by Brian Lumley
Sandra closed her eyes, held up her hand, and gasped, “No!” She’d read about the things called siphoneers in the Keogh files, and this was something she really didn’t want to hear from Harry. She knew about the great placid, flaccid things in the heights of the vampire towers: how their living veins hung down through hundreds of yards of hollow bone pipes, to siphon up water from the wells. And she knew, too, how all of these creatures and beasts had once been human, before vampire metamorphosis. And, “No!” she said again.
“Yes,” said Darcy, “Sandra’s right. And perhaps this was the wrong time to go through all of this anyway. God knows I shan’t sleep!”
Harry nodded. “I rarely sleep,” he answered, “peacefully.”
And as if they had already agreed on it, though in fact it hadn’t been mentioned, they carried three single beds out of the bedrooms into the large living room, set them up there around the central table, and prepared to sleep in the same room together. It might not be entirely civilised, but it was safest.
Harry brought out his crossbow from a holdall, assembled it, and fitted a bolt. He placed the loaded weapon between his and Darcy’s bed, on the floor close to the table, where they weren’t likely to step on it. Then, while the others used the bathroom to prepare for bed in their turn, he stretched out in an armchair and drew a blanket up over himself. If he became uncomfortable later, he could always stretch out on his bed then.
And in the darkness and quiet of the room, where only a haze of grey light came in through the louvres, Darcy yawned and asked, “What plans for tomorrow, Harry?”
“To see to Ken Layard,” Harry answered without hesitation, “to get Sandra on a plane for home, and to see what can be done for Trevor Jordan. We should try to get him out of here as soon as possible. To distance him from the vampire should be to lessen the thing’s influence. Again I suppose it’s up to the local authorities and what they say. But let’s deal with all that in the morning. Right now I think I’ll be happy just to make it through the night.”
“Oh, I’m sure we will,” said Darcy.
“You feel … easy, then?”
“Easy? Hardly that! But there doesn’t seem to be anything bothering me especially.”
“Good,” said Harry. And: “You’re a very handy man to have around, Darcy Clarke.”
Sandra said nothing. Already she was asleep …
Harry did in fact sleep; he caught brief, troubled snatches of sleep in a series of short naps, never more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time … for the first few hours, anyway. But in the wee small hours his exhaustion caught up with him and his sleep grew deeper; and now the dead, no longer able to communicate with his conscious mind, could at least try to get through to him.
The first was his mother, whose voice came to him from far away, faint as a whisper on the winds of dream:
Haaarry! Are you sleeping, son? Why don’t you answer me, Harry?
“I … I can’t, Ma!” he gasped, expecting to feel his brain squeezed in a moment, and acid poured on the nerves of his mind. “You know that. If I try to talk to you, he’s going to hurt me. Not him, but what he did to me.”
But you are speaking to me, son! It’s just that you’ve forgotten again, that’s all. It’s only when you’re awake that we can’t speak. But there’s nothing to stop us when you’re only dreaming. You’ve nothing to fear from me, Harry. You know I’d never hurt you. Not deliberately.
“I … I remember now,” said Harry, still not quite sure. “But what’s the use anyway? I won’t remember what you tell me when I wake up. I never do. I’m forbidden to.”
Ah, but I’ve found ways round that before, Harry, and I can try to do it again. I don’t quite know how, for I sense you’re a long way away from me, but I can always try. Or if not me, perhaps some of your other friends …
“Ma”—he was fearful now—“you have to tell them to stop that. You’ve no idea the pain they can cause me, the trouble they can get me in! And I have enough problems right now without adding to them.”
Oh, I know you have, son, I know, she answered. But there are problems and there are problems, and the solution is sometimes different. We don’t want you to go solving them in the wrong way, that’s all. Do you understand?
But in his sleep he didn’t understand; only that he was dreaming, and that someone who loved him was trying her best to help him, however mistakenly, however misguided. “Ma,” he said, suddenly angry with her, and with all of them, “I really wish you’d try to understand. You have to get it through your head that you’re putting me in danger! You and the rest of the dead, all of you—it’s like you were trying to kill me!”
