A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  Still, in the light of day, it was just the sort of place she loved exploring, and she wandered through the remains of the buildings, umbrella in hand, thoroughly enjoying herself. There really was something romantic about the place. On the desolate moorland, it was easy to imagine humanity as tiny and insignificant, incapable of withstanding the onslaught of nature, the weather, and time. And yet, even after all these years, the monastery still stood. Surely that counted for something.

  Ekaterine’s thoughts were brought to an abrupt halt as she turned a corner in one of the rooms and saw the ground vanish before her into a yawning pit. She threw out her hand toward the wall to steady herself and quickly drew back. Vertigo rushed to her head for a moment, but it soon passed.

  “That was very nearly a dreadful accident,” she murmured to herself, brushing away a lock of hair that had fallen across her face.

  As the surprise of the moment passed, Ekaterine looked down again and saw that the “pit” as she had thought it to be was nothing more sinister than a hole that led down into a cellar. There had probably been wooden stairs or a ladder at one time, but they had since rotted away.

  Well, there would be no going down without a way up again, but for the moment Ekaterine wondered at just how expansive the subterranean level might be. She was rather in the mood for an adventure, and an abandoned catacomb would be just the thing—provided she could find some proper stairs.

  Retracing her steps into the adjoining kitchen, Ekaterine chanced to look out on the moor through one of the windows and saw the figures of a man and a dog trudging in her direction. The man was getting on in years, his dark beard and hair flecked with gray. His clothes were rough and worn, patched in places, and he had a cap pulled down over his head. He walked with a long stick, every so often poking at the ground for what seemed no reason in particular. From time to time, the dog hurrying along at his heels would pause and look off across the moors as if sighting something. The man would notice after a few steps, turn, and call for the dog to follow.

  Intrigued, Ekaterine walked along to the door and stepped outside, though she kept a firm hand on the handle of the umbrella—just in case. It was not an ideal weapon, certainly not for swinging, but used as a rapier with a few strong thrusts, it might deter an attacker.

  Fortunately, the man seemed anything but hostile. Sighting her, he raised his hand in greeting, to which Ekaterine responded in kind. When he reached her, the man doffed his cap and bowed his head.

  “Good day to ya, Miss,” he said. “I do beg yer pardon, but I mean no ’arm.”

  “Good day to you as well,” Ekaterine said, smiling. “Though it’s a rather dreary day at that, isn’t it?”

  “Aye,” the man said. “Always threatenin’ rain ’tis, but don’t ya worry. ’Tis a fair bit out.”

  Ekaterine looked up at the sky and said, “Oh good. I was a little concerned.” She extended her hand toward him. “I am Ekaterine Shashavani.”

  “Silas Granger, Miss,” the man said.

  Silas looked at the hand and hesitated. He slowly extended his own, and Ekaterine took the initiative and shook hands with him. The man smiled in a friendly manner but quickly withdrew his hand as if he thought she might take offense.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Silas,” Ekaterine said. “Do you live around here?”

  “Aye,” Silas said, nodding slowly. He turned and pointed off across the moor to the south with his stick. At his feet, the dog raised its head and looked in the same direction. “I live o’er yonder,” Silas continued.

  “And what brings you to these ruins, Silas?” Ekaterine asked.

  “Oh, I of’n like to take a walk up this way,” Silas said. “Tho’ I’m surprised to find anyone else ’round ’ere. Most folks don’t come ’round this place.”

  Ekaterine waited for Silas to elaborate on his statement, but when he said nothing further, she asked, “Why not?”

  “Well,” Silas said, shrugging slowly and taking a deep breath. “Folks say ’tis ’aunted.”

  “Haunted?”

  “Aye, by the ghosts of th’ ol’ monks, ya see,” Silas replied. “Them as were put to death by King ’Enry more ’n three ’undred years ago.”

  Ekaterine raised her eyebrows.

  “Put to death?” she asked. “Good Lord, why?”

  “Well,” Silas said again, “some say ’twere to get their money. Only tha’ can’t be so, I think, for ’Enry ne’er took nothin’ from there but tha’ ’e gave to the Blackmoors as thanks for their loyalty. But others, ya see, they say the monks practiced black magic an’ were put to death for it.”

