“I suppose you have a compelling reason for such a dangerous occupation.” Father Luke’s voice was modulated, wearing the authority of a Roman cleric, but it was not mild. Nothing about the hulking man could ever be so.
Mr. Fox allowed a hint of emotion to pass over his features. And then it was gone. “He took something from me.”
My eyebrows beetled as I watched the priest, observing how sanguine he was. All this talk of vampires and he did not so much as touch the crucifix suspended prominently from a chain around his neck. And he had accepted Mr. Fox’s answer—which was no answer at all. But then, one doesn’t press another too closely when one has secrets of one’s own.
“Who are you?” I demanded abruptly, startling both men. I never would have behaved so crassly if not for the floating, free feeling the wine had given me. I uncurled a finger from around my wineglass and leveled it at Father Luke. “You are no ordinary priest.”
He smiled quietly as he arranged his hands on his lap. “Let me just say that I am aware of the presence of a vampire in this area, and have been for some time. Which you guessed, Mrs. Andrews. I am afraid my thespian skills are lacking. It did not occur to me to feign surprise until after you were gone. I gave myself away, I fear.”
“Yes,” I said, and suddenly wanted to weep with relief. Finally, truth. “The tree up on The Sanctuary. I saw him there.”
Father Luke shook his head. “That is not where he sleeps. I have already looked.” He raised his eyes first to Mr. Fox and then me. “I have not discovered that place yet. Nor have you, obviously. I have thought it likely Silbury Hill, or the Long Barrows. Those are tombs, after all. If he has indeed set up his resting place there, we will never find him even if we had every man and woman in the village searching for a hundred years. It is simply too vast.”
“What are these crypts, and the stone circles?” I asked. “What do they represent?”
“Death,” he said simply. “Avebury is a necropolis, Mrs. Andrews. A city organized around funereal purposes. A city of the dead, to be precise.”
Mr. Fox said, “Which lies along the Saint Michael line, populated by strongholds built by the Church. They are attempting to protect something.”
Father Luke spoke as if choosing his words carefully. “The forces concentrated along the meridian line are of interest to the Mother Church. Chapels, churches, and such guard the places along the line where the barrier between worlds might grow, from time to time, alarmingly thin. Saint Michael’s is one such outpost.”
I was rather stunned at this revelation. According to what he was telling us, under the blessing—indeed, the mandate—of Rome, he manned an outpost along the line where the living and the dead were believed to meet. All of my earlier musings on the Church’s involvement, which had seemed outlandish at the time, appeared to have come very close to the truth.
“From before the first missionaries,” Father Luke continued, “when this land belonged to pagan worshippers, even back to the earliest settlements in this area, this place has been known to be holy. That is why the stones were brought here, spread out along the hillside to form the monument, the Serpent.” He paused, waiting to see if this got a reaction from either Mr. Fox or me. “It is a very…particularly important place, one that has played a significant role in the battle between good and evil throughout the centuries.”
Fox lowered his chin to rest on his steepled fingers. “Do you know why Marius has come?”
Father Luke paused, then replied carefully, “The modern church does not officially recognize the existence of vampires.”
“You are not going to bore me with doctrine,” Mr. Fox challenged darkly.
“I merely wish to make the point that I am not speaking with any official standing.”
The feeling was returning, that awful invasion, as if maggots had infested my veins. The smell of Marius’s breath pricked my nostrils; the memory acutely vivid, and yet even now—and through all of my disgust—desire for what he offered stirred in me. My hand shook as I put my glass to my lips and drained the last of Madeira.
Then I spoke. “The tree, the one up on The Sanctuary. It has the words ‘The Blood is the Life’ carved on it. And I found a broken plaque on the ground with a fish symbol, exactly like the one on your ring.”
“The tree is a holy symbol,” Father Luke explained. “Hawthorn, called whitethorn or even Christthorn by some, is what the Roman soldiers used to construct the crown of thorns for Jesus. Also, it is not native to England, but is from the east. The fact that it blooms twice a year, most oddly at around the Christmastide season as well as summer, enhances its mystique.”
