The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘Where is the key?’ Jago asked as he stepped from the copse and began to walk towards the house.

  ‘Jago, do you have any myrrh balm?’ Bia asked. ‘I feel …’

  Jago looked at her. He could see she had changed.

  ‘Trevellas said it would cure you. Holy dew and myrrh balm … She lied,’ he snapped.

  ‘I need some now. I can feel it in me. It’s getting worse,’ Bia said softly as she reached out to him.

  Jago felt the silver pyx in his pocket. Reluctantly he took it and held the palm-sized tin towards her.

  ‘Here,’ he said as he unscrewed the ammonite lid. ‘Let me put some on the wound.’ Bia tilted her soft white neck so he could see the two precise puncture wounds. In the moonlight, they looked brighter, harsher, and each oozed a single drop of blood. Taking the balm he anointed her neck. The bite marks sizzled like burning meat. Bia squealed in pain. ‘Sorry, I never thought,’ Jago said.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she said as she panted her breaths and waited for the pain to ebb away. ‘Happens every day,’ she tried to laugh. ‘If I ever – if I ever become a Vampyre, you will kill me, won’t you?’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Jago answered sharply. We’re going to get out of this place and go to London just as we said.’

  ‘But if I do?’ Bia pressed the question, wanting to know the answer.

  ‘The night doesn’t last for ever.’

  Jago turned and walked away, putting the pyx back in his pocket.

  ‘But will you kill me?’ she said to herself, as if she didn’t need an answer.

  Bia stood alone at the edge of the copse of trees. The breeze soughed the branches that rustled like siege staves all around her. The dying nettles, shrouded in a purple hue, swayed back and forth as if one. She twisted the dew-damp locks of hair in her fingers but could feel nothing. Her hands trembled as the venom was subdued yet again.

  By the back door, Jago stood in the shadows. He waited for her to cross the yard before he looked for the key. He found it quickly. It was dangling from a sharp nail hidden behind the drainpipe and covered by the twisted stems of a climbing rose.

  The door opened quietly. There was a strong smell of cooked chicken that seeped from the kitchen. Unusually, everything was out of place. Pots were stacked in the sink; knives and scraps of food were left out on the wooden cutting board.

  Soon they were on the stairs and quickly made their way up to the library. Jago knew he had to find the book – it was his only chance to cure Bia of the venom, his only chance to kill Strackan. The door of Draigorian’s room was tightly shut, the sign still on the handle: KEEP OUT. Jago listened at the door. He could hear the soft and gentle sound of Draigorian snoring in his sleep.

  Bia stayed close to Jago. She wondered what a poltergeist was and if it really did protect the book. They turned the corner of the passageway. The door to the library was just ahead. There was not a sound in that part of the house. Jago turned the key in the door and pulled the handle. It opened slowly. He looked inside. The smell of damp paper and fungus was overpowering.

  The windows were shuttered.

  ‘Let in as much light as you can,’ he whispered to Bia as they stepped stealthily in to the room. ‘Open the shutters.’

  Bia crossed the room and took hold of the brass handles and folded back the slatted wooden panels that covered one of the windows. A shaft of moonlight was suddenly cast onto the long table that the poltergeist had brought to life.

  Jago stiffened as he looked into the dark shadows. In the corner of the room, facing against the wall, was the painting he had found of Cresco and Draigorian.

  ‘Look at this,’ he whispered as he pulled back the frame and twisted the painting towards the moonlight.

  Bia could see the canvas was old and marred by smoke and dirt. The painting was of two men she had never seen before, dressed in the fashion of a much older time. Both wore frock coats and the younger held a long sword proudly at his side. Both men were smiling, their jewelled fingers clasped in friendship.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked, thinking one looked like Draigorian.

  ‘It is Crispin Draigorian and Julius Cresco,’ Jago answered. ‘They both wear the same ring on their smallest finger. Look, a wide band of gold cut through with a woven trellis. Cresco looked after me as a child.’

  ‘He’d be too old,’ Bia answered.

