him that he was not alone.

  “My dear man, are you all right? You are as white as milk.”

  Edmund blinked and gave a short nod of the head.

  “You gave me quite a start there,” Cavendish said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Edmund tested his voice. “How soon can you have the potion ready?” It was level enough to disguise the fury he was feeling.

  “It will take me a few days, a week perhaps, to come up with the right combination of ingredients. I will call at your shop when I have something for you. But there is one thing I am not clear about which perhaps you can clarify. How can you be certain the creature will feed from the derelict you infuse?”

  Edmund turned and strode to the door. “Leave that detail to me.”

  Outside, he drew the thick, sea-coal scented air into his lungs and smiled with sly relish at the ugly coincidences of life. A music student, of course. An entry in Philippe de Vere’s journal had attested to the beauty of the creature’s music, in hideous contrast to its evil nature. And throughout the course of his pursuit he had heard stories about its music. He just never thought it would fall into place like this. It was all too convenient. And Prudence knew the creature for what it was. Why else would she have gone to the alchemist seeking answers about the soul? That she would prefer that thing to him was an insult beyond imagining. And to think he had almost made her his wife, vile slut that she was.

  His plan to infuse several worthless vagrants with the alchemist’s deadly potion in the hope that one of them would catch the attention of the monster had suddenly changed. Why take the chance that the insidious thing would bypass one of the infected bodies when there was one body in particular it was not likely to ignore? Edmund chuckled deviously as a new plan emerged. He would use Prudence as bait to lure the creature to its doom.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Edmund! This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

  He removed his three-cornered hat, and s
aid, “I came to inquire about your father.”

  “Do come in.”

  He followed her into the candlelit parlor. “How is he?”

  Pru could not help but notice his sorry rigging. His wig was mussed, like that of someone who has rushed down the street. The long line of narrowly spaced buttons on his coat was undone. His shirt of Holland linen was rumpled, his breeches and stockings had dark stains at the knees and there was mud caked on his buckled shoes. She was tempted to ask him where on earth he had been, but realized that she didn’t really care.

  “Not well,” she answered.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Something in his tone did not ring true. Pru lifted her gaze and looked at him forthrightly. “There is nothing anyone can do.”

  “You are looking tired, Prudence,” he observed. “Are you all right?”

  “The thrust of Papa’s care has fallen on my shoulders since he has taken a curious objection to Aunt Vivienne’s help.”

  “She does have a knack for trying the patience of the heartiest of souls,” he said.

  Aside from the unpleasant remark he had uttered that day at his shop, Pru had never known him to be unduly mean-spirited and was quite frankly surprised by his uncharitable, if not accurate, assessment of Aunt Vivienne. Ignoring the sarcasm, she said, “You need not worry about me, Edmund. I’m quite all right.”

  “You know, Prudence,” he began, “we parted in the most unfortunate way. Since that day you came to see me some weeks ago, I have been tossing on a sea of regret.”

  Pru’s stomach lurched. Was he here to make amends? She hoped for his sake that he was not.

  “My foolish pride spoke too harshly.”

  “We both said things we should not have said,” she conceded.