Vampyre Labyrinth

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘Your lucky night,’ Jago whispered to himself as he pulled up the collar of his coat and walked away, leaving all thoughts of feeding from the man far behind. ‘Would rather wait.’

  Following the line of what was once Tallis Street, he turned on to Bridle Lane. He knew it well. Gone was the coffee grinder with the blind monkey. The bombing had broken the backs of every building. They stood like dead carcasses of iron and stone. Their insides were crushed and filled with mounds of rubble. On the door of one shop was a red sign, the words plainly legible: DANGER UXB …

  Ludgate Hill was empty of people. The City was always like this at night. Jago could hear the faraway bells of a solitary fire engine as it rattled through the streets. He counted the doors of the cold grey buildings that lined the hill. By each was a brass plate that gave the number and the name, and he read each one as he walked by. There was no sign of the bank he was looking for.

  It was only when he crossed the road to the corner of Old Bailey that he saw a small red door set back into the wall. It was half the size of any man and the small brass handle would easily fit into the hand of a child. Anyone passing at walking pace in the light of day could easily miss it. Only at night, when there were no distractions, could it really be seen.

  Jago looked back down the road from where he had come. He was still alone. Stooping down, he read the small brass plaque that gave the name of the business that lay within: BANCO PERAZZI – OPENING HOURS BY ARRANGEMENT – PLEASE KNOCK.

  [ 10 ]

  Fredrico Lucca

  THE SKY DARKENED over Ludgate Hill as thick black clouds billowed in from the flatlands of Gravesend. As Jago stood outside Banco Perazzi the first drops of ice-cold rain fell to the dirty pavements. The iron gutters began to gurgle as the water oozed from the high roof of the bank. From St Clement’s he heard the chiming of the clock and, escaping from the storm, he hid in the broken-down doorway of a tobacconist’s opposite the bank.

  The rain beat down in rods and bounced on the stones of the empty street. It brought with it a smell of sweet, sickly treacle as it washed the grime of a thousand footsteps and grubby lives into the sewers. It pounded hard, each drop bouncing up when it struck the road. Jago covered himself in old newspapers that had been piled in the corner of the doorway. As the raindrops fell he edged deeper and deeper into the shadows, feeling ever more alone.

  Looking out, unable to sleep, he saw a solitary figure. It kept close to the buildings of Old Bailey. As it drew closer, Jago could see that it was a man. He carried a raven-black umbrella edged with twisted tassels like the trimmings on a funeral horse. The man walked with an uneven gait, as if he had carried a limp from birth. Every third step he would lift the umbrella to see the way ahead. Jago could make out a small grey beard, a black hat and round glasses. The man looked across at him and smiled. He nodded, shook his umbrella and then looked up to the sky.

  Approaching the door to the bank, the man hesitated and again looked at Jago, as if he was making sure he hadn’t moved. Then, propping the umbrella against the wall, he slipped a key from his pocket, opened the small door of the bank and quickly slipped inside. For an instant, Jago wondered if he had dreamt seeing the man. Then, shaking the papers from him, he got to his feet.

  Old Bailey was still empty and Ludgate Hill ran like a small river as the storm water bubbled from the drains and washed out the rats. Jago ran across the road and knocked on the door of the bank. Almost instantly, a small grille opened in the door. A man peered out in such a way that only his eyes could be seen.

  ‘Yes?’ he asked as if it was quite usual to have callers at this time of day.

  ‘Is this the Bank Perazzi?’ Jago asked.

  ‘What does the sign say?’ the man asked.

  ‘Banco Perazzi,’ Jago answered as he looked at the sign and the carved wolf head beneath.

  ‘Then it must be,’ the man answered coyly, as if he were enjoying the conversation. With that he slid the grille shut. Jago knocked again. ‘Yes?’ asked the man.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Jago asked.

  The eyes looked him up and down as far as they could and then stared at his face.

  ‘Why should you want to come in here? This is not a lodging house for waifs and strays. Nor is it a prison for the world’s criminals. This is a bank.’

  ‘It’s my family bank,’ Jago answered.

