We approached, and I was happy to see the waxy countenance of true death. “Thank God,” I said, glancing at my companion. “We don’t have to…what was it you called it? Shrive? We do not have to shrive him.”
“You have noticed the difference between his appearance and how flush Wadim appeared, but do not trust that. Always remember, Emma—the vampire has many ways to deceive.”
“But Mr. Hess—”
“Hush!”
His eyes lifted, and without moving a single other muscle, he swept the room from one end to the other with a hard stare, his eyes like twin points of coal.
There is a cold that is not the fresh, clean, pine-tinged scent of deep winter. It is the cold of the crypt, and it is stale and malodorous without any particular scent. It is the smell, perhaps, of great age. Of rock and earth and dried flesh that had long since ceased to hold life’s warmth.
That is what I sensed suddenly. It whispered around me, like bony fingers plucking delicately at my nerves. Looking to Mr. Fox, whose body was as solid and still as the sarcen stones of Avebury, I whispered, “Do you feel it?”
I had only a moment to register the tightness winding itself around Mr. Fox, the way his lips curled as emotion gripped him for one fleeting moment. Fury and fear. He was afraid—that surprised me—and more than a little. I could see it or sense it, I didn’t know which. It was his fear that struck my blood cold.
Something came in swiftly between Mr. Fox and me, and flung me against the far wall. Darkness blurred my vision but I fought for consciousness. Mr. Fox shouted something to me, a belated warning, and then there was a terrible sound as he was thrown violently to the ground.
I lay stunned, but it lasted only a second or two before my mind flew to the things I’d brought with me. I searched for my bag, but found that both it and Fox’s rucksack lay out of my reach.
The lamp had fallen, but it somehow remained lit, creating light and shadow that fought for possession of the room in a harlequin battle of black and white. I could only see glimpses of the large, hulking form of the lord vampire hovering over Mr. Fox, a phantasmagoria come to life.
Fox scrabbled ineffectually against his attacker. Marius had him by the shoulders, holding him pinned to the ground. I glimpsed talon-like fingers, hooked like claws tangled in the dark cloth, and the vicious profile of a beast, skin pulled back, sharp teeth bared in a leering grin of triumph. The aspect of the vampire was horrible, stealing my voice as I watched through a vortex of dizzying terror. Fox’s hands were at the fiend’s throat, thrusting him away, but his strength was no match for the great lord’s. Marius bent closer, jaw opening like the maw of a wolf.
“Emma, run!” Fox choked.
“No!” I cried, and this seemed to snap me into action. My legs moved, my hand reached, and I grasped the iron candle stand. But when my fingers touched the cold metal, I drew away and picked up instead a smaller pillar of silver. Throwing off the wax taper, I weighed it in my hand with satisfaction. It was heavy and substantial; it felt good. It felt right. Standing, I took a moment to aim, to focus and solidify my will on what I wanted, and then hurled it across the room.
It struck Marius on his temple, and he reared. But Fox’s hands went limp, his strength gone at last. Marius froze, holding the listless Mr. Fox for a moment before letting him go. The body hit the ground with sickening impact, and I cried out in despair, for I feared I’d acted too late.
Marius now turned toward me. His movement was strange, or perhaps I was still too dazed to see how he closed the space between us. It seemed to happen in an instant, as if he floated over the intervening space; he was suddenly upon me without taking a step.
I fought my terror, digging into the deepest part of myself to think, remain calm. But my mind screamed for Valerian Fox. And then I could not spare my fallen companion another thought, for the beast was here, over me and before me and to the left and right of me. I did not know where to turn to face him. I seemed surrounded, swallowed, the figure everywhere and the haze of its stinking energy plummeting me into darkness.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven,” I stammered, “hallowed…”
But the prayer died. I was not ready to relinquish my life. If it came to it, I would pray, with all my soul and all my heart, for both Mr. Fox and myself. But now—now I would fight. If I could understand how.
