by K. Z. Snow
“So who brought the incident it to your attention?”
“Mr. Fizzing, the owner. The day after it happened.”
November 1. Why was that date significant? Fanule had difficulty remembering. Several days had passed since then, most of which he’d spent in the surreal world of his illness. “Could you be more specific?”
“Of course. Please excuse me. I don’t want to say anything misleading.”
By “misleading” she surely meant “likely to incite your outrage.” Lillian was well aware of how the Eminence of Taintwell bristled when any act of malfeasance in Purinton was unjustly linked to Branded Mongrels.
“Say what needs to be said, Lily. We’ll get it sorted out.”
“Yes, all right. What happened was this. A good many Caravan Park residents disappeared overnight, en masse, but nobody knows why. Since then, all but two have shown up again. They were in what Mr. Fizzing described as a ‘profoundly dazed state’ and had no clear or consistent recollection of what happened. When agents from the EA interviewed them, most said they thought they’d been in Purinton, but couldn’t remember going to the city or returning from the city or what they did in between.”
“Wasn’t November first the day of the circus’s flea market?” Fanule asked, just to be sure.
“Yes.”
“Get to the part about Taintwell.” The Caravan Park incident already had disturbingly familiar elements. Of course it had. Zofen and his wagon had been at the Mechanical Circus on the first of November.
Then the phrase disappeared en masse struck him. What was it he’d heard just recently that carried the same implication? It was something Mrs. Rumpiton had said. Fanule couldn’t ponder it at the moment, though. He needed to listen to the Deputy Mayor.
“I’ve no idea what this means,” Lily said, “but I thought you should know about it. Late that night, a boy named Leander Wadsworth returned to Caravan Park from the shore, where he’d been gathering archer crabs as the tide receded.”
Fanule grabbed a piece of stationery from the sideboard drawer and wrote down the boy’s name.
“Suddenly a stranger appeared beside him and asked if a vendor named Marchman lived in the park.”
The world stopped. Fanule’s pencil stalled in midair.
“The boy told him, sometimes, but he didn’t think Mr. Marchman was staying there that night.” Lillian paused. “Isn’t that the name of your companion?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice gone dry and hoarse. He opened a decanter of brandy that stood on the sideboard and took a swallow. “What else did the stranger say?”
“According to Leander, the man’s reply was ‘No matter. There’s enough wickedness here to keep me occupied.’”
Oh gods. “Siphoning draws the evil out of an entire place. What he called ‘an accursed place.’” That was bad enough, but why was he looking for William?
“Did… did the boy mention a gold wagon?”
Papers rustled on Lillian’s end of the line. “Damn it, I don’t recall. I have accounts of the interviews here on my desk, but I can’t seem to find the one—”
The vox connector cut in, something they were allowed to do when a caller said “treat as urgent” or “emergency.”
Between the connector’s announcements of “Urgent call for the Eminence of Taintwell,” Fanule managed to tell Lillian, “Get the mayor to issue a warning that all Purintonians should avoid a large gold wagon called the Spiritorium. I’ll explain later.”
Hell in a cup, he had so much to do! Now he must also squeeze in a visit to Caravan Park. At least he wouldn’t have to travel to Lizabetta’s woodland cottage. If she had any news, she’d deliver it.
He wondered if William had been trying to contact him. Maybe this was he.
“Urgent call for—”
“Hello,” he barked over the connector’s relentless braying.
“Perfidor, get over here!”
“Simon? Where are you?”
“My house! Now, Perfidor, now!”
Chapter Eleven
DUSK SURRENDERED to darkness. The clouds that mottled the sky became invisible. Fanule, who’d gulped down a cup of cold tonic and a chunk of cheese before leaving his house, was glad he had enough energy to see him through the day.
He couldn’t begin to guess what the night would bring, although he fervently hoped it would bring William home. The fact Zofen had singled him out, twice at the Mechanical Circus and once on the village Green, was almost too upsetting to contemplate.
On impulse, Fanule patted Cloudburst’s neck as the horse carried him at a steady trot south on Whitesbain Plank Road. “You’ve been a good, dependable friend, my man. Thank you for your service.”
