“Move away.” Valerian spoke in a velvet-smooth tone, yet there was no mistaking the steely threat. I watched Alan’s face go red. By contrast, Valerian’s paleness was unmarred by emotion. He seemed made of marble.
“Get out of here, Fox. This is a family matter. It does not concern you.”
Meaning to brush past Valerian to get to me, Alan took one step. Only one. Then Valerian’s hand shot out, grasping Alan’s shoulder. Alan stopped cold, as if he’d come up against a stone wall. He pushed against Valerian. In response, Valerian flicked his wrist and Alan crumpled to the ground.
The rest was a blur. Alyssa began screaming. I felt Valerian’s hand on my arm, his voice at my ear. “Let us go,” he said commandingly. “Now.”
I obeyed without thinking, turning my back on my sister prostrate over her groaning husband. Valerian took me upstairs. “Be ready to leave in an hour,” he told me. “I am taking you away from this place.”
Only a fool would set sail for Ireland on winter seas. I was one such fool, an angry, embittered one when I left Castleton. Valerian had found an Irish vessel sailing from Seaforth Dock in Merseyside, called The Angel Gabriel. I was a notoriously bad sailor, but with a name such as this, I thought it a good sign.
The cabin assigned to me was close and airless, and I was ill on the short voyage over the rough seas to Dublin. However, my mood was undaunted. I had a place, now, where I could look for my mother: Inishmoor, which lay on the other side of the island, just out from Galway.
Valerian went to work immediately upon our arrival to put the word out to his contacts. After five days, he informed me that so far his sources had unearthed no information about my mother in the area of Inishmoor.
“Perhaps I should go myself to the Inishmaan,” I suggested. “This was where she was when she sent the letters.”
“And look where?” he posited. “An island it might be, but it is hardly small enough for you to go knocking on every door. And who knows how long she was there? She might have spent only a night before moving someplace else. No, we should wait for more information. Give my agents time to work.”
“Agents?” I asked, intrigued.
He gave me an apologetic grin. “They are not the usual sort, as you might well imagine. Not pretty, not principled. But they are dedicated, and are deeply entrenched in the sort of world we are interested in. How do you think I have managed to maintain close contact with a vampire of Marius’s magnitude all these years?”
I had not thought of it, but I now realized his ability to track and find the undead was certainly formidable. “It sounds quite a sophisticated network.”
“Let us just say it is effective. In any event, I wanted to tell you they’ve found out something I had them investigate—not about your mother, but another matter. Do you recall Peter mentioning a man by the name of David Stoker?”
“Yes. He was the one who was known to have information on the Dracula.”
“Exactly. Obsessed with the Dracula legend is more to the point. Stoker’s an Irishman, and a Dubliner to boot. He has family here. It is a tenuous connection, for they say his brother, Abraham, detests any mention of David. But as we are here, I thought I might pay them a visit and see what I can ascertain about the man.”
“I am coming with you!”
Any other man would have informed me that such an errand was not the proper place for a woman. Valerian did not. Instead, he bobbed his head in agreement. “We have to come up with a ruse. Do you have any ideas?”
Our story was this: Valerian would pose as a Cambridge historian who was researching the expansion of the Ottoman Empire into Eastern Europe. I would be his dutiful wife, a bit of a bluestocking, who acted as his secretary. We contacted the family under this guise, requesting information on the legend associated with Vlad III, known as Vlad the Impaler.
“We are particularly interested in the supernatural aspects of the legends surrounding him,” I said as we brainstormed our approach, “as we believe there are actual events of importance that have been misinterpreted, and are thus of substantial historical value.”
“That is good,” Valerian said. “I think it wise to apply to his vanity. He will not wish to expose his brother’s obsession if he thinks we take it literally. Therefore, let us say David contacted us when he learned of our research, to offer his theories on how these ‘preposterous’ stories grew out of actual events.”
“I am a terrible liar,” I warned.
