The Vampyre

by Tom Holland

  ‘“So you do remember, then,” said Haidée at last. She took a step towards me, away from the flames. I held her in my arms. I stared over her shoulder into the fire. “A child,” I whispered. “From that last hour - a child.” A thread, however delicate, wound from our final act of mortal love. A memory, preserved in human form, stamped with the imprint of what we had been. A link, a last link, to all that we had lost. A child.’ Lord Byron shook his head. He stared at Rebecca, and slowly, he smiled.

  ‘It was a boy. Haidée had had him sent away. She had not been able to bear his scent. I too, of course, was dangerous to him. He had been kept at school in Nafplio. I could not go and see him with my own eyes, of course, but when we left Aheron together, Haidée and I, we made provision for our son. I had him taken from Nafplio, and sent to London. He was educated there as an Englishman. Eventually, he even took an English name.’ He smiled again. ‘Can you guess what it was?’

  Rebecca nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said dully. ‘It was Ruthven.’ She sat frozen. She had heard the noise from the darkness again. She met Lord Byron’s stare. Gently, she moistened her lips. ‘And you?’ she asked. ‘Did you stay away from England, and your son?’

  ‘From England, yes - in the main. I had the Pasha’s manuscripts. With Haidée, I continued the search, across continents and hidden worlds. But Haidée soon was growing old - too old to walk - too old to be seen.’

  Rebecca nodded, appalled. She understood. ‘Haidée then - she is the - thing - I saw in the crypt?’

  ‘Yes. She has still not drunk. She stays down there, in that place of the dead. The Pasha’s body too is near her, beneath the tombstone in the church. For two long centuries they have rotted there together, the Pasha dead, Haidée still alive, and waiting in vain for my search’s end.’

  ‘So’ - Rebecca swallowed - ‘you have not found it yet?’

  Lord Byron smiled grimly. ‘You have seen that I have not.’

  Rebecca twisted a curl of her auburn hair. ‘And will you ever succeed?’ she dared to ask at last.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I think you will.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head. ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Because you still exist. You could end it, but you do not. As the Pasha promised - there must be hope after all.’

  Lord Byron smiled. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘But to die - it would be at Polidori’s hands - and that I couldn’t bear.’ His brow darkened. ‘No. Not destroyed by an enemy. Not by one who has killed all I loved.’ He stared at Rebecca. ‘You understand, of course, that your own presence here is due only to his hate. Each generation of Ruthvens, he has sent to me. You, Rebecca, I am afraid, are not the first, but only one of a very long line.’

  Rebecca stared at him, at the ice and pity mingled in his eyes. She understood now that she was doomed. Her fate, after all, had already been sealed. ‘Polidori, then,’ she asked, in a steady voice, ‘he doesn’t know that you can be destroyed.’

  Lord Byron smiled faintly. ‘No. He doesn’t.’

  Rebecca swallowed. ‘Whereas now, I do.’

  Again, he smiled. ‘Indeed.’

  Rebecca rose to her feet. Slowly, Lord Byron did the same. Rebecca tensed, but he passed her, watching her all the time, and walked into the shadows. The scratching from the darkness was insistent now. She searched the gloom but could make nothing out. Lord Byron, though, was watching her. His pale face gleamed like a flame of light. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Please.’

  Slowly, Lord Byron shook his head.

  ‘Please.’ She began to back towards the door. ‘Why have you told me all this, if only to finish it by killing me?’

  ‘So that you might understand what your death will achieve. So it can be easier.’ He paused, and glanced into the shadows. ‘For both of you.’

  ‘Both?’ Again, there was the scrabbling. Rebecca stared wildly into the dark.

  ‘There is no other way,’ Lord Byron whispered. ‘It must be done.’ But he was not speaking to Rebecca any more. He was gazing at a shadowy form, crouched down beside his feet. His arm shaking, he stroked its head. Slowly, it crossed into the candlelight.

