A Coven of Vampires

by Brian Lumley

  “Here, hold my hands,” said Scharme. And there in the hall of the necrometer he willed half the whales dead and their time transferred to Oryss. And here the most astonishing thing of all: he discovered that his internal chronometer worked not only for him but also for his wife—and that she had gained several millions of years!

  And he saw that because she was new to his art, it was for her as it had been at first for him: just as he had gained all of that almost forgotten Corporal’s years, so had Oryss gained all of the years of the many whales. “It could have been me!” he told himself then. “If I had known at the beginning…it could have been me….” And while he clapped a hand to his forehead and reeled, and thought these things—things which he had always known, but which never before had been brought home so forcefully—so Oryss fainted at his feet.

  He at once carried her to her bed, called his physicians, sat stroking her hand until the medical men were finished with their examination. And: “What is it?” he whispered to them then, afraid that they would tell him the worst.

  “Nothing, merely a faint,” they shrugged. But Scharme suspected it was much more than that. He felt it in his bones, a cold such as he had never known before, not even as a barefoot boy in Paradise in the winter. And mazed and mortally afraid he once more turned his eyes inwards and gazed upon the life-clock ticking in his being. Ah, and he saw how quickly the pendulum swung, how fast his time was running down! Too fast; the weight of Oryss’s myriad years had tipped the scales; he had a month and then must take life again. Oh, a great many lives….

  It was too much for him. Even for the Great Vampire Klaus August Scharme. To extend his life a single hour beyond the twenty-eight days remaining to him he must devour a hundred lifetimes, and for the next hour ten thousand, and for the next one hundred million! The figure would simply multiply itself each time he used his talent. Quickly he returned to the hall of the necrometer, fed the computer with these new figures, impatiently waited out the few seconds the machine stole from him to perform its task. And while he stood there trembling and waiting, so the necrometer balanced all the planet’s teeming life against the single life of Klaus August Scharme, and finally delivered its verdict. He had only twenty-eight days, six hours, three minutes and forty-three seconds left—and not a second longer. Neither Scharme, nor any other living thing upon the face of the planet!

  Gasping his horror, he fed new figures into the computer. What if he took all the Earth’s life at a single stroke—with the exception, of course, of life in the air and on the land and in the waters around Malta? And the computer gave him back exactly the same result, for it had assumed that this was his question in the first instance!

  At which, Scharme too fainted away….

  But before he woke up he dreamed his third inspirational dream, whose essence was simplicity itself. He saw gigantic scales weighted on the one side with Oryss, and on the other with the planet Earth and all it contained. But for all that she was a single creature, still those cosmic scales were tilted in her favour. And between the pans of the scales, holding them aloft on arms which formed the pivot, stood Klaus August Scharme himself.

  He awoke, and Oryss stood there close by, looking at the necrometer. Upon its screen were those terrible calculations which had caused her husband’s faint. And from the look on her face Scharme supposed she understood them. And from the look on his face, she also understood that he had reached a decision.

  “So,” she said then, “it is ended.”

  He climbed tiredly to his feet, burst into tears. “It is the only way,” he said, folding her to his heart. “But not yet, my love, not yet. I can wait…a day? Perhaps even a day and a night. But you must understand that what was mine to give, is also mine to take away.”

  “Not so,” she clasped him coldly. “For when you gave me my millions of years, you also gave me your talent. I feel it within me, ticking like a clock.”

  He gasped and thrust her away, but she was pointing at him and had already commenced to say: “You should age one second for every man, woman and child, every beast, fish, fowl and creeping thing which you destroyed in the island of Crete!” Which was the end of him, for he had something a deal less than two and a half millions of seconds left, and of creeping things alone, that would have sufficed to kill him. But Oryss had loved her island dearly.

  Long ago, Scharme had conceived of a time when some one might see his necrometer, understand its purpose and meaning and attempt to kill him. And he had determined that if that time should ever come, then that his executioner must die with him. Now, even as he crumbled to dust, he fell upon a certain lever.