  ‘He’s a Vampyre, my guardian, sent by Morgan and the others to look after me.’ He stared at the Cresco. Their eyes met in the painting as if they were together in the room.

  Bia looked closely at the picture. In the distance on a small hill was a woman holding an apple with a snake at her feet.

  ‘That’s her – Trevellas,’ she said, knowing she would never forget the face of the woman who tried to kill her. ‘How can they be so old and yet still alive?’

  ‘Quite simple,’ said the voice of Draigorian, whose shadow filled the doorway behind them. ‘When Strackan savaged us when we killed the Hermit, he gave us the curse. We would be Vampyres and would live for ever as long as at every equinox of the sun we drank human blood.’

  ‘You were asleep,’ Jago said as he stepped back.

  ‘The best time to hear the footsteps of intruders,’ he replied as he took off his calfskin gloves and placed them on the table. Then, quite meticulously, he rolled back the sleeves of his dressing gown until the cuffs of his striped shirt and the gold links were clearly visible.

  As Draigorian stepped into the thick quill of moonlight, they could see that his face had changed. He was younger, handsome, his skin soft and smooth. All the ravages of the disease had gone. Draigorian had been completely transformed.

  ‘We came for the Book of Krakanu,’ Jago said.

  ‘I know. I had Clinas bring it to me before he went. I sent him home. Somehow I had a feeling you would come tonight. That is the way with Vampyres.’ Draigorian spoke quickly, his voice no longer laboured or pained by the porphyria that had ravaged his body. ‘Did Cresco tell you about the book?’

  ‘So you do know Cresco?’ Jago asked.

  ‘An old friend, and the only one we thought able to look after your mother following her accident …’ Draigorian said. ‘He preferred to live in London. Cresco said it was anonymous. A place where you didn’t always have to pretend to die and then appear again as your long-lost son.’

  ‘You said accident? What accident?’ Bia asked.

  ‘What? The accident of birth – the accident of falling in love with the son of a Vampyre … The accident of having a child by him. We all knew and have waited eagerly for your return.’ Draigorian stepped closer to the table and pulled out the high-backed chair and took a seat. Bia thought that his hair looked like the feathers of a glorious bird. Their eyes met and he looked deep within her. His transformation was complete. Draigorian was everything he had been in his youth.

  He sighed as he looked at them both and undid the collar button of his shirt.

  ‘If you already had the book why did you ask me to look for it?’ Jago asked.

  ‘To see if you were really the one. Only a descendent of a Vampyre could outwit a poltergeist and still live,’ he replied as he tapped his fingers on the oak table. ‘And you even tidied the room after it attacked you. I was quite impressed.’

  ‘It could have killed me,’ Jago said.

  ‘In some ways, Jago, that might have been an answer to your prayers. Your future will be very different from that which you expected,’ he said.

  ‘Trevellas said I was to be a sacrifice. I heard you talking in the labyrinth. The Lyrid of Saturn. Friday the thirteenth. That’s what Ezra Morgan said.’

  ‘Blood for blood. Friday the thirteenth is the day that you will inherit all we have had to carry for the last age of ages. Do you know how boring eternal life can be?’ Draigorian scoffed. ‘The sacrifice you will make will be the same we did all those years ago. You will stop being human, that is all. We have to do it for Strackan to bring peace. Isn’t that what everyon
e wants? It started with Strackan and ends with him. He is the one who must drink your blood and you his. That is your fate.’ He smashed his hand on to the table so that the whole room shuddered. ‘Is that such a bad thing?’

  ‘You said you were sick of being a Vampyre. I heard you telling Morgan you would have no more blood. Look at you. I know what you have done and why you look so well. All those people who have gone missing – you have been killing them, you, Strackan, Morgan and Trevellas.’ Jago shouted and spat his words.

  ‘I have killed no one for many years. Clinas gives me his blood. Four cups a year. Four red cups … of wonder. That is how much he has cared for me. What Strackan and the others have done is no concern of mine. At the equinox of every moon, Clinas gives me what is his so I have no need to kill. I starved myself for a whole year and the only reason I have drunk blood tonight was to help you.’

