by Brian Lumley
“You just don’t understand, do you?” Tony glanced at him, cutting him short. “No, this isn’t the first time, or even the tenth or twentieth that I’ve had to talk to him like this. But recently … every time is worse than the last time. Don’t you realize that when I go into Angelo Ferenczy’s mind, or let him into mine, the kind of jeopardy I place myself in?” And before Francesco could answer, if he would: “Yes, you’re right: I was always closer to him. I was able to ‘get on’ with him, and he seemed to be genuinely ‘fond’ of me. But do you think I don’t worry about that, too? Well, I do, Francesco. I do …”
“Eh? How, worried?” Francesco frowned. “That he could harm you in some way? But if there’s one of us he might want to harm it would have to be me. I honestly believe he hates me! And anyway, he can’t hurt either one of us from this pit.”
“Well, at least you’re consistent,” Tony sighed patiently, shaking his head at what he obviously saw as the other’s naivety. “For more than three hundred years you’ve never thought of him as anything other than a monster in a pit.”
“Wrong!” Francesco answered. “I’ve also thought of him as our father—and I’ve loathed the idea that we were spawned of that thing! But what happened to him was bound to happen. Why, even his twin was a monster, smothered at birth and burned as a freak. And do you know what has preyed on my mind these centuries, brother? It shouldn’t be too hard to guess. That we are of the same flesh! And is it waiting for us, too? Given time, will our metamorphism also run rampant, reducing us to so much lapping, filthy protoplasm?”
Now Tony gripped his arm. “Almost!” he snapped. “For a moment there you almost had it. But you left out one very important word. So much lapping, filthy, sentient protoplasm! And one other thing, Francesco: the fact that he’s Wamphyri!”
“Eh?” Again Francesco’s eyes were wide, puzzled, staring.
“And what are the traits of the Wamphyri?”
The other’s expression changed at once. “A word game,” he sneered. “This has to be a word game! Why, you’re as bad as he is! We can’t even hold a simple conversation without …”
“Indulge me,” Tony insisted. “The traits of the Wamphyri?”
Francesco shook himself loose. “Very well, if it’s the only way we can go on from here. According to that thing in his pit, the Wamphyri were known for their greed, lust, lies and territorialism.”
“And?”
“Eh?”
“And their tenacity!” Tony snarled. “Now do you see? It’s what I meant when I said you almost had it. For you pointed out that he had ‘spawned’ us—without mentioning that we were only his bloodsons!”
Francesco shook his head. “I still don’t underst—”
“—He still has his leech!” Tony cut him short.
“His leech? But by now … surely that, too, has devolved to so much—?”
“No, for if that were so he simply wouldn’t want to go on. His leech is his tenacity, the only thing that keeps him going. And his leech still has its egg!”
“Is that what concerns you? But you are already Wamphyri! Angelo’s leech or egg can’t, couldn’t possibly, get into you.”
“I know, I know,” Tony was pale now, paler than ever. “Yet just recently, whenever I’m obliged to talk to him—like now—I get this feeling that he’s … waiting.”
“Waiting?”
“Waiting, planning, watching! Don’t ask me what for. I’ll tell you something, though: I think we were damned lucky to get him down into this place in the first place.”
“Huh!” Francesco snorted. “He was the lucky one. A hundred and more times we could have done away with him during the final years of his devolution. And for that matter, we could do it even now! Send down a fifty-gallon drum of kerosene, a stick of dynamite … no more Angelo Ferenczy to get concerned about!”
“And no more oracle,” Tony answered him. “No more power-base. That’s the logic of the defeatist, brother. Ten minutes ago you started raving when I asked you what had changed. All right, I was being flippant. But you pointed out that the Families were starting to laugh at us behind our backs; also that various intelligence agencies are backing off from us. But how much more rapidly would they desert us without Angelo?”
