The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘What will you do?’ Jago asked as Hugh Morgan stepped to the door.

  Henson picked the bottle from the table and crossed the dark room. He poured three drops of the liquid onto the creature’s forehead and then placed the bottle beneath Sagacious. Then without saying a word, he stuffed the stopper on the creature’s mouth.

  ‘Wait and see,’ Henson replied as Sagacious coughed and choked. ‘It has started already.

  Jago looked at the demon. The whole of the beast had changed. No longer was it a night creature with bulbous eyes and parchment skin. There before him was a man dressed in the robe of a monk. Strands of tonsured grey hair covered his face. Meek eyes, bewildered and confused, stared meagrely at Jago, pleading for mercy.

  ‘It’s a man,’ Jago said without thinking, as the transformation was completed.

  Sagacious mumbled, the top of the decanter stuck in his mouth.

  ‘He was once a man who gave up all he had and now he shall be judged for his transgressions,’ Henson said solemnly as he took Jago by the hand and led him to the door. ‘This is not for us to witness. If I am correct, what shall take place is not for human eyes.’

  Jago wanted to stay. He felt something deeply fascinating about the demise of the creature. It had tried to kill him, had been frightened away only by the light. Now it hung helplessly. A small man of slender frame with long, pointed fingers and beard-wisped chin. He looked pathetic and weak, human and helpless. Jago could see that in the process of transformation, Sagacious had begun to crumble as his flesh turned to sand. Like a broken hourglass, each particle began to drip, drip, drip into the bottle at his feet. Soon there was nothing left below his knees.

  From all around a shimmering gold dust fell from the vaulted roof. The room brightened with an other-worldy light. It was then, for the first time, that Jago could see names carved into the rock: Mashiyach – Shadday – Tsebaah – Elohiym.

  Each word was etched meticulously in the stone. They were repeated again and again until they formed intricate patterns that intertwined with each other, repeating the letters over the roof of the cave and going so high they could not be read. Around each word was a cartouche that, when they all came together, formed what looked like the shell of some large animal.

  Henson tugged Jago again. ‘We have to go – some things are not for the eyes of humankind,’ Henson said as he looked at the words. ‘You have seen something I have tried to keep secret for many years.’

  Hugh Morgan disappeared into the shadow of the passageway.

  ‘The light – the gold …’ Jago said as he held out his hand and let the dust fall in his palm.

  ‘Strange place – strange times,’ Henson answered as he turned from him.

  ‘What is it?’ Jago asked.

  ‘If I were to tell you, you would not believe me. The world has stared into its face for an eternity but refuses to believe.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’ Jago asked as he turned back to look at the pleading eyes of Sagacious.

  ‘He was a wise man who took the way of a fool – a lesson to us all to stay away from the powers of hell, Jago.’ Henson muttered as he walked away, leaving Jago to stare at the quickening. Then he stopped and turned to Jago, his mind changed. ‘Perhaps, you should see the consequences for yourself. We will be in the parlour of the cottage drinking tea. When you have seen enough, come and join us.’

  Jago stepped back to the wall of the cavernous room and pressed himself against the cold rock. Before him, Sagacious squirmed as he hung from the meat hook. Inch by inch he disintegrated. Flesh turned to sand that was sucked by a swirling vortex into the glass decanter. With all his might, Jago had to stop himself from laughing. A fearful, cold sensation ran up his spine and stood up the hairs on the back of his neck. It was not out of humour that Jago shuddered, but out of fear at the sight of Sagacious disappearing. The hermit began to scream. The sound was muffled by the stopped wedged in his mouth.

  Jago didn’t hesitate. As the wasting rose above the hermit’s waist, he dashed to him and pulled the silver spigot from his mouth.

  ‘Tell me,’ Jago asked breathlessly, voicing the question that had tormented his mind through the night. ‘What will happen to Biatra? The truth – before you die.’

  The hermit gasped a breath of air. It was the first time in hundreds of years that he had felt the need and desire to breathe. He looked at Jago, his eyes sympathetic, his voice urgent.

  ‘She will die, Jago. I have seen it so many times. They will promise her the world and then in thirty days she will be nothing but rotting bones.’

