The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

  The head fell upon her breast, and all at once Sebastian was in her arms. The black room was alive with silver.

  “I am the one you seek,” he said. “Turn away.”

  Felicia pulled away from him and stood, leaving him on his knees, his head bent over the arms of the ebony chair. He turned toward her, relieved to think that she would run from all that he could offer her. She took a deep breath, then pulled the dark hood from her face and the dark cloak from her body.

  “I am the one you seek,” she said. “Would you deny my desire, and your own?”

  She wore a white wedding gown, its silk scarcely paler than her own ivory flesh.

  The gown had been her mother’s, forty years ago, when fashion was more graceful and less refined. Her arms were bare, her shoulders were bare, and her breasts were almost bare as well, the silk gathered beneath them and flowing down in delicate folds that brushed against the ebony floor. Felicia would never have dared to dress in such a manner if it had not been her wedding night, but now she exulted in her shamelessness. The glow around her turned the silk, her skin, her pale eyes, and her ashen hair to silver.

  The black figure of Sebastian glided toward her.

  “Destiny,” he murmured.

  He grasped her almost cruelly. She felt his cold breath upon her throat, his cold fingers in her flowing hair. She arched her back and exposed her white neck, but Sebastian pulled her forward and turned away from her.

  He would not look at her as he spoke.

  “I have become what I am, a creature of the night who feeds on blood, because I would not die. Why should you, a young woman with years of life before her, spurn the most precious gift in all creation?”

  “Because I would know more of its creator.” She reached out to touch his shoulder.

  “If you care nothing for yourself, think of your friends. Think of your family.”

  “I have no friends,” Felicia said. “As for my family, those I love most have gone before me. As for Aunt Penelope, I think she will be content with my fortune.”

  “And the young man?”

  “You have seen what he is. I wish to God that I had seen it sooner.”

  “Then is there nothing for you in this world?”

  “Nothing but to be rid of it.”

  “Then at least die a true death,” Sebastian said, “and I will guide your spirit as I do those others you have seen, those who are lost. Take poison, cut your throat, jump from a tower, do anything but take this curse upon yourself. For many centuries I have carried it alone, and it is better so.”

  “You have not renounced your fate. In truth, I think you relish it. You love to be the lord of life and death, to stand between them and cast a cold eye on both. Is it because I am a woman that you think I do not know my own desires? Do you think that I am not as brave as you? Could it not be that I have been sent to end your loneliness forever?”

  Sebastian whirled to confront her, his face a mask of fury. “Loneliness? Why need I be lonely when I have companions such as this to comfort me?”

  The glowing curtains rippled in the black and silver room behind Sebastian. A shape appeared behind them: aimless, clumsy, menacing, and unutterably sad. A faltering white hand emerged through the drapes, and despite herself Felicia gasped. What shuffled into the room had been a boy. His shaggy hair was red, but his slack-jawed face was almost gray, and his eyes were those of an idiot. His lips were drooling, and his teeth were sharp. He limped toward Sebastian, one leg twisted and broken.

  “Please, sir,” he muttered.

  “My God, Sebastian,” Felicia said. “What is this?”

  “A grave robber. He said his name was Henry Donahue. I found him and another at their work, and killed the first one outright, but by the time I caught young Donahue again, my fury and my bloodlust were so great that I slaked my thirst on him. And here he is, one of the living dead, and quite mad. I should have destroyed him, and surely I must, but now I am happy to have been delayed. Gaze on him. Is this what you wish to become?”

  At the sound of her voice, the dead boy had turned toward Felicia. He dragged his shattered leg across the black carpet, his eyes fastened on her throat. Felicia felt suddenly naked and defenseless.

  “Please, miss,” said the boy.

  He touched her.

  Suddenly his hands were reaching for her throat, his dirty little teeth gnashing at the air as she tried to push him away. There was a strange strength in his small fingers. Felicia screamed.

