Descent into Dust

by Jacqueline Lepore

  I was awakened at dawn a few days later to the sound of church bells tolling in the distance. Hampered by the heavy mists, the low chime was dull and full of mourning. I knew what it meant. The strange illness in the village had claimed another, and the latest to die was to be interred.

  After checking on Henrietta and finding her sleeping safely and peacefully, I went straight to the library. The house would sleep in, for we had been up late last night playing parlor games, and I would have a good deal of time alone.

  I had been doing more reading of the sort Mr. Fox had directed. I had already discovered Keats’s “Lamia,” a dark tale of a female demon that repeated the misogynistic theme found in Keats’s other, more famous work, “La Belle Dame Sans Merci.” I also found an interesting short story, entitled “The Vampyre,” by an unknown author, one Dr. Polidori.

  I recalled Mr. Fox saying that unique and disturbing word: undead. I was convinced he knew something, and as I had no other avenues of investigation, I sat down to read it. Then I caught myself. How swiftly I’d thrown myself into the Romantic Era literature, caught up in the vagaries and sly hints Mr. Fox had thrown to me. Annoyed with myself, I put down the tome. Mr. Fox was leading me on a merry chase. And I followed along like a puppy eager for a morsel of meat. I did not need to play literary detective; I needed to confront him, I suddenly decided. Enough with his evasiveness and intrigue.

  Not for the first time, I considered going to Roger about Fox. About everything, for if there was danger to Henrietta, I must tell him. But here was the rub—what exactly could I tell him? Of the shadow at the tree, of the clouds advancing like a spectral invasion?

  The sound of the front door closing took me to the window, where I observed Mr. Fox trotting down the sweeping front steps, a sack over his shoulder. It was still very early. Now what was he about?

  Snatching my light cape from its cloakroom peg, I followed. Not a ripple of conscience plagued me as to the rightness or wrongness of what I was doing as I slipped outside and made my way through the fading mists, keeping a careful distance from the tall figure striding purposefully in the direction of the village.

  We came to a church, an engraved sign informing me it was known as Sarum Saint Martin. Built in the Norman style, it was a small but imposing square of iron-gray granite with an artless, pointed spire. I paused, thinking myself a fool as I hovered at the gate of the churchyard. But I could not refuse the impulse. I was mad with worry for Henrietta, and I knew—I knew—Mr. Fox had some knowledge of what ailed her.

  I paused among a cluster of alder and larch. Mr. Fox faded into the fog that clung stubbornly among the gravestones, a ghost moving among ghosts. The markers were very old, some of them leaning to one side and streaked black with coal smoke, giving the appearance of a phalanx of weary sentinels. Among these, a man materialized beside a fresh mound of earth. He was standing quite still, head bent and hands clasped.

  Fox saw him, too. He hunkered down, instantly swallowed by the low-lying mist as he hid behind a large carved stone cross. I did the same after scooting forward for a better vantage point.

  The figure by the grave was hugely wrought, with massive shoulders and strong legs, arms curled under the weight of his muscle. He was dressed in a flowing cape. The dreary day was my enemy, for the light was too suffused to allow me to see plainly, but if my guess was correct, he was praying. Indeed, I was proved right when he grasped what I now saw was a large, laborious cross hung from the beads—rosary beads—and used it to make the sign of the cross, finishing with a slow, lingering touch to his lips.

  I realized now the short cape draped over his broad form was a surplice. And the white of his collar too small to be a cravat. He was a priest.

  Fox retreated, moving past me and on back to the house. He’d apparently been thwarted in whatever business had led him to the graveyard. I left as well, making fast for my room, once I gained the house, to change my ruined shoes and dress, for the hem was damp and spattered with mud.

  I now had one more mystery to add to my burden: what the devil was Mr. Fox about in a graveyard just after dawn? And why would the presence of a priest drive him away?

  Chapter Eight

  Henrietta and Miss Harris were at the breakfast table with the family when I arrived downstairs a half hour later. “Mama promised I could join the adults as a treat since I had a lovely sleep with no nightmares,” Henrietta boasted. She fairly bounced in her seat with pride. “I know you are riding out today for a hunt, and Papa said last night I might watch from the veranda.” She frowned at me. “But you are not dressed for riding.”

