“And they say our God was harsh,” Ben remarked.
“The story continues on the other side,” said Clare, leading them across the nave to another set of windows. “Since water didn’t work, Apollonia’s captors decided to try fire.”
“Wait,” Jane said. “Didn’t the angel take her away?”
“She asked to be returned to them,” Clare answered. “Remember, she was a martyr.”
“Of course,” said Jane. “Go on.”
“As you can see, they threw Apollonia into a pile of burning sticks,” Clare said. “I think the fire is particularly well rendered.”
“The glasswork is gorgeous,” Lucy remarked.
“Apollonia, of course, did not burn,” said Clare as she walked on. “Once again the angel came and saved her, which is what you see in window number six. And now we get to the really good stuff.”
The seventh window depicted Apollonia on the ground. One man held her feet while another held her arms stretched out behind her head. A third man knelt beside her, a spike in his hand. It was pressed to Apollonia’s chest, just over her heart, and the man was in the process of bringing a hammer down toward it.
“This is unusual in the history of the saints,” Clare informed them. “The martyrdom of Apollonia is the only example of a saint being killed in this manner. Supposedly the spike used to pierce her heart was made from the nails that were used to crucify Christ.”
“And what’s happening here?” asked Ben, moving to the eighth and last window as Jane continued to stare at the seventh.
“St. Apollonia redeemed from death,” Clare said. “See how she’s rising toward heaven while her executioners fall to their knees? Allegedly they were so frightened by her ascension that all the blood drained from their bodies.”
Jane turned to Lucy, who had remained with her in front of the seventh window. “Don’t you find this all a bit strange?” she murmured.
“Christianity?” said Lucy. “Of course I do.”
“I mean St. Apollonia specifically,” Jane said. “First there’s the matter of her teeth, which for some reason they felt the need to remove. Then she couldn’t be killed either by water or by fire. And finally they do her in with a spike through the heart, yet she rises from the dead and her killers are drained of their blood. Sound familiar?”
“I admit it’s a bit vampire-esque,” Lucy admitted.
“A bit?” said Jane. “The only thing they’ve left out is her turning into a bat.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t really do that,” Lucy said. “Have you been holding out on me?”
“No,” said Jane. “I can’t. But that’s not the point. The point is that this is clearly some kind of allegory about vampirism.”
Lucy considered this for a moment. “If that’s true, then why didn’t the spike kill her?” she asked.
“Maybe it was Crispin’s Needle,” Jane suggested, keeping her voice low. “The final window shows her with her soul returned to her body.”
“And the dead guys?” Lucy asked. “If she’s not a vampire anymore, who drained them?”
“Good question,” Jane said. “Perhaps God has a more refined sense of humor than we think he does.”
“Too bad we can’t get a look at those teeth Clare mentioned,” said Lucy. “It would be interesting to see if any of them are fangs.”
“It certainly explains why the Tedious Three would have spent time here,” Jane said. “If this story is true, it would definitely qualify as vampire history.”
“The who?” Lucy asked.
“Oh, I haven’t told you about them yet,” said Jane. “Vampire historians, apparently. Joshua told me about them this morning.”
“You saw Joshua again?” Lucy said.
“Not so much saw as was visited by,” Jane explained. “A bit like the Ghost of Christmas Annoying. But he did say that the Three have been looking for the Needle for some time.”
“So you think the Needle really does exist, then?”
Jane sighed. “I don’t know,” she said.
“But you want it to, don’t you?” said Lucy.
“It would make things easier,” Jane said.
Lucy shrugged. “You’d be human again,” she said. “Not that you’re inhuman or anything,” she added quickly.
“I know what you meant,” Jane said, leaning against her for a moment. She was quiet as she looked over at the figure of Apollonia ascending. “I could grow old with Walter,” she said softly.
“Did you guys see the rose window behind the altar?” Ben appeared beside them.
“No,” Lucy said. “Why? Is it as weird as these are?”
“See for yourself,” said Ben.
Jane and Lucy followed him to the center aisle of the nave. Behind the altar the rose window hovered like a full moon. When they’d entered the church the light had not been strong enough to illuminate it. Now sunlight poured through the glass, and when Jane saw the image depicted there, she gasped.
A large heart occupied the center of the window. Piercing it was a long, thin needle very much like the one in the scene from the seventh window. The tip of the needle protruded from the bottom of the heart, a single drop of blood hanging down from it. Rays of light emanated from all around the heart, filling the window.
“It’s beautiful,” Jane said.
“The pierced heart of St. Apollonia the Blessed,” said Clare, who had come up behind them. “There’s only one other window like it in the world.”
“Where?” Jane and Lucy asked simultaneously.
“France,” Clare said. “Paris, to be exact. In a private chapel in a house that once belonged to a courtesan named Eloise Babineaux.”
“You don’t happen to have the address, do you?” Jane asked.
Clare nodded. “I do,” she said. “I wrote an article about the windows last year and corresponded a bit with the current owner of the house. But may I ask why you’re so interested in the window?”
