Vampyre Labyrinth

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘I think you are lying to me,’ Jago said, determined to find the truth as Malmquist led him deeper into the crypt.

  ‘Sadly it is the truth. I am the Vampyre child of the oldest Vampyre ever. It was our father who created the Sinan and gave it to the world. In the beginning it was him alone.’ Malmquist smiled as he waved with his hand for Jago to follow. ‘Now he is nearly dead, and not even your blood can revive him.’

  ‘Is he here?’ Jago asked as Malmquist led him towards a large stone sarcophagus in the far corner.

  ‘That is the place of the king,’ Malmquist said. He pointed to the stone tomb. ‘He does not have much breath left for us. But perhaps he will know you are here. When he is dead, I will take his place and you will bow to me.’

  Jago laughed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said softly under his breath.

  Malmquist slid the cantilevered lid from the sarcophagus.

  ‘Son – behold your father. Father – behold your son …’

  Jago stood next to the tomb and looked inside. There, wrapped in a silk robe with only his face exposed, was a young man. He looked just like Malmquist – the eyes, the face, were just the same.

  ‘He is different from the last time I saw him,’ Jago said.

  ‘The disease has almost left him. When he is dead he will look just like the day he entered our world.’ Malmquist reached in and stroked the face of Strackan. ‘I brought him here. It was a special place. I remember the day he was made Emperor of Rome. It was in this very chamber. I had pretended to be his father and he my son. We had done that for generations and in many lands. The Romans were easily fooled. We would fake our deaths and then appear fifty years later and start again. Ridiculous, really, and it became quite tiresome.’

  ‘You have lived all those years and find life tiresome?’ Jago asked.

  ‘I speak seventy languages, have kissed the most beautiful women in the world, have ruled nations and amassed great wealth. And yet life can become boring and tedious,’ Malmquist snapped, growing tired of his brother.

  ‘If he was the first Vampyre, what came before him?’ Jago asked as he sensed a change in Malmquist.

  ‘Before him there was only the demon. It was cast down from the highest place after it had battled with angels. It came to this world and found our father. At that time he was a King in Babylon. The demon offered him wealth and he took all that he could. That was at the dawn of time, and now look at him.’ Malmquist poked Strackan in the chest. ‘He isn’t even strong enough to live his life through a Lystrigon, and all thanks to Jago Harker.’

  ‘I didn’t ask for this life,’ Jago answered.

  Malmquist laughed.

  ‘It was here where you were brought to life. I watched from the shadows. He brought your mother here. She thought it was her lover Hugh Morgan when all along it was my father.’ Malmquist sniggered as he watched Jago bristle with anger. ‘I need the diamond. Are you going to give it to me – or shall I prise it from your cold, dead fingers?’

  ‘Cold? Dead?’ Jago asked, his voice sarcastic. ‘Which comes first?’

  ‘Don’t make me kill you, Jago. This is no place to spill Vampyre blood.’

  Suddenly, Jago lashed out with the torch, smashing Malmquist across the face. Then as the man staggered, blood spurting from his lip, Jago snatched the key to the door from his hand and ran.

  ‘Don’t think I won’t kill you,’ Malmquist shouted as several drops of blood fell into the sarcophagus.

  In thirty quick strides, Jago was at the door. He fumbled with the key in the lock. His hand trembled as he tried to slip the iron rod from its keeper. A hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him from the door just as he turned the key.

  ‘Get away from me,’ Jago screamed as Malmquist tore at his clothes like a mad animal.

  ‘Give me the diamond!’ Malmquist shouted, tearing the sleeve from Jago’s coat.

  Turning quickly, Jago reached inside his pocket and pulled out the silver knife that Henson had insisted he take with him. Seeing the blade, Malmquist jumped back.

  ‘Stay away from me, Malmquist,’ Jago ordered as he flashed the blade back and forth.

  Then a kick in the chest knocked Jago against the wall. He dropped the knife and gasped for breath.

  ‘This isn’t a game,’ Malmquist insisted. He kicked him again and Jago slumped to the ground.

