by Linn Chapel
Luke replied, “There seems to be a strong psychic component to their makeup. Just a coincidence? No, I’m convinced that must help their minds to assimilate knowledge and language very rapidly. If I’m right, they must each experience a mental-psychological growth spurt that lasts for a few days or weeks before it ebbs.”
Wesley’s eyes were bright with wonder. “Does your father remember that? Does he remember being born into his body?”
Luke replied through a clenched jaw. “He’s says he can’t remember very much of anything. All he’s ever told me is that it was like waking up with no clothes on.”
Peter snorted and Tressa felt a smile tugging at her own lips. For years, Luke had been pressing their father for more details.
“He’s in his fifties now, but he must have looked a lot like Peter when he was born, because the resemblance is still strong,” said Luke. “But instead of brown eyes, like Peter’s, he has blue ones.”
“Very blue,” added Peter.
“That’s right, very blue, like a newborn’s.”
“And don’t forget the tricky look,” Tressa added.
“Right. He’s got a very tricky look,” said Luke. “Our father’s fond of joking, but you wouldn’t want to cross him. Brother Brendan has the same blue eyes. No tricky look, though. He’s been able to give us more facts because he’s met some others of his kind throughout the years. He knows all about the threefold convergence and the lack of parents. He even knows the history of the term, Mysterium.
“Tell me,” urged Wesley. “I thought you had coined it yourselves.”
Luke smiled briefly. “No, it’s been around for centuries. The full name is Mysterium lunaris – that’s Latin for ‘Mystery of the Moon’. Brother Brendan discovered this years ago, when he happened to find some old letters in the library of an Italian monastery. The letters were written in English by a British author of the 18th century, who referred to an even earlier source named the Mysterium Erectus, which he believed had been lost, or worse, destroyed. If only I could examine that early source! It seems to have been a compendium of rare, two-legged beings that walk erect – in other words, strange beings who appear to be human, but aren’t. The compiler of that early work probably lived in the 16th century. The British author of the letters had seen portions of the tome in person, before it disappeared, and he wrote in his letters that many strange but human-like species were described within its pages. Each species was given a Latin name, and each was assumed to be under the influence of a celestial body. Two of these species were mentioned in his letters – the Mysterium lunaris, supposedly guided by emanations from the Moon, and the Mysterium sanguineus, guided by Mars.”
“Mars, the red planet, ruled by the god of war,” murmured Wesley. “And Mysterium sanguineus means Mystery of Blood. It seems that the original compiler was aware of the existence of vampires.”
“It’s the obvious conclusion,” said Luke. “And the 18th century letter-writer must have known something about them himself, for he gave them a revised name. In one of his letters he omitted the term Mysterium, and named them Homo sanguineus instead. That one word makes a difference, for it changes the name to Human of Blood. He must have figured out for himself that vampires are altered humans, humans that have been turned.”
Wesley leaned forward. “The Mysterium Erectus may still exist. Perhaps I could make some inquiries among the collectors I’ve come to know in Europe.”
“You’re welcome to try, Wesley, but I’ve been making inquiries of my own for years without any success. I’ve even done a little electronic snooping into private collections. The Mysterium Erectus seems to have disappeared without a trace.”
“Then the letters that were written in the 18th century must be studied more closely,” said Wesley quickly. “Where did your Mysterium mentor find them in Italy?”
Silently, Tressa shook her head, knowing it was no use. Peter shifted uncomfortably at her side.
“There was a fire,” Luke began, biting out the words.
Wesley paled, looking whiter than ever. Tressa realized that a sudden fire burning its way through the contents of an old library must seem the worst disaster possible to an antiquarian bookseller.
“It happened a few decades ago,” continued Luke. “The long and short of it is that the letters were destroyed and all we have to go on is Brother Brendan’s memory of their contents. That in turn comes from the letter-writer’s memory of the portions he had seen of the original Mysterium Erectus, which has been lost for centuries. If it even still exists.”
Everyone in the room fell silent after that. The fire had burned so low that only a reddish glow surrounded the embers in the hearth. Luke leaned over to add a hefty log and a spray of sparks flew up.
In his armchair across from Tressa, Holt stared at the growing flames. “The lack of information must be frustrating, but I am glad to have learned something about the Unseen World.” He gazed into the hearth. “We spy but one world with earthly eyes, even as our spirits breathe the air of another world.”
Softly, Tressa said, “You’ve captured the essence of things, Holt. But then, you’re still a poet at heart.”
He sent her back a faint smile.
Wesley turned in his chair and said pointedly, “And it’s time to take up the pen once more, John.”
Holt’s smile disappeared and he shot his old acquaintance a moody look.
Fidgeting near the fireplace, Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “We can’t spend any more time talking about the Unseen World and its dangers. Right now, we’re in far more danger from human sources than demonic ones. I called us together tonight so that I could pass on to you the latest facts I’ve managed to scrape together on the Operation,” he went on. “I found out this morning that Margot has disappeared, and there are no messages or other records of her current activities.”
Peter sat forward on the sofa. His fists were clenched. “What about Ted?”
