The Curse of the Vampire (Cursed Book 6)

by Dean Drinkel

  She ravaged the boy’s corpse but then after a few minutes, she grew bored, stood up, dropping the cadaver to the ground. She stepped over it. She drew a hand across her face.

  “You really missed out there,” she stated – her features, her form, slowly returned to normal.

  She held out her hand. “Come, Lucien,” she ordered.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The lake, the boat awaits. Soon you will be reunited with Him. Unless,” she paused. “You would rather we lay down here and made love, imagine the babies we would make and then feast upon. It would be rapturous.”

  Lucien looked down between his legs; his once throbbing erection had disappeared.

  “Oh well,” she smiled. “Come...to the boat.”

  He hesitated, but took her hand and she led him through the trees...

  Three

  “Lucien? Can it be? My goodness. I have to say I am somewhat surprised to see you, come here you silly man. How the devil are you?”

  They embraced each other, it was warm, tender.

  “I’m sorry Charles; I’m not very good at keeping in touch.”

  “You can say that again, now come in, let’s not conduct our business on the doorstep, come in, come in, what are you waiting for? An invitation?”

  Lucien entered; Charles led him into a small sitting room.

  “I’ll make some coffee, wait there.” He went to the door, paused. “It really is good to see you.” He added a smile and headed off into the kitchen.

  Five or so minutes later he returned with a silver tray. “Come on,” he frowned. “Sit yourself down, sit down.”

  There were two armchairs; Lucien lowered himself into it, watched as Charles stirred the pot, poured two cups. “Cream and sugar?” he asked.

  “Just cream please and only a little as it can play havoc with my stomach.”

  “Of course,” Charles did as he was asked, handed Lucien his cup who put it to his lips but didn’t drink, he was grinning widely though. “A priest, who would have fucki...sorry, who would have thought that?”

  “Almost a priest, not a full priest, not just yet,” Charles returned the smile, sat down.

  Lucien stared at him hard for a while, all the time shaking his head. He took a sip of his tea then put the cup down on the small table. He looked over at the crucifix hanging there on the wall. He also ignored the fact that Charles had picked up some rosary beads and was turning them in his hand.

  “Do these surroundings upset you, there’s a bar nearby if you’d rather?”

  Lucien continued to stare for a moment but then shook his head as he turned back. “No Charles it doesn’t...can I still call you Charles or...”

  The man raised a hand. “Charles is fine.” He paused. ”I was a little taken aback when you made contact. I did want to get in touch before now really, once or twice I even called your house...”

  “...you wouldn’t have found me there.”

  “No...your mother, well, she told me you were still in Paris, I wanted to look you up to see where you lived now...thinking about that, I could have found out myself anyway, couldn’t I?” He laughed nervously. “After everything that happened with your brother, I think you needed a friend, a good friend and I was never sure that I was that person even if I wanted to be...”

  Lucien looked away. “I’m over all that now. It all seems so long ago...” he whispered.

  “Have you seen the others?” Charles asked.

  “No, you?” Lucien took a very deep breath. He didn’t want to say anything about Henri – it had spooked him too much.

  “Not particularly. I did keep in touch with Philippe for a short while. He got married, had a child.”

  “That surprises me.”

  Charles nodded furiously. “It didn’t last long. Such a shame. I went to the wedding; they were very much in love to begin with. Really suited each other.”

  “Philippe married,” Lucien’s thoughts drifted. “What went wrong?”

  The almost-priest shrugged. “The relationship broke down, I don’t think it was one thing in particular, a culmination of lots of different things, perhaps they were just too young.” He stood up. “I think I have his address somewhere, would you like it?”

  Lucien nodded. “Sure, why not?”

  “Give me a moment,” Charles left the room, a door could be heard opening, then papers being flicked through.

  “The woman and the child? What happened to them?” Lucien called.

  “Moved away, somewhere south, I believe, a warmer climate.” Charles re-entered the room. “As I said, I really haven’t spoken to him in recent times. Here you go.” He handed Lucien a slip of paper then returned to his chair, still turning those fucking beads.

  “What will you do if you find him?” Charles asked.

  “I don’t get you?”

  “Come on, there must be a reason behind all this, not just to catch up on old times.”

  Lucien looked past Charles, at the crucifix, his hand began to tremble, he tried to steady it, gave up, rested it on the arm of his chair.

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Lucien replied. “It’s just been...it’s not always been easy, you know...”

  “Of all of us, you suffered the most.”

  “Do you think? As far as I’m concerned Louvois suffered worse than the rest of us, I think it made me stronger...”

  “Stronger? That’s interesting...but then look at me, who would have thought I would have followed...well, who would have thought I would have trained in the seminary.”

  Lucien clenched / unclenched his fists, the sweat was beginning to build up on his forehead.

  Charles put down his beads, leant down beside him, his Bible was tucked away there, he flicked through the pages.

  “Don’t,” Lucien pleaded “There’s nothing in there for me. Maybe once, but not anymore.”

  “It’s never too late, I’m sure even you could find some solace within these pages...”