Vapor plumed out of the horse’s nostrils. Fanule imagined him saying, Ah, but thank you. I’m getting to use my legs as they were meant to be used!
Simon had an overgrown yard behind his small house where the gelding could graze, and a lean-to where he could be sheltered should it rain. Fanule guided Cloudburst to the latter. After blanketing the horse, he filled two buckets with water at the outdoor pump.
Only as he crossed the yard to the house’s rear door did he see the OMT parked in the shadows. It wasn’t Simon’s vehicle, which was out front. Fanule’s heartbeat quickened. Was it his own transport? Might William be there?
Hurriedly, Fanule let himself into the cottage. If Simon was so desperate for his company, waiting to be admitted surely wasn’t necessary. He was about to call out when a woman appeared before him, pulling up short and slapping a hand to her chest. Soft light from the parlor filtered eerily through her tumult of red hair.
“Eminence?” she said, peering up at him. “You scared the daylights out of me!”
It was Mirabelle, one of Taintwell’s healers. “Why are you here?” Fanule asked, trying not to leap to any conclusions, trying to stave off panic.
Mirabelle extended an arm behind her.
Fanule wheeled through the parlor, saw no one, heard a flurry of murmured words. He followed the sound to a bedroom.
Clancy Marrowbone lay supine on the bed, naked to the waist. Something was wrong with the right side of his face. And his neck. And his shoulder and upper arm. His skin was red and blistered in those places and had an unnatural sheen. Eyes closed and groaning softly, he rolled his head from side to side on the pillows stacked beneath it.
Beside a basin of water, a leather bag on the nightstand spilled tins of ointment and rolled bandages. Mirabelle must have brought it. Gingerly, Fanule touched Clancy’s flat belly, which appeared to be unmarred. The unnatural warmth of it made Fanule flinch. Even in summer’s stifling heat, a vampire’s skin was cool. Or should be.
Marrowbone had been burned. Considering he hadn’t healed on his own, it must’ve been daylight that had damaged his skin. There weren’t many injuries from which a vampire couldn’t rapidly recover, but being seared by the sun was one of them. Clancy was fortunate not to have been incinerated.
How could such a thing have happened? He’d never been that careless before.
Shaken, Fanule knelt on the floor beside the chair in which Simon sat, holding Clancy’s hand. “I see you voxed Mirabelle. It’s good you had the presence of mind.”
“After I’d drizzled cold water over him, I didn’t know what else to do.” Simon’s voice was quavering. “Oh gods, I don’t want to lose him.” Rising slightly from the chair, he reached up and stroked Clancy’s damp hair.
“How the hell did this happen?”
Mutely, Simon shook his head. Only through sheer strength of will did he seem to be holding himself together. As he lowered himself back into the chair, Fanule noticed the bandage that swaddled his left wrist.
“What happened to you?”
Vacantly, Bentcross glanced at his arm. “I… fed him.”
Fanule gaped. “You sliced open your wrist?”
“He needed nourishment, so I provided it. I’m not squeamish. I’ve been cut before.”
Amb
ient light from the parlor lamp gently washed over the sad tableau: Clancy’s pale, motionless form and spill of platinum hair; Simon’s stress-hammered face; the blunt hand cradling the slender one, lovingly, protectively.
Fanule suddenly wanted to bolt outside and shriek his father’s name, call him forth like a demon, for he had no doubt Zofen was somehow responsible for Marrowbone’s condition. And he couldn’t help wondering if Simon was in danger too.
For a moment he questioned his conclusion. All Taintwellians revered Clancy for putting an end to the Purintonian practice of branding Mongrels. Why would Zofen want to harm the man who’d delivered Mongrels from such barbarism?
Chronology, Fanule suddenly realized, held the answer. His father had left the village shortly before Marrowbone made a name for himself by extorting that change in policy from City Hall. Zofen only knew Clancy Marrowbone as a common vampire, not as a savior.
“Gentlemen,” Mirabelle said as she entered the bedroom, “please leave while I dress Clancy’s burns. I’ll need some space.”