  The console of the necrometer cracked open into a gaping mouth and the floor of the hall lashed like a crippled snake. A convulsion which hurled the beautiful Oryss and the vile vampiric debris of Klaus August Scharme into eternity within the clashing cogs and wheels and electrical daggers of the great machine. Scharme’s fortress blew apart from its roots upwards, and the island of Malta collapsed inwards, and great tidal waves washed outwards to the furthest corners of the world.

  And Time Itself felt a wrenching and a reckoning, and Inviolable Life—so long held upon Scharme’s monstrous leash—rebelled and added to the space-time confusion. So that for a split second all was chaos until the vast Engine which is the Universe backfired…!

  • • •

  Laughing and waving, the Corporal sped away in his Land Rover. Scharme’s short ladder shuddered for a moment beneath the post to which he’d nailed his Kreise sign, then stood still and empty. The Kreise sign swung all askew upon a single nail, the job unfinished. And at the foot of the ladder lay a small pile of rags and a handful of grey dust, which the winds of time quickly blew away….

  NECROS

  1.

  An old woman in a faded blue frock and black head-square paused in the shade of Mario’s awning and nodded good-day. She smiled a gap-toothed smile. A bulky, slouch-shouldered youth in jeans and a stained yellow T-shirt—a slope-headed idiot, probably her grandson—held her hand, drooling vacantly and fidgeting beside her.

  Mario nodded good-naturedly, smiled, wrapped a piece of stale focaccia in greaseproof paper and came from behind the bar to give it to her. She clasped his hand, thanked him, turned to go.

  Her attention was suddenly arrested by something she saw across the road. She started, cursed vividly, harshly, and despite my meagre knowledge of Italian, I picked up something of the hatred in her tone. “Devil’s spawn!” She said it again. “Dog! Swine!” She pointed a shaking hand and finger, said yet again: “Devil’s spawn!” before making the two-fingered, double-handed stabbing sign with which the Italians ward off evil. To do this it was first necessary that she drop her salted bread, which the idiot youth at once snatched up.

  Then, still mouthing low, guttural imprecations, dragging the shuffling, focaccia-munching cretin behind her, she hurried off along the street and disappeared into an alley. One word that she had repeated over and over again stayed in my mind: “Necros! Necros!” Though the word was new to me, I took it for a curse-word. The accent she put on it had been poisonous.

  I sipped at my Negroni, remained seated at the small circular table beneath Mario’s awning and stared at the object of the crone’s distaste. It was a motor car, a white convertible Rover and this year’s model, inching slowly forward in a stream of holiday traffic. And it was worth looking at if only for the girl behind the wheel. The little man in the floppy white hat beside her—well, he was something else too. But she was—just something else.

  I caught just a glimpse, sufficient to feel stunned. That was good. I had thought it was something I could never know again: that feeling a man gets looking at a beautiful girl. Not after Linda. And yet—

  She was young, say twenty-four or -five, some three or four years my junior. She sat tall at the wheel, slim, raven-haired under a white, wide-brimmed summer hat which just missed matching that of her companion, with a complexion cool and creamy enough to pour ov
er peaches. I stood up—yes, to get a better look—and right then the traffic came to a momentary standstill. At that moment, too, she turned her head and looked at me. And if the profile had stunned me…well, the full-frontal knocked me dead. The girl was simply, classically beautiful.

  Her eyes were of a dark green but very bright, slightly tilted and perfectly oval under straight, thin brows. Her cheekbones were high, her lips a red Cupid’s bow, her neck long and white against the glowing yellow of her blouse. And her smile—

  —Oh, yes, she smiled.

  Her glance, at first cool, became curious in a moment, then a little angry, until finally, seeing my confusion—that smile. And as she turned her attention back to the road and followed the stream of traffic out of sight, I saw a blush of colour spreading on the creamy surface of her cheek. Then she was gone.