  Rebecca stared at it. She moaned. ‘No. No!’ She clasped her fingers over her eyes.

  ‘And yet once, Rebecca, she was very like you. Yes. Very strangely like you.’ Lord Byron stared at her with mingled pity and desire. Softly, he crossed to her. ‘Do you dare look into her face again? No? And yet I tell you’ - Rebecca felt the soft touch of his lips upon her own - ‘she had your face, your form, your loveliness. It is as if . . .’ His voice trailed away.

  Rebecca opened her eyes. She stared into the dark depths of Lord Byron’s gaze. She saw him frown, and traced misery and hope as they crossed his face. ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’

  ‘You are her very image, you know.’

  ‘Please.’

  He shook his head. ‘She must have you. She must drink her own blood at last. Two hundred years have passed, and now . . . here you are - with a face like the one that used to be her own. And so . . .’ Again he kissed Rebecca softly on the lips. ‘I am sorry. I am sorry, Rebecca. But I hope, perhaps now, you can at least understand. Forgive me, Rebecca.’

  He took a step backwards. Rebecca stared, transfixed, at the soft flame of his face. She saw him glance down at the creature waiting twisted at his feet. She too stared down at it. Suddenly, red eyes, bright as coals, met her look. Rebecca began to shake. She turned. She pushed against the door. It opened, and she stumbled out, and slammed it shut again.

  She began to run. A long corridor was stretching away from her. She didn’t remember it from before. It was badly lit, and she could scarcely make her way. Behind her, the door stayed closed. Suddenly, Rebecca stood still. She thought she could see something, hanging, just ahead. It was swinging slightly, and creaking. Then Rebecca heard the splash of liquid on the floor.

  She breathed in deeply. Slowly, she walked towards the hanging thing. It was pale, she could see now, gleaming in the dark, and then suddenly her blood froze solid in her veins, for she saw that the gleam was that of flesh, human flesh, a carcass hanging by its heels from a hook. Again there was the drip of liquid on the floor. Rebecca stared down. A thick droplet of blood was forming in the corpse’s nose. It fell, and again there was the splash on the floor. Rebecca saw now why the body was so gleamingly white. Not knowing what she did, she touched the corpse’s side. It was cold, and virtually drained of its blood. Again, there was the splash. Rebecca crouched down on her heels. She stared into the corpse’s face. She tried to scream. No sound came out. She looked again at her mother’s face. Then she rose and began to shudder, and run.

  All the way down the corridor, further corpses had been hung by hooks. Rebecca had to pass them as she stumbled on her way, and they would swing against her face, clammy and smooth as she tried to brush them aside. On and on she staggered; more and more, the corpses of the Ruthvens blocked her way. At last, Rebecca fell to her knees, sobbing with hatred and fear and disgust. She turned round, looked at the row of butcher’s hooks she had passed, and moaned. Back down the corridor, beyond her mother’s corpse, waited a gleaming, empty hook. Rebecca found her voice at last; she screamed. The hook began to swing. Rebecca buried her face in her hands; again she screamed; she waited, prostrate, on the corridor floor.

  At last, she dared to look up again. The corridor was empty. The row of her ancestors had disappeared. Rebecca stared around. Nothing. Nothing at all. ‘Where are you?’ she screamed. ‘Byron! Where are you? Kill me if you must but no more tricks like these!’ She pointed at where the carcasses had been, and waited. Still the corridor continued empty as before. ‘Haidée!’ Rebecca paused. ‘Haidée!’ No answer. Rebecca rose to her feet. Ahead of her, she saw a single door. She walked towards it. She pushed it open. Beyond, she saw a candle flame. She walked through the door; then she froze. She was standing in the catacomb.