“You know what to do and how to do it?” Fanule asked.
“Human skin is human skin, Eminence. A vampire’s skin is finer, that’s all. I’ve treated this type of burn before.” Mirabelle glanced at him and smiled. “I learned my craft from a master.”
“Lizabetta?” Fanule had often wondered if she schooled others in the healing arts, maybe even had a coven of sorts.
“Yes. I just went outside and called her.” Mirabelle opened a tin of yarrow ointment.
“But… how? She doesn’t have a voxbox.”
“She doesn’t need one. I summoned her through her star—even though I can’t be certain she’s receptive at the moment.” Before Fanule could inquire further, Mirabelle flicked dismissive fingers at him and Simon. “Now go. I need to tend to this man, and you’re in my way. You can return when I’m finished here.”
“Will he be all right?” Simon asked anxiously.
“He should be, unless there are other kinds of damage I’m not aware of.”
“But—”
“Come on.” Fanule put an arm around Simon’s shoulders and urged him toward the door. “Let the healer do her work.”
“I should prepare the cellar for him.” Simon was so beside himself, he moved about his small parlor without direction or purpose. “Toward morning, I’ll have to carry him back there.”
“You don’t have to prepare anything. Lay him down where no light can penetrate. Vampires don’t require pillows and blankets, just darkness.”
Fanule steered Simon toward a handsome, elongated tête-à-tête loveseat. He imagined Bentcross tucked into one corner and Marrowbone into the other, their entwined legs spanning the cerise upholstery.
Everything in the parlor still looked new, from the patterned rug to the wallpaper to the gasolier, unlit but softly twinkling as a table lamp’s small flame illuminated its prisms. The glass-fronted bookcase along one wall housed more volumes every time Fanule saw it—books obviously chosen by Clancy, who liked to read through the night after Simon fell asleep.
It was touching to see how Bentcross, the fixer of machines and drinker of whiskey, had softened under Marrowbone’s influence, although Fanule was sure Clancy had made no attempt to change him. From the start, the elegant vampire had been totally smitten by the workingman he affectionately called “my delicious dark bear.”
Bentcross refused to sit on the loveseat. “Not there,” he muttered. “My clothes are dirty. I ain’t had a chance to bathe and change.” He put more wood on the grate, then sank to the floor in front of the fireplace.
Fanule sat facing him. “Do you have a way of securing the cellar doors?”
Bentcross turned up bloodshot eyes. “Chain and padlock. Why?”
“Clancy’s inner clock seems to be malfunctioning. You don’t want him wandering outside before nightfall again.” Fanule didn’t mention the other reason. Not only did Marrowbone have to be kept in, someone might have to be kept out. “Maybe I should spend the night here,” he added on impulse. He also feared for Simon’s safety, although he wouldn’t say that. The poor man had enough to fret about.
For some reason, Fanule had a feeling his presence would keep Zofen and his Spiritorium at bay.
“I can help you look after Clancy,” he said to justify his suggestion. “And look after yourself, too, if you’ll be the one nourishing him. I understand your desire to indulge Clancy right now, but feeding him too much could be harmful to both of you.”
“Do you think I’ll change?”
Simon’s voice was so flat, Fanule couldn’t tell if he was hopeful, fearful, or indifferent. “No. There’s a process involved. I believe one has to be bitten on a certain number of consecutive nights for that to happen. And drunk from heavily enough to bring about death. And somewhere along the way, I don’t know at precisely what point, the person being transformed has to drink the vampire’s blood.”
Listlessly, Simon nodded, then shrugged. “It really don’t matter. I got to do what I got to do to keep him from—” His throat seemed to seal shut.
Fanule moved closer. “You never told me how and where you found him.”
Silent seconds passed while Simon gathered his words. “Just before nightfall, I heard a scream in the yard. I rushed out the back door and—”
Bentcross began to break. A web of hairline fractures shot over his veneer of control. Still, he didn’t fall apart. The effort to hold himself together was as much physical as mental. Witnessing the strain it placed on him made Fanule ache.