  The man sighed in disbelief. ‘Then if it is your family bank you will have a key to the vault and as you should know the key must be kept with you at all times … Do you have such a key?’ the man asked, believing his words to be futile.

  Jago undid the collar of his shirt and pulled the thin cord that hung around his neck. The brass key dropped into his hand. He held it for the man to see.

  ‘I was given this key by my brother,’ Jago answered, not knowing how else to describe Hugh Morgan.

  The man looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Does the brother have a name?’ he enquired civilly.

  ‘Hugh Morgan,’ Jago answered as he felt the water soak in through the sodden leather of his shoes.

  The grille on the door slammed shut. Jago heard several locks turn and bolts slam. A chain slipped from the door and an iron bar scraped across the inside of the wood. Then he heard the sound of what he thought was a large stone being pushed out of the way.

  Slowly, carefully, the door opened. Jago could smell the scent of lavender. It billowed through the small entrance as if it were a summer’s day.

  ‘And you are?’ the man asked as he waved Jago inside.

  ‘Jago Morgan,’ he answered as he stooped through the tiny doorframe into the lobby of the bank. Jago had never seen a room like this before. The walls were clad with yellow wood inlaid with silver. The floor was made of white marble marked out with lines of jet in the shape of a five-pointed star. In the corner was an electric fire that glowed warmly. It was more like the entrance to an Italian villa than an old bank.

  ‘I have known Ezra Morgan for many, many years and didn’t know he had a son called Jago,’ the man said.

  ‘I didn’t know myself until the start of the war,’ Jago answered. He realised this was the same man who had walked down the street with the umbrella. ‘It came as quite a surprise.’

  ‘It is strange that you should hide in the doorway of a bombed-out shop when you come from such a prestigious family,’ the man said. ‘How is Eagle Moor?’

  ‘I don’t know that place. We live at Hawks Moor, south of Whitby,’ Jago answered.

  ‘So you do,’ the man answered as he stroked his beard, obviously wondering what to do with the boy. ‘I am Fredrico Lucca. I am the manager of the Banco Perazzi. In fact, I am the only employee. We have such a limited number of customers that I can do the job alone. Did you know this is a special bank?’

  ‘Hugh told me that I should come here when I was in London,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Then I shall take care of you,’ the man said. His eyes widened warmly and his face broke into a smile. ‘You look wet and hungry. Before we do business I shall take care of those things for you.’ He beckoned Jago to follow. They walked from the lobby along a wide corridor that seemed to go on for ever to a door made of solid teak inlaid with red beading. ‘This is my sitting room. Not every customer gets to see this place,’ he laughed.

  Lucca opened the heavy door and pushed against the wood. It moved slowly as it opened wide. Jago gasped.

  ‘Bloody beautiful,’ he said out loud as his thoughts escaped through his mouth.

  ‘Indeed,’ Lucca answered proudly. ‘Even I think it is beautiful.’

  Jago looked around him. The room was vast. It was as high as it was long. The walls were covered in gold leaf and stretched up to a cornice of marble, carved with the faces of angels. Hanging from the ceiling was a gigantic chandelier that glistened and shone in the electric light. Such was the glow that the room appeared to be without shadow. By the white, rococo fireplace was a gold-framed sofa covered in red velvet.

  ‘I will ge
t you a chair,’ Lucca said, and he lifted a plain dining chair from behind the door and placed it opposite the sofa.

  ‘Do you live here?’ Jago asked, in awe of his surroundings.

  ‘Occasionally,’ Lucca answered. ‘Sometimes I find it overpowering … Would you like a drink?’

  Jago nodded as Lucca scurried from the room, the limp now vanished. Soon he returned carrying a silver tray. Placing it on the small table next to Jago, he poured a glass of wine from a tall decanter.

  ‘I don’t like to –’ Jago muttered, not wanting to be impolite.

  ‘This isn’t wine, Jago. You need something more than that. I take it from the look in your eyes that you have not eaten for some time?’ Jago looked to the floor, not knowing what to say. ‘I can see you are a Vampyre, Jago. You are in good company.’

  Jago took the glass warily. He sniffed the rim. It was blood.

  ‘How did you know I was hungry?’ he asked.