  I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before taking my seat. “Indeed, I had quite forgotten today was the hunt.”

  “But you are going, aren’t you?” She looked at me eagerly. I saw admiration shine in her eyes that I, a woman, was to be included.

  “I shall change my dress immediately after breakfast,” I promised as I placed my napkin on my lap. “I would never disappoint you, Hen.”

  “Imagine,” Sebastian said. “We’ve a Hen and a Fox. Shall I change my name to Horse?”

  Roger grinned as he dabbed his napkin to his mouth. “If my daughter were not in earshot, I might make a suggestion along the lines of a certain kind of mule.”

  Mary made a disapproving tsk at him. But we were all in high spirits. Henrietta was so bright, so much herself, that her happy, shining face filled me with relief and joy. Whatever has been troubling her is done, I thought. If there was ever anything at all.

  We were soon joined by the others from the neighborhood. Mr. Hess was in high color, ready and eager for the day’s activities. Brooding Ted Pentworth had brought a chum with him, a very dashing Mr. James Farrington, and Sir William bored them with his lectures on the best way to bag game. Everyone was anxious to be off.

  Mr. Fox made an appearance, but he seemed sullen and removed from the rest. He declined to join the party. I made it a point to ignore him. “I’ll collect my mount and join you after I’ve changed,” I told Roger as I hurried toward the stairs. “Really, I promise I’ll be quick as a wink.”

  I was better than that, and not ten minutes later, I dashed across the back garden toward the stables. Sebastian was about to canter out of the paddock, but paused to laugh at me. “Have the stables furnish you with an old roan mare, or a pleasant doddering nag so you will not get thrown.”

  Offering a haughty toss of my head, I replied with equal good humor, “I may be a wretched horsewoman, but you have not seen me shoot. I will best you, I promise.”

  “Is that a challenge?” he declared, clutching at his chest. His horse high-stepped backward artfully, as if performing a dance. “Ah, I see another quality I like in a friend. Emma, you have a wicked streak. No wonder Mr. Fox is so intrigued with you.”

  I turned away from him, my humor gone. “Hush. Someone will hear.”

  He laughed, enjoying teasing me. “Admit it, he is an interesting man.”

  “He is a boor,” I said, and picked up my pace, striding purposefully toward the barn.

  I told a rushed stableman I required a tractable mount and he brought me the sweetest-tempered mare he had. “She’ll do you fine,” he said as he tethered the reins to a post. “I’ll send someone out right away to saddle her for you, ma’am. I’ve got to run these boots out to Mr. Farrington. He just tore his heel and must borrow these.”

  It was a few moments before a groom emerged from the tack room. “Oh, thank goodness. We must get her saddled…” My voice died.

  The gypsy strode out of the shadows, carrying the tack. I froze, a dark, hot feeling crawling up the back of my spine. As he laid the saddle on the mare and cinched the strap, his gaze stayed on me, his eyes alive with the insolence he’d displayed before.

  I was acutely aware that he and I were alone. Everyone else was too far away and too busy with their preparations to hear any call for help I might make. Had I possessed more sense than pride, I would have fled.

  His lips cu
rled under his mustache as he grabbed the reins he’d just buckled into place and, twisting the horse savagely, pulled them down and over with great and sudden strength. The beau tiful creature surged forward and I jumped clear as she danced nervously in my direction. The maneuver took me deeper into the dark stable as the restless mare, her high-stepping hooves pawing the ground as her eyes rolled in the aftermath of such rough treatment, effectively blocked me from the open door.

  “Have a care,” I said sharply. My heart was now beating furiously. Behind me, the inner corridor of the large barn was dark. It was empty, all stablemen being needed on the lawns with the hunting party.

  He pulled on the horse roughly again, drawing her forward to crowd me. She reared slightly, and I was afraid she would strike me. I heard him speak in a low tone. The syllables were strange, clipped and guttural. He was speaking in another language.