The sensation of arms enveloping me slithered over my skin. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Blistering cold bit deep into me and I knew the fight was lost already. Lost before it was even begun, and then…and then I heard Fox move, and, glancing down, I saw the light catch the dark planes and angles of his face as he turned his head toward me. “Emma,” he rasped.
Marius was here with me, in front of me as his form materialized out of shadow. I could see him as plainly as I could see Fox, a monster no more. The vampire’s face was handsome now, made up of strong features. I saw his lips were thin and cruel, his eyes bright and alert. Dark, straight hair gleamed with pomade, pulled straight back from a wide, intelligent forehead. His nose was sharp, large, and matched by a prominent, clean-shaven chin. It was a face one would notice in a crowd, the face of a man who wielded power as his due. A face that would haunt, deep and cloying, even if you never suspected what abomination lay beneath the enticing surface.
He tightened his grip, and his voice now spoke my name, echoing Fox. “Emma.” His breath was like woodland earth, rich and loamy, unpleasant but not repugnant and I did not twist away. I allowed it to fan across my face, caressing images of age and unspeakable mastery. A kind of lethargy came over me, bleeding away my will, and I felt, as if a finger were laid against my chin, a pressure to turn my head toward him.
“Keep your eyes closed!” Fox shouted. “Do not look at him!”
There was no sound from my captor, but I felt the warm vibration of a chuckle trickle over my flesh. I looked, for my mind was sluggish and my strength of purpose draining out of me, and in the vampire’s eyes I was pierced by sharp tines of pleasure.
My body grew taut in his embrace, my skin pricked and sensitive. My throat charged with acute awareness, and this dreamy, electric feeling swept downward, through me, into me, igniting an ache to move closer, be closer…
“Little moth,” I heard, the brush of his foul mind abrading mine. “The flame will kill you but you cannot resist.”
I surged forward, a yearning bursting inside of me, a wanting, a desperate, despicable need. Desire crawled in and over my enflamed nerves, asserted itself—a hateful, beautiful desire to be possessed, and though it felt filthy it was also irresistible.
“Emma! For God’s sake!”
I barely heard Fox. From the heart of the vortex pulling me into its gravity, I had no care for him. Had Marius ripped open Fox’s throat right there in front of me, I doubt I would have so much as blinked. I was euphoric and horrified, the latter, I suppose, a result of that one small, dying breath of myself crushed under the lord vampire’s greater will.
I thought, Mother? I was going to her. In the eyes of the thing that held me was all fulfillment, all…All. Simply all.
Then the voice of the vampire, distant and fine, scrabbled across my brain, and it said, “You shall not tempt me. It would cost me too much to take you to me.” And then…then he spoke, or thought, or did the repulsive thing that connected his consciousness to mine, speaking with something of a care, a hint of respect. He said, “There is the touch of the vampire in you.”
I hung there, too bewildered to think what this meant. And then it lessened—everything he had invoked, every sensation, every thought, and every part of me he’d summoned forth to swell to my completion…it simply ebbed.
The entirety of my self bucked, protested, yearned, and it was too painful to bear. My arms flailed and the sight of the face, hovering as a lover’s would just before a kiss, simply faded. There were only my own grasping fingers in front of me, pulling desperately at the empty air as I was left alone.
He moved in
the form of a dark mist to Fox. I called out, “No!” but it was not to ward Marius from his prey. I am deeply ashamed that it was in protest at my abandonment. Whatever evil thing he was about to do to Valerian Fox, I craved it for myself. I wanted him to come back to me.
Fox was valiant. He rose to his knees, and though the pain must have been excruciating, it did not stop him. Then he said, “You cannot have me. I reject you in the name of Christ.”
A low, chilling laughter spread out under us, like an enchanted carpet that would lift us all up and away into madness and death.
And then I could hear hushed tones, that cryptic voice making some promise. I was unsure, but I thought it told Mr. Fox that it was already too late. And I, I was nearly out of my mind. He would take Fox. But not me. Not me!
