Descent into Dust

by Jacqueline Lepore

  “But what will he do? What can a vampire want here, on such a night?”

  He shook his head, exuding frustration. “There is far too much about this business I simply do not know.”

  “And far more you refuse to tell.” He gave me a warning look, and it triggered my temper. “You have never given me a proper explanation for how it is you come to be here, hunting this thing. What is Marius to you?”

  His sharp features snapped into that still, secretive mask with which I’d become familiar, and I thought he would retreat again. Instead, he said, “Marius? I am not used to the name. I always think of him as Emil. That was how I met him, in France when I was a boy on holiday, traveling with my father.”

  His sudden explanation stunned me. He knew it, and gave me a smile I could have sworn was intended to disarm me. I was chagrined to note it was not ineffective.

  He took a seat, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I met him one night, face to face, in a squalid Parisian alleyway while he was taking one of his victims.”

  He let that sit in silence, then tilted his head upward, drawing in a breath, and began. “My father traveled for business, and I sometimes traveled with him, on school holiday and such. That night, while he was having dinner with business acquaintances, I snuck out of our rooms and crossed the Seine into Montmartre.”

  He squinted at the tips of his shoes. “It was the first time I had done such a thing. I had reached an age when I was curious about…certain things. I saw painted women, although I did not have the courage to speak to any of them. I took my first taste of real spirits. For that reason, I would later be very uncertain about what happened. You understand how it is, how the mind fights it.”

  I did. My own credulity at what I’d seen had been a struggle.

  “I found myself lost in the squalid streets—close, dark streets where music and laughter and screams and shouts mingled in a blaring noise that made me disoriented. Or perhaps that was the absinthe.”

  He laughed, and I was amused to see he was a bit sheepish, as if he were embarrassed.

  “I…” Tension took over his features. “It was just a scream at first.” His eyebrows drew down, as if he were in pain. “It was…unearthly. I have never heard anything like it before. Or since, I suppose.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I hope never to again.”

  “What did you do?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

  The flash of his smile was there and gone in an instant. “I was young, remember. Young and full of myself and unaware of how foolish it was to become embroiled in a stranger’s matters when in a strange city, especially in an area such as Montmartre. I was filled with noble purpose and rushed toward the sound. Sometimes…No. Often. I often wonder how things would have been different if the idealist in me had been a little less and the craven reprobate a little more.”

  He paused, and I felt my insides tense. To my credit, I said nothing, simply waited for him to go on. It took a moment.

  “What I saw, I believe I will not describe to you.” His eyes lifted to meet mine in almost challenge, baring something he did not need to speak.

  I shifted in my seat, and the crisp rustle of my skirts seemed very loud. “I want to know,” I told him. “Everything.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he thought for a moment before giving a nod. “Suffice to say it was a vampire, fully engaged in the act of feeding. I saw him…And I saw the…the girl. She was…very young. I saw her eyes.” His jaw flexed. His voice lowered to barely a whisper. “They were terrible eyes. Ecstasy and pain…”

  His hand jerked toward his mouth, wiping the sweat from his lip, scrubbing at it even after the moisture had been erased.

  “Was she dead?” I asked softly.

  His elegant fingers fluttered, restless and jerking. “Not… not yet. It is an unspeakable thing, to see a vampire take a life. I hope we destroy this thing before you have to witness anything like it.”

  But I wanted to hear. I needed to hear. “This was Marius you saw. And he was…feeding?”

  “I saw him.” The whiteness of his mouth, the hardness of his eyes spoke of an immeasurable rage. It took a while for his voice to come again, and when it did, it was dry, like the sands of Egypt. “And he saw me.”

  His jaw worked with emotion and I had to stifle the urge to lay my palm along that sharp line in a gesture of comfort. He said, “Vampires fall into a dreamlike state when they feed. That saved me. I fled. I was terrified, hardly daring to believe what I’d seen. Some part of me did, luckily so, for I purchased a gold cross the next day and wore it around my neck. It saved me when he came for me the following night.”