  The tomb was j
ust in front of her; on the far wall were the steps that led up to the church. Rebecca crossed to them. She climbed the steps, and pushed at the door. It was locked. She pushed again. It wouldn’t shift. Rebecca sat on the top step, pressed against the door, waiting. All was silent now. The door behind the tomb was still open, but Rebecca couldn’t face returning to the corridor. She waited several minutes. Still silence. Gingerly, she descended a single step. She paused. Nothing. She walked down the remaining steps. She stared around the crypt. The fountain bubbled noiselessly, otherwise all was still. Rebecca looked ahead, at the door behind the tomb. Perhaps she would make it. If she ran, and found a door onto the street - yes - she might make it after all. Quietly, she crossed the floor of the crypt. She stood by the tomb. She nerved herself. She knew, if she went, she would have to go - now.

  The claw seized her around her throat. Rebecca screamed, but the cry was muffled by a second hand, holding her mouth and stifling her. Dust choked her eyes; it smelled of living death. Rebecca blinked. She looked up at the centuries-old thing that was Haidée. Two red eyes burning; open, toothless mouth; shrivelled insect-head. Rebecca struggled. The creature seemed so frail, but its strength was implacable. Rebecca felt its grip round her throat start to strangle her. She choked. She saw the creature raise its other hand. Its claws were long like scimitars. The thing stroked a single finger down her throat. Rebecca felt a welling of blood from the wound. Then she struggled to turn her head away. The thing was lowering its lips; the stench of its breath was terrible. Rebecca felt the claw touch her neck again. She waited. The lips, she knew, were just above the wound. She shut her eyes. She hoped that death, when it came, would be quick.

  Then she heard the rattle of the creature’s breath. She tensed - and nothing happened. She opened her eyes. The creature had lifted its lips from her neck. It was staring at her with its burning eyes. It was shaking. ‘Do it,’ Rebecca heard Lord Byron say.

  The thing still stared at her. Rebecca peered beyond its head. Lord Byron was standing beside the tomb. Slowly, the creature looked at him.

  ‘Do it,’ he said again.

  The creature made no answer.

  Lord Byron stretched out to touch its hairless skull. ‘Haidée,’ he whispered, ‘there is no other way. Please.’ He kissed her. ‘Please.’

  Still, the creature was silent. Rebecca saw Lord Byron study her. ‘She knows the secret,’ he said. ‘I have told her everything.’ He waited. ‘Haidée, we agreed. She knows the secret. You cannot let her go.’

  The creature shook. Its thin, skinless shoulders moved up and down. Lord Byron stretched out to comfort it, but he was brushed away. The creature stared into Rebecca’s eyes again. Its own face was twisted, as though with tears, but its burning eyes were as dry as before. Slowly, it opened its mouth - then shook its head. Rebecca felt the grip lift from around her throat.

  The creature tried to rise. It staggered. Lord Byron captured it in his arms. He held it, kissing it, rocking it. Disbelievingly, Rebecca rose to her feet.

  Lord Byron stared at her. His face was icy with pain and despair. ‘Go,’ he whispered.

  Rebecca couldn’t move.

  ‘Go!’

  She held her hands over her ears, the cry was so terrible. She ran from the crypt. On the stairway, she paused, to look back down. Lord Byron was bent over his charge, as a parent holds his child. Rebecca stood, frozen - then she turned, and ran, and left the crypt behind.

  At the top of the stairs was a passageway. She followed it. At the far end, she reached a door; she turned the handle, and opened it, and gasped with delight when she saw the street beyond. It was dusk. The sunset was streaking the muggy London sky, and she stared at the colours with wonderment and joy. For a minute she paused, listening to the distant city roar, the sounds she had never thought to hear again - the sounds of life. Then she turned, and began to hurry down the street. She glanced round once. The front of Lord Byron’s house was still dark. The doors were all shut. No one seemed to be following her.

  Had she paused, though, and hidden to make absolutely sure, she would have seen a figure slip out from the dark. She would have seen him tracing the way she had just gone. She would have smelled, perhaps, a distinctive tang. But she didn’t pause, and so she didn’t see her follower. He passed, as she did, and left the street behind. The faint smell of acid in the air was soon dispersed.