  ‘How can I help her?’ Jago asked.

  ‘There is a place. A spring of water that falls over holy rocks. It is spoken of in the Book of Krakanu. Take her there, it is not far,’ the hermit said as the wasting crept higher and higher until only his head and shoulders hung from the hook. ‘Push her deep within the pool and hold her down until she cannot breathe. Make a penance for me. I once believed and in my grief it was snatched from me. Take my ashes and cast them into the pool that I may cross to the sun. Promise?’

  ‘The pool – where is it?’ Jago asked as the hermit broke into pieces and crumbled before him until all that hung from the hook were the willow wands.

  ‘Follow the path to the wood, Jago,’ the voice said as the last beads of dried flesh vanished into the decanter.

  All was still. The light gave way to darkness. The carved words sunk back into the stone so they could no longer be seen. Jago placed the spigot into the bottle. He lifted the decanter from the ground and placed it on the table. The glass had darkened and lost its sheen. It stood dull and opaque, as if it would never again be opened again.

  ‘Dust to dust,’ Jack Henson said as he put a hand on Jago’s shoulder. ‘Did he tell you what you wanted to know?’

  ‘It made no sense. I feel all is lost,’ Jago answered as he held back the tears. ‘I don’t think I can do it. I have to find the pool by the waterfall.’

  There came a sudden and dark realisation of what the future would bring. In his mind, Jago saw bombers flying low over the sea. A dark cloud swallowed them up as if they were sucked into the belly of a whale. The sky was on fire with a thousand falling stars. The whole town ran in panic as black vapours oozed from the factory and the siren wailed. Bia stood on the pinnacle of the abbey ruins, looking out to sea. Jago reached out for her and as their hands touched she fell to the field below.

  ‘What can you see?’ Henson asked. ‘I can sense something.’

  ‘It is beyond belief. Something to do with the factory,’ he answered as the dream changed.

  In the front his mind, Jago looked upon the labyrinth at Hawks Moor. The white gravel was bright under the verdant hedges. Bia stood in the centre. She was alone. He knew she was waiting. Henson shook him gently to wake him from the dream.

  ‘Is there more?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Bia. She is in the labyrinth at Hawks Moor – she is waiting for someone to come,’ Jago said as the dream left him. ‘How can I see these things?’

  ‘It is part of the curse,’ Morgan said as he took his hand. ‘Born of a Vampyre, and that is what we can see. We have to be rid of it, Jago. It is not how our lives should be.’

  Jago looked at Henson.

  ‘He is right. These are gifts we should not have. They are not for a mortal world,’ Henson answered the unasked question.

  ‘Then how?’ he said simply.

  ‘If you kill Strackan all this shall end,’ Morgan said.

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘It has to be you. True blood follows true blood. That is what it is all about. There was once a man who gave himself in sacrifice. He shed his blood for others. Strackan has perverted that to his own ends.’

  ‘I can’t stop it. I have always had these dreams, known things before they happen,’ Jago said.

  ‘That is the way of those with Vampyre blood. But it is not how we should be,’ Morgan answered. ‘Strackan has to die and only one person can do that
– you.’

  ‘He is right, Jago,’ Haneson said. ‘We all live and die by this night. I have been waiting for you since I heard the rumours of your life. I know you can do it.’

  Jago looked at the gravedigger. It was just a quick glance, but it was all he needed.

  ‘I am here to seek revenge for the death of your wife and child?’ Jago asked as Henson looked uncomfortably to the floor. ‘That is what this is for you?’

  ‘I would be a liar if I said it was not so,’ Henson replied as he rubbed his hands together. ‘When something precious is taken from you, nothing will stop your revenge.’

  ‘That is being human, Jago,’ Morgan added. ‘You can stop all this – only you. Biatra can be saved and no more people have to die. The Vampyre Quartet has to end.’

  ‘Think of it, Jago. You could save the girl and avenge the death of so many people. You have all you need,’ Henson said as he tapped the book with a long, dirt-stained finger.

  Jago looked at the bottle of dust on the table. ‘He wants his ashes scattering at the pool in the wood. I want to do that for him,’ he said.