  Malmquist stepped forward and rummaged in the pockets of Jago’s coat. His hand gripped the diamond.

  ‘It is not yours to have,’ Jago said wearily as he tried to find the energy to breathe.

  ‘If only you had been different, I had much that I wanted to tell you,’ Malmquist shouted, blood pouring from his face. ‘But you are a fool, Harker, a stupid fool …’

  Malmquist grabbed Jago by the throat and lifted him from the ground with one hand as he held the diamond to his face. Jago was held against a column of the crypt, his feet dangling in the air.

  ‘Leave me, take the diamond,’ he croaked as he tried to wrench the hand from him.

  ‘Too late, Harker. I have the diamond and now I will have your life.’ The vault echoed with Malmquist’s voice. He tightened the grip of his hand. Jago gulped a last gasp of air as the world clouded and he slipped away.

  ‘NO!’ shouted a voice from the darkness.

  Malmquist dropped Jago to the floor and turned in horror. There, staggering towards him through the murk, was Strackan. The man could barely walk. He held out his hand towards them.

  ‘Strackan!’ Jago muttered as he gulped the air in mouthfuls.

  ‘Your father – both of you. Stop what you are doing,’ Strackan commanded, his voice frail and weak.

  ‘It can’t be – you were dying,’ Malmquist raged. ‘When will it be my time?’

  He bent and picked up the knife from the floor and walked towards Strackan, holding out his arms as if to embrace him. Jago looked on.

  ‘It was your blood. I could taste it,’ Strackan said. ‘I knew you were both near to me – I could hear you.’

  Malmquist came nearer his father with his arms outstretched.

  ‘The last time we were here …’ Malmquist said as he embraced Strackan. ‘The last time …’

  Without warning, he plunged the dagger into his back. Strackan screamed and fell to his knees.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, palms outstretched.

  ‘You thought you were the power when all along it was me. You played games with four fools for hundreds of years whilst others plotted to destroy you. And then – and then you were no longer satisfied with me and had another son.’ Malmquist pointed to Jago. ‘Look at that snivelling, weak, pathetic boy. That is what you created. Could he have done all that we did? Could he have changed the world? Could he have started wars, changed nations, discovered new lands?’

  ‘At least he wasn’t born from the belly of a pig.’ Strackan laughed as he fell back to the floor. His hand reached out towards Malmquist.

  ‘You are not fit to live,’ Malmquist said as he put the heel of his boot to Strackan’s throat and pushed as hard as he could. ‘I told Ozymandias to start the war and at the same time fed Morgan with lies. It was me all along, and you thought your subjects were just restless.’

  ‘Come with me … Come with me now … Do it, Jago, just do it!’ Strackan roared.

  Malmquist saw the reflection in the eyes of Strackan. In an instant, the axe had come down as fast as Jago could swing the stock. It sliced through the velvet jacket. Malmquist shuddered as the blade broke through his ribs. Jago pulled it from his flesh. He raised it high above him and then crashed it down again.

  Malmquist dropped to his knees. His head rolled across the dirt-stained floor and stopped at the wall. The diamond fell from his dead hand and landed near to Strackan.

  Jago stood with the axe in his hands and looked at his father.

  ‘Is this what you wanted?’ he asked the dying Vampyre. ‘Do you want me to kill every Vampyre that I meet?’

  ‘You are not one with us, Jago Harker,’ St
rackan wheezed as he drank his own blood that oozed from his mouth. ‘You will never be like us, never in all the years that you shall live. I remember when I first saw you in Whitby. I thought things would be different. I would drink your blood and you would follow me. Instead you tried to kill me.’

  ‘You kept my mother as a brood mare, you had us watched every hour of the day,’ Jago answered as he watched the life ebb from his father.

  ‘That was Trevellas. I bade them leave you to grow on your own. They felt you had to be protected,’ Strackan said slowly.

  ‘You killed Mary Barnes …’

  ‘She is not dead – merely a prisoner,’ he answered.

  ‘Where? Where is she?’ Jago demanded, wanting to know for the sake of Biatra.

