by Aderyn Wood
“Good evening,” he says.
“Good evening.”
“How are you tonight?”
“It is a good night, I think. I am calm.”
“Has it helped?” He nods toward the book resting beside me on the table. The book he gave me. The book that told me what I am.
“It has made some things clear. I now know what I’ve become.” I slide the book back across the table as Michael sits.
“And what is that?”
Neither of us has said it yet. “A monster.”
Michael takes a heavy breath, and I wish to do the same.
“Where did you get it?” I nod toward the book, still sitting between us. “I’ve been searching for more information.”
Shen arrives and Michael slides the book inside his coat pocket, his hands lingering there, patting the folds. Shen pours my rice wine from a new bottle, and hesitates, looking at Michael. A subtle nod passes between them. Then Shen leaves us.
“Something has happened. Between you and Shen?” I ask.
Michael adjusts his glasses. “I tried to speak with him today. But, he would tell me nothing.”
I nearly scoff. “I told you they wouldn’t.”
Michael looks around. There is a nervousness coming from him, but he is still not afraid. “Where have you been staying? Can we go there? I want to talk more freely with you about your – situation.”
“Situation? That’s a polite way of putting it.”
Michael’s hand touches his coat again, patting it. “Please.”
He has something in his pocket. Something other than the book, but what is not clear to me. Perhaps he has another book. Perhaps he has more information. “All right. Let’s go now.”
I drain my wine in one gulp and lead him out of the restaurant. I walk quickly through the city, sticking to the comfort of shadows. Michael has to jog sometimes to keep up.
At the cemetery, a misty rain descends like a gauze curtain in the sky, making the headstones shine in the lamplight. The scent of damp earth dominates. I finally slow my pace.
“You’ve been living at the cemetery?” Michael asks, his puffs throwing steam in the air.
“If you can call it living.”
I lead him up the meandering path through the old graves. The headstones are elaborate here. Large angels, crucifixes and stars stand a vigil over the dead – rich nobles of centuries past. As we walk, the graves become older still, the lanes and pathways much less ordered. Headstones crumbling.
At the little stone temple I pry open the creaky door. Inside I light a match and hold it to the candle in the wall, a fresh one I put there last night. “Shut the door.”
Michael does so and glances around the cramped space. Two stone bench chairs face opposite each other in front of a large marble sarcophagus. He examines the transcription on the wall above the coffin. “Someone must have been very important to be awarded such a grave.”
I move to the sarcophagus, candle in hand, and push the stone lid to the side, effortlessly. It scrapes and groans, and stone dust fills the space making Michael cough.
“Wait, what are you doing?”
I grimace and give him a level stare. “You cannot be afraid, Michael. You cannot.”
He wipes his mouth and takes a deep breath, eyes closed, before nodding. “I’m not.”
“If you want to see where I’ve been staying, it’s this way.” I point down into the shadows of the tomb. “It is dark down there, and there is no escape. Are you sure you want to see?”
He frowns, and pats his coat pocket again. “Yes, I’m sure.”
I step up onto the sarcophagus and descend the hidden steps nestled within. The flickering candle lights the gloom. Michael follows closely.
Once below I get busy lighting the other candles. The space slowly reveals itself to be a small chamber. Michael takes it in. He walks to the back where another, smaller sarcophagus rests.
“That’s where he is entombed.” I tell him.
“Who?”
“Louis, the permanent resident of this chamber. I don’t think he minds me being here though.” I force a smile, an attempt to help Michael assuage his fear. The action feels human – a comfort – and I maintain the smile a moment longer.
Michael nods as he looks around the chamber. In one corner rests my bedroll with some blankets and a pillow. In another, my collection of pilfered alcohol – rum, scotch, wine, vodka – some bottles full, others almost empty. A stack of books stands along one wall below a candle. Michael studies the titles. “So, that’s where your copy of Dracula ended up.”
“I told you; I’ve been searching for answers.”