  ‘It would be a good thing to do,’ Morgan answered impatiently as he looked at his watch. ‘Now I have to go back to Hawks Moor or my father will become suspicious.’

  ‘I will bring Jago there tonight,’ Henson answered. ‘We shall stay here until it is time.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ Jago asked.

  ‘We will study the Book of Krakanu and find out the secrets of how to kill Strackan,’ Henson answered.

  Morgan stood for a moment, looking at Jago. ‘I have waited for this day for so long. Martha was the only person I have ever loved. I hope that you can find it in your heart to love me.’

  Morgan turned and walked from the room. Jago listened to his footsteps as they echoed down the passageway towards the cottage.

  ‘He has never been able to speak such words before. You have always been a distant hope in his heart,’ Henson said. He lifted the bottle of ash from the table. ‘A Vampyre thinks more in colours and feelings than in words. They sense the condition of the heart but cannot convey what they feel. That is why some of the world’s greatest musicians and artists have been cursed in such a way.’

  ‘So if he is half Vampyre, then I am one quarter?’ Jago asked as Henson slipped the decanter back into the wooden box and ceremoniously closed the lid.

  ‘That is why you have the precognition. A Vampyre always knows what the future will bring. That is what will make your task even more difficult. Ezra Morgan and even Strackan himself will know you are coming for them.’

  ‘Then how shall I get near to them?’ Jago asked. ‘If they are expecting me then it will be impossible.’

  Henson opened the Book of Krakanu and read the words. He flicked irritably through the pages as if he knew something was there that he couldn’t find.

  ‘Here – this is it,’ he said after a while. ‘That is all I need to know.’ Henson closed the book. ‘It would appear Sagacious has laughed at us from beyond the grave.’

  ‘How?’ Jago asked.

  Henson opened the Book of Krakanu and showed Jago the blank pages. Each leaf was now empty of words; all the old parchment was bare.

  ‘He was the book,’ Henson said. ‘When he died, the words died with him. All that kept them on the page was the life in his veins.’

  ‘Then we don’t know how to kill Strackan,’ Jago said.

  ‘Instinct, instinct …’ Henson gabbled as he held the book up to the light and examined every page as if the writing were somehow hidden. ‘It is all you have. It will have to be used wisely.’

  ‘Instinct?’ said Jago.

  ‘Vampyres are hunters. They enjoy the chase more than the kill. Like a cat with a mouse, they play with their victims until they get bored; it is only then that they kill. It is as if they love fear more than the blood.’ Henson looked at Jago and knew that he understood. ‘You have instinct and so far it has served you well. Use it, boy, use it.’

  Several minutes later, Jago stood outside the front door of Henson’s cottage, a gas-mask bag slung over his shoulder. The day had misted. A sea fret had covered the land and chilled the sky. The low cloud hung to the stones until they dripped as if rain-washed. In his pocket he had the silver knife that he had used to kill Draigorian. Clutched in his hand was the pyxis of myrrh balm.

  ‘You have all you need,’ Henson said as he held him tightly and then slowly let go. ‘I will spread the rumour of your escape. They need you to be alive until tomorrow. This is the eve of the Lyrid of Saturn. Friday the thirteenth will soon be upon us. You know what to do.’

  Jago looked at him for a moment and then checked the alleyway. Far away he could hear the morning noises of the town below. From the factory came a low-pitched hum that echoed on the verge of hearing. In the harbour, the steam cranes dragged fish boxes from the boats. The engines of the girdered tripods clattered with every lift. All was as it should be.

  ‘Are you sure it will work?’ Jago asked Henson, who slipped into the doorway of the cottage so he could not be seen.

  ‘Just one telephone call and Delphine Macarty will do the rest,’ Henson said as he patted Jago on the shoulder. ‘All you have to do is use your instinct. Remember, Vampyres can read your mind and know what you are thinking.’

  ‘And the Cup of Garbova?’ Jago said as he looked at the hessian bag.

  ‘They must have the Cup, make sure of it. Go to Hawks Moor on the Sentinel omnibus. It leaves in one quarter of the hour – should be plenty of time for you to get to the bridge. Once you are at the house do what they say. I will be there by nightfall. The Vampyre Quartet will do nothing until the night of Friday the thirteenth. That is when the Lyrid of Saturn will take place.’

