His fellows consoled him as I finished transcribing his tale. “That’s a terrific story,” I said, my quill scratching rapidly across the paper. “May I ask, are you certain you saw no blood when your horse cleaved the young boy’s scalp?”
“None. Only a vile black humour, as I said,” the fruit seller replied.
“And you said he had a odor about him, as of the grave.”
“Yes. ‘Twas the smell of something wet and rotting in a ditch.”
“Curious,” I said. “Most who report they’ve seen a vampire claim the creatures gush forth bright red blood when injured. That they are fat with blood, like leeches.”
“No, my lord. It was black, not red.”
I glanced toward the monk, who was looking at me thoughtfully.
Oh, those beautiful green eyes! They were mesmeric.
Don’t be a fool, Gon! I commanded myself, but I knew I had to have him.
Together, Friar Justus and I interviewed the rest of the men, those who had tales to tell. The interviews continued until sometime past the witching hour, at which time the innkeeper told us in a frustrated tone that she was retiring and she’d thank us to show ourselves to our rooms. “Or your homes, if you’re not taking a room for the night,” she said.
The locals bid us good night most reluctantly, loath to forsake the safety of the inn. They paused visibly at the door to gather their courage. I overheard them discussing their travelling arrangements as they donned their hats and cloaks: who would accompany whom to whose home. They finally decided to draw straws to see who would be the last, and thus the unlucky one who must finish the journey unescorted, and then they departed.
“Well, my fine gentlemen, I bid you both a good night,” the fruit seller said, rising shakily from his chair. He was quite drunk, and stumbled as he crossed the common room to the stairs. He paused at the stairwell, turned back to leave us with the fearsome caveat: “Leave not your windows unlocked tonight, gentlemen, or any night you dwell within the borders of this cursed village, lest Madame Damilan come and try to make a meal of you.” He wagged his finger. “She’s an ugly old hag, and not worth the biting.” He laughed, belched, and went on to his room, boots thudding on the risers.
“I’m afraid Madame Cupic retired before she could show you to your room,” Friar Justus said. “Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight? Your presence, I confess, would be a comfort to me. All these wild tales have made me as nervous as a rabbit.”
A lie. I could tell by his scent that he was not frightened.
I counseled myself to decline the offer. I had planned to lock the door of my room and exit through the window, to go in search of the degenerate blood drinkers tonight.
You cannot allow yourself to become entangled with any mortals here in Getvar, I said to myself. Especially a Christian. You know it will end badly.
The faces of all my spurned lovers marched through my imagination then, and let me tell you, after 30,000 years it was a long parade. I opened my mouth to decline his offer, and yet I found myself answering, “Yes, I would like that.”
We rose as one, and gathered our papers and writing supplies. Madame Cupic’s room was at the far end of the kitchen, but we could hear her snoring even in the common room. We put out the lights for her, then walked together to the stairs.
As we moved side-by-side through the dark, I felt his warm mortal fingers curl around my own.
“My goodness!” he gasped. “Your hand is cold as ice!”
7
It is difficult, in even the best of circumstances, to conceal our true nature from mortals for very long. We can dull the luminescent quality of our flesh with cosmetics, hide our glinting eyes behind tinted glasses, warm our icy flesh by feeding to excess, but mortal intuition unerringly penetrates our guiles. Even if a mortal is not clever, even if they never consciously realize what we are, they grow anxious in our presence, restless and fearful. In an intimate setting, concealment is well nigh impossible, but Friar Justus was a little drunk, and his mind was muddled with drink and lusty thoughts.
His room was small but comfortably appointed, with a big bed and a fireplace, a couple chairs and several lamps. The lamps he lit as soon as he entered the room, saying that he had purchased a sweet Italian wine when he departed for the village of Getvar. “Would you like to share a cup with me?” he asked.
I had managed to keep the mead down. “A small cup,” I said. “I am very tired.”
“I, too,” he said, going to his bags. He took out the wine and a small, lead cup.
“It’s exciting to meet a fellow scholar, especially someone who shares my interest in the supernatural,” he said as he poured. “I could tell by your questions that you are an expert in the profane.”
“And you. I believe I may have read one of your treatises on ghosts and vampires.”
“History of the Ghosts and Vampires of Europe?”
“Yes, that is the one, I think.”
“And what did you think?”
He drank, passed me the cup.
“Of what, in particular?” I asked, sipping. My stomach cramped as the fluid slid down my throat, and I tensed my muscles to keep the Strix from rejecting it. “It was a large book.”
He grinned, crossed the room to shut the door. “My theory concerning the true nature of vampirism,” he said, turning the key in the lock. “That the monsters of antiquity, the lamia and strigae of the Old Testament, the strix of the Greeks, the masca and larva of the Lombards, are in actuality a singular species, despite the embellishments of the various cultures they are associated with.”
“I would challenge your theory in only one respect,” I said, after a moment of thought.
“And what is that?” the monk asked, unbelting his tunic. He took off his crucifix, kissed it, and placed it on a nearby table.
“That they are the source of many of the deities of the ancient world as well. That their race, like mankind, is composed of individuals both kind in nature, as well as wicked. The wicked were labeled monsters, while the benevolent were labeled gods.”