He gave me a mysterious smile. “Leave that to me.”
And sure enough, we gained entrance into the very active Dublin home of Abraham Stoker and his wife, Charlotte, who I learned was something of a feminist—which was an unexpected blessing, assurance that Stoker would accept my presence as my “husband’s” assistant. Getting the couple to talk about David’s obsession, however, was nearly impossible.
“My brother’s illness has brought our family great grief,” the very austere Abraham Stoker told us. The couple had invited us into the formal parlor, but did not extend their hospitality to an offer of refreshment. I had the feeling the husband was receiving us at his wife’s insistence. He was certainly making no secret of his reluctance.
Mrs. Stoker was patient with us. “David was not all bad. He had his problems, as most men of great mind do. Yes, it was true, he was too warm on the subject of certain . . . legends. But he was a scholar and a fine man. He was an exhaustive researcher, and dedicated beyond imagining. I for one am thrilled to learn his research might be of some service to the academic community.”
A shadow passed by the door, the movement catching the corner of my eye. I glanced over but saw no one. Were we being watched?
“If you only knew how important he is to our needs,” Valerian said, very carefully picking his way through the truth.
“Surely you know my brother disappeared two years ago. I have not seen or heard from him since.”
Charlotte Stoker looked to her husband. “Perhaps they might wish to have a look through his papers.”
Stoker colored, turning an alarming shade of vermillion only an Irishman could achieve. Mrs. Stoker said, “Oh, Abraham, you did not destroy them, did you?”
“Of course not, although why you prohibit that course of action, I cannot see. They are no use to anyone.”
I would have interjected if Valerian had not. “If you please, Mr. Stoker, to allow us—my wife and me—to be the judge of that.”
The couple ignored us. I had the impression they were well used to lively debate. “I insisted you keep his belongings for precisely this purpose, naturally. David was a brilliant man.”
“There is a fine line between genius and madness,” Abraham warned.
Something prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. I glanced over my shoulder, searching the hall. I had the uncanny impression once again that I was being watched. Yet I saw no one.
Valerian was speaking. “That may well be, but your brother’s emotional well-being, or lack of it, does not diminish the fact that he may have made a very important contribution to our research.”
Abraham Stoker harrumphed, but he rose and disappeared, his wife trailing after him. The sounds of their quarrel drifted back to Valerian and me, still seated in their parlor.
“What do you think?” I whispered.
He chuckled. “She is formidable. I’ll wager we have the papers in our hands in moments.”
He was correct. The Stokers returned quickly, Abraham with a sheaf of papers.
His stern expression bore testimony to his dislike of losing this particular battle. “I will not allow these out of this house. If you find something of value, excellent. You have one hour.”
“Abraham,” Mrs. Stoker murmured.
“Two hours,” he corrected crankily.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely, taking the packet as if I were receiving the Holy Grail. Mrs. Stoker pulled her husband out of the room, their quibbling resuming once the door was shut behind them.
Valerian and I
exchanged an amused glance, then set to work.
Opening the file, we found nothing more than a collection of notes filled with handwriting, drawn figures, and snippets of newspaper. These were arranged in haphazard fashion, jottings and lengthy entries jumbled onto a page. Portions were circled, underlined, scored through. The whole effect was chaotic, nearly indecipherable.
I gave Valerian a helpless glance. “Two hours?”
He divided the file in half, slid a packet to me and settled in to peruse the other himself. I attended the first few pages of my assignment, making a discovery right off. “He mentions something known as ‘Spring-heeled Jack’ very often. Listen to this—an account from the Times in London. Let’s see . . . this was some time ago, about twenty years ago. A woman named Mary Stevens was accosted by a strange figure who leaped at her from a dark alley. Hmm. It says the hysterical girl reported the strange creature ripped at her clothing and tore at her flesh with claws that were ‘cold and clammy as those of a corpse.’ ”
“A vampire attack?” Valerian said.