  ‘I could hear your stomach rumbling when we were at the door. When I saw you in the street I had an inkling that you were waiting for me but I could not be sure. From the state of your clothes I would say that you have been travelling for some time, and … you have the scent of human blood on your coat.’

  ‘Am I like a book for everyone to read?’ Jago asked. He sipped from the glass and felt the blood trickle like nectar down the back of his throat.

  ‘If you have lived as long as I have then you can see a great many things,’ Lucca said as Jago stared at the two creatures that had appeared on the back of the sofa behind the man. Lucca laughed as he noticed Jago glaring at him. ‘Meet Marco and Carlo … my ancient mucaca fuscata – snow monkeys. Marco is the one with the black mane.’

  Jago had never seen such beasts before. They sat on the back of the velvet sofa like a pair of disgruntled old men angry at life. Their beards trailed over their sour faces and with every twitch of their flat noses they would curl back their lips to bare their dirty brown teeth.

  ‘Monkeys?’ Jago replied, his word as puzzled as the look on his face.

  ‘I once lived in Florence and supplied money to Yan de Blannen. He gave the creatures to me as a gift and a reminder never to lend money to a blind warrior.’ Lucca smirked as if he remembered pleasant times. ‘That was in August 1346.’

  ‘That was six hundred years ago,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Is it that long? How time flies.’ Lucca turned to the monkeys. ‘Did you hear what young Jago said? You are six hundred years old.’

  ‘How have they lived so long?’ Jago asked as Marco slid from the back of the sofa to sit cross-legged next to his master.

  ‘They are like you and me. I fell in love with them and they have been such good company that I decided to see if the venom could prolong their lives. I decided it had worked when they had outlived my first companion. I am sure that they understand every word I say.’ Marco shivered agreeably as he held on to Lucca’s arm and picked through his grey beard with fine claws. Carlo sat on the back of the sofa and glared at Jago as if he were an unwelcome guest.

  For three hours, Lucca told him of his life in Florence and his travels through Europe and the history of the Banco Perazzi. Jago listened as he sipped from the glass and grew stronger. Soon, the first glimpse of morning etched the corners of the damask curtains that covered the windows. ‘And that is how I came to be here and how our lives have crossed.’

  Jago sighed, finally feeling dry, full and content. The two macaque monkeys had curled up beside Lucca and appeared to be fast asleep.

  ‘What do they eat?’ Jago enquired.

  ‘Blood, human blood … They guard the bank when I am away. No one in their right mind would ever dare to break in. Whilst the war was on I had an endless supply, but now I don’t know what I will do.’ Lucca suddenly looked at his watch. ‘Marco, Carlo … it is time to show this young man the vault.’

  Jago remembered why he was there. He pulled the cord and held the key in his hand as if it were a golden ticket.

  ‘I would like to see what is in the account,’ Jago asked.

  ‘Then I will have to check the ledger. Marco and Carlo will take you to the vault and show you the box. All you have to do is tell them the number on the key.’

  Jago had not seen a number. He examined the key until he found the minute etching on the stem.

  ‘Number eleven,’ he answered.

  ‘Saint Augustine said that eleven was the blazon of sin. It is a symbol of rebellion – well, that is if you believe in numbers,’ Lucca joked. ‘Take Jago to the vault and find the casket of eleven. I will look in the ledger and discover your wealth.’

  With that, Lucca got up from the sofa and walked ably from the room.

  The macaques held each other as they looked at Jago and then Marco, the larger of the two, jumped to the floor and coughed. Carlo slinked behind him as if it was all too much trouble and that the young man in their midst was an irrelevant inconvenience.

  Jago followed the beasts back down the corridor. Marco grappled with the handle of a large door as Carlo pulled against it. The door opened to reveal a metal staircase that dropped to a floor below. The monkeys slid down the banister, hanging from the stairs and dropping to the floor. Jago trod each metal step warily. Soon he was in the basement of the bank.

  It was a cold room, dark and foreboding. The walls were filled with racks and each rack was filled with wooden caskets. It was smaller than the lobby and yet it echoed like a cavern. Tessellated into the tiled floor was the head of a bull. Jago knew this sign from the room where Medea had taken his blood.