  Then, too, I remembered the little man who sat beside her. Actually, I hadn’t seen a great deal of him, but what I had seen had given me the creeps. He too had turned his head to stare at me, leaving in my mind’s eye an impression of beady bird eyes, sharp and intelligent in the shade of his hat. He had stared at me for only a moment, and then his head had slowly turned away; but even when he no longer looked at me, when he stared straight ahead, it seemed to me I could feel those raven’s eyes upon me, and that a query had been written in them.

  I believed I could understand it, that look. He must have seen a good many young men staring at him like that—or rather, at the girl. His look had been a threat in answer to my threat—and because he was practised in it, I had certainly felt the more threatened!

  I turned to Mario, whose English was excellent. “She has something against expensive cars and rich people?”

  “Who?” he busied himself behind his bar.

  “The old lady, the woman with the idiot boy.”

  “Ah!” he nodded. “Mainly against the little man, I suspect.”

  “Oh?”

  “You want another Negroni?”

  “OK—and one for yourself—but tell me about this other thing, won’t you?”

  “If you like—but you’re only interested in the girl, yes?” He grinned.

  I shrugged. “She’s a good-looker….”

  “Yes, I saw her.” Now he shrugged. “That other thing—just old myths and legends, that’s all. Like your English Dracula, eh?”

  “Transylvanian Dracula,” I corrected him.

  “Whatever you like. And Necros: that’s the name of the spook, see?”

  “Necros is the name of a vampire?”

  “A spook, yes.”

  “And this is a real legend? I mean, historical?”

  He made a fifty-fifty face, his hands palms up. “Local, I guess. Ligurian. I remember it from when I was a kid. If I was bad, old Necros sure to come and get me. Today,” again the shrug, “it’s forgotten.”

  “Like the bogeyman.” I nodded.

  “Eh?”

  “Nothing. But why did the old girl go on like that?”

  Again he shrugged. “Maybe she think that old man Necros, eh? She crazy, you know? Very backward. The whole family.”

  I was still interested. “How does the legend go?”

  “The spook takes the life out of you. You grow old, spook grows young. It’s a bargain you make: he gives you some thing you want, gets what he wants. What he wants is your youth. Except he uses it up quick and needs more. All the time, more youth.”

  “What kind of bargain is that?” I asked. “What does the victim get out of it?”

  “Gets what he wants,” said Mario, his brown face crack ing into another grin. “In your case the girl, eh? If the little man was Necros….”

  He got on with his work and I sat there sipping my Negroni. End of conversation. I thought no more about it—until later.

  2.

  Of course, I should have been in Italy with Linda, but…I had kept her “Dear John” for a fortnight before shredding it, getting mindlessly drunk and starting in on the process of forgetting. That had been a month ago. The holiday had already been booked and I wasn’t about to miss out on my trip to the sun. And so I had come out on my own. It was hot, the swimming was good, life was easy and the food superb. With just two days left to enjoy it, I told myself it hadn’t been bad. But it would have been better with Linda.

  Linda…She was still on my mind—at the back of it, anyway—later that night as I sat in the bar of my hotel beside an open bougainvillaea-decked balcony that looked down on the bay and the seafront lights of the town. And maybe she wasn’t all that far back in my mind—maybe she was right there in front—or else I was just plain day dreaming. Whichever, I missed the entry of the lovely lady and her shrivelled companion, failing to spot and recognise them until they were taking their seats at a little table just the other side of the balcony’s sweep.

  This was the closest I’d been to her, and—

  Well, first impressions hadn’t lied. This girl was beautiful. She didn’t look quite as young as she’d first seemed—my own age, maybe—but beautiful she certainly was. And the old boy? He must be, could only be, her father. Maybe it sounds like I was a little naive, but with her looks this lady really didn’t need an old man. And if she did need one it didn’t have to be this one.

  By now she’d seen me and my fascination with her must have been obvious. Seeing it, she smiled and blushed at one and the same time, and for a moment turned her eyes away—but only for a moment. Fortunately her companion had his back to me or he must have known my feelings at once; for as she looked at me again—fully upon me this time—I could have sworn I read an invitation in her eyes, and in that same moment any bitter vows I may have made melted away completely and were forgotten. God, please let him be her father!

