by Brian Lumley
At that her eyes had narrowed to slits and she’d spat at him: “So that’s the way it is, is it? The big boys at the college got to you first, did they? You like them better than girls, do you?”
Boris had turned towards the window then, picking up a chair. “Go on,” he’d snapped, “out! Or I leave at once, right now. And not only will I tell my father, but also every policeman I meet between here and Bucharest. I’ll tell them about the library of dirty books you keep—which alone might get you a term in prison—and about your daughters, who are little more than girls and already worse than whores—”
“Whores?” She had cut him off with such a hiss that he’d thought she would fly at him.
“—but who could never be as totally rotten as you!” he’d finished.
Then she had broken down, bursting into tears and letting him shove her from the room without further protest. And for the rest of the night he’d slept soundly and completely undisturbed.
That had been the end of it. At midday the next day, while Boris was enjoying his lunch in silence and on his own, his stepfather had arrived to take him home. The trouble with the animals was over; it had not been so serious after all, thank God! Never had Boris been so glad to see anyone in his whole life, and he’d had to fight hard not to show it too much. While he got his things together Aunt Hildegard spent an apparently cordial if careful half-hour with her brother, who made a point of asking after his nieces, neither of them being present. Then, with brief farewells, Boris and his stepfather had left to begin their trip back into the country.
At the gate as they got into the car, Aunt Hildegard had managed to catch Boris’s eye. Her look, just for a second, before she began to wave them goodbye, was pleading. Her eyes begged his silence. In answer he had once more shown her that sneer, that look far worse than any snarl or threat, which said more of what he thought of her than any thousand words ever could.
In any event, he had never spoken of that awful visit to anyone. Nor would he ever, not even to the thing in the ground.
* * *
The thing in the ground … the old devil … the vampire.
He was waiting (what else could he do but wait?) when Dragosani arrived in the gloomy glade of the tomb just before dusk with another piglet in a sack. He was awake, angry, lying there in the ground and fuming. And as the sun’s rim touched the rim of the world and the far horizon turned to blood, he was the first to speak:
Dragosani? I smell you, Dragosani! And have you come to torment me? With more questions, more demands? Would you steal my secrets, Dragosani? Little by little, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left of me? And then what? When I lie here in the cold earth, how will you reward me? With the blood of a pig? Ahaaa! I see it’s so. Another piglet—for one who has bathed in the blood of men and virgins and armies! Often!
“Blood is blood, old dragon,” Dragosani answered. “And I note you’re more agile tonight for what you drank last night!”
For what I drank? (Scorn, but feigned or genuine?) No, the earth is the richer, Dragosani, not these old bones.
“I don’t believe you.”
And I don’t care! Go, leave me be, you dishonour me. I have nothing for you and will have nothing from you. I do not wish to talk. Begone!
Dragosani grinned. “I’ve brought you another pig, yes—for you or for the earth, whichever—but there’s something more, something rare. Except.…”
The old one was interested, intrigued. Except?
Dragosani shrugged. “Perhaps it has been too long. Perhaps you’re not up to it. Perhaps it’s impossible—even for you. For after all, what are you but a dead thing?” And before the other could object: “Or an undead thing, if you insist.”
I do insist … Are you taunting me, Dragosani? What is it you bring me this night? What would you give me? What do you … propose?
“Maybe it’s more what we can give each other.”
Say on.
Dragosani told him what was in his mind, exactly what it was he was willing to share.
And you would trade? What would you have from me in return for this … sharing? (Dragosani could almost sense the vampire licking its lips.)
“Knowledge,” Dragosani answered at once. “I’m just a man, with a man’s knowledge of women,” he lied, “and—” He paused in confusion, for the old one was chuckling! It had been a mistake to lie to him.
Oh? A man’s knowledge of women? A “complete” man’s knowledge, eh, Dragosani?
He gritted his teeth, choked out: “There hasn’t been time … my work, studies … the opportunity hasn’t arisen.”
