A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  Robert looked toward the painting as he continued, his tone almost poignant, “By all accounts, Henry was among the most brutal perpetrators of the Harrying, yet by his orders a small number of select families and villages were left all but untouched by the retribution. To this day, it is not known why he chose them to be spared, but the King gave no complaint. And when it was done, it is said that Henry was offered the Earldom of Northumbria, but he refused it. Instead, he requested only a small, barren piece of land that he had spared from the horrors of the Harrying.”

  “Blackmoor,” Varanus said.

  “Just so,” Robert answered. “And so it was. Henry was made Earl of Blackmoor. He retired to this land, built a castle on this very site, married the eldest daughter of the Danish family that had formerly ruled here, and set about creating our family line.”

  “How very charitable of him,” Varanus said. “And very forward-thinking.”

  “I am certainly pleased by having ancestry,” Robert mused.

  After a moment he chuckled and motioned to one of the adjacent paintings, which depicted a man not unlike Henry, dressed in mail and wearing the cross-emblazoned tabard of a crusader, who stood before the walls of Jerusalem with his sword upraised.

  “This,” he said, “is Roger Varanus, the first in our line to bear that name. It is through him that we trace our patrilineal descent. Roger was the youngest son of Henry, Earl of Blackmoor. When the Pope issued the great call to crusade, Roger, left without prospects for inheritance, joined the army of the faithful and went forth to sack the Holy Land. Roger was not a particularly good Christian, but he was a remarkable crusader. Though he set out from England alone, with only his sword and his horse, by the time he reached the Holy Land, he had gathered a cohort of men around him who were fanatically loyal. Together, they fought at the forefront of the Crusader army all the way to the taking of Jerusalem. In recognition of his service, he was granted a barony in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”

  There was a brief silence, and in that time Varanus caught sight of Korbinian leaning against the wall, running his fingertips along the frame of the portrait. Smiling at Varanus, he said:

  “I have a question.”

  Varanus glared at him. She couldn’t respond, of course. What would Cousin Robert think?

  But Korbinian was good enough to carry on:

  “He says that Roger was the first Varanus. Good for him.” Korbinian spread his hands in a gesture of confusion and asked, “But what is a Varanus?”

  Varanus raised an eyebrow at him. What a silly question! She was a Varanus. Grandfather had been a Varanus. Cousin Robert was a Varanus.

  Then again.…

  “Forgive my ignorance, cousin,” she said to Robert, “but where does the name Varanus come from?”

  Roger laughed loudly and replied, “Well may you ask. I am just coming to that. During the Crusades, Roger became famous for his ferocity and rapaciousness, qualities mimicked by his men. Many of the Saracens thought him to be an agent of the Devil, possibly even the Devil incarnate. They had many names for him, none of them pleasant. Some took to calling him Al-Waran, ‘the lizard.’ When Roger learned of this, he was so pleased that he Latinized the word—Varanus—and took it as his soubriquet. And his descendants have borne the name ever since.”

  “Remarkable,” Varanus said. She was not entirely certain how she felt about the origin of her name, but at least she now knew its history. “And how do the English Blackmoors come to carry it?”

  “That,” Roger said, “brings us to William Varanus. Not your grandfather William, obviously, but his namesake I daresay.”

  He brought her attention to a third painting, which depicted a nobleman, richly furnished and armed, seated on a horse and overlooking the Blackmoor plain. Where there ought to have been Blackmoor Manor in the background, a somber medieval keep of the Romanesque style sat upon a forlorn hill, waiting to welcome its prodigal master home. Varanus felt her breath catch in her throat for a moment as she studied the painting. Not only did he share his name, but the man depicted there even looked like her grandfather. Not that it was any real surprise. If the paintings were anything to go by, there was a tremendous amount of similarity between all of the Varanus men.