Oh, Harry! she gasped. Harry! And he knew she was ashamed of him. Now how can you say a thing like that, son? Kill you? Heavens, no. We’re trying to keep you alive!
“Ma, I—”
Haaarry! She was fading away again, going back where she belonged, as faint and distant as a forgotten name on the tip of your tongue, which won’t shape itself no matter how hard you try. But then, in another moment, her deadspeak signal strengthened and he focused on her again. And:
You see, son, she said, we don’t worry too much about you that way anymore. It’s no longer so painful to us to think that one day you might die. We know you will, for it comes to us all. And through you we’ve come to understand that death isn’t really as black as it’s painted. But between life and death there’s another state, Harry, and we’ve been warned that you’re straying too close!
“Undeath!” It was his turn to gasp, as suddenly his dream turned sharp as reality. “Warned? By whom?”
Oh, she answered, there are many talents among the dead, son. There are those you can speak to and trust, without fearing their words, and others you should never, ever speak to! At times you’ve moved without caution, Harry, but this time … one … evil … lost to … dark as … forever!
Her deadspeak was breaking up, fading, dissolving. But what she’d been saying was important, he was sure. “Ma?” he called after her, into the gathering mists of dream. “Ma?”
Haaaaarrry! Her answer was the faintest echo, diminishing and … gone.
Then—
—Something touched Harry’s face; he started and sat up a little in his armchair. And: “Wha … ?” he gasped as he came half-awake. Was that a fluttering just then? Had something disturbed the air of the room?
“Shhh!” Sandra mumbled from her bed somewhere in the darkness. “You were dreaming. About your mother again.”
Harry remembered where he was and what he was doing here, and listened for a moment to the room’s darkness and silence. And in a little while he asked, “Are you awake?”
“No,” she answered. “Do you want me to be?”
He shook his head before realising she couldn’t see him, then whispered, “No. Go to sleep.”
And as he himself sank down again in dreams, once more he felt that faint fanning of the air. But sleep had already claimed him and he ignored it …
This time the voice came from the heart of a fog which rolled up out of Harry’s dreams as dank and clinging as any fog he’d known in the waking world. It was clear, that voice; however distant, its signal was fixed and true; but it was dark, too, and deep and grinding and sepulchral as the bells of hell. It came out of the fog and seemed to surround Harry, pressing in on his Necroscope mind from all sides.
Ahhh! Beloved of the dead, it said, and Harry recognised it at once. And so I have found you, despite the misguided efforts of those who would protect you from a very old, very dead, very harmless thing.
“Faethor,” Harry answered. “Faethor Ferenczy!”
And: Haaarry Keeooogh, crooned the other, his voice seething. But you do me honour, Harry, with this stress which you place upon my name! Is this awe which I sense in you? Do you tremble before the power I once represented? Or is it something else? Fear, perhaps? But how so? What, fear? In one who was always so fearless? Now tell me: what has changed you, my son?
> “No son of yours, Faethor,” Harry at once answered, with something of his old spirit. “My name is clean. Don’t try to taint it.”
Ahhh! The gurgling, hissing, monstrous thing smiled in his mind. But that’s better. So much better to be on familiar termsss.
“What is it you want, Faethor?” Harry was suspicious, careful. “Is it that you’ve heard the dead whispering of my fix and so you’ve come to taunt me?”
Your fix? Faethor feigned surprise, but not so much as to disguise his oozing sarcasm. You are in a fix? But is it possible? With so many friends? With all the teeming dead to advise and guide you?
Even dreaming, Harry was well versed in the ways of vampires—even the “harmless,” expired variety. “Faethor,” he said, “I’m sure you know well enough the problem. But since you’ve asked, I’ll state it anyway: I’m Necroscope no longer, except in my dreams. So enjoy my predicament all you can, for awake it’s a pleasure you’ll never know.”