  He smiled at me, and spoke so I could hear. “Tu vei nu interfere cu Draculae avion.” Then he jerked the horse, who skittered, swinging her flank toward me.

  Terror and rage mingled to make my voice sharp, imperious. “What are you doing? Stop it. Stop it at once.”

  He murmured again to the horse. The mare grew more agitated, and I retreated further into the barn to get away. To my great relief, he did not follow. He continued to murmur in his foreign tongue, teeth flashing as his laughter joined in, and he nodded to me, as if I’d pleased him.

  I started down the row of stalls into the dimly lit barn. The air was different here, thick and cold. It shouldn’t be so cold, I thought. It was like an icehouse, or like passing from summer to a frigid January night in the space of a step. Behind me, the gypsy led the horse outside and closed the stable door, and I was cast into darkness.

  Now I could smell the rank odor of the air around me, as if no one had mucked the place out in weeks. The few horses left were as agitated as the mare had been, moving restlessly in their stalls, whinnying to each other. Then, underneath it all, I heard a whisper, like the sound of a soughing tree, and they fell silent.

  My eyes had adjusted so that even in the darkness I could see the ash-gray collection of blackness coalescing in one corner. I threw myself against the stable wall. The sense of something putrid, something terrible, raised the fine hairs on my arms and the back of my neck.

  The gypsy hadn’t been threatening me. He had been driving me in here, to the dark thing that I’d sensed before. And now I was alone with it.

  Everything was so still.

  The sound came first, the slick noise of muscled bodies scraping across the floor. I whirled wildly, primitive recognition shooting into my veins. I looked and found them, a phalanx of snakes slithering among the straw, all rushing toward me.

  My mind, shocked for only a fraction of a second, sharpened with a sudden clarity of senses heightened by fear. I picked out four snakes on my left. To my right, I spied three more. Their attack was swift, direct, and, I could only assume, intended to be deadly.

  The first snake rose and tensed to strike. Its mouth yawned open, and I watched in fascination as a sliver of light fought through the gloom to set the long, pointed fangs glowing like luminescent pearl. This could not be a species of earthly origin. As it hovered, I felt a preternatural sense of intelligence emanating from the creature.

  As the thing lashed forward, I hauled up my skirt, without thought or a plan, and struck at it with my foot. The thickness of my boot was a gift, for I had no fear of a bite. I did not miss. My foot, snapping with a force I had not known I possessed, connected with the head and cast the serpent back.

  No revulsion registered as I pressed my heel down on the stunned creature’s flat skull, leaving the thing twitching on the ground. But the demise of this first did nothing to discourage the others. The next reared in front of me while a second coiled itself into a tight spiral to my right, eyes slit with eerie consciousness.

  The only weapon at hand was a pitchfork. I could hardly hope to spear the swiftly moving targets on the slender tines, but I grabbed the thing anyway, my arms moving almost of their own volition. It felt good to hold the weight of some barrier in my hand, even if I had no concept of how to use it effectively.

  When the second snake opened its mouth, showing its fangs in a wicked display, I struck first. But it was a trap; I saw three other snakes rushing toward me, an unearthly odor coming off them. Suddenly, the pitchfork was in motion, sweeping first to my left, then to my right. When I looked, two ropes of dead flesh hung from the tines. The third lay struggling under my boot. I snapped it with a twist of my ankle.

  I had not a moment to consider my unexpected ability, for three other snakes remained. Two circled, while one hung back, watching as if to see what I would do next.

  Again, I did not wait for the attack. I spun the pitchfork, using the wooden tip of the handle to sweep the ground, hooking the snake I was aiming for and sending it against a wall with sickening force. It fell to the ground with a dull thud, leaving behind a wet smudge on the wood. Shifting the weapon in my hands, I bore down on the second. It hesitated, feinting to one side, but my reflexes resisted the trick and I flung the pitchfork with effortless aim, watching as it landed, tines down, with the snake writhing in its death throes under two of the three points.

  The quiet rustle of retreat spun me around to see the last snake fleeing into deeper darkness. In defiance of reason, I charged. I did not even bother to retrieve my weapon—such as it was. I simply dashed forward, intent on not allowing that last one to escape, when suddenly a dark figure cut me off.