  ‘Closer than you would ever imagine and yet far enough away for her never to be found. Your mother was very sweet, she tasted of summer fruits – did you know that, Jago?’ Strackan tormented him as he tried to crawl back to the sarcophagus, floundering for breath.

  ‘Where is she?’ Jago demanded.

  ‘You will never know. I will die and it will not be by your hand. Everything will remain the same. The curse will not be broken.’

  Jago closed his eyes and swung the axe. He felt it drive home and then strike the stone beneath. It sparked against the ground. Strackan cried out and writhed on the stone floor. He reached back, trying to take hold of the axe blade and pull it from him. Jago twisted the handle turning the blade deep within. The Vampyre screamed again. Jago struck him again and again until he screamed no more.

  Strackan was dead. The Oracle diamond was at his fingertips.

  [ 30 ]

  Betty’s Café

  JAGO WALKED BACK to the train station the way he had come. He had waited for three hours before leaving the crypt. He had placed the bodies of Strackan and Malmquist in the stone sarcophagus and slid back the lid over them. Then, locking the door and going back up the stairs, Jago had thrown the key into the gardens, hoping it would not be found.

  His own coat had been torn and covered in blood so he had taken the long hunting jacket that Malmquist had discarded. It fitted well. In the pocket he had slipped the diamond, which he cupped in his hand as he walked along Stonegate.

  It was late in the afternoon. The streets were empty, the fog had long gone and the sun cast cold shadows down to the street. He walked briskly. His thoughts danced like his footsteps on the cobbles. All he wanted was to return to Hawks Moor and tell Henson what had happened. It would be hard to recount, but the urge in his heart was to tell someone what he had done. Toying with the idea of just shouting out that he had killed his father, he felt joy and excitement mixed together, fizzing in his stomach and making him feel sick.

  Jago looked in the shop windows and all he could see was the reflection of Strackan. He was being haunted by the memory of this father, which burnt into his mind with all the terror of a dark night. He could see the eyes of the Vampyre within his own. They were so much alike, and now he was dead there was a growing sense of regret.

  Stopping on the corner of the road, he looked across the square at the brightly lit café that stood on the opposite side. The sun was fading and cast a long shadow from the Mansion House with its walls painted burgundy and white and its black railings. The long shadow of the chimney pointed to the door of the café. Jago felt the banknotes in his pocket. It was two hours until his train and he wanted to do something vaguely human again. If what Malmquist had said was true, then that would soon fade. He had no idea what to expect in the days to come. Something within him wanted to give himself in to the first policeman he saw and confess to the murders – but what would the officer say when he told him he was a Vampyre and had just killed a man who was once the Emperor Constantine?

  He dismissed the thought quickly and walked across the street. There was no queue like the one he had seen that morning. Most of those shoppers had long gone; now the street was an avenue for workers leaving their offices to get the double-decker buses that would take them home.

  As he crossed the square he looked through the large plate-glass windows and picked out a seat inside. He wanted the one by the window with its back against the stone pillar. Malmquist was right: the inside of the café looked just like that of an ocean-going liner. A waitress in a black skirt, a striped blouse and a pinafore looked at him as he walked towards the door. Jago checked his reflection in the glass for some sign of what had happened, but all looked well.

  The waitress continued to stare at him as he got closer. She was pretty and reminded Jago of Biatra – or what he could remember of her. It was as if being in Luna Negri took away the person from the memory of those that had known them. He tried to think of something particular about her, something he could remember.

  As he pushed open the door of the café he was surrounded by sudden warmth. Jago looked around as the girl walked towards him. There was a mirror on the wall with hundreds of names etched into the glass.

  ‘Table?’ she asked politely. She looked him up and down. ‘By the window?’ Jago nodded. ‘A nice coat,’ she said as she smiled. ‘Madame Betty had a friend with a coat just like it.’

  ‘It must be quite popular,’ he answered, not wanting to sound rude. He looked at the pulse of the veins in her neck. ‘The names etched into the mirror – what do they mean?’