Such bitterness! said Faethor. And there, I thought we were friends, you and I …
“Friends?” Harry felt inclined to laughter, but controlled it. Better not unduly antagonise one of these, not even one as surely dead and gone forever as Faethor. “In what way friends? The dead are my friends, as you’ve pointed out, and to them you’re an abomination!”
And so you deny me, said the other, and the cock not yet crowed three times.
“That is a great blasphemy!” Harry cried.
And he sensed Faethor’s vile, yawning grin. But of course it is. For I am a great blasphemy, Haaarry! In the eyes of some …
“In the eyes of all,” said Harry. “In the eyes of sanity itself, Faethor.” And with finality: “Now leave me, if you’ve done with mocking. There must be better things to dream.”
Your memory is short! the other now snarled. When you sought advice, you came to me. And did I turn you away? Who was it destroyed your enemy in the mountains of the Khorvaty?
“You aided me because to do so suited you own ends, and for no other reason. You assisted me in order to strike at Thibor, and so avenge yourself a second time even from the grave! You tossed down Ivan Gerenko from the cliffs guarding your castle because he had caused it to be destroyed. You did nothing for me. In fact and as I see it now, you used me more than I used you!”
So! Faethor snapped. Not quite the fool I thought! Little wonder you prevailed, Harry Keogh! But even if what you say is true, still you must admit that the advantage was mutual?
And now Harry knew that the old vampire wasn’t here simply to mock; no, there was more to it than that. That much was made perfectly obvious by Faethor’s manner of expression, his use of the words “mutual” and “advantage.” And Harry wondered, would their conversation now prove mutually advantageous? What did the monster want, and perhaps more importantly, what was he willing to exchange for it? Only one way to find out.
“Out with it, Faethor,” said Harry. “What is it you want from me?”
Shame on you! said the other. You know how I like a good argument: the persuasion of unassailable logic, the deft manipulation of words, the skillful haggling before a bargain is struck. Would you deny me these simple pleasures?
“Spit it out, Faethor,” said Harry. “Tell me what you want, and also what it’s worth to you. And only then—if I can deliver and still live with myself—only then let’s talk about bargains.”
Bah! the other answered; but was equally quick to follow up, Very well. And without more ado: I have heard it from the dead that you are come upon hard times. Yes, I admit it, I knew that you had been stripped of your powers. Oh, it’s true, I am a pariah among the dead, but sometimes when they talk, it pleases me to “overhear” what is said. Much has been said about you, Harry Keogh, and I have overheard it. Not only are you forbidden to deadspeak, but you no longer command the facility of instantaneous transportation. This is all true?
“Yes.”
So. (Harry sensed Faethor’s curt nod.) Now, I know nothing of this … teleportation? And so in that sphere may not help you. It involves numbers, I believe—the simultaneous resolution of myriad complicated equations?—and in that I admit to a failing. I am out of touch by a thousand years, and even in my heyday was never much of a mathematician. But as for the question of deadspeak, there we might come to some agreement.
Harry tried not to show his eagerness. “An agreement? You think you can return it to me? You don’t know what you’re saying. Experts have handled my case. In my waking hours I can no more speak to the dead than pour acid in my ears! That is, I can, but the result would be the same. I know for I’ve tried it—once! And also because it was forced upon me—once!”
So, said Faethor again. And I have also heard it whispered by the dead that this mischief was worked upon you by your own son in a world other than this world. Astonishing! So, you found your way there, did you? Aye, and suffered the consequences …
“Faethor,” said Harry, “get to the point.”
The point is simple. Only the Wamphyri could so interfere with your mind, and even then only one of their most powerful. It was the art of fascination—hypnotism—as used by a great master of that art, which crippled you, Harry Keogh. Ah, and I pride myself that I, too, was just such a master!
“You’re saying that you can cure me?”