Justus paused, struck by my suggestion, and the possibilities it set loose in his imagination.
“The gods, too?” he murmured. He pulled his tunic off over his head. He wore a hair shirt beneath, and simple hose. “It would certainly explain the tendency of Pagan deities to demand blood sacrifice of their worshippers. These creatures, whatever they are, are unerringly described as having an uncontrollable desire for the blood of living men. It is the one common denominator amid the numerous conflicting accounts of past scholars.”
“Yes.”
“Please,” he said, “make yourself comfortable, Gyozo. Do you need to borrow a nightshirt? I see you have only the one bag. You could not have packed many garments in there.”
“I ordinarily sleep in the nude,” I replied. “But I will accept a nightshirt if that disturbs you.”
“No,” he replied quickly. “That doesn’t disturb me in the least. It is how God created us. The human body is beautiful. It is only our shame and vanity which is ugly.”
I heard his heart begin to gallop in his chest, and smiled a little as I propped my bag against the wall. How I wanted to taste the blood that heart was pumping so rapidly through his veins! For a moment, I could barely restrain myself.
And yet, somehow I managed.
“Do you mind if we turn the lights down?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
I circled the room, lowering the flames of the lamps until the flickering orange light of the fireplace dominated.
Justus watched me move from lamp to lamp with an intensity that was almost unnerving. If I could have read his mind right then, I am certain I would have been quite thoroughly shocked by the fantasies swirling in his head. Despite my worldliness, I am at heart a modest man.
Not so the monk. He had been chastised for his excesses on numerous occasions, he confessed to me later. He had been threatened with censure, exile, even excommunication. His f
ailings were only tolerated, he said, because his passion for the Church burned equally as hot.
At last he returned to himself. He shuddered as if with a chill and stripped off his hair shirt. The flesh beneath was pale and lightly freckled. And surprisingly muscular. Most monks were flabby, powdered things.
“In truth, I’ve never considered such a possibility,” he said. “But now that you put it forth, it seems quite logical. I’m not sure why it never occurred to me before.” He kicked off his shoes and peeled his hose down his thighs. He had muscular thighs, lightly furred with hair, and a startlingly large organ. “I believe it might be true,” he said thoughtfully, fists resting on his hips, “though I’d never dare to publish such a thought! Not even a hint of it. And I would urge you to restrain yourself from publishing such fantastic musings yourself. A theory like that could easily be expanded to include our own theology. We would be branded heretics! Think on it, if you dare-- if I dare! The Christ as vampire! The accounts of all his miracles shoe in quite neatly to this theory of yours: his resurrection, his command to the Apostles at the last supper…”
“This wine is my blood,” I replied.
I could see that my words, offered casually, had begun to worm their way inside his mind. I did not mean to suggest to him that his god was a vampire. I was nowhere near Galilee when Christ ministered to the Jews. I had only meant to make conversation, to entertain him with a controversial idea, but I had wounded his faith, and shame shot through my heart like an arrow.
The monk took a long draft of his wine, pulling directly from the bottle, then scrubbed his lips with his hand. His eyes twitched restlessly in their sockets as my words churned in his brilliant mind.
I felt helpless in my shame. I did not know how to stop the spread of my poison. Not without revealing my true nature to the mortal.
Distract him, I said to myself. Before his spirit is broken.
I began to undress, and his eyes quit their frantic jerking. He stood stock still as I removed every scrap of clothing from my body. I slipped into his bed and smiled at him, careful to conceal my eyeteeth. “Come to bed, Justus. Let not my idle musings disturb you any further. You are tired, and your thoughts befuddled with wine.”
He grinned, though he still looked a little distracted. He took another swig of wine and set the bottle aside. He blew out the lamp beside the bed. “God forgive me,” he murmured, his voice so low a mortal man could not have heard it. I’m not certain what exactly he was asking to be forgiven for, but he came to bed without bothering to don his nightshirt and slid under the covers beside me.
“You’re so cold!” he exclaimed, when his thigh pressed up against mine.
I knew the ruse would be short-lived, but I tried to extend his ignorance a little longer. “Apologies,” I replied. “I’m afraid I suffer from a medical condition that affects my circulation. It is not fatal, but it makes my flesh cold. I hope you can endure it for one night.” And then I added, just to make the lie more credible: “Sometimes, when I overstretch myself, I fall into a terrible languor and have to rest for days at a time.”
“That’s unfortunate,” he murmured. He was quiet a moment, his mortal heart thudding in his chest. I heard the click of his throat as he swallowed. “Perhaps I can warm you with a vigorous massage...?”
He said it as if it were a question.
Tell him no, I said to myself.
“If you’d like,” I replied.
He rolled onto his side facing me, and began to knead my chest muscles with his fingers.
“How does that feel?”
“You’re very warm,” I said. His fingers dug into my chest, moving slowly around and down my sternum, then my stomach.
“Does all of your anatomy suffer from this… deficiency of circulation?” he inquired innocently, then, before I could answer: “Oops! I see that it does not!”
