A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  Though many of the winding streets they passed were deserted, the main road through town had more than its fair share of people. Whether they had come to see the arrival of strangers or were simply on their way to the local pub, Varanus could not say. But regardless, they all backed way from the approaching carriage as quickly as possible and clustered along the sides of the street to watch. Their faces were as tired and worn as the buildings of the village. Their expressions spoke of apprehension and fear.

  “I don’t think we are welcome here,” Varanus said.

  “Perhaps,” Ekaterine said. “But they have no idea who we are. The coach, however, they must recognize.”

  They were soon free of the village, and Varanus watched the barren landscape roll past them as the brougham followed the main road toward Blackmoor Manor. As she had surmised before, there was very little on the moor aside from a few cottages and the odd church. Here and there she saw a standing stone or an isolated monument that had been placed in the wilderness for no evident purpose. But otherwise, there was nothing to be seen but the grass and the heath and the tor-topped hills.

  Blackmoor Manor sat atop a hill a little over a mile outside of the village, as much a weathered relic as any of the buildings in town. A three-story Tudor construction, the house was built in the manner of a fortress, with parapets and towers set alongside grand arches and windows. There was even a gatehouse that led into a central court, inherited from an earlier, far more violent time. The stonework was worn smooth by rain and wind and stained so that it was almost black.

  Blackmoor indeed, Varanus thought. The ground, the rock, even the manor.

  The coachman drove them into the central courtyard. There were lanterns hanging over both the gate and the door to the house, and two rows of torches led the way from one to the other. Bathed in the orange glow of fire and sunset, the dark walls looked rather like vertical faces of bare rock, and in the gathering shadows, the courtyard put Varanus in mind of some place of pagan sacrifice.

  What a dreadful thing to think about the home of one’s ancestors, she thought.

  A man was waiting for them on the steps when they alighted, with a party of servants standing behind him at the door. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, though he looked slim and elegant in his dark gray frock coat—a marvel of tailoring to be sure. He was handsome, with a sturdy jaw, a large but narrow nose, and high cheeks and brow. At the sight of Varanus, his mouth opened in a wide smile that showed his strong, ivory-colored teeth. His hair was black but graying, rich and full, and longer than was common among most men of his age.

  Varanus recognized him from when he had visited her a year ago to pay his condolences. He was her Right Honourable cousin Robert, the Earl of Blackmoor. But, she wondered, was he to be her friend or her adversary? That remained to be seen. The family had made clear their claim on her grandfather’s property, but she still held a hope that the ties of blood would win out over the power of greed.

  Robert advanced down the steps, still smiling. A pair of sizable hounds—at least three feet at the shoulder—followed at his heels, their eyes firmly fixed on Varanus and Ekaterine. They kept sniffing the air and looking at their master, perhaps wondering if the newcomers were friend or food.

  “Cousin Babette,” Robert said warmly, taking Varanus’s tiny hand in both of his. “I am so pleased to see you. And doubly pleased that you are out of mourning.”

  “Indeed,” Varanus said, “it is wonderful to see you as well, Cousin Robert.”

  Varanus was not entirely clear on protocol, but if he was going to avoid calling her Princess Shashavani, she would be damned if she would call him Earl Blackmoor.

  “Allow me to introduce my sister-in-law, Princess Ekaterine Shashavani,” she continued, motioning to Ekaterine.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Robert said, bowing his head ever so slightly.

  “And you,” Ekaterine answered, smiling.

  “Shall I call you cousin?” Robert asked, his voice betraying the teasing tone of a man who knew that he was the master, regardless of the rank of his subjects.

  “Oh, I should like that very much,” Ekaterine said, evading the provocation. “I already feel part of the family.”

  Robert’s smile never wavered. Without a word, he snapped his fingers twice. The hounds whined softly and scurried off to their kennels at the side of the courtyard.

  “Allow me to introduce the staff,” Robert said. He extended his arm and indicated each in turn.

  “Harris, the butler.”

