Penny Dreadful Adventures: Mysteries of London 2: The Mysteries of London (Exposing the Truth)
Page 25
And the village in which I presently lay, both in characters and buildings, sat a perfect replica of the Varney world in which I had been so submerged for the last few months.
But of course, vampyres were a fictional breed, dragged from the imagination of Rymer and Prest. I could not think otherwise, for in that direction my sanity would certainly leave me, and I would be forced to think the unthinkable.
Then I sat bolt upright in bed.
“Ye gods!” I roared, looking out the window at the grey skied that heralded dawn. “Damn it, for I have slept!” I pulled on my boots, grabbed my coat and cane and ran outside.
There was only one road through the village, and I gratefully followed its course, watching over roofs and walls for the first chink of dawn to my left. The clear sky would not prevent me seeing the sunrise this morning. At last, with all the buildings behind me, I found myself in open country. I stopped at the old milestone, nestled near a stone wall, catching my breath.
Portsmouth 65 Miles
With my hands at my side, I looked to the east to see a fiery red glow on some thin clouds near the horizon, but no sun as yet. I sighed in relief; I had made the rendezvous in time.
I stood leaning forward onto the wall, listening for either a horse or the approach of a carriage, but the morning was punctuated only by small birds, and the high squawking of a lone seagull.
I found myself shaking, and to witness my condition I placed my hand in front of me, palm downward. My fingers twitched incessantly, and giving a huge sigh, I placed my hand on the wall, gripping the cold stone for comfort.
“Hello Alexander.”
The words came from behind me, but I knew from the timbre that it was not my Kitty who met me at dawn. “Good morning, Lady Clara,” I said with far more confidence than I felt. As I mouthed the words, the first chink of amber lifted itself from the horizon and winked at me. I turned to face her, my face set in determination, my mind in grim realization that I possibly faced my last day on earth.
To my surprise I found myself facing three women. Lady Clara stood nearest me, but to one side were Kitty and her governess, Thorpe. The older woman held Kitty lightly by the arm and my sweetheart looked as guilty as I’d ever seen anyone in my life.
“He is yours, my dear,” Lady Clara said, locking gaze with me. “I admit it.” She cocked her head to one side, as if processing thought. “Tell him that you give him to me.”
Kitty startled, and moved to break her governess’s grip, but then stopped. Her gaze dropped from mine to the ground. “I give him to you,” she said, her lips moving slowly. “My lady.”
My heart sank at her obvious acceptance, her lack of willingness to fight, but my lips never moved, never mouthed my disappointment.
“Thank you, my dear,” Clara said with blatant delight, moving closer to me, her booted heels crunching on the stones on the road. “I accept your gift.” She gave a single wave to the women behind her. “Take her out of here, Thorpe.”
I hardly saw them turn, and yet they were immediately gone. Not a gradual diminishing, not a running over the field. Just a blink, and they were gone from sight as if they had never been there. And yet I knew different; I had seen the look of acceptance, the sweep of betrayal and sadness that flashed across Kitty’s face.
But my love had gone, and I stood alone on the road with a woman who reeked of evil.
She approached me, lifting her finger to my face, tracing my cheek from ear to mouth. I tried to pull away, but could not. “I will enjoy you.” She said with far more pleasure than I liked. “I will enjoy you for many, many years.” Her tone held no subterfuge; it was clear she intended me ill of the highest degree.
I felt a tremor in my legs, and I braced myself for flight, yet still did not move. I gripped the handle of my cane, felt my fingers flex to draw the sword, yet did nothing.
She kissed me, her tongue slipping between my lips despite my jaw trying to close. Oh, heavens, those lips. They tasted of the sweetest nectar, but held the dark promise of deeds so nefarious. I could not resist. Yet my legs, those treacherous legs, they twisted below me, determined to flee from this creature, for creature she was. I fell backwards on the embankment, and felt my head hit stone. My neck twisted and I saw Portsmouth 65 Miles just inches away.
“Oh, how accepting of you,” Lady Clara said, dropping onto my recumbent form. “There was no need to present your neck so neatly.” Then she sniffed the air around me and I saw her eyes cloud from the palest blue to dark red. “You bleed!” she snapped, baring her teeth to me. Two sharp canine fangs slid neatly from her upper jaw and clicked into place. She reached behind me and felt where my head had struck the stone. Two fingers of the darkest, shiniest red came into my view, and she licked them clean, her lips sucking on them, her grin broadening.
Then she fell upon me, her mouth open, her teeth biting my neck, tearing at me, her confident countenance lost in animal frenzy.
And yet although I was the prey, my neck the object of her snarling teeth, I felt no pain.
In fact, I felt nothing but euphoria; a numbing pleasure that I would have willingly died in, so tender and blissful.
Then her face changed, and she lifted herself from me.
Shouts and screams rang out all around, and I’m certain that my own voice echoed in their calls. I glimpsed Reggie’s face as I began to swoon, my eyes apparently unwilling to remain open. As I slumped past the milestone, my face hitting the grass verge, I recall the lady Clara exclaim in high tones, her shriek filling my eardrums in the highest register.
The grass.
The cool dew-christened morning grass…
List of Characters
James Malcolm Rymer (Born 1st February, 1814, at Clerkenwell, London)
Rymer was a writer of Scottish descent. A civil engineer by trade, he began writing in 1842, writing his first story for Edward Lloyd Publishing, whom he left in 1853, moving to John Dicks Publishing. He wrote over 100 novels and is co-creator of Sweeny Todd, the demon barber, in the short story The String of Pearls. He was also the co-writer of the Varney the Vampyre series. He wrote under many variations, and visited and wrote in America.
Thomas Peckett Prest (Born 16th August, 1810, at Tottenham, London)
Prest was a writer, journalist, musician and composer. He is remembered today for being the co-creator of Sweeny Todd, the demon barber, in the short story The String of Pearls. He was also the co-writer of the Varney the Vampyre series. A prolific writer of Penny Dreadful’s, both plagiarisms and original work, he published most of his work through Edward Lloyd.
Alexander Mair MacNeill (Born 16th March, 1824, at Broomhouse, Edinbugh)
MacNeill began working in London editing weekly periodicals and Penny Dreadful’s, such as Varney the Vampyre, The Mysteries of London, and The Wehr Wolf. He is the author of the Burke and Hare series, the Vampyres of Hungary, and The Devil’s Pact, amongst many others. His work was published almost exclusively through Edward Lloyd.
Edward Lloyd (16th February, 1815, at Thornton Heath, London)
Lloyd studied shorthand, and opened his first print shop at the age of 18. From 1835, he published penny Dreadful’s, then moved on to periodicals, then newsletters and newspapers. Lloyds Weekly newspaper sold 500,000 weekly copies. He is the originator of Lloyds News, The Daily Chronicle and the News of the World.
George W M Reynolds (23rd July 1814, Sandwich, Kent)
Reynold’s parents died when he was 15, leaving him a considerable inheritance. He toured Europe, ending in Paris, where he began an English Newspaper. The venture crashed, leaving him bankrupt. He returned to London, where he began writing. Soon he had gained the title of “the most popular writer of our times”, selling 40,000 copies in one week of his penny dreadful series, The Mysteries of London (1844-1846). He ultimately sold over 1,000,000 copies. His Wehr Wolf series was almost as popular and both were made into books.
He also published newspapers, the last of which ceased printing in 1967