by Various
He studied her. “No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t suppose you do.”
Then he handed her the half-smoked cigar, and she tucked it in her breast pocket.
“I’m afraid this part of the plan must remain between us,” he said.
“I figured as much, sir.”
He smiled. It was a gentle smile. “Dismissed, Corporal.”
She turned and walked away, feeling as if her world had tilted. She had felt this way when Reed found her, when he’d told her about slayers and how she might become one, when the previous slayer died. He’d talked to her of training, and showed her how to fight. And she had loved it, never expecting to become the Slayer herself.
The war had been her excuse. She figured it would give her a chance to live the way she wanted to, whether she became the Slayer or not. And when she had explained that to Reed, he had understood.
Landers would never have understood. Or maybe she simply didn’t want to make him try.
Frankie stopped in front of the closed door. “Sir,” she said, turning, “may I ask one more question?”
“Quickly, Corporal,” the major-general said. “I have much to do before we begin our march to the sea.”
She nodded. “If you knew who—what—I am, sir, why did you let me stay?”
“You’re not asking about the vampires, now, are you, Corporal?”
“No, sir.”
“You think I should have sent you home to your Mama, so that you could wear skirts and stitch quilts for the war effort?”
Frankie swallowed. “Others would have, sir.”
“Others are short sighted,” he said. “I am not.”
“Indeed, sir,” Frankie said. “Your vision is clearer than most.”
He grinned at her, and she grinned back. Then she let herself out of the office and down the stairs into the feeble sunlight of the mid-November day.
Her heart was lighter than it had been in months. The major-general may not have been trained by the Watchers Council, but he would watch over her.
In fact, he had watched over her. Ever since she lost Reed.
She’d had a new watcher all this time, and she hadn’t even realized it. But now she had a partner, and together they would solve the Union’s vampire problem once and for all.
House of the Vampire
Michael Reaves
LONDON, ENGLAND, 1897
I
The sight of a gentleman ambling down the crowded and ill-lit alleys of the East End after dark was not unique, but it was certainly not common. This neighborhood, containing parts of Whitechapel, Spitalfields, Mile End, and others, was one of the most dangerous and poverty-stricken in all of London, and for someone of obvious means to venture into it on foot, even by day, was remarkable.
Nevertheless, down the narrow avenue the stranger walked, briskly but with apparent nonchalance, all heads turning to mark his passage. The cacophony of raucous voices slowed as he went by, then started up again with increased interest, the multitude of topics now having diminished to just one. Tatterdemalions paused from their endless pursuit of one another across the flagging and through the stinking gutters; shop owners lounged in recessed doorways, blinking amidst malodorous clouds of pipe smoke; and slatterns slowed their strolling to gaze in appraisal or frank admiration. The stranger ignored them all, walking as casually as if he were out for a constitutional in Covent Garden. He swung his ivory-tipped cane in rhythm with his gait, and his top hat was perched at a jaunty angle. He seemed utterly unaware of the area’s unwholesomeness.
It was just after nine P.M., the dark of the moon, so not even that celestial body’s effulgence could aid in dispersing the shadows. The only things keeping the darkness even slightly at bay were rubbish fires, candles, and the infrequent oil lanterns and naphtha brands. From all about could be heard the wailing of hungry children, the shouts and scuffles of various altercations, and the moaning of the aged and infirm. The winding lane was hardly wide enough to permit the passage of a four-wheeled cab, and it branched off into alleys and cul-de-sacs that were even more restrictive, barely serving to separate the ramshackle buildings. The stench of offal, waste, and things rotten was almost palpable, coiling through the streets like an invisible miasmic serpent. But of all this the gentleman took no apparent heed.
He turned down an alley narrow enough for him to touch the slimy walls of both buildings with his gloved hands. The darkness here was complete and utter; even the faint starlight was blocked by webs of laundry strung between the upper floors. But he did not slow his pace.