“Well you’ve made yourself comfortable.” Michael points to the bedroll.
“It’s nice to lay down on the blankets. It makes me feel like I used to feel. But the truth is I no longer need such comforts as a bed. When I sleep, it is not like it used to be. It is more like I am not here – lifeless.”
Michael adjusts his glasses, and something tells me he is cold. I fold a blanket and put it down by a wall. “Here, sit on this.”
Michael sits, and I sit opposite on the cold floor.
“So this keeps you safe, from the sun?”
“Yes.”
Michael squints. “Do you feel when it is day, when the sun has risen and set?”
“Yes, I feel weaker at both dawn and dusk. The sun seems to have a dramatic effect on me. I tried to stay outside once to see if I could finish it that way. I saw the first light of dawn, and the reds and pinks of the clouds as it lit up the sky. But my body betrayed me. Sickness and pain consumed me, and I ran back in here for the shelter of the dark.”
“Where was the pain?” Michael asks.
“It was like standing too close to a fire, only deeper than just the skin. I felt it through my whole body. Sometimes I think I should have been braver and stayed there, for I’m sure it would have taken me and I’d be free of this curse. But I am too weak; I couldn’t stand the pain.”
A wave of sympathy grips Michael as he looks at me with sorrow. His hair shines almost golden in the glow of the candlelight and his goodness radiates more strongly with his sympathy. Something in me wants to sit closer, but I dare not. So, I remain still, my eyes focused on him, as I try to prise out his thoughts.
I sense his discomfort and the sympathy is cut off. His hand goes to his coat again, patting it.
“What’s in your coat pocket?” I ask him.
His eyes widen and his heart races; I can hear the beat. Something close to fear grips him. I look him in the eye, and he cannot tear his gaze from me. Before I can think through my actions, I send soothing warmth with my mind. As though on autopilot, a new instinct arises in me, and Michael calms. His pulse slows and he looks away.
His hand goes to an inner pocket and grasps for something, then he slowly draws it out, and extends his arm to me. There is a business card in his hand. He flicks it and it lands before me. I reach for it and read the words: Michael D’Angelo, P.I.
“You are a private investigator?”
Michael adjusts his glasses. “Of a sort.”
“What do you mean, ‘of a sort’?”
He sighs. “I’m an investigator of the paranormal. Ghosts mostly. Though I’m called on to do the odd exorcism. It’s what I did in the church. I was an exorcist.”
“I see.” Michael is calm now, comfortable even. “And my father hired you to find me. Why you?”
“There was an investigation into your disappearance. The police showed your family the blog. They know everything about it. Your sister thought perhaps supernatural elements were at play.”
My heart tugs with a foreign emotion when I remember my sister. Some sentiment I’ve not experienced since I was turned. It takes me a while to identify, to name it – love. “Well.” My voice croaks when I speak. “You’ve found me.”
Michael nods.
“My father won’t be happy about the blog.”
“He was concerned only about you.
They desperately want to find you.”
Michael’s sympathy is coming in waves again, and suddenly I wish I could cry. But my hand forms a fist instead and I slam it into the wall. The stone cracks and bits of rock and stone dust spray out. My hand hardly hurts at all.
“Emma,” he says quietly, “what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have any answers. I thought you had an idea.”
“I have a very small idea, a shadow of an idea.”
“Go on.”
“Well, two things, really. Firstly, that book, it was given to me by an Irish monk. He lives in Rome. When he gave me the book, he told me to return to him to learn more. He was rather mysterious about it, but he said there would come a time when I would need more information, and that I should return to him then – with you.”
With me? Michael is unsure about this. No, it doesn’t feel right.
He adjusts his glasses. “I think that time has come, and I think you should come with me.”
I stand; my shadow dances along the wall, long and dark. “I – I can’t go. There’s no way. I am only barely keeping things under control here. I know this city, I have Liu and Shen at the restaurant, and I can trust them not to say anything. And my – friends are here.”
