The Beckett Vampire Trilogy: Midnight Wine, Lycan and Sanctuary

by Jan McDonald

  Leaving Larissa, he’d chosen to take the Sikouri road. Her heart sank. He was determined to expose her peasant roots. Damn him, she suspected that he was taking pleasure from her discomfort.

  Several lifts and a local boneshaker bus brought them to Parthavos, as near as they could get to Kastanavos, which still left them with a hot and dusty walk. After about an hour Greg threw down his backpack, opened the front and took out the bottle of retsina they’d bought in Larissa. He drank deeply from the bottle and the bitter wine caught in his throat.

  “Can’t be far now. What’s that place over there?” he rasped.

  Kat followed his fingertip. She shrugged, “Don’t know. A church maybe or a monastery? I think I can make out a cross on the roof.”

  “Want to take a look?”

  Any delay would be welcome. “Yes, why not?”

  Straight ahead through an olive grove was the most direct route. They kept to the edge of the trees and reached the white painted building quickly. It was a monastery as she’d suspected. Maybe, if it were an open order, they’d be invited in and made welcome, perhaps given refreshments or at the very least, fresh water.

  At the front gate a sign announced that it was the monastery of Agios Georgios. Kat shivered. The cold dread she’d felt the night before returned. It wasn’t logical or rational, but the feeling of a thousand spiders crawling up her spine held its own message.

  “Greg, I don’t think we should. Come on let’s get on to Kastanavos.”

  “You didn’t even want to go there yesterday. What’s with you? You pre-menstrual or something?”

  She wanted to hit him. It was a cheap and nasty remark and she didn’t intend to forgive him easily.

  “Greg, don’t. I can’t explain it. I just don’t want to go in there. Okay?”

  “Please your damn self. I’m going in.” He pulled the bell and turned away from her. His expression said, God preserve me from temperamental women.

  After what seemed like an age they heard a shuffle on the other side of the gate. The bolt on the other side slid back with a harsh grating sound, and without the imagined creaking and groaning that had taken form in Kat’s mind, the gate opened. She shook herself. Stupid. What the hell was the matter with her?

  A diminutive nun squinted at them through bottle bottom spectacles; the only expression on her face was a faint air of puzzlement.

  “Kalimera,” she said. Good morning.

  Greg was at his most suave. “Kalimera.” Radiant smile, beautiful teeth. “Meelateh angleeka?” Do you speak English?

  The nun shook her head, but her face came alive. The Randall charm.

  She smiled at them and stood back from the gate indicating that they should go in. Once inside the gate, she closed it behind them, pushing back the heavy rusted bolt with its accompanying grating noise. Kat shuddered again. The tiny nun held up a hand motioning them to wait there in the courtyard. She shuffled away again and disappeared into the dark shadows of the monastery.

  They stood in silence while they waited.

  Eventually a young woman wearing simple clothing emerged from the dim interior of the monastery. She nodded at them. “I am to take you to Sister Angelique. Come, please.”

  Greg strode forward; his powerful tanned frame dwarfed her. The young girl backed away from him.

  Never mind Greg, can’t charm them all. Most, but not all. Kat held out her hand to the girl, “I’m Kat,” she said, “What’s your name?”

  The girl flushed, “Anna. Come with me please.” She kept her head down and quickened her pace, obviously reluctant to engage in conversation. She was either very shy or her English was no more than basic.

  After the heat of the day the cool interior was welcome although it took several minutes for their eyes to become accustomed to the gloom after the glare of the Greek summer sun. They came into a large square hallway with white walls everywhere and exquisite tiling on the floor. There were several doors leading from it, each bearing a wooden crucifix. Anna knocked at one of the doors and entered on hearing the muffled response from inside. “Come,” she said to them.

  They were greeted by a regal woman in middle age, wearing darker robes than the other nuns that they had seen moving silently through the corridors. She appraised them through her wire framed glasses before speaking in excellent English. She did not offer her hand in greeting.