  “Really?” Ekaterine gasped. “Monks practicing witchcraft?”

  Silas’s expression became grim and he leaned forward, lowering his voice. “They say the monks done unspeakable things in the dead of night, callin’ up Lucifer from the black pit, an’ worse besides. Now I don’t believe stories, mind ya, but they say folks went missin’ on the moor. Pilgrims ’d come but never leave, an’ even in lean times the monks ’d ne’er go ’ungry. As I say, I don’t believe stories, but tales ’re tales for a reason. So most folks don’t come ’ere unless they must.”

  “How ghastly,” Ekaterine said, utterly delighted. “It may just be a story, but it’s one to chill the blood, isn’t it?”

  “Tales o’ ghosts ’ave a reason,” Silas said. “They teach folks to stay away from places such as this, ya see. A dangerous place is this.”

  “You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?” Ekaterine asked.

  Rather than reply at once, Silas gave the question some thought before he answered:

  “Don’t make no difference if I do or don’t. They either are or they aren’t. Believin’ won’t change it either way. But this ol’ place is dangerous, ghosts or no. Best watch yer step, Miss. There’s ’oles all ’round ’ere, and there’s the catacombs. Ya fall in, no one ’ll know. As I say, most folks don’t come ’round this place.”

  “I certainly thank you for this information, Mister Granger,” Ekaterine said. “I shall be very careful, I assure you.”

  “Tha’ does relieve me worry some, Miss,” Silas said. “Only careful or no, ye’ll not want to be ’ere after nightfall.”

  “Because of the ghosts?” Ekaterine asked, hiding a smirk at the thought. Silas was being very neighborly in warning her about the place. And he was right about the risk of falling. There was no reason to appear ungrateful.

  “No, Miss,” Silas said. “’Cause of the black dog.”

  “The…black dog?” Ekaterine asked, blinking. “What black dog?” She glanced at the animal that stood at Silas’s side. It was a mottled black and white, but surely that could not be what he meant.

  “Aye,” Silas replied. “The Barghest.”

  “Barghest? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Tha’s ’cause ye’re not from ’round ’ere,” Silas told her. “’Tis a great black beast, the size o’ an ’orse, it is. It prowls the moors at night, an’ ye’ll not want to cross its path, mark my words, Miss.”

  “It sounds frightening,” Ekaterine said, “but I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “’Tis no ghost, Miss,” Silas said, very seriously, “tho’ some will say otherwise. Flesh an’ blood it is, an’ the Devil as well. Now, I’ve no knowledge o’ what yer business is ’ere, an’ I’ve no wish to know it. But don’t ya be out on the moor come nightfall. Tha’s fair warning to ya.”

  Ekaterine smiled and nodded.

  “I shall be certain to be indoors by sundown,” she said, “so there’s no need for you to worry.”

  Silas nodded and said, “’Tis no business o’ mine, but I’m glad t’ ’ear it. Folks always go missing on the moor, even these days. Best ya be careful.” He took a deep breath and put his hat back on his head. “Well, best I be on my way. Welcome to Blackmoor, Miss. ’Tis fine country for us tha’ lives ’ere, but I ’ope for your sake you’re not ’ere long. Blackmoor’s no place for outsiders. The place is in our
blood, but it’s not in yours.”

  “I shall remember that,” Ekaterine said. “And I shall stay only as long as I must, I assure you of that.”

  “Pleased to ’ear tha’, Miss,” Silas said. “Good afternoon to ya.”

  He clicked his tongue at the dog and set off the way he had come. The dog whined and sniffed at Ekaterine before bounding after its master.

  After a moment, a thought occurred to Ekaterine and she called, “Mister Granger, one last thing!”

  Silas turned back toward her.

  “Aye?” he asked.

  “Do you know the old church between here and Blackmoor Manor?” Ekaterine asked.

  “Aye,” came the reply.

  “There is a tunnel beneath it.”

  “Aye,” Silas said again.

  “Does it connect to the priory?” Ekaterine asked.

  “Aye, tha’ it does,” Silas replied. “An’ more besides.”