Michael looks at me. “Emma, have you been watching them? John and Anais.”
A scowl forms on my face and I smooth it with an effort, pushing down the anger that threatens. “What if I have? They are my friends.”
“Were your friends. You know you can’t do that to them. You know what the book said. If you stay here in Paris you will put them in danger.”
I pace quick steps back and forth, and the candles flicker violently. Yes, that damn book painted a clear picture. But, my friends are my only comfort. I don’t want to leave them.
“Please, sit down.”
I reach for the bottle of vodka, and drink a quarter of it in one gulp. It staunches the emotions, like water on fire. “How would we get there? I cannot be around people for long; it becomes too difficult to control. I cannot go by plane, or by train, or—”
“We’ll hire a car.”
I look up, thinking through the variables. “Yes, that should work. But I’ll need to do the trip in two nights. We will stay in the mountains, just across the border, there is a place that will be perfect.”
“What kind of place?”
“A safe place, for a vampire.” Vampire. It is the first time I’ve said it, and it feels too natural on my tongue.
Michael shivers and buttons his coat.
“This monk, what if he wants to kill me?”
Michael purses his lips. “I cannot lie to you, Emma. I’m not sure what his intentions are, but he has knowledge, and I got the feeling there is a lot yet he can tell us. It is a risk. And it is your decision. But you need to make a decision. You can stay here for all of eternity, but one day the Chans won’t be there any longer. And Anais and John will go on with their lives and eventually die themselves, perhaps by your very own hand. Then you will be left with no one. Or, you can come to Italy with me, we find the monk and see what we can learn – then we move east.”
I frown. “East?”
“In your blog, the translations, did you notice that Egypt became something of a motif? It was mentioned a few times. First, in reference to the gypsies, then you yourself went there on a dig – it’s where you mentioned the tapestry and the symbol—”
“The pentagram.”
“Yes, and do you remember its meaning?”
“The womb of the underworld.”
Michael nodded. “And the final entry, the one by Nathaniel.”
I snarl.
“He mentioned Egypt too, and indicated that Egypt was where he must go next, to get answers.”
“You think I should follow him? Ha! No, he won’t help me. Even if he could, he wouldn’t help me.”
“No, I think you’re right. He wouldn’t help you. But she might.”
“Who?”
Michael’s blue eyes darken in the candlelight. “The gypsy woman who afflicted Nate. The one who started it all.”
Chapter 21
Excerpt from Michael D’Angelo’s Case Notes – Sunday 30th November
From the Foliss Abesse
The vampyre bends the will of mortals to his desire. A mere look renders humans spellbound, except when protected…
Once again, the sun was shining when he woke and Michael’s first thought was of Emma and how she would never again enjoy the unique warmth of the sun’s rays on a cold morning. It was so late when he entered the dining room that Madame Terreux was already wiping down the tables.
“You have missed breakfast this morning, Monsieur. How will you cope without your porridge?”
“What a shame,” Michael replied. “And I was looking forward to an English breakfast, too.”
Madame Terreux tutted as she gave him a scowl over her glasses. Michael told her that he would be leaving the next morning, early.
She raised her eyebrows. “Would you like me to fix you the breakfast before you go?”
“No, thank you. I will be leaving very early.” Before midnight. “I will settle my account this afternoon, if it suits you.”
Madame Terreux nodded and Michael left her to her chores.
He made his way to the tourist cafe nearby and ordered a full English breakfast. He needed his strength, and some familiar comfort.
Georgette came bumbling in a few minutes after. “Have you ordered?” she asked, her eyes taking in the gaudy tourist decorations – British and American flags mostly. “I’ve not dined here before.”
“It may not be to your taste, Georgette.”
“What did you order?” she asked.
“The full English breakfast. I’m rather hungry today.”
Georgette’s eyes widened. “Are you ill? She hasn’t hurt you, has she?”