  Carlo climbed a wall as if it were a tree; he reached for a box and with considerable strength pulled it from the wall. He dragged it across the floor and placed it roughly on a long table in the middle of the room.

  Marco held out his hand to Jago and chattered wildly. Then, before he could do anything the monkey jumped, snatching the key from around his neck. He ran to the table, slipped the key in the lock and opened the box. As if he had completed a circus trick, Marco somersaulted backwards, clapping ferociously as he landed on his feet.

  Carlo sat in the corner of the room and picked his nose as he watched every move Jago made.

  ‘I suppose you two would like to see what is in the box?’ Jago asked the mute twins. ‘Then again, you most probably already know.’

  Carlo bared his teeth and squawked.

  ‘We try to keep the contents of each box a secret, Jago,’ Lucca said as he came down the steps behind him. ‘It is a party trick that my two companions know the numbers of the boxes. Since the end of the war, many of them will remain locked for ever. There are not many of us left and I fear for the future.’

  ‘I have been told there are only five hundred in the entire world,’ Jago answered, wanting to look into the box alone.

  ‘And yet, there is good news. Since the death of Ezra Morgan, nine million pounds has been paid into his account. That makes a total you share with Hugh of thirty one million, eight hundred and seventy thousand, four hundred and forty-three pounds, ten shillings and nine pence halfpenny,’ Lucca said in one breath. ‘You are a very wealthy lad. All I need is a signature from your brother and you can take your money.’

  ‘Hugh has gone away,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Then the money has to remain in the bank,’ Lucca insisted, his tone harsher.

  ‘I need a million pounds to pay off a debt that Ezra Morgan refused to pay,’ Jago said.

  The macaques bristled excitedly, jumped on the table and looked in the box.

  ‘You can have whatever is in the box because you have the key. What is in your account must stay there, debt or not,’ Lucca answered apologetically. He took out a pair of gold spectacles from his pocket and hung them on the bridge of his long nose. ‘If it is another Vampyre, I can arbitrate in the debt and assure them the money will be paid.’

  ‘It is not one of us,’ Jago murmured. ‘It is a man called Heston Walpurgis.’

  At the mention of the name, Marco l
eapt from the table and snarled at Jago. His brother stood his ground, teeth bared and ready to strike.

  ‘Not a name to mention in this place, Jago. That man has caused much trouble in my world. I advised Ezra not to work with him. He is a charlatan and a fraud. Much of what he sells is just worthless junk.’

  ‘He said he will kill Hugh if the money is not paid,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Ah, the flecks of blood on your jacket – who do they belong to?’ Lucca asked.

  ‘Walpurgis. At the Hotel Julius.’

  ‘I thought so. Is he still alive?’

  ‘I only injured him,’ Jago replied, knowing he had said too much.

  ‘Then like any wounded animal he is even more dangerous.’ Lucca clicked his fingers and silenced the gibbering and barking of the macaques. ‘Marco, Carlo, we will leave this man to see the box alone. It’s not for us.’

  Lucca clicked his fingers and climbed back up the spiral staircase. The beasts followed, getting to the top before him and swinging on the bars until he called for them to stop.

  Jago was alone. He moved the table candles closer to the box and then looked inside. Wrapped in a silk cloth was a gold case. The cover sprang back as he opened the case quickly. There in the lid was a picture of his mother. It was taken at Tower Bridge by the river. She held a small child in her arms and smiled at the camera as if she was in love.

  In the box were ten gold coins. Next to them were two envelopes, one written out to him and the other to Hugh. Jago took the letter addressed to himself and opened it. Inside was another key. It was the size of his finger, with two small prongs at each end. Attached to the key was a small tag on which was written: Banco Perazzi – Number Seven.

  Jago searched the walls and found the box. He placed it on the table and used the key. The lid opened easily and he looked inside. There, wrapped in newspaper was the handle of an old knife. It was gold, encrusted with jewels, and fitted snugly into his palm. Jago held the knife handle in his hand. As he squeezed it the handle seemed to cling to him as if they were one. Suddenly a blade shot from within. It was silver and sharp as a stiletto. Inscribed on the blade was a name: ERASMUS STRACKAN.