  “Good morning. I am Sister Angelique. Forgive us, but we are ill prepared for visitors. Ours is a semi-closed order and we usually only open our doors on the feast of our Saint when local people come to pay him their respects. How can we help you? Are you lost? Or merely seeking refreshment?”

  The Randall charm oozed again. He began speaking to her in Greek, determined to make his impression. Sister Angelique’s expression didn’t soften and she held up a hand to stop Greg speaking.

  “Almost all of us here speak English and I was educated in Oxford, so please, continue in your native tongue.”

  Greg blushed at the rebuke and the veiled suggestion that his Greek was lousy. Kat allowed herself the ghost of a smile.

  “Thank you, Sister. I’m Greg Randall and this is my friend Katerini. We are heading for Kastanavos and we saw your monastery. Forgive us but we simply wanted to take a closer look. Although some refreshment would be very welcome. We will pay of course.”

  Sister Angelique smiled at Kat. She could feel the woman’s eyes turning her soul inside out. The smile faded as she looked back at Greg. Randall strikes two.

  “That will not be necessary, Mr Randall. We are not a wealthy order, but I believe our hospitality can withstand the strain of two extra meals. They will be, however, very basic. Some bread, cheese and fruit and some wine from our own vineyard.” She paused. “Kastanavos, you say? You will find precious little there. Perhaps you would find Parditsa more to your liking. There are at least two decent hotels, both of which serve excellent food and wine. Perhaps you wish to refresh yourselves? Anna will show you where to go.”

  They were effectively dismissed as Anna came back into the room bang on cue. The two women spoke briefly in Greek and in lowered tones. Anna made for the door, “Come, please.”

  They left Greg in a small room with an adjacent bathroom. Kat put a hand on Anna’s arm. “Where are we going? I can manage in here, with Greg.”

  The girl shook her head. “No,” was all she said.

  Kat blushed. She hadn’t spared a thought for their strict morale codes, and whilst she wasn’t happy with Greg, his company was preferable to being alone in a strange room in the monastery with its strange forbidding atmosphere. She felt foolish.

  Anna stopped outside another small wooden door bearing the inevitable wooden crucifix. She opened it and stepped aside.

  “I wait for you. Out here.” Anna nodded at her.

  Kat entered the room, closed the door behind her and leaned against it. It felt surprisingly good to be alone after three weeks of Greg's company even if it was in a nun’s cell. There was a small iron framed bed in one corner on top of which was a sheet, one pillow and one neatly folded blanket. A tiny window high in the wall provided the only light in the room. There was a washstand with a towel hanging on a single hook and she presumed the tiny door at its side led into a toilet. She decided against investigating.

  “It’s like a jail cell,” she thought aloud. Instantly the image took hold of her imagination and she remembered her earlier indistinct fears. She threw herself at the door to the corridor and yanked at it, her heart banging against her ribs. It opened easily, almost sending her down onto the floor and she laughed at the thoughts that had pinched at her mind’s eye.

  Anna stood sentry duty, looking at her strangely.

  “Go,” whispered Anna. “Go quickly.”

  “What? I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  Anna bowed her head. “I said nothing,” she replied.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Anna had collected them in silence and returned them to the public areas of the monastery sh
owing them into a small room with a table laid for two. True to her promise, Sister Angelique had provided them with a modest meal that was both filling and tasty. Kat thought the wine to be the best she’d tasted since she arrived in Greece.

  Greg did most of the talking as usual, while she listened yet again to his family history. It seemed there were vineyards in the South of France, owned though never visited. The wine they produced was, he said, far superior to what he described as the soured grape juice that they were drinking. Kat was becoming increasingly alienated from him. She’d see the trip through, not caring for the idea of making it back to the airport alone, and once safely back home she’d end their relationship. She was sure he would be relieved and wondered if in fact she would be able to get in first. Not love after all.

  She had been buried in these thoughts when she realised that Greg had fallen silent. His face was pale and he was perspiring heavily.

  “Greg? What’s the matter? You look awful.”