  ‘Help us,’ Bia asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘In simple truth, Biatra. I am sick of all the lies, killing and murder that this life brings. I am tired of never sleeping. Everyone I have ever known has died before me,’ he said as he reached out his hand towards Jago. ‘You are the one person who can set me free and break the curse.’

  ‘How?’ Bia asked. ‘How can he break something like that?’

  ‘In Hawks Moor there is a painting of the Vampyre Quartet. To the human eye it looks as though it was never finished –’

  ‘We know, we found it,’ Bia said.

  ‘Then you will have seen the faceless people. When one of the Quartet is truly killed, their face will appear on the painting. When the others are dead then Strackan will be at his weakest and he too can be destroyed. The world has to be rid of such a creature.’

  ‘And I have to kill each of you?’ Jago asked.

  ‘What Morgan will never speak of is that only you have the power to kill us or bring us life. The curse should have rested on the shoulders of Hugh Morgan, but his father purposefully went away so it could not happen. That is how selfish the man was. It has to happen at a certain time. The Lyrid of Saturn, just as the stars fall from the sky. Hugh Morgan lost his innocence. When your mother became with child we knew we had a true heir and we gave him the name Jago Harker. That is you.’ Draigorian stood quickly and plucked a box of matches from his pocket and lit the candelabra on the table.

  ‘So what if I killed myself? It would all be in vain for you,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Did you drink from the Cup of Garbova?’ Draigorian asked. ‘Can you hear the voices that whisper?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Then it would be futile. Cresco has tricked you, as simple as that,’ Draigorian said smugly, his eyes widening as he smiled.

  Jago could feel the anger rising in his stomach. He wanted nothing of this. In just a few short days his life had changed and his mother was dead. The man who he thought was a friend had become a traitor.

  ‘How old are you?’ Bia asked as she looked at Draigorian’s face.

  ‘Hundreds of years – I have forgot exactly,’ he replied.

  ‘And you are a Vampyre?’

  ‘That is what the world calls us,’ Draigorian said.

  ‘Then what is to be done?’ Jago asked as Draigorian walked to the large cabinet by the window.

  ‘I have taken the liberty of luring the poltergeist into this jug,’ he said. He opened the wooden doors and lifted down a pot jug with a cork stopper and placed it carefully on the table. ‘Vampyres are adept at such things. All the power, all the malevolence of the creature is contained within this flagon. The Book of Krakanu is safe for you to take.’

  Jago and Bia stared at the pot jug. It looked ordinary, lifeless and empty, as if it contained nothing but air.

  ‘The poltergeist is in there?’ Bia asked as she looked at the jug.

  ‘There it shall stay, and what is more,’ Draigorian said excitedly, ‘I have this for you.’ The man reached back into the bureau and took out a wooden box. It was old, plain and without carving or any decorative work. Iron hinges held the lid in place. Draigorian took it in both hands and just as he placed it on the table next to the flagon he hesitated. ‘Biatra, would you mind if I spoke to Jago alone. I will bring him no harm, I promise you that.’

  Bia looked at Jago. He nodded and tried to smile.

  ‘I’ll wait outside,’ she said as she walked by Draigorian, keeping out of arm’s reach until she got to the door.

  Draigorian waited until he heard the click of the latch and then looked at Jago. He slipped the catch and then lifted the lid of the box. There, on a green velvet cushion, was a silver knife. The handle was encrusted with jet and emeralds. The blade was that of a sharpened stiletto.

  ‘I heard of your handiwork with Madame Trevellas. Sadly, the holly could only bind her fast and the myrrh balm stop her from breathing for a short while,’ he said as he lifted out the knife. ‘She is now quite well and wanting to see Biatra again.’

  ‘This will kill her?’ Jago asked.

  ‘It is yours to take and stop all of this. Take it, Jago.’ Draigorian handed him the knife. ‘If you stab a Vampyre with this knife then it will kill them, instantly. They cannot come back to life. All you need to know is in the Book of Krakanu. It is by my bed. I shall get it for you.’

  ‘But I will be a murderer,’ he answered.