The alley, after turning sharply in several directions, opened at length into a small, deserted courtyard. Dark windows and doorways, many boarded over, punctuated the walls. The starlight was unimpeded here, and the crowded buildings loomed overhead at what seemed impossible angles. The court was empty, save for a single figure, dressed in white, standing across from him.
The gentleman moved forward quickly, his cloak flaring. The woman stood with her back to him. His shoes made no sound on the cobblestones. He pulled his gloves off as he approached, revealing long, pale fingers, and reached toward her.
“Elizabeth!” His whisper was husky with longing. “My darling, how wonderful to be with you again!”
At the sound of his voice she turned. Each paused for a moment, then rushed into an embrace. They held each other closely, murmuring mutual endearments, the dreary surroundings and cares of Lower London banished for a brief time. Then they backed slightly apart, still staring lovingly into each other’s eyes, and began to stroll slowly about the perimeter of the square, not speaking, content for the moment in each other’s presence. At length, as they passed the dark lacuna of a stairway entrance, he turned to her.
“It won’t be long now, I promise you,” he said. “Once the decree is issued I’ll be free, and then you’ll bid this disgusting welter of thieves and mendicants good-bye forever.”
“Phillip,” she murmured, her eyes bright with the promise of good fortune. She drew a breath to speak again—
And the night took her.
One instant she stood before him, young and happy and full of love for him alone . . . and then it was as if the darkness itself reached out hungrily and snatched her away. Paralyzed by shock, Phillip stood staring into the impenetrable gloom. He heard the rustle of something that could have been a cloak, or perhaps even the stir of sinister wings, followed by a brief, sharp cry from Elizabeth . . . then silence.
Silence, save for a rhythmic, measured sound, as of some liquid being drawn by suction . . .
The gentleman gave a shout of mingled horror and rage. He raised his cane and leaped forward into the stygian gloom, only to be met with a single blow of such appalling strength that it sent him sprawling halfway across the court. Dazed, he rolled over and managed to raise himself on one elbow. He stared back at the dark entrance. From it emerged a pale face with eyes red as embers; it seemed to float toward him on a column of darkness. Behind this apparition he could see the stairway entrance. From the shadows an arm, slim and cotton-clad, lay outflung on the cold stones.
The face loomed over Phillip. A line of crimson trickled from one corner of the scowling mouth. The gentleman’s final cry was one of utter despair; it rose into the night, blending unheard with all the other screams and shouts of the city.
II
Springheel Jack fled for his life.
He ran in great bounding leaps over the pitched roofs and gables, jumping from tenement to tenement, clearing gaps of fifteen to twenty feet at a time. He hurtled over chimneys and skylights, cloak billowing out behind him like black wings. His speed was such that nothing human could hope to catch him.
Not even the Slayer.
Angelique knew she had no hope of overtaking Jack. That was not the plan. Accordingly she pursued at a somewhat less than breakneck pace, leaping over impediments with practiced ease, the fetid city air pumping in and out of her lungs. Though the life of a slayer was in many ways a difficult
one, there were compensations, and chief among them were physical strength and reflexes surpassed by none—none of her fellow humans, at any rate.
She saw Jack put his boot on the edge of a cupola and hurl himself forward into space to land on a rooftop one floor down and a good twenty-five feet away. Had she taken the time to doubt, she might not have made it. Instead she gave herself up to her training, as the Professor had admonished her so many times. She leaped. Sooty night air fanned her raven tresses . . . then she landed, her legs absorbing the impact with no complaints.
It felt good to be alive.
Jack was still running. He would not be for much longer.
Angelique charged forward and saw the dark figure step out from behind a water tank. He aimed a device at Jack and fired. Before the surprised Jack could react, a net of hemp flowered before him. It enveloped him, brought him crashing to his knees. Angelique heard him roar in rage, a sound no human throat could make.
He surged to his feet. Blue fire erupted from his mouth, incinerating his bonds. But the delay had been enough; before Jack could escape, Angelique leaped onto his back.