  “What happened?” I asked eagerly.

  He shrugged, turning his shoulder to me to hide his face.

  “Mr. Fox,” I said gently, changing the subject as I saw he did not want to relive any more of that terrible memory, “how can you be certain that Marius is Emil?”

  His back straightened and his tone resumed the crisp, almost strident pace I was used to. “I know him,” he said. “I have learned about that world. Vampires are creatures of habit, nomads. I have explained this to you, how they travel among familiar hunting grounds. This is why legends—hauntings and tales of monsters or such—are valuable. The memory of the vampire and its deeds lives after they’ve departed.”

  Emotions passed fleetingly over his face, entertained by his features for only a moment before dissolving away to the hard mask I knew. I had never, up to that point, understood the severe control under which he held himself. I had thought him cold. But I now realized there was warmth there, the heat of a sun sealed behind that steely self-control.

  “As clever as vampires are, as powerful and cruel as they are, they do have weaknesses,” Fox continued. “One is that they must transport themselves in some manner to each hunting ground, as they cannot cross running water or be exposed to sunlight. Therefore travel must be done very carefully, to avoid exposure.”

  “Coffins?” I smiled humorlessly.

  “More or less. You can imagine, there are particular needs involved in their transport, and they require humans to help them.”

  “What you refer to as minions.”

  “Yes. Emil has a few very notable of these. The Punjab, whom I’ve mentioned, is one such. It is possible to track them and the methods they use to transport their master. In addition, it has not become too difficult to read the signs of vampiric presence. It frequently comes as a report of plague. The problem is traveling swiftly enough to catch the fiend still at work. Last fall, after months of searching, I located him in a small village outside Amsterdam, but he was gone by the time I arrived in the city.” He rose, going to the hearth. “On a visit to a dockside pub, I found some information on a curious cargo going to a small cottage in Avebury, Wiltshire.”

  I shot forward, excited by this news, but he held up a cautioning hand. “Which, by the time I arrived, had been burnt and the trail of Emil—Marius—had gone despairingly cold. But I knew I could pick it up again if I spent more time in the area. I happened to know Roger, having met him in London, through mutual friends. The association is not a close one, but I can be quite bold when on the hunt. It was my object to impress upon his hospitality, buy time to wait, watch, and see what might materialize.”

  I sat silent for a long time, surprised he was suddenly so forthcoming. “Mr. Fox,” I said at last, “you have saved my life. Twice. My gratitude goes without saying. However, though I have no wish to appear peevish, you made some pointed inquiries upon our last meeting that were uncommonly offensive.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I asked after your mother, which seems to have put you in something of a snit. Has it not occurred to you that I was trying to protect you?”

  “Protect me from what, Mr. Fox?” I challenged. I rose, squaring my stance combatively. “From fiends who would send vipers to attack me? Or perhaps a leering minion who would attempt to separate my head from my neck with a razor-edged scythe? Yes, I see how your
inquiry would save me from whatever drained the living blood from our friend Mr. Hess.”

  “You are working yourself into a state,” he warned.

  This, of course, sent my blood higher. “Yes, a woman’s temper always puts her into a state. A convenient way to dismiss it.”

  “I merely wish you to calm yourself. You have become uncomfortably emotional.”

  This sobered me instantly. With as much dignity as I could muster, I walked to my chair and resumed my seat.

  Rubbing his palm roughly over his jaw, he turned away. As I watched him, deep fear stabbed into my heart. What could be so awful?

  I heard the far-off sound of voices. People were coming.

  He turned to me, his gaze darting to the doorway. “We have a duty to Mr. Hess, and I would have your help, as much as I wish I did not require it. We have to dispatch George Hess’s body in case it has served Marius’s purpose to make him a foul creature such as himself. I doubt he has done so, but I must take the same precaution I have with every victim. He should be shriven. He deserves that.”

  “Of course he does,” I agreed with deeply felt emotion. “But we have not finished our discussion, Mr. Fox. We have no more time to go into it now, but I must insist: when we return, you will give full disclosure. Full disclosure, Mr. Fox. Can you give me your solemn word?”