  A broad-shouldered man of advancing years, cleanly shaven and slightly balding. His bearing was sturdy and dignified, and his person was well maintained, though his tie was crooked and his cuffs were slightly dirty. Still, he surely knew his business if Cousin Robert kept him despite a degree of disorder.

  “My housekeeper, Mrs Wilkie.”

  Tallish, narrow, sharp in the face. And sharp in the eyes. Varanus saw cunning and determination there, before Mrs Wilkie obediently looked down.

  “The footman, Peter.”

  A young lad, very energetic, but polite and exceedingly servile. Varanus could almost smell the obedience on him. A good quality in a servant, no doubt, but still.…

  “The head housemaid, Gladys, and the chambermaid, Lucy.”

  Pleasant girls, very pretty. Fair-haired. Almost identical. Quite possibly sisters. It was a point worth noting, whatever it entailed.

  “And in addition,” Robert continued, “as your own maids are not with you, my wife and my eldest daughter’s lady’s maids shall be attending to you in that capacity. Miss Hudson for Cousin Babette and Miss Finch for Cousin Ekaterine.”

  It would be a bother having maids intrude upon her privacy, but Varanus could expect nothing else. This was the wider world, where the servants would not understand her wish to attend to herself unaided. It was not like being at home among the Shashavani. She and Ekaterine had assisted one another for so long that servants were not necessary. And she had not become accustomed to the ones she had hired to dote over them in London. At least Cousin Robert did not take offense at their arriving without maids; indeed, he had all but suggested that they come unattended in the letter. Varanus suspected it was a plot to isolate her from anything familiar when the time came for negotiations.

  “And you have already met Barnabas,” Robert finished. “Should you require transportation during your stay—into town perhaps, or to see the sights on the moor—he will be at your service.”

  “Splendid,” Varanus said. “I am beginning to feel at home already.”

  “It is the ancestral home of the Varanuses,” Robert said, his smile a little too wide. “Now come inside and meet the family.”

  * * * *

  Robert led Varanus and Ekaterine into the front hall, a spacious two-story chamber floored and paneled in ebony and adorned with portraits and landscape paintings. Above the doorway Varanus saw a pair of swords crossed beneath a shield bearing the arms of the Blackmoors: two wolves rampant in sable upon a gules field beneath an argent star. There were suits of armor standing in rows along the walls like men-at-arms ready for duty. Upstairs galleries overlooked the entryway on all four sides, and it did not escape Varanus’s attention that anterooms opened out into the hall to both left and right. In older, less civilized times real men-at-arms had probably waited there, ready to repulse any enemy who managed to breach the door.

  Beyond the front hall stood a grand chamber with a high arched ceiling. Private balconies and a minstrel’s gallery overlooked the room from the second floor, and at the highest level a series of broad windows let in the last rays of the dying sunlight. Great chandeliers suspended from the ceiling on iron chains and tiered candelabra standing near the walls gave the chamber plenty of light. There were shields on the walls, banners signifying glories past draped along the side, and a grand dais at the far end of the room that suggested this had once been the great hall of a medieval castle.

  All that was in the past of course. N
ow the harsh stone of the walls and floor had been softened by wooden floorboards, by curtains and tapestries, by carpets, sofas, and upholstered chairs. What once must have been the seat of the Blackmoor county had been transformed into a polite family parlor.

  A company of people were waiting for them when they arrived—four women, one man, and a boy just on the verge of his teens. They were seated, pleasantly engaged in conversation, but they quickly stood and smiled in greeting as Varanus entered the room. They were all dressed conservatively, with long sleeves and high collars, somber colors, and precious little lace or accoutrements—save for the youngest woman, who wore pastels. It was what Varanus would have expected for country aristocracy so far removed from civilization. But the clothes were deceptive. After a moment, Varanus’s keen eyes caught sight of fine details and intricate lines. The eldest of the group—a woman of about fifty—wore what appeared to be a plain gray dress that matched perfectly the shade and style of Robert’s suit. But as Varanus approached, she saw that the dress was decked in lines of narrow braid and covered in tiny beads. Such delicate work, and all for the purpose of looking invisible?