  “More?” Ekaterine asked, surprised. “What do you mean ’more’?”

  “Th’ old Pictish tunnels,” Silas said. He swung his stick from side to side in an arc, pointing first in one direction, then in the opposite. “Deep in th’ earth, they are. They run all beneath the moor. Mind ya, the tunnel from church to priory is not so old, an’ they say ’t runs all the way to the manor an’ all under the town. Bless me, ya couldn’t pay me to go into ’em. But folks say tha’ when the monks dug their catacombs out o’ the earth, they came ’cross somethin’ far older. Somethin’ pagan an’ ungodly.”

  “Truly?” Ekaterine asked.

  Silas shrugged and said, “Not for me to wonder at, Miss. I don’t believe in stories, ya see. But folks as do, tha’s what they say. An’ who am I to question? No, Miss, I’ll stay up ’ere on the surface like God intended an’ leave them tunnels to folks as don’t know better.”

  With that, Silas tapped his cap politely and turned to resume his walk.

  A few moments later, Ekaterine heard Varanus’s voice from behind her:

  “Who was that?”

  Turning, she saw Varanus standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking far calmer than before. It seemed that a little peace and quiet was just what she had required to alleviate the aggravation of her cousin.

  “One of the locals,” Ekaterine replied. “He said his name was Silas Granger. I imagine he’s a shepherd or something of that nature. He had a dog.”

  “So I see,” Varanus replied, smiling. “Tell me, did either this Silas Granger or his dog have anything interesting to say?”

  Ekaterine walked to Varanus’s side and took her by the arm.

  “Oh my goodness, yes,” she said, quite excited. “Ghost stories, in fact. Apparently this land is haunted.”

  “Is that so?” Varanus asked, her eyes twinkling behind her veil. “Then you must tell me all about it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  London

  In the days following his meeting with Miss Sharpe, Luka spent his time formulating a series of plans: plans for the defense of the neighborhood, plans for the punishment of crime, and above all plans for revitalizing the moribund local economy. It was all well and good to drive the gangs out of the area and to suppress acts of theft and violence, but if the people in and around Osborne Court had no alternative means of support, there would be those who would inevitably turn to crime again.

  Something would have to be done, Luka reasoned, especially if his peace were to be maintained in his absence. When the Doctor finally came to her senses and they all departed this benighted land, the Old Jago government would have to be able to maintain order without recourse to overt oppression. That would never happen without both discipline and employment.

  As was his custom, he ate breakfast at his table in the Old Jago. Aside from patrols, it seemed that he spent all of his time there. Not that he minded being able to sit and think, to read, or play cards; but he would have preferred to be out and about more. Perhaps he should pay Miss Sharpe another visit. He enjoyed the prospect of sharing drinks with a deadly viper, for that was surely what she was. Attractive, tenacious, clever, ruthless.…

  Luka took a bite of sausage and grimaced a little, his thoughts immediately distracted from the idea of Miss Sharpe. He would have to start ordering lunch or dinner for breakfast.

  The sounds of an argument drew his attention to the doorway, and he saw Cat and Bates walk in together, snapping back and forth at each other.

  “I’m tellin’ ye, ’tis the truth!” Cat insisted. “I’ve spoken te girls who’ve seen it. God’s honest truth! And old Davies who sleeps out on Hawthorne Street, he said—”

  “Ever seen it yourself?” Bates demanded, sounding more exasperated than angry.

  “No, but—”

  “Then you’re not goin’ ta bother Mister Luka with it,” Bates said firmly, before falling silent as they reached the table.

  Luka looked up from his morning paper and asked, “Bother me with what, Bates?”

  Bates cleared his throat awkwardly. He had evidently not expected Luka to hear them.

  “Nothin’, Mister Luka,” he said.

  “I shall be the judge of what is something and what is nothing,” Luka said. He looked at Cat. “What have you been telling Bates?”

  “Well!” Cat exclaimed. She sat in an empty chair next to Luka and began speaking with great excitement. “There’s a wagon, ye see. Goes about at sundown. Rumbles through the street, black as night, carryin’ the Devil wi’ ’t. Stops on the street, it does, when ye’re all alone an’ there’s nobody about te help ye. An’ men get out, ye see, an’ they snatch ye right then an’ there, an’ whisk ye away.…” She paused a moment before spreading her arms and crying out, “…te death!”