  It was the gypsy. And this time he was not smiling. His eyes burned above the shining bare edge of a wickedly curved saber. My eyes fixed on that blade. It was foreign, ancient, etched with scrolled designs that made it beautiful.

  He said something in his language, his words broken and sharp. My reflexes failed me, and I had a sinking feeling of defeat as I saw the muscles of his hand tense and his knuckles whiten on the hilt of his blade as he drew back to strike.

  In thickly accented English, he said, “Your mother will weep, Dhampir. You should have stayed asleep.”

  The sound of an explosion startled a cry from me, and I jerked back. The gypsy convulsed, his eyes wide and furious for a terrible moment before they rolled back and his body collapsed on the floor at my feet.

  Dazed, I could only stare down at him. I saw the dark stain of blood saturate the dirt creeping toward me. Repulsion drove me back. I raised my gaze and turned to look behind me.

  Mr. Fox’s pistol was emitting an acrid thread of smoke, behind which his dark, shrouded eyes regarded me with calmness and curiosity. “Mrs. Andrews,” he said, his voice as rough as sand. “Are you quite all right?”

  It took several tries to find my own voice. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  He lowered the weapon. Stepping closer, he gazed down at the body. “Do you know who he is?”

  I shook my head. “He is merely a stable hand. I don’t know why he tried to harm me.”

  I could hear shouts, and the sound of people running toward us, most likely summoned by the sound of Fox’s shot, but Fox and I simply stared at each other, a silent bounty of words unsaid. Just before chaos descended, he spoke, his tone low, urgent, resigned. “We must talk.”

  Chapter Nine

  I was bundled away by Sebastian, who held me close to him, as if to shelter me from any further harm on the short walk to the house. He could only mutter, “My God, Emma,” and shake his head. I was capable of even less. I was in a stunned state, moving numbly as he directed. I did not want to go back to the house. I wanted to confront that damnable Valerian Fox and demand—finally and forcefully—he tell me everything.

  Sebastian deposited me in my room, ignoring my pleas not to summon my sister. Though I knew this was not the sort of affair one could keep secret, I nevertheless dreaded her reaction. As predicted, Alyssa arrived in full panic, flying at me and flinging her thin arms around my neck. “Emma! How could you possibly be involved in such a sordid, dista
steful affair?”

  I did not have the strength to be angry with her. Mary, who was just behind her, gently extricated me from my sister. “Now, Alyssa, it is not good to upset yourself. And we must think of Emma.”

  “I am sorry to be so much trouble,” I muttered. I lay my hand over my eyes, warding off the echo that had been playing relentlessly in my head. Your mother will weep, Dhampir. You should have stayed asleep.

  I suddenly felt ill.

  Mary led me to the bed. I rolled my face toward the wall. “I think I should rest. Would you please excuse me?”

  My sister promptly burst into tears. “My Lord, you are so wretched brave, aren’t you, without a thought to me. What would I do without you? Did you consider that?” Covering her face, Alyssa fell to weeping.

  I was moved by pity, sitting up and taking her gently into my arms. “There, darling, we’ve all had a fright.”

  “It should be you sobbing!” She said it like an accusation.

  “Why should I, when you save me the bother?” I smiled, and she sniffed, her shoulders shaking. “You let me be the brave one.”

  And, in a way, it was true. I was the practical one, strong, reliable, sensible. And she was free to come down with the vapors at the slightest provocation. If she envied me my strength, then I could admit I thought it might be a blissful release to let loose with just a bit of emotion, a few sobs once in a while.

  Now, for example, would be an excellent time for such an indulgence. A man had tried to murder me today. What an impossible reality to try to absorb. And if that weren’t enough, what had come over me? I’d crushed snakes under my heel. I’d pinned them with a pitchfork, using the weapon with preci sion that was nigh-unfathomable. No one could do what I’d done. Yes, I was a good marksman—an instinctive shot, my father had called me—but how could I have possibly wielded that weapon as I had done?