“I have some fresh data on Ted Johnson, too. He’s using a phony story to cover up Peter’s absence, telling the operatives that health issues have caused Peter to seek treatment at a distant medical center. As for Dr. Hayes, I’ve sent him a dozen urgent messages in California, but he hasn’t answered any of them. Ted must have found a way to block all of the messages.”
Wesley spoke up then. “Holt has told me about your Operation and its humanitarian goals. Why would anyone wish to harm you?”
Luke sketched out the scenario he thought likely, one that involved the psychoactive drugs that had recently showed up at headquarters. Listening closely, Tressa felt a sense of horror begin to churn in her stomach, for if Luke’s hunch was right, then the plans afoot were sickening. If anyone managed to halt the transition halfway and mold a number of quasi-vampires into drugged but deadly mercenaries, the results would be terrifying.
“Holt was meant to be their prize changeling, as far as I can tell,” Luke concluded. “He may have slipped through their net for now, but it’s clear they still hope to capture him before the transition has gone much further.”
Tressa’s breath was trapped in her throat as she glanced at Holt. He was looking dangerously stormy at the news.
“They must think I’d lead them to my old connections in Europe,” he said.
Luke nodded and turned to Tressa. “You were supposed to stay away from Holt, but it’s too late now. They might have a second role in mind for Holt, in addition to the first. You’ve been in more danger than you could ever guess! You see, they could be planning to stage your death at Holt’s hands. A video of the killing would pave the way for bogus ‘reforms’ of the Operation’s humanitarian agenda without losing any of the federal funding.”
Shocked, Tressa’s eyes flew over to Holt. He was staring back at her, looking just as stunned. Then he shook his head sharply in denial.
Luke added, “If we’re captured, they could still put such a plan into motion. Then they’d probably eliminate Peter and me as quietly as possible. Holt w
ould be the only one of us left alive. Alive, but drugged.”
“I see,” gritted Holt angrily. “I suppose I should be grateful for the prospect of such tender mercies.”
“But Luke, this is all supposition,” said Wesley in a shaky voice.
Luke shrugged. “I’ve got a knack for filling in bits of missing information. It’s the psychic ability that I mentioned earlier.”
“His hunches are usually right,” added Peter.
Luke left the fireplace to pace about the room. “We should stay in hiding at Langley while I try to trace the Operation’s activities. One way or another, I’m going to find out if we’ve been accused of breaching national security. If we haven’t, then Peter can initiate contact with the feds. Once we’ve gained their ear, we can tell them to crack down on Ted and Margot.”
“Margot’s clever. She probably noticed that loophole and closed it up,” muttered Peter.
“But maybe she’s been too busy with her experiments,” said Luke. “Vampires can’t be easy patients, even if they’re sedated. Speaking of vampires,” he added, turning to Holt, “is there any chance we could have been followed by the pair that was spying on Tressa in London?”
Holt’s eyes turned ice-cold. He shook his head. “I’ve been watching at night, but I’ve seen no signs of them.”
Luke pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I guess there’s no reason for them to travel so far. London is teaming with easy prey.”
Neither of Tressa’s brothers noticed the quick glance that passed between Holt and Wesley. A cold trickle of fear inched its way down the back of her neck.
Holt rose from his lounging position in the armchair. “Wesley will be leaving us soon, for he must travel back to London tonight, while it’s still dark.”
Wesley stood up, too. With a glance at Holt, he led the way to the door. “Come, my friend, let us catch up on old times before I leave.”
The next morning, Tressa awoke to the sound of birds warbling and chirping outside. Through the diamond-paned windows, golden sunlight beamed into her bedchamber.
She felt much safer than she had the night before, when she had gone to bed feeling restless and unnerved by all the talk of vampire mercenaries.
Rising from bed, she discovered that Peter and Luke had slipped a note under her door. Reading it, she learned that they had driven to Wells to use the Internet, and left her behind at Langley.
She didn’t think Holt would be up at this hour, and even if he were, he’d probably be somewhere out of sight, avoiding her company. She’d have to find some way to pass the hours on her own.
Opening one of her chamber’s mullioned windows, Tressa looked out over the front garden. At least the Langley estate was beautiful and extensive. Exploring it would make a pleasant way to spend the morning, she decided.
A light fog hung in the air and the temperature was warm, so she changed into a summery blouse and a skirt she had bought in London.
Once outside, she explored the area around the cottage, following the course of a small rivulet to its source on the hillside. There she discovered a small bowl-like pool in the mossy rocks that was surrounded by white may-blossoms and purple violets. The little pool had to be the spring which had given Cup Cottage its name, she thought. The sense of being in a fairy-tale land was once again strong.
When she walked up the lane to Arbor Cottage, she found it empty, but Hugh had prepared another breakfast of tea, muffins, and oatmeal for his visitors.
After she had eaten, she continued farther up the lane until she reached the little bridge over the stream. The shining currents of water burbled as they passed under the bridge and flowed along.
Would she run into Holt if she explored any further? Her pulse thudded uncomfortably at the thought, for she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to spend time alone with him.
But Holt was probably still sleeping after seeing Wesley off to London late last night. She peered into the trees on the far side of the stream, and then she crossed the bridge.