  Jago didn’t look back. He heard the door slam and three bolts slide into place. All he could think of was Bia. His mind held the memory of her killing Bradick, throwing him through the door of the station house and onto the tracks. Now that it was daylight, it all seemed far away, in another place, another life.

  Then he heard the sound. It echoed through the narrow brick walls of the alleyway that led from the cottage to the town. Footsteps, hard and brash, skipped along the cobbles like running dogs.

  An incisive thought struck his mind like lightning as he listened to the pounding feet.

  ‘STAXLEY – GRIFFIN – LORKEN,’ Jago said, his voice a hiss.

  [ 26 ]

  Sarcophilus

  JAGO KNEW HE HAD TO RUN. The voice in his head screamed for him to go as the footsteps pounded ever closer. They clattered on wet cobbles as they ran through the swirling mist that filled the empty alleyway like a flowing river.

  Jago knew it was Staxley, he could sense his presence. There was something different, something even more menacing about the boy. It was tangible, palpable and present. It filled his mind as if Staxley knew where Jago was and what he was thinking. There was a sudden clattering of locks as bolts were slid and the door of the cottage opened quickly.

  ‘Run, Jago, run!’ Henson shouted as he leapt into the alleyway and held the ground so that no one would pass. ‘They are on to you – they have been waiting.’

  Jago turned. Henson stood in his long coat with a wooden staff in his hand. He stared into the mist. The footsteps came closer, echoing faster and faster like a stampede of horses. He saw the first boy turn the corner. It was Lorken. His hair was pushed back by the wind. Just behind was Griffin, his deep-set eyes cupped with dark rings. Staxley came last. He cantered at an arrogant pace as if he knew what was to come.

  ‘Out of the way, Henson,’ he shouted as Lorken drew near the man. ‘This is business you will not understand.’

  ‘Run, Jago!’ Henson shouted again as he lifted his staff in readiness.

  ‘Kill him!’ Staxley screamed angrily as Lorken ran even faster with Griffin in pursuit.

  Henson stood firm. Jago was frozen in his place. He wanted to fight.

  ‘Get out of here – leave them to me,�
� Henson screamed as he raised the staff to strike at Lorken, who was now just feet away.

  The blow was quick, decisive, like a crack of air. The staff snapped across Lorken’s shoulder. Griffin leapt like a dog and smashed Henson to the ground.

  ‘Get Jago,’ Staxley hollered as they leapt the body of the old man, leaving him for dead.

  Henson lay on the ground. His arm was twisted awkwardly. Lorken staggered a few steps as he recovered from the blow.

  ‘He’s mine,’ Lorken screamed. ‘My blood – for me …’

  Jago knew what he meant. They were Vampyres.

  He felt the knife in his pocket. It was strangely warm and stuck to his fingers as if it knew what it had to do. Jago ran. His heart pounded. He twisted in and out of the myriad of narrow lanes. Each was no wider that a shoulder width, built of stacked stones high above him. They stank of pot-slop and ran like a sewer. Far behind he could hear the them braying like dogs as they cackled and mocked.

  Staxley laughed as they gave chase. Griffin screamed, overcome with joy. Lorken kept his head down and teeth bared, ready to strike. Jago was far ahead. Lorken could see him clearly. His eyes had changed – they were dark rimmed, louche, and saw the world in a different way. He could taste Jago, smell the fear.

  ‘Give in,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll make it quick.’

  Jago ran faster. His heart leapt in his throat as if it were about to explode. He knew he could not outpace them. Their feet hardly touched the stones; they ran as one, each knowing the mind of the other. Jago raced on. All he could think was to get to the street below.

  Leaping down the flight of steps that turned from the alleyway to the donkey path, he stumbled. As he looked up at the high wall above him, he saw Griffin jump across to the low roof of a terraced house. The boy was now ahead of him. He clung to the shadows as he ran across the tiles. Several fell to the ground with a shattering clatter. Griffin laughed as he stared down at him.

  ‘Give in, Jago. Be one with us. Think what we could do,’ he said as he held tightly to a chimney pot.