  Mary’s voice engaged in conversation grew louder. They were coming.

  Fox sighed. “Indeed, it is most likely a long time coming. Agreed, then.” He began to speak rapidly, mindful of the impending interruption outside the door. “Hess will lie in state. The viewing of the body before burial is open to friends and neighbors. There will be no opportunity during daylight hours to do what we must.”

  My breath caught. “You mean for us to go at night?”

  “I doubt very much the staff and any mourners who are about would take kindly to seeing us pound a stake through the corpse of their friend.”

  “Are you making a joke?” I tilted my head at him, as if to consider him from a new angle. “I did not know you had a sense of humor.”

  I do not think it was my imagination that his expression changed. His voice was gruff when he said, “There is much of me you do not know.”

  Drawn forward, it was all I could do to keep my bearings. “Indeed, Mr. Fox, it is my chief complaint.”

  He arched a sardonic eyebrow. My heart beat rather fitfully. I did not like to admit it, but Valerian Fox had a strange, deeply unsettling effect on me.

  The door opened, and our encounter was abruptly terminated with Mary’s exclamation, “There you are, Emma. I thought we might find you in the library—Oh!”

  Her gaze caught Valerian Fox, and she hesitated. Her look, when she glanced back at me, was sly. “Oh. Yes, well…Mrs. Bedford has some wonderful shawls she wants us to embroider for Alyssa. You know your sister loved your idea, and we thought we would get started right away on the project.”

  Fox murmured a perfunctory “Your servant” to us all, then exited the room.

  Mary raised an eyebrow, but I cut off the inquiries I knew she wanted to level at me, clapping my hands together and donning a wide, winning smile. “Let’s begin right away!”

  When I could break away from the sewing clutch, I wanted to spend some time on my own. I stole from the house, needing to walk, to swing my arms and move fast across open land. Once out of doors, I traveled swiftly, savoring each labored beat of my heart as it did its work, thrusting thick blood through my body as I put distance between myself and Dulwich Manor.

  I came to the hawthorn tree, having obeyed the instincts that were beginning to flourish inside of me. Mr. Fox had promised to tell me what it was he knew of my mother. Of me. Of this, this driving urge that was not a voice, nor an impulse. It felt like quiet and confident knowledge, and I prodded it with my mind, like a tongue prods a sore tooth.

  I had speared snakes on the tines of a pitchfork. I had seen invisible figures, heard an invisible presence cry out in anger and frustration when my presence had barred it from entry. I had read portents in the very atmosphere around here, and shed my blood on its ground.

  I stared at the tree, and felt a certainty that its enigma and I would meet. For no reason I knew, I ripped a small branch from it, staring at the wicked barbs curving on its surface. One touch would draw blood. I stripped the thorns and put the switch in my pocket.

  When I returned to the manor, I sat in the cheery elegance of my cousin’s dining salon and ate heartily of beef and potatoes and crisp green beans. Among this resplendent show of civilization set to light by candles and gaslight—our tools to banish the dark—I fortified myself to participate in a ritual of old-fashioned superstition, of primitive survival against ancient evil. And after I’d eaten my fill, after I’d sat in the company of my sister and cousin, debating the merits of chintz over cotton, I did not even marvel at how easy it was to leave the cultured company and slip up to my bedroom to rest, read, and prepare for the grisly duties that lay ahead.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thus it was night when we set out to kill Mr. Hess again.

  I dressed in one of my older dresses since its skirt wasn’t as wide, and the less voluminous folds of the dark lightweight wool would not impede my progress quite so much. I longed for the freedom of trousers but I did not dare. It is strange how one, even in the face of such extraordinary circumstances, clings to convention.

  I laced up my heaviest boots and pulled my hair into an untidy knot at the nape of my neck. Thus attired, I stuffed a few items into a reticule and hurried to the appointed place.

  Mr. Fox came along presently. He glanced pointedly at my bag.