Time? Studies? Opportunity? Dragosani, you are not a child. I was eleven when I tore through my first maidenhead, a thousand years ago. After that—virgin, bitch, whore, what did it matter? I had them all, in all ways—and always wanted more! And you? You have not tasted? You have not soaked yourself in the sweat and the juice and the hot sweet blood of a woman? Not one? And you call me a dead thing!
The old one laughed then, laughed uproariously, outrageously, obscenely. He found it all so ecstatically ridiculous! His laughter went on and on, became a deluge, a tidal wave, a howling ocean of laughter in Dragosani’s head, threatening to drown him.
“Damn you!” He stood up and stamped on the earth, spat on it. “Damn you!” He shook his knotted fists at the black soil and tumbled slabs. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!”
The old one was quiet in a moment, oozing like some nightmare slug in Dragosani’s mind. But I’m already damned, my son, he said, after a little while. Yes, and so are you.…
Dragosani snatched out his knife, reached for the stunned piglet.
Wait! Not so hasty, Dragosani. I have not refused. But tell me: since it would appear that like some puny priest you’ve abstained for all these long years, why now?
Dragosani thought about it, decided he might as well tell the truth. The old devil in the ground had probably seen through him, anyway. “It’s the woman. She aggravates me, taunts me, flaunts her flesh.”
Ahhh! I know the sort.
“Also, I believe she thinks I’ve been with men—or at least she has wondered about it.”
Like the Turks? The old one’s mental response was sharp, touched with hatred. That is an insult!
“I think so too,” Dragosani nodded. “So … will you do it?”
You are inviting me into your mind, am I correct? Tonight, when this woman comes to you?
“Yes.”
And it is an invitation, made of your own free will?
Dragosani grew wary. “Just this once,” he answered. “It will have no permanence.”
Again you flatter yourself, the other chuckled. I have—or will have—my own body, Dragosani, which is nothing so weak as yours!
“And you can do it? And will I learn from it?”
Oh, I can do it, my son, yeessss! Have you forgotten the fledgling? And did you learn something that time, too? Who made you a necromancer, Dragosani? Yes, and this time you will learn … much!
“Then I want nothing more from you—for now, anyway.” He began to back away from the tomb, moving downhill, away from that place of centuried horror. And—
But what of the piglet? asked the thickly glutinous voice in his head. And more hurriedly: For the earth, Dragosani, for the earth.
In the deep, unquiet gloom, Dragosani narrowed his eyes. “Oh, yes, I very nearly forgot,” he said, his tone not quite sarcastic. “The piglet, of course. For the earth.…” Quickly he returned, slit the insensate animal’s throat, tossed its pink body down. And then, without looking back, he made silently away.
A little way down the slope, against the bole of a tree where great roots forked, trapped there and unable to roll any farther, he saw something strange and stooped to pick it up. It was last night’s offering, or what remained of it. A tightly interwoven ball of pink skin and crushed bones, all dry as crumpled cardboard. A beetle crawled on it, seeking in vain for some morsel of sustenance. Dragosani let it
fall and roll out of sight.
Oh, yes, he thought—but guarded his thoughts carefully there in the darkness beneath the pines—oh, yes. For the earth. Only for the earth.…
* * *
Dragosani got back to the Kinkovsi place in time to eat supper with the family again; for the last time, though he couldn’t know that then. During the meal Ilse showed little or no interest in him, which was as well for he felt tense and on edge. He was not sure he’d done the right thing; the old devil in the ground was no fool and had stressed that this would be at Dragosani’s own invitation; his old revulsion was gradually mounting in him as the time approached; but at the same time his body ached for release from years of sexual self-denial. For the first time since his arrival here the food seemed tasteless to him, and even the beer was flat and lifeless.