  Lucien shook his head. “I don’t want to cause offence, but for old time’s sake...please put it away.”

  Charles closed the Bible, rested it on his knees, held out his hand. “I am happy to see you Lucien, really.”

  Lucien hesitated but then took it, clasped it tight.

  “You must have so many questions,” Charles started. “About your past, about our past, your future. Whenever you are ready, if I can help you, my door to you will always be open. Always.”

  “The answers I seek, the answers I need – I’m afraid you don’t have. Anyway, I’ve got to go.”

  Lucien withdrew his hand, got up, went to the door. “Thanks for the coffee. Oh, there’s one thing before I go...have you felt yourself being followed recently? Don’t ask me by who because I don’t know...I might be wrong, it’s just...it’s just...”

  Charles shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Lucien nodded his head. “Okay, look after yourself Charles. But listen, my father has made contact. Yes, don’t look at me like that...I don’t believe it either. I’m just warning you, that’s all. Keep your wits about you okay.” A painful smile as he exited.

  “God be with you,” Charles said, but he didn’t know whether Lucien heard him or not. He got up out of the chair, took down the crucifix from the wall; he held it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He crossed himself, knelt in front of his chair, flicked through the Bible, found a passage he was familiar with, which brought him solace in times of despair:

  Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them...anyone who eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him...

  Interlude

  Christ, it was chaos.

  Organised chaos perhaps.

  But chaos, all the same.

  “This way,” she led him along a not-so-obvious pathway, zig-zagging through the trees. She handed him an orange she had been eating, he took a bite, it tasted sour, and he threw it to the ground.
..

  ...had it been night before? If it hadn’t, it certainly was now.

  The trees thinned out, they found themselves on an embankment, illuminated by burning torches.

  The path – if they continued along it – let to a wooden jetty. People were everywhere; they were carrying large wooden crates. They were dressed from head to toe in white, even wore white masks which covered their faces and white gloves on their hands. Whatever was in those crates must have been heavy as each one was carried by at least two people, there was even one which had three holding it!

  Lucien was still naked. He should have been cold – freezing in fact, but he wasn’t. A mist was hanging heavy over the water (whether it was a lake, a river, an ocean – he couldn’t tell, it was just too damn dark, and the mist was so thick).

  She let go of his hand.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “This is where I leave you, for now.” She skipped down to the jetty and jumped onto the boat.

  Lucien remained where he was for several moments – no-one was paying him the slightest of attention anyway - they were too busy with the loading of the boat.

  He could hear dogs barking somewhere in the distance...

  ...something diverted his attention. There was a second path, more crudely cut than the first – he decided to follow it...

  ...but instantly regretted it. Brambles, barbs, thorns attacked his feet, ripping the flesh. It was too late to turn back, he had to keep going, the bushes, the trees were much thicker now, it was as if the branches reached for him – cut him, tore into him. He put a hand up to protect his face, couldn’t risk any damage to his eyes.

  There was something high above him, something black and shifting. Though it was dark (he should have at least brought one of those flaming torches with him!), he could sense the damn thing moving, following him – when he turned right, it turned right; when he went left, it went left. His heart was pounding, his skin itchy, his balls tightened...

  ...he wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking, fighting his way through the prickles – time had lost its meaning here.

  And then a second clearing...he took a deep breath, plucked the spikes, the spines from his skin – particularly his arms, his legs, the soles of his feet. Bloody droplets formed on his flesh.

  What was that stench?

  It was terrible. It was rot. It was decay.

  It was...death.

  He had stumbled across a graveyard and there was something else decidedly strange about this place. The graves, of which there were many, were open. Probably not originally - when the incumbent had been laid to rest - but over time (he approached one to be sure) they had been ransacked, pillaged, and desecrated.

  A morbid thought: was that what was being carried in those crates? Dead bodies? For fuck’s sake...what had he got himself involved with? No wonder they had looked so damned cumbersome.

  He bent down, grabbed a handful of dirt from the nearest empty grave, sifted it through his fingers then cleaned the rest off by rubbing it on his thigh.

  There was nothing obvious there, the bodies could have been robbed yesterday, five minutes or a year ago – it was impossible to tell – the graves themselves: some looked carved recently, some looked ancient by comparison, some were spoilt, and some lay untouched...

  ...what was that noise? A baby crying? A cat mewing? A wounded animal...sounded in a great deal of pain...Lucien went to cry out but thought better of it. Whoever had attacked these graves could have been waiting in the bushes, could have been waiting just for him. Was this a trap...

  ... he looked heavenwards, fell to his knees, covering his head, with his hands, his arms.

  The canopy of the forest dropped towards him. But then, as it was only inches from his head, it took flight. The beating of thousands and thousands of tiny wings; whatever these creatures were, they were brown, black...tiny fangs exposed, their bright red eyes barely open...bats...the sky was swarming with an army of bats!

  Their stink was overpowering.

  It must have taken five, maybe ten minutes, for all of them to disperse.

  And once they had disbanded, the crying baby could be heard once again.

  Lucien checked as many of the graves as he could – but he couldn’t find hide nor hair of it...