“It must have real powers,” Fox reasoned. “You saw what just scratching the skin with the cutting from the tree did.”
The priest frowned as he gave this some thought. “Yes. That was quite clever.” Rising, Father Luke consulted a stack of books on a shelf behind his chair. “Let me read to you what Sir John Maundeville wrote: ‘Then was Our Lord led into a garden, and there they made him a crown of the branches of the Albiespyne, that is Whitethorn, that grew in the same garden, and set it upon his head. And therefore hath the Whitethorn many virtue. For he that beareth a branch on him thereof, no thunder, nay no manner of tempest may dare him, nay in the house that it is in may not evil ghost enter.’”
But I had already known, somehow, that the hawthorn would hold sway over evil.
Mr. Fox’s voice, as dark as velvet, cut in. “Folk wisdom has it a vampire can be imprisoned in a tree.”
Father Luke bowed his head and smiled somewhat bitterly. “It does indeed.”
“That tree on The Sanctuary. It was sealed with the symbol exactly like the one on the ring you wear. I believe, Father, that you should tell us all you know.”
The priest closed his eyes for a moment. “The symbol is the mark of my order. For generations, our priests have been here at this church. There is a power, a being which is bound in some way to The Sanctuary.”
“Is it a vampire, an ancient and powerful one?”
“I do not completely understand the nature of it myself. In the siege, when Cromwell laid waste to the Catholic presence in this land, much was lost. We managed to hold on to the church.”
“You lost the house,” I put in. “Dulwich Manor. It must have been part of this ‘outpost’ originally. The bishop had Latin sayings carved into the wood. They are about this danger, aren’t they?”
He nodded. “When Cromwell’s armies came, they took the house and all of the lands. A local man who was influential with the Roundheads impressed upon the invaders to leave the church be. He was persuasive, and ultimately successful. That was why the outpost was not disturbed and left to Rome in the midst of their purge. No doubt copious amounts of money changed hands to accomplish this. More important, during this time, the hawthorn tree survived, thanks to the Lord’s blessing.”
“Why is it so important?” I implored. “What is it?”
“A prison. Its tenant is something unspeakably evil. As I said, I know little, although I will refer you to the Old Testament story in the book of Tobit, for this is how it was explained to me. In this book, God sends the archangel Raphael to protect Tobit’s son from the demon Asmodeus.” He smiled wryly. “Raphael used incense made from a gutted fish to entrance the demon and lure him into a tree, where he imprisoned him. So, you recognize this is akin to what has happened here in Ave bury. Thus, the apotrope on the seal, which you noticed, Mrs. Andrews. The same one on my ring.” He glanced down at the gold band with the engraving of the fish.
“It was shattered,” I said. “I found it in pieces.”
“Yes. The seal had been broken. That was how I knew that I, of all my predecessors, would be the one called to execute the duty for which generations of priests have been trained. If this being on The Sanctuary is what Marius has come for, he shall be stopped. I have been well trained for this.”
“With what, prayer?” Fox became impassioned. “I do not care to merely stop him. I’ve come her
e to destroy him.” There was a rather desperate quality to his tone. Poor Mr. Fox, I thought drowsily. The vampire Marius—or Emil, or whoever—took something from him. Something he cared for very deeply, it was obvious to see. Perhaps it was a woman. A wife, a love…I was startled by the sudden jealousy I felt.
“You must leave it to me,” Father Luke said quietly.
“We can help you,” Fox urged. “And you must help us.”
The priest bowed his head. “You have to understand, sir, that I took a most sacred vow. Do you understand? I am a priest, and I am well equipped to handle the events facing me, despite what you believe.”
“People are dying, man!” Fox exploded.
Father Luke nodded. “I am painfully aware of that. And I am not unsympathetic, believe me. I have some items that can aid and protect you in your own struggle with Marius.” He cast me a smile without rancor. “You might require more than one crucifix and a small vial of blessed water.” He stood. “I have some relics, items of religious significance that have been blessed by truly holy men. They have certain power, for only goodness can fight what you must face.”