Later, in his room, he paced and fantasised, growing ever more angry with himself and fretful as the hours slipped by. For the third or fourth time since supper he took out the half-dozen volumes he’d brought with him on vampirism, read through the relevant passages, put the books away again, out of sight in a suitcase. According to legend, one must never accept any invitation from a vampire; and, equally important, one must never invite a vampire to do anything! In this the conscious will of the victim (by accepting or making an invitation) was all-important. It meant in effect that it was his decision to be a victim. The will was like a barrier in the mind of the victim which the vampire was reluctant, even unable, to surmount without the aid of the victim himself. Or perhaps, psychologically, it was a barrier the victim must surmount: before he could become a victim, he must first believe.…
In Dragosani’s case it was a question of the depth of his belief. He knew the thing in the ground was there, so that didn’t come into it. But as yet he did not know what power—or the extent of the power—the creature could exert externally. Perhaps even more important, now that he had “invited it in,” as it were, he didn’t know the limits of his own resistance, or if he would be able to resist at all. Or if he would want to.…
Well, doubtless he would find out soon enough.
The hour between midnight and 1:00 A.M. passed incredibly slowly, and as the trysting time approached Dragosani began to hope that Ilse would think better of it and stay away. She might be sound asleep even now, with no intention of meeting him here. It could simply be a game she played with all of her father’s guests—to make them look and feel foolish! In fact, she might well feel the same way about men as Dragosani—until now—had been caused to feel about women.
A half-dozen and more times the thought had come to him that she was making an utter fool of him, and each time he had gone to the open window to close it and draw his moon-silvered curtains. But on every occasion he had paused, something had stopped him, and he’d snarled silently at his own incompetence in this thing and gone back to sit on his bed in the darkness of the room.
Now, at two minutes past the hour, cursing himself for a buffoon and rushing to the window yet again, he was on the point of slamming it shut when—
Down there in the moonlit farmyard, making its way like a shadow amongst shadows, a figure, dark and gauzy, fleeting—and Ilse Kinkovsi’s bedroom window open a little way, seeming to smile up at him with her face, her knowing eyes. She was coming!
God, how Dragosani needed the old one now! And how he did not want him. Did he need him, really? But … dare he make do without him?
Elation vied with terror in Dragosani and was very nearly overwhelmed at the first pass. Terror born not alone of the tryst itself, nor even the purpose of the tryst, but perhaps more out of his own ability—or inability?—to carry it through. He was a man now, yes, but in matters such as this still a boy. The only flesh he had known, whose secrets he had delved, had been cold and dead and unwilling. But this was live and hot and all too willing!
Revulsion climbed higher in him, coursed through him like a flood. He had been a boy, just a boy … pictures filled his head in bestial procession, which he had thought were forgotten, thrust out … the visit to his aunt’s house … his cousins … the beast-thing which he knew had been only a rutting man! God, that—had—been—a—nightmare!
And was it to be like that all over again? And himself the lusting, slavering beast?
Impossible! He couldn’t!
He heard the creak of a stair down in the bowels of the guesthouse, flew to the window and stared wild-eyed out into the night. Another creak, closer, sent him flying to the light switch. She was out there, on the landing, coming to his door!
A gust of wind moaned into the room, billowing the curtains, striking at—into—Dragosani’s heart. In a moment all fear, all uncertainty was gone. He stepped out of the moonlight into shadow and waited.
The door opened silently and she came in. Trapped in a shaft of moonlight the grey veil-like garment she wore was almost transparent. She closed the door behind her, moved towards the bed.
“Herr Dragosani?” she said, her voice trembling just a little.
“I’m here,” he answered from the shadows.
She heard but didn’t look his way. “So … I was wrong about you,” she said, raising her arms and drawing off the gauzy shift. Her breasts and buttocks were marble where the moon caressed them.
“Yeesss,” he whispered, stepping forward.
“Well,” now she turned to him, “here I am!”
She stood like a statue carved of milk, gazing at him with nothing at all of innocence. He came forward, a dark silhouette, reaching for her. In daylight she had thought his eyes a trifle weak, a watery blue—a soft, almost feminine, filmstar blue—but now.…
The night suited him. In the night his eyes were feral—like those of a great wolf. And as he bore her down onto the bed, only then did she feel the first niggling doubt in the back of her mind. His strength was—enormous!