“Except for one small detail,” Francesco answered, “your logic is impeccable. That small detail being that we’re already ‘without’ him! When was the last time our father uttered a single useful word? Or one that made any kind of sense? He’s gone, Tony, slipped beyond the pale. He’s no longer of any use to us. Well, except on this one occasion, as a means of disposal.”
“And possibly as our mindspy on whatever it is that’s happening out there.”
“Yes. One last chance to pin-point Radu Lykan’s lair, and learn the hour of his resurgence. One last opportunity to scry on this damned Drakul’s Tibetan aerie and maybe learn something of his plans. And if we’re lucky—if Angelo feels like co-operating, assuming he’s capable of it—one final glimpse, into our own futures.”
“The first two, maybe,” Tony was thoughtful now. “But not the last. How can we hope to learn that from him if he isn’t a part of that future? He won’t advise us to bring about his own demise …”
Francesco’s jaws cracked open and his eyes lit in a monstrous grin. “And at last I see what a fool I was to have doubted you!” he said.
“Oh?” Tony looked at him cooly.
“You have considered putting an end to him!”
“Out of pity, if nothing else.”
“What? But a moment ago you feared him!”
“And are the two so incompatible? Fear and pity? He is our father.”
“He’s a monster!”
“And are we any less?”
“You are playing word games!” Francesco flapped his arms.
“We go round in circles,” Tony’s tone was sharper; he was done with this now. “We’ve talked too much, said too much. And we’ve done it in the wrong place.”
“What, do you think he might have been eavesdropping? And if so, that he would have understood? And then that he’d care? Nothing matters to him anymore; well, except that he raves and babbles to his victims, the minds that share his hell.”
Tony’s answer was to put a finger to his lips, glance once into the pit, and whisper, “Well, he isn’t babbling now …”
It was true: the psychic aether seemed breathlessly still. But the pit’s miasma—the breath or effluvium of the thing it contained—went up as ever: a stinking mist that vaporized on contact with the electrified iron-mesh of the hinged cover that sealed the throat of the old well.
For long seconds the brothers looked at each other, until Francesco said, “I don’t envy you, as I said. But …”
“ … It has to be done, I know,” Tony finished it for him. “And yes, I have thought of doing away with him. For after all, he’s the only thing that ties us to this place, and I fancy Le Manse Madonie has had its day. We could be elsewhere, as other people, doing other than we do now. You have suggested a fifty-gallon drum of kerosene and a stick of dynamite. But what if I were to suggest sufficient high-explosives to blow this entire place off the face of the mountain?”
“I would in every instance agree with you!” Francesco answered. “And to the world let it seem that we went with it.”
“Except even if we were to leave this place in ruins, that wouldn’t solve our problem—the fact that we are known to the dog-Lord’s people and probably to this Tibetan Drakul, and that sooner or later we must run into them. For you can be sure that they would not believe we were dead!”
“Besides which,” Francesco snarled, “I don’t like the idea of backing off while this secret intruder—this Harry Keogh or Alec Kyle or whatever his bloody name is—goes unpunished. And we actually know where he is! That’s the most galling thing!”
“We know something of what he can do, too.” Tony was quick to remind his brother. “Which is also galling. This man goes up against vampires! He
and the Mirlu woman, they took out a Drakul lieutenant and thrall. And our man in Scotland seems of the opinion that Bonnie Jean Mirlu is now Wamphyri. Indeed he would swear to it, for he’s seen at least one of her kills.”
“Our men are in position,” Francesco was growing ever more heated and impatient. “We should go ahead and do it: order our lieutenants to kidnap, interrogate this E-Branch hypnotist, and our sleeper in Scotland to take out the Mirlu woman, along with any clever help she may have enlisted.”
“None of which will help us find Radu Lykan,” Tony’s pessimism persisted. “The woman must be taken alive.”
“And if she really is Wamphyri?”
“It would mean that we must … well, do it ourselves.”
“And if all went in our favour?” Francesco seemed eager to get something, anything, going.
“Then blow this place to hell,” Tony answered, but without his brother’s fervour. “And the old creature in his pit with it. After that, set up again somewhere else. And eventually find a way to run this cringing Drakul to earth.”