“A very unusual one. Look at the rest of this.”
The material described something quite different from the stealthy, fatally efficient killer we knew vampires to be. This thing was a gibbering miscreant bent on cruel mischief. Its sobriquet came from the ability to disappear by leaping great heights, a terrifying stunt it used to taunt its prey.
Several accounts throughout England and Ireland had been remarkably similar in describing the thing’s appearance, which was reported as “devil-like.” Many echoed the description given in public testimony in London of an eighteen-year-old victim named Jane Alsop. I read it aloud for Valerian.
“She says: ‘He was wearing a kind of helmet, and a tight-fitting white costume like an oilskin. His face was hideous; his eyes were like balls of fire. His hands had claws of some metallic substance, and he vomited blue and white flames.’ ”
I stopped, my eyes fixed at the next word.
“Go on,” Valerian urged.
“Here Stoker writes over the article. A name.” I pointed to the circled word. “Lliam.”
“Lliam?” Valerian’s gaze held mine. “Stoker believed Lliam is this Spring-heeled Jack?”
But I had read ahead and could not answer him. “My God, Valerian!” I exclaimed, and I slid the pages so that we both might read the tale that unfolded in Stoker’s own hand. “He has a theory that the Spring-heeled Jack phantom was one aspect of the vampire known as Lliam. He describes him here. See.” I perused the notes, reading snippets aloud. “A capricious harlequin . . . With a boundless energy and an insatiable appetite for cruel amusements.”
Pages of writing explored this hypothesis, supporting it with sightings and reports of mass killings where all the victims were found bloodless. I pointed to one report. “See how their bodies were left heaped in a pile? That is like what Miss Markam described.”
Valerian nodded, his attention captivated by another entry. “This is interesting. Look at this account of a haunted field. It is not too far from here. Hmm.” He paused to read on. “The locals regard the land as unholy. Stoker says nothing can grow on it.”
I perused the notes myself. Stoker claimed in an extensive explanation that he had investigated this phenomenon and concluded that this was the site where Lliam had executed one of his followers.
“Stoker thinks he discovered some betrayal.” Valerian paused as he read on. “It looks as if it happened only ten years ago or thereabouts. He says that Lliam killed one of his own kind, burned the pieces, then sowed the charred remains into the ground. To this day, the ground is known to be cursed. It serves as a warning to any who might think of going up against his power. A priest died trying to bless it and the farmer who owns the plot has long since abandoned it. The locals say—”
“Oh God!” I exclaimed. I felt my world tilt as excitement rushed through me. Alistair. I trembled as I locked my gaze with Valerian’s. “Could my mother be what they fought over?”
“It is possible.”
“I know,” I said eagerly. “She wrote letters to Father and me from here in Ireland. Her maker—if indeed Alistair is the vampire who made her over, and he has to be, doesn’t he?—was killed here. By Lliam, and he is this mercurial monster; he is the link to Ruthven.”
Valerian was silent. I knew he was wary of getting my hopes up too high. Even if we were correct, there was no telling where this new knowledge would lead. My mother had been here in this country, living her earliest days as a vampire. Where had she gone when Alistair was killed? Where was she now?
Longing for death, I knew. I knew it as surely as I knew my name. Darkling I listen . . .
In the final moments of our time with David Stoker’s research, we finally uncovered some of the information he had managed to find of the Dracula. This was somewhat disappointing, however, as most of his knowledge matched what we had learned from Uncle Peter. But a few things were new, although it felt to me that what we learned posed more questions about the mysterious Dark Prince than it answered.
Stoker wrote reams about the Wallachian prince’s mortal life, his rise to power after triumphing in his father’s brutally orchestrated rivalry designed to ensure the strongest of his sons would ascend to the throne. There were extensive listings of a dragon symbol, where it had been found and what it had foretold, and a smattering of legends that collected around the presence of evil nestled safely in the mysterious Carpathian Mountains . . .