Jack roared again and twisted about, slamming himself into a brick wall, with the Slayer between him and the barrier. The impact set off fireworks behind the Slayer’s eyes. For a moment her grip slackened. He would have thrown her from him then, but in that moment a thin blade flashed, the point darting toward Jack’s chest. Startled, Jack stumbled backward. Angelique wrapped both arms around his neck, gripped his head and twisted with all her strength. The crack! his neck made when it snapped was clearly audible.
Springheel Jack collapsed beneath her.
Angelique stood, brushing soot from her skirt and Zouave jacket as the Professor and Gordon approached. “That’s that,” she said briskly. “We should hear no more about the terrifying Springheel Jack in London, I think.”
“Perhaps,” the Professor said. “But do not be overly sure, Angelique. The legend of Springheel Jack has endured for decades. I think it likely more than one Tethyrian demon has contributed to the stories over the years.” He picked up his bowler from where it had fallen during the slaying and dusted it off before carefully covering his baldness with it.
The Slayer frowned, but then smiled again as Gordon came to stand beside her, sheathing his sword cane in its camouflaging shaft of wood. “No purpose to worrying about that now,” she said. “I trust, Professor, that you noticed the aid Gordon was able to give us a moment ago?”
The Professor scowled, the fingers of one hand tugging at his beard. “It is still not right,” he said. “The Slayer walks alone, save for her watcher. The council has made its stance very clear on this, and I agree with them.”
Gordon responded before she had a chance to speak. “All well and good for the council to huddle before warm fires and make pronouncements like Parliament, I suppose. But Angelique is the Slayer. It is her life put at risk every night—”
“Which is how it should be!” The Professor interrupted, brandishing an indignant index finger. “Hers and hers alone! This has been the way of it for centuries. Remember: ‘She alone can stand against the vampires, the forces of darkness’ —
“Enough arguing,” Angelique said. In the silence that followed, the tolls of Big Ben could faintly be heard echoing across the distant Thames. “It’s three in the morning,” she continued. “I think this has been a good night’s work. Whether one hand or many did the deed, the important thing is that the deed is done. Another demon lies dead.”
The three looked down at the recumbent form. “Professor,” Angelique continued, “do you mind tidying up?”
The Professor nodded. “Of course, of course.” He turned to the black leathern satchel a few feet away and retrieved from it a small phial. Unstoppering it, he sprinkled a bit of sparkling dust over the demon’s corpse. “Facilis descenus,” he said. There was a rushing sound, a flash of green fire, and when it cleared the body of the Tethyrian demon had vanished.
They found a stairwell and descended to the street. A single gaslight provided scant illumination. “Little luck we’ll have finding a cab at this hour,” the Professor grumbled, pulling his Inverness closer around him against the chill night air.
Angelique and Gordon looked at each other and smiled. Her heart warmed at the sight of him, clean-shaven and thin in his ragland overcoat, breeches, and boots, all varying tones of gray. Angelique felt her skin tingle as his hand brushed hers. They had known each other for over two months now, and so far everything seemed to be going right. Gordon Mycroft was considered by some—most, in fact—to be a ne’er-do-well with a shady background and equally shady standards. Some thought him a dandy for carrying a cane, not knowing, for the most part, how lucky they were to be spared his skill with the blade it camouflaged. He and Angelique had met on a cold night in the heart of one of London’s many cemeteries—he had been there, he’d told her later, seeking inspiration for his poetry—where she had found him fending off the attacks of two newly-risen vampires. She had thought to make short work of the bloodsuckers, but then seven more had erupted out of the darkness. She and Gordon had fought side by side among the timeworn marble slabs, beneath the brooding oaks and willows, and he had been by her side practically ever since.
