Blood

by K. J. Wignall

  Will tried to ask another question, but it was already too late—Edward had been pulled back beneath the surface of the tomb. The rumbling of the stones stopped, so, too, the cries of the underworld. A few seconds later, a whistle sounded in the distance far below them, the whistle of someone calling to a dog. Sure enough, a small dog responded, its bark growing steadily fainter as it returned to its master.

  Edward was gone. The stillness of the crypt settled once more about them, its peace restored, for the rest of the family at least. Will stared at the cold marble of the tomb, a troubled mix of happiness and sorrow sweeping over him.

  “He really was a beautiful child, you know. I think I’ve missed him more than I knew.”

  Eloise’s scent grew stronger, and he felt her hand rest upon his arm, the life force in her filling him instantly with a strange mixture of hunger and longing. He turned to face her and she smiled, offering comfort, but he could see that she was worried.

  “Who’s Wyndham?”

  Will shook his head as he leaned against the tomb, and said, “A sorcerer apparently. One who’s willing to summon up spirits, even my own brother, to destroy me.”

  He suddenly felt desperately lonely and homesick, not for this place that he still inhabited, but for the time that was his, for the family, for whatever spirit world Edward had returned to with his faithful dog.

  “And Lorcan Labraid?”

  “Someone Jex mentioned—he said Lorcan Labraid is calling to me. And that he’s the evil of the world.”

  “Nice. And I’m guessing this is all new to you?”

  “Yes. As I told you, for more than seven hundred years there has been nothing. And now sorcerers are trying to destroy me, my own victims give me messages from the grave, the evil Lorcan Labraid calls to me.”

  “Do you think …” Eloise hesitated before saying, “Do you think Lorcan Labraid might be the one who bit you?”

  “Possibly. I don’t know.” But the thought of that creature, whether Labraid or some other, was enough to bring Will back to the present. He couldn’t know why Wyndham wanted to destroy him, nor why Lorcan Labraid called to him, but he could at least avenge the act that had started this and regain the family honor that had meant so much to Edward, and to him. “The notebook must hold the key, and if there’s one thing I can do, it’s to confront that creature at last.”

  “Now we’re talking,” said Eloise. She hesitated then and said, “But er, I need to pee first. Do you have a toilet down there?”

  “No. I think there are some in the church.”

  “But what do you do?” Her thoughts immediately provided her with the only possible answer. “Don’t tell me, you don’t … go to the toilet … at all?”

  “Do you really find that stranger than the fact that I have no discernible heartbeat, that my strength is out of proportion to my size, that I neither eat nor drink, that with the exception of my hair and teeth and nails, my body remains unchanged from one century to the next?”

  “I suppose when you put it like that.” She started towards the crypt gate, but stopped and smiled, saying, “You met me for a reason, Will. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to find out why this happened to you.”

  He nodded and smiled back. He wanted to believe her, but more importantly, he believed in her because she knew already that he was quite lost, more lost than she would ever be, and yet she still believed in him.

  14

  Will looked along the darkened nave as he waited for Eloise. It was no longer quite the same place it had been earlier, before that first attack. He no longer expected another demon, or at least he knew in his heart that Edward would trouble him no further.

  But the air was charged now, as if the gates of the underworld were slowly opening, as if a great storm was about to break, and after all those centuries of emptiness, here he was at the center of it.

  “Will?” He looked towards the cathedral toilets. Eloise sounded a little nervous as she said, “Could you come in here, please?”

  He ran to the door and pushed it open, and even though she’d been careful to turn on only one light, he was momentarily blinded. As his eyes adjusted he saw her standing in the middle of the room, quite safe, but staring uneasily at the mirrors above the washbasins.

  “What is it?”

  “Look in the mirrors—tell me what you see.”

  He didn’t understand. “I’ve told you, I cast a reflection.”

  “No, I mean, look in the mirrors.”

  Out of the corner of his eye then he spotted something moving in the mirrors. He looked across the room, but there was nothing there. He drew closer and immediately saw that there were shadowy figures beyond the glass, as if they were windows looking on to some dulled room, just visible beyond the reflection of tiled walls.

  They were hooded, wearing dark robes, so at first Will thought they were monks, but almost immediately he realized from their silhouettes that they were women. He tried to see their faces but couldn’t and every time one came close she seemed to keep her face hidden from him.

  “They’re whispering,” he said because he could hear it now.

  “I thought they were. Can you hear what they’re saying?”

  “No,” he said, lying, not wanting to tell her what it was. “I can’t see their faces either.”

  “I saw them,” she said, her voice sounding small. He turned to look at her and she said, “They don’t have any. They’re just blank, or almost blank.”

  Will looked into the mirrors again, but the women all seemed to be walking away from them now. A moment later, they were gone and the reflection showed only the bright room in which they stood.

  Eloise smiled and said, “I suppose they were ghosts. I expect you’ve seen plenty of ghosts in here over the centuries.”

  “Not until now.” That response seemed to trouble her, so he added, “Still, at least they meant us no harm.”