  “William Varanus,” Robert said, “the first William Varanus, was the only surviving descendent of Roger Varanus. After Saladin’s conquest of Jerusalem, William—who, I might add, survived both the massacre of the Crusader army and the Siege of Jerusalem—suddenly found himself landless, and with little interest in serving a kingdom reduced to Acre and the coast, he found his way back home to England and to Blackmoor. Rather like you have done.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Varanus asked, avoiding the sound of sarcasm. What an absurd comparison for him to make!

  “His return was fortuitous,” Robert said, turning back to the portrait. “Over the intervening century between Roger’s departure and William’s return, the family at Blackmoor had suffered tremendous reduction. Once healthy, proud, and vibrant, the civil war between King Stephen and the Empress Maud had severely reduced their numbers. By the time William returned, the Blackmoor line had only daughters, and it was feared that the family would simply die out, to be superseded by a rival dynasty.”

  “Ah, but a miracle,” Varanus said. It was obvious what direction the tale went. “A distant male cousin returns from a far off land, marries the eldest daughter, and keeps Blackmoor in the family.”

  “I suppose the story rather writes itself,” Robert said with a laugh. “Still, it was a pivotal moment in our family’s history. If not for William, neither of us would be here. And from then onward, the Earls of Blackmoor have always called themselves by the surname Varanus.”

  Varanus thought for a moment about what that meant for the age of the lineage.

  “Tell me, Cousin Robert,” she said, “doesn’t that make our family and your title the oldest—at least one of the oldest—in England?”

  Robert sighed and smiled. When he answered, it was in a voice touched with sadness—for effect, no doubt:

  “Alas not. That is, de facto but not de jure. Our family is arguably the oldest, yes, especially if one traces the line all the way back to Henry rather than to William. Unfortunately, as far as the title is concerned, we have not held it consistently. Or,” he added, almost managing to hide a scowl behind another smile, “more to the point, the title has not existed consistently since its establishment. From time to time there have been English monarchs who, foolishly, believed that they may dispense with us. The title has been revoked several times over the centuries, and once an overly exuberant king attempted to elevate us to the status of marquess, though we soon sorted that out. Being an earl is quite sufficient. There is no need to draw undue attention to oneself, is there?”

  “I imagine not,” Varanus said.

  Robert motioned toward the far end of the gallery. “Come, let me show you the conservatory.”

  Varanus fell into step beside him. It was tricky keeping pace with Robert’s long stride, but Varanus had much experience walking with people far taller than she.

  “Tell me,” she said as they walked, “if the Blackmoor title has been revoked—repeatedly, as you say—then why has it been reinstated?”

  At this, Robert merely smiled and said, “Because we are Varanuses.”

  “That is not an answer, cousin,” Varanus said.

  “Ah, but it is,” Robert replied. “The Varanus family is very well ensconced in our little Empire. I would have thought that Cousin William had taught you that.”

  “He did. But he also taught me never to believe assertions without evidence.”

  “Evidence is so very…incriminating,” Robert said with a smile. “But believe me when I say that there are a small number of families in England, the Varanuses included, without whose goodwill no English monarch has ever successfully reigned. We are England, not the Crown. Monarchs come and go. Ruling dynasties die off or are supplanted. And, as France has shown, even
governments can be overthrown. But we.…” Robert’s expression grew serious, more serious than Varanus had seen it since arriving. “We remain. Undiminished.”

  Varanus was silent for a moment before asking, “Does ‘we’ include me?”

  It mattered little if it did or not, but she did wonder. Since the events of the funeral, she had become intensely curious about the possibility of secret societies and their relationship to her family.

  “You are family,” Robert replied. “You are a Varanus. You can thank your grandfather for that. I wouldn’t have told you as much if you weren’t one of us.”

  Intriguing, Varanus thought. Aloud, she asked:

  “In that case, how are we to sort out the matter of the inheritance?”

  Robert took her hand in his and patted it gently, but not reassuringly.

  “As a family, cousin. As a family.”