  The boy had her half sprawled on the ebony table when Sebastian yanked him back by his red hair and threw him across the room. Half of his scalp stayed in Sebastian’s hand, and his head was a raw but bloodless wound as he implacably scuttled over the floor to reach the woman he wanted.

  Sebastian pounced on him again, caught his twisted leg, and dragged the snarling creature through the velvet curtains and out of the room.

  Felicia was alone, heart pounding, her breath coming in frantic gasps. She was terrified, and yet exhilarated too. She struggled down from the table top and collapsed into an ebony chair. From somewhere in the recesses of the house came a high pitched wail of agony that rose to a crescendo and then stopped abruptly. Felicia knew she would never see the boy again.

  She waited.

  When Sebastian returned to her, his hair hung over his face and his clothes were torn. His hands were spotted with blood. He looked at them and then at Felicia.

  “There was little enough in him,” Sebastian said. “He had been starved. Now you see what I would save you from.”

  Felicia trembled, but she remained where she was. “Between you and this boy is as much difference as there must have been in life,” she said. “I will not be like him.”

  “Go!” shouted Sebastian, but even as he did he advanced upon her, his mouth twisting uncontrollably.

  Felicia gritted her teeth and clutched the arms of the ebony chair with all her might. She held her head high, and felt the pulses throbbing in her long white neck as Sebastian overwhelmed her.

  Then they were on the carpet, her carefully coiffed pale hair spilled upon its darkness, her gown in disarray, her body throbbing with delight and dread. She felt an ecstasy of fear, stunned more by the desires of her flesh than by the small, sweet sting she felt as he sank into her and life flowed between them. She rocked and moaned beneath the body of the man she loved. She took life and love and death and made them one.

  And when it was over, Sebastian arose alone. She lay at ease, her limbs sprawled in graceful carelessness, her face marked by abandon hardly tinged by shock. She was pale as a marble statue, colored with a few drops of virgin’s blood. She was at peace, but Sebastian knew that she would rise full of dark desire when the next sun set.

  Even his tears, when they came, were tinged with her bright blood.

  VIII. The Final Note

  Nigel Stone paced through the empty rooms of the echoing house he shared with his cousin. He had been in the place for less than a day, but already its atmosphere oppressed him. He knew that Callender was upstairs somewhere sleeping off what must have been an appalling headache, yet somehow the mansion seemed utterly deserted, a fit abode for ghosts rather than men. Out of sheer desperation, Stone was tempted to drop off himself, on the settee in the study that had served him as a bed, but he fought the temptation, though there was little enough for a man to do in London when he had no money and no friends. It wasn’t even a fit day for a stroll around the old town, unfortunately; a heavy rain had been falling for most of the afternoon, interrupted from time to time by distant growls of thunder and dim glimmerings of lightning.

  Still, Stone decided that a storm would be more stimulating than wandering through a house that seemed half haunted. He headed for the door, threw it open, and stared out into the street. The rain rattled down and splashed in the gutters; wind blew some of it into Stone’s face. Across the way a man scrambled for shelter, and his antics made Stone feel very satisfied to be indoors after all. And yet somet
hing in the power of the elements made him feel strong and alive; he remembered how he had run shouting through storms when he had been a boy.

  As he looked out on nature’s fury, Stone saw a coach round a corner and pull up in front of the doorway that sheltered him. The horses steamed and shivered in the downpour. Stone felt a trifle foolish to be standing there, but would have been even more ashamed to duck back inside like a frightened child, especially when the coachman ducked down from his perch, his high hat dripping, and scrambled up the steps to meet him. Stone did his best to act like a prosperous householder.

  “Mr Nigel Stone?” asked the coachman.

  “What? Me?” stammered Stone. “Yes, of course it’s me. What can I do for you, my good man?”

  “A message for you from a lady, sir. She said to wait for an answer.” He pulled a piece of paper from somewhere inside his soaking coat and handed it to Stone. The wet ink was already beginning to blur.