“I was very, very wrong about you,” she said.
“Aahhh!” said Dragosani.
* * *
The following morning, Dragosani called for his breakfast early. He took it in his room, where Hzak Kinkovsi found him looking (and feeling) more fully alive than he had thought possible. The country air must really agree with him. Ilse, on the other hand, was not so fortunate.
Dragosani didn’t need to enquire after her: her father was full of it, grumbling to himself as he served up a substantial breakfast on a tray. “That woman,” he said, “my Ilse, is a good strong girl—or should be. But ever since her operation—” and he had shrugged.
“Her operation?” Dragosani had tried not to seem too interested.
“Yes, six years ago. Cancer. Very bad for a young girl. Her womb. So, they took it away. That’s good, she lives. But this is farming country. A man wants a wife who’ll give him children, you know? So, she’ll be an old maid—maybe. Or perhaps she’ll go and get a job in the city. Strong sons are not so important there.”
It explained something, possibly. “I see,” Dragosani nodded; and, carefully: “But this morning…?”
“Sometimes she doesn’t feel too good, even now. Not often. But today she really isn’t up to much. So, she stays in her room for a day or two. Curtains drawn, dark room, all wrapped up in her bed, shivering. Just like when she was a little girl and sick. She says she doesn’t want a doctor, but—” he shrugged again. “—I worry about her.”
“Don’t,” said Dragosani. “I mean, don’t worry about her.”
“Eh?” Kinkovsi looked surprised.
“She’s a full-grown woman. She’ll know what’s best for her. Rest, quiet, a nice dark room. Those are the right things. They’re all I need when I’m a bit down.”
“Hmm! Well, perhaps. But still it’s worrying. And a lot of work to be done, too! The English come today.”
“Oh?” Dragosani was glad that the other had changed the subject. “Maybe I’ll meet them tonight.”
Kinkovsi nodded, looked gloomy. He gathered up the empty tray. “Difficult. I don’t know a lot of English. What I know I
learned from tourists.”
“I know some English,” said Dragosani. “I can get by.”
“Ah? Well, at least they’ll be able to talk to someone. Anyway, they bring good money—and money talks, eh?” He managed a chuckle. “Enjoy your breakfast, Herr Dragosani.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Beginning to grumble again under his breath, Kinkovsi left the garret room and made his way downstairs. Later, when Dragosani went out, both Hzak and Maura were readying the lower rooms for their expected English guests.
* * *
By midday Dragosani had driven into Pitesti. He did not know why exactly, except that he remembered the town had a small but very comprehensive reference library. Whether or not he would have gone to the library—or what he would have done there—is academic. The question did not arise for he was not given the chance to go there; the local police found him first.
Alarmed at first and imagining all sorts of things (worst of all, that he had been watched and followed, and that his secret—concerning the old devil in the ground—had been discovered), he calmed down as soon as he found out what the trouble really was: that Gregor Borowitz had been trying to track him down since the day he left Moscow and finally had succeeded. It was a wonder Dragosani hadn’t been stopped at the border where he’d crossed from Romania at Reni. The local law had tracked him to Ionestasi, from there to Kinkovsi’s, finally to Pitesti. In fact it was his Volga they’d tracked: there weren’t many of those in Romania. Not with Moscow plates.
Finally the policeman in charge of the patrol vehicle which had stopped him apologized for any inconvenience and gave Dragosani a “message”—which was simply Borowitz’s Moscow telephone number, the secure line. Dragosani went with them at once to the police station and phoned from there.
On the other end of the line, Borowitz came right to the point: “Boris, get back here a.s.a.p.”
“What is it?”
“A member of the staff at the American embassy has had an accident while touring. A fatal accident: wrecked his car and gutted himself. We haven’t identified him yet—not officially, anyway—but we’ll have to do it soon. Then the Americans will want his body. I want you to see him first—in your, er, specialist capacity.”