“Goodness,” Fox repeated, rising to meet him. Father Luke was taller, Mr. Fox leaner, and yet the two men looked a pair. Not friends. Not enemies, either.
“Goodness is exactly the issue, sir,” Father Luke explained. “What benefit will water blessed by a corrupt priest have you? The blessing must be done by a man right in the eyes of God. Not a perfect man, mind you. We would be ill fated if that were required, for those are in short supply.” His smile was meant to be wry. It appeared grim.
“Then you are saying not all holy water is effective?” I asked.
“Nothing done outside of the state of grace is effective. Consider a host consecrated by a priest whose faith is faltering. Or any sacrament performed while the priest is engaged in some sin of deceit, or perverted lust, or greed.”
Fox’s expression was fierce as he comprehended. “Indeed. So that is why my weapons have sometimes failed me. It has seemed there was no sense in the way two crosses will repel differently, or whether holy water will scorch corrupt flesh.”
Father Luke nodded. “Come with me, then, and see what I have for you. You may join us if you like, Mrs. Andrews.”
I declined, and after they had left, I bolted out of my chair. Alone, I sought to rid myself of the memory of Marius. It sat like curdled blood in my veins. The wine I had drunk caught my balance in a vortex. I steadied my hand on a table and bent my head, waiting for the wave of sickness to pass. I wanted nothing more than to curl into a tight ball and weep until I was clean again. It would be a relief to seek my sister’s side and apply my time to needlepoint and sewing baby clothes, to redeem myself, live at last in the friendship and peace I’d always desired.
Yet I had only to think of Henrietta, and my thoughts changed. Cowardice receded sharply, and I felt like an empty vessel, devoid of all but the determination written into my bones to protect her. It was not bravery or heroism; it was love, simply that, and it did not banish my fear and disgust and dread. It merely made them irrelevant.
I stood and began to pace a tight circle as I gathered my courage back to its sticking place, as it were. On a table by the door, I noticed a carved stone Celtic cross that seemed a bit pagan for this setting. From one arm dangled a black ribbon from which a gold badge hung. Carved on the face was the scene from the church painting, that of a winged angel standing upon a serpent. Saint Michael the Archangel, the patron of this church and the power meridian which it guards.
I peered at the serpent, trying to see if it were a dragon, as in the painting I’d seen in the church. It was difficult to say but I rather thought the heroic figure standing victorious over his foe appeared more Saint George than angelic. Mr. Hess had mentioned the Feast of Saint George as being significant in the seasons of good and evil. It never occurred to me how closely these two were linked—Saint George and Saint Michael. They could have been variants of the same legend.
I cradled the gold disk in my hand. It was heavy. It must be worth a great deal of money. On the back, I found the fish symbol, along with the words “Knights of the Order of Saint Michael of the Wing.”
As soon as the men returned—with Mr. Fox’s bag held tightly against his side, filled, I assumed, with his boon—I pled the urgent desire to return to the manor. My wish was granted. I fancied Mr. Fox’s grip was gentle, almost caressing, as he helped me to my mount. We rode home without any conversation, but as we were bidding our farewells to one another, he took my hands in his.
“I have not forgotten my promise. We shall talk tomorrow, and I will answer any question you might pose.”
I was contented to wait. I needed to sleep, for the weariness went deeper than bodily fatigue. I was exhausted to the deepest corner of my soul. The defiling stench of Marius’s touch—not so much to my flesh as my brittle, aching will—was still with me, and it remained with me as I plunged hard into troubled sleep.
After an interminable morning and a never-ending game of Pope Joan, in which even purposefully losing to Alyssa won me no favor, I was on pins and needles to speak to Mr. Fox. Mary, however, had a mind to have a word with me. While I was exiting the water closet, she pulled me aside.
She had noted my friendship with Mr. Fox, it seemed. “He is a single man, after all,” she observed speculatively.
“We are both sorely disturbed by the death of Mr. Hess,” I told her carefully.
“Is that all?” Her eyebrows inched up her forehead in an obvious innuendo.