Faethor chuckled darkly, for he knew as well as Harry himself that the ex-Necroscope was hooked. What is written may be erased, he said, as you now appreciate. But just as surely, what is set askew may be put to rights! Only put yourself in my hands, and it shall be done …
Harry shrank back. “Put myself in your hands? Let you into my mind, as Dragosani once let Thibor into his? Do you think I’m mad?”
I think you are desperate.
“Faethor, I—”
Now listen to me, the long-extinct vampire interrupted. I have spoken of mutual advantage, and of the dead whispering in their tombs. But some of them do more than merely whisper. In the mountains of the Metalici and Zarundului there are those who cry out in their very- terror of that which is risen up! For not even the centuries dead—not even their bones and their dust—are safe from this one! Aye, and I know his name, and I deem myself responsible.
And now Harry was hooked more surely than ever, but like a fish on a line he intended to give the vampire a good run for his money. “Faethor,” he said, “you’re saying that one of the Wamphyri has come among us. But I already knew this. Where’s the advantage in that? Was I supposed to deliver my mind into your hands for such a scrap as this? You do think I’m mad!”
No, I think you are dedicated. To the eradication of what you term a foulness. You would destroy it before it destroys you. You would do it for the safety and sanity of your world, and I would do it … solely for my satisfaction. For I hated this one even as I hated Thibor!
“Who was he?” Harry shot the question, hoping against hope to catch the other out and read the answer in his startled mind.
But Faethor only tut-tutted, and Harry sensed a saddened, disappointed shake of his head. No need for that, my son, he said, oh so quietly, for I’ll gladly tell you his name. Why not? For you won’t remember it when you awaken. His name—his most hated, despised name—was Janos! And such was the venom in his voice that Harry knew it was true.
“Your son.” He sighed, nodding. “Your second son, after Thibor. Janos Ferenczy! So now at least I know who I’m up against, if not what.”
The who of it is Janos, said Faethor, and without my help the what of it will destroy you utterly!
“Then tell me about him,” Harry answered. “Tell me all you can of him, and I’ll try to do the rest. You’ve bargained well. I can’t refuse you.”
Again Faethor chuckled. And: Indeed your memory is short, he said. It will last only as long as your dream!
Harry saw that it was true and his frustration turned to anger. “Then what has been the point? Did you only come to mock me after all?”
Not at all, I came to seal a bargain. And
it is sealed. You will come to me where you know I lie, and we shall speak again—but the next time you’ll remember!
“But I won’t even remember this time!” Harry cried out.
Ah, but you will, you will. Faethor’s fading voice came echoing out of the rolling fog. You’ll remember something of it, at least. For I’ve seen to it, Harry. I’ve seen to it, Haaarry Keeooogh!
“Harry?” Someone stood beside him, bent over him.
“Harry!” Sandra’s urgent hand was on his arm; and Darcy Clarke hurrying to answer a banging at the door, where Manolis Papastamos was shouting to be let in; and a feeble dawn light struggling to find cracks in the louvres.
Harry leaped awake, lurched upright like a drunkard, and almost overturned his chair. But Sandra was there to support him. He held her close, and in another moment Darcy and Manolis were in the room.
“A terrible thing! A terrible thing!” Manolis kept repeating as Darcy opened a window and shutters to let in the pale light of a newly dawning day. But as the room sprang to life so Manolis’ jaw fell open and he pointed a trembling hand at a huge Greek tapestry covering the better part of one entire wall. The tapestry was moving!
“God almighty!” Darcy gasped as Sandra clung to Harry more tightly yet.
The tapestry was a panorama of banded blue sky over brown mountains and white villages, but printed on the sky in letters eighteen inches high was a name: FAETHOR. And it was printed in fur that crawled!
Already Harry’s dream was forgotten, but he would never in a lifetime forget his waking conversations with this father of vampires. “Faethor!” he gasped the word out loud. And as if it were some word of power, the name at once broke up the legend written on the tapestry—into a hundred individual bats! No bigger than winged mice, they released their hold on the fabric and whirled around the room once before escaping through the open window.