  Chapter Seven

  London

  The removal of Jones and his gang had greatly improved the Old Jago Pub. Luka was almost inclined to find it pleasant, despite the stale air and the smell of cheap beer. And within easy reach of Osborne Court, it was an ideal base of operations. At Luka’s insistence, the barman had even agreed to stock a private supply of decent wine. Luka had to pay for it, of course, but he didn’t mind. The funds that Doctor Varanus had left behind for him were more than enough to pay for both his needs and his caprices.

  That evening, Luka sat in silence at the table he had chosen for his own—one backed into a corner with an easy view of both the bar and the door—sipping a glass of claret and reading a daily newspaper. The news was lurid and debauched, but at least it was in keeping with Luka’s surroundings. The papers might try to sensationalize crime, but in the East End it took very little effort.

  Luka glanced up as he sensed someone approach the table. It was Bates, whose band of local toughs Luka had seen fit to employ as observers. There was only so much he could see and do himself. It helped to have some of the local color willing to do the looking and listening for him. Bates steadied himself with a tall stick as he limped across the taproom.

  “Yes, Bates?” Luka asked, lowering his paper.

  “Trouble, Mister Luka,” Bates said. “It’s Jones’s boys. They’re back.”

  Luka growled a little. That was irritating, but it had only been a matter of time. It was surprising they had taken a full week to return, but they had probably needed that long to reinforce and recover after the beating they had received.

  “Where are they?” Luka asked, maintaining an air of calm. It wouldn’t do to panic his underlings. Bates’s boys had run afoul of Jones’s Old Jago gang in the past, and they were instinctively nervous.

  “That’s the trouble,” Bates said. “They’re ’eaded toward Osborne Court. I think they mean to do the Doctor a mischief.”

  “The Doctor isn’t present tonight,” Luka said. “She is away from the city on business.”

  “Not that doctor,” Bates said. “The other doctor. With the beard.”

  That was right, Luka thought. Varanus had asked that friend of hers, Doctor Constantine, to mind the clinic in her absence. She would be angry if something happened to him. Of course, she would be equally angry if the clinic were damaged, so it made little difference.

  “Well done, Bates,” Luka said. He drained the remainder of his wine and set the glass down on the table. Standing, he said, “Stay here and rest your leg. In ten minutes, send a couple of your boys around to watch the clinic.”

  Should have put a guard on it yesterday, he thought.

  “Ten minutes?” Bates asked. “Oughtn’t I to send ’em ’round with you?”

  “I require no assistance,” Luka replied. “But I want them to guard the place when I am not there. I have a whole neighborhood to watch. I cannot be everywhere at once.”

  Bates nodded and said, “’Course, Mister Luka.”

  “Barman!” Luka shouted, snapping his fingers. “Bring my friend here a glass of whatever he wants.”

  Luka walked quickly to the door and stepped outside. It was still light out but only just, and the smoke in the air made the looming shadows that much worse. Turning up the collar of his long leather coat and tipping the brim of his shabby top hat down over his eyes, he began moving along the edge of the street in the direction of Osborne Court. He walked as fast as was possible without drawing undue attention to himself. There was no telling if more of Jones’s men were lurking along the path, and he could not afford to be delayed.

  He reached Osborne Court in only a few minutes, hopefully little enough time that Jones’s men would not have started their work. As he turned down the passage leading into the court, Luka saw a handful of men, led by his old friend with the bad smile. They were all bruised and cut, but after a week of recuperation, it seemed their injuries now did little but anger them. They had formed in a cluster around the door of the clinic, their entry barred by the diminutive figure of Doctor Constantine, who stood in the doorway impeccably dressed, one hand resting on the top of his walking stick, and looked at them like a Roman general gazing with disdain upon the barbarian hordes.

  Luka approached with quiet steps. It was like stalking game, but with less cover and less challenge.

  “This is a private clinic,” Constantine said, his tone measured. “If you are not here for aid, I must ask you to leave. You are disturbing my neighbors.”