“I saw Clancy stumbling up from the root cellar. He looked all bedraggled and senseless, like he’d been through a struggle. When I saw the ray of sunlight that caught him, I think I screamed too, and lunged at him to shield his body, and carried him into the house.” Simon drew a ragged breath. “All… all he said was, ‘I got away. I made it here. See? I’m here.’” Another pause, for Simon’s voice had begun to splinter. “And he started sh-shaking. And he… f-fell to his knees.” With a shocking explosion of breath, the “dark bear” broke into the most wretched sobs Fanule had ever heard.
He curled a hand over one of Simon’s hands. He knew all he needed to know.
What hell had Zofen loosed in the province?
AFTER MIRABELLE gave them instructions on how to change Clancy’s dressings, Fanule walked outside. Mirabelle joined him several minutes later. Simon likely returned to the bedroom to resume his vigil.
“Tell me the truth about Clancy’s condition,” Fanule said as he got on the ground to fire up Mirabelle’s transport. It had enough water left in its boiler for the short trip back to Taintwell.
Mirabelle’s brow furrowed. “Physically, he should heal. I just hope the exposure to sunlight didn’t damage his eyes. But I’m more concerned about his mental state. He’s incoherent, virtually insensate. Something’s very wrong here, Eminence.”
Fanule glanced up. “I can see that.”
“He can’t keep wandering around in the daytime. Sooner or later he’ll either vaporize or be burnt to a crisp. It’s a hideously painful end for a vampire.”
Fanule knew that, too, and his stomach cramped at the thought. “Is Simon putting himself at risk by feeding Clancy?” Once he got the fire-tube boiler going, he rose from the ground and brushed off his clothing.
“If he keeps it up too long, yes. He’ll become weak and anemic. And he can’t let Clancy’s teeth sink into his flesh. I explained all that to him before I left the house, but I can’t be sure he was listening. He’s utterly distraught.”
“I’ll remind him, Belle.”
In addition to his grief at the thought of losing Clancy, Simon was in an agony of self-recrimination. “Me and my stupid fucking ultimatums,” he’d earlier said. “I forced him to put his life in danger by doubting him. He has nothing to prove to me or anybody, Perfidor. What was I thinking? What the fucking hell is wrong with me?” Fanule had done his best to assuage Simon’s guilt, but his assurances hardly came f
rom a place of authority. If William were to suffer any harm, all gods forbid, Fanule knew he’d also blame himself. And he’d have every reason to.
Hell, he’d want to flay himself alive.
The OMT began to howl as its steam pressure built.
“What a remarkable fellow Mr. Bentcross is,” Mirabelle said. “Precious few people would cut themselves open night after night to save the life of a vampire.”
“He’s in love, Belle.”
She smiled wanly and approached the OMT. “Indeed he is.”
“How long can Simon safely feed Clancy?” Fanule asked as Mirabelle tucked her bag, then herself, inside her transport. “And how much?”
She checked the transport’s gauges and pulled a lever before looking up at Fanule. “While Clancy’s sedentary, he’ll need considerably less blood than usual. That’s one thing Mr. Bentcross can be grateful for. The other is that he can turn to animal blood, although he can’t mix his own with it. So if he limits himself to giving up a tablespoon every other day and alternates those feeds with a cup from another warm-blooded creature, he’ll be all right.” Before Mirabelle released the brake on her transport and put it in gear, she added, “Dear goddess, I hope Betty gets here soon. She knows so much more than I.”
AS SOON as Fanule reentered Simon’s cottage, he voxed his own house. There was no answer. Which meant there was no William.
Why would he not have returned? Mrs. Scrubb had surely told him Mr. Perfidor had come looking for him. Or had she already retired for the night when William got back to the boardinghouse?
Fanule checked his watch. It was too late to vox Mrs. Scrubb.
To the lullaby of Simon’s soft snoring as he slept on the floor beside the bed, Fanule stoked the fire, then settled onto the sofa to read.
The last thing he heard before drifting off was Simon’s voice, tender and cajoling. “Please, Clancy, try to open your eyes. It’s safe now. It’s nighttime. Please, sweetheart, just let me see those beautiful blue eyes.”