  “And at long last, our French cousin has returned,” Robert said. “Everyone, I am pleased to introduce Lady Babette Shashavani, the granddaughter of my dear great uncle, William Varanus, rest his soul. And with her is her sister-in-law, Lady Ekaterine Shashavani. This is a great honor for all of us,” he added, speaking in part to Varanus, “but they have kindly invited us to call them Cousin Babette and Cousin Ekaterine.”

  Varanus’s eyebrow twitched. Again, Robert had endeavored to avoid stating her specific title—one dramatically above his—and he had given the family leave to address her in familiar terms without first asking her permission. Was it simple rustic exuberance or a deliberate effort to undermine her position?

  The oldest woman clasped her hands together and smiled in delight. “That is splendid,” she said. “And you are most welcome here Cousin Babette. We are delighted to have you at long last in our home.”

  “Cousin Babette, allow me to introduce my dear wife Maud,” Robert said, motioning to her.

  Babette smiled and nodded. Maud’s poise and smile were flawless and remarkably sincere. In Varanus’s experience, the least sincere of people gave the most sincere smiles. But no matter. Perhaps she was being paranoid. The bleakness of the moor was enough to put anyone on edge.

  “A pleasure, Cousin Maud,” Ekaterine said, matching her smile.

  “Yes, delightful,” Varanus agreed.

  Robert motioned to the next woman, a lady of about thirty with the rich black hair of Robert and the practiced poise of Maud.

  “Our eldest daughter, Elizabeth,” he said, “and our youngest, Mary.”

  Mary looked to be in her late teens, just the right age to be married. She was blond like her mother, rosy-cheeked, and painfully pretty in a dress of blue and pink—the only bit of color among the somber group. She bowed her head with a little bob and smiled sweetly.

  “Sadly, our middle daughter, Catherine, now resides with her husband in America,” Robert said. “I have no doubt that she will be sad to have missed meeting you.”

  “Of course,” Varanus said.

  “And of course my son and heir, Richard,” Robert said, “his wife Anne, and their dear boy Stephen. They have just returned from India, and it is most fortunate that they are here to meet you.”

  Varanus gave father, mother, and child a quick appraisal. Richard was rather like a younger copy of his father: dark, flowing hair, a strong jaw, broad shoulders, and an air of confidence bordering on arrogance. The boy Stephen, who looked to be around twelve, was much the same. He grinned at Varanus, rather than smiling, in a manner that was not at all polite. And then there was Anne. Varanus saw at a glance all that she needed to see: the slightly hunched shoulders, the downcast eyes, the timidity in expression, manner, and voice. The way that she seemed both to fear her husband and to fear being too far away from him.…

  Varanus forced herself to smile. A husband’s tyranny was nothing new. It would do no good to comment upon it at such a time. Once her business was concluded, it would be a different matter.

  “A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” she said.

  “Alas,” said Maud, “our other son, Edward, is off on safari, God knows where. And he shall not return until he is finished.”

  “I always find it’s good for a young man to get out into the wild before he accepts the mantle of adult responsibility,” Robert said. “Do some hunting, you know.”

  “It is a shame that he is not here,” Maud continued. “I just know that he would have been delighted to meet you. Both of you,” she added, speaking in Ekaterine’s direction with sufficient emphasis to make Ekaterine and Varanus exchange looks.

  Just as well he wasn’t there, Varanus thought. It was bad enough having her son chase after Ekaterine. Having two family members doing so would be the end of her patience.

  “Well,” Robert said, “I expect you are tired from your journey. If you would kindly follow me, I will show you to your rooms. The servants will bring your luggage up presently. We have already dined, of course, but I have instructed our cook to prepare something hot for you to eat at your leisure.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Varanus said. “We are very grateful.”

  “Perhaps after you have refreshed yourselves, you would permit me to give you a tour of the house,” Robert said. “I cannot imagine a Varanus having grown up without ever once visiting it. There is so much history in these walls, Cousin Babette. Your history. The history of your blood.”