  “Stomach cramps. I need to lie down,” he muttered.

  She ran to the door and wrenched it open, to find Anna stationed outside in the corridor.

  It took less than half an hour for the stomach cramps to fulfil their potential into a full-blown throwing up session. Anna, under the direction of Sister Angelique, had whisked Greg away to their infirmary. Kat smiled inwardly. The Randall charm was somewhat diminished whilst vomiting.

  It was quickly established that Greg would live, his illness probably due to an excess of retsina in the heat, and Sister Angelique had offered them beds for the night. Greg had wanted to press on to Kastanavos, but his bravado hadn’t stood the test of standing upright.

  Kat was relieved when he drifted into a fitful sleep. Anna, ever close by, touched her arm. “You come,” she said. “I am to take you to the chapel.”

  She tried to explain to the girl that she wasn’t Roman Catholic but her protests went unheeded. She decided it was easier to go along with it.

  The chapel stood amid the small complex of corridors and rooms surrounding the courtyard, its huge Gothic door slightly ajar. Kat could smell the incense from outside. She turned to Anna seeking reassurance that she should enter. Anna had gone.

  She pushed the heavy door open and sunlight streamed inside, immediately reflected back at her as bright beams of light thrown off the interior of the chapel. Once inside she could see the reason for this. Everywhere was the cool gleam of silver. Huge candelabra, incense burners, wall panels, even the altar – everything silver. There was something nagging at the back of her mind, something wasn’t quite right, not as she expected. It had something to do with the silver but she couldn’t think what.

  As her eyes accustomed to the interior, she was drawn to what appeared to be a massive shrine or tomb. That too was made of silver; ornately moulded, solid silver. It must have weighed tons. One of the side panels appeared to be hinged. Her eyes followed the line of the panel to the opposite edge. All along the top of the panel was a line of silver padlocks. Whatever was inside must be extremely valuable – some ancient icon possibly. The Catholic Church was famously wealthy and had massive stores of gold and silver. This was probably such a store.

  And there it was; the nebulous something that had bothered her about the silver. Every church that she had seen had been decorated in gold or brass. Not silver.

  She shivered involuntarily and turned to leave when she heard her name whispered from inside the chapel.

  “Katerini… Katerini… Katerini.”

  “Hello? Anna? Is that you?”

  A movement at the rear of the chapel made her start.

  Two nuns stepped out of the shadows. One was very young, a novice – no more than a girl of about sixteen, she thought. The other looked so old that she was ageless. The stark contrast in the two was stunning.

  The young nun was beautiful, with wide eyes the colour of cornflowers, and her face, austerely framed in her wimple, held peace in its every pore. Her wide eyes proclaimed innocence and she exuded calmness and serenity.

  Like the Madonna, Kat thought.

  The elderly nun had her own grace, her face was like ancient leather and her dark eyes held the wisdom of centuries.

  “I am Sister Agnes. You have come to see our Saint?” she asked Kat. “It is not the feast day, but Sister Angelique has told me that you may see him if you wish it.”

  “Your saint? How do you mean, see him?” An uncomfortable wriggling made itself known deep in her stomach.

  The young nun had bowed her head and did not lift her gaze from the chapel floor.

  Sister Agnes moved towards the silver shrine. “Our Saint, Agios Georgios, he is resting here. He was such a pure man, a holy man, that death has not contaminated his remains. He has lain in death for centuries and his body has not decayed. It is a miracle. His goodness was such that his body has survived death and decomposition. The people of the local villages come here on his feast day to pay respect to him. I have been given permission to allow you to see him. You are truly honoured; Sister Angelique has never before allowed this.” Her words were clipped and her voice reflected the stern expression on her ancient face.

  Kat noticed then that the old nun held a huge bunch of silver keys. They hung from a belt around her habit, alongside a silver cross. She had no inclination to view a five-hundred-year-old corpse, saintly or not, but she was afraid that to decline would cause offence. Good one Greg. Got out of this nicely. She breathed in hard.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “Katerini.” The whispering came again. “Katerini.”