Jane thought quickly. “I’m very interested in religious iconography,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” She hesitated a moment before asking her next question. “You mentioned that you have some of Apollonia’s teeth,” she said. “I don’t suppose anyone knows what became of the spike they used to kill her?”
“Not that I know of,” Clare answered. “But it’s funny you should mention that. Several years ago three men came here and asked that very same question. No one else ever has.”
“Three men?” said Lucy. “Did they say who they were?”
Clare shook her head. “They didn’t say much at all. Just that they were compiling information about various churches. For a book, maybe. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about them until just now, when you asked about the spike.” She paused. “Oh, I do remember one thing. They kept referring to the spike as a needle. In fact, they corrected me when I called it a spike. It reminded me of when my teachers used to correct my grammar.”
“Teachers,” Lucy said, looking at Jane.
“Or librarians,” Jane said.
“That’s it,” said Clare. “Librarians. They reminded me of fussy old librarians. I kept expecting them to shush me.” She laughed.
“Did you tell them about Eloise Babineaux?” Jane asked.
“Now that you mention it, I don’t think I did,” said Clare. “In fact, I’m sure I didn’t. And since we’re talking about it I’m remembering more. They weren’t just fussy, they were … spooky. I can’t think of any other word to describe it. I was glad when they left.”
“Well, thank you for giving us the address,” Lucy said meaningfully.
“Of course,” said Clare. “Oh. Right. I’ll just go get that.”
She scurried off to the house, leaving Jane and Lucy to keep looking at the rose window. Ben, having grown bored with the whole thing, had wandered outside.
“It must have been the Tedious Three,” Lucy said.
“They certainly fit the description,” Jane agreed.
“Sunday, I believe.”
Lucy looked at the glowing heart, then at Jane. “Hopefully whoever lives in Eloise’s house will be accepting visitors.”
Chapter 10
Wednesday: On a Train to Wales
“Trains are sexy, don’t you think?” Walter sat on the edge of the mattress covering the lower of the compartment’s bunk beds. “Except for the sleeping arrangements, that is.”
Jane, busy flossing her teeth to remove a bit of mutton stuck there from dinner, mumbled a reply. Despite having eaten, she was still famished, the food having done nothing to ease her more sinister hunger. She hadn’t had an opportunity to feed on any of the locals at the pub, and she was running out of time. If she didn’t get blood, and soon, there was going to be a problem. It was at times like these that she wished she weren’t so conscientious about not feeding on her friends and loved ones. It would make things much easier for her. But one has to have principles, she reminded herself. Even if one is a bloodsucking fiend.
Walter was in a very good mood, which was a relief. He’d thoroughly enjoyed the tour of Pitstone Vicarage, as well as the meal taken at the local pub before boarding the overnight train bound for Pembroke. He’d had several pints before and during dinner and, as a result, was more gregarious than usual. Jane wished he would shut up, as his incessant chattering was making her headache worse.
“Oh, and you should have seen the look Enid gave Chumsley when he corrected her about the style of the moldings in the drawing room,” he said. “I thought for sure she was going to start a fire with her mind. You know, like that girl in the Stephen King book.”
“Carrie or Charlie?” Jane asked, inspecting her teeth in the mirror. She let her fangs click into place momentarily and ran the floss between them.
“What?” said Walter.
“Stephen King wrote two books about a girl who could start fires with her mind,” Jane said. “Carrie and Firestarter.”
“Oh,” said Walter. “Um, well, I guess it doesn’t really matter which one, does it?”
Jane dropped the soiled floss into the trash can beneath the compartment’s tiny sink. “I suppose not,” she said.
Walter reclined on the bed, his hands behind his head and his feet crossed at the ankles. “I love you very much,” he said. “I hope you know that.”
Jane turned and looked at him. “Of course I do,” she said, puzzled by the abrupt shift in the tone of the conversation.
“Good,” Walter said. “Sometimes I think I don’t tell you often enough.”
Immediately Jane felt guilty for wishing he would be quiet. If anyone should be apologizing, she thought, it should be she. She was the one who had failed to mention that she had a husband. She was the one who had turned Walter down time after time for years before agreeing to go out with him. She was the one who still hadn’t mentioned the minor detail of her being immortal.
She went and sat beside him on the bunk. There really was very little room, and Walter had to turn sideways to accommodate her. It was an awkward position for both of them, but Jane made the best of it.
“I love you too,” she said. “I know the past few days have been just slightly peculiar, but I assure you I never intentionally kept Joshua from you.”
Walter smiled. “Eighteen months ago I would have thought you were lying through your teeth,” he said. “But I know you well enough now to know that you don’t exactly think like other women.”
“I really don’t,” Jane agreed.
“Not that I don’t think it’s odd that his name never came up,” Walter continued. “But I don’t think you were deliberately trying to keep him a secret.”
“I don’t think like other women?” said Jane.
“Absolutely not,” Walter answered.
“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Jane told him.
Her stomach rumbled loudly.
“Tummy trouble?” asked Walter. “Something you ate at dinner?”