“No more Francezcis,” Francesco nodded. “Ferenczys, maybe? And why not? It’s a common enough name in Romania.”
“That would do it!” Tony was in agreement. “Romanian dissidents—old aristocracy, even—fleeing from the madman Ceausescu’s tyranny. But where to? America, perhaps?”
“Why not?” Francesco laughed out loud, and the echoes came bouncing back from the cavern’s walls. “New York is nothing so dreary as this place. And there are plenty of penthouse aeries on 5th Avenue, believe me!”
“So good they named it twice!” Tony chuckled, however drily. “The Big Apple—just waiting to be bitten into!”
“And of an evening,” (Francesco added), “we could stand on our balcony and watch those electrical rivers of light and life flooding through the canyons of the city!”
“Poetic,” said Tony. “You know, brother, why, I’ve always suspected there was a poet in you? But rivers of life? Are you sure you don’t mean rivers of blood?”
“But the blood is the life, dear brother,” said the other. And as he finished speaking—as if invoked by all their talk of blood and life—a low moan sounded from close at hand.
The brothers’ smiles fell away; their heads turned as one to stare at Julietta Sclafani in her coffin, whose glass-panelled lid now lay to one side. Julietta, whose head had turned a little as if to look at them, her too-pale face no longer smiling but frowning. One of her hands had slipped from her bosom where they had lain crossed, but her eyes were still closed and there was no breathing—as yet. Perhaps the bearers had jolted her when bringing her down here. And perhaps not …
“No more talk now,” said Francesco, his tone serious in a moment. “Well, not to each other. Instead I suggest you talk to him.” He inclined his head to indicate the pit. “Try to start a conversation while I see to this.” Switching off the current to the hinged grid covering the pit, he commenced cranking it open. But Tony’s expression was more serious yet—even drawn—as he caught at his brother’s arm and said:
“One more chance! We give our father one more chance. I’m pleading for him, yes. Oh, I know you’re right: he’s no use to us the way he is. But let’s make this—our success or failure on this all-important occasion—the deciding factor. If Angelo comes through for us, if he can prove his value now, when we’re most in need of him, then we carry on as before. We stay here, tend his needs, and use him as our oracle as long as he continues to function.”
Francesco freed the cradle from its mooring, lowered it to the natural rock floor. “Help me with Julietta,” he said. And a moment later: “I thought it was too good to be true: your suddenly seeing the light—your urge for flight, to throw off the shackles of this place. No, not you. You’re much too much of a home bird.”
And as they took Julietta from her box, placed her unprotesting body on the platform, and slid her loose cerements from her clay-cold, undead figure: “Well?” Tony demanded. “How is it to be?”
Swinging the arm of the hoist out over the pit, they waited until it found its equilibrium and stopped gyrating. Now all was in place; it only remained for Tony to speak to, or bargain with, the thing in the pit. And finally Francesco said:
“I say that one way or the other I’m out of here. There’s a big wide world out there, brother, and for far too long I’ve felt confined to one little corner of it. So, I’ll take what’s mine to take and go. You can come with me or stay here, as you will. For let’s face it, we may be brothers but we’re also Wamphyri! And the Wamphyri are loners. We’ve had a good run as the Francezcis, and managed to keep from each others’ throats, too. But all good things must come to an end eventually.”
“Do you mean it?”
“Every word. My cards are on the table. And you?”
“If our father comes through for us,” Tony answered, however slowly, “—if we come through whatever’s coming—then I’ll stay here in Le Manse Madonie and care for him. I’m used to this place. I like the idea that it is or will be … mine. Mine alone.”
“Wamphyri territorialism,” Francesco told him. “Stronger in you than in me. Do you see what comes of being a home bird, brother? You’ve grown kennel-proud—like a dog kept too long in a cage! Only let someone step over your threshold … why, you’d even bite the hand of your keeper! But I was always the one who was out and about in the world. And I will be again.”