  ‘I hear you had no hesitation when you tried to kill Trevellas. With this knife there will be no evidence,’ he said feverishly. ‘Vampyres show no marks of the knife. It will look as if they have just died naturally. They will be no more. Dust to dust. Dead …’

  ‘Why are you giving this to me?’ Jago asked.

  Draigorian looked about the room as if he wanted to take in all he could see and keep it forever as a memory. He walked slowly to the fireplace and pushed a small tin car along the mantelpiece as if he were a child.

  ‘I am one of the Quartet,’ he said in a voice so low it could not be heard outside. ‘And I beg of you a favour – that you kill me before you leave this house. I will give you the book and you can bring an end to the curse.’

  ‘Kill you?’ Jago asked. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘I would prefer to say that I was being released from chains that have held me for too long. I have always been a reluctant demon.’ Draigorian laughed.

  Jago held the knife in his hand, then slipped it into the pocket of his coat. Suddenly the thought of killing Draigorian was as much abhorrent as it was necessary. He didn’t know if he could do such a thing.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Then consider it as we walk to my room. I am sure we can come to some suitable arrangement.’ Draigorian opened the door to the room and looked back as if for the last time. The flickering candles cast long shadows across the bookshelves. Speckled particles of dust sparkled like tiny silver orbs floating through the air. He sighed. ‘I have left everything to Clinas. That man is more than a friend.’

  ‘Did he always know you were a Vampyre?’ Jago asked as they stepped from the room to where Bia was waiting outside.

  ‘Clinas guessed quite quickly. He offered to help me in whatever way he could. It is only right that he inherits all of this. Finally, Whitby shall be rid of a Draigorian forever.’

  ‘And you’ll be buried with all the others?’ Jago asked.

  ‘I shall be laid with all the empty coffins and ridiculous names that fill that tomb.’ Draigorian laughed. ‘I am Pippen Draigorian,’ he giggled. ‘You will never know how good it was for me to say that name again.’

  He walked ahead of them down the stairs and along the landing until he came to his bedroom. Draigorian went in and closed the door, returning moments later with a small leather-bound book.

  ‘The Book of Krakanu?’ Jago asked.

  ‘The only one,’ he replied as he handed Jago the book.

  It was plain and ordinary, covered in a leather binding with just one word on the cover: KRAKANU.

  ‘We will go,’ Jago said as he turned to walk away.

  �
��Are you not forgetting something?’ Draigorian asked, his eyes sparkling as blue as his long silk dressing gown with its velvet collar. ‘I will shake your hands and bid you both well,’ he said.

  Bia held out her hand and gripped Draigorian. It was as if he could feel her sickness. Jago steadied her with a hand on the shoulder.

  ‘We should go,’ he said as he eased her away.

  ‘Lock the door on your way out,’ said Draigorian. ‘I would hate to be burgled.’ He laughed, knowing how little such things would matter after the dagger was used against him.

  ‘You are very sweet, Mr Draigorian,’ Bia said.

  ‘You may call me Pippen,’ he answered as he stepped inside his room and closed the door.

  When they reached the kitchen, Jago stopped.

  ‘I’ll have to go back,’ he said. ‘I’ve forgotten the knife that Draigorian gave to me.’

  ‘But I thought …’ Bia protested.

  ‘Wait here. I won’t be long.’

  There was something in his voice that made her suspicious. She stood in the kitchen and counted the ticking of the clock over the tiled fireplace. The short pendulum beat back and forth, clicking in annoyance. It was eleven minutes before Jago returned.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

  ‘I said goodbye to Draigorian. He wished you well,’ Jago said as he felt the warm handle of the dagger in his pocket.

  [ 21 ]

  Scoresby Terrace

  IN THE HIDDEN ROOM at Hawks Moor lit only by a shrine candle in front of the painting of the faceless Vampyres, Ezra Morgan wept. He sobbed, holding his face in his hands, and shook his head in disbelief. There in the painting was something he never expected to see. Appearing inch by inch in what had been a dark void of swirled paint was the face of Pippen Draigorian.