  “Shut yer face,” the lead ruffian said. “Where’s the frog?”

  “Doctor Sauvage is away on business,” Constantine replied. “Possibly for a considerable amount of time. Perhaps I may relay a message for you? If you would care to give me your calling card, I will make certain to pass it along when she returns.”

  The ruffian scowled and snapped, “I don’t take kindly ta toffs like ya talkin’ down ta me.”

  Constantine was doing a wonderful job of antagonizing the men, Luka thought, but at least he was keeping their attention. Luka continued his careful advance. One of them men turned his head and coughed, and Luka quickly stepped away to avoid being seen.

  “I don’t much care what you take kindly to,” Constantine said. “You are no longer welcome here. Be gone.”

  The ruffian looked at his fellows and they all shared a laugh. He turned back to Constantine and pulled a knife out of his pocket.

  “Try no’ ta make too much noise, yeah?” he said. “Don’ wan’ ta disturb ya neighbors, eh?”

  Luka knew that he couldn’t reach Constantine in time—Varanus would be disappointed—but at least he had reached the two men at the back of the group. He grabbed them each by the ear and smashed their heads together. Their bodies jerked and shuddered, and they dropped to the ground where they lay motionless. They would probably live, though alive or dead made little difference to Luka.

  Ahead, the leader rushed at Constantine, knife raised. Well, Luka thought, that’s the end of him.

  But, to Luka’s great surprise, it wasn’t. As the ruffian came at him, Constantine tossed his walking stick into the air, caught it, and swung. The large metal head connected soundly with the ruffian’s jaw and knocked him sideways. He stumbled and ran headlong into the wall. Constantine swept his foot out from beneath him with another swing of the walking stick, and the ruffian hit the ground hard, spitting blood as he did.

  Two men remained. One turned to look to his leader while the second rushed at Luka. Evading the man’s sloppy punches, Luka bobbed back and forth for a moment, enjoying the thrill of the exercise. Then, tiring of the game, he caught the man by the collar and punched him once, twice, three times in the stomach before throwing him to the ground. The last man, now caught between the two men who had laid low his comrades, hesitated for a moment before bolting for the street. Luka let him go.

  “And don’t come back!” Constantine shouted. He advanced toward Luka, prodding the men on the ground in passing. “Come along, on your feet,” he barked at them. “Clear off! I won’t have you hanging about the place when I have patients to attend to.
” Reaching Luka, Constantine gave him a quick appraising look and nodded. “Neatly done.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Luka said, nodding. “And you.”

  “It was nothing,” Constantine said. “Had you not come along, sir…then I would have done something rather impressive. And while we are at it, who, may I ask, are you?”

  “I am Luka,” Luka replied, smiling a little. “And you are Doctor Constantine, who is minding the clinic while Doctor Va—” Luka caught himself, “Sauvage is away.”

  If Constantine noticed the slip, he gave no indication. It was unlikely, though. From his manner and speech, Luka assessed him to be one of those tremendously intelligent people who understood little and noticed even less. The Shashavani had more than their fair share of them.

  “Yes, yes,” Constantine said, “she told me she had a man to keep an eye on the place. Very good.”

  He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping the head of his walking stick, lest contact with the ruffian’s face had soiled it. Luka looked over his shoulder and saw Bates hobbling toward them along the alley that connected Osborne Court to the street, followed by a couple of his fellows. They looked at the injured men who lay on the ground with wide eyes and open mouths.

  Was it possible they had thought Luka could not manage the whole group alone? He was more than a little offended.

  “Mister Luka,” Bates said, “we, uh…uh.…”

  “Just in time, Bates,” Luka said. “Mind these troublemakers for me. I must get to work, and I’m certain the doctor here does not want these men discouraging his patients.”

  “Yes, it would be most inconvenient,” Constantine said. He looked at Bates and extended his hand. “Bates is it?”