  My Dear Mr Stone,

  Please come at once, and if you can, come without Mr Callender. My niece Felicia vanished last night, and I fear for her safety. I believe I can rely on you, and no one else.

  A drop of rain turned the signature to a gray smudge, but there could be no doubt about the name. Stone felt pleasure at the summons, and then a twinge of shame that he should take such delight in the misfortune of a young woman.

  “I’ll come at once,” he said.

  “Then come with me, sir. I’ll wait here while you get your great-coat.”

  “No need for that,” mumbled Stone. He was embarrassed to confess that he owned no such garment, but not quite desperate enough to pilfer his cousin’s; he hoped the coachman would take his scanty costume as a sign of dedication rather than desperation. A blast of thunder ripped the sky apart as he hurried down the steps.

  The same thunder woke Reginald Callender at last. He cursed, and sat up so quickly that he wrenched his back. His sheets were soaked with his own sweat, and they had begun to stink. He itched all over, and he started to tremble as soon as he awoke. And when he heard the rain, he was seized with a wild desire to run naked into London and wash himself clean, but he had just enough judgement left to realize this might not be wise.

  Callender huddled under his quilts and pulled damp pillows over his head, trying without much success to shut out the world. Now that he was conscious again, he could not bear to lie awake alone with his own thoughts. Visions of doom hounded him in his own bed. He could not stay there.

  He crawled out into the clammy air and began to shiver. He called for the servants, even though he knew that they were gone. Then he called for his cousin Nigel, but there was no reply. He felt utterly abandoned.

  The house was too big for him. He had a sudden, unreasoning fear of being a small speck in a vast space. It was unbearable.

  He pulled on such clothes as he could find, and took a pull from the bottle beside the bed. He thanked heaven for his uncle’s cellar, which was still his even if the house would soon be sold for debts, and he dreaded the day when the wine would run dry. He drank again, and heard the rain battering against his window.

  He hardly cared for the weather, though, when his mind was in such an uproar. There was a need in him to escape from these walls and from his memories. Compared to them, a thunderstorm was a small thing.

  A song rang through his head, a tantalizing tune that meant nothing yet said much. Against it as a counterpoint rang heavy sounds of resentment and recrimination, memories of an evening when he had said and done much that might not be forgiven. Much wiser, he thought, to follow the notes of the sweeter, shallower song, and to forget the rest. He felt in his pockets, found a few shillings, then staggered down the staircase and out the door to stand under the streaming skies. He had no cash for a cab, but he knew the way to The Glass Slipper.

  His journey was a vision. Water fell in curtains before him, and it rose in glistening fountains at every curb. Rainbows formed in every gaslight, and phantoms in the fog. His way was weary, but he was too tired to rest. From time to time the whirling wheels that passed him covered him in water, but it was no more to him than paint on lips that were already scarlet. Drenched and deranged, Reginald Callender made his way through forgotten streets until he reached his remembered goal.

  The glass globes over the flickering flames at the entrance to The Glass Slipper seemed to Callender like stars in the heavens. He stepped over cigars, mud, and orange peels to reach the arch where a shilling brought him his way into the saloon bar.

  “Buy us a bottle of fizz?” Callender pushed the drab out of his way and proceeded up into the balcony. This had always been a disorderly house, but now it struck him as the true home of chaos. Each face he saw was a twisted demon shape, and each voice a mockery. He was vaguely aware that some spurned him for the unshaven, sodden wretch he had become, but it mattered little when he knew he was so close to Sally Wood.

  “Give your orders, gentlemen, please!” The harsh voice cut through the tobacco fumes, the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. In another life Callender would have ignored the summons, but now that he was destitute he felt compelled to buy a glass of beer. A girl with plump arms and a vacant face offered to sell him sweets from a glass jar, but she backed away when she saw his expression. The orchestra struck up a tinny tune, and it was one Callender recognized. The gods were with him after all. It was Sally’s song.