Her watcher disapproved of her associating with a wastrel poet, of course; from what Angelique had been able to discern, Professor Peter van Helsing was considered somewhat old fashioned even by the stuffy and hidebound standards of the council. He had been vehemently opposed to her initial association with young Patch, though even he had had to admit that the ragged urchin’s knowledge of the streets and what was happening on them was far more effective than the local constabulary’s—or even Scotland Yard’s, on occasion. And he had practically become apoplectic when Molly Carrington had entered the picture, despite the ex-novitiate’s passionate hatred for the forces of evil. But in the end he had grudgingly accepted the three, though his objections still flared now and then.
And, Angelique reflected as they walked along the narrow deserted street, the Professor was right, in an academic sense. It was unheard of for a slayer to work closely with anyone except her watcher. She was violating rules and traditions that had been accepted without question for centuries. But Angelique Hawthorne cared little about rules, and she knew that even the hoariest of traditions are not immune to change. In the nearly two years since she had been summoned, she had proven to be one of the most successful vampire hunters in the council’s memory. So let them grumble, she told herself. It is never prudent to question success.
And, no matter how dangerous or ultimately short-lived her career as a slayer might be, it was still better than the life she came from.
By the time they reached the Professor’s manor in Regent’s Park, it was after four, and even Angelique was tired. She climbed the stairs, changed into her nightdress, and collapsed gratefully upon the four-postered eiderdown bed.
But, exhausted though she was, sleep danced tantalizingly just out of reach. She was keyed up, anxious. Such restlessness was unusual for her. She had made her peace years before with her calling and the short life expectancy that usually came with it, and she had also learned to snatch sleep when and where she could.
Tonight, however, peace evaded the Slayer. For some reason she found herself growing uncomfortably warm, to the point of perspiration. Impatiently she kicked the bedclothes free, lying exposed to the air in her nightgown. Still the heat plagued her, almost febrile in its intensity. This is ridiculous, she thought. Such a balmy night is unheard of this late in autumn. And yet the breeze does nothing to cool me.
With a start, she realized that the French doors to the balcony were open. When she had retired, she had made sure they were shut and locked, as she did every night. While it was true that a vampire could not cross a threshold unless invited, other species of demons were not as restricted. Yet now the doors stood thrown wide. The moon was new, only the faintest sliver of a crescent, yet somehow she could see
clearly the dead rust-colored leaves stirring on the balcony, could see the lace draperies framing the doors, and the massive dark wood wardrobe against the far wall . . .
And the man who stood cloaked in darkness at the foot of her bed.
Angelique felt her heart frost over. The moment of fear was quickly followed by anger. How dare some creature of the night invade her private chambers! She sat up, reaching for the stake which lay on the bedside table—
Or rather she tried to. But, to her astonishment, she was unable to move. A paralysis gripped her as if she had been inoculated by some potent drug. Helpless, she lay there and watched as the silhouette moved slowly, even casually, around the bedpost and toward her. Although she could see the rest of the room clearly, his face and form somehow remained in shadow, even when he stood by her side, close enough to for her to touch him . . . and for him to touch her.
He leaned toward her. Angelique could see the twin embers of red that were his eyes and the pale slivers of fangs as he opened his mouth.
Hear me, Slayer. Did she hear the whispered words, touched by the hint of a Slavic accent, or did they echo somehow only within her head? Do not seek to meddle in matters not of your concern. Some affairs of the night are beyond your station. Keep to your domain, or pay the penalty.
With a gasp, she sat up. She looked at the balcony. The doors leading to it were closed. There was no one in the room but her.
Angelique’s hand shot to the beside table, seized a hand mirror lying beside the stake. Quickly she inspected her throat.
It was unmarked.
From the far distance, at the very edge of audibility, she thought she heard the howl of a wolf.
The Slayer reached for the heavy duvet, pulled it back up over her. She bundled herself in it, shivering. The night air was very cold.
III
At mid-morning of the following day, Angelique stood in the tiny East End courtyard, along with the Professor, Gordon, Molly, and Patch.