I began to weep, in despair and humiliation, coiling my body into a helpless ball. “Mr. Fox,” I whispered, trying my voice. It trembled with strain. “You must run…”
“Emma, go!” His voice was sharp with command. The small, human part of me was touched. He mistakenly thought I wished rescue. I wanted nothing of the sort. I wanted its opposite with such ferocity—knowing it would be denied me—that I could not breathe the despoiled air around me.
Marius’s shadow deepened, and Fox’s face changed. The vampire was taking form again, and I instinctively knew this was because he was ready to strike, to bite.
To feed.
Marius reached for Fox and smiled. It was a beautiful, victorious smile, and his jaws opened. Gleaming razors caught the dim light, brilliant white and almost glowing. He nodded to Fox. “You are mine already, are you not? I can take you with me now.”
I saw on Mr. Fox’s face the defeat of the damned. “Run,” I said, a weak, mewling sound. He had not looked into Marius’s eyes and thus he could have escaped if he wished. But I knew he would not leave me, even at the price of his own soul.
I wept. I confess, my own person was so thoroughly stripped, I do not know for whom I cried. Was it for Mr. Fox, who was facing a damnation worse than mere death, or for me who was to be denied the same?
“Demon!” a rich, timbered voice thundered, blistering into the exquisite realm of my suffering. My head snapped up, and I saw the form of a large man towering above me. He moved quickly to stand before Mr. Fox and even in this wicked light I recognized the priest, Father Luke.
Tears ran in a pair of steady streams on my cheek. Father Luke did not even glance at me, but forged forward. Latin words spilled out of him with authority, and I could feel Marius hesitate at this new enemy.
The priest held before him a large golden crucifix, the one from the rosary I’d seen him with in the graveyard. He wielded it with absolute confidence and the effect on Marius was instantaneous. The fiend, stone-faced with rage, blinked into mist, which abruptly dissipated.
I could see by the darting glances of both men that they did not know where he had retreated. But I did. He was in the corner. Shrouded in shadow, he gathered his corporeal self behind the priest’s back.
I knew what he planned. My head had cleared enough for me to think again. But I was weak; my legs would not support me, and my hands shook in a pitiable palsy. I saw the shadowed Marius, invisible to the others, begin to slide toward Mr. Fox, who mistakenly had gone lax in relief.
Crawling on all fours, I dove to snatch the small reticule I’d brought with me. I dug my hand inside and called, “Father Luke!” I held out the thin switch of the hawthorn I’d brought with me. The priest stared for a moment, and the foul stench that was my reliable harbinger of the fiend’s presence grew. It was strong. He was coming.
“Hurry,” I said urgently. “He is behind you, in the shadow. He means to take Mr. Fox. Use this.”
I shouted this with authority, and threw the stick. The priest caught it, confused for a moment before casting it down. His fist closed tightly on his cross.
“No,” Fox shouted. “She is Dhampir. Do as she instructs.”
I moved, taking up the fallen hawthorn branch, but my body betrayed me. Marius had formed again, scorchingly handsome— almost beautiful—and seeming to glow with the red light of evil. Our eyes met for one moment before I remembered to yank my gaze away. But I was still stricken, and the hawthorn fell from my nerveless fingers.
Father Luke fell back, then recollected himself and surged forward, arm outstretched so that the crucified Christ was his weapon. Marius emitted a sound that was the hiss of the snake and the blood-freezing growl of the wolf, combined. He struck out, his arm like a whip, sending the crucifix flying out of Father Luke’s hand.
A sob exploded from me, knowing as I did we were doomed. This small, involuntary sound saved us, for Marius whipped about to me, searching for the threat. I saw a flash of fear in his eye, as if some danger might come from my quarter.
Before I could puzzle at that unexpected reaction, Father Luke leapt forward, moving astonishingly fast for a man of his size, falling then rolling across the ground. He came up with the slender stalk of hawthorn. Marius snapped around, surprised and wary of the switch of wood.
Hope flared, then quickly died as Father Luke took the pointed stake by its ends and, in one swift, downward motion, brought it down over a raised knee and broke it in two. He held out the broken pieces of the stick in the formation of a cross.