  She seemed lost for a response, but then laughed and said, “Now that is a positive outlook. Shall we go?”

  Will nodded and they walked back out into the nave, turning off the light as they left.

  Eloise was mesmerized all over again by the misty half-light of the cathedral, so he slowed and eventually stopped for her to stand looking out at it.

  “It’s so beautiful—I’d never really noticed that before, not until I met you.” She looked at him and said, “It was built before you were born, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “The main part of it was constructed long before, but it was still a work in progress—the Lady Chapel was being built when I was a child.”

  She laughed, as if she still couldn’t quite believe that he was nearly as old as this building, then said, “Oh well, back to the crypt, I suppose.” But they’d hardly taken a step when she stopped again and said, “The Heston-Dangraves crypt! That’s your family name!”

  “It was my family name in later years.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before—I go to Marland Abbey School, or at least I did. They’ve probably expelled me. But that can’t just be coincidence, can it, that my school is where your family moved after the dissolution?”

  He smiled, being reminded of his family’s history like that. Henry VIII had destroyed Marland and his brother’s descendants had been given the lands. They’d built the sprawling Jacobean mansion that was now the school Eloise spoke of, and in the nineteenth century they’d built a Gothic mansion next to the ruins of the abbey itself. But even that mansion was no longer a home, owned instead by the National Trust.

  The titles had died out long ago, and the last of the family—two elderly sisters who’d never married—had passed away fifty years ago. It made him sad to think of the family’s achievements, of the undoubtedly fine houses they’d built—though he had never seen them for himself—and all of it gone.

  His entire family, all those Mercian Earls and the Heston-Dangraves who’d followed them, was lost in time, the noble line crumbling to dust in the
graves of two childless sisters. He was the only one left, and he was not enough.

  “What’s wrong? You look sad.”

  “It’s nothing, just that I knew Marland well as a boy. We were there in the weeks before my sickness. I haven’t seen it since of course, and nor would I recognize it if I did.” He sighed. “It all seems such a very long time ago.”

  Eloise stepped closer, her voice almost a whisper as she said, “Will, when was the last time someone gave you a hug?”

  He tried to think of an answer, even though the answer was obvious and it was merely the question that had thrown him, but before he could reply, Eloise put her arms around his waist and held herself against him in a brief embrace, nestling her head on his shoulder.

  He was conscious of his hands hanging limply, but wasn’t sure what he should do with them. He made to speak again, but as he did so, she pulled away slightly and kissed him. Her lips were soft and then he felt the tip of her tongue against his, the briefest moment of intense pleasure, but at that instant, the taste became overwhelming.

  He could taste her blood. Her lips, her tongue, every corpuscle, the metallic richness of it pumping through every vein, through her beating heart. And even though he knew his teeth were filed, the animal instinct aroused by the taste of her made him want to bite into her lips, to draw that blood to the surface.

  He’d seen her beauty from the start, had felt a strong enough connection with her that he’d been foolish enough to imagine such an intimacy as this. But this was the reality of it, the barren, hateful reality of his loneliness.

  He pushed her away, too firmly, so much so that she looked shocked and upset.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He tried to say more, but a violent pain tore through his head, cleaving his brain in two. He bent double, holding his skull tight, feeling if he didn’t, it would blow apart.

  “Will, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” She sounded worried now, but also a little scared.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. You don’t understand.” He couldn’t say any more, until slowly the pain subsided, and the memory of that taste faded. Finally, he stood straight and looked at her, and felt wounded again for her hurt expression.

  “Eloise, please don’t think I’m blind to your beauty.” He remembered the vision he’d had of her, of the two of them walking on that summer afternoon, and he wished so much that such an afternoon could be real, that they could have both lived those other lives. He smiled at the thought and said, “If you had been alive seven hundred and fifty years ago, I would gladly have broken my heart over you, but you weren’t, and I’m not made for love, not the way I am now. When you kissed me, I could taste only blood. Your blood. Don’t you understand? It’s too much for me to bear.”

  “You mean, I taste like dinner.” He laughed a little in response. She laughed, too, but then grew serious again and said, “Actually, what’s really weird is that you don’t taste of anything. You taste of nothing at all.”

  “I am nothing,” he said simply.

  “I don’t believe that,” she said, shaking her head. Then she shrugged. “Well, as we’re not going to be making out for the rest of the night, we might as well get down to work on deciphering that notebook.”

  Will smiled. He didn’t know what “making out” was, but he was relieved because she was joking and lighthearted, after everything that had happened. Eloise knew how little reason there was to be with him, she knew that he’d become something less than human, but she didn’t run.

  She wanted to help him find the one who’d bitten him, even if it was Lorcan Labraid, the evil of the world, who was apparently so much a part of Will’s destiny. And it seemed she wouldn’t be frightened off, not by demons or the ghost of his brother or the strange spirits they’d seen in the mirrors.