  For an hour I sat there, drinking a few too many cocktails, eating olives and potato crisps from little bowls on the bar, keeping my eyes off the girl as best I could, if only for common decency’s sake. But…all the time I worried frantically at the problem of how to introduce myself, and as the minutes ticked by it seemed to me that the most obvious way must also be the best.

  But how obvious would it be to the old boy?

  And the damnable thing was that the girl hadn’t given me another glance since her original—invitation? Had I mistaken that look of hers—or was she simply waiting for me to make the first move? God, let him be her father!

  She was sipping martinis, slowly; he drank a rich red wine, in some quantity. I asked a waiter to replenish their glasses and charge it to me. I had already spoken to the bar steward, a swarthy, friendly little chap from the South called Francesco, but he hadn’t been able to enlighten me. The pair were not resident, he assured me; but being resident myself I was already pretty sure of that.

  Anyway, my drinks were delivered to their table; they looked surprised; the girl put on a perfectly innocent expression, questioned the waiter, nodded in my direction and gave me a cautious smile, and the old boy turned his head to stare at me. I found myself smiling in return but avoiding his eyes, which were like coals now, sunken deep in his brown, wrinkled face. Time seemed suspended—if only for a second—then the girl spoke again to the waiter and he came across to me.

  “Mr Collins, sir, the gentleman and the young lady thank you and request that you join them.” Which was everything I had dared hope for—for the moment.

  Standing up, I suddenly realized how much I’d had to drink. I willed sobriety on myself and walked across to their table. They didn’t stand up but the little chap said, “Please sit.” His voice was a rustle of dried grass. The waiter was behind me with a chair. I sat.

  “Peter Collins,” I said. “How do you do, Mr—er?—”

  “Karpethes,” he answered. “Nichos Karpethes. And this is my wife, Adrienne.” Neither one of them had made the effort to extend their hands, but that didn’t dismay me. Only the fact that they were married dismayed me. He must be very, very rich, this Nichos Karpethes.

  “I’m delighted you invited me over,” I said,
forcing a smile, “but I see that I was mistaken. You see, I thought I heard you speaking English, and I—”

  “Thought we were English?” she finished it for me. “A natural error. Originally I am Armenian, Nichos is Greek, of course. We do not speak each other’s tongue, but we do both speak English. Are you staying here, Mr Collins?”

  “Er, yes—for one more day and night. Then—” I shrugged and put on a sad look, “—back to England, I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid?” the old boy whispered. “There is something to fear in a return to your homeland?”

  “Just an expression,” I answered. “I meant, I’m afraid that my holiday is coming to an end.”

  He smiled. It was a strange, wistful sort of smile, wrink ling his face up like a little walnut. “But your friends will be glad to see you again. Your loved ones—?”

  I shook my head. “Only a handful of friends—none of them really close—and no loved ones. I’m a loner, Mr Karpethes.”

  “A loner?” His eyes glowed deep in their sockets and his hands began to tremble where they gripped the table’s rim. “Mr Collins, you don’t—”

  “We understand,” she cut him off. “For although we are together, we too, in our way, are loners. Money has made Nichos lonely, you see? Also, he is not a well man, and time is short. He will not waste what time he has on frivolous friendships. As for myself—people do not understand our being together, Nichos and I. They pry, and I withdraw. And so, I too, am a loner.”

  There was no accusation in her voice, but still I felt obliged to say: “I certainly didn’t intend to pry, Mrs—”

  “Adrienne,” she smiled. “Please. No, of course you didn’t. I would not want you to think we thought that of you. Anyway I will tell you why we are together, and then it will be put aside.”

  Her husband coughed, seemed to choke, struggled to his feet. I stood up and took his arm. He at once shook me off—with some distaste, I thought—but Adrienne had already signalled to a waiter. “Assist Mr Karpethes to the gentleman’s room,” she quickly instructed in very good Italian. “And please help him back to the table when he has recovered.”