8
I am not sure when he began to suspect my true nature, but I knew when the certainty struck him. I think the truth began to penetrate him the moment that I did. The cold hard truth. His body stiffened and he scrambled away from me. He reached the end of the mattress before the end of his panic and tumbled onto the floor, pulling the blanket off the bed with him.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you!” he gasped, his eyes wide, the stink of terror exuding from his every pore. He tried to crabwalk away from the bed but got tangled in the blanket. “Are you going to kill me?” he wailed.
“Yes, and no,” I said, standing there on my knees.
“Yes, you are?”
“Yes,” I said, sitting gently back and putting my legs over the edge of the bed. “I am a vampire. A verdilak. One of the Biblical strigae.” I put my hands on my knees, awaiting his reaction.
“But… you don’t mean to kill me?”
“Of course not. Not unless you make a fuss. And then I might have to do it, to conceal my true nature from the other mortals here. But I don’t want to do it. The last thing I want to do is harm you, so I beg you, please, do not force my hand, Justus.”
For a moment his terror and curiosity warred, and I was not sure which of the two would win out, but then slowly his fear abated, the muscles of his body relaxed, and he began to breathe more evenly.
“Are you all right?” I asked quietly.
He nodded. “Yes. Yes, I believe so.”
“I apologize for my deception,” I said. “I do not ordinarily engage in such behavior with mortals, but I found myself uncharacteristically drawn to you.”
“Is that so?” he said. He rose, wrapping the blanket around his body. Now that he knew I was a vampire, he’d become shy. It was an amusing response. He went to sit on a chair, legs wobbling. Collapsed into it. He was quiet for several minutes, thinking furiously. “Will I become a vampire now?” he finally asked.
“From what?”
“From… lying with you,” he whispered fiercely, flipping his right hand toward me.
I laughed. “No. That is not how it works, Justus. Well, actually, it can happen that way, but it is rare, and I would have to… you know… which I didn’t.”
“So how does it work? Will you tell me? And will you tell me what you’re doing here in Getvar? Are you the source of the vampire attacks?”
“I will tell you all you wish to know, but you must swear one thing to me. You must swear it on the names of the gods that you worship.”
“God,” he said. “There is only one.”
I cocked an eyebrow, smiling at him dubiously. Oh, yes, their Trinity. The Catholics worshipped three-gods-in-one. A good deal, that.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
“You must never tell anyone of the things that I share with you. You must take our secrets to your grave. For your sake, and for the sake of all mortal men.”
“I swear it!” he said, with hardly a hesitation. His eyes blazed with excitement and curiosity.
So I told him.
I did not tell him all, for that would have taken more time than we had remaining to us that evening. Already, dawn was peeking through the slats of the window shutters. I told him of our nature, our strengths and weaknesses, and how we are mortal men before we’re changed. I told him how we become the way we are, and how we strive to live unnoticed in the world of mortal men, not so that we can feed upon the living with impunity, but to protect the world of living men from the curse that has befallen us. If mortal man were ever to learn of the Strix, I told him, all mortal men would want it for themselves. They would hunt us unrelentingly, steal the secret of our immortality, and use it to dominate their brethren.
“So you protect us from ourselves?” he said. “That is why you hide in the shadows.”
“Some of us. As I said before, there are good among us just as there are wicked. We are no different than living men in that regard.”
“And the creatures tormenting the people of Getvar?”
“Degenerate things,” I said with a sneer. “A breed of foul offshoots. My kind destroy them w
henever they rear their diseased heads.”
I told him of the Court of the Night’s Watch, and how I had been sent to Getvar to discover if deviant blood drinkers were indeed plaguing her inhabitants. Usually such tales were superstitious hysteria-- sometimes even hoaxes. If there were indeed degenerate vampires at large in the village of Getvar, I told him, I had been charged to hunt them down and destroy them.
“I would have gone to hunt them tonight if I had not fallen under your spell,” I confessed.
“So you can love,” he said. “You feel passion, lust.”
“Yes.”
“What of guilt, remorse?”
“More keenly than mortal men feel such things. Or so it seems to me at times.”
He looked at me almost desperately then. “Can you tell me of heaven and hell?” he asked. He seemed fearful of my answer, but hungry for it, too. “Is my god the true god? Are there truly angels and devils?”
I smiled sympathetically. “I cannot tell you that, Justus.”
“Cannot or will not?” he countered. His eyes went wide. “Is it forbidden?”
“It is not forbidden. I cannot tell you because I do not know the answer. I do not know what lies beyond the veil of death any more than you. I think there is a god. I believe there is a life that awaits us after this one, but I do not know for certain.”
He looked heartbroken. “Then your kind fumbles in the dark as blindly as the rest of us.”
“I’m afraid so,” I said.
“Will you allow me to examine your body more closely?” he asked, looking back up at me. “Your flesh has a strange texture to it. I did not notice it at first, but now it seems obvious. I would like to have a closer look.”
“Of course.”
He rose and crossed the room, kneeled before me like a squire awaiting his knighting. I held out my hand and he took it in his. He frowned, turned up the lamp, and returned to my side.
The Oldest Living Vampire Betrayed (The Oldest Living Vampire Saga Book 4) Page 17