  Yet the memory of those spirits troubled Will. He remembered what they had whispered and he tried to answer the question in his own mind, determined as he was that he would not lose her. And still that whispered question echoed in his thoughts, all the more disturbing because he had heard it before: “Will you sacrifice her, when the time comes?”

  15

  People can go entire lifetimes and fail to learn important things about themselves. So do not judge me too harshly when I say that I was five hundred years old before I fully understood that my only long-term relationship would be with loss—it has been the one certainty of my life, that I will lose everyone sooner or later.

  By the late seventeenth century, merchants had become the dominant force in the city and they displayed their wealth by building large houses in the countryside immediately to the north of the city walls. At first this upset me greatly because the fields and woodlands there had been a favorite haunt of mine in the short summer nights. But progress can never be halted, and I continued to walk beyond the North Gate even as the landscape became swallowed up and transformed into an elegant extension of the city.

  Indeed, the new houses and their inhabitants exerted a grim fascination over me, even after the countryside that I’d loved had been lost for several decades. So it was that I met Arabella.

  Hers was a fine house set in walled gardens—the house is still there, though not as grand as it once was, and most of the gardens have long since been eaten up by other buildings.

  One summer night in 1714 I was passing by on my way back into the city when I caught the unmistakable scent of blood in the gardens beyond the walls. Even at this time, people ventured out little at night, for fear of brigands and spirits, and though it was warm, the sky was moonless and dark.

  I vaulted on to the wall and looked down upon the gardens to see just such a spirit traversing the lawns and walking among the flower beds. Dressed in white flowing nightclothes, her long hair a flourish of golden waves, her skin milk pale, she appeared like a ghost or an angel, floating through the darkness.

  This was the then thirteen-year-old Arabella, and I was immediately smitten by her beauty. I descended into the garden and approached carefully through the shadows. And only after following her for some time did I come to understand that she was sleepwalking.

  That first night, I was as mesmerized by her as my victims have been mesmerized by me. She walked for an hour before suddenly looking up into the night sky, and then she returned to the house just as if she had been called.

  I looked at the sky myself and realized that I’d observed her too long, so bewitched had I been. I ran back into the city, reaching the crypt only as my skin began to prickle in discomfort at the approaching dawn, but I laughed and smiled the whole way, exhilarated.

  I had seen her only once, but nothing had moved me so much in nearly five hundred years. If I had been a boy like any other, I would have declared myself in love.

  I returned every night for the next week, and at first there were nights when I waited, but she did not come. Soon I realized that the sleepwalking only occurred on the warmest and most sultry evenings.

  I chose the nights of my visits accordingly and so learned to read the weather and her nocturnal state well enough that I was rarely disappointed.

  One night the following summer, the moon was full, but I was still there in her garden despite the burning discomfort of its reflected light on my skin. Even when I kept to the shadows, the prickling sensation of heat flared across my flesh. Yet little did I care because the night was warm and Arabella walked abroad. It was a distraction like none I’d known.

  She had been walking only for a few minutes and was moving away from me across a lawn when she stopped and turned to face me.

  I assumed she was still in the deeps of sleep, but with a curious tone, she suddenly said, “Hello.” Perhaps I should not have responded, but I did, and then she said, “Step out from the shadows that I might see you.”

  I moved forwards, shielding my eyes as well as I could against the moonlight, and said, “I mean you no harm.”

  She was about to reply sternly, but studied me in the faint blue light of the moon and said, “I know your face, as
if I’ve seen you before. Who are you?”

  “I’m William …” I stopped myself in time, remembering that any reference to my birth would arouse her suspicions. “Please, call me Will.”

  She adopted a haughty air, something she managed even in her nightclothes, and said, “And you may call me Miss Harriman.”

  I almost laughed, not least at the thought of a merchant’s daughter taking such airs with me, but I accepted her invitation graciously and said, “Thank you, Miss Harriman. But might I at least know your name?”

  “Arabella.” Without my asking, she volunteered, “I’m fourteen.”

  “I’m four hundred and seventy-five.”

  She looked me up and down and said, “Then you are a Will-o’-the-wisp, though dressed in the latest fashion, and I must go to my bed in fear of my soul.” She laughed playfully and walked away across the lawn, saying, “Good night, Will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “Good night, Miss Harriman,” said I.

  At that time, no girl of her age could have been expected to behave as Arabella had done. If she’d believed me flesh and blood, she should have run in terror, fearing for her honor and her life. If she’d believed me a sprite, she should have screamed in terror for her soul.

  Yet no matter what the conventions of the age, some people find their own path and she was one such. On the nights that she woke from her walking slumber, she would converse with me, sometimes for only a few minutes, sometimes for as much as an hour.

  I never sought to wake her, and her night walks were confined to the warmest months, but over the next few years we spoke several dozen times, always in an elliptical fashion, as if she didn’t believe me quite real, but rather an imaginary friend who came to her in her dreams.

  Perhaps it seems a great commitment on my part, to find my way to that same garden so many times over several years, but set against the span of my life thus far, I look back upon it now as you might upon a fleeting summer romance.