Michael smiled. “No nothing like that. It’s just been a while since my last meal.”
“Well, I’ll order the same.”
“That’s hardly typical for a French woman.”
“I am no ordinary French woman.” Georgette winked before plodding to the counter to order her breakfast.
“So, what is new?” she asked when she returned.
Michael considered what to tell her as he sipped his American style black coffee. “We are leaving for Italy tonight.”
“We? You mean you and Emma! Why?”
“I have a contact there who may know something about Emma’s – affliction. She has limited choices as you can imagine and she needs more information.”
Georgette squinted. “I don’t think you should go, Michael. It is too dangerous.”
A tingle of cool caressed his spine and Michael took another sip of the coffee. “I’m being very careful, Georgette. After Italy we intend to go east.”
Georgette’s eyes squinted tighter. “Why?”
“Why do you think, Georgette?”
“The gypsy,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“You are following Nathaniel’s lead – in the blog.”
“That’s right.”
“There’s something about that gypsy woman. I always wondered about that vial of blood she wore around her neck.” Georgette frowned as she toyed with her own necklace – a little silver kitten suspended on a silver chain.
“Yes, I’ve wondered the same myself.”
“We must remain in contact, Michael. I fear you are in grave danger. Every day you must email me, or call me to tell me where you are.” She fumbled in her bag and withdrew a piece of paper and a pen, quickly scrawling a note. “Here, take this. It’s my secret email address.” She folded the paper and pushed it over the table to Michael. “Someone needs to look out for you. To guard you.”
Michael’s ears pricked at her choice of that word ‘guard’. His grandmother’s warning returned to him once more. But he hadn’t seen Judith again. He was keeping his heart well-guarded on that fro
nt. He put Georgette’s email address in his pocket. “I will, Georgette, I will contact you every step of the way.”
Their breakfast arrived and Georgette added a decent layer of seasoning to her eggs along with a squirt of the HP sauce on her sausages.
“You really do know how to enjoy an English breakfast.” Michael smiled.
“But of course, it is one of my favourites.” She raised her fork to put a cut of sausage in her mouth, but Michael stalled her. “Georgette, wait.”
He reached over and tucked a napkin into her collar. “Proceed.”
Georgette looked down at the napkin, her eyes crossing and Michael stifled a laugh. “Someone needs to look out for you. Go ahead, enjoy your breakfast.”
She popped the morsel in her mouth and a dollop of the sauce fell on the napkin at her throat. It glistened thick and red in the bright lights of the cafe. Georgette chewed in ignorance and Michael was glad he could help her in some small way.
The early afternoon sunshine warmed his woollen coat so much that Michael took it off and sat on a park bench to watch the boats on the Seine. It was a beautiful day. He took his tablet to review some of the notes he’d taken on the Foliss Abesse, but his phone rang and he answered without thinking – without looking at the screen. “Michael D’Angelo.”
“Hello, Michael.”
His heart stopped. “Hello, Judith.”
“You’ve been ignoring my calls.”
“I thought it best.”
“I can’t blame you.”
Silence filled his ear. He knew he should have hung up in that silence. Or spoken the words and told her it was all over, that he didn’t want to have his heart dragged through mud again. But he couldn’t, he couldn’t do that to her.
“Can I meet you tonight?”
“Judith—”
“Please, just one more time, I only want to say goodbye.”
He swallowed. “Goodbye?”
“Yes, I know it’s what you want, and I know you are too kind to say it. I just want to see you one last time, and then, I promise, I will never come into your life again.”
He closed his eyes. “Very well. Meet me tonight at eight.”
Michael spent the afternoon organising a hire car, a black Renault, which he parked in the lane outside the Petite Chez, before packing in his small room. He also sent a brief email to Susan telling her that he was following a lead to Italy. It was neither a lie nor the whole truth, but it would have to do for now. Emma needed to make a decision about her family.