Something I didn’t eat, Jane thought.
“Just a little indigestion,” she said. “I think I’ll go to the dining car and see if I can get some milk. Do you want anything?”
“A bottled water would be nice,” Walter said.
Jane stood up. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
Leaving the compartment, she shut the door and looked for the sign indicating the direction of the dining car. It was already ten o’clock. She hoped it would still be open.
The doors all along the corridor were closed. As Jane walked by she heard voices coming from several of them. A bark came from behind a door on her right: Miriam and Lilith. She bared her teeth at the door and growled.
I heard that! Lilith’s voice came through clearly. Jane ignored her, hurrying on to the next car.
In order to reach the dining car she had to pass through several coach cars. Here the passengers who had not booked compartments made themselves as comfortable as possible in the cramped seats. Many of them had simply fallen asleep sitting up, while others had attempted to make beds of a sort by stretching out across two seats. Jane avoided looking at them, finding it odd to be seeing people in public at their most vulnerable, when they were unaware of being watched.
She passed through the door at the far end of the car and found herself in the dining car. A handful of people occupied the tables along either side of the car, and another half dozen were lined up to purchase items from the to-go counter. Jane joined the queue.
“I find railway travel induces insomnia,” said a monotone voice.
Jane turned to see Bergen Faust standing behind her, dressed in the same dark suit she’d seen him in at each of the tour group’s gatherings. His hands were behind his back, and he peered at her with unblinking eyes.
“Do you?” Jane said. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I never have been able to sleep in moving vehicles,” Bergen continued. “The motion interferes with the workings of the inner ear.”
“It sounds terrible,” said Jane. “Tell me, did you enjoy the tour this morning?”
“It was very educational,” Bergen replied. “I learned a great many things I had not known about the heraldic ornamentation of Georgian-period andirons.”
“That does sound … marvelous,” Jane said.
“It is a fascinating subject,” Bergen told her. “I understand you visited the Church of St. Apollonia.”
“Yes,” Jane answered, surprised that Bergen would pay her comings and goings any mind. “It’s really quite lovely, although I’m sure not as interesting as the andirons.”
“Few things are,” Bergen agreed. “I believe it’s your turn.”
“Excuse me?” said Jane.
“Your turn,” Bergen repeated, nodding slightly and looking past her.
Jane turned around to see that while they’d been talking the line had moved forward. The girl behind the counter smiled wanly. “What may I get for you?” she asked.
“A bottled water,” Jane said.
“Will that be all?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” said Jane, taking some money from the pocket of her pants.
She accepted the water from the girl, and when she’d received her change she turned to go. “Well, good night,” she said to Bergen.
“I’ll walk with you as far as your compartment,” Bergen said.
“Aren’t you going to get anything?” Jane asked, looking back at the bored girl behind the counter.
“No,” Bergen said. “Why?”
“I just thought …” She let the remainder of the thought die unspoken. “Never mind.”
There was no polite way to rid herself of Bergen. Now she could think of no plausible excuse for not returning to Walter. As if to emphasize the predicament, her stomach growled again. She and Bergen walked in silence until they reached the door to her room.
“Here I am,” Jane said.
Jane opened the door and slipped inside. Walter was still on the lower bunk, reading a book. She handed him the bottle of water. “I understand you saw some exquisite andirons on your house tour this morning,” she said.
Walter took a sip of water. “Ran into Bergen, did you?”
Jane laughed. “Such an odd little man.”
“He reminds me a bit of Dwight Frye,” said Walter. “The actor who played Renfield in Dracula opposite Lugosi. I’ll never forget the scene in the asylum when he’s trying to eat a spider and the orderly takes it away from him.” He widened his eyes and held his hands up, fingers wiggling. “ ‘Flies! Flies! Who wants to eat flies? Not when I can get nice, fat spiders!’ ” He shuddered. “That completely creeped me out when I was a kid. The whole movie did. But of course once my mother told me I couldn’t see it, I had to.”
“Miriam forbade you to see Dracula?” Jane asked.
Walter nodded. “Not just Dracula,” he said. “Any vampire movie. She had a real thing about vampires. I don’t know why. I guess they freaked her out or something. I wonder if she’s still spooked by them.”
I think it’s the other way around, Jane thought.
“Anyway, that’s who Bergen reminds me of,” said Walter. “Renfield. Do you suppose he eats spiders?”
“No, but he ordered black pudding at supper, and that’s just as bad,” Jane said.
Her stomach clenched. I’d eat a spider right now if I had one, she thought grimly. She had to feed soon, but she’d run out of excuses for leaving the room. Besides, until the other passengers were asleep it would be difficult to find somewhere—and someone—suitable for her needs.
With much difficulty she climbed into the top bunk and tried to read. She’d brought with her for the trip a battered paperback copy of Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. For years she had been trying to get through it, and had begun and abandoned it at least a dozen times. Each time she got a little further into the book than she had on the previous attempt, and now she was up to page 239. She was determined to finish it once and for all, even if it killed her.
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