“Deus, in nómine tuo salvum me fac, det virtúte tua age causam meam,” Father Luke intoned commandingly. Marius retreated a step, his eyes on the makeshift cross.
I watched as Father Luke advanced, and all of a sudden, I knew. “Pierce him!” I called.
“Do it!” Fox bellowed behind me.
We all froze—all four of us—before the priest broke apart his talisman and, grasping the shorter piece, the one with the hastily filed point I’d fashioned, made the quick, slashing motion of an experienced knife artist.
Marius twisted defensively. The jab caught the lord vampire in the upper arm, yet the wound appeared to cause him great agony. He roared and stamped, his great cloak whirling as he hunched over, grasping the gash. With a great rush of air, he dissolved once again, the foul-smelling mist hanging in the air for a moment before dispersing at lightning speed in all directions, like talc in a gust.
The silent tableau of the three of us remained in place. Then Father Luke flung down the hawthorn stick and turned away, falling on his knees to pray.
I rushed forward, and took up the stick. The tip glistened in the dark with what I could only assume was blood. Marius’s blood. I was exceedingly confused. Wadim had released not a drop of fluid or blood when Fox had pierced him. Only bits of dried rust-colored old blood had appeared on the stake. This made sense; Wadim had been dead. But was not Marius equally dead? How was it blood flowed in the veins of a dead being?
I threw the useless thing aside and felt a rush of bone-crushing fatigue as I turned back to the others. The priest still murmured his prayers. Mr. Fox was still kneeling on the floor, in pain as he struggled to rise.
Sickness stole over me, crawling like spiders from the pit of my stomach. I felt as bereft as if I’d endured a rape of the most violent kind. I looked from man to man, searching for something to say, for some normal thing to banish the encroaching horror as what just had transpired began to take root in my awareness. I had been moving on instinct, but now—now I could think again. I could remember, and feel the violation.
And, oh, God, I was sick!
I doubled over and sank down to my knees, a boneless, nerveless heap, desiring only to expire in shame and the deepest humiliation. A moment later, gentle hands lifted me, bore me away from that place. I looked, and it was Mr. Fox who held me.
He touched my face gently, touching the burning spot where Marius’s shadow finger had rested. “Emma, I am so sorry.”
“What am I?” I cried.
His look was pity and tenderness and it made me weep again. I could not stop, not even when he spoke in short, hushed tones to Father Luke. They did their work with Mr. Hess, and I watched, exhausted and
bereft. They staked him, breaking off the tip and closing his coat over the evidence of the deed, and then Father Luke prepared the body using holy water. Mr. Fox did something with salt and muttered prayers in a language that made the priest’s eyebrows crawl upward over his forehead.
They laid our friend to rest. And when this was done, Mr. Fox smoothed my hair from my face and said, “I shall get you home now.”
Chapter Eighteen
We did not go back to Dulwich Manor. I was in no condition for that. The men conferred, and it was agreed we would return with Father Luke to the rectory at Saint Michael in the Fields.
Three quarters of an hour later, I found myself sitting in the small, rather claustrophobic confines of a parish drawing room with a Catholic priest and a self-confessed vampire hunter, drinking strong Madeira wine as though it were lemonade. I did not look at anyone. I kept my eyes forward and unfocused as the horror of the last hour rippled through me over and over again. I could still feel the lingering trace, like the smear of slime left in the wake of a bloated slug, of the great vampire’s touch.
Neither man tried to comfort me. For this I was grateful. I was allowed exactly what I needed: to be left alone until the wine began to relax me.
“I suppose I should begin by asking who you are,” the priest finally said after a protracted and heavy silence. I glanced up from contemplating the deep crimson in my glass. He was talking to Mr. Fox.
I studied the elegant man sitting quietly, encased in the enigmatic stillness he wore so well, the very thing that had driven me to nearly pulling out my hair on so many occasions. Yes, indeed, Mr. Fox. Let us find out who you are.
Fox looked at the priest with flat, expressionless eyes. “For many years, I have been hunting the vampire you just confronted,” he said.
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