“Your two hours are over,” a voice from the doorway announced, and Abraham Stoker swept into the room.
It was like the drop of the guillotine’s blade, severing us from this font of information. There was so much more we had not yet read, but the deal had been struck and we had gotten our two hours. I might have greedily wheedled for more but Valerian gave my hand a reassuring squeeze as we were ushered into the hall and given our cloaks.
Stoker brushed aside our expressions of gratitude. He did not even ask if our search had been fruitful. He wanted us gone as soon as possible.
It was Charlotte Stoker, coming in at the last moment to bid us good-bye, who restored a measure of decorum to our ejection from the house. She folded her hands as she smiled kindly at us. “I am afraid this is all the access my husband will allow, and I must agree with him that we cannot be drawn into the controversies of my brother-in-law’s world. We have our children to consider, and we like to protect them from this as much as possible.”
A movement behind her, no more than a shifting shadow, alerted me to the presence I had sensed earlier. When a face poked around a corner, I saw it was a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age.
Charlotte Stoker frowned, shaking her head. “Our son is fascinated by the subject, I am afraid.”
I smiled at the lad, who was good-looking, with bright, intelligent eyes.
“Bram! Off with you, now!” his mother admonished. But when she returned her attention to me, her smile was indulgent.
“A good-looking boy,” I said.
“Thank you. That is our son, Abraham, after his father. He is off to school in a year or two, which is a miracle. He was bedridden until he was seven years old, and so to see him venturing out into the world is particularly gratifying. I am afraid, however, his years of infirmity made him fanciful, and he’s rather desperate when it comes to trying to find out about his uncle. We—well, I—find it difficult to be harsh with him.”
“Completely understandable,” I murmured. “Thank you so much for your help.”
“Oh, was it? A help, I mean?”
“Extremely so,” I said with emphasis. This pleased her, and although we left Abraham glowering, I thought perhaps we had done a bit of good, perhaps planted a seed that might grow to something useful to that family in the future.
I truly did.
Chapter Twenty
The fells were locked in winter white when I returned to Cumbria, the deep cold freezing everything in a glittering case of ice. It was something out
of a fairytale, and would have been a lovely sight if I had not felt unsettled by the stillness around me.
“What is it?” Valerian asked as we approached the village. He studied me. “Do you feel a change?”
I thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. Changes are coming. It will be the killing time soon.”
I immediately saw a drastic difference in the girls. Margaret, Lilliana, and Therese moved like three who had lost their way and Vanessa’s sparkle was diminished into wan lassitude. Eustacia was in a state of near paralysis, so terrified was she. Not once did her eager hand rise during the first lesson back.
I grabbed Eustacia on her way out of the classroom. “I wish to talk to you. Meet me here after your classes are done for the day.”
She did not want to, that was plain to see, but she would not disobey a teacher’s direct order. When she arrived that afternoon, she stood stiff, eyes downcast, in front of my desk.
I rose, coming to stand before her. “He is different, isn’t he? Ruthven. Or the Cyprian Queen, as he styles himself.”
Her eyes jerked to mine, but she said nothing.
“I know what is happening. I know about the things the girls do. I know they think they are handmaidens to a god. They think themselves glorious and exalted. They are not. Which you already know. But it is difficult, for they do not listen to you.”
Her eyes were wide, round, desperate. Tears brimmed, then overflowed onto her cheeks, but she remained silent, not even shaking her head. She did not flee, however. I took this as a good sign.
“I know you are frightened,” I said. I spoke calmly, hoping to ease her obvious fears. “But you must listen to me, Eustacia. I am going to trust you with something. Actually, I am going to show you something, and trust that you will tell no one of what you are about to see.”
I picked up paperweight some previous teacher had left behind. It was half of a rock split open, showing a bristling array of amethyst crystals inside. I pointed to a basket across the room where the girls placed their assignments on their way out at the end of class.
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