  ...on the far side of the graveyard, the path showed itself again. He approached with some trepidation, but there was no need, the foliage was friendly. It meant him no harm.

  Once he reached the end, there was a man, dressed as the others, but he wore no mask (he held that in his hand). He had large round blue eyes, a beard, and soft features. There was something kind about him.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he whispered.

  Lucien covered up his genitals. The man smiled. “You have nothing I haven’t seen before. You’re nothing special.” He chuckled. “Now hurry, the boat can’t leave without you.”

  He hesitated briefly, but eventually Lucien did as he was asked. He took the man’s hand. They walked along the embankment – all was calm now, the chaos had passed. The torches too weren’t far from burning themselves out – how long had he been away?

  “This way, this way my son,” he said as he led him along the jetty.

  Lucien halted, frowned. “I know you, don’t I? I feel I know you.”

  The man didn’t speak, he played with the mask. “You can call me Kotcheff.” He put the mask on. “Now let us take our leave, we don’t want to keep Him waiting any longer than necessary.”

  “Who?”

  “The Creator.”

  Kotcheff helped Lucien aboard. Two men approached, grabbed him, dragged him along roughly, pinched his skin, burnt his flesh.

  “Hey! What the fuck?!” Lucien complained.

  “Let him go,” Kotcheff ordered. “You’re not going to cause us any trouble will you?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Then this way...the water is against us.”

  Kotcheff led him along the deck, then down some steps to a lower cargo-hold. It was dark. There were metal cells...a gate was opened, he was pushed inside. The gate was locked behind him. Kotcheff, turned and walked away.

  Lucien shook the cage but after a few moments he gave up, it was just a waste of energy. He didn’t feel well either, he wanted to throw up. He took a step backwards then stumbled – the boat was moving, very quickly, it was picking up speed. Christ, that was all he needed. He hated boats. He hated the water…

  Movement behind him. He waited until his eyes had fully adjusted –there were as many as ten wooden crates laid out before him.

  Lucien stood in silence, waiting. What was that he could hear? Breathing! He could hear someone fucking breathing...he checked each crate in turn...there was one, the far one, tucked away in the blackness. One of the side panels was loose.

  “Hang on...hang on...I’ll see...” There wasn’t a crowbar or even anything similar lying around that could help so he used his legs, his feet, his hands, his fingers...eventually the panel broke off completely.

  “No...no...please fucking God...no...” Lucien fell to his knees.

  There was a boy like him lying there, naked too, of similar age. He was alive but he looked petrified. Ill. Pallid. Eyes wide. Dirt, mud was smeared all over his face, his chest...

  Lucien reached in, but the boy backed away.

  “I won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”

  No answer until: “I saw you with them, you’re not like us.”

  Lucien scowled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know what you are.”

  “My name is Lucien...who are you?”

  “Louvois...but what do you care? We are just meat for you...”

  Lucien shook his head. “I don’t under...”

  “I know what you are and what you will become. The Creator has willed it. You will be the one who is saved.” He opened his mouth as a wide as he could and a thousand black butterflies sprung forth, spilling out of the crate, sw
arming around Lucien...

  ...outside there was a massive crack of thunder and a bolt of lightning hit the boat...

  Four

  Lucien pushed the unlocked door open and closed it behind him.

  “Shit.”

  He was too late.

  He tried the light switch but it didn’t work, some illumination from the street filtered through the window, he didn’t need to wait for his eyes to adjust – he and the dark were old friends. He took a deep breath, he believed he was alone but he had to keep his wits about him – just in case.

  “Someone got to you first my friend did they? I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  He crossed the room, stood as close as he dared.

  Philippe lay naked on the sofa. His wrists, his ankles, his throat had been sliced clean open. His tendons had been severed at the knees.

  But this was no hatchet job.

  Surgical almost.

  Precise.

  Clean.

  Designed to create the strongest possible impression.

  Theatrical.

  The way his body had been displayed, it was almost cinematic...like a painting. Goya. Caravaggio. Bruegel...

  ...Philippe was naked, wild roses covered his sexual organs, under the arms, over the nipples; a garland of hawthorn wrapped around his head like a crown – a Prince of the Underworld.

  But that wasn’t all – around the sofa, a combination of sand and mustard seeds had been sprinkled to ward the monster away, so far, it wasn’t doing a great job. Pieces of broken pottery lay to the West, the East, the North and the South.

  Jesus Christ Conquers All.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Lucien looked down at his own finger tips, blood there for sure under the nails...of course there was blood, there was always blood. It had dried into his palms, accentuating the lines...

  ...no, he hadn’t done this, hadn’t killed Philippe, but of course he knew in the great scheme of things he was responsible - which in his mind was almost the same.

  Lucien searched his jacket, took out the small pen-knife he used for emergencies just like this, he flicked open the blade and without even thinking about it, drew it across his wrist. He winced, rubbed it on his lips, his cock hardened but that wasn’t why he was here, he flicked some of his blood over the sand, over the seeds, instantly negating any possible power they welded – nonetheless he whispered a short lament as he took a breath and crossed over.