“Mary! I am just out of mourning. We are friends only.”
“Well, I am glad to hear it. He is not completely suitable, you know. I thought at first he might be interesting, but he never seems to warm to the company. And it is not a good time for…well, anything more than friendship. Alyssa would be most put out if you were occupied with a romance. You must make a point to spend more time with her.”
My stretched nerves snapped. “Sometimes it seems as if my family would be happy if I would think of nothing but Alyssa and her whims and her preferences and her moods. I am sorry if my friendship with Mr. Fox troubles you, but there is no harm in it.”
“Emma,” she said, seeming contrite, “I am not attempting to play favorites. It is just…her condition.”
“When you were increasing with Henrietta, did you teeter on the brink of severe illness should a frown crease your brow? This is nothing short of tyranny, Mary.”
She took a bracing breath. I saw she sincerely meant to offer help. “I do not wish to intrude on what was surely a private conversation, but Alyssa told me you and she had had something of a confession. Your neglect is particularly hurtful after such a deeply felt discussion. She feels ignored.”
“I have not ignored her. I…” But I had. With good reason, but who would know this?
Mary took up when I could not finish. “It is not only Alyssa. Yes, as a widow, you are not subject to the same social prescriptions as an unmarried woman. But, Emma, you cannot comport yourself as you have been with Mr. Fox. I do not like the amount of time you are spending in his company. You two seem secretive.”
“That is ridiculous,” I defended, although I could not quite summon the indignation I needed, for she was quite right.
She frowned at me. “He is so very…odd.”
“Well, I am odd, too. Or so I’ve been told often enough.”
“Oh, Emma.”
We left on poor terms, and I cannot say I was unaffected by this. Despite the larger concerns awaiting my attention, I still cared deeply for the growing rift between myself and my relatives.
It was not until after luncheon that Mr. Fox and I were able to speak. We went to the garden, which was cast under a canopy of gunmetal-gray clouds. Cold rain spit down from these, driving us under the shelter of the folly. We remained in full view of the house—a measure of convention I took from my conversation with Mary.
“Now you will tell me,” I said to him. “W
hat is it you know of my mother?”
I had not spoken harshly, nor pleadingly, but calmly. He regarded me with equal placidness, neither one of us blinking.
“I know nothing of your mother—” he began.
I ignored the dismay that stabbed through me. “Then why did you ask so specifically about her?”
“I suspect…” His face collapsed, and I saw he was not being evasive at all. It truly pained him to speak. “Mrs. Andrews, please understand. It gives me no peace to say this to you.”
I felt the quickening of panic, but I drove on in spite of it. “You called me ‘Dhampir.’ That beastly gypsy—he called me that, too. What is it?” At the way he flinched, I exclaimed, “Mr. Fox!”
“It is a term from Romania.”
“What does it mean?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and stared directly into mine. “It means ‘little vampire’ when translated literally.”
There is something of the vampire in you. I made a small sound, a strangled cry.
Fox pressed on. “It is supposed that a Dhampir is the child of strigoi vii. The Dhampir is a legendary hunter of undead and cursed beings. It can see and sense them, and possesses instincts to defeat them.”
I absorbed this, frozen, numb. Dhampir. Wadim’s voice came to me: Your mother will weep, Dhampir. You should have stayed asleep.
“It means,” Fox said gently, “that you are a child of strigoi vii.”
The living vampire. I trembled violently as I backed away from him, rage and terror coursing through me like a black tide. “No. She was not like Wadim. She was not evil. She was ill, that was all. She—”
“Emma,” he said, starting forward.
My hand lashed out before I knew it would, landing hard on his cheek. His head snapped back. The sound of that slap was like an explosion.
He hadn’t been expecting it. Neither had I, but the violence felt good. It felt clean and natural, purely human, and I was glad I’d done it. I hated him at that moment. I hated everything dirty and hateful that he’d just said.
I fled back to the house. The sensation of being unclean sent me to the chamber pot in my room. I retched until I was weak and shaking, lying on the floor until the maid came in and found me. She went for her mistress before I could stop her.
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