  Some girls place a price upon their maidenhood,

  Defend it, never spend it till the price is good.

  They wouldn’t give a gent a tumble if they could.

  They couldn’t if they would,

  They wouldn’t if they could,

  But everybody knows Sally Wood.

  And there she was, in a gaudy red dress, strutting saucily across the stage. She bawled out her litany, her skirts hiked up to her garters, and Callender dreamed of what lay beyond them. He wondered how many men shared the same dreams, perhaps even the same memories, and he hated them all.

  Someone clapped him on the back and handed him a glass of brandy; he didn’t even notice who it was. When Sally hit her final note and made a low curtsey in her low-cut dress, he stood stock still and stared while every other man in The Glass Slipper gave vent to boisterous shouts and applause. He did not move as Sally leaped from the stage, wove her way expertly through the orchestra, pushed through the crowd with a few playful slaps, and hurried up to the balcony bar. She passed within a few feet of Callender on her way to the spot where a man with a leathery face and gray sidewhiskers was standing. There was a bottle of champagne beside him on the bar, and he poured Sally a glass as she approached, her face flushed and her chestnut hair flowing.

  Callender awoke from his paralysis and stumbled toward Sally. She turned when he grasped her arm.

  “Reggie!” she said, and then she laughed. “You do look a sight!”

  “It’s the rain.”

  “You’d better go home, dear, or you’ll catch your death. I’ll talk to you another night.”

  She turned her back on him.

  “Sally! You’ll talk to me now!” He reached out for her again, but the stranger put himself between them.

  “You can see that the lady is occupied,” he said. His tone was the one that Callender had been accustomed to use when talking to servants. Callender tried to push him away, but the man was like an oak.

  Callender took a swing at the man, who ducked back without hesitation and then put a bony fist in his opponent’s face.

  Callender was surprised to find himself sitting on the floor. His nose and mouth felt hot and wet. There was laughter all around him.

  He was trying to decide what to do when he had another shock: he saw Sally slap her escort’s face. This brought another roar from the crowd, which burst into wilder applause than it had ever granted one of her songs when Sally knelt down beside the stricken Callender and took him in her arms.

  “Come on, Reggie,” she said. “You’re all right.”

  “Sally?” H
e didn’t know what else to say.

  “That’s right, dear. You come along with me. Can’t have my husband murdered, can I?”

  Her words hardly registered as she helped him to his feet and out of The Glass Slipper.

  The rain was still falling, and Callender lifted his face toward it to wash away the blood. He hardly looked where he was walking, but he was conscious enough to remember that her lodgings were just around the corner from the music hall. He dragged his boots through a puddle like a child, and he found a kind of pleasure in it. He had begun to love the storm. When the thunder rumbled, he made the same sort of noise himself. Sally just looked at him and smiled.

  She led him up two flights of stairs and into her disordered room, as full of jumble as his own dwelling was barren, then sat him down on an unmade bed covered with clothes. He saw a pamphlet, half hidden by a dress, and picked it up.

  “Still reading penny dreadfuls, Sal?”

  “Oh, you mean the vampire. You should take that along, Reggie. I’m finished with that bit, and it’s awfully good.”

  Callender shrugged and stuffed the thing into his pocket. His mind was fuddled, but somewhere in it was the glimmer of an idea. There was something else, too, something he wanted to remember.

  “Look here. What was that you said to me back at the Slipper, eh?”

  “What do you mean, dear? Take off your coat. It’s wet.”

  “Leave me alone. I want to be wet.”

  “Have it your own way, then,” said Sally, peeling off her gown and posing before him in her corset. “I just wanted to get you warm.”

  “Warm, is it? And what did you say to me back there about a husband?”

  She sat beside him and ran her tongue across his lips. “Only that a girl has to take care of her intended, Reggie.”

  He looked at her blearily. “You must be mad,” he said.

  “Not half, I’m not. You promised to marry me, right here in this very bed, and I mean to hold you to it, Mr Reggie Callender.”