In answer to which Tony could only shrug and say, “Perhaps you’re right. If so, then so be it …”
Anthony Francezci was no great telepath. Several centuries ago his father Angelo had told him that in the Ferenczys the talent was sporadic. It skipped entire generations, but given sufficient time it would generally resurface even in the most “insensitive” family member; which would appear to imply that Tony and his twin were entirely insensitive! This could be because they were more nearly a part of the modern world and in large part—especially in their thinking—divorced from their origins. In this world they had not required the art to combat alien, enemy vampire influences; thus it had failed to develop in them. Now that they did need it, it was too late. Unused, the metaphysical “muscle” had simply atrophied. Between each other, however, some vestigial telepathic awareness remained. And between them and their father, whose ESP was incredibly powerful, there was or could be a very strong link, even as strong as common speech … if and when Angelo allowed it. He knew his powers, however—knew that they alone were the reason he had lasted so long—and so guarded them jealously.
Recently it had been more than ever difficult to establish contact with him. He required bribing; the only bribes he would accept were of the human variety; the thing in the pit had little or no use for any other sort. He was what he was: a mass of ungovernable metamorphic vampire flesh, a monster of many parts in control of none of them. Not even his mind … not entirely. A madman, then. Or a mad mutant thing, certainly.
“Crazy,” Tony muttered to himself where he leaned over the wall of the deactivated shaft. “His mind goes in circles. There is such knowledge in it! But all confused, jumbled, filled with the static of his multi-minds, which spills over into his consciousness. Yet he won’t abandon them, extrude them, and let them die. They are his incorporeal ‘thralls,’ all he has left of connection with the material world, all that remains of power. And even in that respect his power is limited; he can’t control the multi-minds, except to close them out. How can he threaten what he may not hurt? Terrible: to have such awesome talents and yet be trapped down there in his pit. He can spy on a world, but is confined here; he can discover almost anything he wants to know, but cannot use such knowledge except to pass it on to us. Frustration … hunger … and madness. Oh, our father is crazy! But then, who wouldn’t be?”
“Crazy?” Francesco’s nervous grunt sounded from close at hand, where he stood with his arms folded on his chest trying to appear relaxed. “He’s that, all right—crazy like a fox!”
“Shhh!” To
ny cautioned him. “His mind is stirring, attempting to concentrate. He … he feels me reaching for him, opening my thoughts to him. Look down there …”
Francesco took a single pace forward and looked down into the reeking well, whose fumes were rising thicker now. And from deep in the darkness of the lower regions of the shaft where it expanded into the old volcanic cavity, his father’s eyes stared back at him. A great many eyes, unblinking, red, and hateful in the smoky reek of the pit.
Tony had to concentrate. Without so much as a glance at his brother, he felt him step falteringly back again. For all Francesco’s bravado, he feared the old Ferenczy. Not without cause, for:
Treacherousss! came that single whispered or hissed accusation, as if their father had breathed the word out in a stream of cold air over the shrinking contours of their brains. And in the next moment, strengthening: You, my son. Yesss, you, Francesssco—treacherous as ever! And infectious. Why, your poisons have even infected your brother!
But: “Not yet, Father,” Tony told him, speaking out loud, trying to keep his voice even. “And in any case, is it treachery to consider an act of mercy? Your misery has been long and long …”
There was a moment of stunned silence, until: Oh? And you know that for a fact, do you? That I am miserable? So that you would deem it a mercy to consider releasing me from my burden? But how kind of you. How thoughtful—you murderous bastards! Your mother died giving you birth. But if she’d known the scum she gave birth to, it would have killed her anyway!
“Listening!” Francesco grated. “And didn’t I tell you so? Crazy like a fox! Now hear me, Tony: don’t play his word games but put it to him straight. Our beloved father has a choice to make. So let him make it now.”
“Be quiet!” Tony rounded on him at once—but immediately, anxiously, turned back to the pit. And over his shoulder: “He’s not only listening but speaking, too! He’s making sense at last—so let him.”