  Kat swung round, expecting to see Greg on his feet again but there was no-one else in the chapel besides her and the two nuns. She shivered again, unnerved by the whisper.

  On the wall behind the huge silver shrine was a massive tapestry depicting a deathbed scene. The central figure was obviously dying painfully whilst around him stood nuns and priests praying for his immortal soul. Cheery, she thought.

  Sister Agnes was at the shrine.

  No! Don’t! she wanted to shout, but the words died on her lips.

  Kat looked around her, hoping for inspiration or distraction but the cold reflections of the silver were everywhere, giving her no comfort or escape. She looked up at the ceiling and even there the paintings were all edged in silver. She shivered.

  The young nun had remained motionless, looking more like a waxwork now than a living, breathing and very beautiful young woman. Sister Agnes was unlocking the padlocks along the top edge of the shrine.

  What will he look like? Probably like Sister Agnes; she looks like she’s been around a few centuries. She giggled at the thought and instantly felt better. She’d look at the dead guy – how bad could it be? Then she’d make the appropriate noises and tactfully leave, putting some drachmas in the offertory plate on the way out. She hoped he wouldn’t smell.

  The side of the shrine fell forwards to the clattering of the loosened locks. Old she may be, thought Kat, but Sister Agnes had hidden strength to guide the silver panel down. Must have biceps like a buffalo under that habit.

  Kat was relieved that there was no unpleasant odour escaping the confines of what was, after all, a coffin.

  It wasn’t so bad and, as she approached the tomb, she could see that its occupant had the appearance of someone in a deep sleep. No grinning skull gaped out at her, no mummy with leather-like skin pulled taut over cadaverous cheek bones. Fascinating. Dead for hundreds of years and not decomposed. Atmospherics, maybe? A brilliant mortician born before his time? Something had preserved the body, though she doubted it was anything to do with saintliness. The old guy was probably only made a saint when someone found out he wasn’t doing the graveyard rot, although why they would dig him up in the first place to discover that didn’t bear too much thinking about.

  Sister Agnes had moved away to stand at the side of the young nun who still had her head bowed to the floor.

  Kat stepped up closer to the shrine.

  Agios G
eorgios was Greek for Saint George. Saint George and the Dragon, she glanced at Sister Agnes. She giggled again then bit her lip; she was determined not to offend.

  His silky hair was long and grey and beautifully arranged over his shoulders and his face looked peaceful in death, almost restful. She expected him to yawn and stretch and sit up and only just stifled the rising scream in her throat.

  Don’t start thinking things like that. You’ll be seeing Dracula next.

  She was very close to him now, could reach out and touch him. Touch the silky grey hair that shone like the silver that encased him, touch the soft preserved flesh of his face. Stroke it. Kiss it. There was an uninvited fluttering in the depth of her pelvis.

  He’d been laid to rest in a black brocade frock coat and black leather boots. He’d have turned heads in his time. In anyone’s time, she thought.

  His hands were bony and sinewy in death and the ring on his right third finger hung loose. It was the only gold object in the chapel. Old gold, with a crest, a phoenix, she thought. But those hands would have been different in life. Long elegant fingers that would stroke her face tenderly yet could be strong with desire. She could feel them on her body, stroking, exploring, searching, and demanding.

  A shiver ran through her that owed nothing to fear, it was the thrill she felt when Greg …

  With a start, she realised that her face was almost resting on his and she could feel the soft tingle on her lips from where she knew she had kissed him. She recoiled as though scalded and as she did so she realised that her shirt had come unbuttoned and her breast was exposed. Her pulse was racing and her mouth was dry. Her throat constricted over the scream that threatened to choke her. She had to get out of there before she fainted. The horror of what she’d just felt overpowered her.

  My God, I just got turned on by a dead guy. How sick is that?

  She clutched the edges of her shirt closed and hurried to the door. There was a hand on her arm and she couldn’t prevent the tiny scream that strangled itself at birth. He couldn’t have …