  Luka studied her in silence for a short while before replying, “Death is not a place. How does a wagon bring you there?”

  “Pardon me fer bein’ dramatic,” Cat said, sighing. “But ’tis the truth, I swear it.”

  “Have you any proof?” Luka asked.

  “That’s what I asked ’er, Mister Luka,” Bates said.

  “Be quiet, Bates,” Luka said. To Cat he repeated, “Have you any proof?”

  “Well…no,” Cat admitted. “But ’tis—”

  “Have you seen it yourself?” Luka asked.

  Cat huffed in annoyance and said, “No, ’course no’. But I’ve heard it said. All in the spring there were stories comin’ outta Whitechapel ’bout it. I knew two girls down that way who talked o’ nothin’ else. All spring an’ summer also.”

  “And now it has come here?” Luka asked. “Why?”

  The story was very far-fetched, which was only to be expected. A bogeyman tale to frighten the denizens of the street after dark. Luka was surprised there was anyone left speaking of it, now that a real bogeyman had come to haunt the East End.

  “Um…” Cat said, frowning. “Maybe it fled up this way when the Whitechapel Killer started goin’ about.”

  “I hardly think that a wagon of death driven by the Devil would be much frightened by a madman with a knife,” Luka said.

  “That’s what I told ’er, Mister Luka,” Bates said.

  “Has anyone actually gone missing, Cat?” Luka asked.

  Cat nodded firmly and said, “Aye! Aye! Two girls who work the streets over by Meakin Row have gone missin’ in the past week, an’ the ol’ sergeant…the one wi’ no legs…he up an’ vanished day ’fore yesterday! How do ye answer tha’?”

  “Could’ve gone t’another part of the city,” Bates said. “Whores do sometimes.” He paused for a moment in thought. “Don’t they?”

  Cat snorted at him. She turned back to Luka.

  “They’d no’ have left wi’out tellin’ someone,” she said. “An’ why leave a’ tall? Where else ’ll they go? An’ the ol’ sergeant.… Canne up an’ walk elsewhere, now can he?”

  That was a valid point.

  “Bates,” Luka said, “I do not believe in stories of Devil carriages, but if people are disappearing, I want to kn
ow about it. It could be the work of Jones, or another gang. Tell the men.”

  “Yes, Mister Luka,” Bates said.

  “And Cat,” Luka continued, “contact your little network of spies. If you can give me some definite information about your suspicions, I will investigate. Until then, no more talk of goblins.”

  “Yes, Mister Luka,” Cat said with a sigh. She folded her arms and looked toward the door. There was a pause and she said, “Why’re those two wearin’ masks—”

  Luka glanced toward the door and saw two men who had just entered the taproom. They indeed wore masks—pieces of dirty cloth tied about the lower part of their faces—but that was not what Luka saw first.

  The men both carried pistols that had been hidden under their coats.

  “Get down!” he shouted, throwing himself from his chair and pulling Cat and Bates down to the floor.

  A moment later the men started shooting. Luka reached up and threw the table onto its side for cover before flattening himself against the ground. He heard screams from the other people who had been in the Old Jago for breakfast. He could not help them, though he offered a silent prayer for their protection. Instead, he waited and did his best to count each shot that the men fired.

  One, two. Then three, four, five…six followed by a hasty seven. Eight and nine almost at the same time. The tenth bullet struck the table, and the eleventh and twelfth both buried themselves into the wall above Luka’s head.

  The men had carried a revolver each. Now they were unarmed.

  Luka drew one of his own pistols and chanced a look over the table. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the men as they fled out the door.

  Cowards, he thought. They would not escape that easily.

  Bounding over the table, Luka dashed across the taproom, past the patrons who cowered in fear. He did not know if any had been shot. Hopefully, Bates would have the good sense to take charge of things.

  Luka ignored the front steps and leapt into the street, landing with both feet firmly planted. The men had shown the good sense to split up, and now each ran along the road in the opposite direction. It was clever of them. He could only chase one.