  “I have some holy water, and the crucifix from the church I told you about,” I said. “In case Mr. Hess is…”

  An ugly vision of Mr. Hess’s kind face twisted in the horrible mask I had seen on Wadim afflicted me just then and I could not go on.

  Fox held up the rucksack I had seen him carry before. “I am always well protected, as you should be. Put the cross on your person, Emma. You are a prize, costly perhaps, but the temptation for Marius will not be small.”

  “Prize? What do you mean?”

  “You already know you are different. There is power in you, and Marius craves power.”

  I blinked, startled by the thought. I knew he was right, however. I simply felt it. I was strong, somehow, and perhaps I was brave. That was why he had come after me. I had been so intensely worried for Henrietta, of what Marius could do to harm her, that I had not realized I was in danger myself. Why had I not thought of it before?

  My stomach felt a bit queasy. I hurriedly fastened the crucifix about my neck.

  “This will be different than Wadim,” Fox told me. “If Marius made a vampire of George Hess, we can assume it was not voluntary, and that counts for a great deal in the revenant world. Should Hess waken, he will be in a confused and horrified state. It will be beyond terrible, and you must gird yourself for this.”

  I gulped and nodded. “I am ready,” I said. My voice shook. He did not challenge my lie.

  He had saddled two horses, and tied them to the post at the base of the stone staircase leading down from the front door. After helping me mount, he led us through the moonlit night, the two of us silent and reflective as we proceeded to Hess’s house.

  “I would keep you out of this if I could,” Fox said into the darkness. There was apology, even self-recrimination in his voice.

  “I feel strongly that…that I should be with you in this.”

  He nodded. He did not like it, but he did acknowledge my place here.

  We gained entry into the Hess household easily. We were able to climb to a small balcony with the aid of a young ash. From there, it was merely a matter of forcing the handle of a French door.

  “Such skill,” I murmured as he held the door open for me, a courtesy that might have seemed frivolous under the present circumstances but, in fact, felt quite natural.

  He appeared embarrasse
d as he met my eye. His aptitude at breaking into people’s homes spoke of past deeds such as this, nocturnal missions to do unspeakable things to the dead. However, I must admit it was quite handy.

  “Here,” he whispered, and led me deeper into the house.

  It was pitch-dark as we moved away from the windows of the small library in which we’d entered. The deep shadows suggested a room teeming with books, piled on every surface and even on the floor. This proved no hazard, for Mr. Fox seemed not to have any trouble maneuvering in the thick darkness.

  “You really do have excellent eyesight,” I murmured, remembering all he’d seen from horseback the day he’d rescued Henrietta and me from The Sanctuary.

  Mr. Fox took my hand and I pressed rather shamelessly against his side. His warmth and strength were reassuring, and I felt a surge of something close to joy. I again experienced that sense of intimacy, of being united with someone in a deeply vital cause, just as I had the night we’d killed Wadim together. It felt, if I might be vaporish enough to say so, like destiny.

  We turned off into the salon, where the perfume of the flowers hovered stiflingly thick in the air. The drapes had been drawn at dusk, as was custom, so there was no chance for moonlight to aid us. In the quiet of the house, as we approached the remains of George Hess, I could hear only the sound of Fox’s breathing, and my own; all else was still.

  “Stay here,” Mr. Fox whispered. “I shall check the draperies are sealed tight before I strike the match.”

  “Yes,” I replied, taking infinite care with the door so that the click of the latch as I shut it was as quiet as I could make it. A match flared, and a meager light emerged. His features above the lamp were in sharp relief, an eerie effect. We turned together to view the body of George Hess. The pale, ghastly face glowed in our lamplight. He was laid out on a crepe-draped table, looking peaceful, I suppose, for his face in death held no expression, his hands were clasped demurely on his chest. Behind him, the large mirror mounted over the fireplace was also covered in the same black crepe. Before it stood a mantle clock, the glass door still open from when the servant had performed the solemn duty of stopping it, in reverence of the dead.