She hadn’t walked far before she spotted the smaller lane she had seen earlier, branching off into the trees. Now, in the diffuse, foggy light of day, she noticed a pair of tall stone pillars at the entrance to the smaller lane, both of them heavily draped in undergrowth.
Feeling curious, she passed between the pillars and entered the little lane, following its course through the trees until it curved around a bend. Suddenly she was standing at the edge of a weedy, overgrown clearing. On the far side stood a broad, ivy-covered structure that could only be Langley Manor.
The morning mist softened its outlines and blurred the mounds of wild undergrowth that surrounded it. All the trappings of modern life were absent; there were no toolsheds or mowers or power lines. Tressa could almost imagine that she had stepped straight into the past.
At any moment, a horse-drawn carriage could sweep up to the grand front steps, bringing guests for a morning call. The women who emerged would be dressed in long gowns and the men would be wearing snowy white cravats.
Slowly she walked closer. The old stonework and ancient doors of the central hall marked it as the oldest part of the manor. The east wing seemed to be a later extension. With its mellow red brick and quaint, mullioned windows, it had probably been added during the Elizabethan era, by the looks of it.
The west wing was more formal. With its whitewashed walls and tall, elegant windows, it looked just like the wealthy Georgian houses in Bath. It was obviously the most modern section of Langley Manor – or maybe it would be better to think of it as the least ancient, she decided.
Walking closer to the manor, her gaze ran over the weeds that had sprung up in the cracks of the broad front steps. To either side of the steps, a wild tangle of undergrowth had crept in from the edge of the woods to press up against the ivy-covered walls.
She parted some of the undergrowth with her hands and tried to peer inside one of the old, diamond-paned windows of the east wing, but the interior was too dark to make out any features within.
Disappointed, she circled the west wing until she came to an old, overgrown hedge behind the manor. As she passed through a gap, the outlines of a formal garden came into view.
Narrow pathways led through a symmetrical pattern of weedy garden beds that must have been magnificent in the past. Here and there, the silvery foliage of lavender plants still peeked through the mounds of wild growth. A few clumps of narcissus lifted their pure white blossoms above the weeds.
Moving slowly through the pattern of walkways, she turned and circled among the overgrown beds until she had come to the very center of the garden. At that spot, choked by a tangle of weedy vines, a tall shape rose up, masked by the undergrowth.
Something about it made Tressa hesitate to come any closer, but then she chided herself for being so uneasy. It wasn’t as if she’d find somebody standing there behind the green leaves, turned to stone. Reaching out, she drew aside the vines.
Behind the tangled foliage stood a stone pedestal. On it rested a sundial – the same sundial she had seen in her dreamscape.
Her heart was hammering as she lifted her eyes to scan the features of the old, formal garden. A sense of familiarity washed over her.
She had seen this place before, in her dreamscape.
Tressa dropped her hand. The vines fell back over the sundial, cloaking it with a tangle of greenery once more. She stepped away from it, breathing unevenly.
Just ahead, she spied a narrow gap in a hedge. Parting the branches, she peered into another part of the garden. Ahead of her stood the spreading oak tree of her dreamscape.
The white swing was missing, but there was no mistaking the spot. Everything about it was familiar, from the heavy branches of the oak tree to the sweeping hills in the distance. Even the ivy-covered walls of the manor house were in the same place.
Tressa could almost feel the wind in her hair again, and see Holt himself, dressed in historic clothes. Somehow, she must have unwittingly used Holt’s memories of Langle
y Manor to create her dreamscape.
She could think of only one explanation for such a link between their minds. If Holt had gained some psychic ability along with her half-Mysterium blood, a connection could have formed between them in a psychic way.
But why hadn’t such a link appeared before in the course of the Operation’s various missions? The answer to that was simple, she realized. Holt had received more blood from her than the single dose necessary for the transition. Three times as much, to be exact.
Tressa quickly cast her mind back to the other episodes that had puzzled her. The most recent of them had occurred just a few days ago, when she had come upon Holt in that hot, dry desert. He had seemed weak and parched in that dreamscape. Had she been sensing his thirst, his fever?
Before that, there had been the episode at the tropical beach. The two pursuers closing in on Holt could have been the two operatives assigned to tail him.
And before that, she’d had a vision of a broad, unfamiliar river, which Holt had identified as the Thames in London.
One more episode suddenly came back to her, the earliest and strangest of them all. It was the time she had been running through a dreamscape forest and had suddenly come upon an old book with its pages turning all by themselves. Next to the book had stood a wineglass filled with a dark red liquid.
She must have stumbled upon a scene from Holt’s memory, a brief view of his life as a vampire. It must have been so solitary, so inhumanly empty. He had to be relieved and overjoyed now that he was turning back, she thought fretfully. If only she knew why he was so distant and brooding these days.
As for a psychic link, she was fast becoming convinced that one truly existed, and that it had been the cause of all of the strange intrusions. Such a link must have allowed her to pick up stray thoughts and memories from Holt, and to even see him within her dreamscapes.
For the second time, she wondered if Holt could see her in his mind, too.