  * * * *

  There was more than a little truth in what Robert had said. As Varanus followed him from room to room, through richly furnished parlors and elegant drawing rooms, she truly felt like she had returned home. Not her only home—both Grandfather’s estate in Normandy and the Shashavani valley in Georgia were immutably home as well—but walking through the house that had raised countless generations of her ancestors made complete some part of her that she had not known was missing. It was a strange experience, like having something added to an already filled glass.

  Only Varanus had come for the tour. Ekaterine had elected to return to the great hall to observe the family in its natural habitat. Varanus was secretly grateful, for by the evening’s end Ekaterine would have a whole catalogue of useful information obtained through idle chitchat. The temporary reprieve was a relief to Varanus, who dreaded what time she would be forced to spend conversing in the company of her cousins.

  “This is our humble library,” Robert said, as he led her into the room and turned up the gas lamps.

  The blossoming light revealed the ubiquitous dark wood paneling that adorned the house, lush Persian carpets in burgundy and gold, and tall shelves filled with books and tomes and even the odd vellum codex dating prior to the invention of printing. It was a marvelous collection, rivaling the one at Grandfather’s estate. Of course, it could not compare to the library of the Shashavani, but it was still incredible.

  “I fear, Cousin Robert,” Varanus said, “that ‘humble’ may be the wrong word for it. I do believe you meant to say ‘impressive.’”

  Robert laughed loudly and replied, “Well, we are rather proud of it, yes. For hundreds of years, Varanuses have learned and studied in this room, and in the castle chamber that preceded it. Even after Varanuses began attending school, this was where all their real education took place. We have always employed the finest tutors, as we still do now to educate young Stephen. Though,” Robert added, sighing wistfully, “he shall be departing for Eton next year. I do wonder if we shall retain the services of the tutor or dispense with him.”

  “How old is this collection?” Varanus asked, studying some of books nearest her.

  “More than eight hundred years,” Robert answered. “It was begun with three illuminated manuscripts, brought from France by our ancestor Henry I during the Norman Conquest.”

  “He was the first Var
anus?”

  Robert laughed and said, “No, no, we weren’t Varanuses then. And of course, Henry didn’t begin as a Blackmoor.” He paused and looked at her very seriously. “Do you know the history of our family?”

  “Bits and pieces,” Varanus said. “My grandfather spoke of some things, but never our origins. Not in detail. I know that we came from Normandy and settled…well, here. But little beyond that.”

  “That must be attended to,” Robert said, smiling in his toothy way. “Come, follow me to the gallery upstairs, and I will show you your ancestors face-to-face.”

  Varanus followed him up a flight of steps just outside the library. They entered into a long gallery that ran what seemed to be almost the entire frontage of the house, save for the towers at either corner. Tall, narrow windows ran along the exterior wall, and on both sides were countless portraits of men and women, all of whom shared the strong features and sharp eyes of the Varanuses.

  Robert stopped about midway along the gallery, where the interior wall opened into the balcony that overlooked the front hallway. On the opposite wall stood a collection of paintings, slightly larger than the rest and all greatly ornamented. At the center, largest of all, was a portrait in baroque style depicting a man clad all in mail, standing beneath the silver moon with two great hounds at his feet, hands resting upon the hilt of his sword. The man in the portrait was tall and broad. His hair was dark, curled, and cut to just below the ear. His beard was full but trimmed. His expression dominant.

  “Our progenitor,” Robert said. “Henry of Rouen; later Henry, First Earl of Blackmoor.”

  “A striking man,” Varanus said. “I can see the family resemblance.”

  Robert laughed.

  “Most Varanuses have certain traits in common,” he said. “Most.” Before Varanus could respond, he continued, “Henry was one of the companions of William the Conqueror during the Norman Conquest in 1066 and, according to legend, fought with all the bravery and ferocity that his descendants have become known for. He remained at court until the winter of 1069, when the nobles in the North of England rebelled against the new king. King William sent an army to put down the insurrection, and Henry of Rouen marched with it. What followed is called the Harrying of the North. Villages were slaughtered, crops destroyed, the whole land devastated.”