  ‘In the war we had a lot of American airmen use the café. Before they went on a mission they would scratch their names on the glass with a diamond pen.’

  Jago looked surprised. ‘The war,’ he muttered knowing it was still recent.

  ‘Hungry?’ she asked as she pulled out a chair from the table by the window, the one that he had thought of sitting at when outside.

  ‘Who is Madame Betty?’ Jago asked as he sat down and slipped the coat off his shoulders and rested it on the back of the chair. It was then he saw the girl look at the cut on the side of his face.

  ‘The owner of the café. She is not here. She’s visiting Harrogate, where we make our own brand of tea.’ The girl spoke as if this were information that Jago would want to know.

  ‘All the people have gone,’ Jago said as he looked to the street.

  ‘They don’t stay long. They still think there is a war. Do you want a drink? We close in an hour,’ she said, wondering if he was just wanting to sit down and stare like so many young men coming back from fighting. ‘Don’t mind if you just want to sit there. I’ll bring you an empty cup and you can pretend – just in case Madame Betty comes back and thinks I’m slacking.’

  ‘I would like coffee. I have a voucher,’ Jago said as he pulled the crumpled voucher from the roll of banknotes in his pocket and handed it to her.

  The girl stood still. Jago saw her hand shudder as her smile changed to a slight frown.

  ‘Not seen one of those before. Madame Betty told me about them. You can have whatever you want for free,’ she said. She tried to calm her breathing and slow her pulsing heart. ‘Coffee? Cake? Sandwich?’ she said quickly, but she left the table without giving him time to reply.

  ‘Yes …’ he said forlornly as she walked to the kitchen.

  Jago saw the girl look back as she got to the door. It was as if she could not be sure of something and wanted to take a second look.

  Outside, an old man swept the street with a brush. He pushed the litter towards a handcart and then scooped it up with his gloved hands. He worked on until every scrap of rubbish was picked from the cobbles. Every now and then he looked at Jago and smiled. Jago gazed into the darkening street and lost track of time. The waitress came back and tapped him on the shoulder as if to remind him where he was.

  ‘Here are cakes and sandwiches, if you want to eat them. I don’t mind if you don’t,’ she smiled. ‘You been at the war?’ she asked.

  ‘You could say that,’ Jago answered. He looked at the neatly cut triangles of bread that oozed cream cheese and cucumber.

  ‘Well, enjoy,’ she said as she turned to go.

  ‘I haven’
t seen cucumber in years – where did you get it?’ he asked.

  ‘Madame Betty grows it at her house. I am only allowed to give it to special guests,’ the girl said innocently. ‘If you don’t like it I could always –’

  The girl stopped speaking as the door opened and a woman stepped into the café. She was wrapped in a fur coat that draped to the floor as if she were shedding her skin. A small velvet hat clung to the side of her head and rippled with glistening diamonds. The woman was fresh-faced with red cheeks and a long, thin neck. Jago looked up, unable to believe his eyes.

  ‘You look as though you have seen a ghost,’ the woman said. ‘I am Madame Betty, the owner of the café – and you are?’ she enquired, as if she had never seen Jago before.

  Jago stared into the face of Lana Karlstein. He trembled as she pulled her fingers from a long silk glove and held out her hand. He was sure it was her; there was no doubt. As she smiled at him his heart raced.

  ‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ he said, his voice shaking as he looked at the waitress. ‘Have we met before?’

  Lana Karlstein smiled at him as she squeezed his fingers.

  ‘I wish we had met so long ago,’ she said as she sat at the table and nodded for the waitress to leave them. ‘I wish I had spent every night in your presence since the beginning of time.’

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ Jago whispered, half under his breath.

  ‘Lana Karlstein died when she fell from that train. It was time for a change. I had been Madame Betty before and just being near to Hawks Moor reminded me of you. I knew you would come back,’ she answered. ‘I take it that Leonhardt and Strackan are dead?’

  Jago nodded and looked at the table.

  ‘Leonhardt was always a strange man. He could never decide if he loved or hated the world. He told me that he had met you on the train and given you the ticket. I prayed that you would come here’